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Yo, Lani, got a last-minute Xmas gift for ya...

What pisses me off more than PHX light-rail construction, Mayor Phil "I'm a Pissant" Gordon, and the fact that most P-town restaurants close before 10pm? Answer: Tards who write me letters calling me a cross between Satan and Sasquatch, while using FAKE e-mail addresses so that when I discharge a deadly verbal flame burst in their direction, it bounces back to me from the e-postmaster. The latest pusillanimous little slug to pull this chickenshit move is one "Lani," who's too much of a yellow-sphinctered, lily-livered dingleberry-picker to engage me in an actual give and take over the battle between Tom Anderson and Michele De Lafreniere, as detailed in this week's Bird column. So he sends me the note below via the Phoenix New Times website, utilizing a bad return e-mail address. My response is posted after his initial missive. If anyone knows this tomato-peel-speckled turd, send him a link to this. I'd love to rub his face in his own excremental poltroonery.

(PS: As you can see, Lani's unacquainted with spellcheck...)

DATE/TIME:
December 29, 2006, 1:52 am MST

PERSONAL INFO:
lani

My response to Loser Lani:

I think what's far more sickening, Lani, is that Michele was and is attempting to put Anderson out of business for her own political ends, even though Anderson has a very legitimate business reason for his actions. It seems you believe "hate speech" is any speech you do not agree with. This is a common misperception of the far left. And I say this, truly, as the most liberal man I know.

Stephen Lemons

RELATED--Tranny Echo

Heh, not every gal has one of these...

No surprise that this week's issue of the PHX gay-lesbian rag Echo includes a news story on the feud between Tom Anderson of Anderson's Fifth Estate and local "diversity activist" Michele De Lafreniere. Nor was it a surprise that Echo essentially echoed the complaints of De Lafreniere that she and her transgendered pals are being discriminated against by the Scottsdale nightclub. De Lafreniere is the chairperson of Scottsdale's Human Relations Commission, and is looking for this incident to be a "rallying point" for the AZ tranny community. De Lafreniere claims to be a transsexual, though Anderson told The Bird this week his customers are complaining that De Lafreniere and her buds have their tallywackers intact, are peeing standing up, and are generally creeping out the chicks in the ladies' bog.

Echo maintains it tried to reach Anderson for comment, but no dice, though my alter ego, The Feathered Fiend, got hold of Anderson with ease. De Lafreniere now insists that his sausage has been sliced off, but he initially refused to answer the The Bird's queries on this point, denying the Plumed One's attempt to perform a visual inspection of her/his goods. The offer still stands by the way, Michele, if you wish to establish your bon--er fides with us.

Echo likes to spoon-feed its readers, telling them what they want to hear, playing to their obvious prejudices. But trying to make De Lafrieniere into the tranny Rosa Parks, as Anderson referred to her in The Bird, won't even wash De Lafrieniere's nuts, if she still has 'em. Are gals using the pissoir at Anderson's required to run the Dr. Frank-n-Furter wiener-gauntlet, while De Lafrieniere and the girls compare shoe sizes? Puh-lease. The Echo article pooh-poohs the possibility that some dood might dress up in drag and accost one of the squalies present. But that possibility certainly makes the biological femmes feel icky in a place where they're supposed to be afforded some privacy, so Anderson did the right thing for his patrons. Now he's being harassed by De Lafreniere telling everyone Anderson does business with that he's a bigot, when all the guy wants to do is address the needs of his customers.

Hey, I used to live in New York, and you see some pretty weird shit in Gotham bathrooms, so I could care less, on a personal level. Unisex bathrooms didn't bother me in Japan or France either, but is this really the sort of thing GLBT-ers wanna cram down people's throats? I mean, if you get the operation and are biologically a chick, fine, use the dames' shitter all you want. But if you just want to revel in, what Margaret Cho once called "the magical aroma of balls and pantyhose," um, keep it to yourself, big boy. Or go find a club where such activity is a matter of course. Cruisin' 7th, anyone?

All of this recalls the flap in New York weeks back when the New York Board of Health moved to make gender a matter of personal choice. I'm sure De Lafrieniere would love to use the Anderson's controversy as a springboard for Zona legislation along the same lines. Gotham's BOH backed off their original plan, BTW, which would've allowed transgenders to change the sex on their birth certificates without undergoing a sex-change operation. Now, if you've got proof that you've had the operation, you're allowed to make the switch from M to F, or vice versa on your birth cert. I can accept that: Either get the operation, or don't and shut up already. Whether you're in NYC or P-town, how much simpler could that be?

Fernwood 2Nite's Barth Gimble (Martin Mull, left) and Jerry Hubbard (Fred Willard, right). Think Greg Patterson's a fan?

