The Difference between a Drag Show and a Bluegrass Fest

Your call: which picture is from the drag show?

Differences between a drag show and a bluegrass fest? There are a few. A drag show smells like cigarettes and glitter; a bluegrass fest smells like weed and nag champa. People at drag shows wear evening gowns and three-piece suits; people at bluegrass festivals wear tie-dye and tattoos. At drag shows, gay men show me pictures of their ex-boyfriend’s sculpted abs; at bluegrass fests, people show you bare skin that’s never seen a gym. See? Differences.

On Friday night, I was honored to attend the Elements drag show at BS West as a VIP (thanks to Ms. Tiffany Brown and dear dancer Dallas). The Elements cast of characters are known nationwide. They’re pageant winners and local celebrities, and I had a front row seat. BS West, however, is impossible to locate. The gay bar is in downtown Scottsdale, where I already get lost. Throw in a back alley entrance (no pun intended), and I was a lost lamb among Scottsdale popped-collar wolves. Anyway, I finally found the place, and I was pleased to find our seats in the very, very front row.

The Elements cast didn’t hit the stage until about 10:30 (way past my bedtime), but I was hopped up on Diet Coke and ready to roll. Opening with a trio rendition of “Stop, in the Name of Love” never hurts, followed by several amazing artists who lip-synched to icons like Whitney Houston, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera. More than lip-synching, these bitches could dance! I mean, we’re talking Rockette-style kick lines, side splits, back handsprings, and gyrations that would make Shakira jealous. The drag queens were spectacular, gorgeous, meant to be worshipped—and they were, openly, by the adoring crowd, who waved dollar bills like white flags of surrender.

Then, there was Dallas—the one male dancer of the night not in drag. Dallas is an Usher lookalike who, let’s face it, moves even better than Usher. Plus, I’m pretty sure Usher doesn’t have the guts to wear nothing but an American flag string thong on stage. He gave a bachelorette party one hell of a show, and I admit, by the end of the evening, my throat was coarse from screams of animal ferocity.

That night, I dragged my tired butt to bed at 2 AM, but I’ll be back to BS West, because they put on one heck of a good show. The bar features several special events (including the Prima Donna pageant tomorrow), and every Thursday, there’s an all-male dance review. How awesome is that?

Duo de Twang.

From Scottsdale to downtown Phoenix … Sunday, Jake and I attended the McDowell Mountain Music Festival. We attended last year, as well, but I was excited to discover this year’s fest would take place at the Margaret T. Hance Park downtown. The Hance Park is that mysterious span of green above the I-10 tunnel between Seventh Avenue and Seventh Street. Although I knew the space would be sweet, the lineup is what caught my eye, most notably … Les Claypool.

I first saw Les Claypool at All Good Festival years ago. I adored him then, back in those innocent days of pot-smoking and the occasional magic brownie. He is the astoundingly creative, eccentric bass player of bands like Oysterhead, Primus, and my favorite, the Frog Brigade. When I saw his name on the lineup, I had to be there to see him perform with his new project, Duo de Twang, an acoustic outfit, featuring Claypool and guitarist Marc “Mirv” Haggard.

Not only do these boys have talent, but together, they have charisma. I was blown away by finger-picking, slide guitar, and of course, Claypool’s vocal oddity. Watching the Duo de Twang, my head felt light; it might have been the kids toking up next to us, but I think my happiness was due to the deep, chest-shaking bass of the super-talented Les Claypool.

McDowell Mountain Music Festival has been around for ten years, and it continues to grow. Jake and I don’t quite fit there, because we don’t own tie-dye; Jake doesn’t have long hair; and I don’t have a flowing hippie skirt. However, none of that mattered. The music mattered. The beautiful weather mattered. The weird eight-foot-tall puppets? They mattered.

Yeah, drag shows and bluegrass festivals are different, but there’s one thing they have in common: both venues bring people together. The differences don’t really matter when the commonality is so freakin’ cool.

Hmm. Drag show or bluegrass fest? Tough call.

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How to Meet the Punch Brothers

1. Befriend their roadie, their merchandise guy, and club security.
2. Send the band shots of tequila and a note.
3. Basically … just show up.

