Doggystyle, Beeahtch!

It's G's up, ho's down at the season's illest event, Snoop Dogg at Cricket Pavilion

"Take a hit off this Indo, Kreme," Snoop Dogg advises, passing me a spliff the size of a Subway sandwich. "One toke'll give you Chinese eyes, nephew."

I grab the fatty and inhale 'til the cherry's blazin'. My lungs feel like that cherry looks, but I'm doin' my Kremealicious best to represent the 602 and not choke before the Doggfather. I pass the spliff back to Snoop and hold on for as long as I can before exhaling, breathing out a 30-second stream of smoke when I do.

We're inside Snoop's double-wide, city-block-long tour bus, not long after his bomb-ass show at the Cricket Pavilion with The Game on May 19. My eyelids feel like they're made of lead, and I've forgotten all the questions I'd prepared for my interview with Snoop. A hella-fine dime with a butta pecan complexion, wearing nothing but a thong, serves us Tanqueray cocktails and Funyuns, which we munch on while watching a bootleg copy of Revenge of the Sith on a wall-size TV. A phone rings, and the squalie picks it up.

"They want you upstairs, Snoop," she informs him, setting the phone back in its cradle.

"C'mon, Kreme, time to get busy," he tells me. I follow him up a narrow flight of stairs to this land yacht's roof, where there's a shallow swimming pool, illuminated from below. In and around the pool are 20 or so nekkid squirrels of all ethnicities and colors who squeal as soon as they see us.

"At ease, ladies," the Top Dogg orders. "I want you chiquitas to take good care of my homie Kreme here while I watch the rest of my movie." Snoop turns to me. "After you're finished with these bitches, come back downstairs and let's talk about you joining the Dogg Pound. I could use a hustla like you to direct my next porno flick for Larry Flynt."

"Kreme! Kreme!" screeches Jett, shaking me. "What the fuck's the matter with you?"

"Who? What? Where?" I blurt, startled out of my daydream.

"The concert's nearly over, lard ass," squawks the skeeza. "We gotta bounce before we get stuck in the parking lot all night."

Leave it to the J-unit to perform orgy-interruptus before I'd had the chance to hop in that imaginary pile of womanflesh. I must've dazed out 10 minutes earlier, while Snoop was leading a capacity crowd at Cricket in a sing-along to "Gin and Juice" from his 1993 Doggystyle album. As usual, P-town's Tera Patrick ruined my chances of getting some boo-tay, even if it was all in my mind . . .

"Chill, girl," I tell the muff-and-stick-addicted shorty. "This is the first time I've ever seen Snoopafella, and I'm lovin' every minute of it."

Jett grumbles and sits back down. I don't know what her problemo is. We've got awesome seats right in front of the stage, there's hot coochie everywhere, Snoop's on with his whole crew -- Daz, Kurupt, his band the Snoopadelics, and a gaggle of fly brizzles -- and he's singing all the good shit from back in the day as well as new stuff off his latest CD, R&G (Rhythm & Gangsta): The Masterpiece. The weather's nice, not too hot, and there's a mushroom cloud of chronic smoke hanging over the pavilion so potent that old folks in Sun City are probably copping a contact high from it. So what's the rush?

Snoop's concert lives up to the legend. A 20-foot-tall banner behind him reads "Tales From the Crip Side," and true to his gang affiliation, the DoggStar wears a baggy, dark-blue jumpsuit made from the same pattern you see on those doo-rags O.G.'s used to wear in their hip pockets back in the day. Around his neck is a platinum necklace with a medallion in the shape of a pistol, paved in diamonds. His microphone is decked out Liberace-style with rhinestones, and on the stage near the band, tall rows of potted cannabis are laid out.

Snoop and all his people onstage with him are smokin' trees, and he doesn't miss a chance to encourage his fans to do likewise, leading them in chants of "sticky-icky" and "smoke weed." It's funny watching the Cricket security come around and randomly make revelers in the crowd extinguish their joints. As soon as they're gone, folks light right back up.

On the big screens on either side of the stage, interludes between songs are broken up by what looks like a live feed from "WBALLZ 187.4," a fictitious gangsta radio station with ho's drinkin' Coronas and flashing their tit-tays. Snoop and the DPG (Dogg Pound Gangstas) rip into everything from "187," "Nuthin' but a G Thang" and "Who Am I (What's My Name?)" to "Bitch Please," 50 Cent's "P.I.M.P.," and "2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted," dedicated to Tupac. Old-school pimp-legend Bishop Don "Magic" Juan and Snoop's Uncle June Bug dance with the ladies onstage and egg on the crowd. At one point, the lights go down, then back up to reveal Snoop in a four-poster bed with two bitches in lingerie. Later, Snoop asks the chicks in the audience about what underwear they're wearing, if any, while vocalist J. Black launches into "Fresh Pair of Panties On," from Rhythm & Gangsta.

