The Farm Kitchen
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.
Scottsdale Community College Football Stadium
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.
Monkey Pants Bar & Grill
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.
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.
Pat O's Bunkhouse Saloon
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.

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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.
Jugheads
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?

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