People & Places

The Tricks’ garden has Eden beat, no contest. Built around two old houses in downtown Tempe well off the beaten beer-spilled path of Mill Avenue the trellised, bricked, vine-covered spot is the perfect place to sit at the bar or relax at a table, with a good glass of wine. And one more thing we can guarantee: No one in Eden knew how to cook the way the Tricks do with menu temptations like marinated quail with a coffee honey vinaigrette or pistachio-crusted rack of lamb. Paradise.

The appletini is the quintessential frou-frou cocktail. Flirty. Tasteful. Fun. Grilled Expedition at Desert Ridge Marketplace offers an appletini that’s shaken, not stirred, and garnished with a Granny Smith apple slice. Its house special martini isn’t exactly a trade secret just vodka with a splash of sour apple liquor but the restaurant’s bartenders manage to get just the perfect combination of sweet and tart. This is an apple that will definitely sink its teeth into you.

For those of you who specialize in committing the most profane acts of immorality, now you can royally piss off God in a variety of ways at Apollo’s Greek God Revue. As if the infamously sassy GLBT clientele that frequents Apollo’s wasn’t enough to get on the Lord’s bad side, now guests can further annoy the Most High with the overt idolatry of Dionysian-loving tranny sing-alongs, the likes of which some fundamentalists might say could invoke the wrath of God with more urgency than the folks in those little towns called Sodom and Gomorrah. To add injury, the party happens every Sunday night, a day typically reserved by the rightest of the right for spiritual fasting and meditation. Perhaps the guys at Apollo’s view their wacky Sunday night Greek drag extravaganzas as worshipful in their own way. Since the Lord hasn’t struck them down yet, be sure not to miss a week; that would really light up this already fabulous party!

After attending a few of Monkey Pants’ “One O’Clock Shirtless Shot” promotions, we wholeheartedly endorse going topless at this wacky watering hole in Tempe. A single one-cent shot of any liquor in stock including such premium spirits as Patrn and Hennessey is doled out to anyone engaging in the half-naked high jinks (ladies are required to wear bras). It’s quite often a post-midnight madhouse, as the nightly event is jam-packed with ASU frat boys, urban cowboys, and dreadlocked hippies, all of whom wanna get bare-chested for booze. We recommend doing some crunches beforehand.

Underwear night definitely operates under the premise “less is more.” Every Thursday night, promiscuous persons flaunt what they’ve got at the LGBT-friendly bar while enjoying all-night drink specials. The house lights aren’t the only thing that drops at 9 p.m. when men move and groove on the dance floor in tighty whiteys, and exposed ladies shake it all out to DJ Doom’s house beats. It’s not necessary to bare most of your bod to enjoy the evening, but there is a buck off the cover charge reward for those brave souls who decide to strip down or just show up in their undies.

As if the spectacle of having contest booths involving kicking a soccer ball into some dude’s face from 30 feet away and hordes of head-bangers running around in black tee shirts wasn’t entertaining enough, Ozzfest’s newest sideshow attraction is guaranteed to get more ogles than Anna Nicole Smith bending over in a tube top. The body-painting booth (or tent) has become a staple of Ozzfest in the past couple years, with a touring entourage of painters that has included everybody from New York artist Joe Platia to members of the grassroots movement Decriminalize, which advocates for the legalization of marijuana and what better way to advocate than having topless women run around in triple-digit temperatures with cannabis leaves painted on their boobs? Ladies line up to get topless and painted, and then spend the rest of the day running around in the heat, until they start to sweat the paint off, which doesn’t take long. Liquid latex lasts at least five hours, but the Ozzfest painters are using regular old hypoallergenic body paints, so guys might get a peek-a-boob not long after the paint job. And when you’re paying festival prices for beer, getting an eyeful of colorful canvas breasts ain’t a bad freebie at all.

How to make a pudding wrestling match: Add eight parts hot, tattoo-covered chicks, four parts fishnets (of course), one part grungy punk bar, and stir in gallons of yellow pudding we’ll let you draw your own conclusions about what it looks like. Jugheads, Phoenix’s perennial dirty punk-rock bar, and the Dirty Darlins of Debauchery, the Valley’s first (and only) pudding wrestling league, serve this dish hot, proving that people will pay money to watch good-looking women do just about anything as long as it involves a lot of physical contact and groping. Though watching the matches gives us some very perverted thoughts about our favorite childhood snack (what would Dr. Huxtable say?), we have to admit it’s pretty fun to watch eight half-naked girls sling pudding at each other for the crowd’s entertainment. And if you’re going to get this dirty, Jugheads is the only place in town to do it.

Hipsters have a demanding to-do list lately: get hair to do that floppy-do, hang-dramatically-to-the-side thing, update MySpace pictures, and find God. Luckily, among the art galleries and dive bars of the Grand Avenue scene is onePlace, the nightclub with a secret identity. While some of you may be familiar with the shows thrown at the cool, clean downtown venue, the nightclub actually has an alter ego bigger than Clark Kent’s onePlace is actually a church, which meets on Sundays for worship service. OnePlace Church is redefining the concept of a church worship service with a congregation made up primarily of single twentysomethings and young marrieds, onePlace does not discriminate by race, age or haircut. With plenty of edgy music and inspired, high-energy lessons, expect to see young moms worshiping next to kids with painted-on tight jeans, white belts and nail polish.

Jesus has a posse, and we’re not talking about the 12 apostles, yo. Nope, this particular Christ-following crew we speaking of are the more than 40 different members of Urban Artists United, an ultra-religious collective of ghetto-fabulous peeps who’re down with both God and the hip-hop lifestyle. Co-founder Vocab Malone says UAU consists of rappers such as himself and EmceeQuest, the b-boys of For the Love, graf art painters like Bryan Kilgore, and DJs like Cre One. When they aren’t leading hip-hop Bible study sessions in the West Valley, conducting break-dancing lessons at Black Canyon Juvenile Institution Addition, or performing at local fundamentalist churches, you can find them at First Fridays in front of Artisan Villages. Their goal: “Basically, we want to uplift and not diss by representing Jesus through hip-hop lifestyle.” Amen, brother.

Whether the almighty Jihad is shredding the bandstand at the Trunk Space, Great Arizona Puppet Theater, or Modified Arts, there’s sure to be a rabid cult following singing every hyperactive, hilarious, and politically charged absurdity. The band is centered on the duo core of upright bassist Benjamin Ora Gallaty and acoustic guitarist/main vocalist Sean-Claude Vincent Bonnette, who screams out demented folk-punk without the aid of amplification. According to the pair, the band’s moniker comes from a fusion of the toughest mo-fo American president and a word for “struggle.” Keen subject matter ranges from cutting a piece off baby Jesus to the stupidity of smoking, all fronted by a furious, lighthearted lead vocal wit that includes lyrics such as “Fuck white people/Kill the white devil” and “I like telling dirty jokes/And I like smoking crystal meth/But darling I love you.” Bow down to the gritty and raw audio confusion.

Instead of taking their cues from MTV or VH1, like other cover bands in these parts, The Minibosses ape video games. That’s right this quarter-wielding quartet of bassist Ben Baraldi, drummer Matt Wood, and guitarists John Lipfert and Aaron Burke look to the Nintendo Entertainment System of the 1980s to build their song list, re-creating soundtracks of such old-school cartridges as Mega Man 2, Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out, Metroid, and Ninja Gaiden. For the past few years, they’ve been the game-music gods to not only the legions of Sparks-drinking fans down at Modified Arts, but also thousands of other “Minibossies” nationwide who learned about the band through appearances on NPR and in the pages of Wired. With all this success, it’s a long way from game over for The Minibosses.

Phoenix is a long way from the bayou, but if you look hard enough, you’ll find a small but talented group of old tyme musicians. The type of broke-down, Deep South kind of musicians that command you to stomp your feet and clap your hands, bringing to mind a time gone by in a place you’ve never lived, but feel you can almost remember. Paris James is the king of these roots musicians the type of man who just looks like he gets it and can bring down the house with traditional 1930s-style blues as well as the occasional Hendrix cover upon request. His original tunes are just as powerful, and sung in a voice that is clear and unfaltering. You can catch Paris every Sunday at the Native New Yorker in Tempe, and on occasion at the Rhythm Room in Phoenix.

All dressed up and no place to go? Head to Sadisco and get your freak on all night with like-minded evil geniuses who have a taste for leather, vinyl, and outrageous hair. At this sort-of-monthly dance party, held at nightspots including Mardi Gras and Jugheads, the soundtrack is as harsh as the eye makeup, with industrial, EBM, noise, and dark electronic tracks from resident DJs Squalor, Dr. Faustus, ///she///, Blonde NoiZe, and 5arah. Before you show up, lurk on Sadisco’s MySpace page to find out the next date of debauchery, and, more important, the theme. Recent nights have included “Pink Trouble in Sadiscoville” (for a taste of John Waters’ cinema kink) and “Zombie a Go Go” (on the necro-porno tip), so get ready to plan your outfit accordingly. And when in doubt, wear black.

We’re feeling a little un-hip lately, mostly because we’ve been blowing through our 30s faster than you can say “midlife crisis.” Since we don’t have the dime to drop on either a new roadster or a new wardrobe, we’ll get our hepcat groove back by attending the next SMoCA Nights shindig. The bold and the beautiful of the Valley turn out three times a year en masse for this ultra-cool concoction of fashion, music and art that’s a collision of couture and culture. Although the focus is on fashion, with design divas like Camille Messina, Karelle Levy, and Kristin Dinnis staging runway shows, an assortment of other creative types including such pace-setting painters as Baron Gordon and Adam “Dumperfoo” Dumper, DJs like Maji and Brazilia, and musicians like jazz trio Sonorous lend their efforts to the proceedings. Dancing demonstrations, debauched drinking, and other artistic activities abound. Simply put, SMoCA Nights are smokin’ hot.

Visibility is at a premium at this basement-level bar, which is usually shrouded in a state of near darkness, punctuated only by the eerie crimson glow of red ceiling lamps. Serving not only as shady shelter from which to escape the blazing Arizona sun, Monroe’s also provides downtown Phoenix denizens with the perfect hiding place to slip away for a noontime drink or even spend the afternoon playing hooky from work. After dark, however, the underground imbibery plays host to an assortment of alcohol-fueled urbanites who swap stories amidst the dusky gloom or enjoy live music from the best in local jazz, blues and rock acts on weekends. The shadowy establishment almost feels like it could be some iniquitous underworld headquarters for rogues planning their next heist, or even more dog-faced types who’d like to make time with hotties of the opposite sex without having to reveal their ugly mugs. Be careful not to trip heading down the stairs.

Confession: We love cheap booze as much as anyone, but to be honest, we’re a little sick of slump-block dives and cans of PBR. Yet while we yearn to class things up a bit, we can’t quite get into a night on the town with the plastics on the east side. Luckily, we’ve stumbled upon this midtown house turned bar where somehow worlds collide: slummy and swanky, gay and straight it all seems to work here. Technically, Homme is a gay bar (oh, come on . . . you know “homme” means “man” in French, right?), but you’ll find it all here. The fact that the bar is built inside a house that’s been standing since the 1800s (complete with a resident ghost, some say) does a lot to add to its charm, and its anything/anyone-goes appeal. Slurping down your vodka drink Smirnoff is often on special it kinda feels like that party you threw in high school when your parents went out of town. There’s a different theme every night of the week, and drink specials to match. We’re particularly fond of Sundays, when happy hour prices are good all night long, and Thursdays, when the Lushlife DJs take over with indie dance rock you don’t hear at The Rogue, and reverse happy hour starting at 10. Homme may have even found the answer to our favorite cesspool Hot Pink! (may it rest in peace) with Friday night’s “One” hosted by StraightNoChaser, where you can catch live artists doing their thing in the corner, and plenty of attractive twentysomethings doing their thing on the dance floor.

Start in the cozy-chic lounge, where specialty martinis are named after movie stars. As you sip and unwind by firelight, you’ll honestly forget you’re in a strip mall. The seriously yummy food (which takes you, for instance, from a crab-dip-of-the-gods through a high-end steak sandwich to a crème brle that can hold its head up anywhere in town) is served, with military precision and religious silence, before and during screenings of recent films. Tiered seating features comfy armchairs with casters. And, like the control freak you are, you can choose your experience: Romance, action, or comedy? (Heck, we’ve seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Capote here.) Lots of conversation, or just a smidge? (Adjust arrival and departure time accordingly.) No-hassle family outing, or perfect atmosphere for a special date? (Although Farrelli’s sets the schedule and the menu, they know some things are best left in your capable hands.)

Not everyone can hang out at this refurbished historic hotel on Camelback Road its bar and restaurant are among the only places in town that ban blue jeans. But that’s okay with us, mainly because there’s something refreshing about seeing people a little bit dressed up, even if it is mostly in khaki. And we really can’t think of a more elegant place to drink as the night falls than the Royal Palms’ lovely courtyard, which features a full bar, excellent service, and surprisingly affordable noshes. But please: Don’t tell the riffraff. This isn’t for them, after all.

A first date should be relaxed, fun and easy to escape if something goes horribly wrong. A 24-hour coffee shop with a weekly poetry slam is exactly what the date doctor prescribes. Counter Culture Cafe is a bohemian hideaway, with art by locals lining the walls, and bookshelves stocked with well-worn tomes to borrow. Seating is varied, which is ideal for a first date. You can opt for one of the smaller tables near the mic or choose a comfy couch if you want to test your date’s cuddle potential. The Wednesday night Speak Up! open mic doubles as the perfect cover to avoid talking to Mr. Boring (“Shhh . . . I really dig the way this cat spits rhyme”) or a conversation starter (“So what do you think of the establishment?”). Either way, you’ll get the benefit of the Valley’s best beatbox, urban, home-grown folk and old-school beatnik talents. Snap. Snap.

It’s time to relax, and one beer stands clear. Not Miller, fools. Kirin Ichiban! A tall frosty pint glass of Kirin will chase away that desert-induced tickle in the back of your throat. Of course, it’s best to imbibe where there’s the appropriate Nipponese grub, a chill atmosphere, and some bar stars of both sexes for gawking purposes. Hey, you can eat sushi anywhere. But in the enclosed confines of the Zen Bar, with Japanese anime being screened on one wall, sexy bartenders, a hella-hip vibe, and that already mentioned glass o’ Kirin fresh from the tap, the tuna roll or yellowtail maki just seems to taste better. And the restaurant serves sushi ’til midnight, which helps. Plus, most nights of the week, there’s a reverse happy hour, with some free noshes provided. So let’s get crackin’ at it like a bag of knuckles. And if you arrive there first, pardners, save us a corner seat.

We love the concept behind happy hour cheap drinks and eats and a way to avoid traffic for a while after work. But the reality of happy hour usually sucks: We can only consume so many Buffalo wings and Bud Lights. Which is why Caffe Boa is our favorite place to blow off steam, and enjoy libations after a long workweek. Glasses of wine from the cafe’s impressive list are half-price (try the Sauvignon Blanc Dry Lands from New Zealand). Bread and oil is served free, and, combined with a few glasses of wine, we usually call it dinner. If you’re classier than we are and like actual appetizers with your drinks, check out the formaggi piatti a fancy way of saying “cheese plate” or the bruschetta. The atmosphere is better than most happy hours no unruly drunks in sight but you can still escape, nice and toasted, for less than $20.

Giuseppe’s Italian Kitchen owns this spot, like Mark Cuban owns the Dallas Mavericks. Of course, it costs the Eye-tie eatery a pretty penny. Three hundred of them, to be exact. See, the corkage fee at Giuseppe’s, the no-frills eatery with the way-above-average fare that’s owned by Richard Bock, principal cellist for the Phoenix Symphony, is only $3 per bottle. That’s about what you’d tip a Scottsdale valet these days. So rather than pay the 200 to 300 percent markup at some hoity-toity grub house for a jug of vino that’d cost you $10 at Trader Joe’s, you can bring in your own fermented grape juice and sit down for a nice plate of linguini or baked ziti. See, Bock’s in it for love, not moola. So he’s fine with turning a modest profit without gouging his customers. Other restaurants allow BYOB, but we’ve yet to find a place that’s anywhere near as low as at Giuseppe’s on the corkage, so this space will remain as a free advert for Bock & Co., up until someone else out there in restaurant land finally gets a clue.

Whenever we get that little desert tickle in the back of our throats, we do what the po-po do: Park it next to Sonora Brewhouse and amble inside for a pint or three of one of Sonora’s locally produced brew-ha-has. Not that we’re saying the Phoenix PD drink on the job, but it just so happens that we always see plenty of cop cars in the SB parking lot. Hey, Five-0 knows quality when they taste it, and we’re about 95 percent certain they wait until they’re off duty to imbibe. The rest of us, however, need not wait to quaff Sonora’s hand-crafted beers, like its refreshingly smooth pale ale, its hoppy IPA, or its chocolaty-malty super-dark porter. Just belly up to the bar, matey, or, if you’re in a rush, Sonora also does jugs of its brew to go. We advise you not to drink it in your car, though. After all, the po-po are watchin’.

It’s appropriate that the hottest beer on the planet is concocted right here in the desert by Cave Creek’s Black Mountain Brewing Company, an offshoot of the popular Crazy Ed’s Satisfied Frog restaurant/bar. Each bottle of the ferocious firewater is superheated by a nasty little chile pepper, and the attitudinal vegetable leaches its uncaged heat into the surrounding amber. Ed’s blazing blend is not for the squeamish or the connoisseur; www.ratebeer.com places Cave Creek Chili Beer at No. 30 on its list of the World’s 50 Worst Beers. But taste is in the mouth of the beholder, and those with courage, flame-retardant tongues, and less discriminating palates like us swear by the throat-searing stuff.

Is there such a thing as a slow night at Four Peaks? Not as far as we can tell. ASU populates this place with young faces, but the draw goes well beyond this quiet residential neighborhood. It’s easy to understand why. Eight house-made beers on tap, including the popular Kilt Lifter ale and Oatmeal Stout, plus a rotating seasonal menu of more than two dozen different brews, equals suds galore for connoisseurs and social drinkers alike. Add that to the perpetual buzz of conversation and laughter from crowds filling up the cavernous dining rooms, the vast bar, and the patio, and it feels sort of like a party, any night of the week. Even if you don’t care to see and be seen, consider the menu. This isn’t greasy bar food as an afterthought; it’s a satisfying roundup of burgers, salads, and hefty sandwiches for soaking up a pint or two of award-winning beer. Heck, some of the food’s even made with beer, like garlic cheese beer bread, crisp beer-battered fries, 8th Street Ale-battered chicken strips, and pizza (the ale’s in the dough). Yep, this really is a beer lover’s paradise.

While there’s no shortage of places to score cheap drink specials near the Tempe campus, have you ever wondered where the thirsty and broke students at ASU’s West campus go to swill? We’ve got the answer: Casey Jones Bar and Grill, a down and dirty watering hole and game hall located directly across the street from the West campus. The two-room hall is dark and dingy in a college bar sort of way, and lined with TV after TV. And for all you voyeurs out there, screw Hooters the bartenders and waitresses are all righteously hot girls wearing tight, skimpy white tank tops. CJ’s is especially appealing for night students who get out of class after 9:30 p.m. At 10, reverse happy hour kicks in, dropping prices on appetizers and nightly drink specials to near-student rates (around five bucks for everything). The real lure is Thursday’s pitcher night parched drinkers can land a 32-ounce pitcher for 99 cents. That, combined with linebacker-size nachos and sizzling honey-hot wings, puts this little-known spot at the top of our list.

Veronica Newell has been working the patio bar on Friday and Saturday nights at Palazzo/Tranzylvania for two years, and in that time, she’s accumulated quite a fan base partly because she’s so fast and friendly, but mostly because she makes a mean mixed drink. Her most popular blend is the Miami Beach, a fruity mix of Hypnotiq, Malibu rum, and pineapple juice. If that’s not your taste, don’t worry Newell estimates that she knows how to make “about a hundred” different drinks, and she’s not afraid to make up recipes on the spot, either. “I had one girl come in and say, ‘I like raspberry vodka,'” Newell says. “So I thought, ‘What could I make with that?’ Boom vodka, 7UP, and a splash of cranberry juice. That’s her favorite drink now.” And if you find yourself sitting at the patio bar waiting for your late-ass friends, Newell’s more than happy to pour you a stiff one and chat about everything from cat acne to what’s on the news.

