People & Places

With its lavishly tony décor soaked in red and black, talented DJs spinning Top 40 and rock mash-ups, top-shelf food and drinkage, performances by musical and burlesque acts, and plenty of chi-chi clientele, the Jackrabbit Supper Club is definitely the kinda E-Ticket club that exudes big-city splash. Since debuting last fall, it’s not strange to see the place filled to its rafters with the beautiful people (including such celebs as Matt Leinart and Jamie Foxx) from Thursday to Saturday every week. Oh, and by the way, good luck trying to get inside. We’ve seen limos full of ladies and gents getting turned away by the iron-jawed security types after the club hits its capacity during the prime time of 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. And even when these gatekeepers grant admission, usually they’re picking the hottest hotties that are standing in line outside the unmarked building. So unless you can somehow transform into Nick Lachey or Jessica Simpson, chances are you’re gonna be partying down the street at Mickey’s with all the other mooks.

Something’s going up on the northeast corner of Scottsdale and Camelback roads, and no, it’s not another gas station. It’s a cupcake shop! Well, you say, cupcake shops are as common as gas stations these days — and, hey, both are outrageously priced. You’re right. We won’t argue (in fact, a Sprinkles cupcake costs $3.25 — even more than a gallon of gas). We’ll just tell you that if the hype on these precious Beverly Hills-based sweet cakes is anywhere near right, you’ll be lined up out the door like an imitation of the ’70s gas crisis when the Scottsdale Sprinkles finally opens. We’d hoped it would be in time for our Sweet Life issue, but alas, some good things must wait.

Just listen to the lineup of flavors: ginger lemon, dark chocolate, cinnamon sugar, chai latte, peanut butter chip. Drooling? Try scrolling over the full descriptions at www.sprinklescupcakes.com. Lemon isn’t just lemon, it’s “fragrant lemon cake with lemon-vanilla frosting flecked with zest.” These people mean business, and we expect their business to boom when they open — allegedly sometime this fall.

If it weren’t for sheer willpower, we’d all be sitting around on asses the size of Texas, eating bonbons, and frothing at the mouth like Homer Simpson. Mmm… chocolate. So you can imagine we were floored to discover a cocoa treat that has zero calories and zero fat at the Pointe Hilton Squaw Peak. Offered as part of the Tocasierra Spa’s “My Tempest Truffle” Valentine’s Day package, the Chocolate Scrub immerses your whole body in guilt-free chocolaty goodness. The included Chocolate Decadence Pedicure turns tired tootsies into plump, juicy Tootsie Rolls. Can’t wait to check out next year’s cocoa-infused V-Day specials at Tocasierra? Don’t fret — the spa plans to offer the chocolate body scrub year-round for an anytime indulgence. They say that because of similar endorphins, chocolate is just as good as sex. Considering that the spa does the messy cleanup for you, we say this sinful scrub is even better.

Thanks to one of Old Town Scottsdale’s newest boutiques, we’ll gladly add some extra penance so we can atone for the lust we feel for Covet’s Tretorn shoes, limited-edition Andy Warhol Factory Foundation Levi’s, and one-of-a-kind Liz Saintsing painted bags. We’re envious of owners Randy and Adrienne Kreb’s excellent taste, and have been known to stare longingly at the Yoko Deveraux shirts and the Alexander McQueen Puma trainers. We’re just angry that we didn’t spend more time at the gym, so our slothful selves have to be squeezed into our April 77 skinny rock-star jeans.

We love looking like a million bucks, especially if our champagne tastes can be sated on our beer budgets. That’s why we’ve been braving traffic on the I-10 for ages so we can scour the racks at Neiman Marcus Last Call at Arizona Mills. Where else will you find purple Miu Miu pumps for $19.95? Or John Galliano for Dior camis for $50? Or a men’s Prada blazer for less than $150? Stock up on Radko Christmas ornaments for $9, and score a suede couch for under $1500. When you pay for your purchases and the kind clerk asks if you’d like to be added to the mailing list, say, “Yes.” You’ll get invitations to preview sales and you’ll have first crack at some choice Chanel ballet flats. Now you’ll be able to afford a matching bag. Who says you can’t buy happiness? And at a bargain!

Okay, so a $170,000 golf club membership isn’t usually considered a bargain, per se. But this isn’t just any golf club — and not just any deal. You can save $30,000, old chap, if you join now.

Not only will you save enough cash to buy your third wife’s kid another car, but you’ll also be able to snub the lowlife riffraff at Ancala, Firerock, and various other golf clubs, where memberships barely break the $100,000 mark.

Badges to Estancia’s Tom Fazio-designed course used to cost an initial fee of $200,000 with annual dues of $7,800, but it’s your lucky summer. Estancia has been closed for construction, so they’re running a promotion. If you buy your membership before the course reopens on November 1, you can save $30,000 and score your membership for a measly $170,000 plus annual dues of $11,600.

That’s right, after you fork over $170,000, you’ll have to pay only about $1,000 per month to maintain your humble profile at Golf Digest‘s “Best New Private Course of 1996.” Just think what you could do with the $30,000 you’ll save. Maybe buy a new set of clubs.

When a $100,000 car doesn’t say enough about you, get a vanity license plate — de rigueur for the truly gauche, particularly if you live in some of our sweeter parts of town. We’re partial to the oversharers. We chuckled at the blue Jag that advertises ISUE4U (we betcha do, buddy), but our favorite could easily belong to ISUE4U’s client, if the Jag owner specializes in divorce law. Picture PREENUP on the tail of a yellow Porsche 911 Turbo, hinting the $120,000 ride was purchased with money the ex didn’t get. That guy (or gal) was laughing all the way on the ride to the bank. So were we.

We hesitate to give this store an award because it’s popular enough, located just off Mill Avenue. Also, the chain does a fine job of promoting itself. But there’s a reason we’ve been shopping here ever since it was called “Happy Trails” (which was before the Roy Rogers people threatened to sue the company).

It’s the people. Whoever makes the hires seems to have a standard template for workers — they must be young, attractive, ultra-hip, knowledgeable about the products. Most of all, they must be friendly. Whenever we walk in, at least one member of the sales staff will always say hello with a broad smile, no matter how many customers are in the store. They take the time to explain how the, uh, tobacco smoke might taste in a metal or glass receptacle, and they laugh at our stupid jokes and half-assed attempts to be cool.Trails has outlasted many a business on Mill Avenue, and it’s not just because the war on drugs has failed. As with many successful retail shops, the secret at Trails is plain old good customer service.

And, more recently, amazing merchandise. Not long ago, the store was remodeled, adding even more shelves for its plethora of bongs that range in quality from $15 plastic jobs to $500 masterpieces of blown glass — an odd recent trend in paraphernalia. The pricier bongs would make glass artist Dale Chihuly jealous, and they’ll look good on your coffee table. Just be careful when get you up from the couch to get another slice of pizza. A broken bong of that caliber really would bum your high.

We’ve been assembling a killer “wish list” in anticipation of the day the Powerball numbers finally roll our way. Besides jetting off to Ibiza and purchasing the Copenhaver Castle on Camelback Mountain, we’re gonna roll down to the yearly Barrett-Jackson Automotive Auction with a couple of briefcases bulging with hundies to snatch up a couple of the astronomically priced autos up for bid. The annual five-day event, held every January at WestWorld in Scottsdale, is described as “the world’s greatest classic car auction,” and that ain’t no hyperbole. More than a thousand different coupes, muscle cars, roadsters, racers, European models, and other dream machines dating back to the 1930s are available if you just happen to have a six-figure bank account, as final gavel prices frequently go into the hundreds of thousands. For instance, this past January, a ’64 Austin-Healey 3000 Mark III convertible went for a cool $100,000, while a Plymouth Barracuda two-door hardtop set some big spender back $500,000. Nice work, if you can get it.

If you aren’t making it, try faking it. For instance, say you’re some slick $30K millionaire (you know, the type who fronts an upscale lifestyle but makes about as much as the pizza delivery guy), who flaunts your faux fortune at Scottsdale clubs in the hopes of bagging a top-shelf honey. Since there’s absolutely zero chance of you hooking ’em in with your broke-ass Honda, consider borrowing a far more regal ride courtesy of the auto dealers at Rent-A-Vette. Cruising down Craftsman Court will be a cooler experience if you’re rocking the Porsche Boxster, Mercedes SL 500 roadster, or a Corvette C6 convertible, yo. If you’re feeling the need to make a big statement, the joint also leases out luxury SUVs like the Hummer H2. Daily rental rates run as high as $500, so unless you got some scrilla to spare (and we know you don’t), better make sure you drop off last night’s tryst before you drop off your sled.

From all reports, there’s only one answer to the question that goes, “Who do I talk to about finding the perfect home?” and that answer is Jarson & Jarson, a husband-and-wife duo whose high professional standards and superb support staff have made them the go-to couple for folks looking for the best nest. Scott and Debbie understand modern architecture and the importance of site planning like no other agents in town, and their knowledge of what’s going on with local builders is uncanny and a little scary; they seem to know what’s being built before the builders do. Looking for a spectacular glass palace, a midcentury Ralph Haver, or a cool old bungalow? The Jarsons are your touchstone for what’s available and who’s offering it for how much, no matter how specific your needs. Seriously, call them up and ask for a house shaped like a bowl of your favorite breakfast cereal, one that’s country club-adjacent with a carriage house and a lima bean-shaped pool, and see if they don’t respond with a couple of listings and an offer to meet for coffee to discuss your other options. Sweet!

The Valley Ho started encouraging bathing beauties to languish poolside in 1956, when it was the glamorous resort of choice for Hollywood celebutantes and Scottsdale’s high society. Not much has changed in that regard, as any trip to their beautifully redone pool can attest — gorgeous ladies in Pucci swimsuits, protecting their eyes from the glare of the paparazzi flash by the newest oversized sunglasses, fresh from Kitson in L.A. Not to worry, there are loads of boys, too, in their Viktor and Rolf swim trunks and flip-flops from Jeffrey. Hidden behind those huge frames, it’s hard to tell — movie star? Model? Millionaire? Not that it matters much, we’re only passing through. We’ll leave the languishing to the lovelies.

Take one hot boutique hotel in downtown Scottsdale, and add a model agency. Stir oh, so gently. What have you got? An all-day (and night) parade of the Beautiful People. We love to watch the boys go by at the Mondrian, to and from The Agency, an on-site modeling firm with the motto, “With your brains and our beauty, imagine what we could do together.” We find that a little confusing, so we prefer to focus on our favorite pastime of late: spotting wax jobs on the pretty young model men. Eyebrows, chest — and who knows where else? See you at the pool, boys. Or, at least, on the pages of our favorite local glossies.

Out on the town in Scottsdale? You can expect to wait in a long line, even after the sun comes up, particularly if you want to get into the hottest brunch spot. We’ve been known to ditch The Breakfast Club on a Saturday morning — the wait’s just too long for our delicate constitution — but if you’re intent on cinnamon challah French toast with a side of partied-hard scenesters, put in the time and you won’t regret it. The coffee’s strong, the vibe is hip, and hey, what else do you have to do? The clubs don’t open again for many hours.

We don’t know what our parents did without the indoor playgrounds that have popped up at malls across the Valley. It’s perfect: You push little Emily around the mall in the stroller ’til she screams bloody murder, then you buy her a soft pretzel and a lemonade (all these mall playgrounds seem to have pretzel stands strategically located), and rest on a comfy couch while she burns off energy running around a cute, cushy-floored, air-conditioned playground. It does suck when some other kid pukes, and these playgrounds can get crowded, but we’re still big fans.

Funny, each has its own personality. If you happen to be a mother of, ahem, a certain age (say you had your kid when you were over 30), be prepared to be asked, at the Fiesta Mall playground in Mesa, whether you’re out with the grandkids. At the Chandler Mall, you’ll get a gander at the high-tech Intel crowd.

And at Scottsdale Fashion Square, it’s all about the hot moms — or, more specifically, the MILFs. If you don’t know what a MILF is yet (we’ve told you before, in previous “Best ofs”) go Google it. This is a family publication. Okay, that’s a huge lie, but even so, we’ve got our standards. Anyhow, you know what a MILF is. You’re just being coy.

As we said, it’s all MILFs, all the time at the Enchanted Playground at Fashion Square. We figure most of these women have been to see that Scottsdale plastic surgeon who promises the “mommy makeover” — no, not that disgusting “down under” procedure; this is the one where they take the fat from your post-pregnancy stomach and stick it into your now-sagging boobs. Whatever work these women have had done, we’ve gotta give them props, because it was a success. That’s one attractive lineup of moms, watching young Britney and Logan romp — as long as you go for super-tans and hair extensions.

Better than a fashion magazine, or even an issue of People. And you get to feel like a good parent, too, because really, you’re just here to let little Emily play, right?

Back in the day (i.e., the ’80s and even some of the ’90s), the highlight of each social season in this town came not during “season” at all, but in the middle of the summer, when Danny Medina — doyenne, as it were, of the society mag Trends — would make his grand entrance (at least once, literally carried by studly young men) at “Beat the Heat,” the magazine’s charity event and fashion show. Along with models who showed off the latest high-end couture (well, it was usually clothes from Dillard’s, but everyone squinted), Medina’s handpicked “Fashionalities” took the runway. The Fashionalities were chosen for their service to the community as much as their sense of style, and sometimes it showed. But, hey, just like that episode of Sex and the City in which Carrie trips on her too-high heels in her Dolce & Gabbana panties, it was fun to watch real people preen. (Well, okay, it’s true no one like Sarah Jessica Parker ever took the stage. But you get the idea.) Medina left years ago, replaced by a very affable gentleman named Bill Dougherty, who has kept Trends and “Beat the Heat” (which just celebrated its 25th anniversary) going. No, the whole thing isn’t what it once was — Medina had impossibly naughty shoes to fill, so you won’t get the same quality of unsubstantiated gossip, darn it — but Trends still features lots of photos each month of society stalkers, out painting the town. And because you’ll pretty much see the same crowd now that you saw when the magazine premièred in 1982, this is the best place we’ve found to monitor all the plastic surgery these folks have had to keep things in place. Best of all: Not long ago, Trends changed from newsprint to a glossy format. All the better to spot that eye job, my dear.

We admit we’re more than a little guilty of practicing the nasty act of schadenfreude (a.k.a. getting our kicks from the misfortune of others). While it’s not exactly the nicest habit to possess, sometimes we can’t help but snicker at human train wrecks.

So it’s no surprise we’re fans of Dirty Scottsdale, the infamous blog devoted to trashing the city’s debauched club scene and the outrageous urbanites who populate it. Since springing up six months ago, DS honcho Nik Richie has served as P-Town’s Perez Hilton, posting a slew of embarrassing snapshots of Scottsdale clubgoers accompanied by brutal commentary. There are similar blogs (such as Skanksdale and Scottsdale Sucks), but DS is far and away the most popular of the bunch — nabbing upwards of 3 million hits a month — and the most vicious. Few escape Richie’s snark, as he endlessly rips into scenesters of every stripe, be they douchebags, himbos, $30K millionaires, faux-hawked poseurs, passed-out hotties, or prowling cougars. We’ve even heard said scenesters send in the photos themselves, looking for their 15 seconds of infamy. Keep ’em coming, Nik. Just make sure you don’t post any pics of us unconscious in the Myst parking lot.

