They're still there, under wraps in greenHAUS Boutique and Gallery, the former home of the infamous 307 drag bar, and the onetime re-election campaign headquarters of former Mayor Phil Gordon: a pair of murals by the late Ted DeGrazia, one of Arizona's highest-profile exports to the world at large.

Best known for the paintings of big-eyed, primitive Native American tykes popularized in the '60s in a greeting card line launched by UNICEF, DeGrazia reportedly painted the long-covered-up, giant murals in the 1950s to pay off his drinks tabs when this building housed a series of fly-by-night cocktail lounges.

Both of the untitled murals, which are painted on plywood across the full length of 40-foot walls in browns and yellows on a field of deep khaki, depict the history of grain alcohol production, beginning with cavemen fermenting roots and ending with farmers bootlegging the stuff while prairie-skirted angels fly from the sun, clutching martini glasses and a pair of showgirls do high kicks of vodka-inspired joy.

So, why haven't the murals been rescued, restored, and moved to Tucson's DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun? Some say it's because the murals are painted directly on the space's interior walls, and removing them would destroy the ancient building. Others say it's because decades of cigarette smoke and cheesy repairs to the murals' peeling paint have rendered them valueless.

Our favorite story is this one: The murals are haunted by the ghost of DeGrazia himself, and every time someone begins poking around his old wall paintings, his ghost turns up and starts wagging his finger at anyone with big ideas of moving them.

Best Bar Food
Native New Yorker
several Valley locations

Best Bar For Conversation
Merc Bar
2501 East Camelback
602-508-9449

Best Bar To Be Seen
Six
7316 East Stetson, Scottsdale
480-703-3383

Best Bar To Watch The Game
Goldie's Neighborhood Sports Cafe
10135 East Via Linda, Scottsdale
480-451-6269

Best Beer Selection
Timber Wolf Pub
740 East Apache, Tempe
480-517-9383

Best Brew Pub
Four Peaks Brewing Company
1340 East Eighth Street, Tempe
480-303-9967

Best English Pub
George and Dragon English Restaurant and Pub
4240 North Central
602-241-0018

Best Gay Bar
Crowbar
710 North Central
602-258-8343

Best Lesbian Bar
Ain't Nobody's Bizness
3031 East Indian School
602-224-9977

Best Martini
Martini Ranch
7295 East Stetson, Scottsdale
480-970-0500

Best Pool Hall
Pink E's
3227 East Bell
602-482-8350
and 93 East Southern, Tempe
480-829-1822

Best Cigar Bar
The Famous Door
7419 East Indian Plaza, Scottsdale
480-970-1945

Locals who like to chase their margarita with a little dead guy spend time at Casey Moore's, because this popular Tempe neighborhood bar at Ninth and Ash is reportedly chockablock with ghosts. Built in 1910 by William Moeur, a leader in Tempe's early education system. Moeur and his wife, Mary, lived in the house, and both died there, too — William in 1929; Mary in 1943. But they haven't, according to local legend, ever actually left the premises.

Both of the dearly departed Moeurs have been seen dancing together in the window of an upstairs bedroom, and neighbors routinely report seeing a faint glow from another upstairs bedroom window. The couple also are apparently downstairs pranksters, too: Customers have reported flatware flying from tables and have seen chandeliers spookily swinging and paintings crashing to the ground. Casey Moore's staff also claims that furniture and place settings often are rearranged overnight, while the restaurant is empty.

Creepier still are reports that a pretty young girl with light eyes and dark black hair who was murdered in the house sometime after the Moeurs died there. Some versions of the house's history claim that the residence became a whorehouse in the 1950s, and that the dark-haired girl is a former hooker whose john smothered her with a pillow rather than pay. Boo!

Make a bathroom friend in a bar on Mill one Saturday night in Tempe and you might hear the urban legend about the developer who threw himself off the West Sixth building before it was finished. Versions of the rumor generally include mention of the Great Recession, the dire state of the finances of the project, and a gruesome gesture toward the top of the now-fully operational high rise. It's a long way down to the roundabout driveway resembling a bull's eye.

The story might give you chills on your way to Rúla Búla for Pub Trivia, but is it true? Not exactly, although there was, in fact, a suicide related to the development. The true story behind this tale is gnarlier than the version that lingers over downtown Tempe.

In 2008, deep in the throes of the Great Recession, Mortgages Ltd. CEO Scott Coles had collected nearly $1 billion from investors in the Phoenix area for large-scale development projects, including what was then called Centerpoint Condominiums on Sixth Street. Coles once had instilled confidence in his investors, but the returns on their money weren't coming through, and the project fell into deep debt. Rumors began swirling among investors that Mortgages Ltd. was broke and that the FBI may be involved.

