Best of Phoenix 2013: Vintage Phoenix

It happened again the other day. I met someone at a cocktail party — a museum docent who used to live downtown — and we got to talking about the older neighborhoods in Phoenix and which historic districts we preferred. When I mentioned the corner our home is located on, she squealed, "Oh, my God! You live in the Monkey House!"

Apparently. Everyone in our neighborhood, it seems, as well as dozens of people we've met over the past 12 years, knows our home as the Monkey House — because the guys who lived there in the '80s and '90s kept pet monkeys there. Also snakes.

When we first moved onto the block, our very nice neighbors were quick to fill us in. "They kept the chimpanzees upstairs," Susan from across the street told us. "The monkeys were in the back bedroom, and they howled at night."

"In cages?" my husband asked. But Susan just laughed. Apparently the monkey guys were free spirits who didn't believe in caging their pets, no matter how wild.

"The animals had the run of this place," our former gardener, who'd attended parties at the Monkey House, told me one day. "I don't remember a lot of monkey shit or terrible smells, but those chimps were mean. One of the little fuckers bit me once when I tried to grab a water bong it was holding."

"I think the cobras were in the basement," Kathy next door said. "Or maybe they were pythons. Either way, I'm sure they took all the reptiles with them when they moved."

I don't have anything against snakes, but that comment provided fodder for a recurring dream in which I come home to discover a yellow anaconda in the breakfast room, quietly digesting a lump that used to be one of our housecats.

We wonder why our house didn't become known as the Fireman Brother House, in honor of the pair of firefighter siblings who did such a nice job turning it from an indoor petting zoo back into a livable three-bedroom. Or Oddly Patriotic Couple House, after the husband and wife we bought it from, who named their children Liberty and Justice (and who later, I like to imagine, had another child they named For All).

Monkey House is a better name, I guess. And it's hard to trump an indoor wildlife zoo. While it's not a terrible thing to live in a notorious building, I do wish people would stop bringing us monkeys as gifts. Ceramic planter chimpanzees and Pez dispenser Rhesus monkeys and, perhaps most memorably, a toaster cozy shaped like an orangutan — we've got them all. Lamps with tails and bookends clutching bananas and a tamarin doorstop. If only our house had a reputation as a good place to drop off big bags of cash instead of tchotchkes with baby gibbons glued to them.

I suppose I'm afraid that, after a certain number of people have visited us and seen all the monkey paraphernalia, our house will become known as Grouchy Guys with Bad Taste House.

You'll have to pardon us if we get a little nostalgic as we publish our 35th edition of Best of Phoenix®. We've grown up together, Phoenix, and we can't help noticing that you've got a lot on your plate these days.

The rap on this place is that nothing lasts — buildings are torn down before there's time for mildew, restaurants come and go, and people never stay. But more and more, that's less true. From Tovrea Castle to the Bikini Lounge, there's plenty of vintage Phoenix left to admire, and we've documented our favorites for you here in the pages of the 2013 Best of Phoenix® and online at www.phoenixnewtimes.com/bestofplates in a multimedia package featuring videos, slideshows, podcasts, and more.

Some things never get old, if you know what we mean. Enjoy.

Vintage Phoenix Q & A (All by Robrt L. Pela)

Megalopolitan Life: Artist Halldor Hjalmarson

Fun and Games: Phil Barrett of the Toy Box

Goods and Services: Brandi Kvetko of Jackalope Trading Post

La Vida: Serena Cays of Los Olivos

Food: Monica Heizenrader of MacAlpine's

Nightlife:Music historian John Dixon

Vintage Phoenix Collection (All by Valerie Hoke)

Megalopolitan Life: Phoenix Art Museum's Philip C. Curtis Paintings

Fun and Games: Gary Gauthier's Phoenix Suns Memorabilia

Goods and Services: Heidi Abrahamson's Native American Jewelry

La Vida: Steve Davis' Mexican Folk Art

Food: Jenny Kuller's Kitchen Goods

Nightlife: Danny Zelisko's Concert Memorabilia

Vintage Phoenix Artifact (All by Robrt L. Pela)

Megalopolitan Life: WPA Murals at Downtown Post Office

Fun and Games: Arizona Falls

Goods and Services: Leona Caldwell's Patio Wear

La Vida: Sagrado Corazón

Food: Bill Johnson's Trailer

Nightlife: Mr. Lucky's Sign

Vintage Phoenix Business (All by Valerie Hoke)

Megalopolitan Life: Tovrea Castle

Fun and Games: Big Surf

Goods and Services: Guidon Books

La Vida: Azteca Bridal

Food: Durant's

Nightlife: The Bikini Lounge

Vintage Phoenix Memory (All by Robrt L. Pela)

Megalopolitan Life: From the Ashes

Fun and Games: Monkey House Shines

Goods and Services: Final Vinyl

La Vida: My First Mexican

Food: Out to Eat

Nightlife: Dance Hall Days

Often mistaken for two of the many murals commissioned in the '30s by the WPA, the artworks at the downtown Phoenix post office (522 North Central Avenue) were in fact funded by the Treasury Department's Section of Painting and Sculpture. Each of the murals was completed in 1938, two years after the PO first opened.

The murals along the north and south walls, Historical Development and The Progress of the Pioneer, are by Wisconsin painter LaVerne Nelson Black, a newspaper illustrator who vacationed in the Southwest, where he painted and sketched Native American subjects. In the '20s, Black moved to Taos, New Mexico, where he hoped the dry climate would mend his failing health.

His Phoenix Post Office mural depicts Arizona from its discovery by white settlers in the 19th century to the industrialization of the '20s and '30s. Black died only weeks after completing the second of the murals, possibly from lead poisoning from the paint he used in his work.

Painted in opaque watercolor are Oscar Berninghaus' Communication During the Period of Exploration and Pioneer Communication, another pair of murals completed in 1938. They hang in the west wing of the post office. Exploration depicts a deep valley across which European explorers attempt to communicate with Natives, while Pioneer flashes forward on a similar scene set before early storefronts and a rustic desert post office.

Hey, it's Phoenix. If we want things like waterfalls, we have to make them out of other stuff. Thus, Salt River Project long ago crafted, between 56th and 58th Streets along Indian School Road, a natural 20-foot water drop along the Arizona Canal. Known as Arizona Falls, the water feature was restored to use in conjunction with the Phoenix Arts Commission and the Arcadia neighborhood in June 2003, and it officially reopened as a hydroelectric plant and neighborhood gathering place.

Established in the early 1900s, the Falls was a meeting place for locals and the home of Phoenix's first-ever hydroelectric plant. Rebuilt for higher power in 1911, the plant used flowing canal water to produce power until 1950, when SRP shut it down. Today, visitors can hang out in the Water Room, seated on big rocks and surrounded by water sheeting down three walls, or ogle an antique gear system salvaged from the original hydroelectric plant and installed there as public art.

Restored and reinvigorated, the Falls isn't just splashing around and looking pretty; it's also earning its keep. Designed to celebrate the city's past and tout the wonders of various green-centric SRP programs, the site once again generates "clean" electricity from the canal's waterfall, and that electricity — as well as energy generated from its numerous solar panels — is fed into SRP's grid. Propaganda posted at the Falls boasts that the waterfall generates up to 750 kilowatts of renewable electricity, which can power up to 150 homes. Not bad for a little water park on a busy street.

Even if you don't know it by heart, you certainly know Tovrea Castle — the wedding cake-shaped building perched above Loop 202.

Besides being a compelling visual landmark, Tovrea Castle is an eclectic piece of Arizona history. Alessio Carraro, the castle's builder, was an Italian immigrant from San Francisco with a fruitful sheet-metal business, and he wanted his own version of a European castle in his adopted city of Phoenix. He intended to make it into a small hotel and hoped that visitors would then be inspired to buy homesites on the surrounding land.

Even though it never actually opened as a hotel, the castle has features that were built for such a purpose, like an outdoor game court, horseshoe pit, and fish pond, and an annunciator machine in the kitchen that would be used to call attendants to each room.

A man ahead of his time, Carraro enjoyed using recycled and previously used materials in the castle, and several of its features, including dark wood cabinets in the kitchen and a massive safe in the basement, came from the Phoenix National Bank.

In 1932, E.A. Tovrea and his wife, Della, bought the castle from Carraro and left their own marks as designers on the property in the years they spent there.

The 44-acre Tovrea lot contains not just the castle, but several smaller buildings and structures directly related to its operation over the years. Among these is a small cabin occupied by Alessio and Leo Carraro as they built the castle, a well house complete with a signature Carraro sheet metal roof, and the original machine shop, now used by the City of Phoenix and property groundskeepers.

Toward the end of 2010, the Tovrea Castle Society, a nonprofit group, was founded in order to keep the castle available for public appreciation. A visitor's center was built in late 2011, and the castle opened for tours in March 2012 — so now you can see inside, too.