Phoenix comic Maggie Hunts knew something was wrong when her family started hiding Oreo cookies in the dishwasher and embarrassing trickles started running down her leg. When Hunts was in her twenties, she learned she had diabetes. Ever since, she’s been on a quest to turn the D-word into laughs and a new way of living.

“There’s hope for us! Yay!” says Hunts, who’s just released her new how-to book called It’s a Sweet Life… Now! It’s a practical guide/comedy romp of her true-life adventures as a real person with diabetes — not a doctor with a sugar-level chart.

“When I come across most diabetes books, it’s depressing… they’re all intimidating numbers and facts,” says Hunts, “but nobody tells you what to do when you fall off the horse after trotting over to Krispy Kreme.” With chapters like “Occasional Sin,” “Burp the Cell Phone,” and “This Little Piggy,” Hunts offers easy tips to live with a difficult disease. It’s straight up meshuggeneh! (How can you not laugh at a diabetes book that includes a Yiddish glossary?) One of the best parts: Hunts — who also teaches tantra workshops with her partner — tells you how to have hot, raunchy sex while on an insulin pump. Now that’s sweet!

We’re quite certain she has a name, but we know her only as Gretchen — sort of like Madonna. Or Prince. Because this woman is truly a rock star of the weight-watching world. There’s nothing really special about Weight Watchers, one of the oldest and most ubiquitous diet programs in the country. You go to a meeting once a week, you weigh in, you sit for half an hour and hear some person yammer about how they lost weight and offer tips. Then you eat a prescribed amount each day (you’re assigned points for food, based on calories, fat and fiber, and you get more points if you exercise). When it comes to WW meetings, it’s all about the leader’s personality, and Gretchen has charisma by the gallon. Her Thursday noon meeting is usually standing room only, and it won’t take you long to figure out why. (She leads others, too. Call Weight Watchers for details.)

Gretchen may be serious about weight loss, but she doesn’t take herself — or her members — too seriously. She’s also not perfect, although she is at her lifetime goal weight (damn her). For example: She’ll dutifully pimp a Weight Watchers product, like their ice cream bar, starting off so good: “They’re delicious and only 2 points a bar!” And ending so bad: “But let’s see, there are eight per box, so that means 16 points.” She knows us too well, and that makes us want to stay on the straight and narrow. And she’s a goof. She waves a metallic pompom each week, leading the group in a cheer to those who’ve earned a ribbon for losing 10 pounds, and threatening to add weight next week for anyone who doesn’t at least mouth the words. Our favorite WW moment was when Gretchen sang one of her original songs — a cappella — set to the tune of “All That Jazz” from Chicago. Her version is called “All That Fat” and we’re not going to share the words here (although we still remember them). You’ll have to pay the membership fee and go to the meeting yourself.

We used to make it a hobby of sorts, collecting glowing references to John McCain in the national media. It got so obvious that for a while, his deliciously bitchy staff used to send copies along, just to be sure we didn’t miss anything. Sadly, we had to take up beading when the B.J.s stopped coming for our state’s senior senator, and these days, his Straight Talk Express appears to have permanently derailed in Baghdad. But we were amused not long ago when we noticed Mrs. McCain gracing the pages of a recent issue of Harper’s Bazaar. We weren’t sure, at first, that it was our Cindy McCain, because John’s wife is almost 20 years his junior, but this chick looked like she could be his granddaughter. But no, that’s Cindy Hensley McCain, and she looks fabulous.

A little too fabulous, if you ask us. Poor Cindy’s been through a rather embarrassing Percocet addiction and a serious heart attack, not to mention that she’s still in a marriage to a notoriously mean man, and the beer heiress has managed to come out smelling like a rose, hanging from a tire swing in a ball gown (really) and looking like — well, looking like she’s had some work done. Photo retouching, even in the pages of Harper’s, wouldn’t transform anyone quite this much. Even more than her expressionless face, we couldn’t stop staring at, um, an extension of Cindy’s face — her hair. Hey, more power to you, Cindy, and good job of turning your personal story around, too. We love the Harper’s headline: “Myth vs. Reality.”

Maria Baier locked, as of press time, in a heated run-off battle for control of Phoenix City Council District 3 – is, by far, the most interesting candidate of the year, and we include all national political figures in that assessment.

For one thing, she’s a staunch conservative backed by an unlikely but powerful lobby, the firefighters. That could have something to do with the fact that her brother, Bob Khan, is the city’s fire chief. Beyond that, she’s certainly a qualified candidate, and, we hear, a heck of a nice lady. Baier has a lot of credentials, many of which she lists on her campaign Web site. She went to law school, worked for 10 years in the governor’s office (most interestingly, as a speechwriter for Fife Symington) and she was the spokeswoman, way back, for the state attorney general. She now works in the field of land conservation (that could mean so many things that we won’t even go into it), as a consultant (ditto). And she’s on the board of the Phoenix Zoo.

But Baier’s most fascinating gig gets short shrift. At the end of her bio, she mentions that she worked as an independent contractor with the San Francisco Examiner. She must have run out of room, because she didn’t tell the backstory: Long before she went to law school, worked for Symington, got married, and had a beautiful family (you can see them on her Web site, too) she worked for the San Francisco Examiner along with her beau, Hunter S. Thompson, who was writing columns for the paper. Yes, the Hunter S. Thompson. (Sadly, the late Hunter S. Thompson. He killed himself in 2005.) You’re right, it does sound like an unlikely match. But check out Thompson’s dedication in his 1988 collection Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the ’80s and read the first line:

“I dropped Maria off in front of the tattoo parlor just before midnight.”

We don’t know if Baier will prevail in the run-off November 6, but we gotta admit, we’re rooting for her. How many current Phoenix City Council members do you think have tattoos?

Hey, the man sent J.D. Hayworth packing. It doesn’t matter if he fails to do anything else for two whole years; Arizona and New Times readers everywhere owe him big time.

Okay, so his name sounds like the punch line to a joke about local theater, but Phoenix native Max Crumm made us all proud when he took home top honors as one of two winners of NBC’s You’re the One That I Want this past March. The show went looking for male and female winners to play the leads in the new Broadway revival of Grease (talk about a grand prize!) and 21-year-old Crumm nailed it. The Desert Vista High graduate got his start in kiddy theater in the Valley before bolting for L.A. and dreams of stardom. After a grueling five-month audition process, he squeaked into the final spot, becoming the latest Broadway Danny Zuko. We couldn’t be happier to have contributed to the Grease legacy with one of our own, especially because Crumm started out as a Danny underdog, criticized for his “slacker” attitude and bowl-shaped haircut.

Go, greased lightning — and bravo, Mr. Crumm!

We admit we were bowled over by 17-year-old Jordin Sparks from the moment she first performed on this perennial pop music fest, but we were so busy being crushed out on Melinda Doolittle that we forgot to root for our hometown girl.

That is, until Week 5, when Miss Thing stood there in an evening dress, belting out the most exciting version of “I (Who Have Nothing)” we’ve heard since Shirley Bassey made it famous a hundred years ago.

After that, it became clear that this statuesque home-schooled songbird was our fave — and she still is (in spite of that first single, “This Is My Now.” Yikes!), even if we’re not entirely convinced she’s not actually a 34-year-old because, really, how can a Glendale teenager sing so beautifully and with this much style? One last question about our favorite songstress: Where’s that debut album?!

We can’t stop thinking about Superbad, the late-summer smash starring Seth Rogen and Jonah Goldberg of Knocked Up fame. (Another of our favorite summer movies.) That blood, those drawings… Okay, sorry, we’re digressing. Go see it. Here’s another reason: How cool is it that one of the Superbad girls hails from Scottsdale? Super-cool, we say! It seemed as though, mere minutes after heading for Hollywood, the actress formerly known as Emily Stone began getting great roles in cool TV shows and hot indie films. First, she turned up in an episode of NBC’s Medium, then just as quickly, scored as a member of the cast of Fox’s high-profile auto race drama Drive. Not too shabby for someone who started out playing Eeyore in Valley Youth Theatre’s A Winnie the Pooh Christmas Tail, and whose first professional job was as Laurie Partridge in The New Partridge Family. And now, she stars in our favorite movie of the moment. When she lived here, Emily/Emma was, briefly, a Xavier High School Prep girl. We should have known, because her Superbad character Jules does have that Xavier look. But Jules is way nicer. We bet Emma is, too, and we wish her all the best!

We’re not 100 percent sure that Kate Walsh (of Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice fame) has never been to north Scottsdale, but if you think you’ve seen her wandering around Kierland Commons, chances are good that it wasn’t her. Debra Rich Gettleman — a Valley resident with the same red hair and an uncanny resemblance, both in face and figure, to the good Dr. Addison — gets stopped often by would-be adoring fans. Coincidentally, Gettleman’s an actress — albeit a bit less famous than Walsh. So someday, maybe people will stop Kate Walsh on the street, mistaking her for Debra Rich Gettleman.

In Phoenix, it’s not six degrees of separation — it’s more like two. This summer, those two degrees got cozier when John Spiak, a curator at the Arizona State University Art Museum, married Cassandra Coblentz, a curator at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art. Originally from Orange County, Spiak has been an arts-scene cheerleader for more years than many of us have lived here. Coblentz, also from SoCal, arrived in Arizona to take the SMoCA job in 2005 and hit the ground running; one of her primary responsibilities was the southwestNET series, a showcase for artists from the region. Spiak champions video art and is the force behind the popular ASU Annual Short Film Festival, while over at SMoCA, Coblentz curated a painting show with the goal of demonstrating that abstract art is still relevant. What they’ll do together is anyone’s guess, but it should be interesting, and good for the rest of us — if they stick around. Local contemporary gallery, anyone?

We are sad to report that two of our area’s brightest lights recently packed up and moved to that snooty little one-horse town known as Santa Fe, New Mexico. So why the “Best of”? Just because Lowenthal and Cedar, a husband-wife team with big, big hearts, deserve recognition and thanks for what they added to our community.

We remember seeing Lowenthal — a beloved and longtime ASU law professor (and all-suffering Sun Devils basketball fan) — tooling around campus on his one-speed bicycle, hurrying back home from teaching a constitutional law class to play with his young daughter, Angela.

And we remember Cedar, a devoted teacher and counselor who ran the beloved Family School for years, leaving it in capable hands that will miss her sorely.

These two have spent their lives doing for others. Now, as they sidle into well-deserved retirements (well, not quite — they already have more on their collective plates than most folks who haven’t hit 40 yet), we applaud their new life, but just selfishly wish more than a little bit that they hadn’t known the way to Santa Fe.

Okay. So you’ve just moved to Phoenix, and you want to know where the action is. Or you’ve just moved back here after a decade away, and you’re in search of a cool coffee house and an authentic taco stand in your part of town. You know the sweet life is out there, somewhere — but where? Look no further than www.cenpho.com, which claims to be a directory to bars and restaurants in the cenpho (that’s Central Phoenix, natch, defined by the cenpho folks as “the area from Glendale Road to Broadway Road, and 20th Street to 20th Avenue”), but actually one we’ve come to rely on for all things hip and happening. We found links to our fave new pita place; a list of cool neighborhoods where we should be living; and even a directory of well-regarded local dentists. Cenpho.com also turned us on to some better modern architecture blogs and filled us in on locally published magazines and newspapers and what we can expect to find in them. We found the site’s list of bars where smokers are still welcome to be indispensable, and so now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go light up and order a mojito at our favorite new nightclub. Thanks, Cenpho!

If you’ve ever wondered where most of the people are heading when they’re heading downtown, chances are it’s toward Fifth Street in the Evans-Churchill Neighborhood. While the block-long stretch of road between Roosevelt and Garfield Streets has always been popular with the masses on First Friday and other big nights, the area has gotten even more crowded in recent months because of a few additions to its palette of groovy galleries, boutiques, and art hangouts. Along with stopping by such mainstays as MADE art boutique, Route 123, and the Longhouse, art lovers of every stripe — be they tattooed punkers, scruffy college kids, or more serious collectors — have been visiting lavish wine-and-beer joint The Lost Leaf (run by the boys behind jazz trio Sonorous) as well as oddball painter Michael Little’s bizarre new pad IN Gallery, and Derrick Pacheco’s funky HoodRide Bodega (which hosts DJs and live bands). The other streets downtown better get their acts together, because Fifth Street is getting all the love.

Cindy Gentry’s a mover and shaker, but only in the best use of the term — no bone-crushing handshakes or slaps on the back from this lady. Two years ago, Gentry started the Downtown Phoenix Public Market, which turned an empty lot near First Street and McKinley into a bustling Farmers Market. Thanks to her tireless efforts, Saturday-morning shoppers find a variety of locally sourced items — root beer, olive oil, flowers, and handcrafted goods — while stocking up on locally raised produce. Later this year, the Downtown Public Market moves into a permanent structure, adjacent to its current location, and will be open six days a week. For that, we’ll gladly shake her hand.

In recent months, we’ve heard about at least two local historic Mormon churches abandoned to the bulldozers. That makes us more grateful than ever to the Great Arizona Puppet Theater, and the folks who restored it. If you watch HBO’s Big Love, you might think some sort of divine intervention (or at least comic relief) led to a group of people who pull a lot of strings coming to own the former Second Ward Chapel of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but really, all it took was good taste and patience. The puppeteers waited for years for the state (which bought the building in 1972, intending to raze it for the I-10; luckily, historic preservation laws prevented that) to finally fork over the 1932 relic, then spent more time on the renovation.

We recommend you take in a puppet show — all the details of the current season are posted on the theater’s Web site — but if you don’t have time for that, you should really pop your head in sometime. The decorative ceiling panels in the Spanish colonial revival style, almost completely ruined by leaks and lack of maintenance, were restored by a muralist/scene painter (those puppeteers have good connections), and the entire complex has the kind of 1930s throwback vibe you feel all the time in southern California — and so rarely here in Phoenix.

What? Heavy machinery as art? In a building off the 60, in Mesa? Trust us. Empire’s HQ is way cool, using construction-related materials from copper ore rock mulch (trucked in from a client’s mine) to “sheep’s foot compactor drums,” placed sideways on stone pillars to mimic Stonehenge. From the salvaged bulldozer stabilizer arms (now supporting a garden awning) to the antique bulldozer (now under glass, beneath the floor of the conference room), it all sounds like too much, but it works, somehow, particularly when you enter the concrete-hued (with a touch of Caterpillar yellow) lobby and check out the history on display. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was metropolitan Phoenix — and the Whiteman family, owner of Empire, has had a lot to do with the latter. It was gracious of them (and not surprising — they’re wonderful philanthropists) to create such an intriguing monument to their industry and to the Valley.

From the outside, it looks like a spaceship, but the buzz around town is that the new Tempe Center for the Arts is out of this world. The building is so new that as of press time, there hadn’t yet been a formal performance, and we couldn’t find a parking spot for the family preview day. But we heard from folks who were there that they are truly impressed with the facilities — both inside and out — which feature small and large auditoriums, a sculpture garden, and plenty of space to display art of the non-performing variety. And these are people who are hard to impress. Watch out, Scottsdale and Mesa, or it’ll be curtains for your own facilities. We can’t wait to get our butt in a seat, front-row center.

Warning: What you are about to read might be very upsetting. If you are faint of heart or have an unnatural obsession with meaningless, ugly Phoenix buildings, please move on to the next category.

We love the new Pei Wei/Starbucks compound at Seventh Avenue and McDowell. There. We said it.

