BEST PLACE TO DANCE NEARLY NAKED 2006 | Underwear Night at Pat O's Bunkhouse Saloon | People & Places | Phoenix
Lauren Cusimano
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.
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 Ozzfest Tour

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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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!

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