Halldor Hjalmarson is that rarest of things: A fine artist who stayed in town, worked hard at his art, and made a name for himself here. His signature style — three-dimensional, "sprigged" clay vessels depicting Sonoran plants and wildlife, glazed in earth tones and brilliant blues — is recognizable from 30 feet, and beloved by many. (So, too, are his business cards: small, bright ceramic tokens based on a rather naughty old currency.)

Hjalmarson, long an arts advocate and mover-and-shaker, also promoted downtown's historic preservation well before it was fashionable. For years he's made the tea bowls for the local Japanese gardens, and has, along with wife Gail, maintained the Hjalmarson Pottery Studio in the Roosevelt Historic District for 40 years now. He recently set down his slip long enough to chat about bordello tokens, the best way to freak out the gas company, and the art world, then and now.

Robrt Pela: You've been here forever.

Halldor Hjalmarson: I was born in Phoenix in 1938 and lived on West Willetta Street when I was a kid. I went to Kennilworth School. We moved out to South Mountain later, and I went into the Marine Corps for four years. I came back here and began studying art at ASU in the '60s.

RP: So, right from the beginning, you were going to be an artist.

HH: Well, I minored in Social Studies. I got a Masters in Art Education; ASU didn't have an MFA arts program at the time. I was married and had a kid and I wanted to be able to get a job.

RP: You weren't planning to jump right into clay arts.

HH: I started out as a painter, in watercolor. Most clay artists do. I didn't love ceramics at first. But in the Art Ed Masters program, you had to take at least one ceramics class. I did, and nothing happened. I took a second one, and the bug bit immediately. I've been doing clay work ever since — for more than 50 years. I had my first studio out at South Mountain.

RP: What changed your mind?

HH: I don't know. I became more confident after the second class, I suppose. I got a kiln and enclosed my carport and after that it was Katie, bar the door.

RP: You were instrumental in historic preservation and one of the earliest downtown preservationists.

HH: Gail and I worked on a committee or two, back then. People thought we were nuts when we moved back downtown in 1973. This whole part of town was just a mess. Nobody had a yard, or kept their lawns up. It wasn't really a lot of artists down here, back then. There were a lot of people who just left for work in the morning with their lunch in a brown bag.

RP: So, you built a kiln out back and you were one of the few working artists downtown, back then.

HH: I was teaching all year by then, so I fired up the kiln a lot in the summertime. And every summer, we'd get the guy from the gas company out here looking for a leak in the gas line, because our gas use would spike in the summertime. They couldn't figure out why we were using so much gas in July — more than we used in the winter.

RP: Tell me about sprigging.

HH: It's an old technique, and there aren't many who are foolish enough to do it today. I sculpt things out of clay, and I make molds of different Sonoran plants and wildlife, and then I cohere the clay to a finished vessel. I throw the vessels first, as sort of a blank canvas, and then compose the pieces on them later. It's like painting, only it's three dimensional.

RP: Your business cards are little pieces of art, themselves. I take one whenever I see a pile of them in a coffee shop. Aren't they expensive?

HH: They're free. And it takes no time at all for me to make them. I slip in a hundred or more with each firing I do. They're based on bordello tokens.

RP: Bordello tokens?

HH: They were little coins that were used as advertising for brothels or brothel bars, about a hundred years ago. Mostly in Europe, I think.

RP: Where were you selling your work in the early days?

HH: Galleries in Jerome and Prescott. Scottsdale, too. And we did craft fairs — eight or ten a year. It wasn't like it is now. Back then, you just put a blanket down and spread your work out on top of it. Today, you have to have a regulation-sized table, with the proper draping, and you have to provide a photo in advance of what your setup is going to look like. Some potters today wouldn't dream of going to all this trouble —they're just too damn lazy.

RP: Has clay work itself changed?

HH: It has, in general. It's more glitzy today — all art is. And I don't think there's as much skill as there once was. I like to joke about how, if a potter can't sell a pot for $50, he'll ask $500. A lot of bad craft is being passed off as clay art, these days.

RP: I suppose you wind up showing alongside a lot of craftspeople.

HH: It used to be in order to be a studio potter like myself, you had to do all the work yourself. You had to rent the space, and create your own means of production — a wheel, a kiln. Today, we have a mess of what I call institutional potters — they're doing all their work at an art center or a college. Someplace where someone fires the kiln for you, mixes the clay for you, mops the floor for you. There's always an instructor standing by in case you need something, like finding the bathroom. I'll bet they'll wipe your ass for you, too.

RP: Yikes.

HH: That's sarcastic of me, I know. But it's disheartening, too. Most of the competitive potters today are doing their work at colleges or other borrowed spaces, and it affects the work.

RP: Where are you showing now?

HH: I'm in a gallery in Tucson, but I'm slowly turning the business inward, so that I am selling more of my work from my studio. I do just as well. I have a steady clientele, and they know where to find me.

RP: Why do you make art?

HH: (laughing) Well, there's a good question. I usually tell people I've always worked with my hands. But I suppose making art is the result of a misspent youth.

Not many restaurants can say they have a "Marilyn Monroe table" and actually have a plausible story to back up the claim. But the legendary Durant's steak house does, and it's a little surprising. Talk to any of the waiters or employees and you'll quickly realize that the majority of the anecdotes about the restaurant — especially ones about Jack Durant himself — aren't backed up by many facts. Almost every story at Durant's (2602 North Central Avenue) is a rumor, but it keeps the mystique alive, and we like it that way. It's certainly true that Marilyn Monroe did, indeed, sit at Table 54, though, and to this day patrons still request the spot when they call for reservations. The table is one of many features of Durant's that ooze history and tradition. Entering the restaurant from the back kitchen door is an absolute must, as is taking in the vintage décor and all-red everything. The atmosphere inside Durant's is unlike anything else in Phoenix, with the flocked wallpaper, dim lighting, floral arrangements, and endless plaques and awards proclaiming the steak house's greatness.

The busiest time of year at Durant's starts in October and usually lasts through spring. Employees even say that it's quite ambitious to come to the restaurant without a reservation between November and February. Durant's has plenty of loyal customers, many of whom fill up the polished booths on Christmas Eve every year, but guests are usually split halfway between locals and tourists. Another famous feature of the restaurant is the old wooden phone booth located across from the host area. People often go inside to talk on their own cell phones away from the surrounding noise, and the actual phone is used so rarely that the phone company actually tried to take it away once. There's even a phone in the women's restroom, but we don't want to know what kind of situations result in its use.

You've been driving by the Toy Box on East Indian School Road for years now. Maybe as you're speeding past, you glance over at its glittery showroom, where cool old roadsters and carefully restored convertibles are displayed, and assume the Toy Box is a place that sells vintage automobiles.

It's not. It's a full-service auto shop, launched by mechanic and car fanatic Tim Horn in 1978. Horn sold the business to Phil Barrett, who grew up in the Valley in the '60s before relocating to Idaho in 1967. Barrett says that although his front-and-center showroom makes it look like he's selling old cars, the really vintage thing about the Toy Box is its work ethic.

Robrt Pela: I always assumed The Toy Box was owned by an auto mechanic obsessed with old cars.

Phil Barrett: Nope. I'm a retired air force officer. I got a master's in education in the military, and after my military career I always figured I'd be an educator. Instead, I moved back to Phoenix and I bought this place in the spring of 2001.

RP: How'd you end up ditching teaching for fixing cars?

PB: My brother was a customer here. He was getting an old Nash restored, and he called me and said, "Come down here, we need to talk about your future." He introduced me to Tim, and I spent two months training, while he gave me the eyeball, trying to figure out if I was a good fit. He was a redneck and he figured anyone who worked for the government was on the dole. But he eventually warmed up to me and, well, here I am.

RP: Why?

PB: It really isn't the cars. I don't know squat about cars. I have these beautiful clean nails because I'm not a mechanic. I know how to take care of customers and the people who work for me. In a sense, my business is about treating people well.

RP: It's like an episode of Mayberry, R.F.D.!

PB: Integrity is important. All these auto shops around town claim to be certified in all kinds of specialties, and we have specialists working here, too. But our real specialty is integrity.

RP: What do you drive?

PB: I drive an old Ford pickup, but I own a 1959 MGA, and a 1974 Ford Duster.

RP: Is that your MG in the window there?

PB: Yes. I bought it when I was 30. I said to my wife, "Which should I get, a sports car or a blonde?" She said, "In the long run, I think the sports car would be less expensive."

RP: Why cars?

PB: It's not about cars. It's just the enjoyment of working with good people. I just happen to be doing cars. But I'm not the person who talks to the customer about why their AC compressor isn't working.

RP: Then what do you do?

PB: I mop floors real well. I empty trash cans. I do the taxes. I answer the phone. I do payroll. My employees are the key. I grew up when there were full-service stations. They don't exist anymore. It's not just gas stations, it's everything. Service is considered old-fashioned.

RP: So I don't have to own an old car to get service here? I can come here for an oil change?

PB: Well, if you want an oil change, you could go to Jiffy Lube. We change oil, but we're also checking your brakes and the air in your tires. We pull out your spare and check the air in that, too.

RP: You do?