How do you know when someone's brain has been gnawed away by provincialism? I'm not talking about reporting or discussing local events, restaurants, bars, happenings, etc. All of that's fair game, whether you're in Paris, Gotham or P-town. But there's a special kind of small town mindset I'm referring to, one lampooned by Martin Mull in that classic '7os spoof talk show Fernwood 2Nite, in the news from Mellonville on the comedy series SCTV, and on HeeHaw's KORN radio news broadcast. You see it from time to time in politics and the media here in the 'Copa (Maricopa County, fools), like when PHX Mayor Phil "Goober" Gordon passes out park benches as a crime preventative to folks who live in the 59th most dangerous city in the nation, or when KTAR talk jock and very local celeb Pat McMahon burns through an entire segment of his show interviewing his wife Duffy, as happened recently. (Way to get your money's worth, KTAR!)

Or there's the case of Greg "The Forehead" Patterson's Espressopundit.com, which just won the title of "Best Political Website" from the Capitol Times, a dubious source for such plaudits if there ever was one. Still, I'd be willing to congratulate the guy. Patterson occasionally has some sharp stuff on his site. But, uh, Greg, what's the deal with selling your house on your blog? No kidding, SandLanders, the former Republican legislator says he was henpecked by his wife to sell his nest on the 'Net. Read this:

So Debbie comes to me one day and says...you need to sell our house in espresso pundit. Naturally, I was hesitant. For one thing, I'm just getting unpacked. But she knew that wasn't the real reason. "Why don't you want to put the house on the website?" she asked. I said "Because the Governor's people will know where I live. After all, "you step out of line, the men come and take you away." She said "Dude, you have got to get some new music."

Seems the Pattersons are asking $480K for it. They're throwing in their sense of shame for free, seeing that they hardly use it anyway.

When Debs asked Greg why he didn't want to put the house on the website, he should've said, "Because it's friggin' tacky! That's why." What's next, a link to Greg's eBay store? Or the crap he doesn't have time to sell on Craigslist, like his old Foreigner albums, or that red BMX he got for Xmas two years ago and never used? Maybe some of his spouse's used pots and pans? ( "Well, we were gonna give them to charity, but we could sure use the scratch.") Or even his huevos, if his wife'll ever let him have 'em back.

Christ, is the housing market so piss-poor in this burg that the dope needs to list his house on what's supposed to be a site about Zona politics?

I guess I shouldn't expect much from some navel-gazing middlebrow who lists "The Bible" by "God" at the top of a list of "Books That Have Influenced Me Most." But still...putting a picture of your for-sale crib on your blog is right up there with something Martin Mull's bumbling Barth Gimble might pull on Fernwood 2Nite. 'Cept, of course, Barth's gauche goings-on would be funny, while Patterson's are just plain ol' lame.

Can someone cue Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself," please?

This is so amazingly retarded that I couldn't leave it alone. According this dumbass website, today is Global Orgasm Day, wherein everyone on Earth's supposed to have an orgasm, think about world peace, and somehow make the world a better place in the process. Stupid fucking liberals. I don't know about you, but every day is global orgasm day for me. As long as my subscription to Hustler holds out.

Looking at GO's slick website, it looks like they're about to sell me something, and maybe they are. The whole thing sounds like a gimmick. And their press releases make it seem more so. Read this lame shit from one of their PDF downloads:

Donna Sheehan, one of the organizers, said, "We want everyone to dedicate their orgasms on December 22nd to peace, unity and a redefinition of progress." She and her co-organizer, Paul Reffell, and their web designer, Gabe Lipman, will be available for the media to ask questions on the Day via two Skypecasts, which are hosted calls with space for up to one hundred callers, provided by Skype, the Internet telephony service.

I've got a question for you, "Why don't you eat me, you pathetic losers?" Judging from the pic on their blog, they're dead ringers for the Will Ferrell/Rachel Dratch SNL skit about these two gross, Ivory Tower types who keep humping each other in public.

I don't care if they're trying to sell T-shirts, T-Mobile, or if they're just idiotic old hippies. I hate this kind of nothing bullshit.

Enter Flynt, and the crowd roars, "Lar-ry, Lar-ry!"

A spontaneous chant, full of the sort of her0-worship normally reserved for the likes of Jerry Springer or Howard Stern: "Lar-ry, Lar-ry!" That's how the 200 men and women attending the grand opening of Tempe's brand-spankin' new Hustler Hollywood store last night greeted the gold wheelchair-bound porn magnate as he was wheeled into the upscale retail outlet by a bodyguard. For the next two hours, Flynt, flanked by three sparsely clad Hustler Honeys, signed books, photos, T-shirts, arms, you name it, as the crowd in attendance basically loved up on the 65-year-old smut king like he was some XXX-rated Bill Clinton.

Flynt gorged himself on the attention, pressing the flesh with everyone from middle-aged Scottsdale MILFs and pimped out cats in garish coats with fly mistresses on their arms, to hot Barely Legal wannabes with skin like white chocolate and lanky, close-cropped soldiers just back from Iraq (where they're not allowed to keep copies of Hustler magazine, I'm told). As Flynt scrawled his name umpteen times and posed for candids, slowly whittling down the line, KISS FM pumped those waiting outside, and NBC Channel 12's diminutive Veronica Sanchez hovered about. This, while well-heeled femmes and fellas took advantage of the champagne and sushi being served in the walled-off, hardcore 30% of this 10,000-quare-foot enterprise. It's in this section where DVDs like Lewd Conduct and It's Better in Brownsville share space with a dazzling array of marital aids and pneumatic devices crafted from faux flesh. Above it all was plastered a quote from Larry's bro, Jimmy, "Relax...It's only Sex."

