By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout: The Zona finally starts jackin' its game up to the minimum of what's expected from 21st-century party people by extending the drink curfew until 2 a.m. It's like the end of friggin' Prohibition, yo!
Granted, it's not like Gotham where you can slam back the firewater to 4 in the morning, and then keep going if the bar owner locks the door. But at least we're steppin' in time with the ballers in wild-ass cities like L.A., Seattle, San Diego, and, er, Salt Lake City. Yep, from this point on, Omaha, Nebraska (with its 1 a.m. cutoff), is officially P-town's bitch.
So on the initial night of AZ's later last call, the lezbot Avril Lavigne (Jett) and he of the Kremey innards (me) decide to hit the only club off the chain in the Phiddy on a Tuesday night, DJ Kevin Brown's Posh at Snottsdale's Suede. By the time we stroll past the doorman at 11 p.m., the spot is bumpin' with dimes and playas partying harder than the night shift guards at Abu Grab-Ass. The J-grrl and I get our drink on at the bar, then navigate over to a dance floor ringed by dark couches and banquettes, with illsters chillin' in the shadows. A promo chickie puts some New Orleans-style beads 'round our necks, and like magic this hot, blond shorty with a mouth on her like the late Sam Kinison asks me for one of those shiny strands of gold.
"What's in it for me?" I query.
"Look me up around Mardi Gras, and I might show you my boobs," she says, smiling.
"In my case, a pair in the bush beats some beads in my hand," I say, handing her a necklace. The bizz-atch's name is Jen Levi, a DJ by profession who sometimes works Posh, but not this night. Says she's from Tucson, tells me her age, then swears she'll kill me if I print it.
"Jeez, so sensitive," I comment.
"Don't put it in the interview, asshole," she growls. "Otherwise, it'll be a slow, slow, painful death."
"The way you describe it, it almost sounds like fun," I reply. "So as a DJ, do you get a lot of groupies?"
"Not at all," she grouses. "In fact, I originally got into DJing just to pick up hot dudes. But it doesn't work like that. Guy DJs pick up hot chicks. And girl DJs just intimidate every hot guy in the world to never talk to them."
"No hot guys, huh? What about 300 pounds of muscle and joy?" I ask hopefully.
She shoots me a look that says, "Is you crazy, nephew?" So Jett jumps in.
"Don't gross us out, Kreme. No one wants to imagine fat people having sex."
"Are you tasteful in what you write?" asks Levi, all of a sudden.
"I'm guessing from that comment that you've never read our column," I say.
"I'm leaving this town forever in two weeks, so do me some justice in your article," orders Ilsa the She Wolf.
"Oh, if only I could," I say, as she walks away.
We move on to Christine Garner, who's kicking it on the sidelines with her posse, sucking back a Grey Goose on the rocks. Garner, 30, is a genuinely friendly gal, athletic and lovely, who played volleyball for ASU and for the women's Olympic team for many years, and overseas as a professional.
"Were you really on the Olympic volleyball team?" asks the Jettster.
"Yeah, I played for them on and off for about six years," explains Garner, who is now in real estate. "I was an alternate to the '96 Olympics, though I never actually competed in the Olympic Games. Then from about '98 to '99, I played professionally in Europe, mostly northern Italy and Istanbul, Turkey."
"Indoor or outdoor?" inquires Jett.
"Indoor," answers the brunette beauty. "I also coached volleyball at ASU for about three and a half years when I got back."
"So indoors they don't get to wear those skimpy little Speedo bathing suits, do they?" wonders Jett, giving Garner the once-over, no doubt imagining her in same.
Garner laughs. "No, indoors you just have a regular uniform. It's only outdoors where it's appropriate. Though in Europe they wear little bikini bottoms with a jersey top."
"Cool," coos Jett, all googly-eyed.
"Pardon my perved-out bud, here," I say. "So how long have you been coming to Posh?"
"About six months now," she shouts over the progressive house thumping behind us. "I really enjoy this night because of the music, which is different than other nights at Suede. It is an offbeat night, but I think it's easier to socialize on a Tuesday. It's not as crowded, and there are a lot of down-to-earth people you can talk to."
We stumble into one of those down-to-earth types right after we bid Garner adieu. The cat's name is Tim, and he's just arrived in a black stretch limo, rented for Tim's pal's b-day. Tim, 28, is dressed casually in a white tee and jeans, and he explains this is his first time to Suede.