Finding it was like locating Beyoncé's boo-tay. Before the law changed to allow a 2 a.m. last call, those who wished to attend the B&T's soirees showed up at a particular nightclub around 1 a.m. where the caravan would decamp for that dingy den of iniquity. Certain citizens even received professionally printed "V.I.P." passes in their mailboxes, so there was no question that they were welcome.
More times than P. Diddy has diamonds, I was asked to attend the bi-weekly debauch, but only with the agreement that I never scribble about the on-tha-low bacchanal. Now, I may be just a whack-assed clubs columnist, but I'm still a reporter, yo. Even if I do go by the name Kreme. And if I can't write about it, what's the point? So I let it slide. After all, so many people had flapped their lips about it, I felt like I'd already gotten the grand tour.
I have to give props to the Black and Tan for outwitting the po-po for its nearly five years in existence, without hardly trying. I mean, the Gs who ran this establishment were about as discreet as scalpers at a Britney Spears concert. Not only was the Black and Tan listed on AZPunk.com for offering "free all-ages underground shows," but the popular online community MySpace.com had loads of references to it. Even one of the Black and Tan's security crew, a big bald dude by the name of Simon Rohrich, had posted photos from the club at the photo-sharing service Imageevent.com with his name and the title: "T&A at the Black and Tan." As this column goes to press, the naughty pics of partly-nekkid revelers remain there at http://imageevent.com/larjman/tandaatbandt.
I nominated the B&T for a Best of Phoenix award, slyly titled, "Best Worst Kept Secret." There was debate back and forth at New Times as to whether or not we should put it in, but ultimately we decided to because the B&T was about as hard to ignore as R. Kelly in a daycare center. I made sure only the initials and not the full name was used. And of course, we did not include the B&T's address, or the names of any of those associated with it. I expected the B&T-ers would dig the big-ups and the fact that we'd gone to extremes to honor them. Though they'd shied away from us covering their less-than-sub-rosa speakeasy, we didn't see any harm in this wink in their direction.
But soon after the Phat PHX best-of edition hit the stands, word on the street was that the Black and Tan was closing because of our BOP award. Tickets were distributed like the one you see here, stating that the last show at the "Black and Tan" was to be Saturday, October 16, "Thanks to the New Times." James "Uncle Fester" Bound, a longtime Black-and-Tan don, actually posted New Times' Best Of on his MySpace blog, cursed us for "outing" the Black and Tan, sputtering, "New Times is the Man, and they suck!! Tix for said event are available at the usual outlets." Well, first off, Jimbo, you can't out something that's already out. Secondly, we only used the initials "B&T," which could've meant "Bald and Tattooed," for all the friggin' squares knew. Anyway, hope you made out like a bandit hustlin' them drinks.
Simon Rohrich lambasted New Times in his MySpace page under the name "HyperGoon," wherein we see Rohrich dressed in full body armor, holding a broadsword. (Scary!) He states in his profile, "I work as a telecom technician during the day and a bouncer/private security at night." Previously, he related that he installs cable and stuff for Cox, that he has the hookup with Qwest, and that he can easily find out where one lives. Hey, take your best shot, Oswald! Check my man's feelings toward us New Times scribes: "My stomach turns at the thought of these people co-existing in my world. I consider them oxygen thieves. Humans who are so vile, I am insulted on a personal level, by the thought of sharing one part- per-billion oxygen molecules with them. Karma is a bitch."
So's stupidity and dumb-ass posturing, playa. But I guess you wouldn't be a doormat (uh, I mean, 'man') if you had much going on upstairs.
To reiterate for those lacking in brain cells (like Hypergoober), no one at New Times "outed" the Black and Tan. That's something Simon and Mr. Bound did better than we ever could. Damn, you practically drew a map right to your own door on this one. We meant no worry to the B&T, which is why we're only writing about it in full now that it's supposedly "closed." (Funny, if the B&T's Godfathers were so worried about post-BOP security, why one more night of revelry?) In fact, if I were a wagering man, I'd bet big scrilla that the B&T will never die. Like a bad rug merchant, it'll probably fake going out of business, only to reopen later with a different name or address.
So for those who wanna go, just keep asking around. Chances are the "new B&T" will be as big a secret as the first.