Flynt signs a fan's arm...

The other 70% of the orange-and-cream themed erotic emporium is made up of Hustler ashtrays, lighters and trinkets, books, rhinestone jewelry, a full line of Hustler clothing, and a lingerie section that rivals Victoria's Secret. No secrets here, though. Like the other 11 stores in the Hustler Hollywood chain, this spot is well-lit with large windows looking out onto the front parking lot. Sex without stigma is what HH sells, which may be why the line of Larry admirers included slim, attractive Tempe temptresses asking Flynt's Honeys to sign leave-nothing-to-the-imagination centerfold shots in current editions of Hustler. Back in the day, radical feminists would've stormed a place like this and turned it upside down. Nowadays, the chicks dig it as much as the guys do.

Hustler Honeys, from left to right, Nikki Nine, Mya Luanna and Memphis Monroe.

Shortly before Flynt made his triumphant entrance, I chatted with the legend about his Phoenix connections: the fact that Hustler began as the Dayton, Ohio franchise of PHX pub Bachelor's Beat, which Flynt spotted many moons back while scouting the Hi-Liter strip club (the name of Larry's mag soon changed, natch); and Flynt arch-nemesis Charles Keating, who still dwells in the Valley, albeit without Flynt's fame or acclaim. Long before he was cookin' up dubious real estate deals, Keating was an anti-porn crusader in Ohio with Flynt as his Public Enemy #1.

"It didn't surprise me years later that he got caught up in that savings and loan scam that cost millions to senior citizens," commented Flynt in his famous drawl. "I guess those are his 'moral values,' but mine are 'reprehensible.'"

Flynt said he'd have nothing to say to the old geezer if he ran into him, but another Flynt enemy is now a pal, of sorts: Jerry Falwell, who sued Flynt over a parody that ran in Hustler, a suit finally decided in Flynt's favor by the U.S. Supreme Court.

"We've done the Larry King show together, and when he came out to California, we got together, and I've seen him down in Florida," Flynt recounted. "You know, my mother used to tell me that no matter how much you might despise a person, when you meet them, you'll always find something about them you'll like. I guess that's the situation with Falwell."

Why Tempe for his 12th store? According to Flynt, the area's conducive to a successful HH, in part by being so close to ASU. (Wait till ASU Prez Michael Crow hears that one!) As for the magazine itself, which now regularly features full-on male-female penetration (once verboten in U.S. mags), it seems there are very few taboos left Flynt wishes to traverse.

"We stay away from themes like extreme bondage, pedophilia, necrophilia, and things that are really an aberration," he explained. "We've pretty much settled down to being a vanilla publishing house. We're into just plain ol' vanilla sex, ya know? To get all those other flavors, you gotta go somewhere else."

Larry Flynt, king of vanilla sex. The times, they have a-changed.

The new Hustler Hollywood store is located at 1628 East Broadway Road, just west of McClintock Drive in Tempe.

www.ashestoportraits.com

Dead Ringer: Er, for Paul Giamatti's Harvey Pekar in American Splendor, perhaps?

I'm not sure what's creepier about this Ashes to Portraits website, the fact that they're actually mixing human cremains (i.e., cremated remains) into oil-based paint and using it to depict a lost loved one, or the site's music, which features chirping birds, woodpeckers, hooting owls and gentle organ tunes. Okay, I guess it's the music. These days, when people have their remains shot into outer space, dipped into liquid nitrogen for later re-thawing, or made into cubic zirconia-lookalikes, an oil painting using the burnt leftovers of Aunt Martha ain't no big deal. Indeed, the way Ashes to Portraits sells their service, it sounds like a downright bargain!

"An average funeral can cost anywhere from $6,800 - $17,800," states the site. "A cremation can cost approximately $1,200 (not including the urn.) You have saved a minimum of $5,600-$16,600. This means you have money to buy something very special for your family to remember your loved one for many generations."

Plus, return shipping is free. There's special pricing for members of the Armed Forces. And they throw in the frame, gratis. Prices? From $1599 to $1899, depending on the size of the portrait. (They take check, money order, and PayPal.) And no, they don't use all of the ashes. Whatever's left over, they send back to you.

The whole thing recalls my spoof of a couple of years back, "Forever Yours," wherein my alter ego Esteban Sauer wrote of a company new to PHX called Preserve A Life. Preserve A Life could preserve your loved one stuffed, seated in your living room if you like, or just a piece of the loved one, say, an arm or a patch of skin.

It too had special rates for ex-military. Hmmm.

I was a little suspicious, since I'd pulled something similar in the past, so I called the company and asked about doing a portrait with my grandfather's ashes. (Hey, why not, right?) Spoke to one of the owners, and it does seem to be on the up-and-up, at least as far as I can tell. I mean, if it were a hoax, this dood'd be getting a helluva lot of dead people in his mail box. I called the post office, and it is legal to send cremated remains through the mail. So there ya go. Also, seems the Boston Herald's written about it.