In these days of high-octane Red Bull and vodka, there’s something infinitely charming about the long list of drinks they’re serving up at Scottsdale’s new and improved Trader Vic’s. The parchment-colored menu features no less than 78 specialties, each one redolent of the bygone era when people used to sip rather than chug. Check out such retro delights as the Pogo Stick (gin, pineapple, grapefruit juice), the Suffering Bastard (rum, lime, liqueur), and our new favorite, the Munich Sour (brandy and sour mix). Feel like something really different? Try one of the bar’s five “party libations,” served ready to share in communal bowls. On the other hand, if you want a tried-and-true classic, you can’t go wrong with the Mai Tai. Restaurant founder Victor Bergeron himself invented the Mai Tai back in 1944, and if you haven’t had one in years (or ever), give it a try. You’ll be surprised how glamorous it still tastes, 62 years after its invention.

If you’re planning on visiting the G&D because you’ve heard the selection of English pub beers and great cozy feel is just scrummy, you might be surprised to find another great secret of the Dragon in addition to authentic pub drafts and grub, the G&D stocks one of the finest selections of cigars and scotch in the Valley. Put down a Balvenie single malt, one of 28 scotches in stock, while puffing away on a Fuente cigar to your heart’s content. In fact, since the George and Dragon is a smoke-friendly bar, you can make like the English and tell anyone who complains about your smoking to just piss off. The Macanudo, a peppery and earthy Jamaican import, is perfect for stogie noobs who don’t know that you’re not supposed to inhale, while a swanky Partagas cigar is the luxury smoke of the house (it better be, at $12 apiece!). While you’re sparking up, find out why the G&D consistently wins the Best English Pub award and try the award-winning fish and chips or shepherd’s pie, and chase it down with one of the tubthumpin’ 21 beers on tap.

It doesn’t get much cooler than Camus. Not only is the bar/restaurant named after the French existentialist Albert Camus, author of The Stranger and The Plague, it’s set in the renovated, boutique-y Clarendon Hotel, which is illuminated by red and blue lights in the evening, and exudes a studied hipster charm. The Clarendon’s also a historic site, where investigative reporter Don Bolles took one for the team when a bomb exploded beneath his car in the Clarendon’s parking lot back in 1976. Care to share a drink with the ghosts of both Camus and Bolles? Then you’d best saddle up to the red granite bar and let mixologist/owner Carson Quinn whip you up one of his signature concoctions, maybe a white chocolate almond martini, a lychee white sangria, or a mango mojito. Our preferred potation, however, is the Carson City Martini, which purists might sneer at, but which we love to inhale on an all-too-regular basis. The Carson City is a magnificent blend of Absolut citron, Stoli vanilla, Frangelico, crème de cacao, and shaved almonds. A martini that tastes like marzipan! Sheer genius. We always order them in triplicate one for us, one for Albert, and one for Don. And if Albert and Don aren’t thirsty, well, we’ll just have to drink for three.

This popular establishment, located way up at DC Ranch, is well worth the trip on two engaging fronts. The sushi is excellent. And the signature martinis? Well, bet you’ll have at least two. We especially love the “Mowie Wowie,” a creative blend of Van Gogh pineapple vodka, tropical schnapps and a pineapple splash. Goes swimmingly with the yellowtail rolls. For more traditional types, the “Dean Martini” fits the bill your choice of a good vodka or gin, shaken and served straight up with a choice of specialty olives. And if you need a legal bump, try the “Clockwork Orange,” which combines Player’s Extreme Mandtango vodka with a blend of orange and tangerine juices, a splash of cherry juices, and here’s the kicker Red Bull energy drink.

We’d like this swank downtown nightspot even without the pomegranate martinis after all, just being able to write “swank downtown nightspot” is something wonderful in Phoenix. But it’s this drink in particular that takes our feelings from “like” to pure rapture. Yeah, pomegranate is everywhere this year, but nowhere in town is it so perfectly tart/sweet as in the martini glasses at FEZ. We were so inspired by this drink that we bought our own bottle of POM and attempted it at home; suffice it to say, we were back at FEZ the very next night.

As with any scrumptious cocktail, the proof’s in the amount of alcohol involved. Now, some places serve their mojitos weak. So weak, in fact, that they taste like lemonade with mint leaves thrown in. Not so at Sierra Bonita, the excellent Southwestern restaurant that’s into its second year in Phoenix. At Sierra, the bartenders know how to mix the restaurant’s specialty. So much so that try as we may this year we couldn’t (during an exhaustive survey of bars in the metropolitan area) find a mojito with as much kick. Hic! For those of you who haven’t an inkling of what a mojito’s all about, let us school your ass in how one’s mixed: Squeeze a lime into a bowl. Add a tablespoon of sugar and a bunch of washed mint leaves. Mush up the mess really well and pour it into a tall or fat glass of crushed ice. Fill the glass to about three-quarters of an inch from the top with good white rum. Sierra Bonita uses Bacardi Limn. Top the concoction with club soda or Sprite, stir thoroughly, and drink. It’s the perfect treat for a hot Phoenix night. In fact, the night we were last at Sierra Bonita, it was 100 degrees after dark, and while at first we minded being seated on the outdoor patio (the beautiful indoor bar was packed), we soon didn’t mind at all. After our third $6 mojito, we may as well have been in La Jolla.

Yeah, right, Sex and the City made them famous, but even before that, we found them to be tasty concoctions. Some self-described manly men have contended that you must be gay or a girly-girl to be seen in public holding one, but guys who say that are obviously uncomfortable with their sexuality. Cosmos are for everybody who enjoys a fine, sweet, large cocktail. If you are prone to martinis, you will obviously think they’re too sugary. But for anybody who’s enjoyed Cuba libre or even a Crown and Coke in his time, a cosmo’s a big step up. We’re saying: It contains a lot of vodka, dude! If you like ’em dry like we do, you put two ounces-plus of Grey Goose, three-quarters of an ounce of triple sec, the same amount of cranberry juice, and half an ounce of lime juice into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes, shake well, and pour into a martini glass. And Barcelona likes ’em like we do. But what sets Barcelona’s cosmos above the rest is their extra-large size and the dry ice that’s added for special pizzazz. You look like you’re drinking some mad scientist’s exotic concoction. The only problem at Barcelona is that it’s so crowded on a weekend night that you’re likely to spill the libation down some buxom babe’s cleavage if you try to move across the club. And you sure don’t want to spill much of an $11 drink, if you get our drift.

We love everything about Daniel and Felicia Ruiz Wayne’s stylish little Spanish spot on Camelback, from the big communal tables to the flavorful plates of Serrano ham and Manchego. (Okay, we also love that chickpea-and-spinach combo.) But most of all, we love the sangria, a perfect house blend of wine and fruit that’s never too sweet and never too dry. Stick with the house blend instead of the peach this drink is perfect without any embellishment.

We know what makes a jukebox good: selection, selection, selection. Take Election Night, 2004. We stumble into the Bikini, where the beer and cable TV are flowing. Before long, we realize some things won’t be resolved that night things about Ohio. But we need closure, some way to process recent events, and we spy the jukebox. Five dollars buys 25 tracks and puts red states and blue states behind us for a while. Our personal, cathartic, ephemeral mix tape: Marvin Gaye, Rolling Stones, Zevon, Clapton, Beatles, Righteous Brothers, Zeppelin, Elton John, Nat “King” Cole, Hollies, Cat Stevens, Joplin, John Hiatt . . . a lullaby for an aging hippie. (You’ll also find Nelly, Lindsay Lohan, Hoobastank, TLC, Billie Holiday, Merle Haggard, Morphine, and Shakira in the stacks, covering pretty much every musical movement since the wax cylinder.) Next day, Mom asks about toasty, English-speaking democracies she can migrate to. That’d be Gibraltar.

How many towns boast weekly gatherings of sousing and open mic jams hosted by some of the biggest local musicians around? Ever since Billy Marcks from Authority Zero started booking events at The Real Bar as an excuse to do some singing and swilling with his buddies, the Tempe juke joint has become quite the magnet for the Valley’s musical A-listers, if there is such a thing. On any given night, guests can rub shoulders with AZ singer Jason Devore and Marcks, and hang with other Valley biggies like Brian Blush (ex-Refreshments), Big Blake, Jason Hubbard and Lauren Z. Guests can grab a guitar and do their best Santeria cover or try to drink Marcks under the table (which will be quite the undertaking). And with $2 Tecates and $1 PBR, you’ll feel like a rock star after a couple of pints even if you’re the only one there.

The same building that once housed reggae musicians and Grateful Dead tribute bands as The Sail Inn became Trax this year, a “casual but trendy” nightclub that mixes house, breakbeat and electronica music from DJs like Rephil and Earth with live rock music by bands like Fat Rhabit and the Chris Tafoya Band. The club’s most popular components seem to be the outside stage and patio, and the custom lounge tables that the club’s always encouraging people to dance on. But the lack of a cover charge most nights along with cheap, strong drinks and eclectic young crowds probably doesn’t hurt, either.

We knew a fellow from Arkansas who stepped out with women who were not, technically, single. He said the best bars have no front windows. The Great Escape does that concept one better: The parking’s out back, so passersby can’t even spot your wheels from Indian School Road. Inside, the ATM’s broken. The popcorn looks wicked old. Want a draft? It’s Bud or Miller. A couple years back, a bear of a man tended bar here while watching Cartoon Network, and some guy gave us crap about our taste in music. Seemed promising. But then the other night, a trim, silver-haired gent introduced himself and thanked us for playing the jukebox. Aaaaah, we thought. They’re getting soft. Place’s losing its edge. Then our new friend leaned in and hooked his thumb back toward the rowdies at the next table: “If they start,” he said, “just get outta the way.” Yesssss! The Dive abides.

There was a time in the ’80s when an army of spandex-stretching, Aqua Net-abusing metalheads controlled the turf of nightclubs across the land. Thankfully, times have changed, but for folks who still want to be rocked like a hurricane, BulldogZ is the bar to kick-start your heart. The best thing about BulldogZ, besides the reemergence of ponytails and old Slayer shirts, is the locale. Because it’s situated at 55th Avenue and Camelback Road, heshers don’t have to subject themselves to the gnarly parking and the poseur frat boys of Mill Avenue. The local metal zone holds 400 people and is all-ages complete with a 21-and-up bar. Owner/manager Tom Gibbons launched the nightspot in response to friends and local musicians who were craving a metal venue on the west side. A haven for local acts like KOAMA, BulldogZ also brings in bigger acts like Prong and F5.

The best gay nightclubs are the ones that welcome all shades of the rainbow, from post-op trannies to Latin lovers to straight women just looking for a place to party without having to fight off a dozen touchy-feely slimeballs. No matter what your preference, you can find it here. Karamba is friendly, inviting and pretty clean for a place that’s packed on weekends. There are three large rooms inside, each with its own bar, and an outdoor patio for smokers or hombres wanting a private chat. Most nights, DJs spin cumbia, norteo and other Spanish styles. The sexy Susana, in her cowboy hat and tight jeans, hosts Vaquero Thursdays for all those cowpokes who’d rather saddle up with a partner than spend the night alone. While we’ll miss “Hot Pink!” Fridays, we certainly aren’t complaining about the replacement hunky go-go dancers with rippling pecs and rock-hard, er, abs. Ay, Karamba!

The ongoing redevelopment of downtown Phoenix has been something of a love-hate thing for us. We’re down with revitalizing our city’s urban core, but for every new posh loft and upscale eatery that debuts in and around Copper Square, cool places like Emerald Lounge and Newman’s get shuttered. Which is why we’re holding onto The News Room for dear life. It’s a dope dive that’s a little rough around the edges, because of its shabby decor and working-class regulars, but it’s also one of the few downtown drinkeries that values character over kitsch. There ain’t no highfalutin mixed drinks or overpriced bar food here, just plenty of cheap beer and booze, a jukebox, a pool table, and old-school bowling games. As the ultimate sign of hipster acceptance, punky and funky scenesters from the nearby arts district have started stopping by the joint, rubbing elbows with grizzled retirees and construction workers. You’d better get down there soon before Mayor Phil Gordon and company decide to raze it in favor of some ugly urban renewal project.

If there was ever an excuse to mosey on down to Roosevelt for something other than the gallery scene, Carla Wade and John Logan’s funky bistro is the reason. The arty couple opened the cozy eatery and wine bar to satisfy a need to feed hungry lunch folks and the libation-seeking arts crowd. A four-by-six-foot customized Steven Yazzie painting overlooks the bar, and rotating First Friday exhibits hang next to the funky sky-blue-and-tangerine-painted walls. Enjoy a wide selection of cheap domestic beer, affordable wine, and an assortment of luxurious imported beers, including three variations of Chimay, and the full-bodied Trappistes Rochefort, a Belgian creation brewed by Trappist monks. The bistro serves up southern European and Mediterranean fare ranging from healthful salads and soups to yummy appetizers (the Trio with three types of hummus) and grilled panini sandwiches on ciabatta we suggest the Ex-Patriot (turkey, Brie, tomato, and onion relish) and the Tuscan (sun-dried tomatoes, roasted red pepper, spinach and provolone with pesto). A full week of entertainment includes local bands Colorstore and Fatigo gigging on Tuesdays, a $3 wine special and live jazz by Alan Jones on Thursdays, and DJs spinning beats on Fridays and Saturdays.

Here’s an Irish-themed pub that’s got everything non-leprechauns need to unwind after a long day at the office (or to get fugged up with friends on the weekends). There’s a bar, of course, stocked with all sorts of brews and beers, usually served by the pint. There’s a jukebox, stocked with country, pop, hip-hop, and rock. There are a couple of pool tables, and a couple of dartboards. The bar hosts karaoke and live music, and one of the most packed St. Patrick’s Day parties in the Valley. But best of all, the walls are decorated with neon beer signs; the green felt on the pool table is faded and worn; the floor is almost always sticky; and the booths and tables are often full. The whole place gives off the vibe of a well-loved, über-used drinkin’ hole.

A newer addition to the swanky section of 67th Avenue just south of the Loop 101, Oggi’s features a tempting mix of homemade brews and grub as inviting as it is reasonably priced. The real plus: All the drinks and eats can be enjoyed while taking in any and every sporting event via the 21 huge TVs that pepper the main room. Much more than a stinky dive with a boob tube, Oggi’s is classy, clean and boasts as great a staff as its menu. Many drinkers will gravitate toward Oggi’s home-brewed Paradise Pale or the Sunset Amber Ale, which is a bit darker, and richer than the pale. We got stuffed on Oggi’s personal-size pizza the Slam Dunk, like “hot wing pizza” complete with spicy wing sauce and spicy marinated chicken, was wicked good. Located right off the freeway, Oggi’s is a great place to grab a quick drink after work, or plan a weekend visit to take advantage of its DirecTV’s Sunday Ticket.

Tucked inconspicuously behind a Bank of America at the northeast corner of Rural and Baseline roads is this friendly neighborhood sports bar, where twenty- and thirtysomethings, college kids and working professionals, singles and couples, and sports fans and the happy hour crowd peacefully co-exist over cheap grub and tap beers. The main attraction is the huge outdoor misted patio, where large wooden tables that easily seat 15 people surround the trunks of olive trees, making friendly banter with new acquaintances the standard. Inside, you’ll find several TVs, and a separate room with billiards tables, air hockey, Golden Tee, and Big Buck Hunter. You’d expect some greasy eats here, and the bar won’t disappoint, with offerings including Doc’s Fish Sandwich: fried white fish served on a kaiser roll. The bar was one of the first in these parts to pour pints of Kilt Lifter, and drink specials include a daily happy hour from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. and $2 hour of power shots beginning each evening at 10. There’s never a cover, and entertainment includes karaoke every Thursday, poker tournaments throughout the week, and acoustic music on the patio during the weekends.

Everything you could possibly want in a neighborhood watering hole can be found at this laid-back Scottsdale roadhouse: a rollickingly entertaining karaoke show every night of the week, a fully stocked bar and seven different beers on tap, wait staffers who eagerly provide service with a smile instead of serving up their surly disposition, amusements ranging from arcade games to pool tables, and even televisions in the restroom. That’s right, thanks to a few strategically placed boob tubes inside the Longshot’s toities, the need to hit the head after a few rounds with your friends will never again keep you from missing out on the big game. After you’ve finished flushing, mix and mingle with the diverse crowd of regulars who frequent the joint, cashing in on plenty of primo drink specials or a little conversation with their neighbors. Just don’t forget to wash up before you start glad-handing anyone, pal.

From the hardwood floors covered in peanut shells to the outdoor patio, this friendly neighborhood bar immerses itself in a modern country-and-western feel. The Uncle Bear’s moniker comes from the owner’s pooch, and the pup’s insignia is plastered on the walls and the menu donning a full offering of pasta dishes, gourmet pizzas, Tex-Mex fare, burgers, and sandwiches. We particularly enjoy getting our paws into a number of “Bear’s Favorites,” like the Cajun Belly Rub Burger smothered with homemade Cajun rub spice, chipotle mayo, diced onions, and jack cheese. Booze is a man’s best friend with a bar serving up frosty microbrews and a number of tropical “doghouse drinks” be sure to try the Fire Dog concoction with Meyers Dark Rum and juices served on fire. Weekly entertainment includes Texas Hold ‘Em poker tournaments on Tuesdays and Thursdays, free pool and shuffleboard on Sundays, and even a kids-eat-free special on Wednesday nights.

If an English pub is well-lighted and smoke-free, be suspicious. No self-respecting Brit would be caught dead in a place like that, which is why owner Gregg Troilo created the British Open. It’s clean enough to suit American tastes, but it’s windowless and the ashtrays are always full. The wooden bar is as dark and stout as fine ale, and the walls are plastered with advertisements for Guinness and Newcastle. Looking around, it seems that the British love golf almost as much as they love tea. Images of golfers in plaid vests and knickers perch behind the bar, in photos and newspaper clippings, and the menu sports clever wordplay like “sandwedges” and “on the greens.” We can’t get enough of the home-style bangers and mash with brown gravy and the Guinness-infused pot pie, usually ordered with a black-and-tan chaser. You might be subjected to a bit of golf trivia, but this friendly bunch will overlook your Yankee roots if you know the difference between a nine-iron and a putter.

Located in the 1888 Andre Building in downtown Tempe, this authentic Irish saddlery-styled pub has been pouring the best Guinness and whiskey in town since 2000. Rla Bla’s Gaelic name translates into “uproar and commotion” in the context of celebratory times, and this authenticity extends throughout the space with stained-glass booth dividers, rustic wooden furniture built in Ireland, even bartenders imported from the Old World. There’s traditional pub grub, such as the shepherd’s pie with Angus sirloin, carrots, champ potatoes, parsnips, and peas, as well as new Irish cuisine, including baked trout with curried orange butter served with red potatoes. Enjoy pints of Stella Artois, Harp or Boddington’s while listening to live Irish music Thursdays through Saturdays or on the sociable patio decked out with misters in the summer and portable lamp heaters in the winter. Oh, and did we mention the Guinness?

Leave your troubles at the door when entering the Urban Cafe. This Mediterranean eatery and hookah bar is a killer place to chill and enjoy a plate of hummus and baba ghanouj while listening to sitar music. Hookah is treated as a main course, with tobacco flavors ranging from exotic Zaghloul to green apple. Shisha, a blend of tobacco, honey and fruit, is gently heated over natural charcoal, diffused through a glass cylinder and then inhaled through ornate hoses. They say shisha is smoked for the flavor, not for any physical effects it produces, but we tend to disagree here. Somehow when people gather at the Urban Cafe for hookah, it turns into a mini-Woodstock where folks give the peace sign and sing “Kum Ba Yah.” As for naysayers who think hookah should be outlawed in public places, all we have to say is dude, stop harshing my mellow.

