By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
By Pete Kotz
By Monica Alonzo
By New Times
So I roll up on the Jettster's crib to pick her up for another night of pimpin' in tha PHX, and I find her parked on the couch in her raggedy jammies, eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and watching The Real World: Austin.
"Hey, Kreme," she mutters, scratching her backside after opening the door for me and resuming her position in front of the tube. "I'm not ready yet."
"Oh, you're ready -- 'bout ready to get fired," I growl. "Didn't we say we'd leave at 10 so we could hit Mickey's Hangover before 10:30?"
"Yeah," she replies, peepers Krazy Glued to the idiot box. "But I've gotta finish watching The Real World. My roommate TiVo'd it for me."
"Listen, beeahtch," I tell her. "Be ready in 10 minutes, or you'll be watching The Real World with my foot in your ass. Anyway, there's just as much drama over at Mickey's as there is with those seven dorks in Austin."
Reluctantly, the J-unit rises to comply. But as she switches from PJs to her hoochie-mama ho-stroll uniform, I wonder if the producers of MTV's hit series have ever visited Scottsdale, and especially Mickey's at 4312 North Brown Avenue, near Fifth Avenue and Drinkwater Boulevard. Every night at that place, with its That '70s Show decor, its sea of mismatched, thrift-store couches and chairs, and its cast of characters -- skeezers, hotties, male sluts, bikers, rockers, millionaire wanna-bes and assorted dipsomaniacs -- could easily match all the pseudo-action on that Gen Y General Hospital. For nearly five years, Mickey's has been Snottsdale's grungy standby, the place you can go when your cleanest shirt sports a mustard stain. The spot where you can suck face with that cheezy bit of tail you met over at Martini Ranch, and no one will pay any attention to you. The bar where every dude's Johnny Knoxville in a Schlitz tee shirt and every chica's Jessica Simpson in Daisy Dukes, at least in their minds' eyes.
It's Mickey's Wednesday night special that the J-girl and I are locked on like a laser beam: $2 you-call-its, save for the primo hooch. See, the bi-Taryn Manning and I are all about stretching that per diem out like Mr. Fantastic, ya feel me? Of course, we'd hit the Mickey Way before, but for whatever reason, never wrote it up. So tonight's the night to finally take a bite out of that funky candy bar, and with Jett dressed and the Impala revved, it's a matter of minutes before we're parking the whip in Mickey's lot, strollin' through the front patio crowded with picnic tables and couches, and into the bar to snag a pint of Stella Artois pour moi, and a vodka-cranberry for the Jettster.
Almost immediately, we strike up a confabulation with these three studs, named Boot, Andy and Randy. Boot's a chubby cat with a beard. Andy's tall with shaggy hair. Randy's a bit shorter, thin, wearing a pro-lezbo tee of two chicks holding hands. Apparently, the boys are out celebrating the fact that randy Randy engaged in some ménage à trois action the night before.
"I had a threesome with these two hot girls," brags The Randy One. "I saw this tee shirt in the mall today and I had to buy it in honor of the occasion."
"Tell us how you swung the three-way, Ran-day," purrs Jett.
"It was easy. I was drunk. They were drunk, and they invited me to go swimming with them."
"Sweet," says the Jettster, suitably impressed. "Game recognizes game. But for the sake of El Gordo here, tell us what a man must do to satisfy two women at one go."
"The key is you have to get really drunk so you can fuck all night," relates Raunchy Randy. "Because it does take a long time."
"Don't bathe," I tell him. "The scent will attract other chicks."
"I haven't," Randy confides. We smell what he means.
Seems like Randy and Jett are about to leave in search of another ho, when the bearded Boot changes the subject, and informs us that both Andy and Randy are in almost-famous bands. Andy's the guitarist for My Darling Murder (www.mydarlingmurder.com), and Randy's the lead singer for a band called Rosebud.
We decide to leave these playas be and roam about the place, eventually ending back on the patio, where we meet three hella-fine ladies enjoying libations at one of the picnic tables: Cheryl, Nicole and Sarah. Nicole's a cute brunette, but she's with boyfriend and disappears quickly. Cheryl and Sarah, on the other hand, are up to no good, and ready to take full advantage of the $2 you-call-its, Cheryl with buckets of sex on the beach and Sarah with her amaretto sours. Jett and Sarah know each other from somewhere and are soon yammering away, while Cheryl and I conversate. Cheryl's probably the hottest lady in Mickey's tonight, a tall, statuesque blonde with a pretty face. She's incredibly down-to-earth and friendly.
"Are you a model?" I have to ask. "You certainly have the looks for it."
"No, I'm a bartender/server at the Hilton, but thanks, though," she says, smiling. "I've got to be up at six o'clock to do the server part of my job, for breakfast. I guess I'll just have to be hung over tomorrow."