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
We spy the ubiquitous Tiffe Fermaint, looking more and more fly these days as she prepares to leave for La-La Land in late September. And on the dance floor sweatin' up a storm is my man M3. Robert Sentinery of Java is present with a booful ebony-skinned lass, taking pics for next month's issue. Luscious fashionista Lisa Jacobs is modeling a vintage dress. And nearby us is this handsome cat named Ian running around shirtless, snapping images with his digital camera. Seems Ian has his own nightlife blog, www.ianwelles.com, with loads of photos from his after-dark escapades in the Valley of the Sun. We ask the hot boy how he caught the blogging bug, and dang if he doesn't tell us.
"I put it up about three years ago as a hobby," Ian explains. "All of a sudden, I found I was posting all my pictures online. They're all there now. You can see everyone who's around me when I party. It's like Napkin Nights, but more localized. I do a different place each night."
Ian, who's from Sac-town originally, is soon back at it, clicking away, when Jett and I witness this foxy, Mediterranean-lookin' femme whose glandular endowments are being, ahem, admired by the aforementioned Ms. Fermaint. Jett's eyeballs lock on those puppies like a pair of heat-seeking missiles, and I try to make her heel, to no avail.
"Jeez, Jett, you're worse than a man," I gripe.
"I can't help it, Kreme," she mumbles, peepers still glued on their quarry. "Maybe it's that tee she's got on, but they look really, um, natural."
Of course, we approach, and discover she's named Nicky, and is the proprietor of Mint (www.myspace.com/mintvintage), a vintage-clothing store located at 1319 East McDowell Road, inside the furniture store Red. Nicky's tight, black wife-beater reads "Lucky Girl," and she gets no argument from us on that. Her posterior has been poured into a pair of stylish Jordache jeans circa 1980, and, well, Jett's most impressed.
"How did you end up owning your own place?" inquires the J-unit.
"I'm a photographer, and I was buying stuff for my models," she relates. "But I liked wearing the clothes myself, and I ended up with big stacks of vintage stuff. After a while, I had collected so much, I had to sell some of it. So I made a store. It's a lot of fun."
"So what do you think of Homme and One?" I ask.
"I love it," she says, her eyes widening. "I like the mix of people. And I like how dark it is in here. I feel like a kid in school at a house party."
House party, indeed. I know Jett would like to corner Nicky for a little "risky business," but my throat's drier than Barbara Walters' personal plumbing, and I'm not gonna leave poor Nicky to deal with my horndogged sidekick alone. So I pull the J-unit along with me, back for another round of Dum Dum martinis and vodka-Red Bulls. Jett takes off to throb with the rest of the crowd on the dance floor, while I suck them back as fast as my pie hole will allow. On one end of the bar, I see this cutie giving me the gaze, so I grab my Dum Dum and saunter over with all the savoir-faire I can muster, and quickly learn to call her Norma. But Norma wasn't making eyes at me, she was just amusing her friends with an array of funny faces à la Tracey Ullman.
"I just need to get a leee-tle bit drunker," she confides. "This is my last night of freedom before I go into school on Monday. I can't be hung over. So I have to drink as much as I can tonight."
"A woman after my own heart," I tell her. "What's your major?"
"Finance," she says, scrunching up her face, suddenly.
"What's that?" I wonder.
"My angry girl finance face," she tells me.
"Is it anything like your 'Oh' face?" I ask, thinking of the classic gag from that movie Office Space.
"What?" she says, not hearing me over the music.
"Oh," I say, smiling. "Never mind."