You’ll have to excuse us if we’re a little tired. We’ve spent the past few nights visiting the Valley’s various flesh factories in search of the best strip club. Frankly, they tend to run together, all seemingly offering the same pole-dancing and lap-grinding brand of nearly naked ladies of the night who move and groove to blaring rock and hip-hop jams. Fortunately, the femmes fatales of the Pin-Up Girl Lounge stood out from the rest of the pubic pack. It’s a classy joint, with a sultry red color scheme and a seductive series of dancers shaking their moneymakers, most of whom appear to be naturally endowed, with very little silicone in sight. While witnessing all this bumping and grinding, we enjoyed the lounge’s seriously swank selection of premium liquors, including cognac and scotch. The cover only ran us $7 (from 7 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. daily), leaving plenty of greenbacks to partake in lap dances starting at $10 (it’s $15 for “up against the wall action” and $20 to get into the VIP room), particularly from that one honey-haired hottie we had our eyes on all night. Do you think she’ll really call us, like she promised?

It’s crowded, sweaty and packed with college students trying to hook up for the night. So, why do we love the Buzz? Segregation. Yes, it’s a political buzz word, but when you’re talking nightclubs, having your own space is a godsend. There are three separate dance floors segregated by age and gender. The center of the hive is the aforementioned main floor, a huge, all-ages space pulsing with hip-hop beats. If you’re over 21, make a beeline for the upstairs lounge. There’s a private dance floor with two adjoining bars the only place alcohol is served on the premises. There’s also a separate women’s dance floor that hosts “Girls Night Out.” It’s a comfortable place for queen bees to bump and grind without having to push away a bunch of half-drunk drones.

Stoudemire’s may be the rookie among local sports pubs, but it’s got all the makings of a major league player. Great location. Giant televisions. And a celebrity co-owner. The brainchild of Phoenix Suns superstar Amar Stoudemire and renowned chef Eddie Matney, the bar is sleek and modern, with billiards, a large dance floor, and wi-fi access. Hoping to see some stars in Phoenix? Celebrities like Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb and Sports Illustrated columnist Rick Reilly have already been spotted sipping late-night cocktails. We love this place because it doesn’t look like a shrine to Stoudemire. There are a few token jerseys behind the bar, but that’s the extent of the sports memorabilia. It seems stardom hasn’t gone to Stoudemire’s head, even though he was NBA Rookie of the Year, an Olympic athlete and an NBA All-Star.

Phoenicians who are convinced that the only thing north of Greenway Road is car dealerships and cookie-cutter housing tracts will be surprised to find a sports bar like Padre Murphy’s. With 50 TVs, off-track betting, and a slamming menu, Padre Murphy’s is all about sports, sports, sports, and caters to everyone. There are family-friendly booths and a misted patio for casual diners, and the bar for the quiet drinker looking to make a few bets on the dog races. Tired of burgers and fries? Try the Herbed Chicken Spiedie and the “Tommy Shea” sandwich (a cheesy bundle of peppers) with an Irish Car Bomb (a potent concoction made with Guinness, Bailey’s and Jameson). Forget about going anywhere else on St. Paddy’s Day the party pours out into the parking lot every year under a giant-size tent. Best of all, Padre Murphy’s isn’t a “status” sports bar no one cares about what kind of car you drive or how many Benjamins you have in your pocket (well, maybe that honey at the bar might) at Murph’s, it’s all about you.

Just the thought of pecan-smoked anything sends us through the roof. This friendly barbecue joint at Thunderbird Road and Loop 101 does the ‘cue just right, slow-cooking the tender meats in a big vat in front of everyone. The great sight lines to the strategically placed TV screens naturally please the sports junkies in the house, and an encyclopedic piano player on the weekends adds yet another dimension. Try the brisket, a ball game and a beer at this popular northwest Valley spot, and you won’t budge from your seat for hours.

Crabby Don’s doesn’t cater to former high school football stars or diehard fans who shave team logos into their back hair. This is the everyman’s sports bar a comfortable, neighborhood joint where you can munch on hot wings while watching Sunday Night Football or bring in the kids for a post-Little League game celebration. Unlike other local sports bars, Crabby’s isn’t just about sitting on your ass knocking back a couple of beers while drooling in front of the big-screen TV. It’s interactive. There’s pool, video games and a bowling simulation to keep your jock brain entertained. It’s also one of the few places around where you can play shuffleboard. The bar’s flat-screen TVs are usually tuned to sports, whether baseball or snowboarding, but the friendly staff is just as happy to turn on Desperate Housewives if that’s what the customers want.

Located half a mile from the ASU sporting facilities in the Cornerstone Mall is this roomy and chill-out watering hole and grill that shoots down the sports bar competition. Rub shoulders with fellow sports fans and cheer on your favorite team while sipping from your choice of 26 beers on tap and chowing on pub grub from shrimp cocktail and Buffalo wings appetizers to under-$8 entrees, including seven styles of burgers, a variety of chicken sandwiches, and health-conscious wraps. The main room houses five large high-definition televisions, and there are 30 smaller sets dispersed throughout the dining area, a pool room with 12 six-foot billiards tables, and a game room with dartboards, a shuffleboard table, and a Golden Tee video game. Friday nights feature the Eastside Shootout Dart Tournament, while Saturday nights showcase live rock and blues bands, and Six Shooters partners with The Snap Lounge, Dilly Dally, and 4 Kings for pool leagues during weeknights. Smoking hot like guns a-blazing.

Ever since we’ve been in the Valley, friends have been telling us about this great sports bar or that cool sports bar. It seems that everybody’s got a favorite sports bar like everyone’s got a favorite college football team. But most of these joints smell like beer and piss and have patrons who’re butt-ugly and need a bath. A lot of those so-called bars even have little ol’ TVs where you can barely make out who’s just scored that touchdown or hit that three-pointer. So when we first entered Fox Sports Grill, we though we’d died and gone to sports bar heaven. The place is immaculate, a virtual shrine to sports, exotic cocktails and hot babes. If your team is winning, you can glue yourself to one of the giant screens that can be seen from any vantage point. (We like sitting at the gigantic, rectangular bar, but you can reserve a table if you desire a more intimate setting.) But if your team is losing, you can eyeball all the hot gals who are usually there only to pick up on studly, sports-loving dudes. The women at Fox actually seem to love being stared at. What a perfect place! There should be a man rule that if a woman enters a sports bar, she must enjoy the leering of horny males. The thing is, most of the women we observed at Fox were bored shitless by the games, but they were certainly more than willing to strike up a conversation if a guy’s willing to buy them a Manhattan Iced Tea or three. A couple of them were even willing to join us in the parking lot. (Calm down, mom, we’re just kidding.) On any special occasion say, Super Bowl Sunday or game seven of the NBA Finals fuhgedaboutit! Unless you reserve months in advance, you’ll have to shoehorn into the place. But even standing around streets-of-Hong Kong-style at Fox is a trip you’ll enjoy taking. Like we say, the drinks are plentiful, the scenery’s tremendous, and the games are on, baby! Oh, and if you’re looking for bar food that doesn’t bite back, Fox has among the best in the sports bar business.

You’ve still got to pay five bucks to park there, but at least you don’t have to fight downtown Phoenix traffic. There are other benefits to seeing national acts at the Marquee, too. The venue often hosts bands just before they blow up big (H.I.M., The Darkness), so it’s a great place to catch “the next big thing” before they’re too big for you to afford tickets to their arena shows the following year. And there are no “nosebleed seats” at the Marquee. With a capacity of around 1,000, you’ve got more than an ant’s chance of actually seeing the performers without the aid of a big projection screen. And the venue books a wide range of hot national acts in the past year, Marquee Theatre’s hosted shows by everyone from hip-hop act Jurassic 5 to old-school punks Social Distortion to Jack White’s red-hot new band, The Raconteurs. Makes it worth the price of admission plus the five bucks to park.

There aren’t many great music venues left in the Valley. Many have closed or become so run-down that you have to bring a can of Mace with you just to get out of the parking lot safely. The Clubhouse Music Venue is one major exception. It’s got a relatively clean, spacious location, with matte black walls and a portable stage. Plenty of patrons sport Mohawks and sleeves of ink, but there are also minors (confined in the front, away from the bar), college students and thirtysomethings taking the edge off with a cold beer and some heavy metal. Headliners like Presidents of the United States of America and Brit rockers Kasabian have played the Clubhouse, along with local favorites Stereotyperider and The Necronauts. Technically, the venue accommodates 640, and depending on the band, it can be completely jammed. It’s standing room only, unless you’re lucky enough to find a seat at the bar.

Bob Corritore’s blues juke joint has won this award before, and, to be honest, we really tried to find a topper this year. But with blues legends like Buddy Guy, Koko Taylor, and Louisiana Red playing regular gigs in this cozy club, we just can’t stay away. Some artists like Johnny Rawls, Asylum Street Spankers, and Candye Kane play exclusively at the Rhythm Room every time they’re in town. Local legends like Hans Olson, Sistah Blue, Chico Chism, and Big Pete Pearson regularly rock the stage as well, and Corritore himself can often be seen blowing a blistering blues harp onstage. Throw in the colorful regulars, the stiff drinks, the smoking patio, and the Rack Shack BBQ stand out back, and you’ve got everything needed for the best balls-out blues night in Phoenix.

The Herndon family has owned this landmark institution since 1975, when the late Brick Herndon and his wife, Gwen, sold almost everything they had to purchase the place where Gwen had worked as a waitress for eight years. Over the past 30 years, the family’s turned Handlebar-J into the country capital of Phoenix, with the Herndon Brothers band (led by Gwen’s sons, Ron and Ray) playing Wednesdays through Saturdays. Guest performers who’ve graced the stage include Jessi Colter, Kris Kristofferson, Hank Williams Jr., Toby Keith, Vince Gill, and Lyle Lovett. Getting ahold of the big country stars isn’t hard for Handlebar-J, considering that Ray Herndon is a well-known Nashville recording artist who’s played with Lovett’s band for years. Handlebar-J has awesome steaks, too, but the best thing about the place is the unpretentious atmosphere. As one patron put it, “You don’t have to be country to come in here, but you might be a little country when you leave.”

Why has the Blunt Club nabbed this award three years in a row? Because we just couldn’t help it; there was no alternative. Blunt Club’s arsenal of awesome includes a crew of P-town’s hottest hip-hop DJs, including residents Mr. Hyder, Tricky T, Pickster One (Vinyl Rockers, Drunken Immortals), and DJ Daddy Rich (3rd Bass); stellar national underground guest acts like Tee Double, Radioinactive, and J. Boogie; and local rap artist Emerg McVay, a host who can spit it with the best. With all those aces, the Blunt Club’s got a winning hip-hop hand that’s hard to beat.

There are dozens of reggaeton nights around town, but Saturdays at Jackson’s was the first (it started in 2002), and it’s still the largest, drawing an eclectic crowd that sometimes includes celebrities like national reggaeton sensation Pitbull, and Wu-Tang Latino Records CEO Ray Acosta. Every week, hundreds of people flood the three dance floors at Jackson’s to hear everything from hip-hop to salsa; most of the reggaeton action goes down in the main room, where various DJs spin everything from reggaeton hits like Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” to lesser-known songs by up-and-coming reggaeton artists like Mr. Phillips and Omawi Bling. The dance floor is usually packed with hip-shaking hotties by midnight, but if you can’t find a spot on the dance floor, you can just do what everybody else does, and dance where you stand.

Folks who like to get their sweat on along to the deeper world beats of Brazilian, salsa, and merengue have been filling up the funky dance floor at downtown Mesa’s Club Cabo. The “Afro” refers to Afro-Cuban and Afro-Brazilian, and the baile is Portuguese for “dance party,” and both merge when DJ Seduce tantalizes and marinates eardrums with an eclectic mix of deep soulful house, chill-out downtempo, and funky world beats. The weekly shout-out to lovers of world music happens each Thursday night.

We know that Bob Marley preached a world filled with one love through spiritually uniting music, but sometimes other soul music pioneers like Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, and D’Angelo are seriously slept on. That’s why Karlie Hustle, a mover-and-shaker in the soul and hip-hop scenes, created the Groove Candy Night weekly lounge night. The Power 98.3 DJ represents dusty grooves while keeping microphone yammering to a minimum. The backbone of the series is most definitely the DJs, including resident emcee DJ M2, who spins classics mixed with neo-soul, reggae, and hip-hop, from The Roots and Common to Erykah Badu and Goapele. Wrap your fingers around a cocktail, feel the love, and unwind to some groove therapy each Wednesday night.

This swank soul food eatery and cocktail bar, with its African-themed paintings, sexy lighting, and heavy alcoholic pours, sets the ideal atmosphere for local musicians to jam out groove-oriented standards and originals in the cozy and crowded lounge. The music is geared toward straight-ahead aficionados and provides a great introduction to jazz newcomers. Players known to sit in include the infectious organist “Papa” John DeFrancesco (father of esteemed Hammond B-3 organist Joey), the fireballing percussionist Dowell Davis, and funky bass guitarist Mike Howard. If the high-energy sonic chops whet your appetite, sink your teeth into the catfish dinner entree, a honking fillet served with your choice of two sides such as collard greens, candied yams, and dirty rice. The restaurant also features a Sunday jazz brunch from noon to 2:30 p.m. and more beats until 4 p.m. before the free lounge jam burns down the house from 7 to 11 p.m.

Stroll near the Scottsdale Center for the Arts on a Thursday night and you’ll hear an ambient blitzkrieg of up-tempo and accessible sounds. Then let your ears be the guide and continue past the official performing arts center to the funky Orange Table cafe, nestled in a hard-to-find-if-you-blink cranny, where Trio Oro jams out modern and original compositions embodying elements of free jazz and breakbeats. Since March 2005, Rob Moore’s fiery snare and cymbal wallops, Jacob Koller’s brooding keyboard comps, and Andy Jones’ moody bass riffs have been attracting eager listeners. Sometimes the band plays inside. Other times they post up just outside the cozy outdoor patio, perfect to soak up the atmospheric sounds while sipping on a $2 Red Stripe or Fat Tire, grubbing on sandwiches and sweets, or grabbing a late-night caffeine fix. Feel the fusion.

The saying goes that it’s better to be a big fish in a little pond. In this case, that’s true. Big Fish isn’t the most popular hangout in Tempe, but while the larger bars are sparse during the week, this “little pub that could” packs ’em in. Skip Skoolnik, Foundation, and Pickster One rock the Boom Bam Room on Monday nights when there’s nothing to do anywhere else in town. Other regular events include a gaming night and Tuesday night open mic with verbose, vitriolic and sometimes verbally abusive host Nick R. He’s one evolutionary step above Cro-Magnon man or Simon Cowell which is why we can’t seem to get enough of his piss ‘n’ vinegar attitude. Mad props to this little fish for drawing the Valley’s phattest talent, and possibly the meanest host, out of the woodwork.

All right, fellas, it’s time to fess up. We know many of you reading this harbor the freaky Lolita-style fetish of wanting to hook up with a sexy siren in a schoolgirl uniform. Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean you have some predisposed penchant for pedophilia (we think); it’s probably just your ultra-repressive Catholic upbringing coming back to haunt you. Besides, in this fast and loose society of ours, that particular fantasy is rather vanilla, really. So don’t feel too bad when you hit Tranzylvania on Friday nights at Club Palazzo hoping to bag any of the lovely ladies known to frequent the gothic nightspot wearing plaid skirts, knee-high socks, and white button-down shirts. There’ll be loads to choose from, as plenty of gothic gals and even a few guys will occasionally forgo their vampire gear in favor of thrashing around on the dance floor to DJ-spun darkwave and trance dressed in more innocent attire. Just make sure she’s over 18, bub, and doesn’t go to Xavier.

Who coulda guessed that a band from Richmond, Virginia, that’s been playing hardcore for more than 12 years would grow to have a cult following in Phoenix? You can thank Will Anderson largely for that, one of the Valley’s longest-standing promoters of rock shows around town, and arguably one of the biggest Avail fans on the planet. Because of Anderson’s hook-up with the scrappy East Coast act, Avail has been coming to Phoenix every year for special on-off, one-night-only shows. What most happy Avail fans don’t know is that Anderson flies the band members out every year, fills their bellies with goodies and foots the bill to bring them out to play a whopping two-hour set for their adoring Phoenician fan base. Consider it our own private Avail party that you can count on to come through town at least once a year. The shows have been near the end of January the past few years at venues ranging from the now-defunct Mason Jar to the Clubhouse Music Venue. Keep your ear to the ground for word of the next Avail show, and don’t miss out on one of the biggest punk parties of the year. Thanks, Uncle Will.

From the outside, this squat watering hole looks like any of the other dirty dive bars scattered throughout the West Valley. On the inside, however, it’s a ground zero for all types of punk rock pandemonium. Instead of having to haul ass across Central Avenue for the best bands from the local scene, the west-side tattooed-and-pierced patrol can stay closer to home for gigs by such hardcore heavy-hitters and rock ‘n’ roll raconteurs as Walt Flannigan’s Dog, The Earps, Evolocity, Family Secret, Meat Department, Tweeker Chic, and The Toomstoners. There are also plenty of outlandish amenities rivaling crusty competitors like The Rogue and Jugheads, like hottie bartenders in tube tops and plaid miniskirts, sticker-and-flier-laden restrooms, and a punky patronage made up of Billie Joe Armstrong and Deborah Harry look-alikes. Just don’t forget the earplugs, as the joint’s cinder-block walls transform the thunderous rock riffs into a cyclone of sounds destined to crash through your cochlea.

Sean Badger, better known as Senbad on sweat-stained Scottsdale dance floors, has been a “house music soldier” for more than 10 years now. The 36-year-old considers his occupation to be “record pusher,” and to him, the best dope is house music. He’s a loyalist who’s spun pure house at every club from Next and e⁴ to Majerle’s and SIX. Until recently, Senbad and his partner Pete “SuperMix” Salaz could say they hosted the only house music night in town, Batucada. After enjoying a long weekly run at Next, Batucada went on break for a while. Though there may be other house music nights in the Valley now, only one of them has Senbad, and that’s the recently relaunched Batucada, now bumpin’ every Saturday night at The Biz.

Auditions for American Idol might be months and months away, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t start practicing now. After all, your pipes could definitely use some practice. Getting a much-needed warm-up by kicking it karaoke-style like Kelly Clarkson is necessary, but since nearly every two-bit tavern and gin joint in town features this mimicking musical mainstay, where’s a wanna-be songster supposed to go? Head for the small side bar inside the wicked West Valley nightclub Hurricane Bay, where karaoke is king from Wednesday through Sunday each week. You’ll have more than 10,000 songs at your disposal from ABBA to Zeppelin with a trio of overenthusiastic emcees who’ll offer comical critiques of your performance without bitch-slapping you like Simon Cowell. Your hosts will also offer you a collection of crazy props including an oversize foam cowboy hat or an electric guitar to incorporate into your act. Just remember to stay on-key, all-star, and you just might be the next Taylor Hicks.

Question: What do you get when you mix cheap drinks, an open mic night, a cover band that calls itself Mother Trucker, and one of Tempe’s favorite dive bars? Answer: The best fucking karaoke night in town. Every Thursday night, members from local band the Zen Lunatics hit the stage at the Yucca Tap Room to back drunken wanna-bes living out their rock-star dreams. The song selection is excellent think Radiohead, Janis Joplin, Rolling Stones and CCR but don’t expect the usual karaoke fare. If “Friends in Low Places” is your drunk-guy-with-a-microphone standby, this might not be for you. And take note: Most people who take the stage are actually pretty good, so the tone deaf might want to resign themselves to their Pabst in one of the corner booths.