Now let us explain. For months, we avoided the corner. We knew the beloved Emerald Lounge (really, more of a light green shack, if a shack can be made of slump block) was gone, with a couple of nasty chains erected in its place, and frankly, we just didn’t want to have to look. But then we met up for dinner with a dear friend who lives a stone’s throw away, and we had to sit in the parking lot for a few minutes, first, to compose ourselves. It was shock and awe, but not the bad kind. We were thrilled. Finally, a sign of urban civilization, a corner in Phoenix holding something other than a Circle K. (Don’t worry, the one across the street is still there.)

We never expected a Pei Wei could look so hip, so, well, San Francisco (okay, you have to squint, but relatively speaking, you’ve got to admit that we’re right). But with all the corrugated steel and urban-y architecture — and then the exposed brick, painted cement floors, and airy spaces inside — we have to tell you we were darn impressed. We figure somewhere at Pei Wei HQ there’s a big notebook filled with prototypical Pei Weis — you know, the strip mall Pei Wei, the stand-alone urban Pei Wei. That means there are plans to put Pei Weis on urban corners all over North America.

Maybe we’ve lost perspective, maybe we’re desperate, but we don’t care. Give us our brown rice, chicken with broccoli, and a bottomless Diet Coke, and let us hang out a little longer, acting all urban and shit. We just hope Pei Wei plunks one of these suckers on a corner at 12th Street and Jefferson. But not the southeast corner, ‘kay?

Anyone who wants to argue that the downtown arts scene isn’t going anywhere can just shut their pie hole, after the first Friday in September. That’s the night that Beatrice Moore and Tony Zahn opened their newest building to the public, for a sneak preview. The 15,000-square-foot Bragg’s Pie Factory is quiet and cavernous, the walls a bright white, and metal work in the high ceilings painted in pastel shades (a Beatrice Moore signature touch, no doubt). But give them some time, and La Melgosa will make this section of Grand Avenue rock. A cafe is already slated to open (with talk of a farmers market) and there will be several retail spaces (an architect and graphic designer have signed up) and room for plenty more. We’re delighted Moore/Zahn fought to get their hands on the building — they’re the guardian angels of Grand, and we hope they never give up the fight to preserve and celebrate the down-and-dirty ‘hood that has slowly become home to more galleries and nightspots, and that they show a lot of love to the wonderful, creative tenants they already have. (We’re watching!) On the same evening as the Bragg’s preview, the city officially celebrated the decision to (finally) allow on-street parking on Grand. We can’t wait to see what sort of “Best of” we can give Bragg’s Pie Factory next year.

If you’ve lived in Phoenix for any substantial amount of time, you’ve witnessed an overabundance of strip malls.

Don’t hate them; they’re a way of life. We must love them, coddle them, and appreciate strip malls for all the glorious things they can offer.

Too much effort for you? That may change with the help of Sloane McFarland, who has decided to spend $12 million to rip one of those drab suckers apart and build something fabulous. He’s revamping the strip mall on 16th Street and Buckeye, and unveiled his plans in style this past May by opening the decrepit structure for curious guests to explore.

The redevelopment will be called Yourtown, and in each space, McFarland worked with colleagues to create art installations to express what his future plans will bring. Various abandoned retail shops were filled with conceptual evidence of planning that we are anxious to see come to fruition. In the space that used to be a flower shop, piles of ground coffee were dumped on the floor, emitting the pungent odor of what will soon surely be the hottest coffee shop in the area. (Or any part of this town, we dare say.) We look forward to what this local pioneer has to offer, and after his work is done, we may see our strip malls in a whole new light. At the very least, we’ll have a cool new hangout.

Phil Gordon doesn’t have the best taste in town. That honor goes to his wife, Christa Severns. So maybe she’s the one who decided the mayor should set up his re-election shop in the former 307, a one-time transvestite bar just east of the way-cool monOrchid gallery that has stood largely empty for years. We’re not too interested in the ghosts of drag queens past; what we really dig is a mural stretching across one wall, painted by none other than Ted DeGrazia. You may not recognize the name, but you’ve seen DeGrazia’s images of sad little Indian — or are they Mexican? — children. DeGrazia’s dead, so we can’t ask him (nor can we ask him if it’s true he painted the mural to settle a bar tab), but there’s a big show of his work up for the next several months at the DeGrazia Gallery of the Sun in Tucson — go to www.degrazia.org for details. As for Mayor Phil, we think it’s sort of silly that he bothered to open a re-election HQ at all. Maybe he just wanted to look at that cool mural. Can’t blame him. In any case, we’re glad an elected official paid some attention to a cool old building, even if he hasn’t provided the leadership — so far — to make sure the downtown art scene really thrives. You got four more years, Phil. Do it for Ted.

How does one become Greater PHX’s best local nutbar? After all, the Valley’s a veritable can of Planter’s, what with all these right-wing loonies, Minutemen, and anti-immigrationists runnin’ around. But Kent “Cow Killer” Knudson (a convicted felon for shooting someone else’s cow on his property) gets the nod because as “chief cook and bottle washer” for 9/11 Truth AZ, he’s taken the state version of a national fruitcake movement and driven it right into the ground.

As if it weren’t enough that these freaks believe 9/11 was an inside job by our own government, Knudson embarrassed the unembarrassable by roping in Holocaust-denier Eric Williams to help organize Chandler’s 9/11 Accountability Conference.

Once the news of Williams’ participation hit, speakers started dropping out left and right. Knudson compounded the problem by assuring folks that Shoah-shirker Williams was out of the conference, even though he showed up to tend his booth, sell merch, and at one point, was invited up on the podium.

Many of Knudson’s fellow kooks were disgusted, and the last we’ve heard, 9/11 Truth AZ was having financial probs. Gee, wonder why?

J.T. Ready’s the Ernst Roehm of the East Valley, the Hermann Goering of Sand Land, the two-ton titan of AZ white supremacy. Ready’s rep was already dirt after his disastrous campaign for Mesa City Council in 2006, wherein it was revealed that he’d fudged his CV a tad, omitting the fact that he’d been court-martialed twice while in the Marines and given a bad-conduct discharge. He also has a conviction in Florida for assault. Locally, he bumblefucked by firing his weapon on an illegal immigrant who may or may not have been up to no good.

Maybe Ready figured his days as a legitimate candidate for anything were over. How else to explain his embrace of white nationalist rhetoric, his visit to the neo-Nazi National Vanguard’s Winterfest event, and his profile on NewSaxon.com, “an online community for whites by whites”? The guy even refers to his “headquarters” as “the Eagle’s Nest,” after the famous Adolf Hitler retreat. Rumor is J.T.’s got a Bertchesgarden in Mesa, too. No word on whether or not it’s a double-wide.

Talk about your bloody Valentines. Tiffany Sutton, 23, outdid them all by allegedly trying to drink the blood of paramour Robert McDaniel, 46, back on February 14 of this year. According to police reports, after a night of boozing, meth, and sex, Sutton asked McDaniel if she could tie his ass up.

McDaniel, being a male of the species under the influence of this spacy little minx, allowed her to do so, after which Sutton stabbed him repeatedly with a knife and chased him with a pickax because she wanted to suck on an artery. Fortunately, a friend of McDaniel’s happened to stop by the shack where these two lovebirds were playing Operation, saw his pal nearly unconscious from the loss of blood, and decided to phone the po-po.

Once the coppers got there, it was revealed that Sutton had gotten McDaniel to sign the back of a detective novel called The Eighth Circle with this statement, “You, Robert McDaniel, swear no wrong will come to me, Tiffany Lachelle Sutton, due to tonight’s events.” Now, because of the media coverage, Sutton has male fans worldwide who want her to pop a straw into their veins, including some fella who calls himself “Angelic Scar,” who’s set up this Web site www.tiffanysutton.com, where he fantasizes about partying with that “crazy hot bitch who drinks blood.”

The sweet life indeed. U.S. Airways CEO Doug Parker banked more than $11 million in his most recently reported compensation package. So, it’s understandable that Parker would use a few of those hard-earned pennies to buy himself a cold one this past January 31. After all, Parker had just lost a $9.8 billion bid to take over Delta Airlines.

Problem is, according to media reports at the time, Parker bought himself a few too many consolatory drinks, and then he decided to drive himself and his drinking buddies home from the exclusive “Birds Nest” revelries at the FBR Open.

About 11:30 p.m., Scottsdale Police sergeant Mark Clark spotted Parker’s speeding, swerving BMW and pulled him over. The police report tells the rest: “I observed/detected the following: bloodshot eyes, watery eyes, odor of alcohol on the driver’s breath. Speech was: slurred,” Clark wrote.

When the New York Stock Exchange closed that day, U.S. Airways stock (LCC) was selling for about $56 per share. Since Parker’s DUI, the company’s stock has plunged to about $30 per share.

You do the math.

Oh, okay, we’ll do it.

Multiply U.S. Airways’ 91.5 million outstanding shares by a loss of $26 per share, and crude math calculates the company has lost about $3 billion in market value. Granted, there are more factors at play than Parker’s one-too-many. Still, we award Doug Parker a “Best of” for both the most expensive beer and for single-handedly manipulating a publicly traded stock.

Although mopeds will never be as hip and sexy as the Vespa, we decided to embrace the nerdy cool of the geeky vehicle after we started seeing members of the Tom Cruisers ambling around Tempe on their motorized velocipedes. Consisting of 15 or so twentysomething guys and other college-age males, with nicknames like “Designated Wizard” and “Gunther Pleasureman,” the clique serves as the Valley’s chapter of the Moped Army, a nationwide enthusiast group. Besides their weekly hangout session at their garage near Four Peaks Brewery, on Eighth Street in Tempe, we’ve spied the Cruisers piloting their putt-putts in slow-moving formations (top speed: 40 miles per hour) to nearby bars. This past January, they staged their first (and to date, only) “rally” at the Last Exit Bar & Grill, titled “Death Rides a Moped,” which featured performances from such local bands as Back Ted N-Ted, Minibosses, and Get Down! to Brass Tacks. Let’s hope the real Tom Cruise has a sense of humor and doesn’t sue ’em over the name.

As much as we dislike Tom Cruise, we really love to loathe the so-called “sultan of smut” and all-around arrogant local blowhard David Hans Schmidt. So much so that when word reached us about how the Scientologist screwball and actor played a part in getting Schmidt thrown in the federal lockup on charges of alleged attempted extortion, our revulsion toward Mr. Top Gun diminished, if only temporarily.

As the story goes, Schmidt was busted by FBI agents in July after Cruise claimed the former Valley PR flack offered to not publish a series of stolen wedding photographs from TomKat’s 2006 marriage in exchange for more than $1 million. The actor called in the G-men. This isn’t the first time that Schmidt, who’s built a career out of peddling celebrity sex tapes and helping fame whores like Tonya Harding get naked in skin rags like Playboy, has approached celebrities and offered to disappear some embarrassing material. Nor is it the first time he’s seen the inside of a jail cell, as Schmidt did several stints in state and Maricopa County lockups for (among other charges) aggravated harassment of an ex-girlfriend over their children. This just in: In August, Schmidt entered in to a plea agreement, and now faces two years in the pen and a $250,000 fine. Let’s just hope that this time, we won’t be hearing about him for a long, long time.

Just when we thought ol’ Joe Arpaio couldn’t get any fruitier, the Maricopa County Sheriff came up with something that out-cheesed even the legendary pink underwear he forces inmates to wear in Tent City: an “Inmate Idle” competition in which non-violent offenders would sing bad karaoke in hopes of winning, uh, nothing. Media instantly went ga-ga for the gag. Maybe the puns were just too irresistible — “What a con-test!” quipped TMZ.com. What a con, indeed! Here’s how it worked: Sheriff Joke started by launching K-Joe radio in Tent City, which would broadcast “wholesome” music for inmates (“Rhinestone Cowboy,” anyone?). Then, he launched the competition and aired preliminary rounds on the station, so other inmates could vote for their favorites. But Joe still needed judges, so he enlisted his publicist (natch), Lisa Allen, and Bret Kaiser, formerly of cheesy, bad ’80s metal band Madame X. For the big finale, he got resident rock legend Alice Cooper to serve as the judge. It was all so gratuitously hyped that even our sister publication, LA Weekly, got lured into a masturbatory, seven-page cover story on the debacle. In case you’re curious, an inmate named Corey Brothers won the final competition with a rendition of The Temptations’ “My Girl.” Joe gave him a vanilla cake. Really.

Heroes come from the strangest places. For instance, about a year ago, when Valley restaurateur Jon Basso opened the doors of the Heart Attack Grill — where sexy young waitresses dressed as naughty nurses serve up über-greasy burgers like the “Triple Bypass” and “Quadruple Bypass” — the eatery entrepreneur never thought he’d wind up battling the government and becoming the poster boy for the First Amendment. But that’s just what happened last fall when the Arizona State Board of Nursing and the Maryland-based Center for Nursing Advocacy took umbrage with the joint’s usage of medical costumes and its flaunting the sexy nurse stereotype. The Arizona attorney general’s office even got involved, sending out threatening letters to Basso indicating he was in possible violation of state laws designed to keep quacks and con artists from passing themselves off as legitimate health care professionals since his servers were using the title of “nurse.”

It was a laughable attempt at a legal smackdown, since no one in their right mind thought they were going to the Heart Attack Grill for medical attention (other than clogging their arteries). The brouhaha got worldwide media coverage — including appearances on Fox News, 20/20, Geraldo Rivera, and German and Japanese television — where Basso made like Hustler founder Larry Flynt and maintained the issue was one of free expression (albeit a rather salacious one) versus a misuse of power by the government. Eventually, the state backed off and Heart Attack Grill was free to keep slinging greasy beef and sexual innuendo at its new location in east Phoenix (the Chandler location closed in June). While we’re not particular fans of Basso’s burgers (they’re really quite so-so), we dig the fact the dude’s willing to stand up for free speech.

When writing about public-information officers, we’re often reminded of the late baseball pitcher Lefty Grove, who won 300 games in his career despite throwing only about as hard as an average high-schooler. Someone once asked Lefty how in the world he’d been so successful when he threw so slowly.

“I guess I just try to keep their eye off the ball,” he replied.

That’s pretty much how most PIOs around these parts do their jobs — spinning, delaying, dancing, weaving, and keeping the likes of us at bay for as long as legally possible (and even after that, in certain, well-documented instances). Lord knows, we are loath to say anything too nice about a PIO, but if it’s right, we write. Cari Gerchick works for the Supremes (no, not Diana Ross and company, those other big shots in the black robes).

An attorney herself (ASU College of Law, class of 2000), Gerchick is helpful to the max about the status of cases, where those cases may fit into the big scheme of things, and most attentive to our ever-impending deadlines. She’s also super-friendly, and not in that phony way we reporters know too well. Gerchick has a terrific memory for detail, and consistently remembers to pass along the update she promised six months earlier. We like that!

We can’t stop watching Patti Kirkpatrick. We’ve tried switching. We tried Kent on 5 and Lin Sue on 12. Couldn’t make it to the first commercial. We even tried Fox 10 News, but Troy Hayden is just a Patti Pretender. We want our Patti, and thanks to Channel 3’s groovalicious variety-hour news format, we can have her for two whole hours every day. We love the stylish way Patti plays ringmistress, tossing out story after story to an endless parade of sexy bimbettes stationed to cover what’s happening out in the world, or to Mike Watkiss, one of the few remaining old-school newsmen in town. And we especially love how Patti subtly telegraphs to her viewers that she thinks some of her stories are horseshit, which you’d never find Linda Williams doing at 5 p.m. Channel 3’s tagline may be “The Place With More News,” but we’ve permanently set our TiVo to KTVK because, for us, it’s “The Place With More Patti.”

