Panic Attack

"I don't think it's that outrageous to expect to have a bra in a larger size, especially now with all this plastic surgery," sighs Cheri. "I've had double-Ds since I was a teenager, but I've grown into them, I guess."

Prying Jett away from Cheri seems near impossible, so I amble into the bar to score some drinks and talk briefly with this sharp-dressed cat named Mike, in a blue sharkskin suit who's sippin' on a gin and tonic and lookin' to make some time with the ladies. He spies this thin redhead with close-cropped hair off in a corner and prepares to make his move.

"What was the name of that actress in Rosemary's Baby?" he asks me out of nowhere.

"Mia Farrow," I respond. "Oh, I see what you mean. She looks like a dead ringer for a young Mia Farrow."

"Yeah, I think I've got my opening line now," he states, taking a gulp of courage.

"Go get 'em, tiger," I say, patting him on the shoulder. I stroll back out to the patio, where Jett has her head resting on Cheri's clavicle clumps. So I set the J-girl's piña colada on the table next to them, and suck on the triple Crown 'n' Coke I had the bartenderess make me. As far as I'm concerned, they can just put this stuff in a bucket and hand me a straw.

Nearby is this fetching roller-derby-type chick with green hair who I strike up a confab with. Her name is K.C., and it seems she really is a roller-derby chick. Hey, who said looks were deceiving? K.C. also has her own, one-woman band named Die Kranken Katzchen, Krautspeak for "Sick Kitten," a play on words I'll let you figure out. K.C. just happens to have some copies of her self-produced CD titled Transude on her and hands me one.

"Gee, thanks," I tell her. "What kind of music is it?"

"It's industrial," she says. "Hot Topic sells it locally. They just sold out and had to reorder. Their music buyer says if they have to reorder it a few more times, it'll go national. So I'm really pushing it right now."

"You do this all yourself, huh? What do you make the music with?" I query.

"This really awesome synthesizer called a Roland Fantom XA," enthuses the noise maven. "Then I use various music programs like Cakewalk and ReCycle, stuff like that. It's so much fun! I've been doing it for about five years now."

"Is this the kind of music you can perform live?" I ask.

"The last time I performed was four years ago at the Mason Jar," K.C. informs me. "But I'm hoping to perform with David Thrussell's band Snog. They're supposed to come through town in September."

Suddenly, Jett's at my elbow eating up K.C.'s cuteness with her eyes. "Do you like girls?" she inquires of the musician, hopefully.

"I have a boyfriend," answers K.C. coyly. "So I'm not allowed."

Dejected, Jett decides to try her luck on the dance floor, while I enjoy the company of all of these creative babes about, next up being DJ //she//, a.k.a. Shelley, a resident at one of the dopest nights in the PHX or the world, as far as I'm concerned. That's Sadisco, bee-ahtch! Shelley's a booful blonde, intelligent and ambitious, so much so that she seems to be all over the place these days. Not only will she be performing at the Fear and Loathing-themed Sadisco coming up Saturday, April 8, at Jugheads, she also has an industrial/noise/EBM/electroclash night called Club Hell popping off at Chasers this May 20, and she's started doing some late-night DJ-ing on that new indie rock station KWSS-FM 106.7. Her DJ handle? It's short for "Shelley," as well as a vague reference to the H. Rider Haggard novel She, which revolves around the mythic warrior-goddess Ayesha, or "She who must be obeyed."

I note that Sadisco's been trading venues a lot lately, and mention that I've heard of problems over at The Sets, its former digs.

"The Sets was going back and forth a lot on things," she explains. "First they'd tell us we could do after-hours, then they'd cut us off 10 minutes to 2. Or say we could bring in bands, but then say the bands were too loud. It upset our fans. So now we're sort of trading off between that club Mardi Gras and our old home of Jugheads."

"I've never been to Mardi Gras," I admit. "Jugheads is a cool place, but I could see how things get a little cramped in there."

We chat a bit more. Then I wish Shelley and her fellow Sadisco-ites better fortune in '06, and turn to head back into the bar for some bevvy, when Jett slams into me.

"Kreme, you won't believe it," she pants. "First I was making out with all these girls in the bathroom, and then I ran into this cute boy and was Frenchin' him on the dance floor!"

"Nutty," I say. "I was just talking to she who must be obeyed, and now I'm left with the ho who needs to be spayed."