Who can blame you for hating karaoke? No one with any sense wants to hear people who can’t sing attempt to wade through “Mack the Knife” or hit the high notes in “Lady Marmalade.” Karaoke is the worst of those ’90s fads that refuses to die, especially in Phoenix. But this most annoying of unhip holdovers is having a happy rebirth in a quiet corner of East Osborn Road. Every Friday night at Linda’s, where the daily specials (all of them tasty) are handwritten on colorful recipe cards and attached to the menu with a paper clip, Joanne the Karaoke Singer mesmerizes the early dinner crowd with an uncommon talent and a towering hairdo. Seated next to the cash register, flanked by a wee karaoke machine that spits out prerecorded pop tunes from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, Joanne serenades diners in a throaty whisper that’s barely audible over clinking flatware and customer chatter. From beneath a foot-high blonde bouffant, this willowy miss of indeterminate age talk-sings her way through a cavalcade of quiet hits, occasionally arching an eyebrow or shrugging a shoulder as if to say, “Here I am, although I’m not sure why.” We’re not sure, either but we’re always glad when she is.

Geeky teenage boys aren’t exactly the most hard-hitting hombres walking the face of the Earth. Usually, the toughest they’ll get is standing up to mom and dad about violating the sanctity of their fortress of solitude (read: the basement). So imagine our surprise at overhearing said dorky dweebs talking serious smack during one of the many gaming nights held at both Samurai Comics stores throughout the week. While playing collectible card games like Magic: The Gathering or role-playing games like Mechwarrior for prize giveaways and comics swag, these aggressive adolescents spew out such taunts as, “I’m gonna smoke you like a fat chronic blunt,” or “You wanna bet your PS2? That shit’s gonna be mine, beeyotch.” It’s the kind of trash talking normally associated with hip-hoppers engaged in an East Coast-West Coast feud, and not pasty-faced white boys who probably needed to call their moms for a ride home.

The concept-meisters behind Sugar Daddy’s and Dos Gringos must’ve been channeling the spirit of Al Capone when they conjured up this classy-yet-covert club, secreted away in a tiny Tempe strip mall. A simple antique lamppost with glowing red lights and a bouncer’s station outside a nondescript utility door comprise the entrance, where patrons provide either a password or skeleton key obtained from the joint’s Web site in order to gain admission. After wandering down a dank corridor equipped with security cameras and monitors, they’re led into a swanky, red-drenched lounge and danceteria, where dope DJs like J. Nasty and M2 spin hip-hop tracks. While being completely legal, the clandestine atmosphere adds a sense of lawlessness for the crowd of college kids, fashion plates, and buxom beauties who flock here to sip Cristal and other high-end libations and dance the night away. Ol’ Scarface would be proud.

If you’re tired of simply watching episodes of the retch-inducing reality show Fear Factor, see if you’ve got the gastronomic gumption to consume cow brains or cockroaches at this Scottsdale bar’s extreme weekly event every Wednesday at 10 p.m. Courageous contestants spin a large wheel for points and attempt to solve frequently lurid word puzzles like “Finger My Furburger Until I Pee.” If the roulette-style wheel lands on a few spaces with “Fear Factor” written on them, players can get even more points by completing disgusting and dastardly dares like eating dog food or shots of fish oil (for the men) or flashing the crowd (for the ladies). Those who survive with the highest score at the end can win a keg of beer or other alcoholic prizes. It’s both filthy and funny, as the game’s co-hosted by Giligin’s owner Capt. Mike and his slight sidekick, the 4-foot-3, 180-pound Chuey the Rock ‘n’ Roll Midget. The punchy pair spews out vulgar jokes and insults to the audience all night long, leaving those in attendance with both bellyaches and belly laughs.

Although the darkened domain of the gay leather bar Padlock is under weekly siege by big, brawny bears, put away your guns and ammo. See, the burly beasts we’re referencing aren’t anything like Smokey or Gentle Ben, but, rather, are part of the particular subset of the gay community known as “bears.” These bearded, bulky, and hairy males who’re proud of their hirsute appearance partake in drink specials while mixing and mingling here on the second Friday of every month during “Bear’s Night Out,” many clad in leather and denim with their fuzzy chests on display for the world to see. Hey, why not flaunt it if you’ve got it?

This gallery and performance space has exploded since David Salcido, publisher of local gay and lesbian mag Red Nightlife, moved into the building that used to house the Annex. In less than a year, Soul Invictus has played host to a series of alternative theater plays (including Salcido’s own Rain Damage, and the glammy and very gay Hedwig and the Angry Inch), panel discussions about gender with ASU professors, monthly provocative art shows, and concerts by numerous queer and transgender bands (including the Ex-Boyfriends from San Francisco, local tranny punks The Insignificant Others, and Venus de Mars, who literally made sparks fly off her codpiece with a metal grinder). And best of all, the venue has a spacious patio in view of the stage, where patrons can sit, smoke, and mingle while men in lipstick and fishnets rock the stage.

The eccentric 19th-century German musician Christian Friedrich Buschmann built the first accordion way back in 1822. We’re willing to bet the kooky Kraut would have been shocked to learn that his atonal invention would someday be utilized by a pair of goofy and gangly Valley teenagers to create a comically clamorous combination of polka and punk rock. But regardless of how much Herr Buschmann might be spinning in his grave, brothers Andrew and Tristan Jemsek have used their squeezebox (along with an electric guitar and drum kit) to blast out a bizarrely boffo blend of polka and punk rock, delighting denizens of the downtown Phoenix art scene over the past two years. Influenced by everything from the accordion-happy Weird Al Yankovic to The Dead Kennedys, the Jemseks perform more traditional-sounding (yet highly hyperactive) polka jams about Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and haunted European castles, as well as raucous rock ditties about Access Hollywood and local hypnosis guru Sam Meranto. Eat your heart out, Weird Al.

Since its wildly cacophonous and sonically entrancing inaugural concert last year, the Phoenix Creative Music Movement has been dead set on getting folks out of their aural comfort zones by offering kick-ass experimental music during its bi-monthly concert series at Modified Arts. And it must be doing something right, because its diehard followers and curious newbies demanded more creative craziness and got it. The PCMM’s two-day annual winter festival showcases harmonically ambitious local cats gigging in a variety of styles, including improv jazz, atonal electronica, mixed-media installations, and ambient free-flowing sound narratives. The December ’05 Fest featured six original acts; Chicago drumming heavyweight and Phoenix native Frank Rosaly performed solo freak-out deconstruction percussion, while the all-woodwind New Jazz Saxophone Quartet closed the fest with angular walls of modern sound. Ditch the winter coat at home, because these artistic pulsations are hot shit, udig?

Brush up on some classic bluegrass, some low-down country blues, and bring out your inner hillbilly during the Arcadia Bluegrass Jam every Sunday night. Started in August 2004, the open bluegrass flat-pickin’ session features a healthy mix of musicians equipped with acoustic guitars, banjos, bass, and violins in Mama Java’s relaxed and sociable atmosphere. If the only thing you know how to pick is your nose, don’t fret. The java and jams flow from 7 to 9 p.m., and admission is free. The jam is always accepting hot strummers and skilled vocalists of all levels, so bring a country-twanged ax and get pluckin’.

There are two types of women in the world: those who use spa treatments to lift their spirits, and those who prefer to drown their sorrows in alcohol. Fortunately for us girls who’ve made friends outside our type, this swanky gay bar hosts a regular Monday bash that will satisfy everybody. “Martinis & Manicures” features both stiff drinks and a good touch-up on your nails for just $5 a pop. Since the specials last from 7 p.m. until the bar closes, you may actually find time to explore the exotic components of Amsterdam’s super-long martini list. Pineapple upside-down cake martini, anyone? And how about some polish to match?

Single or taken, this dance club is the perfect place to see how you measure up. It’s huge, with four large rooms dedicated to different music genres hip-hop, retro, country and, yes, karaoke (if you can call it a genre). If you’re looking for a one-night stand, a mere raised eyebrow, or anything in between, the place is sure to satisfy. The fluid transition of people allows you to strategically run into the girl or guy you want and gives you the ability to avoid the ones you don’t. And ladies, there seems to always be a large supply of military guys on leave take your pick of the litter.

We’ve all had to attend stuffy banquets at country clubs, at the Heard Museum (where the Arizona Press Club has recently held its awards ceremony), or at some other hoity-toity spot in the PHX, only to wish we could get down to some real partying before the night is through. Well, the Wrigley Mansion is the perfect place for this. The Wrigley will be only too happy to reserve some space for you and yours to loosen your tie/let your hair down in its spacious digs, originally built by chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. for his wife, Ada. Or you can just drop in, and it’ll probably be open (on that note, though, it pays to call ahead if the hour gets late, because the bar’s been known to close if customers are lacking). Thing is, there’s a lot to love about the sprawling Wrigley, owned by jazz aficionado and meatpacking heir Geordie Hormel, until his death earlier this year (thus the name of the mansion’s restaurant, Geordie’s). From the large bar, where jazz combos play, to the manor-house-like rooms, complete with plush couches and cushy chairs (the large room off the bar contains the mansion’s famous player piano), to the balconies overlooking the Phoenix skyline, the Wrigley Mansion is a nocturnal knockout. Speaking of the balconies, they’re the perfect place for romance, plus other pleasures of the flesh, because nobody’s going to bother you up there.

There is a maddening line of demarcation between exercise and libation, where we constantly obsess over calorie intake while tipping back a few cool ones with our mates (“If I have this one last beer, it will cost me 30 extra minutes on the treadmill”). Well, enjoy the best of both worlds while getting a full body workout of pedaling legs and frothy 16-ounce curls during October’s annual Tour de Bar bike ride. The low-endurance bar tour departs Gallagher’s, 7575 North 16th Street, and covers eight watering holes over a five-mile stretch in north central Phoenix, including Rosie McCaffrey’s, George & Dragon, and Pomeroy’s. Approximately 30 minutes is spent at each spot for suds and pub grub, and overnight parking is available. The event is free; just bring your own bike and enough cash to pump up that spare tire around your waist.

There’s very little in the way of after-hours action here in the PHX other than a handful of danceterias daring to stay open after last call. On the constant lookout for additional all-night venues to stage their post-2 a.m. shenanigans, nightcrawlers of the Valley have been flocking to this Western-themed gay bar on Fridays and Saturdays to dance and debauch until the early morn. It’s not just Brokeback Mountain-men who visit Charlie’s after local bars close insomniacs of every flavor of sexual orientation come to this “lil’ ole bitty pissant country place” to writhe and wriggle to house, techno, and Top 40 tracks laid down by DJ Bryan until 4 a.m. for $3 a head. It’s kinda like the cross section you’d see at Gay Denny’s down the street, but with a better soundtrack and a dance floor.

If you’re on the prowl and came up short the night before, Harlow’s Cafe will buy you a little extra time to make it happen. Similar to your favorite hookup bar, Harlow’s offers the thrill of anonymity. The low ceilings and booth seating create the atmosphere of a road-trip breakfast stop. Chances are, there will be another table of Mill Avenue rejects also nursing their hangovers. They may have lost the drink in their hand, but still have a wandering eye hoping to salvage at least one hookup for the weekend. Harlow’s lends the perfect opportunity for you to give it one last try, “Didn’t I see you last night at . . . ?” And the food’s not bad, either.

According to the Bible, our ancient ancestors Adam and Eve grew ashamed at their nudity in the Garden of Eden after sampling forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and thusly, mankind was forever cursed with a sense of body modesty. Well, you can finally feel good about dropping trou outside the confines of your residence (without getting thrown in the cooler) inside the confines of El Dorado Hot Springs. This picturesque mineral-water spa located 45 miles west of the Valley is a clothing-optional compound with a bounty of bathing pools and tubs filled with natural H₂O pumped straight from a subterranean spring. Five private areas located inside fenced areas and historic buildings including a small post office where old-school civil servants soaked their letter-carrying carcasses back in the day allow you to take a dip away from the prying eyes of the public for only $10 an hour per person. If you’re feeling a bit more exhibitionistic, there’s also a semi-private pool for $7.50 an hour per person. Cell phones and cameras are forbidden, however, so you needn’t worry about any saucy pics of your skinny-dipping adventures getting posted on the Internet.

Phoenix summers are hell. By August, the only flowers left alive in this town are on night-blooming cactuses. Wright House proprietors Peggy and Michael Wright must have made a pact with Satan’s gardener, because somehow their lush landscaping manages to stay green and flowering nearly all year. The property houses three buildings a historic cottage house, an English ballroom and a recently added French villa that can be rented for weddings, special occasions and private parties. Wrought-iron fences and delicate gazebos are covered with ivy and fragrant jasmine. Stone walkways snake through country gardens planted with roses and perennials bursting in vibrant shades of fuchsia, pink and saffron. The best part? There’s not one goddamned cactus on the lot.

So your last houseplant turned black, you think putting leftover meat loaf in your orchid’s pot means you’ve fed it, and you’ve now proven (multiple times) that you can, in fact, kill a cactus. No worries. The folks at Garden Territory have heard it all before. The shop offers gardening classes for all skill levels, from novice to seasoned grower. Learn how to plant an herb garden, grow tomatoes, or design and execute a backyard flower bed. Most of the instructors are self-proclaimed “Barn Goddesses” ex-hippies who now hover somewhere between corporate clone and tree-hugger. These ladies are so relaxed from morning yoga and afternoon aromatherapy that you could accidentally kill their whole demonstration garden and they’d just give you a hug.

How does your garden grow? Probably quite nicely, if you’ve hooked up with the folks at the cooperative garden at Scottsdale Community College. Spread across a couple acres on the northeast end of campus, a fragrant plot of tilled earth has provided fertile soil for SCC’s students, faculty, neighbors, and other local residents to cultivate all manner of fabulous flora for more than a decade. This field of dreams is open to anyone willing to join a non-credit class for only $10 and pay a six-month watering fee ranging from $14 to $65 in exchange for their swatch of land (the size of which varies). Fruits like watermelons and cantaloupe sprout alongside rows of herbs and veggies ranging from turnips to tarragon. There’s also a greenhouse-size selection of budding plants and trees in the garden of earthly delights, ranging from pine trees to yucca plants. And just because it’s on a college campus, no, you can’t relocate your cannabis collection here, so don’t even bother asking.

Father Francis LeBlanc leads a church in El Mirage that celebrates the traditional Latin Mass as well as numerous other ancient Catholic rites. The rest of the Valley’s Catholics celebrate the modern Mass born out of the widespread modernization of the Catholic Church in the 1960s known as Vatican II. Because LeBlanc refused to change to the modern-style Mass, he was kicked out of the diocese by former bishop, pedophile hide-and-seeker and Native American hit-and-runster Thomas O’Brien. This summer, a diocesan priest incorrectly stated in his parish bulletin that LeBlanc had been “excommunicated” by the pope. A minor faux pas, you say? One would think. But the mistake sent LeBlanc into an old-school tizzy. He filed a lawsuit. He demanded a very public apology. What was more fun, though, were the letters sent out by LeBlanc and his fellow traditionalist priests, in which they blame Vatican II, and the priests schooled under its liberal laws, for just about every heresy committed by a Catholic priest in the past 30 years. Some nuggets: “You people don’t even use the proper Roman Catholic Bible!” one priest wrote. “Your job is to save souls; it is not to destroy them. When you discourage Roman Catholics from attending the true Mass the Roman Rite Mass you are destroying souls. You are leading the souls of your flock straight through the gates and into the fires of hell.” Ouch! Yet another thrust of the spear. “Is it any wonder why those of us who desire the true Mass the Roman Rite Mass abandoned your ‘mainstream church’ with your heretical bishops, pedophile priests and hootenanny services?” That last little stinker really hit home. “Hootenanny services.” Have you been to Mass lately? They remind us of the fevered Baptist revivals of the hillbilly South. The weird little hand dance thinger. The blaring band of Creed wanna-bes. Women reaching for the sky like peyote-crazed medicine doctors. What’s next? “Heal!!!!”? LeBlanc calls for solemn reverence in his church. After seeing enough Diocese-sanctioned services, that seems like a pretty damn good idea.

Now, there’s a lot of competition for this honor. We’ve read of pedophiles in Arizona who’ve each accosted scores of children. But Warren Jeffs, prophet of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, has not only had sex with minors himself, he’s required multitudes of his followers to commit the crime since he took over as Polygamyland’s top dog from his dad. Between Rulon and Warren, the Jeffses have forced young girls into sexual slavery for a couple of generations now. Which is why the FBI had the junior Jeffs on its Most Wanted list since August 2005, and why he was eventually nabbed on a highway in southern Nevada this summer and sent to face charges first in Utah and then in Arizona. His polygamist community of Colorado City, Arizona, and Hildale, Utah, straddles the state line. Here’s how Jeffs’ nifty little religion works: Church doctrine holds that the prophet marry loyal male followers to as many “wives” as the prophet deems appropriate. What power! Girls as young as 14 have been required to submit to this rule and bed down with guys old enough to be their grandfathers. Some men those Jeffs really likes, naturally have been granted scores of brides. If men and women do not submit to this doctrine, they are banned from the community, stripped of their families and denied entrance into the “Celestial Kingdom.” Anybody who’s been paying attention knows what this is it’s Mormon heaven, in which even mainstream Mormon men (who eschew polygamy while in the flesh; the Salt Lake City-based church now forbids it) get to do the wild thing with multiple wives in the afterlife. And we thought those terrorists who bombed the World Trade Center were crazy for thinking their actions would merit them a passel of virgins to bang in the wild blue yonder! But back to Jeffs: When we got a gander of him on TV in his jail jumpsuit, we realized he was lucky to be born into polygamy. A guy that skinny and scary would never get laid any other way.

To be honest, we’re actually beginning to feel a little sorry for Father Dale. When New Times broke the story of the friar’s alleged frivolity with naked young men, we went to great lengths to explain that the best evidence suggested Fushek only seemed to get really frisky once the young postulates were of legal age. Really, with the evidence at hand, Fushek seemed more guilty of grotesquely violating moral laws, but not criminal ones. Basically, he just got quite creepy, and way too naked, in the hot tub with young men to whom he was supposed to be a spiritual adviser, not some squirrelly 1970s love doctor. But now, the honchos over at the County Attorney’s Office seem hell-bent on hanging Fushek as high as possible on some misdemeanor indecency charges. Indeed, we’ve never seen the county prosecutors publicize and pursue misdemeanor charges with such zeal. Let’s make this really clear: The evidence uncovered by New Times suggests Fushek violated the immense amount of trust parents gave him to guide their children. And he seems to have deeply scarred several men with his behavior. The story speaks for itself. He simply is not the angel of the new church he was advertised as being. But perhaps it’s time to move on. The church has suffered so much and has learned so much; the new bishop looks to be a good man, and the activities once condoned by priests like Dale Fushek are no longer tolerated. There are still wrongs to be righted, no doubt, but perhaps Father Dale, who truly has suffered much from the scandal, should now be allowed to move on. Just please, Bishop Olmsted, don’t give the guy another hot tub. Yikes.

The Lord works in mysterious ways these days. Gone are the times of consulting a Virgin Mary-shaped potato or Dionne Warwick for a little guidance from on high. Nowadays, all Phoenicians have to do to tap into the divine for some instant encouragement is look up at that big, bright sign on the freeway, that is. Thanks to the fine folks at Calvary Community Church in north Phoenix, commuters driving the stretch of I-17 between Thunderbird and Cactus roads can gain insight into the secrets of life. Messages like “Depressed? Jesus Can Help!” and “Let’s Talk God” will either drive you to your knees in prayer or to a toilet to pray to the god of a porcelain variety. To all of you who are waiting for a Jesus sighting at Holgas or in a tortilla, we say pshaw! Why look any further for a sign of God than the sign of God?

If urban life has taught us anything, it’s that no savvy entrepreneur tears down a perfectly good sign. Remove that mammoth mid-century marquee from your frontage, and big government comes a-knockin’ with updated display guidelines. Besides, have you seen what new signs cost? So we enjoy the doughnuts of Vinchell’s and Wishill’s, and we play “spot the former wig store” on East Thomas Road. Not everyone’s as stylish as My Florist. Mr. Tile is in a class by itself. Some frugal person with a steady hand has painted “Mr. Tile” on the front of the store (four times), on the wall facing Grand Avenue (three times), on the sign atop the tall post outside (twice on each side), and on the small sign at the parking lot entrance (another three-fer). Then there’s the sign by the sidewalk, which features, along with the ubiquitous red “Mr. Tile,” a five-foot-high truck tire embedded in concrete. Must make you feel like Hamlet’s uncle.

