By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
The J-Unit and I require a beverage, so we head for the bar and snag me a Crown-'n'-Coke and her a vodka-tonic. Nearby, we bump into that funky, bearded mixmaster DJ Melo, who tells us he's a fan of the Jettster's bi-liciousness. We kick it with Melo for a minute, and Jett quizzes him on the same issue of wax versus everything electronic.
"I used to prefer vinyl," he states. "But now you can loop on CDs and all that good stuff. I still play records, but I download CDs for free, and buy the shit I really like. Problem is, I don't have gigs where I get to play the shit I really like."
"Prolly a lot of good DJs have the same dilemma," I chime. "Just because you like it, doesn't mean the club will be feelin' it."
"Hey, I've got a request. Can you put 'Smello' in there somewhere for me?" he asks, smiling. "It's kind of an inside joke with my friends."
"Smello?" wonders the Jettster. "What, did someone smell your dirty socks or somethin'?"
"Yeah, my smelly toes," he says, laughing. "You want a whiff?"
"Peee-yew!" yells the Jettster, pinching her proboscis. "No way. Let's go, Kreme, before he takes his shoes off."
I tell Smello to keep it grimy, though I doubt he'll have a problem doing that. We make a tour of C&W's innards, and observe all the honeys bumpin' to the cumbia, sometimes with an hombre, but more often with each other. Everyone's got Mardi Gras beads 'round their necks, as that's the eve's theme. Jett's jonesing for another vodka-T, so I tell her I'll buy if she'll fly, and she disappears with my scrilla.
Next to me happen to be one smokin' pair of señoritas, blonde Betty and voluptuous Ventura the brunette. Normally I'd have to scrape Jett off these two like fungus off my bathtub, but being that I'm presently all alone, I figure I can have a civilized confab with these cuties.
"You lovelies been to these Pan Dulce events before?" I start out after the intros.
"Yes," replies Ventura, the "Ace" of Hearts (get it?). "They're the bomb! They always bring a new crowd out with each event. It's the true party people who show up."
"So do you ladies give out digits when you're here? Or do you just blow all the guys off?"
"No, we give the digits," says the sultry Ventura. "But you have to be a gentleman, and be willing to dance."
"We can hang here, but they still have to ask me out on a real date," Betty adds. "Take me out to dinner. Sweep me off my feet."
"So what are you doing next Saturday night?" I inquire.
"Hopefully, going out on a date," she responds, oblivious to the fact that she's just been asked on one. To save face, I change the subject.
"What do you preciosas like to dance to?"
"Hip-hop," they both answer.
"No reggaeton?" I query.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa," interrupts Jett, back from wherever she'd been with my drink money. "R. Kelly? You mean the dude that whizzed on the 14-year-old?"
"We just like his music," argues Ventura. "What he does on his own time is his business."
Ventura and Betty Boop are itchin' to shake it on the floor, so we let them go. I look at the Jettster, both of her hands empty.
"So where's my cocktail?"
"I kind of, uh, drank it," she mumbles, sheepishly.
"Well, consider yourself kind of, uh, cut off for the night," I inform the bizz-atch. "Unless you can find another sucka ready to front you."
"That shouldn't be too hard," she brags, popping a button on her blouse to expose more flesh. "Hey, isn't that Ali from After 9 Events? Maybe he'll buy me one."
Indeed, it is the ever-suave Ali, on site pimpin' his Pink Sundays at Camus and his reggae-centric Riddim Wednesdays here at C&W. He's chillin' with his bro D-Smooth, a Professor of Flow-ology, who hits us with some lyricism while Jett pumps Ali for a drinky-poo.
"I'm a true Hispanic MC, trying to pave the way/Open doors so we can see a greater day/Of successful young Hispanic rappers/They can write a book on us, and hopefully we fill the chapters/I'm tryin' to step it up in our class/So we can be the homeowners, and not just the ones cuttin' the grass."
"Tight," I compliment him, watching the Jettster trying to schmooze some booze from poor Ali.
"Now check this rhyme: 'See Jett over there lyin', tryin' to sell her ass/Don't listen to her, homies, cuz all she wants is to fill her empty glass.'"