Wonder if I can get one of my ex-girlfriend nude? I mean, that is how I want to remember her -- nekkid and silent. I'm sure the ashes in the mix would help achieve the same skin tone as her nips, a light grayish brown. Only problem is, she ain't dead...um, at least not yet. Heh.

BTW, I hear Bruce Willis has optioned the Ashes to Portraits story for a sequel to The Sixth Sense entitled -- you guessed it -- I Paint Dead People.

Katt Sandwich: from left, the booful Lena Smith, Katt "Money Mike" Williams, and the stunning Vivian Ware of UrbanAz.com.

So Luenell, how is Borat in the sack?

The Black Sinatra: Wanna hear a few bars of "Sweet Child O' Mine"?

If Jesse Jackson had been on hand for Katt Williams' show last night at the Celebrity Theatre, the Reverend's ears would've been redder than Elmo's ass. I caught the second UrbanAZ-sponsored show, both of which were SOLD OUT, as would've been evident to anyone trying to get off the 202 at 32nd Street last night, and let's just say the Big Katt was in rare form, talking shit about DMX, Shaq, and Kobe Bryant, as well as using the N-word so many times he may have established a Guinness Book World Record.

In short, Katt laid down a ghetto tour de force, with 'hood-centric bon mots for any and all subjects and situations. When one gal shouted from the audience, "I love you, Katt," Williams responded without pause, "Everybody who loves me sucks my dick." There was also his eulogy for crocodile hunter Steve Irwin: "That's why I like white people, because they fuck with wild animals." His advice to the Suns on Stoudemire: "You need to pack that nigga in Styrofoam." Or how Michael "Kramer" Richards was "gangsta" for saying the N-word in front of blacks, because "Now he's got to watch out for all niggas" coming for his ass. There was social commentary as well, from the war in Iraq to riffs on parents being late picking up their kids. Williams was often funniest when he was imitating a kid petulantly waitin' for Mom and Dad on the school monkeybars, or a man mad at his wife, only to be placated by a blowjob.

Played on stage and off with Rick Ross' hip-hop anthem Hustlin', wearing a big fur coat at first, then stripping down to a black tux which must've been covered in sweat after Katt's nonstop stage antics, this comedic panther stalked the stage with all the muscularity of a gymnast, at one point confronting hecklers and haters by challenging them to join him onstage. They declined, of course, a wise move on their part, because there otherwise might've been a reprise of the Money Mike bathroom scene from Friday After Next. Towards the end of the performance, just past 2 a.m., Katt dove into the audience to partake of some cheba action from a fan, who was then about to be removed by security for having the weed in the first place. Katt responded to all this by pulling out a stack of wrapped bills that'd choke Yao Ming and handing it over to the toker before amscraying.

Beforehand, I got to kick it in Katt's dressing room, joshing with his small familial, entourage, which included his assistant/companion Lena Smith, a looker with cocoa brown skin and tats who joked around with Katt as if they'd known each other in the womb. Also in attendance was Borat star Luenell, who's probably the raunchiest woman I've ever met in my life. She sauntered in during intermission after opening for Katt, took her seat, and discussed various methods of dick sucking and clit-rubbing at length. At one point, one of Katt's people, an older gent, made an obscene gesture with his arm, to which Luenell replied, "You better fuck me or shut up." Rubenesque she might be, but her mouth's so filthy it's a turn on. I might have to go there, if offered the same deal as the older cat.

While having his hair wetted down by Lena, Katt serenaded me with Guns N' Roses and Pearl Jam songs, ate cookies, and discussed his admiration for Frank Sinatra, and how Sinatra didn't like posed photos of himself, preferring spontaneous images. He seemed truly humbled by his recent, tsunami-like success, recalling the days not so long ago when he barely had enough to eat. We even talked politics, Hillary vs. Obama, with Katt thinking Hillary might get the nod from Dems and me, Obama.

Asked about being on Howard Stern recently, he said, "I'm very rarely in awe of people, but for some reason he has that aura. He's so quick and vicious sometimes. The whole time you're never comfortable. It's like being around somebody else's dog. Even if you like dogs, you're still watching them."

I first met Katt a couple of years back at Power jock JX3's b-day party, and when I reminded him of this, he said, "Do I look any taller now?" He then assured me with a smile that "I'm much bigger" these days. No doubt about that. King Katt's blown up. He's got that star shit going on now, for real.

Polyg Pope Warren Jeffs, Prez of the FLDS

Jane Doe is big news today. She's the gal, now 20, who's pointing the finger in what's sure to be the most significant polygamist prosecution case in a generation. Prosecutors in Washington County, Utah allege that polyg pope Warren Jeffs, head of the FLDS, arranged a marriage between Jane Doe and her cousin John Doe, when she was 14 and he was 19. But what newspapers won't tell you is Jane Doe's actual name, which is all over court documents. Jane Doe's name is Elissa Wall. Her cousin, the man she was allegedly forced to marry in Caliente, Nevada in 2001, is named Alan Steed. This is common knowledge among journos, and among many members of the LDS and FLDS.