A few years ago, the only place you could peep the screwball Far Side-style sarcasm of Tony Carrillo’s comic F Minus was in the pages of ASU’s student newspaper, The State Press, where the Tempe ink-slinger churned out single-panel strips filled with twisted visual puns and perversely ironic situations. (Two of our favorites back in the day featured a Golfland-like water park displaying the sign “Today’s Urine Level: Moderate,” and a blind woman telling her equally impaired boyfriend, “Listen Bill, I don’t think we should hear each other anymore.”)

These days, however, Carillo’s scribblings are eyeballed by a much larger audience, to the tune of several million readers daily, as F Minus is syndicated to 125 newspapers across the country. Carrillo got his big break in 2004 when the strip won a contest sponsored by MTVu (a subsidiary of the music video giant aimed at college campuses) and nabbed a six-month developmental deal with United Features Syndicate, which eventually became a full-fledged gig in the funny papers.

Move over, Bil Keane, there’s a new circus in town.

For some local concert promoters, creating a flier for an upcoming gig is a quick and dirty operation, usually consisting of an hour in Photoshop followed by 90 minutes at Kinko’s running off copies. Not so with the folks at the Rhythm Room.

The cats at Bob Corritore’s jazz and blues joint turn out some quality posters plugging their upcoming gigs. These promotional placards are so eye-catching, you’ll wanna hang them on your wall after the show. For instance, the poster for a Robert Johnson Memorial Jam last November features a pulchritudinous portrait of the legendary bluesman strumming a guitar while taking a drag on a smoke. Another great one has rocker Ian Moore striking a soulful pose, while an ad for sultry singer Candye Kane uses an amusing caricature of the beyond-buxom blues artist in white-trash wear.

Then there’s our favorite poster — created for Corritore’s 50th Birthday Gala — where the studly Rhythm Room owner is decked out like Hugh Hefner, sporting some honeys in Playboy Bunny outfits under each arm. Some guys have all the luck.

Weddle’s acoustic cover of Outkast’s “Hey Ya!” was one of the most widely viewed YouTube clips in not just Arizona, but the world.

The video — which splices clips from Outkast’s video with footage of Weddle performing the song — has been viewed more than a million times by people all over the world, including as far away as Australia and Japan.

It gained enough attention that local radio station The Edge 103.9 started playing the song and booking the band to play its shows, including the station’s annual Edgefest. This led to a slew of high-profile shows for Obadiah Parker, like opening slots for the Gin Blossoms and Lifehouse, as well as an upcoming December gig alongside alt-rock pioneers the Violent Femmes. Google the words “Obadiah Parker ‘Hey Ya!'” and you’ll get more than 23,000 hits, most of them from Web pages in which someone’s singing the clip’s praises.

But perhaps the biggest impact of the YouTube clip has manifested itself in the form of radio crossover — Obadiah Parker’s version of “Hey Ya!” was the most-requested song at Chicago radio station Q101 during the month of February, and they were a featured band on Tucson’s KMFA 92.1 and Phoenix’s Free FM 101.5.

Thanks to that YouTube clip, the band’s even popped up on radar-wrangler Web site www.last.fm.

For a street graffiti artist, anonymity is of paramount importance. One might assume that to stay incognito, the visual vigilantes would avoid exposing Web sites like MySpace. Not so for Phoenix’s Disposable Hero. The dude’s art is everywhere and you’ve likely seen his anime-inspired panda posters, since they’re stuck to almost every abandoned building in Phoenix and Tempe. This panda-pasting pirate is a marketing master, and embraces the exposure MySpace can provide while keeping us guessing about his true identity. With 7,000 friends from Phoenix to the UK, the page provides the perfect springboard for poking around to find local young artists and musicians and is great for sneaking peeks at the street art scene of other cities. That is, if you can gain access. The profile is so popular that the artist had to reset the profile view counter a couple of times and then go private to cut down on the hordes of friendship requests he received each day. And all this without even knowing who the guy is.

Big-time Valley concert promoters Live Nation and Lucky Man Productions boast dozens of employees, boffo budgets, multimillion-dollar venues, and connections to a slew of chart-topping acts across the country. So what does the smaller-scale indie-show organizer President Gator Presents have going for it? A one-man promoting powerhouse named Jeremiah Gratza, that’s what. The 24-year-old scenester constantly impresses us with his tireless work ethic and sense of style in presenting some of the coolest music events in the PHX. Gratza — who also manages P-Town popsters Peachcake, and Skybox — probably won’t be booking such Billboard-busters as Panic! at the Disco or Modest Mouse anytime soon. That ain’t how he rolls. The dude specializes in landing more intimate gigs for up-and-coming alt-press darlings like E for Explosion, Steel Train, or Lola Ray before they get big enough to play the Marquee Theatre. (He’s backed the right horses, as previous bookees like Chidos, Riverboat Gamblers, and The Polysics have gone on to greater fame). Since his shoestring income as a waiter doesn’t afford full-page ads, Gratza commissions local artists to create gorgeous posters and fliers, which he pastes up around town. Basically, we wanna say grazie, Gratza, you make the Phoenix music scene that much cooler.

As a producer and engineer, Mind’s Eye owner Larry Elyea’s got a resumé that’s hard to beat. His local credits include albums by some of Phoenix’s best acts — Jimmy Eat World, Eyes Set To Kill, Authority Zero, DJ Radar, Fred Green, Gin Blossoms, Reubens Accomplice, Digital Summer, Trik Turner, and 32 Leaves’ Welcome to the Fall, which landed at No. 14 on Revolver magazine’s “Best Albums of 2006” list. His national cred is even better — Elyea’s worked with the likes of the Beastie Boys, Kottonmouth Kings, Eminem, Primus drummer Tim Alexander, Black Lab, and Cappadonna of Wu-Tang Clan.

The guy’s total list of producer credits would take up a few full pages, impressive when you consider that he opened the doors to Mind’s Eye Digital just 14 years ago. With tons of high-tech equipment, ranging from the popular and expected (Digidesign/Pro Tools) to the unbelievably high-end (a 112-input, 48-frame ORAM BEQ console, one of only two in the U.S.), the studios have a setup for everyone, whether it’s a hip-hop artist who wants hot hooks and snare-snappin’ beats, or a heavy metal band that wants to sound burly and buried in reverb.

Influenced by a background in performance art as well as the massive number of original musical performances he’s booked as co-owner of the Trunk Space art gallery and performance venue, downtown Phoenix artist JRC began this independent DIY label in 2006.

The onewordlong project focuses on sound art, found sounds and spoken word, and is truly a hands-on effort as JRC recruits the musicians, edits the raw tapes, makes the art decisions, and releases each album. The inaugural release, Live From the MTC (remixed) by Hi My Name Is Ryan, showcases Archbishop Jason Polland, The Coitus, Zach Burba, and Djentrification interpreting and remixing a tape mailed by ex-Phoenix artist extraordinaire and current Latter-day Saints missionary Ryan Avery.

Other scheduled 2007 releases include The Treasure Mammal Road Diary featuring frontman Abe Gill audio-documenting his road adventures as well as an album by John Martin, who recorded people saying nice things such as “you are the greatest” so the listener can hear people saying nice things about themselves (aw, shucks). Each professionally packaged album is released in limited editions, so be sure to pick up these sonic treasures while they’re still available.

The truth about podcasts is that most of them suck. Modern technology made it possible for any jerk off the street to broadcast himself, but most people just don’t belong behind a microphone.

Luckily, we discovered Geek Method, a good answer to a slow workday. The pair of dudes behind the show are a couple of self-proclaimed computer nerds. Their motto: “We geek out so you don’t have to.” But they’ve been programmed with a set of social skills as well and, even better, a sense of humor.

The show follows a pretty basic, but successful, formula. At the top of the hour-long broadcast, they answer listener mail and dole out advice in the vein of Dan Savage (sample question: “How many guys can a girl sleep with before she’s icky?”) The show segues into the hosts — Michael and Ryan “CPO” doing what they do best — making fun of shit and getting geeky. Topics range from how to escape from handcuffs to video games to current headlines. You really just can’t go wrong with a show that has episodes named “I Bet the Easter Bunny Likes Grand Theft Auto” and “The Earth Is Melting, So I Told My Alarm Clock to Snooze.” A new episode is posted every Wednesday.

You know a radio station is free from crappy, corporate play lists when it airs a weekly show called “Zappa Universe,” honoring the music of Frank Zappa. Or when it plays The Earps, an abrasive, local cowpunk band, right after classic-rock fogies like The Marshall Tucker Band. Or when listeners play DJ and pick a pile of weekend songs (and the station actually plays them).

Welcome to Radio Free Phoenix, an Internet station that plays everything from New Wave to blues to folk to psychedelic jams (and a bunch of amalgamations in between), spanning the ’60s through today. Where corporate-owned radio stations use a computer program called Selector to determine their playlists (based on time, genre, and even gender limitations), Radio Free Phoenix’s DJs actually choose the music they play. So instead of hearing “hit singles” all day, listeners get gems like the new song “I Think I See the Light” by Yusef Islam (formerly Cat Stevens) — which will never ride a Clear Channel frequency — along with special programs like “Rock-A-Billy & Beyond,” hosted by former AZ resident Miss Holley King. There’s also “Jukebox Cantina,” which dishes out ditties by the likes of locals Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers, Truckers on Speed, and The Pistoleros. With programs like these, and on-air personalities like Liz Boyle (also on-air at KOOL FM) and Andy Olson (formerly of defunct PHX stations KRIZ and KRUX), Radio Free Phoenix has truly Net-ed a winner.

Women across the Valley are talking about this morning duo, and it’s easy to see why. From sisters on spring break pimping each other out for cash, to a local woman busting her parents as swingers on Mother’s Day, Johnjay and Rich take the time to listen to their callers — and they have a persistent charm that has allowed some of the Valley’s darkest secrets to come tumbling out and somehow still seem wholesome.

Weirdly, even with the risqué talk, they manage to draw celebrities like Steve Nash, who stayed on the air for more than 20 minutes one morning just to chat with his former neighbor Nelly Furtado, who was running seriously late. To this pair’s credit, we’ve never heard them cut away to commercials or get flustered; instead, they engaged Nash and got beyond the usual dull NBA small talk to something far more interesting. Johnjay and Rich are some of the best female-centric radio you’ll ever hear, and that the show happens to be local in this age of national syndication is merely icing on the cake.

Jonathan L’s been around the music industry for a long time, and it’s not unusual to hear him drop a series of names on his radio show, “The Lopsided World of L,” that would probably make even vaunted music journalists like Chuck Klosterman and Neil Strauss jealous. L’s hung out with the likes of Frank Black, PJ Harvey, and Joan Jett, and he’s full of entertaining stories. But Jonathan L doesn’t just drop names on the air; he also drops the hottest new national tunes by artists like Mindless Self Indulgence, Bjrk, and Sage Francis, right alongside songs by lauded local artists like Authority Zero and The Earps, as well as lesser-known locals like goth band Reliquary and rockers Run. His on-air interviews and in-studio performances are hot, too, whether he’s got the legendary Ronnie Spector on the line or local garage band The Love Me Nots plugging in behind the sound boards. Check out the rockin’ out on “The Lopsided World of L,” which airs from 7 to 10 a.m. on Saturdays, and from 6 to 8 p.m. on Sundays.

If a Philly cheesesteak had a mouth, it would be John Gambadoro. The transplanted East Coaster has been peppering the Valley airwaves with his singular Jersey accent (“Did the Cah-dinals make the right choice? We might never know for shoe-ah”) and acid tongue for more than a decade. In December ’06, Gambo and his partner, Mark Asher, left their longtime home, XTRA-AM 910, to “pursue other opportunities.” The opportunity was — how opportune! — the chance to assume the afternoon-drive slot at mighty KTAR, which was in the process of being reconfigured (see “Best Sports Morning-Drive Radio Show”). Poor XTRA was left holding an empty bag, as Gambo & Ash is, by far, the most popular local sports-talk show. While we love Ash, too, Gambo’s the flame that powers this blowtorch. The dude smokes like a backyard barbecue, lashing out at deserving nitwits with a passion nonpareil and backing up the bluster with an encyclopedic knowledge of the sports world. A prime example of Gambo’s East Coast-pug approach — so foreign to Phoenix’s low-key lifestyle — is his and Asher’s brilliant slam-dunk of former Phoenix Sun Charles Barkley, now a TNT analyst who’s turned on his former team like a rabid dog since his unhappy parting of ways with the organization. Our heroes created a Barkley parody, modeled on the Budweiser “Real American Heroes” commercials, titled “Real American Bonehead.” It goes something like this:

Narrator: Sports 620 KTAR presents “Real American Boneheads.”
Cheesy singer: “Real American Boooone-heeeeads.”
Narr.: Today, Gambo and Ash salute you, former NBA guy who hates the Suns.
C.S.: Mr. former NBA guy who hates the Suns.
Narr.: When it comes to disparaging comments about the Suns, you, O Round Mound of Putdown, have a mouth that never takes a timeout.
C.S.: Ahhh, I love Twinkies.
Narr.: From Nash’s MVP award to the Suns’ defense, you, Kojak of the Commentary, have a complaint about everything.
C.S.: How ’bout a nice hot cup of shut-the-f***-up?
Narr.: You share your wisdom on what it takes to get that ring, the long hours…
C.S.: … at the topless bar.
Narr.: The fierce dedication…
C.S.: I’m gonna finish these five pizzas.
Narr.: So cheers, o Cueball of Criticism, there’s a place for you in that victory parade — at the Krispy Kreme doughnut stand.

In yo face, Chuck. And anyone else who crosses Gambo’s path.

On January 1, 50,000-watt behemoth KTAR dropped a bomb on the Valley radio scene, moving its news division to FM 92.3 and creating an all-sports, all-the-time format on the AM. As part of the aesthetic remodel, newly hired KTAR program director Ryan Hatch made two crucial moves. He snared longtime XTRA-AM 910 sports-talk champs John Gambadoro and Mark Asher for his afternoon-drive slot and yanked the popular ESPN Radio syndicated show Mike & Mike in the Morning in favor of a Phoenix-centric morning-drive show headed by Kansas City transplant Doug Franz and former Arizona Cardinals Pro Bowl fullback Ron Wolfley.

In short, Hatch kicked some major ass. Doug & Wolf is the best way to while away a traffic-snarled commute. Sure, the show’s about sports, and sure, there’s a lot of airborne testosterone floating around in the ether, but it’s also smart and funny and even universal — in its way.

You’re as likely to hear a segment about the best way to prepare chicken salad as you are to audit a debate about whether San Antonio Spurs guard Manu Ginobili intentionally kneed the Suns’ Amaré Stoudemire in the groin. Speaking of debate, the show’s core appeal is the interplay between Franz — a sometimes-shrill butt-of-all-jokes who’s also an underrated interviewer/commentator — and the bassoon-voiced Wolfley, a he-man’s he-man who can be surprisingly tender (he often moons about his wife, “the lovely Ms. Stephanie”) and erudite (he once quoted John Updike!).

