Dream Weaver

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"So why Plus One?" I query, as I look around, anticipating the Jettster to show her pretty puss at any moment.

"That came from people always e-mailing me and asking, 'I really wanna go to your party, can I get on the list plus one?'" Denny explains. "It kinda works because every time I do it, I offer people guest list spots. Just send me an e-mail, tell me who you're bringing, and you skip the cover. Why do it at Paco Paco? I figured I'd try a different venue. This spot still has that dive bar feel to it, but it also has a dance floor."

Truly, Paco Paco has a bitchin' lil' dance floor way in the back, mirrored with two soccer ball-sized disco balls, some surprisingly intricate less-is-more lighting, and the nemesis of my lungs -- one of those ever-present smoke machines. Before the dance floor is a rectangular bar, and there are tables all down one side. The staff's as friendly as Chloë Sevigny on the set of Brown Bunny, and the drinks are stiffer than Slobodan Milosevic. The way they pour a Crown 'n' Coke, it's basically all Crown with a splash of Coke, just the way I like 'em.

By this point, it's gotten so packed that Denny has to get crackin'. I'm about to follow him in when the bi-Kristen Bell arrives with her retinue. Chick's gotta better entourage than HBO's Adrian Grenier these days, all while doing as little as humanly possible. Amazing.

"Sometimes I'd swear you actually work for me," I crack as I play doorman for her and her crew.

"Kreme, if you'd just loosen up a bit and do more drugs, you'd not only lose some flab, you might actually have a little fun, maybe even get laid," she informs me with a flourish. "Look at me, I never break a sweat, and the world falls at my feet."

"Just long enough to look up your skirt," I grumble.

"What?!" she spurts.

"Nothing, my sweet," I say, handing her the camera. "Could you snap some pics now please?"

Inside, Plus One's all sweaty bodies and smoke -- ASU chicks too hip for spring break at Rocky Point, arty dropouts, and skinny white boys. Well, save for one 300-pound two-stepper in his Phat Farm lace-ups, natch. Jett's off shutterbuggin', and I'm suckin' on my third C-n-C when I bump into this handsome dood with a corpse-like complexion, jet-black hair and a Hitler forelock curving over his brow. Name's Tristan, and no he's not kickin' it with Isolde, but rather his lady Riana, a thin pale-skinned beauty with Egyptian eyes and raven tresses. I tell him he looks like Gary Numan, but Tristan's never heard of the '80s New Wave artist.

"He did that song 'Cars,'" I tell him. "Google him. You could be his twin."

"I know he who he is," Riana relates. "I did Tristan's hair tonight. That's kinda what I was going for."

"So what's your story, mornin' glory?" I inquire.

"I'm the singer in a band called Edison Gem," she replies. "We just did three shows in New York, and got booked back there again in June for three more. It's a two-person band. We're on MySpace, if you wanna check us out."

"Edison Gem, huh? Unique name for a band," I comment.

"Yeah, that was like one of the first phonographic record players," she informs me.

Now both Tristan and I have something to Google when we get home, I think to myself.

There be plenty of femmes in circulation ce soir, and quite a few of them nibblin' on each other, though I think that has more to do with the paucity of males present. Don't see Jett anywhere. I'll bet a year's supply of Jägermeister that skank's tongue-wrestling with some hottie in a dark corner. As there are four DJs on tap this eve, I won't to try to parse out who dropped what, but needless to say, the sounds are eclectic, and motion-provokin': both The Jackson Five, and Michael Jackson solo; Joy Division; Rick James; Prince's "Erotic City"; "Come on Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners; Toto's "Africa"; Pat Benetar's "Heartbreaker"; Biggie Smalls; ODB; Ray Charles; and on and on. Damn if that dance floor didn't stay bangin' 'til the bitter end, no matter what was flowin' from the sound system.

When the J-Unit finally returns the digital camera, I'm deep in confabulation with two booful brainiacs Beth and Caty about surrealist art, Francis Bacon, Wyndham Lewis, and how Dali was a total art whore. Jett's lipstick is smeared and she's drunk off love, if not more illicit substances.

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