I saw my favorite band of all time last night. I was nervous. So nervous. Why? I was worried I wouldn’t meet them—that they would be so close, here in Phoenix for the very first time, and I would miss them somehow. I felt the endless anxiety over dinner with my gal pals pre-show. Then, we entered the venue, and I talked up the merchandise guy, who said, “Yeah, if you buy them shots, I’ll send them to the green room.” What better than tequila? I mean, we’re in Phoenix, right? I sent them their shots, along with a note with my name. I’m sure my girlfriends thought I was just a nut, but I didn’t care. I had to meet THE PUNCH BROTHERS.

The phenomenal Chris Thile.

I’ve known their music since the band’s foundation, thanks to an amazing performance experience back in Charleston, SC, at the Cistern Yard downtown. Once I moved out here, I pre-ordered every CD, every single. I wrote a letter to their rep, begging they come to Arizona, because they never come to Arizona (something I was not aware of when I moved here, ah-hem). In response to my letter, I got an autographed poster, but still, no word of an upcoming show.

Then, months ago, while enjoying cocktails at Carly’s, I saw the flyer: the Punch Brothers were coming to Crescent Ballroom. I remember staring at the flyer, thinking, “No, it can’t be true. I’m obviously hallucinating thanks to this delicious jalapeno-infused tequila.” Some kind of Mexican agave voodoo? Nay. They really were coming to Phoenix. That night, I bought my tickets: good thing, too, since they apparently sold out.

I’ve been waiting for weeks, counting down the days to December 5th. Then, yesterday, the day arrived. I did nothing productive all day. I got a massage and laid around my house, so panicked was I at the prospect of not meeting the Punch Brothers while in my hometown.

At Crescent Ballroom, after sending my note and the round of shots, I was pretty confident I would make an impression. Then, I waited. The Milk Carton Kids opened for them—a fabulous duo from LA who were equally talented at music as well as comic repartee. Loved them. Then, my boys came on stage, and I’m pretty sure I almost passed out. It was unreal. I mean, the Punch Brothers were three feet in front of me (because I was obviously at the front of the crowd).

Always moving …

The show is a blur. They played a lot of new stuff, some old stuff, mostly upbeat, although I do love their sad ones. Thankfully, they played my most recent obsession, “Another New World,” and their song list gave me a chance to do a lot of clapping, knee-slapping, and general “woohoo”-ing. They have such presence, these boys. They thrive off each other’s energy. They dance around the stage (which made it very hard to get good photos). The audience can feel that energy, and by the end of the show, we were begging for more, more, more. On several occasions, vocalist and mandolin player Chris Thile made the comment, “I can’t believe we’ve never been here before!” I agree. Punch Brothers, Phoenix has been waiting, and we expect you to come back.

After the show, I literally ran into Gabe Witcher, the phenomenally talented fiddle-player who I love. I almost fell over myself trying to make coherent conversation. Then, I turned around, and there was banjo man Noam Pikelny, who I also approached for an autograph and to give extreme kudos. I didn’t see the rest of the band, and I was all set to go home. I left the venue, dejected at not having met, okay, my favorite band member, Chris Thile. That’s when the roadie I met earlier said, “He’s standing outside the bus right now.” In high heels, I ran, damn it, and it was true: there he was.

Me and Chris.

I walked up and said, “I’m Sara. How was the tequila?” to which he replied with much hugging. We reminisced over their Charleston performance years before. He signed my Moleskin and gave me another hug before we had our picture taken together—a fan’s freakin’ dream. Then, I waved and was gone, making him promise the Punch Brothers would one day come back to the Valley of the Sun.

So meeting the Punch Brothers? Pretty easy. Probably because they’re five charming, humble, hilarious dudes, who love good bluegrass and love their fans. I’m so thankful to have discovered them years ago. I’m thankful they came to Phoenix. I’m thankful God made such talented musicians, because the Punch Brothers manage to inspire and entertain with every show. Thanks, boys, for a great night! I’ll see you next time!

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The Cure for Depression is MADATL

Whatever you do, don’t take this blog post seriously. Or you can, if you want. I’ve found a groundbreaking way to fight depression. I call it MADATL, short for MacGyver, Arrested Development, and The League. When I’m depressed, I can’t move. I literally want to sleep all day and pout. After the past month of fighting this horrible disease, I’ve become really, really good at pouting—so good, in fact, that I fear my face might permanently stick that way, like Mom always warned.

