The original Phoenix Suns were barnstorming semi-pro footballers who enjoyed success on the gridiron and abject failure away from it.
Rabid basketball fans inhabiting Planet Orange are often surprised to learn the first Phoenix Suns game started with a kickoff – not a tipoff – and occurred more than a decade before the NBA team made its 1968 debut. In this bizarre-but-true alternate Suns universe, the team kicked field goals instead of shooting them, and the only dunks they saw
North Phoenix owes two of its hospitals, a street name, a resort, and much of its community spirit to one visionary man.
Once just a cottage and chapel in the middle of a tuberculosis-ridden tent city, the John C. Lincoln Health Network is now two not-for-profit hospitals, a handful of community-service organizations, and a testament to the Valley-wide legacy of the charismatic inventor and entrepreneur who gave the organization his name.
Four decades after the art-pop legend came to Arizona to shoot his cult Western, the Lonesome Cowboys tale remains as strange as ever.
Paul Morrissey is pouring hot sarcasm into my ear. But I’m glad he called.
“I understand you want to talk about the Andy Warhol movie,” Morrissey rasps in greeting, smearing the name of his one-time friend and collaborator with dark emphasis. It’s easy to imagine the 74-year-old filmmaker affecting a theatrical grimace when he speaks, like Dirty Harry mad-dogging a street punk.
Southern Californians flocked to a western Arizona town for quickie marriages and backroom gambling in the 1930s until a failed statewide gambling referendum gave the house edge to Las Vegas.
I f you’re not a snowbird searching for a bucolic trailer park to pass the winter, there’s little reason to linger in Salome. A funky, forgotten hamlet of 1,690, it sits about 60 miles off the California border like a serene retiree bundled up against the desert winds. There are no department stores or tourist haunts, and absolutely nothing to suggest that Salome once briefly challenged Las Vegas as the gambling capital of the West.
Five years after folding, Jay Newton’s Beef Eaters lives on in the memories of Phoenicians. But how long will the barren building survive?
The Beef Eaters restaurant sits frozen in time along the information superhighway. Closed for years, the CenPho eatery’s old listing at azeats.com remains active, complete with a virtual tour where visitors see the semblance of a British dining hall: sprawling banquet rooms filled with high-backed leather chairs and booths, mahogany oak-paneled walls adorned with paintings from England in gilded gold frames, and a “King’s Den” with shiny crystal chandeliers and stately white upholstered walls offset by burgundy floral carpet. Pitched wood beam ceilings lend an airy feel to the rooms.
A former state legislator has written a book chronicling Scottsdale’s transformation from hick town to hip city.
Almost 70 years ago, a 12-year-old boy by the name of Paul R. Messinger moved to Scottsdale with his parents. He went to school and worked on a 20-acre family-owned dairy and poultry ranch on the corner of Indian School and Miller roads, dreaming of one day starting a business of his own.
“Back then, we grew up in an era when we felt that we could do anything,” Messinger says.
From maverick men to ceiling-shattering women, Arizona has no shortage of colorful characters that helped shape our great state.
Not your average temple-building Zoroastrian silver prospector, Charles Poston, a.k.a. the “Father of Arizona,” literally put Arizona on the map. The former California gold rusher relocated to the Southwest to explore the mineral potential of lands obtained from Mexico in 1853. Three years later, he secured funding to start the Sonora Mining and Exploration Company in the town of Tubac, located in what was then called the New Mexico Territory. Poston served as mayor, judge and treasurer of Tubac, which prospered as a silver mining outpost until Apache attacks forced its abandonment during the Civil War.