We struggle every day to love Phoenix (or, as we like to put it, to “heart” Phoenix), and one day, we found Jason Hill he makes it a little easier. Hill, a talented graphic artist, lends his own unique graphic style to iconic Phoenix buildings you never knew were iconic, ’til Hill got ahold of them. Thank you, Jason. We “heart” you, too!

Hey, you. Yes, you! The one sitting at your suburban Starbucks, complaining that the Valley is bland. Head over to Arizona Mills on a Saturday night, and you’ll be hit over the head with the fact that you live in a “real” city. Just about any time, but particularly on weekend evenings, Arizona Mills is packed with activity, teeming with people of all shapes, sizes, ages and ethnic backgrounds. Most are waiting for a movie at the Harkins multiplex, but others are there for the carnival-like atmosphere complete with a carousel recently installed in the middle of the food court. The carousel’s the only bona fide ride, but you might want to check out a painted-while-you-wait wife-beater, or the other wares set out on tables in the middle of the mall, la the streets of Tijuana. Or you might just want to grab a corner, stand back, and people-watch.

No doubt about it, this quiet east Phoenix residential district is for the birds. Namely, the neighborhood, located north of Thomas Road between 32nd and 36th streets, has been overrun by dozens of chickens, as well as guinea fowl, quail and peacocks. Having become fruitful and multiplied after escaping from a couple of small ranches nearby, these carefree cluckers live a truly free-range lifestyle as they wander from yard to yard, pecking for morsels, tending to their chicks, or dodging traffic. Most residents don’t mind the fowl play, adopting the winged wonders as mascots and providing food. The local cats even tend to peacefully co-exist with the creatures, lazily watching them go about their birdbrained business instead of preparing to pounce. In fact, the only hunters around these parts are bums and other poverty-stricken peeps pursuing the poultry in the hopes of bagging some dinner. Neighbors often chase off these would-be wranglers, but the situation finally answers the age-old question of why the chicken crossed the road . . . to get away from the hungry homeless folks.

On a massive site like MySpace, which features millions of bands, it’s not always about the number of hits a band’s profile receives, but who’s hitting it up. Local garage go-go band The Love Me Nots had only been together for a month before they posted a MySpace profile, and within three months, the band hooked up with renowned garage producer Jim Diamond (The White Stripes, The Gore Gore Girls), garage scene guru and video producer Tim Gassen (The Cynics, The Fuzztones), U.K. college radio DJ Mark Watkins, and L.A. show promoter Dan Electro. All of the networking was a calculated cyber rendezvous by The Love Me Nots, who constantly surfed MySpace, looking for people to add to the band’s Friends list and asking people to check out the songs on The Love Me Nots’ page. With total profile hits that numbered just below 9,000 at the end of August, The Love Me Nots may not have the most-visited page on MySpace, but that’s what makes that page the best find that, and the buzz that the band’s cyber-networking has created. The Love Me Nots got some key people paying attention to their MySpace page right out of the gate, leading to a landslide of seek-outs. Now that’s musical savvy in the Digital Age.

The Valley’s premier punk rock community and networking site serves many purposes promoting local punk shows, offering merchandise from local bands, and highlighting different local bands each week but the site component that probably sees the most action is the Message Board, where P-town punks love to get their panties in a bunch at each other, or more often than not at any outsiders who disagree with them or criticize any aspect of their scene. Let’s just say we’ve seen that firsthand, more than once. There are also fervent discussions on topics including everything from “What’s the best show you’ve seen so far this year?” to whether Phoenix sucks, with people posting icons of fists with protruding middle fingers and prosaic phrases like “Fuck you!” But it ain’t all about the cyber throwdowns the message board also serves as a virtual corkboard, peppered with postings about benefit shows for people like North Side Kings singer Danny Marianino who was reportedly jumped by a group of guys in August and needed to raise funds for reconstructive surgery on his face and the late owner of Jugheads, Sid Copeland. So in the end, it really is all about community, even if the arguments are more heated and amusing than anything Jerry Springer could conjure.

They call themselves MoPhos, which is short for “Modern Phoenicians,” and they’re all about preserving the recent past by elevating our consciousness about the importance of local architecture and landmarks. They come together via the occasional home tour, but mostly through a Web site called ModernPhoenix.net, where folks who love mid-century homes and slump-block banks can share their knowledge and help promote preservation via the Internet. The brainchild of Alison and Matthew King, ModernPhoenix calls itself a “neighborhood network,” but it operates more like a super-professional online shelter pub that’s busting at the cyber-seams with useful information and entertaining articles about everything from how to rehab a Haver home to what to do to get historical designation for your neighborhood. Even for those of us who aren’t architecturally inclined, there’s plenty of gorgeous photography of what Phoenix used to look like (and may look like again, if the Kings have anything to do with it) to keep us returning to this virtual community time and again.

Shameless self-promoters love this kick-ass rack, because Modified’s smack in the middle of Roosevelt Row, and the Row is the hub of Phoenix’s arts scene. What better place to get the word out about your band’s next gig or that new experimental-art performance? And the grassroots advertising technique seems to work, as you always see First Friday/Third Friday street crawlers pawing through the fliers in search of artistic adventure. In fact, the rack at Modified is the only one we’ve ever seen that has a queue of impatient, toe-tapping Phoenicians waiting for their chance to find cultural enlightenment or at least a good party.

We’ve gotten to the point where happiness is an empty e-mail inbox, but we’re always glad to see SCOOP show up. The folks at Desert Living put together a beautiful magazine, and their weekly SCOOP full of news about new restaurants, hot parties and good shopping is always fun. We’ve learned about Dolce & Gabbana’s new cell phone, the arrival of a south Australian organic spa in Scottsdale, and the latest show at Modified Arts, all on SCOOP. In this age of information overload, it’s saying a lot to say we look forward to an e-mail like this one. So thanks, Desert Living! Even if this is just shameless self-promotion for your advertisers, we’re okay with it. To sign up for your own SCOOP, go to the magazine’s Web site.

Suzy Homewrecker. Joan Threat. All the Way Mae. These are just a few of the elbow-slinging, body-banging babes in this all-woman roller-derby league, whose motto is “Live fast, die pretty.” When they don’t have their game faces on, the Dames are regular Janes with professions ranging from accountants to teachers but you’d best not try to snatch their pocketbooks if you value your gonads. The league includes three teams: the Coffin Draggers, the Brutal Beauties, and the Bombshells. For the most part, the Dames are fast friends as well as bitter foes. Says Homewrecker, “The Arizona Derby Dames promotes competition between determined, beautiful, unique, and, most of all, tough women.” You go, grrls.

Given that Club Mistress is purely a women’s play club (a strict “no cameras, no men” rule is enforced at meetings and parties), it’s not surprising that the members are so covert. After all, the Mistresses who run the show (other participants are subservient “Girls”) are seasoned pros, not exhibitionists looking to entertain the testosterone set. Club Mistress isn’t a haphazard horndog fest, either. There is a strict set of rules everyone must follow (including not revealing the identity of other club members or discussing club activities with outsiders). Meetings take place at local lesbian bars and strip clubs, and play parties happen at private homes, with everything organized well in advance of the event dates. The club has no membership fee, phone number or address. So, how does a gal get into Club Mistress? (Guys, forget it you’ll never get in.) The best we can tell you is to poke around on MySpace. But be aware that if the Head Mistress approves your membership and you attend a play party, participation is mandatory.

Firefighters! You gotta love ’em. They save lives. They put out fires. They make a nice pot of chili. And sometimes they screw sheep, too! At least that’s what Mesa deputy fire chief Leroy Donald Johnson was accused of doing last March, when he was busted for allegedly screwing his neighbor’s lamb. What made this particular chorus of “Baa Baa Fire Chief” so fun to sing was the accompanying police report, an eight-pager (with pictures!) so full of yuks you’d swear it was a hoax. According to the report, when Alan Goats (we swear, that’s his name) found Leroy in his barn his pants around his ankles and a small gray ewe between his legs Johnson laughed and hollered, “You caught me, Alan, I tried to fuck your sheep!” So there’s little question that, er, mutton happened. Rather than leaving Leroy on the lamb, coppers hauled him off to the Fourth Avenue jail; later, Mr. Johnson (who was charged with disorderly conduct and criminal trespassing) was dumped by Mesa firefighters. But he’ll always have his Lambkins.

We love what Hollywood does with real-life miscreants, so this year’s prime-time television take on polygamy really caught our eye. What HBO’s Big Love series lacked in reality it made up for in high cheekbones and even higher-gloss soap opera antics, courtesy of co-creators Mark V. Olsen and Will Scheffer and a passel of midlevel movie stars. They took a randy religious practice involving multiple wives and pedophilia committed with underage “spiritual” brides and turned it into a weekly hour that’s as down and dirty as an episode of Three’s Company. The abuses of polygamy in the northern Arizona and southern Utah towns of Colorado City and Hildale never looked so good, particularly as described, over the years, in the pages of Phoenix New Times, where John Dougherty broke much of the news about the real-life polygamists. But leave it to HBO to turn a program about a perverted practice that enslaves women into must-see TV. We defy you to look away from Utah polygamist Bill Henrickson (played by Bill Paxton) or his wives Barb, Nicki, and Margene (Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloë Sevigny, and Ginnifer Goodwin), who live in three separate houses on the same hunk of suburban crabgrass. Despite our better judgment, we haven’t been able to turn off this sudsy mess, which returns for a second season next month.

Voting ain’t what it used to be, at least if the pathetic local and national turnouts in recent years are any indication. But given the choice of sitting on our behinds and whining about the sad state of affairs or casting our votes for whatever sorry sucker somehow strikes our fancy, we’ll take the latter. That brings us to this spotless assisted-living facility, which also serves as a refuge for people with Alzheimer’s disease. You’ve never seen volunteer service like this in your life. Probably three volunteers all of them in the homestretch of life for each voter. You need a glass of water before you start fooling with those chads or whatever they are? They’ll fetch one for you. Hungry? They’ve got snacks. Need a quiet place to make up your mind once and for all? No problem. These well-informed oldsters are thrilled just to be alive; helping the electorate is gravy. Now if only we could convince one of them to run for office.

Janet Napolitano’s the hands-down champion when it comes to political maneuvering around here. The mere fact that a woman who comes across as this butch can get elected governor and, before that, attorney general in Arizona (of all places) is testament to her political IQ. Plus, she’s a bleedin’ Democrat! Somehow she’s been able to avoid all the hot-button issues, or make us think she cares hugely about them without really doing much, and now the pollsters have declared her unbeatable this election year. She offended her bedrock feminist voters by refusing to step in to stop the rape of little girls by the polygamists of Colorado City (would have pissed off too many powerful mainstream Mormons who pull the purse strings in this state), but who else are feminists going to vote for in the governor’s race? Whenever we criticize her at a cocktail party, longtime lefty Arizonans (yes, there are one or two) chime in: “But you should’ve been here in the past she’s so much better than anybody else we’ve had as governor!” She came out strongly that something should be done about illegal immigration but vetoed every Republican-inspired measure the Legislature came up with to beef up patrols along the border. Oh, right, she supported putting some National Guardsmen down there. Big whoop! Now, we richly enjoyed seeing knee-jerk Neanderthals like Representative Russell Pearce put in their place, but we recognized Janet’s tactics as classically, well, Janet. That is, she makes a lot of noise about solving a problem that’s big with voters and then takes the least possible action. Yet it’s all working. There’s not a candidate around least of all the GOP’s Len Munsil who has a snowball’s chance in the Sonoran Desert of unseating her. She’s gotten so powerful that, if she really is gay (like a lot of people think), Napolitano could come out and say so and still get elected. She’d be the first lesbian governor. We’d certainly never hold it against her. But she’d never do that! Which is why she gets our nod as best pol this year. A great career politician never does anything that’s even slightly risky. A great politician stands firmly in the middle of the road.

The word “nepotism” comes from the medieval word for political favoritism shown to the nephews of prelates. What Webster’s dictionary failed to do in its explanation was include a link to Don Goldwater’s Web site, where the poster boy for nepotism begged voters to do for him what his dead uncle could no longer do give him a political position he didn’t deserve. Donnie is the nephew of the late senator Barry Goldwater, patron saint of Arizona. The Don explained on his Web site that he got a 3.77 GPA in information technology from the University of Phoenix. He also apparently has run every backwater Republican Party committee in the state. He’s on the City of Laveen Planning Committee. He likes flying model planes and playing Ping-Pong. Great rsum if you’re running for the Queen Creek Weed Advisory Board. But no, he wanted to be governor. So now one looks to his message. Don’s slogan: “Goldwater: The Name You Know, The Name You Trust.” Is this the Hapsburg Empire? Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico? Oh, sorry, Don. We’ll speak in plainer English. Like, “Limited Government,” “Economic Freedom,” “Individual Liberty.” This was Don’s platform. This was Barry’s platform of platitudes in 1953. Then Barry grew up and stopped running around America getting liquored up and taking pictures and started buckling down and suggesting progressive, moderate legislation that actually did real good for many Americans. Don, you are no Barry. Oh, and another thing. Barry is dead. Time to cut the cord. Or maybe you just need a name change. Most any name but Kennedy would be fine.

Len Munsil is the shiny-happy-people candidate for governor. He’s the golden boy of all the folks who pray a lot to a white-haired, white-skinned Christ-bearing God who oh, wait, holy crap conceived his first child out of wedlock. As one of the leading voices for Arizona’s Christian right, Munsil has spent much of his life lambasting the heretical lifestyles of liberals. Two biggies on his list of goodies: the sanctity of marriage and the importance of abstinence. But a funny thing happened during his ascension to political heaven. Someone did a push poll asking what voters would think if they found out this herald of goodness had actually gotten a woman pregnant out of wedlock. We’re assuming that, unlike God, Munsil could only pull this off by doing the nasty. So the knocked-up chick is his wife of 20 years. She got pregnant right before they were to be married. They stayed married and raised the child. The child is a lovely Christian. All would seem good. But, is it? It’s one thing to make a mistake, then quietly make good on a promise to raise the child well. It’s another to make a mistake and hide it while making political hay condemning to the fires of hell people who do exactly what you did. Those who hold themselves highest fall the farthest from hypocrisy. Munsil, riding the highest horse of this year’s candidates, better damn well walk the narrow walk he talks. He didn’t. He doesn’t. And as his sacred text reminds, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun.” Okay, so maybe we got a little carried away. In any case, don’tcha just love Arizona politics?

Those of you in the East Valley have surely grown accustomed to the political campaign billboards of Mormon men. Often, it appears to be an arms race to see which candidate can get more children dressed in white on the billboard. In most cases, the children were sired by the candidate. That’s because believers equate procreative prowess with leadership skill. Being pictured with children is intended to imply that the candidate loves children. And usually, in Arizona, it is precisely these candidates who most want to gut education. See more children? Then fear for the children. But one East Valley politician has gone a different direction with the ol’ exploit-the-children-for-political-gain game. State Senator John Huppenthal poses with his children on his campaign signs, but he is not Mormon. You can tell. He has only two children. But wow, what a pair! Huppenthal’s two daughters are now all grown up (well, they look it. We’re not checking IDs here). They have the seductive dark eyes of their mother’s Persian heritage. Harem eyes. Long, flowing, raven-black hair, heaving oh, stop it. At first, one imagines Huppenthal is catering to the Mormon crowd, this time by making it look like he has three wives. But no, this is a much simpler sales tactic. Babes sell chicken wings. Why the hell can’t they sell right-wings? When most fathers have daughters this attractive, they lock them up in the tower to protect them from leering eyes. Huppenthal, on the other hand, plasters their picture all over the tower. And for the record, we are completely super-duper all for it. Now if we could just get Donna Wallace to adopt some hotties.

What’s with Jim Pederson’s mouth? When he speaks, his mouth looks disconnected from the rest of his head. Is it actually his mouth, or has it been replaced by a hand puppet on blue screen? Or is he speaking Japanese with the English dubbed over? So many questions. Don’t worry, though. We’ll have plenty of time to find answers. Pederson has bought more face time than that Perrier Hilton chick and that creepy anorexic slut sidekick of hers. To balance the millions of Democratic dollars flowing into the state for Pederson, the nation’s Muslim-haters, warpigs and other wackjobs are pumping in cash for their horse, Jon Kyl. At least Kyl looks like a normal dude in his ads. A humble, engaging smile from a properly connected mouth. Just a good guy. Like Dick Cheney or Dick Nixon or any other hawkish Dick. By the time this is over, the question will not be who you like more, but who you hate less. In other words, it will be big-money politics-as-usual.

Where do we start with County Attorney Andy Thomas, whom we prefer calling Candy Thomas, because he’s a wimpy-looking dude whom some have likened to (ahem . . . ) a candy-ass? Not that his tough-guy actions in office should’ve led them to believe this. At least not his actions against illegal immigrants. We suggested calling him Puffy Thomas, as in one of those puff pastries, but that just didn’t stick. So Candy it is. Thing is, nobody told Thomas that his office has nothing to do with the illegal immigration issue; he not only got elected on that issue (he has scant experience as a prosecutor), but he proceeded to pick on the Mexicans in our midst in various ways. He tried to get Spanish banned in rehabilitative DUI courts. Why? ‘Cause Spanish ain’t the official Amer-cun language, partner! He refused to press charges against a vigilante who drew down on some illegals at a freeway rest stop. Don’t get us started on these individual incidents! But his claim to fame is that he’s taken to trying to prosecute regular old undocumented workers as coyotes. Get it?! They’ve smuggled themselves into the country. He hasn’t had much success with this lunacy, even though Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s been aiding and abetting with pickups of such lawbreakers so Candy can take a shot at ’em in the courts. Success or no success, don’t expect Candy to stop with his Mexican-bashing; it got him elected, and it will probably get him elected again. Voters in this state are so fearful of the land down below that they’ll probably elect this puff pastry governor before it’s over. Unless the legal aliens among us in Maricopa County organize a massive voter-registration project and vote his candy ass out of office.

His gums rarely stop flapping, and sometimes that’s a good thing. Like the time, early this year, when state Senator Jack Harper (R-Surprise) insisted on holding legislative hearings to investigate the controversial September 7, 2004, District 20 recount, after nearly 500 new votes magically appeared between the primary and the recount. Then again, there was the time Harper went after U.S. Senate candidate Jim Pederson after Pederson’s 24-year-old son, James Robert Pederson, was busted on a “misconduct with weapons” charge and unlawful possession of narcotics, marijuana, and drug paraphernalia. During a state Senate floor session last February, Harper blabbed that young Pederson’s bust “points to a culture of corruption in the Pederson household,” an opinion that put Harper on the hot seat with fellow legislators. Republican Neanderthal or well-tuned protector of the people? We say he’s the best of both.

Part of being a good reporter is being a pain in the butt when necessary. Part of being a good public information officer for a police department is not taking public records requests personally, and not losing one’s cool when someone like us insists on getting his or her grubby little hands on the juicy stuff. We’ve met dozens of PIOs over the years some outstanding, some not so good (we define “good” as responding promptly, keeping us informed of the status of our requests and just being upfront with us at all times) and we’re not easily fooled by glad-handers. Sergeant Dan Masters obviously loves his department, but he’s not about to lie for it, or to keep us (or the rest of the public) from getting what’s coming to us under the law. Consistent, always cordial and professional, the sarge does Tempe PD proud day after day.

Some years ago, the great science-fiction writer Ray Bradbury was asked by an audience member after a speech at Arizona State University, “What’s the first thing that you’d tell one of your space aliens after they landed on Earth?” Bradbury didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t watch local TV news,” he replied, to a rousing ovation. That said, we are pleased to report that Mike Watkiss passes our overly honed smell test as the real deal, a truly dogged reporter who loves to be first and right. His work on the polygamy scandal topped all other non-print types by a mile, and that’s just one example of many. Maybe it’s all those years doing the tabloid stuff on A Current Affair and Hard Copy. Or maybe it’s the impressive education undergrad work at Stanford, and a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia. Whatever the reason, we’re happy to have this guy in town.