Although I am in no way healed (yet), I have found a solution to my pouting. Believe me, I’m not a big watcher of television. I would usually rather read books, but because of my depression, I’m always tired, and reading books just makes me even more tired. Therefore, I recently turned to TV, namely Netflix, and I’ve discovered the joys of three shows to which I owe a great deal of gratitude.

MacGyver is all Jake’s fault. He was the original proponent of this horrendous eighties program, insisting I just watch an episode to see what I thought. Although admittedly, the show is dumb, I fell in love. MacGyver is basically the best human being on earth. Not only is he best friends with everyone, but women love him, he’s charitable, and he can create a bomb from, like, rust and nail clippings.

The show is, of course, totally unrealistic. (For instance, here’s the Best MacGyver Escape Ever.) I mean, how often can one guy come across terrorists randomly, right? But MacGyver always has a happy ending (a freeze frame ending, even; you know, where the final shot is of MacGyver laughing, and they linger on that freeze frame until the credits start?). Also, it’s insinuated that MacGyver probably gets laid just about every time there’s a woman involved. Highly uplifting, even in the pits of despair.

Arrested Development was a show Jake and I heard about but never saw. We decided to watch a couple episodes. It’s about a rich family who loses everything, because Daddy goes to jail for fraud … or tax evasion … or something. I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s in prison, so his son (played by Jason Bateman) has to keep the company and the family together.

Although the first couple episodes were almost too ridiculous to swallow (including a magician brother who rides a Segway and a young Michael Cera in love with his cousin), I am now obsessed with watching every episode. The absurdity that at first annoyed me has now convinced me of the show’s utter genius. (For your viewing pleasure, an Arrested Development Chicken Dance compilation.) I laugh at least a dozen times per episode, and the episodes are only 21 minutes long. Talk about easy escape from sadness!

Then, finally, The League. The League is about a group of buddies in a fantasy football league, and it features one of my favorite comedians, Nick Kroll. I watched the first season before realizing the program is only partially scripted. The writers lay out a basic plotline, but most of the put-downs and general crap-talking is all ad-libbed, which makes me love the show even more.

Some highlights: Ghost Monkey, the one where Pete takes Andre to a spa, and the one where Taco gets obsessed with his coke-infused toilet seat. The character of Ruxin (Kroll) will always be my favorite character, because he’s the most evil and in my opinion the funniest dude on the show. (Here’s a full smattering of “Best of Ruxin” on YouTube.) No matter how deep in the dark I am, The League can pull me out. In fact, I wish I could live on the show.

Cures for depression? Not exactly. I told you not to take me seriously here, but I am serious when I say that laughter has been helping a lot lately. Although I’m not a proponent of mindless TV watching, sometimes I must admit, it helps, especially when you’re scared to leave the house or when you have trouble getting dressed without breaking down into tears. The new mantra: MADATL. Say it with me: “MA-DA-TL.”

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Tubing the Salt River, aka War of the Marshmallows

Tubing the Salt River is like Mardi Gras, except it takes place on inner tubes in a river, and instead of beads, you throw marshmallows. I didn’t know any of this going into it. I just knew we needed to bring water shoes, snacks, and a hell of a lot of beer. Oh, and sunscreen. Gobs and gobs of sunscreen.

The Salt River is a short drive from Phoenix, located in the Tonto National Forest near Mesa. Upon arrival, it was hard to believe such a beautiful, mountainous, untouched-by-man place could exist so close to the city. I was reminded of Zion National Park, the Narrows hike—a river surrounded by two sheer cliff faces. Once we had our tubes (a fifteen dollar rental, which includes the bus ride to the “launch site”), we were ready to go.

Or not. See, first you have to make your raft. Jake and I went along with five other people. You don’t want to lose these people (which, trust me, did happen once or twice, thanks to unexpected rapids and one cooler rescue mission). Using rope, you must tie your inner tubes together, ideally with the coolers tied in the center for easy access. I watched all this happen while drinking a beer in a bikini on a beach at, oh, eleven AM, under the scalding Phoenix heat.

I could totally do this for a living.

Another thing: you gotta cover your inner tubes with sheets to keep them from getting too hot. I also learned that the sheets acted as a support system, which allowed me to balance in the middle of my inner tube, Indian-style, for most of the trip … whenever I wasn’t going Navy Seal-style on marshmallow attack missions.