The names of rape victims are normally withheld by newspapers, but this is not a normal rape case. Wall was not hauled off into the bushes by an unknown assailant. She was enslaved in a culture of systemic abuse, one that hides under the veil of the Mormon legacy. Clarity is needed now, as the light of modernity is shone beneath the rock of medieval secrecy and silence that is the FLDS polygamist cult.

Wall is an adult, was recently remarried, and has given birth of late. She is a grown woman in every sense of the word. There's no reason to hide her name. The FLDS knows who she is, as she's already appeared in court to face Jeffs. The lawyers know her, obviously, as does every reporter in St. George, UT. And chances are very good that once the trial's over, Wall will end up being roped into an on-camera interview by 20/20 or some other news organization. So why not publish her name now?

Thanks, KKKramer! Nothing like a lil' racism to boost sales.

See what race-baiting does? You get caught on a cell-phone camera yelling the N-word at audience members, and suddenly your DVD sales are up 75%. That's the deal with season seven of Seinfeld post Kramer freak-out, and it's one reason why Laugh Factory owner Jamie Masada thinks Jerry Seinfeld should fork over some of that sweet scrilla. After all, if Kramer's N-word controversy's boosted sales for Seinfeld--Season 7, now #17 on Amazon.com, then certainly the smarmy Seinfeld himself could part with a few greenbacks for the black community.

That's at least what Masada indicated to me when I spoke to him the other day while researching an item for this week's Bird column, "White Stepin Fetchit." Masada's already called for Richards to fork over half a mil for each time he uttered the racial epithet. But this is the first time I'd heard him calling for Seinfeld himself to part with ducats.

"Jerry Seinfeld went on David Letterman, and he brought Michael Richards on, and he said, 'Michael Richards, and-this-and-this-and-that, and by the way, I'm selling my DVD,'" explained Masada via phone from La-la Land. "Jerry Seinfeld, he's worth about a couple of billion dollars. If he really cares, and he knows Michael is not really prejudiced, Jerry Seinfeld should give all of the profits of the 7th DVD which they say is 75% more over profit than any other (Seinfeld) DVD that's come out because of this negative publicity. He should take some of the profit and give it to underprivileged kids."

Masada went on to question how one could know that celebs like Richards or Mel Gibson are really sorry for their statements when they pay big bucks to publicists for damage control. The comedy impresario thinks that moolah would be better spent on some charity.

"These are icons, they have more obligation than an ordinary person saying that kind of stuff," insisted Masada. "Ordinary person saying that kind of stuff, nobody's going to repeat that. But they're icons, they have a tremendous influence on the public. Even Jerry Seinfeld went on the Letterman show, he said, 'Well, I don't think he's prejudiced.' Well if you don't think he's prejudiced, why don't you put some money out there. "

Masada said the Kramer meltdown's the worst incident that's ever occurred at the Sunset Strip club since he founded it 28 years ago, and that he feels a special need to address the incident because he's part Israeli and part Iranian. (He noted that he refunded the patrons who were on hand that night.) As for the use of the N-word, which he's banned on his stage, he recalled discussing its use with both Richard Pryor and Paul Mooney back in the day:

"28 years ago, Richard Pryor was my best comic on the stage. Richard Pryor used the N-word," related Masada. "I said Richard, why do you use that word? This is painful, a really painful word. He said , 'Jamie, you don't understand, the reason I'm saying it so much is because I'm trying to take poison out of it, to take pain out of it.'"

Masada continued: "Then he went to Africa and came back, a few years after, and he said to me, 'Jamie, I'm not going to use it (the N-word) any more.' I said why aren't you using it, and he said, 'Because a lot of people they get pain from this, and they're never going to lose that, we're never going to get the poison out of it.'"

Now the "kids" coming up are spouting the N-word onstage for no reason, complained Masada. Chris Rock is one thing, but too many are just using it to use it, he said. And it's not worth it.

"Comedy's supposed to be bringing people together," concluded Masada. "It's not supposed to be hateful. I don't want no hate speeches on my stage. I do not promote hatred. I promote comedy. I promote laughter. "

Maybe Richards should've done his Klansman impersonation as Kramer. Can you imagine the hipster doofus doing a racist monologue? Surely, no one'd take seriously anything "Kramer" had to say. Not even Jesse Jackson.

www.fermier.com

Christopher Gross: What's in a name?

Check out what Maricopa County's Environmental Services had to say about much-ballyhooed Frenchified grub-shack Christopher's Fermier Brasserie last month on November 21: "Sufficient water supply not available"; and, "Sewage present in establishment." No wonder the inspector immediately suspended Christopher's license to operate, shutting them down for an entire day, until they finally got their act together on 11/22, and reopened with a Silver Award for the restaurant, Gold for the catering service.

In a less august eatery, such a suspension might not be news, but Chef Christopher Gross is a James Beard Award-winner, and a favorite of Howie Seftel, the AZ Repugnant's food critic. Rumor has it that the great man is even working on a memoir of sorts, spliced with recipes.

Environmental Services flack Johnny Dilone explained that the inspector arrived the morning of 11/21, went to wash her hands, realized there was no water, and immediately closed the establishment. When she returned that afternoon, according to Dilone, she discovered that the drains were backed up near the dishwasher, which falls under the category of "Sewage present in establishment." Like, uh, gross.