By comparison to the Top Dogg's performance, The Game's opening set was weak, with Game constantly interrupting his own tracks, in various attempts to get the crowd amped. He seemed handicapped by the fact that some of his best songs, like "Hate It or Love It" and "How We Do," feature 50 Cent, an unwelcome reminder of Game's recent, nasty divorce from G-Unit.

Still, I was feelin' the fact that The Game was wearing a Suns jersey when he came out, which he later ripped off and threw into the crowd. Also, Game's tribute to a string of Afro-American and hip-hop heroes in "Dreams" was truly moving. Big ups to Game for some thoughtful, socially conscious lyrics.

In the pause between the Game and Snoop sets, the AC/DC Kelly Carlson and I step to the concessions for some frozen likker drinks and a bag full of kettle corn.

"My throat's sore," Jett whines. "I need something cold to drink."

"Give her a penis colada," I tell the old lady at the bar booth, slappin' down a Jackson. "Margarita with salt for me."

That's when two of the sweetest honeys in the house step up beside us to order some beverages: Christa and Nicole, who drove out from Scottsdale for the show. Christa is a tall, light-skinned piece of eye candy with an onion that has a pack of studs following her around. Nicole is smaller, and darker, the color of milk-chocolate Hershey's kisses. So you know the J-girl and I have to strike up a confab.

"Who're y'all here to see -- The Game or Snoop Dogg?" I ask.

"The Game," announces Nicole. "Snoop? That's from when I was like 14. The Game was lookin' good up there. Kinda ignorant, but sexy."

"You find ignorance sexy?" questions Jett of the curvaceous Christa.

"She does, not me," insists Christa. "I like 'em with a little more sophistication."

"A little more Scottsdale?"

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," says Christa. "But at least some education."

"Now there's something you wouldn't understand, Jett: standards," I blurt at J-Doggy-Dawg.

"Yeah, but if I had them, I wouldn't be hangin' with you, dorkus," she spits back, then switches gears. "Damn, check out that blonde over at the other bar booth with the fake boobs!"

"Good eye, kemosabe. Like they said on 9/11, 'Let's roll!'"

The midriff-baring blonde is with a brunette pal, and though she doesn't look quite as good as she did 40 feet away, she's still not bad, and neither is her pal. The brunette's name is Corey Two-Eagle. The blonde's, Angie Marton.

"I'm in this month's Playboy for this spread they're calling 'Real Desperate Housewives,'" explains Marton.

"Are you nude in it?" gulps the Jettster.

"Yes, I am," Marton explains. "I found out about the photo shoot, and since I'm a mom in Chandler, I figured I'd ride on the popularity of the whole Desperate Housewives phenomenon. I sent my photos via e-mail, and they called me the next day."

"Did you get to party with Hef at the mansion?" I query as the J-unit slobbers all over herself.

"I didn't," she replies. "I had a bikini contest to go to instead, but I'm glad I went to the contest because I won $5,000."

"You here for The Game or Snoop?"

"The Game. Snoop's a little too old for me. The Game's my age, and he's hot!" declares Marton, the MILF.

"He certainly does his push-ups," sighs the Jettster. "Too bad we can't inspire Belly Boy here to do the same."

"I can do 50 push-ups a day, Jett," I crack. "As long as you're beneath me."

Snoop's about to start up his ass-kicking set when we run into this handsome couple, Lyracist, an MC out of Maryvale, and his beautiful lady friend, Farah. Farah's got her Abercrombie and Fitch colla popped, and confides that she's a biochem major at ASU. Lyracist, 25, relates that he's been chasin' fame in the rap game since he was 15, and he's just now been working with a new manager in L.A.

"Things are finally starting to pay off for me and my crew," he explains. "In fact, my boy Atllas has got his album Hunger or Starvation droppin' Tuesday the 31st, so everyone cop that who's readin' this. Everybody out here needs to support everybody else. Then hopefully, one day, there'll be an Arizona cat out there on stage we're all coming to see."

"Hey, Kreme, come on," cries Jett, nudging me. "Snoop's about to start."

We say goodbye to Lyracist and Farah and head over to watch the aforementioned Snoop set. You never know. Even if I don't get to join the Doggfather's crew, maybe Lyracist will need someone to watch over his harem when he blows up. Stranger things have happened, my nizzles.

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