So what’s the deal with the marshmallows? I honestly don’t know. I know we were told to bring marshmallows, but I didn’t fully understand the fire-fight (or pastry-fight) that was due to ensue. Strangers, complete strangers, barrage you with marshmallows all the way down the four-hour river ride. Of course, retribution is sweet. By the end of the day, I was like Upton throwing a run-saving line drive to Montero at home. The huge marshmallows were like prized possessions, and several of our group often went diving halfway across river to grab one of those monsters.

As I mentioned, there were moments when people were almost lost. The Salt River is not, I repeat, not free of rapids, and they have a way of sneaking up on you. All you can do is hold on tight—to each other and to the coolers—and hope for the best.

If I could spend every Saturday tubing the Salt River, I would. It felt a lot like the Rockville Regatta in Charleston, South Carolina, where a bunch of strangers tie their boats together and have a day of romping. On the Salt River, you’re best buddies with everyone. You do strange things for beer (things that will not be mentioned here) and make great friends with funny lesbians (don’t ask). You get body-slammed into deep, blue water, and it’s great. It’s all great!

The Salt River is a place where fully grown adults can pretend, for one afternoon, to be kids again. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I would suggest you go, as soon as possible. Don’t forget your marshmallows, and be sure to buy more beer than you think you could possibly drink—because it’ll be gone by the end of the day. Just remember to have fun, relax, and pretend, if only for a moment, that you’re a kid again on summer break, and school doesn’t start for another two months.

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An Excessive and Irresponsible 30th Birthday Celebration

Ms. Jenny.

This past Friday night, Jake and I were sitting around watching Trollhunter—a B-horror movie from Norway—when our pal Brandon showed up at the front door. I had a couple seconds to think, “Huh, why is Brandon showing up at our house when he knows Jake has to work tomorrow?” Then, a girl walked in behind him, and I swore I knew her from somewhere. Then, in the dimness of our living room, I recognized the smiling face of my chica from Charleston, Jenny, who Jake had secretly flown in as a super spectacular birthday present to me. The next minute is kind of a blur, but I’m pretty sure there was a lot of hugging and cheek kissing and crying. So began my thirtieth birthday weekend.

Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly.  I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.

I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.

Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them.  We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.

Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.

At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thirty is old, right?

Volcano Bowl. Mmmm.

I hated seeing Jenny leave on Sunday, and I already miss the lady friend who makes me laugh the most. I will be on a detox schedule, yes, for the next two years, but it was worth it. Huge, excessive birthday celebrations are always worth it, as long as friends are along for the ride, and great friends, I do have a few. By a few, I mean many, and maybe that was my favorite part of Saturday: watching a group of very different people converse, argue, and bond over preferred movie villains, shots of Fireball, and an obsessive love for seventies disco music.

Age doesn’t have to do with a number. It has to do with the friends you’ve made—and kept—along the way. I’m so blessed to have friends all over the country who I still keep in touch with. I’m blessed to have friends here in Phoenix who brighten my life on a daily basis. I’m blessed to have my very best friend, my hubbie Jake, who Jenny refers to as her Xanax substitute. That’s how all good friends are: they relax us, calm us, and keep us from going nuts … even on my dirty thirty.

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Week of Wonder

I’m extremely fond of Veronique Vienne, author of masterpieces like The Art of Doing Nothing and The Art of the Moment—small, square-shaped books that hold a lifetime of French wisdom. In the latter of the two aforementioned books, Vienne dedicates a chapter to “The Art of Wonder.”

Quote: “Your attention can allow you to see the beauty of a vacant lot, of an overpass, of a parking lot, even of a blank wall. … In contrast, when you are self-involved (when you are held hostage by your internal dialogue) everyday reality feels quite banal. If you are in a distracted mood, everything is a blur, a drone, a blah—a so-what. … Absorbed in your thoughts, you are not mindful of what’s going on around you. Why should you be? As far as you are concerned, nothing is happening. But wait a minute! Are you sure that nothing is happening? Or could it be that what you assume is ‘nothing’ is, in fact, the lull that precedes a really important event.”

Last week, I experienced events that pulled me out of my banal internal dialogue and threw me into the magical world of wonder. Let me share them with you.