PB: Yes, because no one ever does that. You need air in your spare, which nobody thinks about until they have a blowout on the freeway and their spare tire is flat.

RP: Maybe you need to figure out a way to let people know you're not selling classic autos here. From the street, you look like a place that restores and sells old cars.

PB: Well, on your way in here, you walked by three signs that say, "Full service garage." But, yeah. We have a perception problem. People think we're a car dealership. I'm not a car buyer or broker. What I do is I have customers who bring in their old cars, and while we're waiting on parts, we put them in the showroom out front. Sometimes we'll sell a car on consignment. There's a 1949 Plymouth out on the floor, and a 1970 Delta 98 out there, too.

RP: What makes someone choose an old car?

PB: Nostalgia. When I started here, we were selling and working on a lot of cars from the '30s and '40s to middle-aged guys because that was the car their dad taught them to drive in. Flash-forward, and those guys in their '60s aren't buying cars anymore. It's the next generation.

RP: Is it just me? I don't see any contemporary cars — or really much of anything made after 1980 — that's distinctive enough to one day be collectible.

PB: I don't think anything that's being made today is going to be iconic. After the '70s, the style and design just isn't there. That's why I have to wash the windows out front every day.

RP: I'm sorry?

PB: People press their noses against the glass. The cars we have here are beautiful.

RP: Tell me your worst customer story.

PB: I don't have worst customers.

RP: Give me a break.

PB: I've had maybe three really lousy people in 12 years that I've had to give my little speech to.

RP: Your little speech?

PB: It goes like this: "Apparently, we are unable to meet your expectations of customer service. I encourage you to look elsewhere to have your auto repaired." Because, of course, it's not professional to say to someone who's behaving badly, "Get the fuck out of here."

Bo's Funky Stuff. Shaboom's. Elbo Antiques. Go-Kat-Go. Honey Buns. If you've shopped at any of these landmark vintage shops — all of them now truly things of the past — you've shopped with the Kvetkos, the Valley's first family of vintage retail. What started as a mom-and-pop antiques store 35 years ago became a dynasty of sorts — a chain of different vintage shops that's currently represented by Jackalope Trading Post, recently opened by Brandi Kvetko, who reminisces about growing up in auction houses and antique shops all over the valley.

Robrt Pela: So how does this happen — a family dynasty of vintage retail?

Brandi Kvetko: My dad pretty much started it all. He started collecting Coca-Cola memorabilia right around the time I was born. He always wanted a store instead of a real job. So, about 35 years ago, he opened Elbo Antiques — El for Ellie, my mom, and Bo is my dad's name. They had partners who got out of the business really quickly — you know, selling vintage isn't for everyone. And then when my parents split up, my dad opened Bo's Funky Stuff, and my mom opened Honey Buns, where she sold vintage clothing.

RP: I remember Honey Buns. You know, no one ever called it anything but Miss Ellie's.

BK: I know. It was like that with all the vintage clothing stores. Everyone just called them by the name of the person who owned them.

RP: Like Beulah's.

BK: Beulah's! I'd forgotten about that place. She was so nice. What was the name of her store?

RP: No one remembers. We just called it "Beulah's." So, then your aunt got into the business?

BK: Well, Aunt Jacque was always there, working with my parents, but in the '80s, she opened Shaboom's over in Glendale, and then my dad moved his store to Glendale, too. And my brother Shad was always dabbling in antiques and collectibles. He had a store, too. He was the one who had this real talent for retail — he was into it from the time we were kids.

RP: You weren't?

BK: No way. I was going to nursing school! I wanted nothing to do with retail. Then I met my ex-husband, Chris, and we went to Vegas for our honeymoon and we visited all these great little vintage shops while we were there, and I said to him, "Why don't we open up a store!" So when we got back we opened Go-Kat-Go.

RP: What happened to nursing school?

BK: Vintage retail is in your blood. You can't shake it.

RP: Did your family force you guys to work in their stores when you were kids?

BK: I think we wanted to be there. We grew up in those stores. I worked my way through high school in my dad's shop. One day I mentioned to my dad that I was planning to go to college and he said, "What are you, stupid?"

RP: Were your parents obsessive collectors?

BK: My dad used to say he collected money. But, yeah, they've always both collected stuff. Right now, my mom is into old signage and vintage medical things. And my dad has always been into old beer signs and advertising pieces. Shad is into folk art now and really old hospital stuff. He probably has the weirdest collection. I'm doing Halloween items from the '20s and '30s and older cat collectibles.

RP: Did your possessions get sold out from under you when you were a child? Did you come home from school to find your entire bedroom set gone?

BK: No, my parents weren't ever like that. But I do remember this one time, when I was real little and really in love with toy nurse and doctor kits, and my dad brought one home — a really old one with all the contents in it. I was so excited, because I thought he brought it home for me, but he cleaned it up and stuck a price sticker on it. Today, he claims this never happened.

RP: Did you get to play with all the stuff in your parents' stores?

BK: Not at all. In fact, the only times we got into trouble was if we broke something. Once, I broke one of my dad's Howdy Doody plates. My mother said, "Your punishment is you have to tell your father you broke his plate when he gets home."

RP: Still, it sounds like a fun childhood, to have parents who sold hip vintage things.

BK: Well, I was like any other kid. We had cool, modern furniture and antiques, and I wanted to be like every other kid I knew. You know: "Mom, why can't we have normal furniture?"

Our parents didn't push us into this life, but our life was centered around going to auctions and swap meets. It wasn't horrible. Every summer, we vacationed wherever the collectible convention was that year. Back then, we just wanted to go to Disneyland, but now I look back and think, Hey, I got to see a lot of cool places that I wouldn't have gone to, otherwise. And I got to experience that whole buyer-seller culture while it still existed.

RP: The secondhand market has changed.

BK: Yes, and it's affected our family, business-wise. My dad's store in Glendale isn't open. He does auctions sometimes. Shad has booths in two different stores in Texas, and he sells on eBay. My mother is completely out of the business — she does permanent makeup now. My aunt has gone into estate sales. My cousin Penny does some selling on eBay, but mostly she does life coaching.

RP: You were the one who didn't want any part of running a vintage shop, and you're the last Kvetko standing. You've got a new store in a new location.

BK: Jackalope Trading Post is doing really well. We picked the right time to move onto Grand Avenue — with ASU moving downtown, we're seeing a lot of activity down here. We took a big chance, changing our name and location and our hours — but it's worked out. We're on the upswing. My partner Christian and I are doing what my family's always done: Selling cool old stuff that everyone can afford.

Phoenix is a resort town in many ways, with one important exception: There's no beach.

That (more or less) changed in 1969, when the Big Surf wavepool opened at 1500 North McClintock Drive in Tempe, providing Phoenicians with the closest alternative to real sand and giant waves.

The wavepool was the first in the United States and such an advanced feat in engineering that the same equipment from the park's opening still operates today. Each wave churned out is made up of 75,000 gallons of water and produced by two main pumps behind the structure (with a third that remains idle for backup). From real surfers to casual raft-floaters, the massive waves provide the closest thing to an ocean experience you'll find in the Valley of the Sun.

Over the years, Big Surf has added attractions, such as the many waterslides that transform it from wavepool to full waterpark. The mold of one of the park's first waterslides, now just a cement outline filled with a rock bed, is sandwiched between two still-operating slides.

But anyone around since the early days can attest that Big Surf serves as more than just a place to catch a wave or go down a slide. The wavepool works as an ideal concert amphitheatre and has hosted live acts as big as Stevie Wonder, Elton John, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Stepping into Jenny Kuller's 1950s-inspired kitchen is like traveling straight back in time. The pink walls, patterned curtains, and stacks of colorful tablecloths make the small room a vintage sanctuary. Everything from the authentic food packages and containers (retro Jell-O, anyone?) to the shelves of salt-and-pepper shakers and figurines transforms her kitchen from a place to cook food to a place to curate history.

"Why be beige when you can be bright red, lemon yellow, or green?" she asks. "Things then just seemed to be a heck of a lot prettier than they are now."

Kuller, a Phoenician since 1987, has been a collector of 1940s-'50s kitchen linens and goods for more than 20 years. She looks the part, dressed in a vintage teal dress and perfectly coordinated accessories, from pearls to a flowered hairpiece. Inspired by the colors, textures, and history that are inherent to each piece, Kuller loves to surround herself with things from the era. Loyal to her adopted home state, she has assembled a collection-within-a-collection of vintage Arizona kitchenware, spanning items from tiny matchboxes to specialty dishes. Among Kuller's vintage pieces are several artifacts from the Hotel Westward Ho in Phoenix. She shows us a massive handful of old multicolored swizzle sticks, a set of vintage original dishes and cups, and even two pool balls from the billiard room. The dishware displays a pattern called "Mariposa," specifically made for the Westward Ho by the Syracuse China Company.

