Before I find out what my chances of guzzling Moët in the hot tub with this cutie are, the J-girl bumps into me and demands a libation.
"I need a cocktail," she demands of me.
"That's your problem, too much of both parts of that word cocktail," I spit, while signaling Jeremy. "You ready to work now? Or are you plannin' to do your Courtney Love impersonation tonight?"
"Look who's jealous," she utters, tossing her hair. "Just because I'm getting all the play with the babes in this place."
"I was trying before you interrupted me." I notice Autumn is chatting with her bro Dublin. "C'mon, let's circulate."
Though there's not really a dance floor, people are getting their swerve on best they can in front of the DJ booth where Jared is workin' the boards. We pat the spinmeister on the back as we pass. Outside, we run into this fella named Chad, a civil engineer with the City of Phoenix. He's huggin' up on this thin brunette Carolynn, though they both insist they're "just good friends." Cue Mr. Markie again.
"I call him 'good time Chad,'" kids Carolynn, who's a nurse by trade. "You better watch out for him, he's shady."
"Yeah, no one parties like a civil engineer," says Jett sarcastically.
"Oh, I'm just playing," effuses Carolynn, oblivious to the J-girl's disdain. "I love him. We used to be roommates. I'd do anything for him. I'd wash his drawers. In fact, I have washed his drawers."
"Uh-oh, T.M.I.," exclaims the Jettster.
"Yeah, guys' drawers are nasty," I say. "You know, throw 'em against the wall and they'll stick. Ladies', on the other hand . . ." I rub my chinny-chin-chin.
"Kreme's a perv," claims the bi Kelly Brook. "He'll buy the panties right off you. I've seen him do it."
"Unless they're yours, Jett," I sniff. "Lord knows what I'd catch."
"I'm not wearing any anyway, so there." She sticks her tongue out at me.
Back inside, we see this dude Alfredo Martinez with his shoe off as a passel of females ooh and aah over his gross, sock-clad right foot, which he refers to as "Socko." Normally, this would make as much sense as Donald Trump on the dole, but fortunately, DJ Jared is takin' a breather from spinning, and breaks down the mystery of Alfredo's foot.
"Fred has these really big, smelly feet," relates Jared. "And when he and our buddy Joe Dominguez used to be roommates, Fred would wake him up by sticking his smelly feet all in Joe's face. I'm not sure how his foot got the name Socko."
"How traumatic for Mr. Dominguez," I mutter. "Dominguez? I think we met that guy at Myst. Wasn't he the one who used to pick up chicks by using a fake British accent?"
"One and the same," answers Dominguez, who's eased up next to us. "I loved that article, dude! I sent it to everyone I know."
"Cool to see you again," I tell him, as I recall him from our trip to Myst last year ("Meatmarket of Dreams," June 10, 2004). "Hope we didn't blow your cover by much."
"Not at all. I promote this night now for Todd [DJ Jared]. We're trying to bring things back to the way they were when Insomnia and Sanctuary were around. You know, just dance music, no hip-hop."
"I see. Who's your lady?" I inquire of the lovely lass next to him.
"This is Danielle," he tells me.
"So Joe didn't try the English accent on you?" wonders Jett.
Danielle rolls her eyes, laughing. "I would be there watching as he'd pick up all the girls."
"Damn, Joe, you're a straight-up, jump-street pimp. Or maybe she's changed you," I suggest.
"Oh, way changed," insists Joe.
We chat for a while, then Jett drifts away to hit on this tall psychiatrist cat who's chillin' at the bar, playin' Sir Stud-a-lot. I see Autumn over on one of the couches, so I sit next to her and do my balla best to get some digits. We conversate about men and women and relationships. Finally, I ask what she wants in a stick-man.
"Ultimately, it's not looks, it's not money, it's about sense of humor, security, and backbone," she insists. "I want Napoleon Dynamite to come out of that corner standing tall, with his little dick in his hand, going, 'I know you want me, this is what I got,' and I'll fuckin' be all over that."