The restaurant remained closed until the following day, when the place still managed to rack up another violation, involving the potential for cross-contamination with raw salmon placed on a shelf above Brussels sprouts. This was "corrected at time of inspection," and Christopher's was finally allowed to reopen.

Reading this report online gives me flashbacks of my review for Christopher's when I was restaurant critic for this rag. Read it for yourself: "Reality Check," June 30, 2005. As you'll see, I had a few issues with the place.

Gross's partner and ex-wife, the lovely Paola Embry gave me a call to explain that the reason Christopher's was closed down 11/21 was because the inspector happened to show up on a rough day, when the establishment had to shut off the water so a plumber could work on a busted dishwasher. There was "water all over the floor," according to Paola. Perhaps the problem wasn't as bad as Environmental Services' jargon makes it seem.

Beside the phrase "Sewage present in establishment," there's the explanation, "Noted drains backing up in food area," which only sounds a little better by comparison.

Hey, either way you phrase it, the report's true to Christopher's surname. Rimshot, please!

from Camelback magazine

CC Goldwater, never losing a chance to show off the funbags.

For CC Goldwater (nee Cynthia Ross), being the granddaughter of Sen. Barry Goldwater is basically a career in and of itself. As one reads in a BJ-piece by Dean Meadors in the latest issue of Camelback magazine, a lame-o AZ Republic insert wherein the lightweight content serves as something to wrap the real estate ads around, CC's life remains busy now that the HBO doc she produced Mr. Conservative: Goldwater on Goldwater is in the rear view. Aside from "writing projects, promotional appearances for the documentary," and the ever-vague "individual projects," she's working on the re-release of her Paka's Conscience of a Conservative, scheduled for Spring of '07. I called CC to ask what sort of royalties or other monies she might be receiving from hawking gandpa's handiwork, but she's yet to reply. Hey, maybe she's doing it pro bono! Who knows?

At the end of the Meadors feature titled, "Growing Up Goldwater" (ironic, since CC grew up Ross, not Goldwater), it reads, concerning what Goldy would've thought of the doc:

She (CC) is certain, however, that Paka (Goldwater) would have respected the show's honesty.

"He would've appreciated it because it wasn't pandering to him," she says. "He would've been proud we handled it as we did."

Uh, the show's "honesty"? What that doc left out could fill volumes. And the show's depiction of a non-contentious relationship between father and offspring is not borne out in the letters I uncovered at the AZ Historical Foundation's Goldwater Archives for my cover story "Goldwater Uncut," 10/19. If you want to get a taste of what Goldy really thought of his children and grandchildren, take a look at the New Times' sampling of the letters here, "Strange Fruit," 11/9.

Of course, the Camelback article fails to mention that CC and her uncles, aunt, and mom are now engaged in an effort to seal the family letters of Barry Goldwater on file at the Foundation -- an effort begun after my story was published to save themselves any future embarrassment. Whether or not they'll be successful remains to be seen, as there's a Foundation board meeting on January 9, 2007 that will determine the matter.

As an aside, I can't help but notice that though CC is 47, and tends to look 47 unless photographed in just the right light, her mommy parts don't seem at all 47. Could such pendulous and still somewhat inviting flesh be 47 as well? In any case, CC never misses an opportunity to proudly offer the pair up for the cameras, albeit fully clothed. And in one of the Camelback photos, beneath her fuchsia top, I swear I can almost see some nippleage straining up against the stretchy fabric. It's difficult to see in the pic above, but if you can locate a copy of that mag, the observant amongst you should agree with my analysis.

At least in CC's cleavage, be it 47 or no, the dead Senator does indeed have reason to finally be proud of his granddaughter....

www.tempe12.com

This Tempe 12 squalie earns an A+, though not all do.

OK, so this is basically a made-up controversy that would hardly be worth blogging about if it were not for all the hot chicks involved. Seems the owners of Tempe 12, a business that produces calendars of college wenches in bikinis applied to the ASU Hugh Downs School of Communications to be an ASU internship sponsor. Their request was denied by Prof. Michael Hinson, because, according to Hinson, the Tempe 12 website sponsors a link to a term-paper writing service called FastPapers.com, which Hinson says amounts to a tacit endorsement of plagiarism. Hinson told me he has no problem with the content of Tempe 12's product or website, and did not deny Tempe 12 just because they've got loads of slammin' coed pics on their site.

Shortly after Hinson denied Tempe 12, Tempe 12's owners sent out an e-mail to everyone in the media saying they'd been "blackballed from Arizona State University's Internship program." Hinson only oversees the internship program for the School of Communications, so this is not exactly accurate. The Tempe 12 owners seem to believe that Hinson denied them because of rumors that they make their employees participate in a "beer breakfast." They say they don't do this. (Too bad, sounds pretty cool.) Hinson in turn claims that a "beer breakfast" had nothing to do with Tempe 12 being rejected.