In addition, Kuller owns about 600 vintage tablecloths, including several that are Arizona-inspired. She unfolds one with a detailed and colorful map that documents cities and attractions all over the state and shares how to decipher its date of origin. In the upper-left corner of the tablecloth is a label for the attraction that we know as Hoover Dam, named in 1930. In the early 1930s, its name was switched to "Boulder Dam," then switched back to Hoover in the late 1940s. This particular map labels it as Boulder Dam, proving it was made during that brief period between the name changes. She affectionately shares anecdotes like this, bubbling with excitement over the unique facts and specific details that bring the history of the kitchenware to life.

Kuller considers herself a curator and feels that her admiration of '40s and '50s culture helps her process the present world. Her attachment to the era is personal, too — she collects as a gesture to both of her grandmothers, who inspired her love of kitchen collectibles with the decorations in their old homes. "I've always kind of felt that I'm chasing my grandmothers; I'm chasing the feeling that I had at their houses," she says. Most of Kuller's kitchen pieces are the fruits of her tireless scavenging efforts. "I do have a lot of fun with the hunt. I've been estate sale-ing and yard sale-ing for most of my life," she says. The reward of finding unique artifacts from the '40s and '50s and preserving them with care for generations to come continues to fuel her search.

Los Olivos Mexican Patio opened in Scottsdale in 1947, and waitress Serena Cays has been there almost since the beginning. Launched by restaurateur Tomas Corral, Los Olivos has been handed down through three generations of the Corral family, nearly all of whom has worked there — although none so famously as 75-year-old Cays, who has waited table there since 1953. Cays is the aunt of the current owner, Maria Corral-Ramirez, whose affectionate exasperation with her mother's sister ("She's a handful, and she refuses to retire!") is filled with love. It's hard not to be crazy about Cays, who herself loves a good Reuben and her long-ago home of Mexico.

Robrt Pela: How did you wind up here?

Czarina Cays: You mean in Scottsdale? Or serving the enchiladas?

RP: I mean Scottsdale.

CC: We lived in the ranch, in Mexico. I am from Mexico. A Mexican, si? And this man who owned Los Olivos came to Mexico to look for gold. And this nice man, he fell in love with my sister. I was about to start high school. You know? High school?

RP: Yes, high school. It comes after grade school.

CC: So, my family. Where was I?

RP: You were about to start high school. Some guy fell in love with your sister.

CC: Sí, high school, in Mexico. I came here to visit my sister, she stayed and married her husband. And it was time to go back to Mexico, to go to high school, and I got to the border, and I said, "I don't have any papers, but I need to get back home." And the man at the border said, "Oh, no. You are too pretty to leave, we want you to stay here, and go to school in the United States."

RP: Boy. Those were the days.

CC: Que?

RP: Nothing.

CC: So I stayed in the United States. I was very lovely, then.

RP: You're still lovely.

CC: Lonely. I was very lonely. In Scottsdale. There was nobody living here then. It was a very small town. I didn't want it. I wanted Mexico. I cried a lot. All the time, I cried for months. No one at Scottsdale High School spoke Spanish. There was one Spanish class, and no one spoke to me. I couldn't understand them. They couldn't understand me.

RP: Did you eventually learn English?

CC: I stopped going to school. I got a job here, during vacation.

RP: At Los Olivos?

CC: Yes. Do you ever eat here?

RP: All the time. You've waited on me!

CC: I have? I see so many people. I don't remember everyone.

RP: No problem. So you dropped out.

CC: Yes. It was 1953. I worked in the kitchen at Los Olivos. It was not a place for a young girl, the kitchen. So I said, "I'm gonna learn English and work in the dining room!"

RP: And here you are.

CC: Yes. Sixty years, here I am.

RP: So you've watched Scottsdale really change.

CC: Oh, yes. You know, when I first got here, my mother, she was thinking someone was going to take me. Kidnap me. It was so wild. Not like home. I got here in Scottsdale and I thought, "This is the United States? I'd rather be on my ranch in Mexico."

RP: But you stayed.

CC: I just stayed. Si. I got married here. A bartender, a very nice man. After he died, 20 years ago, I went back to Mexico for a visit. And my boyfriend that I had in Mexico, when I was a girl? He was still there, and he said, "I will marry you, and you won't have to work." And I said to him, "You know what? I prefer to work."

RP: Why do you still work?

CC: I got the bills! Plus the health insurance is good.

RP: Have you had the same customers for years?

CC: Oh, yes. People come to Los Olivos from New York, and Canada, and they ask for me.

RP: Are people nicer today than they used to be?

CC: No! (laughs) People used to be nicer. A lot of people are scary, today. You go to the store and they are in line being mean to the clerk, they're talking on the phone. Not nice. Scary.

RP: Do you ever feel like you've served your last enchilada?

CC: Uh-huh. I loved work for many years, the people, but now not so much. It's very hard. A lot of walking. I work two days a week.

RP: Tell me a story about the worst customer you've ever had.

CC: No!

RP: Come on.

CC: Well, everyone is pretty nice to me. I had one couple, many years ago, they complained to the owners about me. My husband was very sick, he was dying from cancer, and I was not doing good at work. My mind was thinking of my husband. Maybe not so much the tacos. So these people, they complained. But now, when they come in, they ask for me. So, you know. Maybe they like me now.

RP: Or maybe they like bad service. Do you eat at Los Olivos?

CC: Let me tell you, I eat beans too much. And the enchilada. They're very good here, everything is good here. But I like to have a Reuben. I like the French dip, I like a good steak.

RP: Where do you go for a French dip?

CC: The Salt Cellar. My son has been a bartender there for 13 years. Best food I ever eat. Also good is the sandwiches at Streets of New York. I eat a big sandwich and two eggs and pound cake. I eat and eat and I don't gain a pound, but the doctors can't find anything wrong with me.

RP: What's the best thing on the menu at Los Olivos?

CC: Los fajitas! And the Camarones a la Veracruzana. I love enchiladas.

RP: And the worst thing on your menu?

CC: (Long pause) Maybe the ground beef tacos. Why do people order this? We have delicious shredded beef. People should order shredded beef. That's just life.

Heidi Abrahamson taps on her couch, retro turntable spinning in the background, and invites her Siamese cat to jump up beside her. She produces a stylish cat collar, made of silver Native American beads strung along a bright red band, from behind her back and ties it around the impatient feline's neck. Her cat may be a grudging model, but its stunning collar is one of many ways that Native American silver and turquoise jewelry has worked its way into Abrahamson's home.

A Phoenix resident for 18 years, Abrahamson began collecting Native American jewelry as a high schooler in the early '70s, long before she moved to Arizona. She's largely influenced by her mother and remembers acquiring the first pieces of her collection at flea markets and old pawn shops in Friendship, Indiana. From there, Abrahamson has added to her menagerie of turquoise in Seattle, Miami, and many places in between. Colorful and diverse, her collection represents jewelry from Hopi, Navajo, and Zuni tribes.

It's obvious that Abrahamson has an attachment to each piece in her collection, and for a variety of reasons. Her oldest piece — of which she's particularly fond — is a pair of turquoise earrings from the late '40s. A few pieces, including a "scrimshaw," belonged to her parents. Among her more conventional jewelry items, Abrahamson also shows off belts, a comb, and giant bangles.

Abrahamson remains fascinated by the handiwork that goes into creating the jewelry, and her awe is visible as she describes the tedious bead-making processes that are an integral in its making. A turquoise and squash-blossom silver necklace is particularly impressive when you know that each of its elaborate beads is handcrafted. Abrahamson is quite skilled at making jewelry of her own — which you can see (and boy) at heidiabrahamson.com — but for the most part, she refrains from using turquoise. It's her respect for the cultural significance of turquoise Native American jewelry making that keeps her from trying to create anything like it.

MacAlpine's is it: the last of the vintage soda shops. First opened in 1928, the former Birch's Pharmacy became MacAlpine's Rexall Drugs 10 years later — a popular pharmacy with a lunch counter and soda fountain. In 1991, Monica Heizenrader bought it and has been running it, with her two daughters and son-in-law, as a diner and antiques shop ever since. Monica stopped slinging vintage hash one recent weekday, just long enough to talk about ghosts, and victory rolls, and the chewing gum of Wayne Newton.

Robrt Pela: Way back when, lots of famous people hung out at MacAlpine's.

Monica Heizenrader: Oh, yes. Back in the old days, it was a real Who's Who of customers around here. Frank Lloyd Wright used to drive downtown just to eat here. Barry Goldwater was here for lunch a lot. And Wayne Newton.

RP: Not Wayne Newton.

MH: Yes. I heard he was discovered here. I've been told he used to sit at the counter and sing along to the jukebox with his brother. We think his DNA is in the bubblegum stuck under the counter.

RP: Is that why you bought the place? Are you planning to clone Wayne Newton? Because one Wayne Newton appears to be enough.

MH: No! I knew the man who owned MacAlpine's, and I knew it was struggling. Before I had children, I had owned and operated restaurants and really enjoyed that. I came down here and fell in love with the place. I knew they were going to close it, and the plan was they were going to auction off the entire contents on eBay. I couldn't let that happen.

