Red Bull Run

P-town's Pleasure Squad squeezes into Scottsdale's swank Six Lounge for a Satanic Red Sunday.

If Inferno were to begin accepting commercial endorsements, like NASCAR speed demons or them ho's at the Olympics, Red Bull and vodka would be the official drink of this column. Though the switch-hittin' Ciara of the PHX sometimes orders a vodka-tonic, the Kremester always asks for some Bull and hooch, and most often, the Jettster follows suit. Sucking on that particular cocktail is a little like smokin' trees sprinkled with nose candy. Okay, it ain't that good, but at least it's legal, and it gives you that two-way buzz of caffeine and alcohol.

Why, for a lifetime supply of Red Bull and Absolut, the J-girl and I would have our hineys tattooed with the Red Bull logo! (Or maybe just the J-girl, as long as I get to watch.) So when the Ying Yang Twins of P-town learned that the Scottsdale club Six ( had a Red Bull-sponsored industry night on Sundays called "Red," you know we were all over that like the King of Pop on a 12-year-old. Also, as we'd had luck with the last industry night we covered, Monday nights at ACME, we figured Six would be a safe bet for a Sunday evening.

When we roll on the Old Town lounge and restaurant about 11 p.m., there's already a line of mostly dudes waiting to gain entree. The hotties always get in without much fuss, of course, but the non-dimes and pole-waggers have to park it like it's not hot behind the velvet rope until the crowd capacity eases up. Of course, all the Kreme team has to do is flash our cards, and a little of the J-girl's flesh, and we're in like sin.

The place is packed tighter than Fat Joe's Fruit of the Loom. There are three sections, a room to the right of the long hallway entrance with a bar, couches, chairs and a pool table; a "bedroom" with a small, four-poster bed in the center, surrounded by tables and plush chairs; and a long main room with a bar running the length of it, and a raised area and DJ booth to the far right. Studly bartenders and security personnel as well as sultry waitresses wear gold 6 pins to indicate who owns 'em. According to general manager and partner Steve McDonald, Six is a magnet for sports stars such as members of the Arizona Cardinals and the Phoenix Suns. But why the name?

"We were looking for something short and easy to say," explains the super-buff McDonald. "We modeled the entire club around the theme. In the bathrooms, you'll see the letters MNO -- that's the number six on your telephone. Everywhere there are symbols or pictures like that to make you think. Like the sixth planet from the sun, or the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution. That way we use creativity to give it a little edge."

The crowd is urban, mixed-race, and for the most part Scottsdale-fly. Nearly everyone is young and beautiful, grooving as best they can in the crush to Top 40/hip-hop. Male-female ratio runs 50-50 to 60-40. My bisexual buddy and I hit the bar, start a tab, and snag a couple of vodka-Red Bulls at $5 a pop. We then circumambulate, with Jett sniffin' out the sausages this go-around.

"Now that's a good-lookin' man!" exclaims the AC/DC Aaliyah, her peepers glued to a black gent in a blue-striped shirt and jeans. Good eye, that Jett. Fella's name is Davon, and he just happens to be a male model who splits his time between Scottsdale and Chi-town. Says he's appeared in Essence, Ebony, and Jet.

"I'm just kickin' it tonight," Davon tells us, as Jett drools. "I like Scottsdale. I've got a place here, and one in Chi-town."

"So where are the ladies the loveliest?" wonders Jett, fishing for a compliment from the handsome, athletic-lookin' cat.

"The most-real ladies are out East," replies Davon, ignoring Jett's subtle flirtation. "I'm originally from New York. People are real there. If they don't like you, they ain't putting on some big façade for you. A lot of women out here are trying to be more than what they really are. Know what I mean?"

"Heh-heh," I say, chuckling. "Yeah, the men play that game, too. There are a lot of $30,000-a-year millionaires in the clubs."

Davon laughs. "There be a whole lot of them out here. [He means Arizona.] They act like they're all that, then you find out they be at the bar workin' or at a McDonald's somewhere."

"But as far as just looks go, how do these Scottsdale honeys compare to, say, Chi-town's?" I inquire, trying to encourage some good words for the Jettster.

"You see much more here throughout the year," answers Davon. "You don't have to worry about any big coats. You get to see what you're working with before you take it home with you. That's what me and my boys always say."

We ease on away from Davon, and I give the Jettster grief over striking out.

"Don't worry none about him," I say, feigning sympathy. "If you need a soldier to put it on you, like that Destiny's Child song says, I'm willing to do you a flavor, boo."

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