Was he a classic Ponzi scam artist? Coles, who once paid $375,000 to have lunch with Donald Trump, was known as much for his opulent lifestyle as he was for his risky ventures. Before the tension among those awaiting repayment boiled over and the investigations could follow the money trail (back to Coles' multiple mansions, his cars, his lavish parties with attendees like Ludacris and Jenny McCarthy), Coles donned a tuxedo, took a cocktail of pills, and got into bed with a cardboard cutout of his wife. His kids found him dead in his bedroom surrounded by a makeshift shrine to her, including photos and fresh-cut red roses.

So where did the first version come from? The rumor about the jump may be a conflation of another infamous suicide story in the neighborhood: that of renown Cuban artist Pedro Álvarez, who leaped from the fifth-floor window of his hotel room at the Twin Palms Hotel on Apache Boulevard just five days after the opening of his show "Landscape in the Fireplace: Paintings by Pedro Álvarez" at the Arizona State University Art Museum in April of 2004.

You know him as Johnny D., as in Mostly Vinyl with Johnny D., the radio program on KWSS that celebrates rare and obscure soul and funk. But John Dixon is also an obsessive collector of recorded music — mostly on vinyl — as well as a record producer, a former A&R man, and a musician. Besides infusing the often bland local airwaves with a lot of soul, Dixon has made a career of archiving, documenting, and reissuing Arizona music by local artists like Floyd Ramsey, Loy Clingman, Eddie and Ernie, and Dyke and the Blazers — artists lucky enough to own their recorded tape masters. The longtime Tempe resident took some time off from preserving our musical heritage to talk about himself and the lost art of record collecting.

Robrt Pela: How'd you end up in Phoenix?

John Dixon: My mom and I got off the train in Tempe in 1953, and I've been here, off and on, ever since. Her plan was that she was going to stay in each place for two years. My dad was killed in Japan in World War II, and my mom was in the USO in Hawaii. From there, we moved to Minnesota for two years, then Oregon for two years, and Mom read about Tempe in a brochure, so we came here. We got off the train in the middle of August, and we nearly died.

RP: But you stayed.

JD: We were going to be here for two years and then head to Kentucky. But I started school while we were here, and Mom actually listened when I whined about not wanting to leave my friends. Instead of saying, "Shut up and get on the train," she gave up her wanderlust for me.

RP: Your mother is kind of a local icon, herself.

JD: Oh, yeah. All her students remember Mrs. Dixon. She taught in the Roosevelt District in the '60s, and she was the first white teacher they'd ever had. If you didn't show up at school, you got a visit from her that night. She brought kids clothes if they needed them. She'll be 98 this year, and she's doing just fine — "waiting to sign the book," as she says.

RP: Your long career as a vinyl junkie began in grade school.

JD: Yeah. I used to play records for the kids during lunch period. And there were record hops on the weekends at Tempe High. I was the vinyl guy. My friends and I would bring our sound system, and I had hundreds of records. Then the Beatles came along, and everyone wanted to be in a band. So then the dances all had live bands, and the DJs got relegated to playing between live sets.

RP: Even back then, you were playing obscure stuff.

JD: Well, I used to hang out at Pearlman's Records and Books in Tempe, and Mr. Pearlman used to take me with him to all the record distributors where he went to buy for his store. That's when I found out what a promo was, and that they were free. And I thought, "This is for me, man."

RP: Oh, yes. The white label promo — the vinyl junkie's heroin.

JD: I had a business card, and I would hand it out to the guys at the record distributor places. After a while I had a box set up next to KRIZ, KRUX, KUPD. The label guys would leave records for me, and that's how I found the music that wasn't getting played on the radio.

RP: Weren't you in a couple of bands back then?

JD: I was in the Sonics, and the Trendsetters. But I got drafted in 1967. When I got out I started working for [music distributor] Record Land, and now I was the guy putting the records in the deejay's boxes, trying to get them to play our records.

RP: And then you went to work at Capitol.

JD: Yeah, I was in promotion here, and then later in London. I was babysitting Be-Bop Deluxe, Gentle Giant, Kate Bush, and making sure that the Little River Band had their posters up in record stores in Dusseldorf. The new music scene in London was amazing — the Police had just started.

RP: New wave!

JD: Yeah. I came back here to Phoenix and started K15. We played the Ramones, the Plasmatics, the Feederz.

RP: I loved K15.

JD: It was all the up-tempo new music that nobody else was playing. We went off the air at sunset. But they just couldn't sell it, so we only lasted six months.

RP: What's up with us? I mean, those of us who've been collecting vinyl for most of our lives.

JD: It's in your DNA, your blood. I had to build a separate building to house my records. It's 14 feet by 28 feet, and I just barely squeaked all my albums and 45s in. I don't know where I'm going to put my tapes.

