Stomp! Shout! Scream!: Saturday, August 2, at Space 55 Prêt-à-Porter: Sunday, August 3, at Phoenix Art Museum By Clay McNear Some people — okay, me — would classify Gidget as a monster movie. No, Sandra Dee was not the Devil and Moondoggie wasn’t her slavering hellhound, but their 1959 flick…
Notwithstanding all the pundit-driven hot air about the horrors of being young in today’s America, I’m willing to buy the argument that it’s getting harder to survive those years, if only because there’s so much more for the poor dears to worry about — more information, more technology, more stuff…
Swing Vote is an election-themed comedy that’s about twice as smart as you expect it to be and still only half as smart as you wish it was. The clever premise, which would have seemed like pure science-fiction no more than eight years ago, concerns a U.S. presidential election whose…
Making notes in 1949 for a review of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, George Orwell wrote, “Waugh is about as good a novelist as one can be . . . while holding untenable opinions.” That’s a nice way of saying that Waugh, a world-class satirist of everyone from the rich down,…
Gandhi is threatening to invade my country if I don’t share the secrets of gunpowder with him. Consulting with my advisers, I’m told his army is no threat, its technology far behind mine. I don’t believe the numbskulls whispering in my ear: The Indian’s army has marched right to the…
It’s that time of the year again, when playhouses are mostly dark and pretend awards take the place of real entertainment. This, the fifth Robbie Awards, is a black-tie event, so strap on your imaginary evening wear and take your make-believe seat. And remember: No text-messaging during the boring bits…
I was 13 when Stephen Sommers’ 1999 remake-in-name-only of The Mummy came out. It was just about the ideal age. Sommers is definitely some kind of junk-addled auteur, and if The Mummy didn’t achieve its obvious goal of topping Raiders of the Lost Ark, it was close enough, as far…
If we had the self-awareness 18 years ago that we have now, we would have dropped more blouses at wet T-shirt contests. Alas, we were young and foolish, and had no real inkling of the limited shelf life of perky hooters. Life may be over for us, but still-bouncy ladies…
Those crazy throwback kids in the Society for Creative Anachronism are at it again with this demo about how to properly garb English royals in the fashions of their day. (A skill that is sorely lacking in the new millennium, wethinks.) A discussion follows, and audience members will also be…
The porta-potty is an unheralded savior. Using those plastic offices of sit-down business is weird, but who else has our backs at musical festivals and other big outdoor fiestas? Who keeps the portable toilets rocking, rolling, and ready for our rear-end refuse? Kenny, a mockumentary-style flick presented by the Phoenix…
Jackie Bacha, owner of Oh My Dog Spa and Boutique, says she’ll “jump through hoops” for her dogs. To that end, she’s invited private chef Bradford Hart, creator of the all-natural Golden Rule dog food, to lead a canine cooking class that’ll teach us how to keep our hound healthy…
A majority of today’s hip-hop is either hypersaturated with faux images, super-watered down, or dumbed down so the dummy dumb-dumbs can relate. Not so with Los Angeles underground cat 2Mex, who’s involved with projects such as Songodsuns, Visionaries, and Of Mexican Descent. Tunes that this sonic heavyweight be constructing remind…
You’ve spent hours crawling through the Internet, laying your greasy eyeballs on porn galore. After a while, you feel disgusted with yourself and the world and realize that straight porn gets you down – too many hollow moans, skewed hierarchies, and asses in the air. You want something else, but…
It’s amazing how many freaking blogs are truly out there. Just the other day, we stumbled upon one featuring the surprisingly emotional musings of the cowboys on the Professional Bull Riders circuit. Take this example from an entry titled “The winner within . . .” by Reese Cates: “It’s crazy…
If you lived in India during the ’90s, you could hire a hit man for the price of a cup of truck-stop coffee. Pretty funny, right? Tim Budinger, co-writer of the locally produced short film Discount Assassin, thought so. Okay, maybe not laugh-out-loud-that’s-awesome” funny, but he did use the urban…
Why is the jazz/funk quartet The Bedbugs referred to as such? Is it because after listening to their Latin-music-soaked grooves, we’ll be wiggling our toes in a syncopated pattern even when we’re lying in bed? We’re not too sure, though we’ll be front and center when local cats Chris Benavidez…
Craving the beach? No problem. Hop in the car, drive west for five hours, and spend a couple hundred bucks on gas just to feel the waves on your feet. Screw that! Stay here for free and dip your toes in the beachside infinity pool at the new W Hotel…
Why are we so entranced by fire? Are we mere moths pulled to its heat and light? Is it the way lapping flames create themselves from the fiery consumption of all they touch, like sweet kisses from Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction? Or is seeing such a potentially dangerous…
The punk-rock ethos, if such a thing existed, hardly left room for calculated image creation. But an impressive punk iconography remains, thanks in part to the likes of Ruby Ray and Dawn Wirth. Armed with a camera and a scant supply of expensive film, Ray and Wirth honed their photog…
Not many authors warrant a highly publicized book-release party. J.K. Rowling, of course, for her Harry Potter series. Possibly some of those supermarket-aisle novelists like Dan Brown, John Grisham, and Dean Koontz. And if Hemingway were still alive and producing, perhaps him, though that shotgun-to-the-face incident kind of puts a…
Public Enemy No. 1 isn’t George Bush, Osama Bin Laden, or Exxon/Mobil. It’s Father Time, that bothersome creep who eventually turns your hairline into the Sahara or your perky boobs into rapidly sinking sandbags. Bastard. When artist Richard Lee realized that Rembrandt completed many of his famous sketches in seconds,…
He may look all innocent with his baby face, puppy-dog eyes, and angelic grin. Much more huggable than, say, Denis Leary. After all, just how threatening can a giggly guy who goes by the nickname “Picachu” and proclaims, “I’m not fat . . . I’m fluffy,” be? You’ll find out…
