By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
I use a lifeline and text a girlfriend: "Is it safe to go to a lesbian bar in a Metallica T-shirt?"
The reply: "Are you in your heels?"
2140 E. McDowell Road
Phoenix, AZ 85006
Category: Bars and Clubs
Region: Central Phoenix
I have to pee and don't want to squat between cars, so I tuck in my apprehensions and open the door. What first comes to me, as I peer around the well-lit place, is an overwhelming sense of "Phew . . . Thank God it's a Texas hold 'em tourney."
The front of the place has four poker tables, all packed with people and chips flyin', which means the bar is wide open. I grab a stool at the horseshoe-shaped bar and order a vodka soda and lime.
This hole is nicer than I expected. I have driven by the Cash Inn for three years assuming it's a prototypical dive because it's near a Food City and the outside looks like hell: a lone, green lighted sign and paint peeling on the faux Western doors.
Inside, you see it's not a textbook dive. It's big and goes way deep (I don't mean to use sexual descriptions. Really.) and the front third of the place is all bar a bunch of high-top round tables and a little area with a pool table and video games. The back two-thirds of the place is all dance floor; nice too, like a freakin' basketball court . . . or at least the same size. It's huge.
I imagine that if I were going to do the hokey-pokey, line dance, or meet a chick who's not interested in me, then the Cash Inn would be it (turns out that's everywhere for this pig). There's even a railing around the dance floor so you can mosey up and rest your longneck. To the aft of the corral is an outside smoking area, to put some of those final nails in the coffin.
After a quick survey, I get into my drink, which is the best I've had in a while. This is just my second foray into a gay bar, and both jaunts resulted in great, cheap strong drinks. A friend of mine, Huntsman (who's gay), told me that this phenomenon is because the first thing they want to do is lower your inhibitions. Whatever the reason, I like it. I am in awe at how clean everything is. Last time I saw a place this clean was 12 years ago, when I went to a buddy's house who had fallen into a wicked meth binge, and the only thing dirty in his house was the bong water. Wow, I mean, even the register for the A/C above my head is scrubbed clean not a speck of dust anywhere.
I bring the glass up, and I'm somehow conscious that I shouldn't drink out of silly little red straws. I opt for a manly maneuver (we've all done it): I bend the little guys over the rim (no pun) and wrap my lips around the glass. As I'm doing this, I see this big woman walk to the bathroom. I nearly spit out my drink when she/he opens and enters the men's room! WTF. I can't wait to see her/him re-emerge.
I look around and it seems the place is half men and half women. I don't have gaydar, but I'm pretty sure everyone here is living an "alternative lifestyle." I, on the other hand, might as well be wearing a fucking dunce cap that screams "afraid, curious male homophobe don't hurt me." I'm just glad it's not a dancing night, so I don't have to see everyone undulate on the floor. Believe me, there is enough undulating at the tables; I haven't seen this much public affection in a looong time, if ever.
The downer for me, I guess, is that the people in this place are nothing like the way TV portrays gays and lesbians. What I'm trying to delicately dance around here is that these folks aren't the Hollywood hot lesbians, or the ones on the Internet you see (come on, you see).
I'm glad I'm not turned on.
I decide to do two things I never do. First, I grab a video console game thing and play trivia with the three other gals at the bar. Second, I order a hot dog with jalapeños. Cash Inn also has bowls of nacho chips and a huge cheese-warming machine . . . Yum! Third, drink please!
The bartender is awesome: She is meticulous, smiling, and informative. She's busy pouring Jäger bombers at $5 a pop. What's different in this bar isn't that bombers are popular; it's how they're served. Each Jäger bomber comes in a preformed, injected-plastic tumbler with the shot glass built in. You pour the Jäger in the middle, shallower part, and then fill the rest of the tumbler with Red Bull, and presto! An all-in-one bomber with no need to worry about chipping or breaking drinking glasses by fumbling heavy shot glasses all over the place. Because I'm an entrepreneur at heart, I love this product. But here's the rub: They come only in pastel colors. It's not good for my image.
hey new times ï¿½ where's your sack?
this column's been neutered . . . what happened to lines like "I imagine if I was going to hokey pokey, line dance, or lick pussy, this place would be it."
and "I sit here just waiting for a dwarf to appear and run around trailing a rainbow streamer until he stops to hump the juke boxï¿½what the hell is in my drink?"
let go of your fear, new times, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering...let the booze pig free.
but then, what else should i expect from a "periodical" that resorts to teasers like the one i'm seeing below: "HEAR TOMORROW'S BANDS...TODAY!" might as well go with "GOT BANDS?"
You should hit up Brigett's Last Laugh at Cave Creek and Bell Road sometime if you're in the mood for a biker bar with a good atmosphere and great food.