We don’t know whether it’s that ’80s hair, the fact that she’s Asian or that she projects that motherly TV charm, but Channel 12’s Lin Sue Cooney gets our nod this year. We were always turned on by Donna Summer and the other disco queens of the day, and Saturday Night Fever is one of our all-time favorite films. We can just see the young, lithesome Lin Sue getting swirled around by John Travolta (before he chowed down too much and got the man teats) as Bee Gees falsetto blared. The gal’s got great gams! Sure, Lin Sue has a little wear and tear on that face (she’s been on TV here for 20 years), but it just gives you the impression that she’s seen trouble and survived to pontificate about it on the tube. Maybe some of it’s got to do with her husband’s past legal troubles, but let’s not get into that here. And maybe that warmth is just as much a fantasy as our dreams of her twirling around on the dance floor in high heels with her petticoats around her waist. Who cares? Come on, you’ve got to admit that Cooney is still hot, especially when she and co-anchor Mark Curtis (he of the porn-star mustache obviously touched up with Just for Men) sit on those high stools and all casual-like talk about the fun things that are going on in our fair metropolis. Like the arrests of a couple of serial killers, or how certain restaurants are really dirty. But the winning quality that Cooney possesses is that she really makes us think she cares about our little lives. Hey, if we came up a little short at Starbucks, we bet she’d pay for our double-decaf soy latte. We bet she really cares about those animals at the shelters she’s always talking about, because when you look up “earnest” in the dictionary, there’s her picture. Just kidding, of course.

We don’t blame anyone for automatically dismissing a guy named “Johnjay” as one of those annoying radio personae not worth a listen. But this show, which hit the airwaves of 104.7 FM earlier this year after major success in Tucson, is far more amusing than its hosts’ names let on. Like Howard Stern, but unlike most of his successors, these two know how to pace their shows. They don’t rush through bits or force a laugh. And unlike other would-be shock jocks in the Valley, they’re better at talking about Hollywood gossip than sports making KISS-FM the perfect destination for Stern fans who couldn’t care less about the Suns, but really need to know everything about Lindsay Lohan.

Plenty of people in Arizona listened to morning radio host Howard Stern obsessively, but not too many of them listened to him for all four hours of his show, every day, for 10 years. Or purchased a license plate honoring him. Or bothered to fly all the way to New York City to fete his farewell to FM radio. But Alice Rubio, a West Valley mother of three and Qwest customer service rep, did exactly that, earning mention in a New Times cover story and, subsequently, an on-air chat with Howard after his satellite debut. Stern clearly recognized devotion when he saw it. “She’s gotta be the biggest Howard Stern fan ever,” he told his audience. We’re not arguing with that one.

In a city chock-full of nationally syndicated shock-jock talk and robotic rock, we’re thankful for our National Public Radio affiliate, which broadcasts healthy doses of local Arizona news. Each weekday morning during “Morning Edition,” we tune in to thoughtful, well-reported stories on subjects ranging from water politics to immigration reform. Specialty programming includes “Talking With the Governor” every third Wednesday of the month, and February’s Arizona Week celebrates statehood with special-interest stories on topics ranging from rural organic farming to the history of Valley landmarks. The listener cannot live on news alone, so we look forward to Sunday nights, a dream for blues fans when Bob Corritore sermonizes about old-time Phoenix and its blues scene during the five-hour “Those Lowdown Blues.”

It isn’t that we always agree with Joe Crummey after all, he’s enough of a conservative to substitute occasionally for the nationally syndicated right-wing nut Glenn Beck. But what we like about KFYI’s Crummey is exactly what we like about hosts like Howard Stern: He’s smart, he’s not always orthodox, he’s not shrill, and he understands pacing. Indeed, it’s many a commute that we find ourselves tuning in to Crummey during some other station’s commercial break, then listening all the way home. He may not be someone we’d vote for, but we can’t help laughing, and sometimes even nodding in agreement.

Kind of like college radio for the 9-to-5 set, Creamy Radio’s mix of indie artists and local celebrities has pushed us through many a long day in front of the computer screen. Run by Dog and DboG, two self-described “wankers with too much time on their hands,” the radio station is the answer to FM dial monotony. But that doesn’t mean you’ve never heard of anything they play Creamy Radio knows you love U2 and Tom Petty, and it’s not gonna make you feel bad about it. Mixed between indie gems, these guys will toss on mainstream favorites, the kind of stuff you can’t help but sing along to. That doesn’t mean you have to suffer through “Where the Streets Have No Name” again. The Creamy dudes pride themselves on “deep” hits from mainstream artists which means more “Red Hill Mining Town” than “Vertigo.” Still, there’s enough pretension here to maintain Creamy Radio’s Internet music snob cred. We were pleased to see Ryan Adams, Nick Drake, A Tribe Called Quest, Bloc Party, and Handsome Boy Modeling School on recent playlists. Creamy Radio also frequently hosts shows with local favorites like Drive By Truckers and Tramps and Thieves at Last Exit Bar & Grill in Tempe, while broadcasting the show live on the air. We can’t get enough of this creamy goodness. Interpret that as you wish.

Ragan Fox is the poster boy for gay overachievers. He published a book, became a university instructor and got his doctorate all by the time he hit 30, which probably explains why his podcast is so damn brilliant. Technically, he’s Dr. Fox now, but his fans just call him Rag pronounced rayg as in “ray of friggin’ sunshine,” not rag like “on the rag.” Sure, he anal-yzes Brokeback Mountain and sings lesbian karaoke, but parts of Fox’s show would appeal to conservative, redneck high school dropouts. Brangelina’s love child? Hell spawn. Jessica Simpson? Just Anna Nicole Smith with a career. Terrorism? “Who releases a threat on an audio tape these days?” Fox quipped after a voice recording of Osama bin Laden aired. “You might as well release the shit on an eight-track.” If Osama really wanted to get some Web hits, says Fox, he’d release a sex tape like Pam Anderson or Britney. Wow. That’s why we love you, Rag!

The swanky Gen X set that wants to find the perfect Roaring Twenties cigarette holder, wear zoot suits, and drink a mah-tini has the perfect soundtrack on Star 97.5. The station’s self-avowed “sass, brass, and a whole lot of class” format includes jazz, blues, pop, swing, and standards, with the coolest of the old school (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat “King” Cole, Ella Fitzgerald) getting airtime alongside the new guard (Harry Connick Jr., Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Brian Setzer, Madeleine Peyroux). Programs like the “Two Martini Lunch” (from noon to 1 p.m. on weekdays) and “Starry Nights” (from 7 p.m. to midnight on weekdays) keep listeners cool with finger-snappin’ numbers by the likes of Sammy Davis Jr. and Tony Bennett, and hot new numbers by the likes of Norah Jones, The Swingtips, and Diana Krall (a.k.a. Mrs. Elvis Costello). With set lists like this, you can live in 2006, but still party like it’s 1945.

Country’s become a lot cooler recently, probably because it’s become a little more cheeky. Instead of the stereotypical, twangy, “lost-my-woman-now-I’m-drinkin'” sob songs, we get flashy, hot cowboys like Big & Rich, and roaring ditties like Trace Adkins’ “Honytonk Badonkadonk.” The folks over at KMLE country embrace this new wave, with cool country cats like Stacey Brooks , Shappy, and ex-KUPD jockey Dave Pratt spinning tunes by the likes of The Lost Trailers, Rascal Flatts, Sugarland, and Michelle Branch’s new band, The Wreckers. Sure, you’ll still hear some LeAnn Rimes, Toby Keith, and Tim McGraw, but they’ll probably spare you crap like “Achy Breaky Heart.”

This Christian radio station is pretty traditional in its beliefs, and those beliefs are reflected in the station’s talk programs, specifically Dr. Randy Carlson’s “On Call” evening program, where the venerable doc discusses such family topics as “Overweight Children” and “Coping With Infertility” (we are, of course, referred to Bible verses for the answers). But Family Life isn’t just all talk. The station plays a lot of Christian Contemporary tunes, and there’s really more music than sermonizing. The station’s stable of DJs spins the best in righteous rock, from solo artists like Michael W. Smith and Mark Harris to God-loving groups like Big Daddy Weave, Sonicflood, and Third Day. Don’t touch that dial! And that comes from a higher authority.

Angela is an “interdisciplinary artist” represented by one of the most prestigious venues in town, Bentley Gallery in Scottsdale. Tania is a writer and playwright with an acclaimed memoir, My One Night Stand With Cancer. You might have seen her at a local 10K running topless, fighting breast cancer. Sadly, the couple left town for L.A. several years ago, but lucky for us, they’re back, making art, writing and teaching, spreading the wealth of their knowledge and spirit Angela as an assistant professor at Arizona State, and Tania through the Virginia G. Piper Center. One of their close friends put it best: “Angela is Tania’s best reader and cheerleader; she’s not afraid to say she doesn’t like something Tania wrote if she doesn’t think it’s Tania’s best work, and she’s also at every performance and 10K/marathon Tania does.” And Tania reminds Angela not to settle for less in her life: ‘Honey, if you only look for a house in the ghetto, we’ll only get a house in the ghetto.'”

How a retired woman made her fortune by recommending that one bathe the dog in Massengil, we’ll never know. But we’ve gotta give Linda Cobb props. Not only can you see the self-named (and trademarked) Queen of Clean regularly on Good Morning Arizona (KTVK-TV, Channel 3), she appears on HGTV, the D.I.Y. Network there’s no stopping her! Once a staple in your local Walgreens, her collection of books is now published by Simon & Schuster. She does make the rounds on the speaking circuit, dispensing advice, but we’re quite certain that, no, she won’t come over to your house with her mop, even if you pay her big bucks.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So he was born in Minnesota and grew up in Chicago. Big freakin’ deal. Since his dad lives in the Valley, and he has come for repeated visits in the past year or two, the big funny guy counts as one of ours. Getting pulled over in Scottsdale last December on a suspicion of driving drunk, Jennifer Aniston in tow, only seals the deal. What could be more Arizona than narrowly avoiding a DUI? Best part of all: Vaughn got busted by the Scottsdale PD, not Sheriff Joe, thereby sparing us the horror of having to listen to Old Joe’s senile rantings on Entertainment Tonight for days on end. We knew we liked this guy!

Hilary Griffith is not your typical beauty queen. Yes, she’s a broadcast journalism major and she twirls a baton. But she also spins an amazing tale all true of what happened to her one night in November 2004, her sophomore year at Arizona State. A man broke into her Tempe apartment and raped her at knifepoint. Hilary has made it her cause to educate others; she’s even taken part in a program sponsored by the Arizona Department of Corrections, in which victims visit prisons to share their stories with inmates. We can’t imagine how hard that must be, and for that we applaud Hilary. She’s definitely royalty in our book.

Until this, the closest we’d come to knowing anyone whose work had appeared in The New Yorker was the time our friend Doug was a finalist in the caption-writing contest on the magazine’s last page. That was cool, but this was cooler: Picking up the January 16 edition of the magazine and seeing a full-page drawing by Tempe artist Jon Haddock, illustrating a short story by Samantha Hunt (and she’s from Arizona State University, another local connection!). Even now that he’s been in The New Yorker, our favorite comic son remains humble and sweet and so talented.

Over the past year, you may have been wowed by painter Lisa Albinger’s stunning depictions of relationships gone wrong, womanhood, and growing up with scoliosis. Her work’s been on view at monOrchid, Studeo Tad and Soul Invictus. But did you know that Albinger’s painted women and rabbit guides some housed in the private collections of Tori Amos, The Cure’s Robert Smith, and fantasy author Charles de Lint were not created using the quintessential brush, but from household items purchased at Target? In college, the Wisconsin-born and -bred artist painted large format canvases up to four by six feet using palette knives and a few large brushes. When she began showing in Milwaukee museums, the gallery owners told her everyone loved the work, but the pieces wouldn’t fit in the area’s small homes. Unable to dance around on the smaller format, the only answer was to downsize the tools; hence, the birth of the cotton swabs and paper towel method, which has created a more intimate exchange between Albinger and the canvas, while adding a unique scratchy/wispy/playful touch to her work. She uses the occasional brush for face detail and still visits the local art supply stores for oil paints but after a trip to Target, she’s got cash in her pocket for the really high-quality oils.

Joshua Dean Wiley was already known locally for his serene, high-color landscapes and lively abstracts before busting out big with a national distribution deal that brought his bright, metallic-tinged paintings to department stores all over the U.S. The 34-year-old Iowa transplant’s work can be found in Target, JC Penney, Bed Bath and Beyond, Linens ‘n Things, and Mervyn’s, although local art collectors still seek out his one-of-a-kind work, too. Good news: When he’s not preparing a new line of mass-market prints for the unwashed masses, Wiley is still making gorgeous paintings and his giant Plexiglas hanging wall sculptures. Look for him at smart local galleries and at a Mervyn’s near you.

Censorship? Totally against it. Controversy? Bring it on. Sex? Well . . . they’ll just leave the hard-core stuff to Phoenix’s other alternative galleries. “I wouldn’t want to exhibit anything that I would be ashamed to show my kids,” says Lords of Art Town co-owner Gaea Bailey. Luckily for us, that’s not much. The space used to be a recording studio in the historic Garfield Galleria, and the new residents have elected to keep many of the studio’s unusual features: a glass divider, a bamboo-lined sound booth, and an entire room lined in egg-crate and felt padding. The result is an eclectic space ideal for exhibiting edgy, controversial works. It’s also perfect for the Lords’ other passion performance art. They can run video clips, host bands, and blast sound bites in the soundproofed spaces, and the neighbors won’t hear a thing.

How do you separate your new gallery from all the other “upscale, contemporary art” galleries on Marshall Way? Simple. Don’t put it in Scottsdale. Michael Costello and Daryl Childs chose wisely when they selected the historic Gold Spot in downtown Phoenix as the location for their new gallery. The building, constructed in the 1920s, has been completely restored to its original beauty, with a few modern additions namely, the polished concrete “faux tile” floors. It has all the charm of a vintage brownstone, while allowing Costello and Childs to set up a bright, airy, welcoming space to draw emerging and mid-career artists like painter Pat Berger, sculptor Kate Ritson, and photographer Richard D’Amore. Costello and Childs, who together bring more than half a century of experience to the table, have found their niche in featuring only national artists. The downside? Local artists need to look elsewhere for a new space to exhibit in. The bonus? If you’ve ever been out on a First Friday, we need say no more.

With all the talk about edgy Phoenix, we forget that some of the Valley’s strongest art roots are, in fact, in Scottsdale and we’re not talking howling coyotes here. Try those equally iconic gussied-up Weimaraners, since William Wegman is a longtime member of Lisa Sette’s posse. Sette is one of the most elegant women in town, with a gallery to match whether with a recent group exhibition focusing on hair or the amazing show that celebrated her 20 years in Scottsdale. She challenges and tempts us, and we’re grateful.

Believe the hype. ASU Art Museum has catapulted itself into the 21st century with its latest exhibition, “New American City,” making Tempe for real a new American city to watch. Curators Heather Lineberry and John Spiak panned the Phoenix metropolitan area for good stuff, and came up with a satisfying collection of shiny nuggets. There are familiar names like painter Sue Chenoweth, whose work here is bigger and bolder than ever, and less familiar names (see photographer Paho Mann’s “reinhabited” Circle K series) the combination achieves the kind of synergy that you look for in a major metropolitan museum show. And judging by the enthusiastic, not-the-usual-suspects crowd that flocked to the opening youngish, moneyed and big-city hip we’re not the only ones paying attention. It’s too late to attend the opening, natch, but the exhibition runs through January 27. And just think, this way you’ll actually be able to see the art, instead of the people we were tempted to watch instead.

Julie Hampton’s small studio was only open for a few months, but we’ll never forget her Art Detour 2006 exhibition. In honor of a show called “Green,” Hampton and her co-curators forked over some of their own green to lay the studio with sod, for a few short days. The inspiration came from a conversation about a previous Art Detour exhibition, in which an artist built a house in her studio, then put grass around it. This was quite the ordeal, Hampton recalls. The day of the more recent landscaping, Hampton knowing there was a sod shortage called four Home Depots at 6 a.m., in search. She found it at 75th Avenue and McDowell Road, so she hopped in her Nissan Sentra and drove, as she puts it, like “a mad woman” to get it calling her co-curator, Kriste Peoples, on the way. Peoples met her with a Toyota RAV4. The two crammed 20 rolls of sod (about 220 square feet) into their vehicles it barely fit put air in their tires, and drove to the studio on Grand Avenue, in Beatrice Moore’s wedding cake of a building, called La Milgosa. They put plastic on the ground, then rolled out the sod. “Sort of a hack job, but it turned out okay,” Hampton says. We recall it as more than okay. In fact, we were entranced, as was our 4-year-old companion, who immediately slipped off her shoes and got down on her hands and knees. Much like the Hanukkah miracle, the grass held up for a full week. “That much wet grass in a small space was a bit humid for my liking, but people seemed to enjoy taking off their shoes and walking around,” Hampton says. a.ware’s formal space is gone, but the vibe continues with open houses and Tupperware-esque home parties (but much more arty!) thrown by Hampton and Carol Panaro-Smith, who also plan to offer workshops on bookmaking and candlemaking. For more information, e-mail juliehampton@earthlink.net.

We thought we’d seen it all when it comes to Phoenix, at least until a friend brought us to the Arizona Doll & Toy Museum. This small treasure, tucked into a historic house in downtown’s Heritage Square, is a wonderful monument to childhood. Antique dolls from different decades share their home with more modern Betsy Wetsy types. There’s even a period school room all set up for the dolls. We won’t tell you everything that’s there we don’t want to ruin the surprise but make sure you go, and take a kindergartner along. You’ll both have fun.

In case you haven’t heard, the Heard Museum isn’t the place you visited on that Brownie field trip, back in third grade. Sure, the traditional Native American exhibits are still in place (beefed up, in fact), but now you can get modern with other exhibits, like the recent one-man show of the work of Hector Ruiz, a local Mexican artist, or the current “Holy Land: Diaspora and the Desert.” The “Holy Land” exhibition’s stirred up all kinds of controversy, but isn’t that what art’s all about? Go see it for yourself. And if you are one of those kids who visited the Heard in third grade, check out the Indian School exhibit, about a Phoenix fixture that’s gone, but not forgotten. One more museum improvement: There’s now a beautiful cafe, run by Arcadia Farms a nice complement to the gift shop, still the best place in town to find quality Native American jewelry and crafts.

Louise Bourgeois’ amazing 90-foot mirror was the talk of the town long before its dedication in August, and Phoenix is right to be proud of the latest project in a rich history of wonderful public art. Funded by the convention center’s Percent for the Arts Funds, we can think of no better way to reflect our city’s dedication to the arts. The mirror is made of polished steel cut into a spider-web pattern, offering viewers a constantly changing view. Look, it’s Phoenix!

We probably shouldn’t admit that we always check our hair as we pass by this gorgeously reflective work by local artist Bob Adams, but we do. Our vanity isn’t so great, however, that we think we’re any prettier than Adams’ super-cool installation of circular, convex mirrors lining the walkway between Phoenix Theatre and the Phoenix Art Museum. It’s a work that’s both a commentary on visual art and a nice reminder that important artists like Adams live among us. And fie on the jokers at Phoenix Theatre who recently tried to have this delightful installation removed. We know good art when we see it.

Next time you take a pass through the tiny town of Guadalupe, stop at the Guadalupe Market. Not for the fresh vegetables, which are pretty damn good, but to do a little urban sightseeing. The large mural on the side of the building is a window into the local culture. The mission-style Our Lady of Guadalupe Church is at the center of the painting, surrounded by children playing the piata game. A troupe of folklorico dancers floats on the painted dirt, and in one corner a large hand cradles the white dove of peace. It’s not that we love the artwork, per se. The figures are little more than basic shapes, and the proportions are fantastical. But it does what a community mural should it makes locals proud to be who they are.