One of the duo’s mainstay bits is “The Great Debate.” An early version featured the following exchange: Wolf: “Douglas, you ignorant gonad.” Doug: “Wolf, you’re listening with your mouth.” Other great needle exchanges have included the “Lindsay Lohan Hottie Quotient,” “Star Wars versus Star Trek” (pro-Trek Wolf: “Luke Skywalker wore tights!”; pro-Wars Doug: “Luke Skywalker did not wear tights!”), a discussion about which character Suns point guard Steve Nash would have played in The Wizard of Oz (Toto), and “The Taseric Formula,” in which the two use self-defined “rules of entazement” to determine if various news-making bozos should be zapped.

And oh, yeah, there’s also a little bit of sports gab thrown in for good measure.

They’re the saltiest set of nads you’ll never taste. Well, unless you get lucky at one of their public appearances. They are, literally, Da Nutz: Joeyboy and JPhilla, rulers of mornin’ FM, and two of the nastiest pole-waggers on the air. They’re notorious for their “dirty-dirty” segments, where callers put their baby-daddies or baby-mommas “on blast” for a variety of reasons: not payin’ child support; the woman’s a ho; the man’s a ho; the children are hos; and so on. This not being Loveline with Dr. Drew, Da Nutz rag on ’em all, pretty much. Then there’s the show’s Drunk Phone, where the phone-mails of the inebriated are played back the following day, not to mention the parodies Da Nutz rip, like their version of Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous” titled, “Smells Like a Fish.” (Three guesses what that one’s about.) Da Nutz’s catchphrase: “Whaaaat Izzzzz It?” Their DJ: Knick Nack. Their saucy sidekick: The luscious Lady La. Their time slot: 6 to 10 a.m., Monday through Friday. Now be there, bitches.

A National Public Radio member station, KBAQ offers something for the classical connoisseur and the interested explorer alike. Fringe fans have a place to hear selections from popular composers like Mozart, Wagner, and Chopin, and symphony junkies can hear works by newer or lesser-known composers like Amy Beach, Manuel De Falla, and Hugo Alfven. Whether you want to hear some Berlioz, Brahms, and Saint-Saëns to mellow out your Monday afternoon, or romance your Friday night date with Beethoven’s “Music for a Knightly Ballet” and etudes by Andres Segovia, KBAQ’s got you covered. Sunday-morning fare often includes Handel’s “Messiah,” but the mood smoothes out with stuff like Bach violin concertos and Sibelius’ “Historic Scenes” by hangover-nursing time.
And nothing beats KBAQ for broadcasts of local classical music performances. The station airs “ASU in Concert” on Thursday nights, the Phoenix Symphony on Monday nights, and the Arizona Opera on Saturday nights in the fall.

Sure, they still play the likes of Tim McGraw, Kenny Chesney, and Keith Urban, but the DJs at KMLE also follow the scent of fresh cuts by emerging country artists like Dusty Drake, Trent Tomlinson, and that blond beauty Taylor Swift (Swift’s so hot that we can even forgive the heavy rotation of Jack Ingram’s country cover of Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel,” perhaps the most melodramatic and lousy song to hit rock radio in the past 15 years). And when it comes to on-air talent, KMLE’s got some of the best in the business working the boards, including former 98 KUPD jockey Dave “The Morning Mayor” Pratt and “Big Shoe” Stu Evans, who was recently named the Academy of Country Music’s “Disc Jockey of the Year.”

There’s no better source for big country concerts, either — KMLE’s a presence everywhere, from the annual Country Thunder U.S.A. festival in Florence, Arizona, to inner-city shows by folks like Taylor Hicks and John Michael Montgomery.

Almost makes us want to yell “yee-hah!”

This station says its programming is “positive and encouraging,” and its goal is to “spread the Gospel” through mass media. This is some gospel we can get into. The Christian frequency’s programming is packed with an eye toward reverence and redemption — news and weather broadcasts include coverage of things like Arizona church kids participating in the International Folk Dance Festival and the controversy surrounding that Jesus tomb film. And the music is all Christian contemporary, from more traditional-sounding tunes like Lincoln Brewster’s “Everlasting God” and Bebo Norman’s “I Will Lift My Eyes” to songs by edgier, newer artists like Rush Of Fools and Newsboys.

The station also has a “ministry staff,” which fields and airs “Prayer Requests” from listeners. DJs like Jon and Sherry Rivers (who host the station’s weekday morning show) keep things entertaining with their earnest observations and clean wit.

We gotta tell you something, sister: You haven’t been to church until you’ve been to Pilgrim Rest. This isn’t about a particular religion. We are talking strictly soul. The church, which has been a staple in the Eastlake Park neighborhood of Phoenix for years, is standing-room only on Sundays, with a line out the door. The walls thunder with the sounds of spirituals and occasional funk band riffs, while big-voiced singers belt out the love of the Lord. The church is quite welcoming to visitors and you can’t help but be inspired to conquer the troubles of the world — or at least the woes in your life — after hearing Pastor Alexis Thomas perform from the pulpit. Some of our favorite sermon themes include, “Don’t miss your connection!”, “You gotta have a breakdown to have a breakthrough,” and “Put yo’self back together again, just like Humpty Dumpty after he done fell off that wall!” Go ‘head, Pastor Thomas!

Third Friday art walks may not be as bumpin’ as First Fridays, but the one thing we love about them is the free-flowing wine and beer at most galleries. It’s a great way to booze your way into the weekend, courtesy of the artists. But no one offered a better way to get nailed in 2007 than Kjel Alkire at eye lounge gallery on Roosevelt Row. With a background in seminary training and education, Alkire’s work revolves around Christian themes and intellectual explorations of religious belief. His art performances involve his alter ego, Reverend Rodeo, who gladly provided ice-cold beer to his congregation on the Third Friday of August. And Alkire’s “Pulpit” exhibition included a provocative activity in which you could get hammered in another way. The back room of the east gallery was lined with panels of salvaged wood, transforming the entire space. Bins contained plush dolls of Jesus in the classic crucifixion pose, and accompanying the dolls were punch cards that listed various sins. Participants were invited to use a nail to punch holes next to sins they’d committed. Then, to drive home the point of the resulting boundless shame, Alkire instructed viewers to grab a Jesus doll and nail it to the wall. The idea may have seemed too blasphemous at first, but after a few brewskis, getting hammered with Jesus wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

We love The Roosevelt. Great décor, beer, wine, and food — it was a no-brainer to add it to our rotation when Matt Pool opened for business last year. We don’t always love the line for the, ahem, facilities, in which we inevitably find ourselves after a couple of rounds of libations. Sure, you can always strike up a diversionary conversation while in line, but when it’s time to go, it’s time to go. It took only a couple of visits to discover the holy grail in the back patio, between the bar and the kitchen. Tucked behind the tap room is a small bathroom, accessible only from outside. We can’t believe no one’s discovered it. Oh, wait, now you have. Uh oh.

Usually, the unwritten code of conduct for the urinals in every men’s room is eyes forward at all times. But we’ll understand if you find it hard to keep your peepers straight ahead while doing the deed in the boys’ bathroom at fratboy heaven Dos Gringos in Old Town Scottsdale.

Hey, before you say anything, we ain’t claiming you’re trying to sneak a little peek at anyone (not that there’s anything wrong with that if you were); it’s just that the groovy and goofy graffiti lining the walls of the pee parlor is extremely eye-catching and hilarious. Prominently featuring the joint’s barrel-wearing doofus mascot, the paint job contains pop culture quotes from a variety of sources, as well as a few scatological turns of phrase. Our favorite from the former category is Homer Simpson’s side-splitting parodying of “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba: “I drink a whiskey drink/I drink a chocolate drink/and when I have to pee/I use the kitchen sink.” Good times.

The ladies’ loo at this British pub is like a work of lowbrow community art, with bright red walls, sickly, mellow-yellow hospital hallway lighting and a cheap, faux Deco mirror with a glued-on frame made of glass aquarium rocks — half of which are missing. British currency (which depicts the queen’s big mug, of course) is glued here and there on the wall, some with bubbles drawn from the queen’s mouth that have her saying things like, “Hi, I’m yer sister! Boink me, mate!” The graffiti, scrawled all over the walls in black marker, contains quips like, “Today, I drew a blank. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever drawn,” and “Do not poke the sleeping dragon. For you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.”

But despite its smarmy, punk truckstop vibe, the G&D can is always clean where you need it to be clean, if you get our drift. There might be some paper towels strewn here and there or some soap spilled on the floor, but we’re never afraid to sit down to pee.

We know a date at the art museum is about as fresh as talking astrology at a bar. But take your date to Yayoi Kusama’s You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies mixed-media installation with LED lights at Phoenix Art Museum and you will be sure to dazzle your date into a quick first kiss. The installation, housed in the Laurie and Drew Brown Gallery at the top floor of the newly expanded museum, is a dark room with mirrors lining the walls, ceiling, and floor. The only illumination comes from strings of dim lights that dangle from the ceiling and float only one foot above the mirrored floor.

The small light strings dim and fade between colors. The endless reflection creates a space with no visual boundaries that bombards us with an overwhelming sense of thrilling disorientation. Stepping into the seemingly infinite space will take your breath away. With such heightened excitement, latching onto your hot date and making the move is only natural.

And if you’re shy about PDA, don’t sweat it — Phoenix Art Museum volunteers allow only two people into the installation at a time and don’t stick around to watch. And while the temptation may be to make the moment last, there are other people waiting in line to get some — so make it quick.

Making the haul to Sun City for a visit with Gramps will be much more pleasant if you make a pit stop at the West Valley Art Museum. We discovered this little gem and couldn’t believe that such refinery was hiding in the hinterlands.

The gorgeous, modern building houses a permanent collection of more than 4,000 pieces that range from expected paintings, sculptures, and drawings to sneaky surprises like ethnic dress, textiles, and fine crafts. The museum also circulates temporary exhibitions of local or Southwestern artists. But don’t let that scare you — these pros pick contemporary artists who facilitate a Southwestern flavor with innovative aesthetics — no howling coyotes or dream-catchers here.

And if you hit the place over the weekend, you might be lucky enough to catch a music recital.

After an uncomfy visit to the elderly, there’s nothing like taking in some killer art with the sweet sounds of Beethoven drifting through the galleries.

Too often, public art means dancing naked ladies or portrait statues of important figureheads. But Michele Stuhl’s white-painted steel arch, which looms over McDowell Road between 16th and 17th streets, focuses on location by mimicking the cityscape of surrounding buildings and an abstracted picket fence at the apex, bringing to mind the surrounding residential areas. On a clear day, the sunlit white sings against our blue sky — a relief in the midst of traffic and surrounding strip malls. The structure not only looks beautiful, but also commemorates a time in the 1950s when the stretch of McDowell Road from 12th to 20th streets was a bustling and vibrant business district, referred to as the “Miracle Mile.” Of course, with the city’s growth, the area has experienced a decline, but it will keep some class as long as this piece is integrated in the scenery.

Anyone remember what this big-ass steel Frisbee at Wesley Bolin Memorial Plaza downtown was supposed to be for? Yep, it’s the much fought-over Arizona 9/11 memorial, the one the right-wingers railed about and implied was traitorous during the 2006 gubernatorial donnybrook between Len Munsil and Janet Napolitano. Now the goofy Funyun-lookin’ object has quietly slipped into much-deserved obscurity.

No one gives a crap anymore about the 9/11 shrine, and it’s ridiculous that we ever did, seeing that the attacks were thousands of miles away on the East Coast. Indeed, other than one dood from Tempe in the wrong place, wrong time, the connection between the 9/11 strikes and the Zona was always tenuous at best, as long as you don’t count 9/11 hijacker Hani Hanjour slamming Flight 77 into the side of the Pentagon. He was trained partly in AZ, you see. At least with the attack on Pearl Harbor, there was the USS Arizona. And there are enough Vietnam vets and Korean War vets from AZ to justify their monuments. The 9/11 Memorial, however, is a colossal non sequitur that never should’ve been built to begin with. That’s clearer than it’s ever been.

We reckon the town fathers of Guadalupe must be passing out paint by the bucketful, as many of the buildings along its main drag of Avenida del Yaqui are decked out with murals or other brushed-on decorations of some form or another. Not that we’re complaining or anything, as the rough-around-the-edge-style renditions of Christ’s crucifixion or commemorations of the town’s shared Latino and Yaqui Indian heritage give the tiny Hispanic hamlet a sense of folk art panache.

The mural we’ve been digging the most lately is a tattoo-like creation covering the front of the Guadalupe Youth & Young Adult Program building. Created in 2003 by a number of the program’s teenage members under the guidance of a local art instructor, the 12-foot-wide, 5-foot-high painting utilizes imagery from throughout Chicano history and culture on either side of a large icon of a sacred heart. The past is depicted by an Aztec warrior and the Virgin Mary, while the present is represented by Dia de Los Muertos skeletons, a vato-like skull, and a pair of the “laugh now, cry later” drama masks. Has us eyeing that blank cinderblock fence in the backyard…

There’s a chance your artistic tastes might not be ready for the huge collaborative mural that adorns the outside wall of Jesika Jordan’s gallery and record store at the .anti_space building in downtown Phoenix. If so, we can’t really blame you, as a Pepto-pink backdrop filled with chrome-like graffiti script and shiny mech-style robots laying waste to skyscrapers isn’t for everyone.
The good news is, the madcap mural will be painted over in a month or two. It’ll likely be replaced by a similarly surreal graf art scene, as Jordan and a collection of her spray paint-wielding cohorts — including Ekose, Zokes, Weo, and Joerael Elliot — whip up a new wall painting every couple months, as part of a cooperative art project. “There are only a few legal walls in downtown, because people tend to look down on graffiti as a legitimate art form,” Jordan says. “One of the owners of the business next door almost called the cops on us because she thought we were tagging illegally.” Guess she didn’t dig the mural, either.

A towering, 13-foot-high pyramid of stacked Chinese shipping boxes. Several liquid-powered robot gongs lined up in a row creating a clamorous cacophony of noise. A gigantic woven rubber and metal cage suspended like a spider web from the walls and containing a punky performance artist. These are just a few unusual examples of the edgy, outrageous, and inspiring installation art pieces — both large and small, with an emphasis on the former — that one can witness on a regular basis at the Icehouse.

Ever since 1990, when co-owner Helen Hestenes converted this former warehouse in downtown Phoenix into a massive 30,000-square-foot art compound, she’s given up space in the joint’s three main rooms for every type of installation piece imaginable across numerous mediums, from sculpture and video art to interactive and performance-based pieces.

They run the gamut from the surreal and spectacular (like when members of Mexico’s “X’TeReSa Alternative Art Center transformed the White Column Room in 1994 into an elaborate temple for Aztec rain god Tlaloc) to the more subtle and small-scale effort (such as Jennifer Urso’s more recent, interactive Fractured Thought, which had patrons breaking fragile ceramic tile after walking across it in order to illustrate chaotic human thought processes).

Although Hestenes is often hosting local art scene regulars like Susan Copeland, Pete Deise, or Mona Higuchi, she provides opportunities for newbies to get their works in the public eye, such as a recent showcase of work by ASU students.

“The Icehouse is here for artists who want to create pieces that [are] either large-scale or exploratory, or both, since there aren’t many venues in the Valley that can handle that kind of work,” says Hestenes.

Thank you, Helen!