First, I attended a beautiful luncheon at the Phoenix Art Museum. Following my lovely lunch, my companion and I walked around the museum. We almost missed the exhibit that would change my day—and possibly my entire mindset—until a museum guide said, “Did you see the fireflies? You have to see the fireflies.” The fireflies were hidden on the second floor. The only indication that they were actually present was a small white arrow painted on a big, black wall. That little arrow led me into a true out-of-body experience.

The installation is called “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies” by artist Yayoi Kusama. Walking in, you are consumed with blackness until your eyes begin to focus and then you see them: the fireflies. They’re really just a bunch of LED lights, hung at different levels, reflected in mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Sounds simple, and yet, inside the installation, I lost myself. I lost any sense of my body or mind. I lost the worries of today and the fears of tomorrow. I just stood there and allowed myself to be obliterated. Now, in moments of stress, I try to remember the fireflies, and I plan to go back as soon as possible.

On Thursday night, I attended a volunteer appreciation event at the Arizona Science Center. I was there for one reason and one reason alone: Van Gogh Alive. Combining the troubled artist’s work with light, music (the one they played with Starry Night HERE), and animation, this exhibit is a must see. There are strategically placed benches, and I could have sat there for hours. Not only was the art stunning (especially when projected on room-size canvases), but Van Gogh Alive felt a lot like the fireflies. I lost myself. I had no worries. I felt peaceful, relaxed, and very Zen. The exhibit will be open until June 17. Don’t miss it, and try to go very early in the morning or late in the day. It’s more fun when there are less people around.

Finally, Friday, Jake planned a super-secret date. He told me to wear a nice dress, and we headed to downtown Phoenix, where we enjoyed appetizers and happy hour drinks at District Kitchen. Then, the big surprise: we had tickets to see Florence + The Machine. Florence is wondrous when simply witnessed via audio, let alone on a huge stage, spinning in a wide cape and matching green dress. On a huge stage, she was a goddess of motion and song. When she played Cosmic Love, I almost melted with glee, and again, I didn’t worry about homework or deadlines or moving into a new house. I worried about nothing, because Florence made me feel free.

Perhaps the most wondrous thing about last week, though, was Jake, because what could be more wonderful than being married to Jake? Jake, who works so hard, while earning his Master’s degree. Jake, who takes me on super-secret dates. Jake, who is a true wonder. Have a wonder-ful week, my friends!

Florence.

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Bluegrass Makes It All Okay

I didn’t think people in Arizona cared about bluegrass music—not like we cared about it in Charleston, South Carolina, at least. The McDowell Mountain Music Festival this past weekend proved me wrong. Way wrong.

According to the website, the Festival took off in April of 2004 to bring real music back to Arizona while getting the Phoenix community together for a great cause: children. All proceeds, yes ALL PROCEEDS, raised from the festival are donated to two charities: the Phoenix Children’s Hospital and Ear Candy, an organization whose mission is to provide local youth access to music education. The festival is not billed as bluegrass-specific. All sorts of performers from all over the world show up to the McDowell Mountain Music Fest, but Jake and I attended for one reason and one reason alone: the Carolina Chocolate Drops.

The venue itself is somewhat confusing if you’ve never been. It’s hosted at The Compound, which is a grassy knoll to the side of a parking lot. Wacky, huh? Especially to a Midwesterner, who’s accustomed to festivals like Bonnaroo and All Good, where there isn’t a parking lot for miles. Once inside, though, you kind of forget you’re next to a parking lot, thanks to the vendors, beer, and tunes.

Most attendees bring their own chairs or blankets, and you set up camp in the middle of the field, as close to the stage as possible—or in the shade, of which there was very little. No matter, though; it was a pleasant dry heat! Just remember to wear sunscreen. Once our camp was set, Jake and I grabbed a couple brews and hit the vendor tents, which included some excellent glass jewelry, Mojo Yogurt, and Scentsy. Everyone we came across was talkative and cheerful, and I chalk it up to bluegrass and good old country sound.

Did I mention the Carolina Chocolate Drops? Jake and I saw them play twice back in Charleston, and we love—I mean love—their music. They are well-trained masters of old-time fiddle and banjo-based music, and they won a Grammy for Best Traditional Folk Album last year. When I saw them sitting around behind the security area, I did what any star-struck fan would do. I waved them down and begged for their autographs. We shared a couple laughs over the memory of a heavily over-crowded show at The Pour House back in South Carolina, and I almost exploded with glee.