RP: So you bought MacAlpine's to save it. But who eats here now? I mean, do local celebrities still come in for a Chili Size?

MH: No. We do have a lot of attorneys, I suppose because we're downtown and this is where they work. When we first reopened, there would be days where literally every table was seated with lawyers. Now we've got a more diverse customer base — lots of people from the neighborhood and from all over.

RP: All over where?

MH: Europe! We've had people come in from however many miles away Europe is — maybe 8,000? — because one of their friends told them they just had to eat here, or because they saw us on the Internet and made this a stop on their trip to America. Sometimes, people are shopping at our antique store next door and they wander in and discover our diner that way.

RP: Speaking of your antique shops, I have never seen so many outdoor furniture sets in one place in my life.

MH: It's true. We have a ton of them. The older stuff is so well made, it never falls apart. And it looks better than the new garden furniture from Walmart. We buy entire estates, and there seems to always be an old garden furniture set.

RP: What's left at MacAlpine's from the old days? I mean, besides Wayne Newton's gum.

MH: The shelves that line the walls are from the original pharmacy. The soda fountain is original. The booths were brought in from a restaurant back east. They're very old, and they look original to MacAlpine's, but they're not. We put them in where the cough syrup and the shampoo and the comic books used to be, back in the '30s.

We finally had to replace the original flooring. It was all different levels, and I kept tripping. We went with a period-correct look. We did Jadeite green. Very '20s.

RP: But everyone seems to think of MacAlpine's as a '50s diner.

MH: That's probably because people associate soda fountains with the '50s, thanks to, you know, Happy Days and the fact that so many rock 'n' roll movies have scenes set in diners where someone is playing a jukebox and someone is sitting at the counter, drinking a malted. But pharmacy diners and soda fountains go way back. You know, it was a pharmacist who invented Coca-Cola, which was originally something to settle your stomach, back in the '20s.

RP: Well, just about everyone knows that.

MH: Our décor is from the '20s through the '50s, but the '50s is the decade people are entranced with. They find it more interesting than the '20s. Greasers and rock 'n' roll are more iconic than big band music from the '40s, I guess. When my daughter Holly waitressed here, she wore her hair in a victory roll, from World War II.

RP: I always thought a victory roll was a kind of a biscuit.

MH: It's a hairdo. It's in the shape of a V, for victory.

RP: I'll have to try that some time. So, is there such a thing as vintage menu items?

MH: Well, our most popular thing here is our Sloppy Joe.

RP: Is that a food from the '30s? Or just something that no other restaurant around here serves?

MH: It's more of a comfort food thing — people like to eat things from their childhood. It's the same with chocolate malteds, and phosphates and egg creams. Do you know what those are?

RP: Sort of. They're like malts, but made with cream and eggs. Right?

MH: Well, there are no eggs in an egg cream. And no cream.

RP: Of course not.

MH: But they're delicious. We have 99 flavors of syrup to put into our shakes and malts and egg creams. My favorite is one called Wedding Cake Ice Cream. It tastes just like wedding cake.

RP: I should hope so. So, is MacAlpine's haunted?

MH: I think it is. By quite a few ghosts — but good ones, not bad ones. A man who worked here from 1946 to 1991 heard ghosts walking around in the attic. One night my daughter and I were here late, baking, and we went to sit on the couch, and it felt like someone came and sat down next to us. And one of our customers sees a man sitting at the back table, and then he vanishes. The same customer sees another ghost, sitting at the counter and watching me very closely.

RP: Maybe he's afraid you're going to steal someone's tips.

MH: I like to think he's watching over me. And MacAlpine's.

Leona Caldwell liked birds.

The late designer, revered in fashion circles by in-the-know locals, screen-printed her garments with roadrunners and owls. She designed ceramic jewelry studded with her drawings of quail, as well as purses and hats printed with cactus and cactus wrens.

Caldwell, who died in 2003, drew inspiration from the desert, where she lived her entire life. Born on a farm near Peoria in 1912, Caldwell married and raised her family there, and returned to school at Arizona State Teacher's College in Tempe to study art, later opening a private ceramics studio. After her husband died in 1954, she opened Leona Caldwell Originals in the Kiva Craft Center on Scottsdale's tony Fifth Avenue in Scottsdale, selling her work alongside local artisans like Charles Loloma and Paolo Soleri.

Today, Caldwell's simple, colorful, and playful designs — inspired by Hohokam artifacts, as well as by Sonoran plants and animals — are highly collectible and instantly recognizable to desert fashionistas. A fringed yellow workshirt and printed with prickly pear, a magenta shirtdress studded with quail, a sleeveless shift emblazoned with a century plant in full bloom — all are enjoying renewed attention, thanks to websites like Etsy and fashion peddlers like Robert Black, who carries Caldwell's work in his Scottsdale boutique, www.fashionbyrobertblack.com.

"Leona Caldwell represents what was great about the past in the downtown Scottsdale fashion scene," Black says. "Her screen-printed dresses and ceramic jewelry adorned the locals as well as the visitors who traveled from all over the world."

Leona made Arizona look cool, comfortable, and fashionable.

Just when you think you know everything there is to know about Phoenix, someone finds an old trailer, once owned by a barbecued-beef baron, that used to house a radio station and, well, you realize there's still more to learn about this crazy place.

Built by Bill Johnson of Bill Johnson's Big Apple Restaurant, the trailer — a long-bed number that Johnson hauled around with a Ford pickup truck — was used in the '60s as a mobile station for KTAR radio, host to Johnson's very own radio program, usually broadcast from a corner of his popular eatery. Later, Johnson used the trailer as a mobile office before sending it out on the road to promote his business.

"Someone would drive it around on weekend nights, back when traveling hootenannies were fashionable," explains local historian Marshall Shore. "They'd drive around, maybe over to Van Buren, and they'd park it somewhere and play records, and there'd be a dance. Back then, it took a truck to do that — you needed all this huge equipment to play music."

Once hoot nights became passé, the trailer wound up in a huge storage yard on Jefferson Street, languishing alongside old deep-fryers and used bathtubs. After Johnson died and the family divided his spoils, the trailer was headed, Shore says, for the dump — until it was donated by Johnson's granddaughter, Sherry Cameron, to the Roosevelt Row A.R.T.S. Village, a newish adaptive re-use project that's dressing up vacant lots with modified shipping containers.

"It's in the shop now," says Roosevelt Row maven Greg Esser. "But we hope to have the trailer up and running soon." Future plans include turning the vehicle into a mobile classroom — to teach kids about the old days of radio broadcasting — and possibly making it into a video editing lab.

"The graphics on the vehicle itself are amazing," says Shore, who's relieved that initial plans to repaint the trailer have been scrapped. "One fresh coat of paint, and all that history would have been lost."

The first time I ate shrimp, I was with my father. It was 1972; I was 10, and Dad's youngest brother, my Uncle John, was visiting from New Orleans. Dad wanted to take John out to dinner at someplace fancy, and so we drove all the way downtown, from the west side, where we lived, to John's Green Gables at 24th Street and Thomas.

Talk about fancy. There was a lifesize sculpture of a guy wearing a suit of armor, seated on a horse, out front. The interior was dark and cool and the menus were — at least in my memory of this auspicious occasion — bound in leather. Our waitress wore stockings with seams and her blond hair was piled way up near the ceiling.

Probably I remember this occasion so clearly because we never ate in restaurants, my family and me. My parents were children of the Great Depression and were therefore frugal. My mother was a talented cook who made everything — even pasta, which we called "macaroni" at my house — from scratch and was scandalized by what restaurants charged for a simple patty melt.

It was my father with whom I dined out. Whenever it was my mother's turn to host her canasta club, Dad would take me to dinner and a movie. We ate at Farrell's in Metrocenter, where Dad always ordered the au jus. He loved roast beef and, a fan of spoonerisms and all forms of wordplay, liked to joke about how au jus sounded like a good sneeze.

We went to Guggy's at Chris-Town, too. My prevailing memory of this all-day-breakfast place was that it served Hot House Eggs, a bread-and-fried-egg dish that my mother also made but called Egg-in-a-Hole, and that we always left time to ogle the suitcases and briefcases in the window next door at Leonard's (I was obsessed with luggage in the late 1960s).

Because we were usually on our way to the movies, Dad and I did a lot of diners and fast-food places — a joyously decadent experience for me, who never got junk food at home. I recall a trip to Burger Chef in Sunnyslope, where my father ordered onion rings and got French fries, and a place on Central Avenue, the name of which I can't recall, with car-hop service and really gigantic cheeseburgers.

Every time I'm watching an old movie and I see Arthur Treacher's name in the credits, I think of the time Dad took me to Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips and the guy at the counter got our orders mixed up. Mom wasn't playing cards that night; the occasion was that I was a giant pansy and — according to the grade-school principal who'd showed up unannounced at our house to say as much one day when I was 7 — I needed to spend more time with my father and less time looking at attaché cases.