Ed Mell’s Rising Phoenix, a Phoenix Office of Arts and Culture commissioned work completed in December 2006, explores the legend of the Phoenix bird that gives our lovely town its namesake. The 40-inch-tall bronze statue, bordered by the beautiful Historic City Hall structure to the east and the Calvin Goode Building to the west, is perched atop a four-foot tall concrete pedestal. Mell’s background in illustration and drawing is evident in the work, as the attention to detail is unparalleled. The silver nitrate patina polish applied by the artist, who is represented by Scottsdale’s Overland Gallery of Fine Art, gives the work a mystical, pensive quality as the bird victoriously rises from the flames. There are plenty of shade-providing trees, so feel free to enjoy a sack lunch in the plaza while gazing at the bronze bird.

In the real estate game, location is everything. Mortgage banking executive Terri Rundle knew that when she opened SOCA Gallery and the neighboring antique shop, Vircille. Named for its prime location just south of Camelback Mountain, the lofty building features burnished gold walls, cathedral ceilings, and killer acoustics for the musicians that flock to play at the fab space’s corporate parties. Admittedly, the eye-popping grandeur of SOCA is what drew us there in the first place, but Rundle has assembled a quirky collection of art from her travels that transcends the cactus-studded landscapes and Native American kitsch some local galleries are drowning in. Locals Mark McDowell and David Sklar have been showcased, along with Bulgarian-born surrealist Vladimir Ovtcharov, whose vibrant, offbeat paintings combine rich colors and textures with whimsical wonderland creatures. We look forward to seeing what Rundle pulls out of her dusty collection next.

Make all the jokes you want about Mesa, but do it fast because pretty soon, the place won’t be so easy to poke fun at. Things are happening over in the East Valley and we’re not talking about new strip malls or good fabric stores, either.

If you happen to cruise Mesa’s main drag downtown, you may notice a local art scene that is kicking up and gaining a foothold with the recent opening of Windup Gallery. Owners Lindsay and Anthony Cresta have already showcased a knack for tapping into the local arts scene with their Summer “Homegrown AZ Artist Show” — all the coolest graffiti artists in town coughed up some kickass works. Not only was the art punchy and colorful, but the opening night was bumpin’ with scenesters from all over the Valley. Windup has gotta be doing something right if we’re willing to haul our cookies to Mesa on a Saturday night.

A mere six months ago, Derrick Pacheco’s HoodRide and Paul Moncrief’s Route 123 were just ordinary home-based art galleries that shared a duplex on Fifth Street in downtown Phoenix’s Evans-Churchill neighborhood. But since then, the pair joined forces and re-created their pads into a kickass compound of coolness that’s become a hot hipster hangout during First Fridays.

The building now sports an oddball burnt orange and aqua paint scheme, which makes it stand out from neighbor MADE art boutique and The Lost Leaf like some funkdafied beacon. Moncrief’s infamous front-lawn sculpture garden, which the photographer created from automotive and aircraft parts, has now become a bizarre open-air lounge where you can kick back in 1950s-era hair dryers.

Pacheco, a graphic designer with a flair for vintage automotive style, built a treehouse-style DJ booth in the front yard so as to rain down ambient techno beats upon visitors and other passersby. There’s also an ample stage in the backyard where live bands perform. The fun isn’t just limited to the monthly art walk, however, as the pair host music and performance art events throughout the rest of the month as well. Other RoRo music venues, watch your backs.

The Roosevelt sidewalk on First Fridays is so overcrowded that we sometimes feel like we’re on a subway, having to cram ourselves among hundreds of other bodies to get anywhere. At maximum capacity, the concern shifts from people-watching to avoiding a mass trample.

Time to hop off that stretch and hit .anti_space, a happening conglomerate of galleries, studios, and shops on the southwest corner of Fourth Street and McKinley. The place is easy to spot with its colorfully lit palm trees and a healthy heap of people milling along the sidewalk. Grassy areas have benches and lawn chairs where you can sit while adventurous types give the installed tightrope a try.

Boutiques C.O.L.A.B. and Mint always have cute indie chicks hunting for vintage goodies. Galleries Pravus, Mothball, Waldoism, Red Spade and B-Side are usually open for just the right amount of mixing to get our social jollies off, but not so packed that we smell each other’s breath.

It’s not so close to Roosevelt Row, but if you plan on hitting Grand Avenue galleries on a First Friday artwalk, there’s no better place to park than in the lot of The Paper Heart. In addition to being the only gallery on the strip with a parking lot that includes more than five spaces (there are at least 25 spaces here), The Paper Heart sits on the corner of Grand Avenue and Van Buren Street, more or less at the beginning of the strip and the avenue walk. So once you’ve parked your ride in The Paper Heart’s well-lit lot, you can start your cultural journey with the offbeat exhibits at the gallery, and then walk to any number of other galleries on Grand (Tilt Gallery, Red Door, PHiX, The Lodge, Chocolate Factory, Cone, and several other art houses are literally right across and down the street). The only catch is, if you’re going to park at The Paper Heart, you should get downtown early (no later than 7 p.m.), as parking’s at a premium downtown and the lot fills quickly.

If you’ve grown weary of tromping and stomping down Roosevelt Row or Grand Avenue during the monthly artwalks, set your sights less than a mile northward, at this two-story bunker along McDowell Road.

With eight different studios and galleries, Garfield Galleria offers just as much artistic action as its cousins, all contained within a single structure. Downstairs, the twin photo collectives of Gallery 8 and CHAOS serve up plenty of superior snapshots, while the Lords of Art Town provide work across several mediums — including photography and installation work — and Julio Romano’s Statement Driven is home to his emotionally charged photos and paintings.

Upstairs, you’ll find the dual spaces of abstract minimalist landscape artist Jerry Van Wyngarden and his wife, illustrator Carole Hanks.

Don’t starve for their art. Refreshment can be found nearby at the Willow House, Zoës Kitchen, and My Florist. What’s not to love?

Ask any CenPho hipsters and they’ll tell you — First Friday is a great place to take a date. It’s free, it’s downtown, and you’ll know pretty quickly if your taste in all things visual might be a match. On those nights when it’s not a love connection, do not fear; ditching your date has never been easier. Mosey on over to the Roller Derby Bake Sale that happens every First Friday in front of the Bikini Lounge. Tell Mr. or Ms. Wrong it’s not them, it’s you. The throng of roller girls has your back — if your scene is spectacular enough, they just might applaud. Grab a chocolate snack to ease the pain; after all, it is for a good cause and that brownie is making a difference, dammit. Then march into the Bikini Lounge for some liquid courage. Hey, it’s First Friday. Mr. or Ms. Right 2.0 could be inside.

Third Friday has a more laid-back vibe than its big brother, First Friday, but sometimes it leads to antisocial art viewing. If you’re looking to see art, check out some folks and get a little face time of your own, there’s no better spot to hit than five15 Gallery. The place has the downtown arts gig down with rotating artists every month. Being a popular space on the main drag, it’s one of the few galleries that can still maintain a social aspect on slower nights. Five15 books some of the younger Valley talent, so you’re sure to see the artists and all their pals nibbling and chatting the night away, ready for you to join in.

With apologies to the hard-working artists of the downtown Phoenix scene, the grooviest thing going at this year’s Art Detour wasn’t found in any of the galleries dotting Roosevelt Street or Grand Avenue. Nope; instead, our favorite place during the annual three-day artwalk was a raucous ramshackle collection of cardboard and wood shacks occupying a garbage-strewn vacant lot next door to the Firehouse art collective on First Street just off Roosevelt Row.

The Gypsy Village, subtitled “Artist Loft: Low Rise, Low Rent,” was the bizarre brainchild of agitprop artists C.R. Vavrek and Pete Petrisko, a satirical stab at how the ongoing gentrification is displacing hardscrabble artists like themselves in favor of lofts and multimillion-dollar developments.

Consisting of four hovels, the hipster Hooverville boasted an art gallery, tarot reader, fire pit, sleeping quarters for Vavrek, and a boombox disco blasting music for those who came after dark. In addition to entertaining the hundreds who stopped by, the event reportedly raised the ire of one property owner who threatened to call in the cops and clear the lot. Vavrek and Petrisko managed to defuse the situation, and the derelict domiciles were allowed to remain. It’s a good thing, too, since where else could you find grubby artists talking in faux Eastern European accents, à la Borat? Very nice!

A small gallery at ASU is the best place to catch art students at the end of their academic careers — and at the top of their games. In other words: the master’s thesis show.

With a studio on-campus and materials and tools provided by ASU, it may be the most convenient and economical art cough-up of these artists’ careers. And with their fresh egos, the prices will be incredibly reasonable, making for a wise investment should you pick the right pony. Shows cycle during the last three months of the semester and are on display for only four days at a time — making for a crazy rush to grab up some pieces by the next big artist.

It’s nothing new for a hair salon to put art on the wall. But don’t be mistaken. These folks don’t know just hair. The Root Salon actually doubles as a real art gallery — with works that are so compelling, you might just shell out an extra couple of hundred bucks to bring one home, in addition to the fee you just paid to cover your hideous gray.

A number of relatively unknown but appealing artists have cycled through the space, and with each salon appointment (not necessary — you can also walk in off the street, just to look), you’re sure to see something new. Recent displays included eye-popping color photography by Bob Estrin and stunning abstract works by California artist Jan Fogel. And take note: The salon’s owner is constantly on the lookout for creative visual images that may work well on that blank living room wall you’ve been looking to fill. Not only is the art great, but purchases are guilt-free, with the artists receiving 100 percent of all sales.

If Barbara Stanwyck blew you away — as she did poor Fred MacMurray — in Double Indemnity, or if you just dig Veronica Lake’s swell combover, you’ll love the art of Rachel Bess.

Her paintings are dreamy polychromatics that shimmer like black magic, capturing a surrealistic netherland inhabited by funereal femmes fatales and… dead bugs? Yep. Bess’ vocation may be art (she got her BFA in painting at ASU), but her avocation is science — specifically, biology, botany, and natural history. We’re betting she was one of those kids who poked and prodded at doodlebugs and trapped fireflies in mayo jars — a surefire way to familiarize oneself with death at an early age. “I make paintings that feature biology or botany in almost a religious way,” Bess says. “Often, the animals and insects — and sometimes people — in the paintings are dead, so people interpret that as morbid. But for me, it’s more out of respect, like, ‘Here’s this thing that may be dead, but that doesn’t make it any less fascinating to look at and learn about.'”

Teach us more, please! Or at least show us more: Bess shows often at Modified Arts on Roosevelt Row.

Is it possible that the street artist known as The Mac is our Raphael, our Rembrandt, our Bouguereau? Despite the fact that his blue Madonna with palm trees appears on the corrugated garage door of a tattoo parlor, or that his portrait of Marcus Garvey is on the side of a building in Watts, The Mac’s works have a touch of the masters about them, both old and new.

Only 27, the Phoenix native has traveled extensively: San Francisco, San Diego, Montreal, Mexico City, Hollywood. Each time, he leaves behind once-vacant walls filled with alluring, shapely women, jazz legends, cultural figures, and religious icons. The Mac’s canvas is the world, and he’s highly regarded both on the street, for his aerosol work, and in galleries, for his acrylic, pen and ink, and stained-glass efforts. He brings the aesthetic of the museum to the street and vice versa. He’s the Goya of the ghetto.

She’s been a guest on downtown’s one and only talk show, Grand Avenue Live!, as well as the Uncle Sku’s Clubhouse performance art show. We once spotted her occupying a booth along with the other boozehounds at one of downtown’s best dives, the defunct Pete’s News Room. She was the only non-human allowed to use the bathroom at Thought Crime, privileges that have carried over to The Firehouse collective. And local band Nightwolf wrote and performed a song just for the Australian shepherd/greyhound/coyote bitch.

Her name is Starflash, and she can be spotted whenever photorealist painter and illustrator Suzanne Falk ventures from her east Phoenix work/live studio to various downtown shindigs. From First Friday receptions and Modified Arts shows to the First Phoenix Annual Parade of the Arts and the Willow House outdoor patio, Starflash solicits mad love from the close-knit arts community. Nightwolf best summed up our feelings about the lovable Flash in their dedication ode to the black-coated pooch, “Starflash/You’re a dog/And we love you!”

Most of us writerly types are quite challenged when it comes to tying our own shoes, much less trying to create a work of fine art. But that doesn’t stop us from trying, which is why we’re glad we’ve found our art groove at this downtown Phoenix haven, located in the back of a former church a few hundred yards southeast of the library.

Sponsored by Phoenix Parks and Recreation, classes offered at the Phoenix Center range from metal work to ceramics to glass, and wanna-be artists who favor unconventional expression (translation: don’t know what they are doing but want to give something new a shot) are welcomed with open arms.

Most of the teachers work other gigs in their fields, such as Ingrid Donaldson, a real pro who toils at Hot Sands Glass. A few words of warning: 1) Taking the classes won’t set you back too much, but the materials you’ll need to purchase certainly may; 2) This art-making stuff is addictive, and the teachers are so engaging and enthusiastic that you’re likely to find yourself returning semester after semester.

Cindy Dach is a smarty-pants. She knows that when it comes to a downtown Phoenix business, it’s not enough to build it — if you want people to come, you’ve got to get creative. So along with cute merchandise (most of it crafted by local artists) the owner of MADE has found other ways to draw a crowd. Dach has offered workshops in chocolate-making and beading, and hosted theme shows with artist-made birdhouses, cookie jars, and clocks. Her latest brainstorm involves something to trade, rather than something to buy, and we hear it’s drawn its fair share of potential customers to MADE.

“TRADE AT MADE” started with a call to stop by on a Saturday night and bring along a mix tape meant for trading. Next, Dach hosted “TRADE AT MADE: FAVORITE BOOK.” Both were big successes. So she did mugs, and later this fall, there will be a recipe exchange. Dach provides refreshments. Good times!

For years, we’ve watched with envy as other cities have built cool crafting communities, groups of people obsessed with things like glitter, beads, and yarn. When, we wondered, would we get our own craft mafia, like the one founded years ago in Austin, Texas? We got our answer this spring, with the creation of the Phoenix Craft Mafia. From their Web site, you can link to their online craft shop on www.etsy.com (a great site for homemade gifts — check it out) and get info on events like the Second Saturday craft fairs they’ve been hosting at Plaid Eatery in Tempe.

Cheryl Cobern-Browne’s got the dream life — if you love beads and travel. We do. For our money (and we’ve spent plenty on both) there are few pleasures greater in life than just the right shiny trinket and just the right overseas trip. Cobern-Browne cleverly combined the two and created a business, leading tours that have included South Africa (Zulu beadwork), Ireland (modern lampwork studios), Turkey (Istanbul’s bead shops) and the Czech Republic (Czech bead factories). Participants have a chance to work with master bead artists, as well as to shop and explore. Sign us up!

We love the Scottsdale Arts Festival because, unlike other outdoor art shows (which have proliferated with alarming frequency in the 37 years since Scottsdale started their own), this is a quality act. More than 200 artists are featured each year, and while you may find a stray ceramic tissue-box holder or something that looks like your third-grader’s art project, for the most part the art is amazing, stuff you’d actually put in your home — if you could afford it.

Okay, so this is window-shopping turf for most of us, but it’s still one of our favorite weekends of the year, and one of our favorite spots at the festival is Imagination Nation, the kid craft area, usually located on the north side of City Hall. You don’t have to be a kid to make yourself a wide-brimmed brown paper bag hat, although you might want to bring along a third-grader to decorate it for you, for that authentic touch. Last year, our kid ditched the hat almost immediately after making it, and, with no free hands (we recommend the festival food!), we stuck it on our own head. We were grateful at the end of the day, when we noticed a lot of other sunburned faces. And we got a lot of compliments!