Their set was inspired, of course, filled with clogging, kick-ass vocals, and general awesomeness. But what almost (almost) excited me more was the realization that Phoenix folk love bluegrass music! As a big ole group, we danced, stomped our feet, and sang along. It was like a scene from the Deep South, and I was proud to be part of it and to call myself Phoenician. Let’s face it: you can’t frown when bluegrass is playing. You can’t be sad when someone is singing about “corn bread and butter-beans and you across the table.” I smile just thinking about it …

I will definitely take part in the McDowell Mountain Music Festival again next year. It reminded me of being back in Charleston, where the world moves slower and people spend afternoons on front porches, doing nothing but playin’ banjo and drinkin’ cold beer. The festival also made Phoenix feel even more like home, now that I know I’m not the only bluegrass fan in the county.

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Scotch Scotch Scotch I Love Scotch

No, I really do. I saw that Total Wine was offering an “Introduction to Scotch Whisky” class. Seriously? Who does that? Well, as I arrived, I was informed this was the first Scotch whisky class so far undertaken, for fear of a drunken brawl. The staff didn’t need to be concerned, even though the class was composed of all men, except me. Literally, I was the only girl. I thought there would be at least one other chick, but no, I was all by myself, surrounded by hairy dudes. You better believe I waved my wedding ring around and said things like “My husband wanted me to take lots of notes.” So now, I’m here to share some of the wisdom imparted to me by excellent Total Wine staff member, Chad.

Scotch whisky was an accident, discovered by dudes trying to make metal into gold—alchemists, they’re called. They didn’t succeed in making gold; they did succeed in creating the yummiest liquor in the world. Scotch is composed of three—count ‘em, three—ingredients: malted barley, yeast, and water. That’s it, folks, but that’s just the beginning. The barley is dried by using peat: an accumulation of partially decayed vegetation matter. The peat is burned; the barley is dried, and it becomes “malt.” The malt is mixed with the yeast and water, and voila! Right? Wrong.

Subtle differences (the shape of the still, the mood of the distiller, the minerals in the water) make different scotches taste differently, as do the casks used in the distilling process, as does the surrounding environment during the distilling process, as does the amount of time distilling takes place. Scotch has to be aged for a minimum of three years before it can be consumed, but most are aged much longer. Exhausted yet? I wasn’t, but that’s because by then, I was tasting scotch.

Some random trivia before I get into the tasting:

• Did you know Johnnie Walker was actually the name of a grocery store? Back in the day, grocery stores could go around to local distilleries and buy a single cask to mix with casks from different distilleries and make their own brand of scotch. People liked the scotch from the Johnnie Walker grocery store. It became popular, and the name stuck!

• The key regions for scotch making in Scotland are Islay, Highland, Speyside, Lowland, and Island. Many would argue the best scotch comes from Islay.

• “Whisky” refers to product made in Scotland, Wales, Canada, or Japan. “Whiskey” indicates the scotch was made in Ireland or the United States.

Okay, so how do you taste scotch? First, sniff it. What do you smell? Next, taste it. What do you taste? Now, the important thing: before you go back for sip number two, put a couple drops of water into the scotch (or possibly an ice cube). This awakens the flavors! Something I didn’t know! Now, evaluate: what was your overall impression?

Now, I’ll give you a quick rundown of what we tasted, what was good, and why I think so, based on what I learned about myself at the tasting. I learned that I don’t like scotches with heavy peat influences. To me, they taste like (in Chad’s words), a “burned down hospital”—gauzy and filled with smoke. Taking that into consideration, these are the ones I didn’t like:

• Shieldaig “The Classic” for $17.99. Gauzy! Antiseptic! Smoke! Too much!
• Johnnie Walker Swing. $54.99. Cool bottle; dusty scotch.
• Glenfiddich 15 Year. $37.99. Cool story about this one, even though the taste was a little too earthy for me. When they make 15-year, they use the same cask over and over, and they never let the cask sink lower than half-full. That means when you’re drinking the 15-year, you’re drinking a bunch of other years, too, possibly really old ones! Cool! But the palate? Not for me.
• Shieldaig Highland. $17.00. Peat!!! Ewwwww.

