Got Milkshake?

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Jett's snickering at me, and she's not the only one. But, suddenly, her gaze turns to the two Latino club thugs who're staring at her booty.

"What's crack-a-lackin', fellas?" Jett asks sweetly. Heh, they have no idea she's a lip sticker.

Their peepers bulge bigger than Beetlejuice's. I damn near have to slap 'em off Jett. But I feel their pain, to quote Slick Willie, America's first black Prez. We strike up a confab, and I discover they're none other than E-Boogie, weekend jock for Power 92.3, and his pal Eric M.

E-Boogie's of medium build with closely cropped hair and classic homeboy attire, checked shirt open to reveal a white tee; his pal Eric's a roly-poly, Cee-Lo-sized lowrider dude. E-Boogie's in the house to support the station (as well as scope ta-tas). Eric, a part-time promoter, is riding shotgun.

E-Boogie says he's been on-air about five years.

"Ever get any ladies that way?" I ask, as Jett disappears.

"Oh, I've had my share of fun," laughs E-Boogie. "Definitely. They be callin' up to request songs. I mean, the eye candy will."

"So tell me, did Gringo Suave really eat a placenta on air?"

"Yeah, he did. It was nasty, dog. He's crazy."

"A human placenta? Isn't that, like, cannibalism?"

"I don't think it was human. I think it was animal, but everything you hear on the radio is for real."

"Tell me, what's your take on what 'the milkshake' is?" I ask them both.

Eric M. jumps in: "Every girl has something that she's good at, and that's her milkshake, and that's what brings dogs like me to the yard."

"I think the milkshake's like the upper part of the woman's body," chimes E-Boogie. "The jiggos. 'Cause that's where the milk comes from."

All of a sudden I realize my sidekick's kickin' it somewhere else! I've got to find her 'cause she's rockin' the corporate plastic. I look over my shoulder, and I see Jett on the dance floor freakin' Kelis! What the fuck? Somebody remind me to put a dog collar on my seductive sidekick. Oh, she's already wearing one.

I rush downstairs and tap Jett on the shoulder. That's when I see it's not Kelis, but a tall, light-skinned African-American princess with a large 'fro, wearing a tight "Jesus is my homeboy" tee shirt, big hoop earrings, and jeans. We step to the side, and I give her the third-degree about that tee.

"He is my homeboy," says Beatrice, 21, about the man with the nail-scarred hands. She's originally from D.C., but is now an aspiring stylist and fashion designer in P-town, thinking of making that big move to La-La Land.

Just for the record, B-girl thinks Kelis' milkshake's about "her dance." I might agree, if we're talkin' about the old horizontal tango. But since she's so, uh, religious and all, shakin' her bisexual booty on the dance floor with the L-word extraordinaire (Jett), I stay on Christ, and ask if she's seen The Passion.

"That movie was amazing," she replies. "I loved it."

What about the charges that it was too violent, and that it was down on the Jews?

"I thought it was powerful," says Beatrice; and as for God's Chosen peeps, "You know what, they were the ones who did it. Whether it was down on them or not, that's just what happened."

Nutty. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming on Pat Robertson's 700 Club.

My head throbbing from all the religion, we say bye to Beatrice and hi to super-doopa-fly-guy Marlin Rison, a twentysomething hotel exec from Dallas in town for bidness and pleasure. He's stylin' in a dark-blue jacket, a Roc-a-Wear sweatshirt, some wireless sunglasses and a smooth, shaved head.

"I live out of hotels, but I'm also able to see a lot of lovely ladies, too," he brags, sipping on his double Courvoisier.

"So are you groovin' on that new song by Cassidy and R. Kelly?" asks Jett. "The one where they're talking about handin' out room keys and after-parties 'til six in the mornin'?"

Marlin laughs in a deep baritone reminiscent of the late Barry White: "Let's just say it kind of hits home."

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, Kelis arrives, entourage and phalanx of security in tow. We just see her big hair heading up the stairs to the VIP lounge, so Jett and I scoot up after her. But when we make it to the velvet rope, we're confronted with the Mike Tyson look-alike, and he ain't budging.

"Don't you know who we are, fool?" screams Jett, lit from all the vodka and Jaeger she's been downing. This does not please Iron Mike, who's now determined to keep us out, no matter how much I sweet-talk him.

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