So Dad took me to Arthur Treacher's. He ordered the eight-piece meal, and I ordered the four-piece, and they got switched. When I tried to get Dad to take his meal and give me mine, he wouldn't do it. The poor guy. He was probably terrified that he'd screw me up even more than he already had (sissies were still a relatively new idea in the late '60s, our existence usually blamed on bad parenting) by taking a fried fish combo away from me.

Every one of these restaurants is gone now. So, very recently, is my father. I'm happy that his last meal was a roast I prepared in beef broth, and I want to think that, while he and my mother sat eating, he was thinking up quippy things to say about sneezes.

Trapped behind chain-link and beneath the flight pattern of nearby Sky Harbor International Airport, Sacred Heart Church is all that remains of the once-glorious Golden Gate Barrio, the Mexican-American neighborhood demolished in the '70s to make room for the ever-expanding airport.

The church, erected in 1956, is a red brick stunner. Its arched entryway is capped by a circular portal, its rounded steeple topped with patinaed copper and steel. It's an important, historically listed building, and therefore can't be torn down — yet the city appears to have no immediate plans for it.

Barrio residents were evicted from the area in the '80s, thanks to eminent domain laws that allow the city to acquire private land for public use, and which can give property owners the boot in return for cash. Original plans to bulldoze Sagrado Corazón were scrapped when concerned citizens squeaked the church onto the National Historic Property Register in 2007.

There's since been talk of building a cultural center around the existing church, and rumors of a historical museum on the site. But thus far, none of the proposed plans for the abandoned building have been approved by the city.

Although a new, adobe-style Sagrado Corazón has been erected just south of the original, its parishioners celebrate Christmas mass each year at the old church, where they gather to remember the long-gone barrio and, perhaps, to pray that the city will spare this last remaining artifact of their collective past.

Hanging sports collectibles on the wall was a big step, but painting those walls purple and orange marked another level of dedication, says Gary Gauthier, Valley resident and massive Phoenix Suns fan. Gauthier moved to Phoenix with his family in 1968, which coincidentally was the very year that the Phoenix Suns franchise joined the NBA. He takes pride in the fact that he has been a Phoenix Suns fan since literally day one.

Gauthier began acquiring Suns gear right away, and his collection spans all the way through the latest seasons. In fact, with another recent change in the design of the Suns logo, he admits that he'll have to add some new merchandise to his collection. Gauthier, a certified public accountant, and his wife, Susanne, have been Suns season ticket holders since the early '80s and have shared their love of the team with their two daughters. "We like the idea of being part of the action, and it's an opportunity to feel like you're participating and really supporting the team," he says about collecting.

The oldest piece of Gauthier's collection, and one that he considers to be "irreplaceable," is a latch-hook rug made for him by his grandfather in the 1970s. The rug, sporting the original Suns sunburst logo, is surrounded by an assortment of cardboard signs handed out at home games over the years.

Also on the purple, orange, and white walls are several old photographs of Suns players from the team's original days and memorable '92-'93 season, many of which are signed. The retro Suns logo pops up again on another plaque, this one made by Susanne Gauthier in the early '80s and signed by that year's Phoenix Suns roster.

Gauthier's Suns room contains several signed basketballs, but his favorite (for obvious reasons) is the one autographed by each member of the '92-'93 team, including Charles Barkley, Tom Chambers, and Kevin Johnson.

Don't be alarmed by the display of gigantic plush soldiers perched in lawn chairs outside the entrance to Guidon Books in Scottsdale, at 7109 East Second Street. They're just there to set the scene. Filled with new and out-of-print books on the Civil War, Wild West, Native American history, and more, Guidon Books is a resource for anyone, professional or not, interested in history.

And if you're really a history buff, Guidon has titles on Arizona history and early government, including books about the backgrounds of different cities and volumes of the state's legislative records.

Guidon has a multitude of local loyal customers along with tourists, but every year during spring training, owner Shelly Dudley says the store experiences an influx of baseball fans who also are Civil War and Western history collectors. The store hosts a monthly Civil War discussion group that is open to anyone and welcomes visitors from all over the country and world.

So what exactly is a guidon, you may wonder? It's a banner used by troops in the Civil War and American expansion to distinguish different military units from each other. Aaron and Ruth Cohen, both enthusiasts of books relating to Army officer George Custer and Confederate history, lived in Southern California before moving to Scottsdale to eventually open a bookstore in 1964. Dudley, their daughter and current proprietor of the store, says they would take trips across the country looking for books and browsing other collections. She developed her own love of history along the way and continues to order new titles and buy additional collections for the store.

Many tokens from the original store (a couple of blocks away in Old Town Scottsdale) still are part of the present Guidon Books, including wooden printed signs above the front door and under the shelves of new books, and a photo of the Cohens. Preserving the legacy of the original store is just as important to Guidon Books as embracing the history of the Civil War and Wild West, and they sure do a good job at both.

From planting the seeds for an esteemed art museum in Phoenix to capturing the feel of a desert environment in a painting, the late Philip C. Curtis certainly left his creative mark on the city and the state.

Phoenix Art Museum is home to about 80 of Curtis' works. This collection ranges from some of his first paintings, done in New York in the 1930s and early 1940s, to some from the 1990s leading up to his death.

Curtis came to Phoenix in the late 1930s as part of the WPA. He was instrumental in setting up the Phoenix Art Center, then located in a vacant car dealership building on Seventh Street, which began to offer classes and bring in exhibitions.

Jim Ballinger, PAM director, Ballinger describes how the Phoenix Art Center slowly morphed into the Phoenix Art Museum because no real museum existed until then.

"Phil liked to say he was the first director of the Phoenix Art Museum," Ballinger says, "and in a way, it's true. It was the first formal space that we had, and you can see how it evolved." 

Curtis grew up in Jackson, Michigan. The Victorian architecture of his youth, combined with the isolated desert environment in which he spent the latter part of his life, certainly appear over and over again in Curtis' art.

"The inspiration is where he was and where he came from, all wrapped together," Ballinger says.

The Philip C. Curtis gallery at PAM is simple. The orange, brown, and cream-colored walls complement the paintings, and Curtis is further connected to the gallery by the inclusion of wooden chairs based on a mini version he designed. Inside the gallery, nearly all the art is by Curtis himself. Other artists' work is included as points of reference.

According to Ballinger, almost all of Curtis' work is in some way inspired by Arizona. Isolated desert environments were a sure part of his life, and the influence and presence of such landscapes is undeniable.

It finally happened. I've stopped wanting to buy record albums.

It took nearly a half-century, and I'm not sure how I got here. Maybe I'm depressed, or tired, or maybe I've watched one too many episodes of Hoarders. Whatever the reason, I haven't spent much time lately sitting on the floor of my record closet. (People like me have record closets.) And I sort of lived in there for about 30 years.

I'd say that I'll miss the hunt, but the joy of finding that rare and unusual record vanished once eBay took off; today, your vinyl holy grail is pretty much always a couple of keystrokes away. And I'd say I'll miss visiting all the cool collectible record shops, but the truth is, there are not many of them to miss any more, really.

For decades, before most all of them closed up shop, I had a record store route: I'd start way out at Bookmans in Tempe, which had a music department run by a woman named Dino who gave clearance-sale pricing to her collectible vinyl. Then I'd head to Memory Lane Records, also in Tempe, a true collector's store run by a guy named Larry, where I'd stare longingly at all the mint-condition discs and, occasionally, shell out big bucks to buy something amazing. Back in Phoenix, I'd stop at the Zia on Indian School and then on to Prickly Pair on 12th Street, a massive, swamp-cooled room filled with low-priced treasures and overseen by a couple who bickered constantly, at least when I was there — thus, I suppose, the name of the shop.

I always ended my tour at Tracks in Wax on North Central Avenue. The owners, Dennis and Don Chiesa, were real record collectors. You could go in and say, "I'm looking for Shani Wallis' second album," and rather than ask "Who's Shani Wallis?" Dennis would chuckle and say, "I've only got the first one, on Kapp." These guys knew labels, and producers, and the most obscure artists you could mention.

Tracks in Wax opened in 1982, back when I was obsessing over late-'60s folk-rock records, and Dennis and I kind of bonded over John Stewart and Curt Boettcher. He was always trying to convince me to listen to more Bob Dylan and, when I read that Dennis died, two years ago, I played my well-worn copy of Highway 61 Revisited in his honor.

Dennis wasn't always the warmest person in any room, but he used to do this thing that proved he had a big heart: People would come in with a box of crap records — old, trashed Journey albums and 12-inch disco mixes and 45s with no sleeves; junk with zero resale value — and he'd give them five bucks for this useless garbage, just to be nice. After the customer had left, Dennis would put the box inside the front door with a sign reading, "Free records!"

Tracks in Wax is the only record store left from my old tour, and that may be why I'm less engaged in my old hobby. (Revolver Records over on Roosevelt is doing a good job of keeping the old collectible vinyl groove going, and Bookmans still sells LPs, but Dino must have moved on; the selection isn't quite the same these days.) It's possible that I finally have all the albums and singles I ever wanted, or maybe record collecting, a kind of a sickness, is something I've at last been cured of.

