By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Jett eyeballs the hiney like an alkie at a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, then tosses her head. "Well, it is called Hot Pink!, Einstein," she spits. "Did you think they were referring to the color of Tiffe Fermaint's spring line?"
"Hey, hot dogs are pink, too," I snark. "But I can see you're still fond of tacos, despite protests to the contrary."
"Back in this club's DJ Nimh days, I used to get more culo than a barstool," she sighs. "Oh, well, hold my purse, lard ass, and order me a vodka-tonic. I need to lose some water weight before we get crackin'."
The J-unit heads for the ladies' loo, and I'm left holding her Louis Vuitton knockoff, so I start riflin' through it, searchin' for scrilla. See, a few things have changed at ye ole Hot Pink! since Her Skeeziness and I first covered it two years ago ("Hot Pink Perdition," February 19, 2004). Sure, they still draw a decent crowd on a Friday night, and they still got some hot breezies struttin' about. But the drinks are more expensive, at least a coupla bucks more, and that whole electroclash thing has largely gone the way of the Macarena. The scene's more indie band/dance rock/Britpoppy now, with some '80s flava remaining.
Honestly, the edge has shifted from Hot Pink! to Shake! on Saturdays at The Rogue, with smaller, divier places drawing some of the crowd HP once had: gutter-licious holes such as the Palo Verde, and even Ky's. HP also competes for clubbers with Friday night's Tranzylvania, which manages to reach beyond the borders of its dark trance-gothiness. But Hot Pink!'s harder to kill than Osama bin Laden, even with founder DJ Nimh spinning mostly at the Hot Pink! he's established at this spot Scenic on New York's Lower East Side, and jetting back to the desert version when he can. In addition, P-town's Hot Pink! has survived a change in the venue's ownership and name (what once was Boom now is Karamba), as well as a fresh coat of paint and a slight upgrade to the interior.
The Jettster and I decided to drop by after bumping into HP resident DJ Dirty Dave over at the Palo Verde recently. He invited us out for the DVD release shindig for the Limey band Bloc Party -- which is playing on the TV screens as I rummage through the Jettster's pocketbook -- and because ex-HP resident DJ Sleazy Sean will be hitting the decks tonight. In any case, as I dump everything in Jett's bag onto the bar, this tall tranny in red approaches me from behind.
"Condoms, chewing gum, crack pipe, tampons," I say as I pull each from the J-girl's Black Hole of Calcutta. "Jesus, there's everything in here but money."
"Love your bag, honey," I hear an unnaturally high-pitched voice twitter. "Wherever did you get it?"
"That ho Nicole Richie's last yard sale," I quip, turning around to see what looks like John Leguizamo in drag. "Whoa, Nelly! I mean, uh, hey, how ya doin'? My name's Kreme. And yours?"
"Erica Cocaine Nosejob," she replies. "You could say I'm one of the party favors."
"So, er, Miss Nosejob, what're you doin' here tonight?"
"I just stopped by for a minute," she confesses. "I'm trying to get a job with this gay bar Cruisin' 7th, and I have to go talk to someone there about it. I'll be leaving after I finish my drink and, um, powder my nose a bit."
"What kind of job do you wanna get with them?" I wonder.
"I want to bring some life to the little cabaret that's going on there," she tells me.
"Ah, you're a performer," I observe. "So, do you sing or dance?"
"I do what I do best," she replies with arched eyebrow. "Three guesses what that is. Guys here in Arizona love me. They're just crazy about trannies."
"Nutty, why do you think straight guys go for you?" I query.
"That's the thing with men," she confides. "When they get horny, it's any port in a storm, baby."
Erica's gotta scoot, so I wish her well with air kisses, and soon Jett's back staring at the contents of her purse on the bar.
"What the fu--?" she gripes. "Kreme, where's my drink?"
"On its way, my Queen." I signal to the barkeep for a round as P-town's Eliza Dushku shovels her crap back into her clutch. I pay the man for our drinks, and placate Jett by telling her I'd been hunting for lip balm.
Cocktails in hand, we head to the dance floor, which is not nearly as dark, scummy and loud as I recall from two years ago. However, there are still chicks and shirtless dudes climbing up on the rise to grind on the infamous dance pole, and there are still couples on the fringes -- same sex and otherwise -- swapping saliva. One sad note: The walled-in alcove to the far right of the danceteria has been effectively removed, eliminating the potential for free-form frottage and the occasional sub rosa hand-job.