Now that that's done, I can tell you all about buying panties at Scottsdale's Dirty Dogg Saloon.
If you've never been, the Dirty Dogg's a little like Coyote Ugly West in that the bartenders are hot chicks who like to dance on the bar and throw their bras and panties up into the rafters. There are dimes a-plenty in the crowd, too, and on Wednesday nights, these freak-a-leeks are encouraged to rip off their bras in a wet T-shirt contest that's now legend. Winner of the contest earns a nice roll of dolo, while runners-up receive tips, free drinks and a Dirty Dogg Saloon wifebeater. So if you see some bee-ahtch strolling down the supermarket aisle in one, that's how she got it, nephew.
While we knew all about the hump-day festivities, the Jettster and I landed there on a recent Thursday night because the country/western bar we hit first was lame-o. So we're cruising around north Snottsdale, creepin' while you're sleepin', when we run across the back-end of the DDS with a shit-load of fine-assed motorcycles out front. All that chrome for eye-candy is like a neon sign that says "The Party's Here, Yo!" So we ease the Krememobile into the parking lot and head inside for some pre-TGIF boozing.
Alas, there's no nudity at the DDS, but there is a big ol' buffalo head on the wall and enough lingerie in the ceiling to fill a Victoria's Secret store. Manager Stacy Freiberg is in the corner, playing DJ and dropping plenty of hard-rock and Top-40 tracks, while two of her gals in short-shorts and wifebeaters are giving an audience of doo-ragged bikers a show. These are some hard-lookin' hombres, many with a bike club called the Weasels, and when I see them, I'm thinking I may have to dance on the bar to the tune of "Tequila" like Pee-Wee Herman did in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure.
"Cool," says Jett. "This is my kinda place!"
"Yeah, all you need is a doo-rag and a jacket and you'd fit right in," I crack. But before we can buttonhole an Easy Rider, we bump into a tall, busty brunette named Andie, who's just about to jump on the bar for a spin.
"I just came back to Phoenix after spending a year back home in Iowa," says Andie, 23, bustin' some moves to an Eminem song that just came on. "I'm a cowgirl. I grew up on a farm, but like they say, you can't go home again."
"You're a cowgirl? But you groove to Slim Shady?"
"I love country music, but I also really like Eminem and Nelly," says the luscious Andie. "But I'm a dance teacher, and they've got the beat."
By this time, Jett's already befriended the entire Weasels biker club, which wants to adopt or eat her, I'm not sure which. We all pile outside, and they tell me the specs on their Harleys, all of which goes straight over our heads. Average cost of these babies, anywhere from $20K to $40K.
"So what do you do to afford this big hunk o' steel?" asks Jett, running her hand along the exterior of one fella's hog.
"I own a car dealership," explains Adam Goldring, a good-lookin' bloke with short hair. "I own Thrifty Car sales in Mesa. It's a very lucrative business to be in, but busy. When you're there, you're there. And when you're not there, you're there."
Seems whether they're Weasels or not, all the steel horsemen at the DDS are actually very successful cats. Check it: There's Fred Cohen, President of PSI, Packaging Supplies Inc; Kenny Folz, who builds high-end horse stalls for big-shots; a goateed dude named "Lucky" who by day deals in real-estate; and so on.
"We all like to ride, that's the main thing," explains Cohen, a dark-haired Weasel in a sleeveless blue-jean jacket. "But we're also mostly all businessmen."
After showing off their two-wheeled crotch-rockets to the J-grrl and I, some of the bikers bounce, heading out to a casino, while the others pile back inside. On our way back in, we run into the hottest dancer on the bar that night, Amy from Hawaii, who has short black hair and a smokin' bod. She'd been up there in a turquoise bra and panties, and naturally, the L-word Bijou Phillips has had her eyes on them undies.
"Do guys ever offer to buy your panties?" asks Jett coyly.
"Occasionally," laughs Amy. "It's been known to happen."
"So if someone were to offer you, say, $20 for the ones you have on, would you sell 'em? "
"In a second," says the bootylicious one.
"You've got a deal then," says the JoJo of P-town. Without even removing her loose shorts, Amy's got them off and they're in Jett's hand. "Pay the lady, Kreme. I seem to have forgotten my purse."