Arguably, I didn’t like these because I don’t have a fine-tuned palate. Whatever. So I’m a novice. I still greatly enjoyed the following:

• Dewar’s 12 Year. $25.99. Very light. Vanilla. Sweet front. An easy drinker.
• Monarch of the Glen for $21.99. May have been my favorite. Heathery, floral nose. Complex but soft with a sweet finish.
• Glenmorangie Nectar d’Or. $59.99. They made this using Sauternes casks from France, which would explain its sweetness. Wow. Complex. Long gentle finish. Wish it wasn’t so expensive.
• Battlehill Bowmore 28 Year. Uh … $129.00. Yeah, I didn’t want to like this one, based on that price-point, but zounds! This was good! Very smooth. No alcohol burn. If you have the means, buy it.
• Compass Box “Great King Street.” $44.99. Vanilla, caramel nose with a honey palate. Sounds like dessert, yeah?

Was I a tad buzzed following the tasting? Yes. Did I spend nine dollars on a yearned-for bottle of Dogfish Head 120 Minute Ale for Jake? You betcha. Did I have an absolute blast? Hell yeah! I suggest taking a class at Total Wine, and soon. You learn a ton. It’s great value for your money. (This tasting was only twenty-five bucks.) And you’re going to have fun.

Upcoming events at the Goodyear location include: Bourbon on February 25, Tequila on February 28, an IPA class in May, and a Single Malt class May 5. Learn more at their events page.

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Halloween Town: Ghosts of Phoenix and More …

Saturday night, dressed as my wicked witchy self, I had the pleasure of attending the Hotel San Carlos’ Ghosts of Phoenix tour. I was not disappointed.

The Hotel San Carlos officially opened in 1928. It was the premiere luxury hotel of its day and the first hotel in Phoenix to feature air conditioning! Plenty of famous folk stayed the night, including Mae West, Clark Gable, and the lovely Marilyn Monroe (who has a suite named after her near the pool—of course). The years have passed, but the hotel is still a beautifully spooky spot with antique lighting and long hallways, reminiscent of Kubrick’s Shining.

Being so old (old in a Phoenix sort of way, that is), the Hotel San Carlos has plenty of ghost stories—which the staff was oh so happy to share. The Hotel San Carlos is famous for its history and alleged hauntings.  It has been featured on the Travel Channel’s “Weird Travels” and received the #3 spot on Horror.com’s list of “America’s Top 10 Haunted Hotels.” Oo-oo-oo … spooky!

It helped that the night itself felt spooky, as nights near Halloween are wont to do. By the time I arrived, the sun had long since set, and the busy city bustled beneath a star-lit sky. When I walked into the hotel, I noticed the Ghost Lounge was covered in creepy cobwebs. A wedding reception was in full swing near the lobby, the bride wearing a dress that would have fit fine in the late 1920s. Basically, the scene was set.

Our tour guide, Julia, was a heck of a storyteller. First, she took us down to the dastardly dark basement, where the ghosts of three children apparently like to play. The adoringly curious crowd snapped several photos, and even I caught a ghoulish “orb” on film. Then, it was up to the seventh floor, where the ghost of actress Leone Jensen floats. Leone jumped from the roof of the hotel, but her death was suspicious. She wore a fancy evening gown, and she was still clutching her purse. Plus, why would a suicide victim have mysterious bruises on her wrist?

The list of strange deaths goes on, but the tour is definitely worth it for the spook factor. It added greatly to my Halloween mentality, the staff was spook-tacular, and I can’t wait to someday spend a night in the haunted Hotel San Carlos. The tours will continue on through December, so get in touch with the hotel and book your reservation! All the info you need is on the Ghosts of Phoenix tour website: http://www.ghostsofphoenix.com/.

Now … You know what day it is. It’s Halloween, which means you have a few things to prepare for tonight. We all know the ghosts are free to wander this eve. If you want to stay safe, it’s time to carve that jack-o-lantern, or Stingy Jack might come and get you. Jack once made a deal with the Devil to never take his soul. But Jack wasn’t a nice guy, so when he died, Heaven wouldn’t take him either. Jack has since been trapped on earth, carrying a carved out turnip with a light inside. To keep him (and other wandering spirits, for that matter) away from your home, light a jack-o-lantern and put it in the window. You don’t want your house to end up like the haunted Hotel San Carlos, do you?