If you have never traveled the 101 between Shea and Frank Lloyd Wright boulevards in Scottsdale, put your pedal gently to the metal and go there now. We say gently because there is a three-mile stretch of spectacular you don’t want to miss. Both retaining walls display Southwestern relief sculptures showing off mammoth cactuses, lizards and desert landscapes in hues of sage, red, gold and desert purple. Even the overpasses are worth a glance, with sculptural Native American-inspired metal railings. A bonus for slowing down and enjoying this refreshing use of tax dollars is that you’ll avoid the four photo radar speed traps recently strategically located within this artery oasis. This striking surprise on an otherwise boring thoroughfare has proven to be a surefire way to impress out-of-town guests. The view is free, as long as you don’t get a ticket.

Maybe it’s just us, but a majority of the front yards found around town are really quite boring. Sure, some folks might try livening things up by plunking down such cheap-ass tchotchkes as windmills or garden gnomes in front of their homes, but for the most part, the Valley’s lawns bring nothing but yawns. Not so with Gary Parsel’s place. This 55-year-old artist has transformed the swatch of desert landscaping in front of his vintage residence located near Seventh Street and McDowell Road into a feast for the eyes. More than a dozen surreal stucco sculptures and attention-grabbing objets d’art adorn his yard and front porch, such as a gigantic flame-spewing head, a pair of bodacious beach bums kicking back in Adirondack chairs, and a ridiculous robot cobbled together from a collection of electronic components. There’s also a virtual dog-and-pony show on display, with a few concrete canines and a horrendous-looking horse dotting the premises. Let’s hope his neighbors don’t mind.

This lovely stucco home with the breathtaking mountain view was built in the 1920s and donated to the City of Phoenix as an arts center in 1984. Its historic/pastoral/funky/luxurious vibe is unique in a part of the city that’s better known for big houses and expensive resorts than for serene public areas. Whether you’re looking at exhibits in the front room, taking an art class in the sunny kitchen, or strolling the sculpture garden, you’ll be nurtured and inspired. Even the glistening tiled bathroom, with a jungle of pothos draped over the window and tub, evokes an enchanted, dreamy ambiance. Not that it’s always quiet November’s annual Sunday at Shemer festival kicks things up a notch, and we have friends who got married one spring on the rolling green lawn but it just feels so good having the Shemer Center in our town.

Macram? Macra you, buddy. We know your dirty little secret. You’ve got a big ol’ stash of fabric, beads, clay, yarn, paint, paper and whatnot, and you were going to make all kinds of fabulous things someday. Hey, buying craft supplies is supposed to motivate you, right? Well, when you’ve faced reality (or at least your bulging closet door), donate the goods to the Art Resource Center, which funnels art and craft supplies to schools and other nonprofits. (It’ll take money, too.) Sherrie Zeitlin founded the center in 2004 when she was an artist-in-residence at Valley schools and saw firsthand how badly the supplies are needed. You’ll feel virtuous knowing that other folks are expressing themselves creatively with your recycled stuff. And once you’ve dismissed your inner Martha Stewart and her grandiose decorative schemes, you’ll have better feng shui in your head as well as in your home.

There’s an age-old stereotype that artists are nocturnal creatures, immersed in their craft ’til morning and sleeping the day away. Not the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed creative cats in The Breakfast Club, an artist group founded in 2003 by Beth Ames Swartz, Heidi Hesse, and Jon Haddock that meets bi-monthly at a Scottsdale restaurant of the same name. More than 30 artists, working in mediums ranging from gestural paintings and encaustics to resin figures and politically charged mixed-media pieces, gather for morning grub, java, and conversations about the creative process while sharing their artistic victories and challenges with one another. Individually, their work has been featured in the Valley’s best-known venues, including the Phoenix Art Museum, the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, the Shemer Art Center, and eye lounge, as well as New York’s PaceWildenstein Gallery, and the National Museum of Contemporary Art in Seoul, South Korea. In April, the Club presented its first group exhibition at Scottsdale’s Cattle Track Gallery, and instead of serving the traditional wine and cheese, breakfast was prepared and dished out by the artists. The group meets on Sundays, and membership is open to new attendees. Bon apptit.

We’ve heard whisperings lately amongst art scenesters that First Friday isn’t what it used to be, especially in the Evans-Churchill neighborhood (home to Roosevelt Row). These catty kooks claim the downtown district from where the monthly art walk sprang more than a decade ago has become too gentrified and overpriced, with all the hipper happenings going down over on Grand Avenue. Guess these naysayers haven’t stopped by .anti_space yet, as the newest location of Scot McKenzie and Justin McBee’s art space transmogrifies into a crazy-ass countercultural carnival every First Friday. Not only does their concrete bunker house two chic boutiques and four gonzo galleries, it’s also the site of plenty of outlandish and enjoyable antics. Madcap mixed-media installations are erected each month (like an enormous Newton’s Cradle made with bowling balls or a gigantic gas-powered blender used to obliterate watermelons and piatas), while McKenzie or other local DJs work the wheels of steel on the sidewalk, and friends jet around on screwy-looking modified bikes. We’re pretty sure you’ll never get bored here.

We had just become accustomed to tromping around Grand Avenue in the dark when galleries began opening off Grand. Don’t be afraid of this one Tilt really is just barely off Grand; you can almost see it from the main drag. Look for the bright pink walls. We love to hang at Tilt on Third Fridays, the best time to really see the art at any of the galleries on Roosevelt Row or Grand, given that the First Friday crush usually allows for people-watching and not much else. Third Fridays are for arty types, and Tilt, quickly becoming known as one of the best photography galleries in town, knows that usually the artist or artists are on hand to discuss their work or mingle with the crowd that hangs on Tilt’s patio to sip wine and hear live music. Viewing hours beyond that are by appointment only, so mark your calendar accordingly.

For the past few years, the hype surrounding the Final Friday Art Walk in downtown Tempe has pretty much centered on one venue in particular, namely the art supply store Wet Paint. But now the kick-back cats over at Mill’s End Cafe are giving those pigment-slinging peeps a run for their money, as the java joint has proven to be a pretty popular hangout during the monthly event. A sizable throng of dreadlocked scenesters, emo kids, and college-age cronies stop by the Mill Avenue coffee house to witness poetry slams, smoke flavored shishas from various hookahs, and partake in live music from local bands like Icy Core of Jupiter, and The Complainiacs, as well as new works from such artists as painters Tracy Perdue and Disposable Hero, photographer Sooz, and mixed-media maven LaTanya Ree. There are also plenty of the requisite caffeinated beverages on tap, which we’re gonna need to give us the energy to hit all the other venues open on Final Friday.

Cosmic bowling is so last year. Now the hot thing on the lanes is to actually start your own league. Case in point: a group of Valley art types who started bowling just to hang out with friends, and are quickly expanding into several teams. It all started when Neil Borowitz, an exhibit designer at Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art who used to work at the Heard Museum, wanted to get together with friends, including Melissa Martinez, who works at the Heard and used to be at SMoCA. Neil gathered some SMoCA folks, and Melissa brought the Heard people. ASU Art Museum and Roosevelt Row followed and now, the sky’s the limit! “Honestly, we’re very flexible,” Melissa says. “It’s not like a rigid team structure.” Knowing those creative types, we’re inclined to believe her. We hear they have some pretty interesting team names, too, but Melissa’s not telling.

Picture a bunch of shivering folks willingly waiting in line during the middle of the night, exchanging friendly banter and warm coffee. Now, strip away the consumer-obsessed IKEA feel and the Cabela’s “real American” quality and you’ve got the bookworm diehards awaiting the Volunteer Nonprofit Service Association (VNSA) book sale, held annually during the second weekend of February. The largest book sale west of the Mississippi features a 50,000-square-foot nerd oasis filled with more than 600,000 books, including $2 hardcovers and $1 paperbacks, as well as videos, CDs, audio tapes, records, maps, and puzzles. The warehouse is broken up into sections ranging from classics and cookbooks to history/war/politics and foreign language reads. The rare and unusual section where we’ve found a first printing of Tolstoy’s War and Peace for $10, an out-of-print history of ASU from 1960, and bizarre literature such as 1920s white supremacy propaganda is definitely our favorite. Shopping carts are provided, but they go fast (usually in about 10 minutes), so it’s a good idea to bring your own bags. If you don’t want to brave the Saturday chaos, come back on Sunday, when most books are half-price. There is a fairground-parking fee, but admission to the sale is free, with proceeds benefiting local nonprofit human service agencies.

The granddaddy of microcinema, No Festival Required, has brought underground films sans the censorship of distribution, festival rules, or economics to Modified Arts during each first Sunday evening for the past three years, and counting. The films run the artsy gamut of comedy, drama, documentary, and experimental works, whether it’s during February’s annual Arizona Statehood Show that showcases local filmmakers, the sublime Lunafest featuring all women directors, or the scathing rap short film of the U.S. administration’s handling of Hurricane Katrina in “George Bush Don’t Like Black People.” The motion picture series is also featured during select Sunday afternoons at the Phoenix Art Museum. You won’t have to navigate the commercial megaplex to enjoy a No Fes flick.

What happens when a human resources manager, a fitness director and an accountant read a lot? Lit chicks! Kim Novotny, the HR gal, gathered a couple of friends together a while back and created a Web site devoted to reviewing good books. Novotny lives in Anthem, but she and the other literate chicks dream of someday traveling to Chicago to tell Oprah all about their site! Whether that happens or not, we’re just happy to read their smart, succinct, honest reviews with Top 10 lists including authors we, too, love, like John Irving, David Sedaris, and Harper Lee. We see they’ve got Martha Beck on there, too. A wise move, considering she, too, is from the Valley and writes for O Magazine. Maybe we’ll see the lit chicks on TV yet.

Each year, established writers and hopeful scribes descend on the ASU campus for several days of intensive writing instruction, readings, panel discussions, and book signings. Participants can rub elbows with published authors during a variety of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry classes, ranging from screenwriting and political poetry to gender-identity fiction and travel writing. During the evening break, authors and conference participants journey down to the Mill Avenue bars to yuk it up about the writing life over cocktails, culminating in evening readings and book signings in Old Main’s Carson Ballroom. In the past, featured authors have included novelist Joyce Carol Oates, essayist A.S. Byatt, poet Tim Seibles, and This American Life contributor Sarah Vowell. There’s a hefty $300 registration fee, but enough tutelage and inspiration for at least a couple of chapters of that book you’re writing. Write on!

According to a recent National Endowment for the Arts Reading at Risk study, most people between the ages of 16 and 35 think books are blas. PAGE 23 isn’t going to let you fold up literature quite yet. Through guerrilla marketing and word-of-mouth promotions, a group of Changing Hands employees hopes to inspire a new generation of readers by seeking out and recommending new fiction (Icelander by Dustin Long), edgy nonfiction (Drugs Are Nice: A Post-Punk Memoir by Lisa Crystal Carver), and graphic novels (Black Hole by Charles Burns) that pass under the Sunday book page radar, each distinguishable by an in-store brown bookmark. The group also programs unique community gatherings, including “Lit Noise.” The unveiling event featured readings from the snarky Jack Pendarvis and experimental neo-magical realist Salvador Plascencia, the latter who read from his debut The People of Paper while wearing a beekeeper’s suit. The stacks were moved and hyperactive acoustic rockers Andrew Jackson Jihad performed spastic mood music during the book signings, while the adjacent Mac’s Broiler & Tap offered reverse happy hour specials for those who wanted a little booze with their books. What is it they always used to tell us in school? Reading is FUN-damental.

JRC and Stephanie Carrico, co-owners of the Trunk Space, know they have a hot product when folks are making special trips to the exhibition space to score material for their MySpace profiles. The photo booth, converted from color to beautiful black-and-white, is one of a kind in the area, and pics snapped at the booth have been showing up on Internet blogs as well as Web sites for out-of-town bands swinging through the art gallery/performance venue. For just $3, the all-analog picture-slinging device cranks out a vintage black-and-white strip of four keepsakes, using old-school photo chemicals to develop posing mugs. In April, the Space christened the booth with a party where snapshots of colorful characters were included in the Trunk Space Yearbook, a do-it-yourself art archive that the art space owners plan to keep creating each year. Appointments are accepted or just swing by during gallery hours and say “cheese.”

Following the closure of Chandler’s indie-focused Madstone Theatres in 2004, the Valley’s repertory film scene looked more desolate than a theater after the final encore. Enter OneNightCinema, the brainchild of local film buff Randy Montgomery. During its two years of existence, the quarterly film series has screened more than two dozen flicks unique to the Valley, including Sundance Film Festival winners, programs solely dedicated to foreign fare (Senegal, Latin America, Jerusalem, and Hungary), and The Untold Story of Emmett Louis Till, a moving documentary about the unjust murder that mobilized the civil rights movement. Films are shown at least four times over a weekend, and an audience Q&A follows each screening. Forget the mega 24-plex and get cozy with these personalized films. Hey, somebody pass the popcorn.

You dropped a few shekels last weekend at Blockbuster to rent Bride & Prejudice and The Guru ’cause you finally wanted to learn about this whole Bollywood thing. After the drippy double feature zapped away four hours of your life, you’re still left wondering what the deal is. Get a taste of actual East Indian celluloid (and not some mass-produced Hollywood byproduct) by checking out showings of recent Bollywood flicks at this second-run cinema, well-attended by members of the Valley’s Indo-Pakistani community. Each month, films like the uproarious farce Shaadi Se Pehle, the action adventure Zinda, or the romantic thriller Humko Tumse Pyar Hai are screened with English subtitles for only $9.50 for adults and $7.50 for kids. Sneak in some takeout tandoori chicken to enjoy while peeping pictures like Darna Zaroori Hai or Jai Chiranjeeva, and you might just imagine you’re maxing and relaxing at a moviehouse in Mumbai instead of toiling in Tempe.

Movie theaters in the Valley come and go, but inevitably, when we want to see the hot new movie, we find ourselves at Camelview. We don’t always find ourselves inside Camelview who knew Little Miss Sunshine was the movie of the summer? but we always know we’ll find the best, brightest and quirkiest playing at our favorite old haunt.

Divine Poetry isn’t just the name of the Valley’s hottest new spoken-word series. It also refers to the event emcee, lyrical poet, and organizer of sharp tongues, known simply as Divine. After Scottsdale’s soul food and cultural haven Livingston’s closed in 2004, the Bronx-born poetry diva created the open-mic function at the bare-bones Entertainment Alley. What the space lacks in decor a lone couch with torn upholstery sits center stage, and plastic folding chairs are brought in for audience comfort is made up during audacious readings and the occasional performance art piece. Seasoned veterans of the spoken-word scene, such as the hyperactive Manifest Destiny, who frequently performs multiple personality routines from his album Broke Ass Bus Ticket, as well as newbies of all ages and skill levels, congregate at the sessions every Sunday night.

Valley word-slingers needing to score some fast cash, look no further. Just put down the latte, scribble some chapbook strophes, and hightail it down to the $100 winner-take-all Anthology Greater Phoenix Poetry Slam. On the last Wednesday of every month at the Paper Heart, 10 performance scribes read three poems of their own creation, with winners determined by five randomly chosen audience members. Each month features a heavy-hitting guest poet, such as the urban folk rhymester/singer Blair, who is the 2002 National Poetry Slam champion and a featured artist on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam. Poets who have gone home with fatter pockets include the edgy veteran Bill Campana, the growling Patrick Hare, and policeman-by-day, word-sleuth-by-night Corbet Dean. Newcomers are welcome, and there is no registration fee. Get slammin’.

Living in Phoenix, we’ve learned we need to create our own holiday traditions. No sledding, no skating, not much bundling up by the fire (damn those no-burn days). That’s why we’re happy to have such a fantastic local Nutcracker to look forward to as the holidays approach. Ib Andersen, creative director of Ballet Arizona, has a wonderful interpretation, full of Tchaikovsky’s music as well as all the Nutcracker moments you remember and some you’re glad to add to the repertoire. Our toddler was dancing in the aisles not popular with the staff at Symphony Hall, but she did get a chuckle from the audience and we’re sure we’ll be first in line when she’s old enough to audition for the show.

Nutcrackered out? Or looking for something to do the rest of the holiday season, other than stand in line to see Santa? We hear you. Which is why we’re here to recommend The Snow Queen. An original production by France Smith Cohen, director of Center Dance Ensemble (the resident modern company at the Herberger), the retelling of the Hans Christian Andersen classic has changed over the years with better sets and costumes but remains the same beautiful story, told through music and dance. It’s a nice holiday tale with not a touch of Christmas, featuring (like Nutcracker) a large group of local children, many trained at Dance Theater West, a local ballet school.

By the end of BOP, we’ll have planted repeated mentions of our wonderful botanical garden, but we must take a moment to celebrate our all-time favorite Valley tradition, the luminarias. Each season, we’re the first to get our tickets, the first to pull up to the garden and start the holidays with a leisurely stroll through the garden grounds, lighted with hundreds of luminarias. The experience is complemented by live music a variety, some holiday, some not encountered as you walk the garden paths. The grounds are lighted just enough, the sky is starry and (if you’re lucky) chilly, and the feel of Christmas in the air is never so sweet as at this event, held several nights throughout the season.

We almost lost this venerable company last year, in good part because people don’t go to the theater often enough to support even the best playhouses. Which is senseless when you consider how truly impressive Actors Theatre’s just-passed season was. It kicked off with a remount of the previous season’s Nickel and Dimed, a comic adaptation of Barbara Ehrenreich’s book about the working class that featured a delightful performance by Cathy Dresbach. Next up was Blue/Orange, a thoughtful and well-acted meditation on mental health. A stunning late-January production of Kiss of the Spider Woman featured what might well have been Richard Trujillo’s best performance ever. As if this weren’t enough, the company closed its already impressive season with an amazing production of Edward Albee’s shocking The Goat or, Who Is Sylvia? that had audiences buzzing for weeks after. We’re glad that wiser heads (and deeper pockets) have prevailed, and that Actors Theatre remains with us.

We’re still remembering fondly this production of Paul Rudnick’s remarkably funny Valhalla, brought to us last winter by Damon Dering’s Nearly Naked Theatre Company. Rudnick’s naughty comedy was elevated by wonderful performances from Dion Johnson as a degenerate yokel with a heart of gold; Tim Shawver as the mad King Ludwig II; and Joseph Kremer as a hick whose exasperation at and confusion over his sexuality was appealing and good-natured, where it might have been churlish and annoying. Dering directed, creating a seamless interplay between the play’s two distinct eras, and scenic designer T.J. Weltzien brought us both Bavaria and Texas in a mad hodgepodge of a set that was all newel posts and glimmering curtains. Both cast and crew gave their all, and we’re still basking in the memory of a wild and wildly entertaining evening of theater.

There were so many reasons Desert Stages Theatre’s production of A Man of No Importance shouldn’t have worked. There was the cramped quarters of the company’s Actor’s Cafe space, into which this odd musical was squeezed. There was the mostly amateur cast, an unusual, time-bending script, and the curse that seems to blight most all stage musicals based on little-known films (in this case, the 1994 Albert Finney movie of the same name). All these should’ve-failed reasons are what made this production’s success all the more notable. Firm direction from Jim Carmody and a better-than-average supporting cast helped, but the main reason this production soared where it might have faltered was Dominic Kidwell’s lead performance as Alfie. Kidwell kept his character’s complex elements a stubborn determination to bring Oscar Wilde’s work to Dublin; a frail gentility; a quick anger in fine balance. When the story turned dark, Kidwell maintained Alfie’s sweet, hopeful demeanor in song and in action. His shaded performance elevated what might have been a near miss into a superb production, one that Wilde himself probably would have loved.

