Hangover Helper

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"Are you a model?" I have to ask. "You certainly have the looks for it."

"No, I'm a bartender/server at the Hilton, but thanks, though," she says, smiling. "I've got to be up at six o'clock to do the server part of my job, for breakfast. I guess I'll just have to be hung over tomorrow."

"Are you from Scottsdale?" I inquire.

"Chicago originally, but I've been out here since I was 9."

"With your looks, guys must approach you all the time," I comment. "You must have to beat 'em off with a stick."

"No, not really," she responds. "Maybe they're intimidated by my height. I'm like 5'10". Taller with heels."

"You probably want a tall guy, right? Someone who can at least look you eye-to-eye."

"Well, I would like to wear heels when I go out . . . ," she trails off, as if considering her potential Mr. Right. Then starts back in, "I don't want to have someone telling me not to wear heels."

Although I don't meet the height requirements, I could talk with Cheryl all night, she's so pleasant, but of course, there's a hole in the J-unit's glass, so we have to hop back inside for refills. At the bar, we bump into these motorcycle dudes wearing do-rags named Ron and Joey. We ask them what kind of bikes they ride.

"Mine's a custom, made out in California by this company named Ultra," says Ron, who's sportin' a clean-cut Vandyke-like beard.

"It's a piece of shit, and breaks down all the time," chimes in Joey, he with longer ZZ Top-style facial hair.

"It's fast, though," answers Ron.

"Good luck if it starts," snarks Joey. "Mine doesn't break down, and doesn't leak!"

"What do you ride, Joey?" queries the Jettster.

"I ride a '96 all-tail custom Springer front end, Dyna Glide horse, chromed all the way down." Joey continues in cycle-speak for another minute or two, and since we're both dumb-asses when it comes to bikes, we figure the polite thing to say is "Cool," when he's finished.

"You guys in a bike club?" I ask.

"Nah, we ride solo," says Joey. "I'm in a band, though. Autumn's End. Check us out at"

"What kind of music?" questions the J-unit.

"Metal," Joey answers. "Arizona metal. None of this Poison/Bon Jovi/Mötley Crüe bullshit. All original. No covers. I play drums. We've got a full-length, self-titled CD, and we're starting to record our next album this Friday, probably for a 2006 release."

We wish Joey luck with the new album, and scoot over to this nearby couch where we rub up next to the attractive trio of Catherine, Matt and Carol. Catherine just moved down to the Zona after graduating from Colorado State University, and Matt recently wrapped up a degree at ASU. But most interesting is Carol, not for what she does (she's a server part time at Bloom while pursuing an ASU sheepskin), but for what she is, an identical twin. Carol's a blonde, who's easy on the eyes, so of course this sparks the imagination of my wanton cohort.

"My twin's name is Karen; she works for Bebe in the [Scottsdale Fashion Square] mall, and she's also going to school," Carol explains. "Her hair's a little longer than mine, but some people who don't know us very well say they can't tell us apart."

"You guys ever date the same person?" asks Jett, panting audibly.

"No, that's where we have different tastes," confides Carol. "For instance, my boyfriend right now is tall and thin and blond. And hers is, like, shorter, with dark hair, and older."

"Well, you know, twins are a big sexual fantasy for lots of people," remarks Jett, leering.

"Tell me about it! She's not here tonight, but whenever we go out together, we get the whole three-way thing raised," snorts Carol. "I'm like, 'Just because we're twins doesn't mean we like incest, thank you very much!' Sex with your sister? That's disgusting."

"You'll have to forgive Jett here," I say. "You know, they've just named a tequila after her: Sauza Hornitos."

Jett rises in a huff and vanishes into the chicks' toilet, and I'm left outside, near this oil painting of Elvis, where I engage aspiring entrepreneur Trent Larson, owner of the newly conceived Phat Racks Barbecue. Larson's biz will be housed in a big pink truck that will move around to clubs and events. At each stop, girls with "phat racks" (you know, top-heavy, in tight tees) will serve up sauce-slathered swine.

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