I sure hope Tracks in Wax is still there if I ever get sick again.

Tracks in Wax is at 4741 North Central Avenue. Visit www. tracksinwax.com.

Even when I haven't always loved living in Phoenix, I've always loved returning here — from any trip, long or short — so long as I get to return via Sky Harbor International Airport's Terminal 2. This smaller terminal, completed in 1962, is more navigable than the monster-size Terminals 3 and 4 and features a covered parking lot only a few yards away. Blissfully easy.

But more than the ease and comfort of this old-school terminal (which I have heard is doomed to be demolished in the near future — although every flack at Phoenix Sky Harbor has assured me the mural will be spared), I love the 16-by-75-foot mural created by artist Paul Coze, made to honor both the building and the Valley of the Sun in its prime.

A longtime landmark, the mixed-media mural brings together 52 different materials — mostly mosaic tiles, but also Sonoran sand, aluminum sheeting, and oil paint — applied to canvas and then attached directly to the wall.

Each of its three panels pay tribute to a different era in Arizona. The Earth is an homage to the Hohokam, the earliest prehistoric desert dwellers, as well as to current Arizona tribes, Arizona's Latino community, the LDS "Mormon Battalion," and the Southern Pacific Railroad. The mural's center panel, Water and Fire, offers the requisite blazing Phoenix bird of Greek mythology, rising from a desert date tree and surrounded by clouds raining into our very own Roosevelt Lake, the first water project of the National Reclamation Act of 1902. The third panel, The Air, is a hopeful tribute to Arizona's future that portrays outstretched hands, reaching for a sky filled with modernist symbols of ranching, mining, and agriculture.

It's a lot prettier than it sounds.

Coze, well-known in his native France, moved to the United States in the '30s and to Phoenix, as the French Consul to Arizona, in 1954. He ran an art school and became a favored public artist, commissioned to do many sculptures and murals here.

Fortunately for us, the Terminal 2 mural isn't the only one of those artworks remaining. His Western and Native Indian murals hang still in the largely passé Veterans Memorial Coliseum, and one of his giant wall paintings graces offices at the Phoenix City Council chambers. Coze's best-known piece is also his most ravaged: The 18-foot-tall bronze and glass Phoenix that graces the entry to Town and Country Shopping Center at Camelback Road and 20th Street, created in 1958, has been treated more like a pesky crow. It's still there, but it's been moved at least once, remounted to a new pedestal, and — horrors! — even painted white.

I can almost bear the damage done to the Town and Country bird, so long as I get to sometimes see Coze's Terminal 2 mural. To my eyes, the Phoenix in this assemblage promises something greater — glamour, art, history — than the city itself offers. I love this prominent artwork, but my relationship with it is bittersweet.

As with so many old-time local hotspots, the sign remains though the business is kaput. But the Mr. Lucky's sign is more than just a gaudy gravestone for a once-flourishing nightclub; it's the main attraction in a clutch of the coolest vintage signs in the city. Along Grand Avenue, between Roosevelt and 57th Drive, you'll find the rusted-out Smith Radiator Exchange marquee; the brightly Modernist sign for the City Center Motel; the fast-fading marker for the Crystal Motel; and the Mel's Diner sign, made famous in the film Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and the subsequent TV show, Alice).

But it's the Mr. Lucky's sign that's legendary. And what a sign. A demented court jester leers knowingly at the traffic speeding by, his three-pointed hat decked with dangly red pom-pons. The light-up "Dancing" and "Cocktails" placards have been replaced with signs promising "Musica" and "En Vivo," remnants of Mr. Lucky's last incarnation as a Mexican mariachi club. Neon aficionados far and wide remain concerned about the future of this gorgeous landmark (at 3660 Grand Avenue) — proof of its prominence and real beauty.

Once our town's hottest saloon, the former hotspot began as a smartly appointed casino in 1966. Shortly after, public gambling became verboten here, and owner Bob Sikora turned his casino into a honky-tonk, with country music headliners performing most nights upstairs and live rock bands in the club's cavernous basement.

The house band, The Rogues (fronted by J. David Sloan, a former member of Willie Nelson's touring band and now a local celeb in his own right) occasionally fronted visiting dignitaries, who included Waylon Jennings, Marty Robbins, Glen Campbell, and Charley Pride.

Today, Mr. Lucky's amateur hour contests and Friday night fish fry are mere memories; the club closed in 2004 (although it's reportedly available to rent for party events), leaving behind a big, gorgeous reminder: the towering neon sign out front, surrounded by chain link, its bulbs as dead as the club it once announced.

Danny Zelisko has so much concert memorabilia that some of it is even boxed up by artist, sometimes untouched for years.

He may not know exactly what is in there, but based on the remainder of his extensive collection of signed posters and shirts, it's bound to be impressive. Zelisko, founder of the concert-promoting business Evening Star Productions, began his work in the live-music industry in 1974 and estimates that he has since been involved in the production of between 9,000 and 10,000 concerts. He began promoting straight out of high school, starting with local smaller-venue shows, and now has put on productions for artists as huge as Paul McCartney and Billy Joel.

From that multitude of shows, Zelisko has kept every artist contract, backstage pass, ticket, setlist, T-shirt, and anything else that he has been able to secure afterward. His collection is spread over various locations, between his office, warehouse storage, and even Alice Cooper'sTown restaurant.

This is a guy who definitely has trouble throwing stuff away. In the back of one of his storage units are several large boxes, each filled with rolled-up oversize posters that once were on display at Comerica Theatre to promote upcoming shows. Zelisko began keeping these posters instead of allowing them to meet the sad fate of a dumpster, and he maintains the same mentality when it comes to saving other concert memorabilia, past and present. Not only does he have boxes from small local concerts spanning his entire almost-40-year career, Zelisko has stacks of framed posters from larger shows, the majority of which are signed by the artists themselves. (When Zelisko promotes a show, he always gets an autograph.)

Among the mass of Zelisko's framed posters are a few standouts, most notably several signed Bruce Springsteen posters, one of which was among the very first events ever put on at the newly inaugurated America West Arena. Many of the posters advertise shows at venues that either no longer exist or since have been renamed, showing the connections that live music can have to Phoenix history. Performances by artists from Cher to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are listed at venues such as the University Activity Center at ASU and Glendale Arena, places that modern concert-going Phoenicians don't experience any longer. It would take multiple pages to list every musician or band featured on Zelisko's posters, but it's easy to tell that he is particularly fond of vintage posters and memorabilia featuring Pink Floyd, the Grateful Dead, and Jeff Beck, among many others.

To Zelisko, the most satisfying aspect of keeping his collection is knowing the story of each piece and sharing it with others who are interested. "Everything's got a value to somebody!" he says with a smile.

Housed on Grand Avenue, a road with quite a history of its own, Bikini Lounge is a Phoenix cocktail staple. In fact, the tiki-themed dive bar has been open since 1947, when Grand Avenue was at the Phoenix end of U.S. 60, long before Interstate 10 was completed. Because the diagonal street was the light at the end of the tunnel (or desert) leading from Los Angeles, Bikini Lounge (1502 Grand Avenue) welcomed many weary travelers straight off the road and into the sight of a much-needed drink.

It's rumored that most of the tiki decorations that adorn the dark, windowless walls of Bikini are the same ones that were placed there upon the lounge's opening — and looking around, we believe it.

Today, Bikini Lounge is a popular host to many First Friday festivities and has earned its cred as a hipster hangout. The cheap, cash-only drinks and anything-goes attitude (minus one rule: a sign reads "NO DRUNKS ON TOP OF FUSE BOX") certainly make it popular among younger crowds. An eclectic bunch of all different ages are frequent visitors, though, so don't worry about any single social group taking over the scene.

Vintage but not outdated, Bikini Lounge is still hopping, so don't be intimidated by a little grunge — join in on the fun and go tiki-crazy.

It was 1981. We were young, and there was nothing better to do.

And so my girl friends and I — a bony chick we called Uncle who rarely spoke and her best friend, Laytchie McJeep, a corpulent girl who never stopped talking — got dressed up in funny clothes and went to discos.

Being fashionable required an entire weekend. On Saturday mornings we'd drive downtown — a daring thing for kids from the suburbs to do — because that's where the good junk stores were. We'd forage at Goodwill and Salvation Army for old military uniforms and '50s housedresses and old dinner jackets and paste brooches. Then we'd take everything back to my apartment and make it "better."

Uncle liked to belt things and wear them as dresses. She'd put on a giant men's shirt or a huge, ratty old sweater that barely covered her ass and wrap a length of chain from the hardware store around her middle, and that was her outfit. I'd cut up a pair of Boy Scout trousers with pinking shears, then safety-pin them back together. Lapel pins with punk rock sayings were my favorite accessory; I wore my "Fuck art, let's dance!" button for an entire summer.

Laytchie favored sleeveless polyester shifts in patterns so ugly, they hurt your eyes. She was proud that one of her outfits — a complicated black-and-white-checked number that Unc called The Twilight Zone Dress — made a girl vomit, right on the dance floor at Discovery one warm Saturday night.