The 38th annual festival is March 7, 8 and 9, 2008, and it’ll feature art, food and live entertainment. See you at the hat-making table.

Scottsdale’s artwalk is still a booming tourist business in the nicer months, but where local coolios are concerned, it’s become the too-pretty stepsister of First and even Third Fridays. And yes, it’s tough to park and fight the rush of snowbirds on Thursday evenings in January and February, which is why we like to hit the streets of Scottsdale in July. Yes, July. Check the Web site for exact details so you don’t land on an odd night, but on one Thursday in July, the place positively pops. We headed to Lisa Sette Gallery for her 20th anniversary show on July 5 and managed to catch up with just about every Phoenix artist we know. Now, some of them (Matthew Moore, Gregory Sale) had pieces in the show — an amazing collection of Sette’s new and old favorites — but most were just there to hobnob. Which, let’s face it, is what a good artwalk is all about, too.

Even if you have a backyard pool to dip the kids in hourly, summertime is not a fun time, in these parts. That’s why we’re so grateful that someone in the Harkins family came up with the idea for a summer movie series. For $7, you get a pass to 10 movies, one a week for the whole summer. Kid snacks are cheap, and the A/C is free. This past summer, the roster included Curious George, Charlotte’s Web, Over the Hedge, Ice Age: The Meltdown, Open Season, Wallace & Gromit in the Curse of the Were-Rabbit, Happy Feet, Barnyard, Nanny McPhee and Everyone’s Hero, showing on big screens across the Valley.

We’re pretty sure no one will say anything if you show up without a kid in tow. Hey, Happy Feet wasn’t bad! Pass the popcorn.

We can’t wait for October 19. Not just because there’s a slight chance that, by then, temperatures will have dipped below 100 degrees. (Usually, around here, it’s boiling hot ’til Halloween, when the temperature drops 50 degrees in a day, forcing all the kids to cover their costumes with heavy winter coats.)

No, we’re excited for this year’s Roosevelt Row Harvest Festival. Like many things in downtown Phoenix, the festival is still in its infancy. But we have high hopes — partly because Greg Esser, to whom we like to refer behind his back as “the city’s real mayor,” is involved, but mostly because we love nothing more than a street fair. Probably because we remember our elementary school days, when the school carnival (ours was lovingly known as the Hopi Hullabaloo) was as good as it got.

Greg, do us a favor. Along with the live music, the crafty vendors and the so-bad-for-you-it’s-good street food, could you have a lollipop tree, just for old time’s sake? And maybe a cakewalk? Oh, okay, we’ll settle for a beer garden and pumpkin bowling.

Every Thanksgiving, the Phoenix Zoo kicks off several weeks of enchanted evenings with the opening night of ZooLights. The event, a quintessential “Phoenix thing,” raises funds for wildlife conservation and children’s programming at the zoo, and it’s a nice, quiet way to decompress one more time before the holiday frenzy.

The landscaping and lagoons are charming. The light displays are ooh-inspiring. There’s stuff for the whole family to enjoy, like camel rides, animal presentations, and a carousel (and, of course, the gift shop). And it’s a lot of walking — or at least it feels like it after all those yams. Break out your cute sweater and hat and think of it as an Easter parade . . . in the dark . . . and without Judy Garland. You’ll probably have made room for hot cocoa and a fresh, cinnamon-y churro by the time you’re done. And on Black Friday? Sleep in. You’ve earned it.

If you’re a WASP, you have a pretty good idea about where you’ll be on the night before Christmas, but you’ve probably never given much thought to what your non-Christian pals will be doing. Don’t bothuh, bubalah — they’re doing fine. A coalition of Jewish singles organizations led by Tribe sponsors this annual hoedown, which features off-the-hook drinking, dancing, and elbow-rubbing with fellow “Hebes who want to hang.” (Hey, they said it, not us.)

Sure sounds better than unwrapping that umpteenth pair of tube socks from Aunt Catherine and Uncle Jack. Oy, can the goyim come, too?

David Chuchla, the enigmatic dude behind this annual display, is one of those silent do-gooders who’d rather let their munificence do the talking. (In other words, he doesn’t return phone calls.) We can’t fathom why he spends so much time — and so much of his own moolah — erecting this gargantuan ode to joy, which is located in a private residence and open to the public for three weeks each December.

The spirit-choked abode features eight rooms dolled up with individual themes, an ice cave packed with animatronic figures, 40-odd decked-out trees, and 50,000 lights.

So what’s in it for him? There’s no commercialization, no product tie-ins. Could it be that we Scrooges have got it wrong? Could there really be a Santa Claus? Nah. But Chuchla’s house looks cool at Christmastime.

Vampires are soooooo cool. Always have been, always will be. But they’ve been getting even more lovin’ of late. In Underworld, sexy Kate Beckinsale had us drinking tomato juice by the gallon to quench our blood lust. Wesley Snipes made us wish we were undead ninjas in Blade. Best-selling Valley author Stephenie Meyer had us reaching for the Scotties with Twilight and New Moon, her rain-drenched novels about the star-crossed love affair between a Rico Suave vamp and a sweet-as-syrup waif.

Lisa Starry’s Scorpius troupe adds to the bloody-good fun with its annual “Nutcracker of Halloween.” The toothy tale relates the story of a chaste young woman who falls in with a bad crowd, stumbling into a secret ceremony akin to the opera-house feeding frenzy in Interview With the Vampire. Starry’s vision is pretty creepy, but the show’s done with a light touch that even vampophobes will appreciate.

Phoenix has so many theater companies, it’s hard to know where to start. So take our advice, and start at birth (well, maybe around 4 or 5) with Childsplay. The Valley’s professional children’s company has been around for 30 years, serving up dozens of kid-friendly plays and musicals that never pander to their audiences. Which is why parents and children alike love the likes of Goodnight Moon, Seussical and this season’s upcoming Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Not to mention the company’s super-talented troupe of regulars that includes Debra K. Stevens, Jon Gentry, and the incomparable Katie McFadzen. The heck with amusement parks and water slides — take the kids to a Childsplay show, where you’ll have at least as much fun as your little charges.

True, Phoenix is home to only a handful of professional theater companies. Thus, Actors Theatre is on a short list of troupes with access to bigger budgets, better venues, and better performers. No matter, because what truly sets this company apart, time and again, is its choice of material.

For more than two decades, AT has wowed us with material that other companies pass up, as anyone who saw their awe-inspiring production of The Pillowman late last season can attest. This season, AT is bringing us the equally provocative The Lieutenant of Inishmore by Martin McDonagh, as well as Heather Raffo’s 9 Parts of Desire and the world premire of Speak Spanish to Me, a commissioned piece by Bernardo Solano about a young love affair at Arizona State University.

Who else but Actors Theatre would bring us such a diverse, risky season? No one.

Okay, so their Night of the Iguana sucked like mad. Yet Nearly Naked continues to offer not only some of the highest-quality productions in town, but some of the most daring, least-often-produced material Phoenix has ever seen, as well. What’s more, Damon Dering and the other stalwarts at Nearly Naked, which is now a resident company at Phoenix Theatre, continue to surprise theatergoers with plays that seem out of this often-impish troupe’s element. The Who’s Tommy seemed mighty tame for these guys; after all, it had played Gammage in its squeaky-clean road company version a few years before. But Nearly Naked showed us a groovy, grunged-up production that would have made Pete Townshend and his pub-crawling pals proud. Even their awful Night of the Iguana was sort of subversive, reminding us what “alternative theater” used to look like 40 years ago. We like what it looks like today, especially when we see it at Nearly Naked.

It’s been a long time since it was considered clever to spoof obscure science-fiction films in wacky stage musicals. But tiny Artists Theatre Project (their friends call them @Pro) managed last season to prove that, sometimes, everything old can be new again. The company’s Scream Queens: The Musical worked well in spite of the fact that an all-girl camp tuner about the joys of Z-grade horror flicks is such a tired idea that right now, someone is probably squirreled away somewhere writing a spoof of such spoofs. Scream Queens hollered in earnest about how campy camp can be, and did so with such gusto and charm that its worn-out premise seemed somehow shiny and new. Director Douglas Loynd kept the many components of this complicated campathon moving at a fast clip by integrating set changes into each number, and letting the all-gal cast improvise over the inevitable technical glitches that come with film clips and audience participation. All these months later, we’re still screaming for Scream Queens.

When you step inside the lunchtime theater space at the Herberger in downtown Phoenix, you never know what you’re getting (unless you’ve pre-ordered lunch; then you can be sure of your turkey sandwich). On a hot August afternoon, we had a particularly memorable experience, watching James E. Garcia’s new work, In a Glass House, about the life of former Arizona Governor Raul Castro.

As Garcia would want us to quickly point out, the play was only being workshopped. A full production will premire sometime soon, he promises. And we can’t wait. Castro was Arizona’s first (and only, to this day) Hispanic governor, and his tenure (although brief, from 1975-77) was fascinating, topped only by the stories of his youth and his time as ambassador to El Salvador, Colombia and Argentina.

We don’t want to ruin the story, if you don’t know it already. We just want to say that you must see the play when Garcia premires it. We hope Marcos Najera (full disclosure: he now writes for us at New Times) is in the cast. He did a terrific job in the workshop. And we hope you’re there for a performance where the governor happens to be in attendance. The day we saw In a Glass House, we had a good view of Governor Castro, throughout. The old guy’s now in his 90s but is looking relatively spry. He took the stage afterward for a Q&A and repeated the quote that opens the play: “I don’t want to be loved. I want to be respected.” He got that, certainly, from Garcia. “Tears came to my eyes,” Castro said, “reminiscing about my life.”

Ours, too.

We never thought we’d ever see anyone, anywhere, do the Siamese ballet “The Small House of Uncle Thomas” and make us like it, until we blundered into a superb production of The King and I at this East Valley dinner theater. Broadway Palm is part of a chain of similar venues, and its stock in trade is the usual warhorses (My Fair Lady) and super-popular jukebox musicals (Beehive), but we’re beginning to rethink our snooty attitude about dinner theater after seeing what these guys did with this Rodgers and Hammerstein classic — not to mention what Broadway Palm’s chefs do with a pork loin! We found their Carved Roasted Garlic Chipotle Pork Loin as tasty as any we’ve had at better restaurants, and their Crab-Stuffed Pollack Filet was pretty close to perfect, too. Forgive us for going back for seconds at the rather opulent dessert bar, but we noticed the colossal ice cream bar only after we’d helped ourselves to samplings from the super-sweet array of cakes and pies. We left stuffed and happy and planning to return as soon as possible.

Christopher Haines’ portrayal of a monstrous, self-absorbed serial killer was so intense and so terrifying that one local director sent regrets that he, unnerved by Haines’ performance, fled at intermission. Bryony Lavery’s award-winning play about a little girl’s death at the hands of a depraved pervert isn’t an easy one to sit through, to be sure — a fact that was made all the more apparent in iTheatre Collaborative’s production directed by Mike Traylor earlier this year. Haines’ interpretation of the cold-blooded killer was so chillingly sinister — and his working-class British accent so dead-on — that it trumped several excellent performances at nearby professional theaters. Bravo.

Judy Kaye’s victory here is no mean feat when one considers that local favorite Bob Sorenson, who made his move to the New York stage a couple of years ago, scored raves playing a German transsexual and survivor of Communist Berlin in Arizona Theatre Company’s I Am My Own Wife. But we’re still chuckling over former Phoenician Kaye’s performance as dismal songstress Florence Foster Jenkins in ATC’s delightful staging of Souvenir. Kaye, on whose mantel rests a Tony Award for her portrayal of Carlotta in The Phantom of the Opera, is the real deal. She appeared in the original Broadway Grease (as a replacement Rizzo) and in numerous film and stage roles before reprising her Broadway performance as La Jenkins, whose abysmal tin-eared warblings were re-created as if Kaye herself weren’t a formidable vocalist.

That she was able to make us love Jenkins in spite of her pompous self made this performance all the more worthy of mention. Here’s hoping Kaye returns to her old stomping grounds more often.

While many of his compatriots struggled this past year to act, direct, run a credible theater or even just handle publicity for one, Ron May proved himself a quadruple-threat actor/director/artistic director/publicist who excelled at each of those tasks. As founding artistic director of Stray Cat Theatre, May (whose day job is the audience services coordinator at Actors Theatre) is responsible for one of a very few small, local companies that turn out consistently worthwhile work. This year, the company scored with Neil LaBute’s tricky Fat Pig in November, in which May led a fine cast into the tetchy waters of looksism and the plight of the pigheaded.

May also helmed Stray Cat’s sterling production of Sarah Kane’s difficult 4.48 Psychosis and, at ASU, he worked his magic on Love’s Fire, a tricky collection of short plays based on Shakespeare’s sonnets. And no one’s forgetting May’s subtle, colorful comic relief the season before as a lovable doofus in Nearly Naked Theatre’s Take Me Out.

Theater fans are eager to witness May’s contributions to the just-launched 2007 season, which can only be improved by whatever he brings to the stage.

He wore a dirndl and platinum braids. He threw tantrums and fistfuls of excelsior. He even did a little soft-shoe, and won the hearts of a dozen different audiences when Bad Seed performed at the Herberger early this summer.

He’s Neil Cohen, a man who isn’t afraid to play Solitaire in a giant, rick-racked party dress before hundreds of people. Lucky thing, too, because Cohen might well be the only actor in town who could have brought Rhoda Penmark to such big, bold life. He’s certainly the only actor who could possibly upstage former New Times columnist Paul Braun, whose return to the stage after nearly 30 years also involved wearing a frock or two, not to mention a couple of droopy bad seed — oops! We mean bird seed! — breasts. Did someone say, “A memorable night at the theater?”

The big gay weekend in Phoenix always starts with the Saturday-morning parade, where everybody from local group “Dykes on Bikes” to parents carrying signs proclaiming pride for their gay kids marches through downtown from Third Street and Virginia. Once the festival gates open, the park plays host to a plethora of activities, with multiple stages and outdoor dance floors, karaoke booths, rows and rows of vendors, and an entertainment lineup that boasts some pretty good stuff: This year’s fest included performances by comedian Judy Tenuta, pop diva Taylor Dayne, and R&B stars En Vogue, alongside an eclectic collection of Valley artists that included girl punk-pop group The Pübes, drag king troupe Sisterzz Twisted, drag queen Ineda Buffet, and, uh, Phoenix Mayor Phil Gordon.

For two days, nothing’s taboo — and people do everything from donning nothing but neon green Speedos to participating in “spanking booths,” where burly bear men whip them for the crowd. But it’s not just a spectacle; it’s a celebration and resource, too, with big-business sponsors and big-hearted nonprofits tempting the crowd.

We’d like to tell you that these society ladies are wrinkled biddies who cast off their walkers, strip down to their unmentionables, and break a couple of hips doing a bawdy striptease. Sorry, sickos. The women of this national charitable organization are more likely to burn their bras than flaunt them. Children of the ’60s, they’ve retained their activist mindset into middle age, though the causes they champion now are more likely to be fundraisers for nonprofits than anti-war rallies. Inspired by the more genteel ladies of the Red Hat Society, the Blue Thongers (and we’re not talking flip-flops) have a local group that meets at places like The Library in Tempe. Linda Pollack, director of the Phoenix/Paradise Valley chapter, says “Our mission is to fight frump.” Like-minded femmes should e-mail bluethongsocietyaz@hotmail.com

Virginia Hill was an American do-gooder who came from wealth and lost a leg during a hunting accident — an unlikely combination for someone who would go on to become one of World War II’s most decorated spies. Tempe-based Pearson relates Hill’s fantastical tale in The Wolves at the Door: The True Story of America’s Greatest Female Spy (Lyons Press, 2005). The author’s strength is research, and her clean, uncluttered writing allows the story to tell itself. The same attributes are evident in her first book, Belly of the Beast: A POW’s Inspiring True Story of Faith, Courage and Survival Aboard the Infamous WWII Japanese Hell Ship Oryoku Maru (Penguin Books, 2001), as well as Pearson’s “travel series” — a collection of writings detailing various adventures in the Southwest and beyond.

