By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
"Happy '06, Kreme," squeals the Jettster into my earpiece. "I want you to be the first to know that I've sworn off lesbian love for my New Year's resolution. Women are just too much drama. From here on out, I'm all about the pole waggers. They're so easy by comparison."
"Gee, thanks for sharing," I snark. "I'll alert the local TV news that your Petri dish privates are back on the het market."
"Not that I won't do a lil' same-sex flirtin' now and then," explains the J-unit. "Or entertain the possibility of a ménage. But you can tell the public I'm at least 80 percent straight, er, most of the time."
"Anything else?" I ask, annoyed. "You just interrupted an intense round of toenail clipping."
"I thought you wanted to hit the TeeRoy and Donkey show tonight at the Palo Verde," she responds. "It should be poppin' by 11 p.m., and I'm ready to check me out some hot boys."
Yep, believe it or else, the J-dawg is as right as a Republican wing-nut when the moon's full. The Palo Verde Lounge, the legendary Tempe dive bar at 1015 West Broadway Road that's as funky as Allen Iverson's dirty socks after a week of fermentation, has suddenly become the next Rogue. That is, as the Rogue flipped the script on Saturday nights and went from punk pool hall to the stompin' ground of William Fucking Reed and star-tender Katie Rose with Shake!, so the PV is doing something similar by bringing a chill vibe to hump night with the TeeRoy and Donkey show -- TeeRoy being the local fashionista whose work and personality have a hard-core following among the twentysomethings, and "Donkey" being his roommate Jared Donkersley.
Seems sexpot rocker Rose, formerly of the pop-tart posse Hell on Heels and now with a band called The Nightshift, gets credit for the concept. Rose slings drinks at the PV on Wednesdays with her pals, bartenders Dave and Eric, and her idea was to bring in someone with charisma, though not a professional needle-dropper. TeeRoy was tapped, and though he'd never spun wax before, he was soon turning on his extensive network of pals, fans and party peoples to the no-cover, cheap-drink appeal of the PV. Three months later, the PV is the place to be on a Wednesday eve for the crowd of coolios who elbow their way in there to shoot pool, get faded and listen to TeeRoy and Donkersley's mix of classic and underground rock.
"I do a lot of traveling, and I take note of what's goin' on in SF and NYC," the red-headed Rose told us in the wee hours of Thursday morn, after everyone had cleared out. "Like, go to SF on a Wednesday and there are about five or more spots that are bangin'. I just want things to be fun in Phoenix, too, so that's when I started talking to Dave about doing something here.
"We didn't want to hire someone who was Mr. DJ About Town," she continues. "We wanted someone who we believed in, who'd help build the night with us. Someone who had good taste in music, but didn't have a big ego. That's why we thought of TeeRoy, who's a local designer and is pretty popular."
It probably didn't hurt that there've been a few changes since the last time the Jettster and I wallowed up to the PV's well back in '04 ("Motley Crew," August 26, 2004). There are plenty of characters swilling PBRs and shooting the shit, still, but the rowdy skinhead faction has looong been banished back to their trailer-trash hideouts. And last year, after 24 years of ownership, David Eng sold the business to former bouncer/bartender Chuck Marthaler, who has vowed to keep this inebriation station open and out of the greedy hands of developers who'd love to pave PV paradise and put up a parking lot.
This night, I'm the first on the scene as usual, with the newly man-happy Jett taking her sweet freakin' time to arrive. An hour before midnight, and the joint's jumpin', though it's more of a hang than a dance situation. Everyone's very convivial, and as I order up a Crown 'n' Coke, my current libation of choice, I strike up a confab with this huge dood named Rikki X, who's prolly a few ounces shy of my poundage and is busy crackin' open cans of suds as fast as Dave 'n' Eric can serve 'em up.