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We decide to explore the scene upstairs, so we leave Harris talkin' to two fine squalies and perambulate over to a curved staircase so narrow that this 300-pound Ali G felt like Lil' Kim must feel behind bars -- ready to bust out! Out on the deck, the party's pumpin' with DJ Fresko droppin' everything from D4L's "Laffy Taffy" and Nina Sky's "Move Your Body" to Trina's "Da Baddest Bitch" and Notorious B.I.G.'s "Going Back to Cali." P-town's switch-hittin' Mariah Carey almost immediately spies this boy she'd like to make her toy, a handsome young gent by the name of Clay Slim, banker by day, aspiring comedian and emcee by night.
"Everyone tells me I've got enough charisma to go into acting," confides Clay, who's imbibing a little Courvoisier on the rocks. "But you know what? I'm in Arizona, and I don't think I'll leave. I'll probably die here."
"No ambition to head west to La-La Land?" I ask.
1020 N. 54th St.
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"I don't think so," he replies. "I'm like those people who say they're from New York or Chicago, except I'm from Phoenix."
"So where have you performed around town?" inquires Jett, getting all kittenish on him.
"Spots like Jackson's on 3rd, CBNC, Hollywood Alley," Clay responds. "I've done joints out of town, too. Like over at the Laugh Factory in L.A. I kinda bombed, but hey, it was practice. I'll be performing here, actually, New Year's Eve. And you have got to come," he insists, looking deep into the Jettster's peepers.
"Will you write some rhymes for me?" she asks, batting her eyes.
"Oh, hell yeah," he promises, cozying up next to her.
"I'm way ahead of you, playboy," I tell him. "In fact, I penned this ditty just the other day: 'There once was a ho from Ahwatukee, whose carpet smelled like fresh . . .'"
"Hush up, Kreme!" cries the J-unit before I can get any farther in my poetry. "You better get me another drink right now before I turn Tina on your Ike Turner ass."
I know when I'm not wanted, so I ease over to the bar and order up a Ketel One with Red Bull for me and a Grand Marnier for the Jettster. That's when I bump into this tall, sweet honey Michelle who relates that she's a dancer at the Vegas-style Penthouse Club in Phoenix.
"I love that place," I tell this magnificent belle Michelle. "We did a column on it back in June. Never thought I'd get Jett outta there."
"I remember that article!" asserts the dime-piece dollar-ballerina. "But you came on my night off. I was so bummed that I wasn't working that night. And you spoke to my sweetheart, who goes by Hollywood Babylon. She's so hot."
"So I'm curious, what do you ladies do when it's an unusually slow night?" I inquire.
"We usually give each other lap dances," she says, smiling coyly. "Sometimes it's just for kicks. Other times, you could call it foreplay."
Michelle's in the house tonight with some friends and her fiancé Ricky, a handsome dude in a Hawaiian-style shirt that sports the likeness of Bettie Page. Ol' Ricky is practically the luckiest dude on the planet, and doesn't mind it when his lady gets frisky with other femmes. In fact, prior to the evening's close, Michelle will be nuzzling this other hottie Candie after they both do some Coyote Ugly-style booty-shakin' atop the bar.
I excuse myself so I can transport Jett's drink to the queen herself, who I find is now conversing with this attractive couple Michelle (yes, another one) and Brad. They're explaining how they found romance in the unlikeliest of places, on MySpace.com, to be precise.
"Well, my ex-boyfriend and I were talking about getting back together, but then one day I found this girl in his bed," explains Michelle. "Later I was on MySpace checking out my ex's profile, when I saw that girl's picture. So I was checking out her profile, and then I saw Brad's picture on hers, and we started talking online."
"Basically, my friend slept with her boyfriend," says studly Brad, trying to make the story clearer.
"Does this happen often, chicks e-mailing you on MySpace?" Jett asks Brad.
"Sure, sometimes you get random messages," explains Brad. "I was skeptical of the whole MySpace thing at first, but once you start, you can't stop."
"Hmmm," the light bulb goes on over Jett's noggin. "Kreme, I think we need to get one of those MySpace pages for Inferno, so I can hook up, er, so we -- yeah, we can make contacts."
"Jett, you already make more contacts than a flat-backer at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch," I crack. "If you make any more 'contacts,' I'll have to get you a tee shirt with the golden arches on it."
"Like Mickey D's? Why's that?" she asks.
"You know," I snort. "So beneath 'em, it can read, 'Over one billion served.'"