By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Hey, I've always said that good things come in pairs, right?
So I was wrong. I went to the recent grand opening (oy--finally!) of the Valley's third Hooters restaurant. Or is it a sports bar? Or maybe just a place where a man can relax with his buddies, down a brew, scope out the game and be served by a gaggle of fine-looking gals in skimpy outfits. Whatever it is, it's sure the way things ought to be, right?
Best of all, the new Hooters came to roost on Mill Avenue in the heart of Tempe--right by my house--so when the little woman's bleaching my shorts down at the Laundromat, I'll have someplace to go. And it ain't just me who's looking for something worthwhile to do on that pansy-ass Mill Ave.
Look, they've got an "art" theatre where they show movies that aren't even in English, a cookie store, a frozen yogurt shop, a place that sells lotions (and I'm not the kinda guy who needs any lotions, dig?), plus some furniture store where all the stuff is made out of old slabs of wood and bent pieces of metal. And what if you're hungry? I mean, the food's pretty good at Jack in the Box, but what the hell is a guy supposed to look at? Those pimply dudes behind the counter?
So that's why my hat is off to the forward-thinking members of the Tempe City Council who awarded Hooters a liquor license, and enabled the place to get built. Thank Jesus in heaven they didn't listen to that handful of screechy, uptight feminists who thought good ol' Hooters would somehow demean women. What a load of malarkey! If anything, it lets girls show off what God gave 'em, the way He made 'em for us to see--right, guys?
Now, don't get me wrong. Some of these sweet little things are thinkers. Plenty of 'em are even in college over at ASU, and you know they don't let in just any broad with blond hair, a good figure and a bright-red '95 Bronco. In fact, "The Hooters Saga" (on the back of every menu) says, "Don't be surprised if you look around and see students hard at work here studying for their bachelor's degree in Hooters 101--the study of Poultry in Motion." One honey I talked to told me she was studying law. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court already!
Of course, if all you want is to hang out with stone cold foxes, there've always been full-on skin joints like Bourbon Street Circus. But they cost too darn much. Not only is it like five bucks for a table dance, but, jeez, it's like the women are in control. Makes a guy nervous. I prefer a place where I tip if and when I want to.
Besides, what's wrong with a little something left to the imagination? I'm certainly sensitive enough to appreciate a classier display of feminine beauty than what's offered at those strip bars.
Which brings me back to my first encounter with Hooters.
It was in the July '86 issue of Playboy; the Playmate of the Month was one Lynn Austin (35/24/35!!), who worked at a Florida Hooters. Not only was she a babe, but there was a picture of her talking to George Brett. He's a really good baseball player, so I figure Lynn musta been cool. I remember checking out her interests penned in her own rounded, sexy cursive--in the Playmate Data Sheet (a virtual Rosetta stone for those of us who care enough to find out what makes a woman tick).
Ambitions: "Every day is a new ambition. Hey, maybe I'll be a pilot . . . or a florist . . . or a star.
Turn-ons: Men's buns, expensive cologne, green eyes . . . light beer and cheese popcorn (together).
Then last April, I was in the liquor store picking up a six of Pabst when I glanced at the rack of Playboys. Right there on the cover was a bombshell in a Hooters outfit, and next to her it said, "Today's Special! The Girls of Hooters." Sure enough, there were all these pictures of girls inside, and they worked at Hooters. Lordy! I could describe what these girls were wearing, but I'm no Shakespeare. Here's what the pros at Playboy said about the official Hooters costume: "The color orange screams for attention. It's one of the brightest, most intense colors in the spectrum. It's almost combustible. Fire is orange. And orange is the color of the silky, micro gym shorts worn by the Hooters girls. Stare long enough and that orange will burn a hole right through your gray matter. Top off those shorts with a tight, white tee shirt (usually knotted in the back to emphasize the chest and bare midriff), and the results are death by Creamsicle."
The only thing they left out are the brown support hose and white running shoes that the girls wear. You know something, I really think those thick, industrial-strength hose are a smart touch. They make the girls seem so, well, real.