These young whippersnappers who weren't around when the only way you could get music was on vinyl — I mean, the joy of cracking open a new LP, staring at the cover art, reading the liner notes. It's a thing of the past. Eventually all our music will be on a little thing we carry around in our pockets. It'll be stored on our phones.

RP: I can't bear it.

JD: We're old farts. Dinosaurs, you and I.

RP: Some artists are putting out their albums on vinyl.

JD: It's a fad. It's less than 1 percent of the pressing. Some of these young bands think of vinyl as a novelty, so they're making 1,000 vinyl 45s before they put their new CD out. It's not the same.

RP: You've taken collecting to a whole new level: You don't just collect the records; you collect the master tapes, and the publishing rights, of music by Arizona artists.

JD: And the unsold overstock! I just bought 400 copies of 40-year-old records by Dick and Libby Halleman. I've got 40 copies of "Pizza Sure is Good" on 45.

But, yeah. I own the publishing and reproduction rights for a lot of old Arizona music. I get these tracks onto TV shows like Mad Men, and the songs are making more money now than when they were first pressed. I don't own any hits, but I have songs that sound like hits. If there's family left, I pay royalties to them. It's a way to keep Arizona music alive.

RP: What happens to all this stuff when you're gone?

JD: I'm a founding member of the Arizona Music Hall of Fame, and I'm still hoping my archive will be a part of that. In the meantime, the Musical Instrument Museum came along, and so luckily some of my stuff is out there. And I've continued to devote myself to the collecting, and getting the music out there in new CDs.

RP: You're always referred to as the "Unofficial Arizona Music Historian." What will it take to make you official?

JD: A proclamation from Jan Brewer? I don't know! It doesn't make any difference to me. I laugh at my unofficial-ness. In fact, I kind of like it. I'm just a kid from Tempe, but I've been so blessed to get to do what I do.

With its cushy, '40s-era floral-print-upholstered furniture arranged into intimate clusters, its warm amber lighting, and its generous cocktails, the Royal Palms bar is the most inviting place in town to go when your focus is on the person -- or people -- you came with. There's no dancing, and there's no "scene," although the people-watching isn't bad. The pianist supplies a soundtrack for that evening that's spirited but not noisy, so there's no need to shout over his arpeggios. And consider yourself lucky to snag the highly desirable little room to the left of the bar, the one with the cozy couches arranged around a roaring fireplace. This elegant spot, like the rest of the small bar, offers atmosphere in spades.

Don't dismiss McDuffy's just because it's popular and smack dab in the weekend chaos that is Mill Avenue (next to the Bash on Ash). Be wary only if you have a phobia involving multiple TV screens. (McDuffy's has 77 screens featuring every imaginable sports event on the planet.) The vibe is comfortable and festive, the beer selection is ample, and the chicken fingers are licking good. McDuffy's is the ultimate haven for Valleyites who can't get enough athletic support at home.

The bar is almost an afterthought at Pink E's; there's no question the place is all about billiards. In the middle of a shopping mall, with darkened windows and grunge music pounding inside, Pink E's draws a young bar crowd looking for that old-time pool hall atmosphere. More than 60 pink-and-green pool tables circle the bar, but the action is in the outer ring of tables, which are packed so close together you're likely to jab a neighboring player before the night is over. Some customers complain that a few tables lean to one side, but the pool sticks are relatively new, and the atmosphere is relentlessly hip. Slide three quarters onto a table, and you're in; Mondays and Tuesdays are free pool nights, with pool sticks renting for a mere $2 each. You won't have to wrestle for space with snooty professional players or wait in line behind a local tournament.

If there's going to be a long, long wait for a table -- and Pizzeria Bianco still packs them in on any night of the week, so that's a given -- then the time might as well be spent in the comfortable confines of the little building next door known as Bar Bianco. Housed in an early 20th century bungalow, this lovely wine bar's selection is short and sophisticated, and the mood manages to be at once chic and relaxed. Imagine being invited to a small party thrown by an elegant, gracious friend whose greatest concern is your comfort. (Okay, we don't know anybody like that either, but here's a good place to pretend.) There's no straining to hear your name called, and certainly no vibrating pagers; they'll just call the bartender from next door when they're ready for you. After sinking into an armchair for a while, it's easy to forget that you came here just to kill some time.

Amsterdam is the gay equivalent of Scottsdale's trendiest hot spots, where some of the most beautiful and body-conscious people in the city hang out. This cozy, dimly lit room is light-years away from the seedy, back-alley bars that characterize much of the gay scene in Phoenix. Amsterdam is popular with gay see-and-be-seens who want to drop their dimes in an elegant establishment, where one can hold a lover's hand without being harassed. The posh furniture, baby grand piano and classy character of Amsterdam give its patrons the distinct feeling of being, well, somewhere other than Phoenix. This bar has style, attitude and expertly mixed martinis -- not to mention the cutest boy bartenders around.