Next, you better get on a costume to confuse the spirits and make them think you’re a ghoul, too. That way, they’ll leave you be! Don’t forget to have candy for the trick-or-treaters. You don’t want any curses on your head.

For the single ladies, Halloween is the best night for divination. Legend says that if a young woman goes to a lake at midnight on Halloween and gazes at her image in the water, she will see her future husband’s face reflected before her.

Remember those who have gone before by building your own mini Day of the Dead altar. And hey, why not play a prank or two, because “treat” wouldn’t be the same without “trick.”

It is finally the frightful night of Halloween. Go out and raise some mischief, but beware the ghosts and goblins that wander, hidden among frolicking children on this night to remember the dead … BOO!

“Witches’ hats and harvest moon / Ghosts that dance to haunted tune. / Apples, goodies, food galore / Halloween has this and more. / Fairies, gnomes, and funny clowns / Mom and I go ‘round the town. / Cats and pumpkins, friends to meet / Everyone says “trick or treat!”

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Halloween Town: Dark Scares Haunted Attraction

Saturday, we had a Halloween extravaganza at my house. I made pumpkin chili. (It was delicious.) We had a huge spread of food, including—but not limited to—horseradish cheddar cheese and crackers, homemade guacamole with orange, fresh vegetables, and Smartfood White Cheddar Popcorn. Did I mention the pumpkin beer? Because we had lots of pumpkin beer, too.

We also had ambience. All the little purple, green, and orange lights in the apartment were bright and shining. I closed the plantation shutters so we could pretend for one afternoon that we lived someplace spooky, where it might just rain and storm. The wicked little critter on the coffee table that laughs when you touch him joined in the conversation, and we watched horror movies: Trick-or-Treat, followed by Halloween, followed by Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-Long Blog (okay, that last one wasn’t a horror movie, but it was entertaining). And of course I chased Ripley around the living room in my witch hat.

All of this Halloween decadence was followed by a trip to the Dark Scares Haunted Attraction in Mesa. Now, the longer I live in Phoenix, the more I learn about Arizona. For instance, who knew a 10,000-square-foot haunted house could fit in a shopping center? In Ohio and Charleston, I was accustomed to haunted houses in big old mansions or—even worse—in pitch black cornfields. This AZ dastardly house of horrors was literally in the middle of a classic car show. The only reason we found it was because of a strobe light on top of the entrance. But don’t let the entrance detract from the creep factor …

Oh, no, while waiting outside, a kid dressed like a corpse sneaks around and stands right behind you until you notice and JUMP! Or possibly scream. I prefer screaming. And you can hear plenty of screaming from inside Dark Scares as you wait in line.

So the Dark Scares Haunted Attraction is composed of two haunted houses: House 666 on the Lane and Le Carnaval des Non Morts (translation: “No Carnival of Souls”). Yeah, you heard right: a carnival. As if clowns aren’t scary enough in sunlight … As a participant, you get to run through both the houses—and I do mean run. First off, they separate big groups. You can either go in as a group of two or three. Our gang of Halloween revelers was six, so we split down the middle and set foot inside.

When I was younger, my girlfriends always made me go first into the haunted houses. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make much sense, honestly. Going first means you probably won’t get scared. They always go after person number two or the dreaded last person in line. If you go last, you’re practically guaranteed to have a ghost hanging from your ankle at some point, which is basically what happened Saturday night. My gal pal Tiffany and I were paired up with my brave Jake, who kept us safe … when he wasn’t laughing at our terror.

Although both sides were excellent, the carnival was my personal favorite. Not only do you have a chance to get lost (and I mean LOST) in a maze, but there’s a spinning room you have to walk through and a terrifying cannibal zombie that would NOT let up. Our group’s most quoted line of the night came from House 666: “Did you wash your hands? … DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?” I didn’t stay to see how that conversation ended. I was too busy screaming my face off and running for the door.

I was amped after our trip to Mesa’s Dark Scares Haunted Attraction. Being scared is a big part of Halloween. It’s one of my favorite parts, as evidenced by the way our house currently resembles a crypt and the stack of horror movies on the TV stand. Already, it’s October 26th. You don’t have much time left to scare up a good time yourself. The weekend rapidly approaches. So ask yourself: 1) Do I have my costume? 2) Do I have a plan for Saturday? 3) Where’s the closest cemetery for a midnight walk?

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