The non-existent beer breakfast aside, Hinson seems to have a legitimate reason for rejecting Tempe 12 based on the whole FastPapers.com thing. If you click on the link, you find out that Tempe 12 visitors receive 10% off the cost of their term paper. When I spoke to Tempe 12 co-owner Ben Leis, he initially defended FastPapers, saying, "That's a legitimate company," and that these term papers were only supposed to be guides for the student. Come on, Ben, I wasn't born last Tuesday in the pumpkin patch. ASU administrators do have reps for being prudes, but when it comes to something like this, they have a right to say no. Not that I personally give a roadrunner's fart whether or not any college student cheats. I just don't care. But I can see why an ASU professor would be concerned about it. I mean, it is their job.

Moreover, I think it's pathetic to market yourselves as this balls-out Animal House kind of company, and then cry like little bitches when a state university doesn't accept you with open arms. Fuck ASU, doods. What do you care if you're in their friggin' internship plan or not? Is it one of your buddies who's applying for the internship, trying to get college credit for it? That's the only thing I can figure.

I will give you points on your website. There are some fine dimes in there, far better than in your actual calendar, which I have to say, has a few "butter faces." You know, like, everything's hot, "but her face." Just stick to perfecting your product, bros, since there's some perfecting to do. One day you'll be gazillionaires, and Hinson will likely still be a Professor. So why worry?

www.onewordlong.com

Ryan Avery: Man-Child in the Promised Land...

Nothing steamrolls over one's enemies like success. And as sure as the moon is pockmarked like Artie Lange's buttcheeks, I can promise you that pudgy performance-artist/rocker Ryan Avery will one day be trading quips with Conan O'Brien while the limp-dicks at AZPunk.com will be watching him on TV from the trailer park, gnashing their teeth, wondering why the world doesn't recognize their musical genius. Oh, the pissing and moaning that will transpire! Oh, the hatred these tatted punker pukes will spew.

These douchebags got a head start on their playa-hata loserdom when they whined up a storm after Benjamin Leatherman's intimate portrait of the downtown art scene's clown prince appeared as a New Times cover story ("Hi, My Name is Ryan," 8/03/06). Members of the AZPunk.com "community" mercilessly ragged on the Mormon Andy Milonakis (like the MTV star, Avery also suffers from hypopituitarism), calling him talentless, and unworthy of such press coverage. The AZPunk brigade, who obviously spend a lot more time bitching like little girls on their website than they do actually creating some friggin' music, kvetched for page after page about Avery, just as they do whenever Katie Rose, or anyone else garners more ink than they do. Which, by the way, is pretty damn often.

Now they have another reason to hate on Avery while noshin' Funyuns in their dirty drawers before their 'puter screens: this fresher-than-thou CD Hi, My Name Is Ryan: Live from the MTC (remixed), the debut release from the Trunk Space's new label OneWordLong. Essentially, the recording is an audio love-letter of sorts to Ryan, who's currently on a two-year Mormon mission in Portland, OR. According to Trunk Space ringmaster JRC, Avery sent Trunk Space a recording from the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, an LDS boot camp for future missionaries which sorta sounds like the Hitler Youth or the Boy Scouts, minus all the fun.

Avery's audio journal of life at the MTC reveals how adept the cherubic cut-up is at amusing himself in the driest of environs, whether he's discovering "found art" in the trash can, running laps 'round a Mormon race track, discussing women with his fellow MTC-ers, singing his famous "Bambi Jam" tune while pumping iron in a workout room, or even taking an extended piss. (Some bladder Avery's got there.) All of this is remixed by Avery's PHX collaborators, Archbishop Jason Pollard, Zach Burba, Djentrification, and The Coitus.

Admittedly, the results are a mixed bag, but no less interesting listening for this fact. My favorite tracks come from The Coitus, which is basically Corey Busboom, and any of his various wingmen. Busboom is P-town's Mozart of circuit bent toys -- old toys and dated electronics that he jimmies into an orchestra of odd, cartoon-like sounds. To emphasize the effect, he samples from old Warner Bros. animation, with the voices of Elmer Fudd or Porky Pig popping up briefly before diving back into the beeping morass that Busboom massages into a bizarre, and strangely affecting composition, calling to mind, for lack of a better analogy, a thrift store Philip Glass.

What's also intriguing is that Avery sent his audio journal to JRC just asking that it be used in some sort of performance, and that JRC's not even sure if Avery's aware of the record yet. Avery has his own recordings available from Nightpress Handmade Records in Cali. But this JRC production serves as proof of Avery's enduring influence over the PHX art scene, and his potential for success beyond the confines of the Valley. His local fan base awaits his return from his Mormon missionary work the way Elvis devotees awaited the King's return from his stint in the Army, or Muhammad Ali fans awaited Ali's return to boxing after being banned for avoiding the draft.

What does AZPunk.com have by comparison? A circle-jerk compilation they put out regularly that's ballyhooed and bought, basically, within their own little incestuous daisy-chain. I'm sure their 'rents ask every time they churn out another of these vanity CDs, "Will he/she/it ever amount to anything?" Sorry, Ma and Pa Punk, chances are, no. Get used to your aging offspring mooching off you indefinitely. It doesn't get any better than this.