We got drunk, and we danced. We were poseurs from the 'burbs, but never before 10 in the evening, because being seen early wasn't fashionable. We started out at more respectable places, like Anderson's Fifth Estate in downtown Scottsdale, where we danced to populist disco by Donna Summer and the Bar-Kays, and where some of our dance floor friends were discovered and became regulars on a low-rent American Bandstand knockoff that aired in Los Angeles. And at Tommy's Copa on Camelback Road, where the lighted dance floor throbbed in time to the music and where Laytchie — our designated driver because she didn't drink or smoke dope — flirted with all the ugly guys, just to be nice.

After we had gotten, in disco parlance, "sufficiently cocktailed," we'd head way downtown to the trashy gay nightclubs, places with names like Bullwinkle's and Hotbods Desert Dance Palace and our favorite, Sammy's Steak House — a sleazy toilet that served neither steak nor any other kind of meal. The gay clubs played the best music — a combination of hardcore disco (Lime, Sylvester, The Twins Plus Him) and dance-punk (New Order, The B-52s, The Thompson Twins) that drove us mad with pleasure. Here, in the "bad part of town" at 2 in the morning, freaking out to DJ Hubert's obscure Eurotrash mixes, we could forget the suburban strip-mall jobs and junior-college grind that awaited us on Monday. And Tuesday. And, we feared, forever.

The dumps where we danced in our weird rags are long gone; downtown Phoenix no longer is a bombed-out ruin where bored suburban teens can go to hide. Not long ago, I saw an ad for Anderson's Fifth Estate, the last of the hoary old discos of our past, now recently closed. Among its weekly themes was a Retro Night, featuring a DJ playing classics by The B-52s and The Thompson Twins.

How trashy.

She looked like an Indian princess. Tiny and dark, with huge, sad eyes that filled up her face, like a kid in a Keane painting. I was 6 years old, so it was easy for me to imagine her riding atop a big, bejeweled elephant.

Teresa Amelia Gomez was my first Mexican. Somehow, even though my family had settled on the west side, only a hundred yards from the Glendale border, I'd never met one before. I wondered: Did everyone from Mexico carry themselves with such regal bearing? Did all the girls from south of the border line their eyes with kohl and speak in tiny, hushed voices? I didn't care. Terry did, and — because she had married one of my brothers — she was my sister now.

Her timing was good. It was the Summer of Love, and my real sister had recently, as my father liked to say, "run off with a ditch digger. " I needed a new sister, and I got one who listened to me when I spoke, loved cats, and owned a wiglet. Terry was a superb visual artist and had flawless taste in music. When I loaned her my stack of Archies 45s, she told me she'd listened to each of them and liked them all. I knew she was just being nice, but it didn't matter. When she lied to me, it sounded like "Te amo."

My mother, usually slow to warm to people, was charmed by her new daughter-in-law. Terry taught Mom to make enchiladas and refried beans and quesadillas — strange, wonderful foods that no one I knew had ever even heard of before. And Mom, who didn't approve of house pets or guests who brought food to her dinner parties, only smiled when Terry arrived at our house on Christmas Eve with a mynah bird and seven dozen tamales. Terry was exotic.

More important, she didn't treat me like a little kid. She loaned me collections of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe and dime novels about extraterrestrials. She didn't laugh at me for wearing tie-dye and braided headbands and candy necklaces. Terry was the only grownup who saw what I saw when I looked in the mirror: a hippie who happened to also be in the first grade.

I saw less of Terry after my brother left her for the drug-addicted cocktail waitress who lived across the street, but she never abandoned me. She sent handmade Christmas cards and turned up at my high school graduation. I knew Terry was out there, somewhere, even if she couldn't join us for Christmas Eve dinner anymore.

She came to my art gallery the other night. At one point, we sat together on a bench, staring up at a complicated trio of abstract paintings I was especially proud to be showing. We gazed at the paintings for a long time without saying a word, and I thought, This is going to be one of those moments where Terry says something I never, ever forget. I was right. After awhile, Terry leaned slowly toward me and, without taking her eyes off the paintings, whispered, "No comprende."

I nearly levitated with joy.

Later that night, I asked her what it was like, marrying into my family all those years ago.

"I'd never met anyone like you guys," she said, a trace of wonderment still in her voice. "Italian people from Ohio! Your mom had a lace tablecloth, and everyone ate dinner together at the same time, and there were two dining rooms."

"Well, one was for company," I reminded her. "You were always so nice to me, even when I was pretending to be a 6-year-old beatnik."

Terry looked startled. "Sweetheart, you were my little brother," she said, then laughed. "Besides, when you were around, I didn't feel like the weirdest person in the room."

What started as five wedding dresses in the back of a furniture shop is now the fully operational bridal, tuxedo, and quinceañera megastore that is Azteca Bridal. The original part of the store, now dedicated to fitting rooms and expansive mirrors, contains a vintage stairwell that has existed since Azteca's first days, and Royna Roselle says it is the oldest single object in the store. Even though most of Azteca's attire may be of the newest fashions for trendy Phoenicians, the store retains its classic feel. Upstairs, retro-looking colorful carpet and charming railings pop out among the racks upon racks of white dresses and highlight the store's character. The buzzing, familial staff is attentive to both the business side of things and the obvious excitement of their customers. By keeping the store in the family, the children of the Torrez store founders create a welcoming atmosphere and feel that they are continuing to honor their parents.

Roselle estimates that Azteca in some way services about 1,500 Valley weddings each year, between dresses, tuxedos, and a plethora of other decorations and supplies. Even she seems overwhelmed by the grandness of that number. With Azteca reaching its 51st year in business, it's easy to see why the store has established itself as a Phoenix wedding institution. In addition to wedding dresses, the store is packed full of everything else one could need for a ceremony and celebration, from flower girl and ring bearer attire to sparkly tiaras and cake cutters. Beyond wedding materials, Azteca's quinceañera room is an eye-popping burst of color and quite a departure from the rows of traditional white bridal gowns. Stacks of catalogs sit on a counter for girls to flip through and view their options, which also serves as a nice reminder of the pre-online shopping days. Ruffles, beads, neons, animal prints, and more: There's something for every taste, and even for a quinceañera queen's damas as well. When it comes to big dresses, stunning tuxes, and everything fit for a party, Azteca has it all. — Valerie Hoke

Steve Davis opens a tattered old book and flips through the pages covered with photos and descriptions of Mexican folk art. He lands on the right image and points to a standing figure of a woman, dressed in white and carrying a blue umbrella, in the artistic style of the Día de los Muertos holiday. This figure is Katrina, the original of which is standing five feet away at the foot of a bed in Davis' Paradise Valley home. He explains that a famous Diego Rivera painting called Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park inspired the three-dimensional Katrina figure because she was one of the people who strolled around the park. This book Davis references is what initially sparked his interest in vintage Mexican art, and to own such a collectible piece from its pages is very special to him.

A Phoenix native and former stockbroker, Davis maintains a massive collection of Mexican folk and fine art that is the product of his love and appreciation for the country's culture. His vintage Mexican pottery is a highlight of the whole collection, originating mainly from the 1920s-30s. Davis was immediately drawn to the art when he first visited Mexico on a trip organized by the Phoenix Art Museum in 1988. He heard about the trip through his membership in the museum and took the opportunity to visit the country with a group of experienced guides and Spanish-speakers. It was during that travel experience that he acquired the exotic Katrina figure, making it the very first piece of his collection.

Since then, he has enjoyed filling his Southwest-style home with vintage Mexican art, with the help of his wife, Sandy, who has also gotten involved in collecting. Warm red, brown, and cream colors throughout the house provide the perfect backdrop against which to feature the masses of Mexican pottery, paintings, and figurines. Every space in the house is decorated with various pieces, because as Davis says with a smile, "when you collect art, you have to find a place to put it."

Davis specifically shows us his extensive collection of Mexican folk pottery, most of which is from a small pueblo in the Guadalajara area called Tonalá. He explains how several of the pots are signed on the bottom, which is a valuable feature since the artists so rarely felt the need to do so. A father and son by the names of Augustine and Balbino Lucano, respectively, crafted several of the pots, and Davis feels especially fortunate to have signed pieces of their work in his collection. On one of Davis' subsequent trips to Mexico, he was able to visit Tonalá, which he feels gave him greater insight into his vintage pottery. In the pueblo, Davis could observe the actual environment where so much of his pottery was made and could even view contemporary Tonalá pottery in a quaint museum.

When it comes to collecting, Davis acquires most of his art on trips to Mexico. In fact, he says that the most recent addition to his collection was at an auction in Mexico City over the summer. However, he admits that eBay can be a practical way of searching, especially for those who are knowledgeable enough about the art to know exactly what they are looking for. Although new additions to his collections occasionally fall into place, it is usually his searches for particular pieces that yield the best findings. Even though it might take him six months or a year to find the essential piece of art, the satisfaction of expanding his collection keeps him searching. — Valerie Hoke