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Coyote Blues

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Shortly after our confab with Long, last call is announced, and we file out into Papago Plaza, where there's some serious parkin' lot pimpin' going on. But like in the club, everyone's very sociable and pleasant. Well, almost everyone. One dorky white boy, reeking of well-vodka and wieners, holds a hot dog he's purchased from a nearby stall up to his fly as Jett's snapping his pic.

"You know who I am?" asks Mr. Mustard-Breath. "That's okay, you don't need to know."

"Oh, we know," says Jett. "Every club has at least one asshole, and you're it!"

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Stephen is a former staff writer and columnist at Phoenix New Times.
Contact: Stephen Lemons