Kyle Sorrell gave a powerhouse performance as Mark, the lead in Harry Gibson’s dark meander through heroin addiction’s dark night no mean feat when one considers that Sorrell was surrounded by a superb cast. Sorrell shone brightest, though; balancing the horror and comedy in the text without ever toppling into camp, and never playing Mark as weird or deranged. Sorrell implied a subtle regret under his endless crowing about the pleasure of getting high that let us see the wretchedness beneath Mark’s manic glee about choosing drug addiction over a materialistic, bourgeois existence. Sorrell’s was a star turn that we’re still recalling with a combination of horror and pleasure.

Lillie Richardson is among our finest local actors, and as Paulina in Ariel Dorfman’s semi-autobiographical political thriller, she was called on to play a woman who’s alternately jovial and condescending; who might be insane or simply jubilant in her finest hour. She played scenes that in the hands of a lesser actress certainly would have fallen to scenery chewing, scenes filled with violence and fear, crackling with tension and crammed with Dorfman’s darkly comic dialogue. She shifted from cantankerous glee to spiteful cruelty without a trace of the hamminess this kind of role practically demands. Brava!

Too busy to get to the theater? Well, you have to eat, right? So multitask in the most creative way and head to the Herberger’s Lunch Time Theater. The show is only $6, and for a few extra bucks you can pre-order a bag lunch (salad or sandwich, with all sorts of choices, complete with sides and a drink) that will be waiting for you. Shows last 30 to 45 minutes, beginning at 12:10 p.m. Tuesdays through Thursdays, when there’s a production. The doors open at 11:40 a.m., and you can buy your ticket at the door (although, unless there are no-shows, not your lunch). We’ve seen a one-woman show and a completely new play, written by several locals. Upcoming productions include The Apple Pie Hubbub: Several Scenes in One Act, opening October 30 and described as a fully improvised play, in which the audience decides the plots and twists. Sure beats the drive-through at Carl’s Jr.!

For just a few bucks, you can eat a hot dog in the sunshine and head back to work with a sparkling car. We knew this was the best car wash in town when we ran into our boss (not just our editor, but the big boss) here one day at lunch, spiffing up his car and his shoes at the same time. We didn’t take advantage of the shoeshine service, but we did note that the business at the hot dog stand just outside Los Olivos was bustling, and we were grateful that the friendly car wash staff didn’t try to change our oil, sell us new tires and refinance our house while we struggled to simply request a basic wash. The basic wash was better than basic, too, and we headed back to the office fed and refreshed. Not bad for an hour off work.

Want to get us excited about public transportation? DO NOT TALK TO US ABOUT LIGHT RAIL! We already spend much of our day talking about light rail to ourselves, under our breath, stuck in horrendous traffic. Yeah, yeah, it will make our lives wonderful. Maybe. We’ll get back to you in several years. For now, we’d rather talk about the cool thing that happened at Sophie’s preschool last year. Our toddler came home from school with a picture of herself driving a city bus. Don’t worry, we’re pretty sure the bus wasn’t moving Sophie’s knees didn’t even bend over the seat, if the Polaroid was any indication. This is a program where the bus folks drive that thing over to the school, and let each kid take a turn driving. The kids were delighted and so were the parents, eager to demonstrate that public transportation’s not such a bad thing, even if you won’t catch us waiting at a bus stop. We’re putting our faith in the next generation . . . and we’re glad Tempe In Motion is, too.

Here’s another one we can blame on Osama. For the past five years, Arizonans have been shooed away from the curb, forced to drive in hellish circles from the South to North, in search of newly arrived air passengers. Finally, the think tank at Sky Harbor has found a way to save us from “You bastard, let me in!” and “How did I end up at Terminal 3!?” The Stage and Go Lot on Sky Harbor Boulevard, west of the Terminal 2 parking garage, is where to park it. Here, updated flight information for all three terminals is provided on a display board. With full bars on your cell phone, passenger pickup should no longer be a problem. The best part? It’s free.

It’s quitting time and you’ve gotta beat feet home to your East Valley domicile double-quick. Too bad Interstate 10 is a parking lot. But before you anger up the blood and throw another road rage, shave plenty of time off your commute by taking Sky Harbor Boulevard. The twisting thoroughfare cutting through the middle of the airport is your roadway redemption, as low amounts of traffic during both the morning and evening rush hours allows you to bypass gridlock in both directions and cut your drive time in half (even with the perpetual construction that’s occurring). At either end of this godsend from gridlock are off-ramps to various freeways including Loops 101 and 202, State Routes 143 and 153, and the aforementioned I-10. While other commuters are throwing transit-induced temper tantrums after facing a sea of brake lights, you’ll be cruising quickly on home, cubicle drone.

This inconspicuous gallery in a Scottsdale strip mall is a music geek’s paradise, and for the rock memorabilia collector, owner Michael W. Dunn’s collection is downright enviable. The artwork hanging on the walls is most notable because the featured artists are people like Grace Slick, Ringo Starr, Janis Joplin, Jerry Garcia, and Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones. While most of the rock-star art in the exhibit consists of limited-edition prints, there are several originals by Grace Slick on display and for sale, including Slick’s fantastical white rabbits on psychedelic mushrooms, done in oil on canvas. Slick is also one of a handful of stars to host opening receptions at the gallery (as did Ron Wood, and Janis Joplin’s siblings). The space also stocks tons of signed photographs, framed albums, and guitars.

With apologies to Jack Black, Abe Gil is running the real School of Rock. When he isn’t wearing wild outfits and crashing about downtown music venues like Holgas or Modified as the one-man noise polluter Treasure Mammal, the 26-year-old teaches music, math, and art to seventh- and eighth-graders at Montessori Academy in Scottsdale. As riotous as his act gets, Gil’s not worried about his students learning about his alter ego. In fact, he even enlisted their help in creating a hidden track for Expect the Max, his recently released CD. It all came about in 2003 when Gil grew weary of his charges bickering with each other, and started getting in their faces with a humorous and gentle song called “Friendship.” They eventually dug the ditty and ultimately adopted it as their class theme and performed it for his disc. Some students even formed their own band, Treasure Mammal, Jr., as a result, and have played on the same bill as their teacher’s act. Now that’s a happy ending worthy of a movie.

Downtown art scenesters have gotten used to seeing the long arm of the law in their midst since August 2005, when Phoenix police officers stepped up their patrolling of First Fridays along Roosevelt Row. Artists and gallery owners have peeped po-pos standing on street corners, checking out their work, and even strumming a guitar or two. Yep, it seems as though a few coppers have been known to stop by attorney Kelly McDonald’s tiny guitar shop located at Artisan Villages to peruse and play any number of the axes and acoustics on display. Taking a short break from their duties, these members of Phoenix’s Finest have jammed out to Led Zeppelin and Nirvana, but unfortunately, not Ice-T’s block-rocking hit “Cop Killer” or N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police.” Maybe they’ll take requests.

While we ain’t doctors or anything, we’re pretty sure if Minuteman Project spokesperson Chris Simcox drove past this downtown Chandler square on an early weekend morning, the immigrant-busting vigilante would suffer a heart attack. After all, more than a hundred unemployed Hispanics gather near the park, located along Arizona Avenue between Boston and Buffalo streets, hoping to nab some work from any of the contractors or other construction cronies cruising by in their pickups looking for some cheap help installing drywall or any other house-building chore. Many an immigrant journeyman has ventured here after getting driven away from previous popular day laborer pickup spots like Gilbert Road in Mesa or 36th Street and Thomas Road in Phoenix. No word if Simcox and company are planning on setting up any thermal cameras just yet.

Don’t expect to find howling coyotes and Monument Valley vistas within the environs of the Clarendon Hotel’s art-friendly lobby and spacious suites. From nude portraits by Chris Raboin to Leigh Merrill’s abstract photographic landscapes, the stylish boutique hotel boasts a variety of local artists, including the hippest window shades in town. Created by eye lounge painter Doug Oland, who uses a fairly formal painting style in the way he makes marks and builds through layers, the sliding curtains are printed on a specialized plastic that models the plywood medium that Oland paints upon. Each room houses at least one of two reproductions of Oland’s Southwest-themed large-format abstracts. One portrays an agave plant augmented by floating pink and red hues; the other illustrates a desert monsoon with indigo clouds. We can’t resist; we’ve gotta say it: The Clarendon’s got it made in the shade.

Ever wonder what it would be like to wander around the inside of a lava lamp? The closest simulation might be a walk through Scorch Bar, with its shiny silver chrome and glowing red interiors, plasma-shaped tables, and futuristic restrooms. Not only is the ladies’ restroom always clean to the OCD-degree, but there’s also a big, trippy window right above the sinks, which looks directly into the men’s restroom next door (don’t worry, bashful boys, the girls can’t see anything beyond your sinks). Since both restrooms are identical, most people go to wash their hands and don’t realize they’re standing in front of a window instead of a mirror . . . until they look up to see the startled face of someone of the opposite sex. You never know, ladies that could be Mr. Right over there. At least you know he washes his hands after he pees.

The boys’ toidy at this popular punk paradise might be dirty, cramped, poorly lighted, and swelteringly hot, but there’s a reason the guys keep making return trips and not because they’ve got to drain all the PBR they’ve downed. Nope, it’s probably because of all the gonzo graffiti covering almost every inch of the Pepto-pink walls and ceiling of this lurid loo. Besides the usual seamy scribblings, there are amply amusing announcements and hilarious invectives, which are equal parts entertaining, insightful, and outrageous. Surreal sketches of vomiting demons and absurd astronauts make males want to linger long after they’ve done their business, as do piercing proclamations: “ROCK-N-ROLL MUTHAFUCKERS!” and “Life is short, drink hard.” There are even lessons to be learned, as a sarcastic drawing of a recently deceased fashionista (complete with blood pouring from her nose) sits next to the anti-message “Be glamorous, do coke.” Hope no one wanted to do any blow in this restroom.

We think that outdoor weddings are the bomb, especially because we live in paradise for six months of the year. That said, some very deep pockets are required to get hitched at Desert Botanical Garden, nearly every outdoor-wedding buff’s first choice. But Lost Dutchman is just as lovely, and, best of all, it’s budget-friendly. How budget-friendly? You probably won’t believe us, but you’ll pay next to nothing for the facilities. The wedding site itself an intimate amphitheater located beneath the looming brow of Superstition Mountain and surrounded on all sides by lush Sonoran Desert flora costs nothing. The large group ramada located nearby perfect for the reception is equipped with electricity and can be rented for $25.

If money is no object, get yourself hitched amongst the twinkly orange lights adorning the trees at Royal Palms, just beneath Camelback Mountain. This resort (completely rehabbed in the ’90s; we miss the heart-shaped pool but otherwise love the redo) is the perfect blend of Mediterranean charm with a nod to the desert. The lawn is the perfect place to hoist your huppa (or canopy, all religions welcome), and the ballroom is small but so charming. We recommend the roasted chicken, and be sure to reserve the honeymoon suite once included in the cost of the wedding, we hear that now you’ve got to fork over several hundred for the privilege, but trust us, it’s worth it for the claw-footed bathtub alone.

We heard so much for so long about the remodel of the Valley Ho that, frankly, we never thought it would happen. But it did, and boy, was it worth the wait. From the moment you step out of your car in the driveway, you’re transported back to the ’50s, but with a 21st-century twist. Iridescent tiles offset the mid-century furniture, and the lobby is so cool, even in the dead of summer. The Rat Pack croons by the pool via speakers and the rooms are divine. We particularly love the executive suites, with wraparound patios and a bathtub big enough to fit your whole birthday party, if you so choose. Well worth the price of admission, which, true to the form of the boutique hotel model, is quite affordable. Unlike other boutique hotels, which skimp on details once you’ve left the common areas, we were pleased to find plush towels, nice sheets and funky decor, in every nook and cranny. We assume they left the popcorn ceilings on purpose, for a retro feel, so we’ll forgive the otherwise unforgivable. This is one Ho we intend to spend plenty of time with.

Textile taxidermist Tara Logsdon engages in some fuzzy haps when she goes to town on her furry patients during “Ursidae Anaplasty” Latin for “Bear Plastic Surgery.” The Holgas resident artist scours Valley thrift stores and rescues teddies that are in grave need of physical and psychological repair. From there, the surgeon employs needle-busting hand-stitching techniques and repairs dismembered appendages using recycled material from Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Burberry products. Logsdon rarely performs the surgeries outside of her home studio, but when she does venture to various downtown art spaces, singing nurses provide emotional support and DJs supply post-surgery anesthesia with tight booty-shaking beats. The body-modified bears are available for purchase, but must go to a good home doctor’s orders. And that’s not the only thing that Doc Logsdon prescribes she also writes prescriptions to humans (the freaks on Extreme Makeover, for example) who are extremely desperate.

Leave it to Scott Jacobson one of our all-time favorite Phoenicians to be the one who donated his tie collection to the cause of his good friend Ally Resnick (daughter of Denise, another fave) so she could make her own prom dress. Ally wore the dress to the prom held at the Scottsdale Plaza Conference Center, sponsored by Phoenix Country Day School. In this era of hundred-thousand-dollar Super Sweet 16 parties, pardon us for being prudes, but we’re delighted to see a young lady who didn’t raid her college fund to buy a dress that will make her look like Paris Hilton’s slutty little sister. Whoops, sorry, Nicky.

Eye-catching decorations abound inside Tad Caldwell’s combination fashion boutique, art studio, gallery space, and hair salon in east Phoenix. The walls and ceiling are covered with a vibrant rainbow mosaic of graffiti, the works of local artists are scattered throughout the establishment, and Caldwell himself sports a shock of bright orange hair. But the most unusual ornamentation is the body shell of a 1979 Plymouth Fury, which is painted bright yellow with red flames and is bolted sturdily to the concrete wall over an innocuous row of hair dryers. Caldwell says his M.C. Escher-style placement of the car, which has been gutted of its interior and engine for weight, is because he “thought it would look cool” and because he at one point wanted to turn it into a towel rack, of all things. Currently, the stylist and sculptor uses it to store dismembered doll parts and as a screen when he occasionally shows indie movies. And here we thought cars were just for driving.

When word about the red paper clip trading frenzy hit national media outlets, including Good Morning America, World News Tonight, and National Public Radio, it brought Valley musician Jody Gnant into the national spotlight. A year ago, a light bulb went off in the head of Kyle MacDonald, an enterprising young Canadian who wanted to trade a thin piece of metal for a home of his own. Using the Internet as a bartering tool, he slowly made trades for bigger and better items. His first trade was a fish-shaped pen, the seventh exchange was a snowmobile, and by his 10th trade, he held a recording contract, a dream for the folk singer-songwriter Gnant. She e-mailed MacDonald through his Web site, www.oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com, and offered one free year of shelter in her 1920s-era Garfield neighborhood duplex. He accepted, flew out, and they made the swap at high noon on a warm April afternoon. Jody’s recording contract includes 30 hours of recording time, 50 hours of mixing, and transportation to and from the Toronto studio. The album will be pitched to record execs for Sony and XM Radio. And to think MacDonald chose a Valley lease over a 24-hour lap-dance-a-thon from a stripper in Japan.

Sometimes life is about being in the right place at the right time. For instance, one morning in February, we found something interesting outside the Circle K at 16th Street and Washington. It wasn’t a cash-stuffed wallet or a photo of Sheriff Joe in flagrante delicto with one of his deputies, but rather the 2004 confidential phone directory for Major League Baseball. Contained within this little black notebook were various private phone numbers for the entire staff and ownership for all 30 teams. Guess a member of the D-Backs front office somehow dropped this gem while getting a morning pick-me-up. While the gaffe wasn’t on a par with other boneheaded stunts this year like eating a whopping $21.5 million owed to Russ Ortiz after cutting the struggling pitcher early from his four-year guaranteed contract in June it was still pretty embarrassing. One has to wonder what other top-secret info this anonymous-yet-butterfingered exec has let loose lately. We considered ringing up Yankees owner George Steinbrenner while he was on the pot, but played nice and returned the missing tome to assistant general manager Peter Woodfork without even requesting a luxury skybox. We’ve been waiting to see if our generosity will be rewarded, but so far the stingy bastards won’t return our calls.

Tian Tang, a Chinese-born student at ASU’s engineering school, has devoted his Web site, www.hanzismatter.com, to explaining to dumb Westerners exactly what the Chinese characters etched on their backs, arms, and ankles are saying. In many cases, it isn’t pretty: One tattoo that ostensibly read “mommy,” according to Tang, is really “female horse rice.” Another, he wrote, appears to say “fuck you.” Whoops. “I’m very surprised a lot of times that people will e-mail me about their tattoos, and they never found out the real meaning before they got it,” Tang told the New York Times in April. Now that you’ve read this, you have no excuse not to send that e-mail before making it permanent.

Of all the animals roaming Grand Avenue (biological and metaphorical), Noodle the unfixed tomcat may be the biggest scenester. The orange-and-blond tabby showed up on the 1500 block of Grand about a year ago (when he was just a kitten), and the gallery owners at Perihelion Arts, Art One, and the Trunk Space have been feeding him and taking care of him ever since. A charming but private fellow, Noodle pretty much lives outdoors by himself, but visits the three galleries frequently and is always around on First Fridays, when he prefers to people-watch from his secret hiding place in the Trunk Space. Noodle is purported to have a handful of favorite local artists, including modernist painter Steve Hofberger, symbolist painters Richard and Michele Bledsoe, and quilt maker Susan G. White. We’re told he also digs local music, and his favorite bands include DJentrification, The Dietrichs, Andrew Jackson Jihad, and Fatigo. Now that is one hip cat.

Despite the fact that George Lucas axed his Star Wars film franchise more than a year ago, the members of the Phoenix Fan Force a cadre of local Obi-wanna-bes haven’t spent their time bitching about losing touch with the Skywalker clan. Nope, these sci-fi superfreaks have instead been busy continuing to churn out their series of Star Wars-themed “fan films,” or mini-movies concerning that galaxy far, far away. Since 2003, PFF members like Brenda Glenn, Joel Cranson, and Webb Pickersgill have been working on their Spirits of the Force trilogy, which centers on the lightsaber-swinging adventures of a group of secondary characters from Lucas’ oeuvre. The flicks are enjoyable romps taking familiar Valley locales like Arizona State University and Papago Park and making them look otherworldly. The first two chapters have been downloaded by thousands of fans worldwide and even got screened at local geek gatherings like LepreCon and the Phoenix Cactus Comicon, and the third is currently in development. Truly, the Force is with them. Now if they can only make lightsabers a reality, we can die happy.

Supporters of the downtown arts district, meet your true enemy: MC Merv. According to the word on the street, this white yuppie rapper who was raised on the “mean streets” of Anthem is the dastardly developer who single-handedly shut down the Emerald Lounge, razed the old Planet Earth Theatre, and is the driving force behind the ongoing gentrification of your favorite First Friday hangouts. Well, according to him, at least. What’s closer to reality is that Merv’s an anonymous art scenester who moonlights as a ridiculous rapper dressed in a shabby gray wool suit, a ball cap, and kneepads. Performing impromptu shows at the Willow House and the Trunk Space, the MC spits out rhymes about his pseudo-plans for downtown for the amusement of his fan base (whom he calls “Merverts”). “The name’s Merv/Got a lot of nerve/Turn the city into condos/Kick the people to the curb,” he sings. “You might be saying, ‘What the fuck?’/But you know what?/I just bought Trunk Space, Bikini and the whole dang block!” Word up, white boy.

Whenever our out-of-state friends come to our heat-blasted burg for a visit, they’re quite taken with the kitschy Arizona-themed refrigerator magnets found littering gift shops and souvenir stands across the Valley. They seem so drawn to these tacky trinkets filled with howling coyotes, jackalopes and Southwestern sunsets, you’d think our buddies were made of metal. The last time they blew through town, we gave them this certain madcap magnet made by local furniture artist Mike Miskowski that threw them for a loop. It boasts a smutty snapshot of a towering and anatomically blessed saguaro with a rather largish arm looking very much like a . . . um, let’s just say its needles aren’t the only thing “prickly” about this cactus. (There’s also the phrase “Welcome to Phoenis” printed on it.) We’d tell our pals about Miskowski’s other small-scale artwork fit for their icebox like a satanic Little Debbie or a chain-saw-wielding Native American child but they aren’t speaking to us anymore.