PS: In response to the statement by Mr. Not-So-Awesome in the "comments" below, I should point out that the initial Avery story generated pages of AZPunk response, then my alter ego The Bird published a piece called "Punk Playa Hatas" on 8/31/06. In turn, AZPunk nimrods went on another spleen spree. So Mr. Not-So-Awesome, is an Awesome Idiot, even when it comes to his own site.

William "Fucking" Reed: His middle name ain't "Fucking" for nothin'.

We at the New Times, being the bad boys (and girls) of journalism, want to reward those at Get Out attempting to breathe some life into that moribund institution. Why? Well, because we know G.O.'s editors are generally a buncha tools and we like to fuck with such L7s. It's not only fun, it's good for the trade! So for the rebel on the Get Out staff who tried to put the "fucking" back into William "Fucking" Reed, we're offering a $50 cash reward, if you'll just come forward. We won't reveal your name, or do anything to burn you. But we would like to know more. You can contact me directly at the number or e-mail below:

602-229-8426; Stephen.Lemons@newtimes.com

C'mon, it's $50! Plus, don't you wanna twist the knife on the screws who'll pay $12,000 to expunge the word "fucking" from Get Out papers, but won't give you a $12K raise or bonus? And it's totally safe. The last thing we want to do is out you. We want you right where you are, where you'll hopefully do it again someday.

For inspiration, here's a pic of William "Fucking" Reed. He thinks the whole thing is "Fucking hilarious!" In fact, he'll throw in free entry to one of his many club nights around the Valley to the person who comes forward for the $50 prize. According to Reed, "Fucking's never been a problem for me," and he gives kudos to the gremlin responsible.

FYI: Reed writes for Java magazine; has many gigs 'round town, such as Shake! at the Rogue, and a new night called Pretty Vacant at Anderson's. He also hosts an awesome two hours of music on 101.5 Free FM from 10p.m. to Midnight every Sunday called "The Last Broadcast," where he plays cool new music from bands like Moving Units and I'm a Robot. Learn all about him at his MySpace account, here: William "Fucking" Reed.

RELATED -- Fucking Lame

www.eastvalleytribune.com

The Trib's not-so-edgy Get Out, pulled for "fucking."

Quiz time, ladies and germs: What old Anglo-Saxon word just cost the East Valley Tribune (owned by Freedom Communications, Inc.) $12,000? Here's a clue: it rhymes with schmuck, and only a schmuck would pay $12K for it. I'm talking about the word "fuck," of course, specifically "fucking," which happens to be the middle name of one of the most popular DJs in the Valley; i.e., Mr. William "Fucking" Reed, well-known for spinning the wheels of steel at the Rogue in Scottsdale, and various other venues 'round town. Seems the Trib's Thursday entertainment supplement Get Out ran a blurb on November 30 for a WFR gig at the swankish Pussycat Lounge in Scottsdale. Fearing reprisals from their cane-wielding, alter kocker readership, editors nixed William's middle name, and replaced it with the word "expletive" in parentheses, recalling the days of President Richard Nixon and Watergate where White House tape transcripts were riddled with the phrase "expletive deleted." Later, some naughty staff member replaced "(expletive)" with "Fucking." The Trib, realizing the error, changed it back, and pulled Yahweh knows how many papers and destroyed them, lest one of the Tribune's aged subscribers be upset while gumming their a.m. Cream of Wheat and perusing the music listings with an eagle eye.

Sound retarded? Take a look at the text of the internal e-mail below which Trib editor Jim Ripley sent out to "Team Trib," chastising the bad apple amongst them for this "unprofessional act."

From: Ripley, Jim
Sent: Wednesday, November 29, 2006 5:46 PM
To: DL - All Editorial
Subject: an unprofessional act

Jim Ripley

This wins my weekly irony award for a few reasons. First off, William's gig was at the Pussycat Lounge, and anyone who's been to that eye-candy emporium knows the title ain't referring to Fritz the Cat. Then there's the fact that Get Out is supposed to be the Trib's "edgy" insert, appealing to the 20-to-30-something crowd. As you can see by the reproduction of the cover above, with its upside-down Xmas tree, this was intended as G.O.'s anti-holidays issue, for those not into all the seasonal cheer. Doubt very much the demographic the Trib's courtin' here would be ruffled at all by the F-word. This was hardly a headline, and the type point is so small you practically need a magnifying glass to read it.

Lastly, the Trib is infamously cheap, "so cheap, they don't want to even pay for a trip to Tucson," one pal told me. And yet they can afford $12K on a tiny, insignificant error such as this?

Asked to comment, Editor Ripley would only say, "You got the memo, I wish you hadn't, because I think it's an internal matter between my associates and me, and so I'm not going to say anything more about it. It's an internal issue."

Well, Jim, fucking usually is, ya know?

For the record, whenever the New Times mentions William Fucking Reed, we either use "Fucking," or "F#@kin'," which our clubs editor thinks looks funnier. So it goes without saying, that we here at the New Times are not afraid of fucking. Unless you're fucking up, which we'll leave to Mr. Ripley to do to the tune of $12K on a regular basis.