Diana Gabaldon is the kind of person you really want to hate but can’t. She’s talented and rich and brain-surgeon smart, but she also posts fudge recipes on her Web site.

Wait, there’s more. She has a master’s in marine biology from Scripps, once wrote comic books for Walt Disney Productions, and created a better scientific computation mousetrap between teaching classes at ASU’s Center for Environmental Studies.

Then she decided, “Aw, what the hell! I think I’ll sit down for a few hours and write a New York Times bestseller.” (Okay, not really. She toiled as a freelancer for 15 years before tackling long form, but we still think she’s a smarty-pants.)

Gabaldon’s first book-length project was named Outlander, a moody tale about an 18th-century Scotsman and his time-traveling wife, Claire. That book blossomed into five more — so far. The Outlander Series, as it’s known, is the historical fiction/romance version of Harry Potter, and is idol-worshipped in much the same way by the author’s loyal legions. Her latest in the series, Outlander, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, was published in 2006 by Bantam Dell. And her latest novel, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade — the second entry in her “Lord John Grey” series — was published in August by Delacorte Press.

The Flagstaff native lives in Scottsdale with her husband, Douglas. We’re hoping he has a robust self-image.

National Book Award-winning author William T. Vollmann called Nulick’s 2006 book Distemper a “beautifully written catalog of various kinds of unhappiness.” High praise, indeed, and a sublime understatement. The literary debut by the Iowa-born, Valley-based Nulick is a hallucinatory, pitch-black love story — set in Phoenix — that incorporates references as far afield as Hitler, Marilyn Manson, Warhol, Nabokov, Kafka, skateboard culture, beekeeping, the old let’s-put-LSD-in-the-municipal-water-supply trick, and tow-truck drivers who’ve been driven to drink by hellcats on wheels.

“I tell people it’s a love story,” Nulick says. “It’s about people who get obsessed with other people in ways that are unhealthy, plus there’s kind of a riff on schizophrenia in there.”

Ya think?

Suddenly, it seems, Arizona is home to some of the trendiest children’s authors around. Stephenie Meyer, author of the oh-so-addictive vampire romance series that begins with Twilight, lives here. Robin Brande, whose Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature inspired Changing Hands bookstore to have its first-ever book-launch party, hails from Tucson.

Brande and Meyer write books for young adults. There’s another notable local writer who sets her sights a little lower, age-wise at least. Barbara Park created the character Junie B. Jones, a little girl who — as in her fictional home and kindergarten/first-grade classrooms — inspires both love and dread among her followers.

Thing is, Junie B. is a first-class brat. She’s not rotten to the core, she’s just a troublemaker — and she’s got bad grammar (well, the grammar of a kindergartener), which is the real sticking point for a lot of parents and teachers, who have raised such a ruckus about her they made the pages of the New York Times, not long ago.

We’re sticklers for proper talk (in fact, we’ve been known to “fix” Junie’s errors as we read them to our own 6-year-old), but we’re also here to say that we loooooooove Junie B. Jones. The reason is simple. Our kid loves her. She’ll pick Junie B. over TV, for crying out loud. How often does that happen in your house?

So keep up the good work, Barbara Park! (A little bird tells us you’re just as mischievous as your character, so maybe you get a kick out of all the controversy.) We hope Junie B. makes it to second grade before our kid does, so we can continue to follow her antics ’til we’re ready for Meyer and Brande — with some early Judy Blume tossed in for good measure, in between.

It’s not every day you see an entire bedroom cruising down the I-10 at 60 miles per hour. True, we’ve all seen our share of beds and dressers dangling and dropping from pickup trucks on crowded Valley freeways. But we mean an actual entire bedroom here, folks, cruising intact down the freeway and not chunking into pieces on the asphalt.

A growing handful of lucky drivers have seen what is certainly the best advertising ploy of 2007: IKEA’s promotion of their new catalog includes a black truck (actually not made of compressed wood) with a glass, greenhouse-like bed that features an entire bedroom.

Our sources tell us the experts at IKEA bolted down “the lighter objects” (i.e., all the objects), so as to keep them from shifting during the bedroom’s eye-catching jaunt about the Valley. The truck amounts to a driving glass bubble, magnifying the company’s product and reminding all gazers to pick up the new IKEA catalog. For this we give our “well done” to our favorite cardboard furniture factory.

Traffic on Loop 202 can be a major bitch sometimes. On any given workday, our commute along the East Valley artery is plagued with rampant gridlockery and loads of dumbass drivers who cause our blood pressure to shoot skyward. We’ve come dangerously close to road rage a few times but, thankfully, we’ve never resorted to tossing grenades into the gas-guzzling SUVs that cut us off. We’ll leave that up to the magic-makers in Hollywood, who transformed a portion of Loop 202 in Gilbert last summer into an orgy of vehicular violence for the recently released Middle Eastern action thriller The Kingdom.
With its barren desert setting, the two-mile stretch of the Santan Freeway between Higley and Power Roads served as a passable stand-in for a Saudi Arabian expressway where an elite team of FBI agents (including Oscar winners Jamie Foxx and Chris Cooper) are attacked by terrorists, resulting in an explosive-drenched, car-crunching action sequence. It packs such a pulse-pounding wallop that we’re willing to forgive the fact you can spy a few saguaros in the background.

Now that we’ve all grieved over the paved paradise where the old Ciné Capri used to stand in Phoenix, and moved on to newer pastures in North Scottsdale, Dan Harkins surprises and delights us once again. In the new Tempe Marketplace at Rio Salado and Loop 202, a second star is born. Nearly identical to the theater complex at the Harkins 101, the Ciné Capri part deux in Tempe offers nothing surprising, but that doesn’t mean we’re not still enchanted by the grandiosity of the spectacular gold curtains that open before each performance, the 70- by 30-foot screen, and the pomp and circumstance you just don’t find much anymore, at the movies. Makes even a summer guilty pleasure like Superbad seem almost classy.

We’ve finally figured out what downtown Phoenix really needs: a good old-fashion repertory film house. Some kinda old school theater à la the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin or the Loft in Tucson, where we can kick back and screen cult classics, Russ Meyer’s outrageous oeuvre, vintage cinematic epics, or other trashy filmic gems that can only be fully appreciated when viewed on the silver screen.

Since the chances of this dream theater being built are as likely as the Cardinals winning the Lombardi trophy, our celluloid thirst is gonna have to be slaked by the “Midnite Movie Mamacita,” Andrea Beesley-Brown. Having nursed a lifelong love affair with sleazy cinema since her teenage years, the 28-year-old native New Zealander has brought the best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) in B-movies to Valley audiences over the past two years. The second Friday of every month, Beasley hosts “Revenge of the B-Movie Babes” at the Paper Heart, which has featured a host of gory slasher and horror titles, while over at the Chandler Cinema, on the last Friday of the month, she presents “Grindhouse Redux,” a double-feature pairing of a seedy sexploitation flick like Jailbait Babysitter with a carnage-laden film such as Death Race 2000.

Save a seat for us, Andrea; we’ll bring the popcorn.

There are several free, outdoor film series in the Valley every year, so why Reels & Wheels? Two things: 1) demo, 2) environment. Tempe, at least around ASU, is cool. It’s the only place in the Valley other than downtown Phoenix that has street people, which lends a certain urban savoir-faire to the area — like Times Square before Giuliani. And while families do live nearby, they’re seriously outgunned — and their damping-down cultural influence negated — by the sheer force of Gen X will.

Long story short: The films, in general, play to more mature audiences, though the city of Tempe will occasionally throw neighborhood nuclears a G-rated bone. As for environment, we don’t mean the surroundings, however charming the Sixth Street/Mill Avenue microregion might be. We’re talking about the City’s laudable “green” policy of encouraging attendees to get to the park via alternative means of transportation: bicycle, skateboard, foot, or shopping carts for the residence-challenged. Only in Tempe.

On the rare occasions when our elected officials get something right, they nail it — as with Concerts Under the Stars. The monthly live-music hoedown provides a cultural oasis in our Sargasso Sea of summer, offering up casual, Bic-flickin’ outdoor performances by some of the Valley’s best pop and rock bands at a very nice price.

With global warming shortening monsoon season and the urban heat island forcing storms out of central Phoenix, we’ve had to get creative in order to feed our storm-chasing fever. Until we’re all carbon neutral, we’ll head to the Burton Barr Library on Central Avenue to watch the monsoons unfold.

Take the elevator to the fifth floor of Will Bruder’s architectural masterpiece. Walk past the computers and stacks until your nose presses against the glass facing north. To the left is the west side, to the right Camelback Mountain. From here, you can see 180 degrees of nature’s fury and some of the best electrical storms this side of Twister. While everyone else is rushing home to avoid the storm, we’ll revel in the flashes of light, whip-cracks of thunder and haze of a quick desert rain. Lightning really does strike twice. We’ve seen it.

The hepcat hair salon and bizarre boutique of stylist Tad Caldwell has something of an arty bent to it, as the funky follicle fortress also functions as a gonzo gallery of sorts for local photographers, painters, sculptors, and fashion designers. So it’s only fitting that its ultra-eclectic entranceway resembles a piece of assemblage art writ large.

The surreal storefront of Way Cool stands out from its neighbors by boasting exotically disjointed metal work (including a curlicue jumble of electrical conduit and sheet metal) covering the front door and signage, while stickers from Valley bands and the trippy graf-style paintings of Joerael Elliot adorn the front windows.

There’s also a ramp-like metal structure for skaters to pull plenty of tricks and get some air, and when the salon’s open for business, a madcap mannequin covered in feathered boa and other freaky fashion sits in a wheelchair on the sidewalk.

In our automobile-infested metropolitan oasis, parking spots are hardly at a premium, and yet we circle the lot endlessly in search of that perfect space to rest our ride. We shop for a spot that meets our criteria for location, shade, safety, and accessibility, and are prideful when we acquire or forfeit a prime spot. You can’t do better than the beautifully designed parking spots at the 24th Street and Camelback Starbucks. Here, a select collection of spaces are individually delineated by well-tended palm trees, dazzling botanical specimens by daylight and dramatically lit architectural columns by night. The trees provide a natural barrier from dings and dents, while your tires rest comfortably on a bed of cobblestone. Parking time is free but limited, so you’ll have to share the wealth. Your jalopy deserves some pampering, and you could probably use some caffeine, so pull in to one of these parking gems and you’ll hop out of your heap thinking you’ve just emerged from a Rolls-Royce.

This may sound like an award for a high school cheerleader, but we wanted to give a well-deserved nod to a smile that will brighten anyone’s day (or night). When the sun starts setting, check out Dr. Jeff Mix’s office on Central and you’ll see a smirk unlike any other in town. Above the front entrance perches their glowing logo of two cherry red lips curled to reveal a pearly set. The backlit colored Plexiglas gleams, and the bright white teeth are adorned with a dazzling spark made of glowing white neon. This gorgeous grin has all the glitz of a Twizzler mouth on cocaine and we love it. And this smile won’t age or get messed up with a round of collagen injections.

We’ve sat in more than a few courtrooms over the years (as observers, thankfully, not as defendants — at least most of the time), so we feel confident that we can fairly “judge” which guy or gal in those old-school black robes is the best around. And isn’t it just our (and the community’s) lousy luck that the gentleman we are selecting as our numero uno jurist has left the Maricopa County Superior Court bench after more than two decades for greener pastures? What a loss!

Here are a few words that come to mind when Ron Reinstein’s name comes up: Compassionate, thoughtful, even-handed, funny, egalitarian. Reinstein has presided over more high-profile cases (most of them death-penalty homicide trials) than any other judge, though his judicial star may have shone most brightly when the powers that be inexplicably rotated him off the criminal bench, first to Family Court and later to Juvenile Court. There, finally out of the spotlight, Reinstein quickly distinguished himself as a go-to guy, the judge whom everyone wanted to appear before because of his attention to detail and always-courteous demeanor.

The courthouse is more than a little darker in his absence.

So, you’re arguably the most heinous murderer and most feared prisoner ever to hit the state of Arizona, the guy who made Charlie Manson look as benign as, say, Mayor Phil Gordon. Along your two-decade-long road to possible execution by lethal injection, you decided in the privacy of your own home (a prison cell in Special Management Unit II, that hellish Supermax facility designed for the worst of the worst) that you wanted to call it quits, to end your appeals, and expedite your own demise at the hands of the state. And let’s say that you turned out to be an articulate, straight-shooting SOB, albeit a truly cold-blooded killer and rapist.

In the end, once you got past the bleatings of both your court-appointed habeas attorneys and their counterparts — the elected talking-head prosecutors, who would as much pass up a publicity opportunity as Barry Bonds would pass up a fresh load of ‘roids — you faced death with an unexpected dignity and jailhouse élan. And your last two words on this Earth, “Go Raiders,” are almost as good as the Missouri killer whose last words in 2000 were, “Someone’s got to kill my trial attorney.” Really.

Driving through downtown Apache Junction feels like you’ve somehow tripped your way through some ungodly warp of the space-time continuum, ending up in some small backwater Western town from 50 years ago. Take the Superstition Freeway (U.S. Highway 60) and head 30 miles east until you’ve reached the ass-end of the Valley, and proceed north on Idaho Road until you hit the Apache Trail, the city’s main drag. It’s populated with Western apparel outlets, country bars, dirt parking lots, antique boutiques, saddle shops, and kitschy restaurants, most of which occupy buildings boasting 1880s architecture and decor. Although the city fathers are currently attempting to lure more modern and upscale commercial development into the area with tax breaks and incentives, the burg is currently like Phoenix’s hayseed cousin, or our own little version of Mayberry R.F.D. We’ve even heard a rumor that ol’ Andy Taylor might be coming out of retirement to run for sheriff, next election.

Alfred Hitchcock had a thing for both birds and word games, so our fair-feathered city provided him with the perfect location for the opening of his now famous Psycho. Unlike the mythical bird for which Phoenix is named, however, Psycho heroine Marion Crane didn’t exactly rise from the ashes reborn, which is why local developer/gadfly Michael Levine thinks Crane pretty much personifies Phoenix’s historic warehouse district — or what’s left of it. In a deft reworking of the film’s opening credits, posted on YouTube, Levine gives us “Phil Gordon’s Phoenix,” starring a host of city functionaries “and Janet Leigh, as the warehouse district.” With “screenplay by the City of Phoenix Planning Commission, based on the novel by Downtown Urban Forum Project,” we don’t need to see more than the credits to know where this story is going. (Levine himself, after buying and restoring such downtown jewels as the Southwest Cotton Company Building and the Bentley Projects space, has finally given up and is moving shop back to his hometown of Brooklyn.) From the Psycho opening — including that slow pan over downtown Phoenix, in which Levine has highlighted landmark buildings — we go straight to the famous shower scene. Watching it is doubly chilling when you think about everything that’s really going down the drain.