What with Hot Pink! having shot its last hipster wad at Karamba this past April 28, there’s a huge, gnarly hole on Friday nights waiting to be filled. The twentysomething sleazy scenesters who rule the white-kid club scene here in Sand Land need an appropriately skuzzalicious venue wherein to work…
I wonder if Damon Brasch could do for veganism what American Apparel founder Dov Charney has done for generic clothing: make it sexy as all get-out. Brasch is the owner of Green, New American Vegetarian, a purveyor of vegan comfort food on Scottsdale Road in Tempe, not far from the…
You’ll recall this squawker’s scribblings regarding the whole Pink Taco brouhaha a couple of months ago. Scottsdale Mayor Mary Manross objected to the gynecological name of the Mexican-themed grub shack, which was setting up its second location at Snottsdale’s new highfalutin shopping/condo complex the Waterfront (“Raising Manross’ Hair,” April 27),…
There’s been no love lost between myself and those belonging to the Valley’s veg-head clan. And I’m a big enough man — literally as well as figuratively — to admit that certain prejudiced perceptions of the vegan/vegetarian tribe have heretofore inhibited my gustatory outings. Generally, when someone says the words…
I don’t know who’s been peeing in God’s Rice Krispies lately, but too many people I know have been dying. Seems like every time I turn around, someone cool has keeled over here in P-town, usually way before their time: a pal’s stepdaughter, a friend of a friend, or someone…
Why have I been skipping around the office, of late, humming Iron Butterfly’s heavy metal classic “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” as I go? Have I been doing peyote again? Swallowed a bag of ‘shrooms, followed by a tab or three of X? Yahweh, no. My drug of choice is made evident by the…
A humongous Pop-Tart. That’s what this marionberry cobbler — named for a type of blackberry, not the erstwhile mayor of D.C. — reminds me of, from its gooey, purplish guts, to its crust, which, like Kellogg’s toaster pastry, turns soft after a little time in the microwave. As with the…
Aside from the fetish festivities this evening, which I’ll describe in a sec, Chasers in Scottsdale looks like everyone’s friendly neighborhood dive, with pool tables for the cue-ballers, a low stage for musical acts, and an abundance of TV sets, which I’m guessing on most nights feature sporting events. But…
Before the P-town Rihanna and I get blunted at the four-year anniversary of the Dolemite of hip-hop clubs in the PHX, there’s a little information we must convey to the masses. In the last Inferno at WWIII Sadisco (“War Games,” May 18), I mentioned that Sadisco co-founder Donnie Burbank believed…
There are a barrel of jackasses out there in foodie land who insist I’m never supposed to visit a fresh grubbateria until it’s survived six months or so, and to these jackasses, I say: Eat my ragged Speedo! My five-year mission as your Captain Kirk of comestibles is to explore…
I used to loathe doggie bags, mainly the way they stink up the sedan as you’re motoring home with half a curry fermenting in the back seat. But I’ve learned the trick of rolling down all four windows on the trek home so that the breeze blows back any odious…
I must be paying for the sins of a past life. Why is it every time I locate a new sushi purveyor that I’d like to put into heavy rotation for my weekly feeding rounds, the joint is inevitably 30 minutes to an hour away from me? By Thor’s mighty…
Jett’s run off in a corner somewhere at Mardi Gras in Scottsdale, snapping a pic of this squalie’s ass, while I’m dodging flailing arms and legs near the dance floor. On stage, there’s a bald white dude, in a flowing Middle Eastern-type shirt that reaches all the way to his…
On paper, the whole concept of tapas must seem a boon to money-grubbing restaurateurs everywhere, which is why nearly every upscale nightclub you waltz into these days serves what they refer to as “American” or “International” tapas, basically a catchall meaning, “Tonight, we’ll be serving you a third of the…
The warm glow of candlelight suffuses the Wrigley Mansion’s grand living room, as George Gershwin’s ghost tickles the ivories of an ancient Steinway, belting out the dulcet tones of “Rhapsody in Blue.” Seems Gershwin was a guest of chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. back in the day, and recorded…
The ofays in this town would starve without Mexicans, whether legal, illegal, or full-blown citizens. Seems like just about every eatery in Maricopa County has Spanish-speaking help in the cocina, from cheapo fast-food outlets and slow-food bistros to those wallet-draining nose-in-the-clouds gourmet spots that bother with only the highest of…
It’s near midnight on a Friday, and IO club owner David Landreville and I are chatting up this lil’ pecan-skinned spitfire we’ll call “Natalie” ’cause she didn’t want me to use her real handle, for reasons that will soon be clear. We’re parked at IO’s backlit martini bar, and Natalie’s…
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been burning a humongo hole in my billfold the past few weeks, eating out at all these high-dollar grubbaterias, and stacking so much credit card debt that Visa should consider taking out a life insurance policy on me. How else would the company survive…
Don’t ask why Jett flaked on me this week. Something about a free eightball and a three-way in Ahwatukee. Not that I blame her. I mean, the last three-way I was invited to involved me, myself and I, all buck nekkid in the hot tub. Talk about a tight fit!…
If there’s any place in town that has me daydreaming about bloody guillotines and headless aristocrats, it’s Kierland Commons, though my 18th-century fantasy is more Monty Python than History Channel. First, we’ll erect the infernal machine in front of Restoration Hardware, with executions beginning at noon. All Cialis-popping, nouveau riche…
The voice crackling over the cell phone belongs to a cat with three days left to live: D12 rapper Proof, Slim Shady’s right-hand man, and a respected hip-hop artist in his own right, who was slain early Tuesday, April 11, in a three-way shootout that the Detroit po-po are still…
Halfway through the slightly acidic creaminess of my sorrel bisque, and well into a second bottle of value-priced Pinot Noir with my dining companions, I feel unusually blessed. Seated amidst the colorful hodgepodge of art and antiques that is the Backstreet Wine Salon, all alone on a Thursday night (save…
