Posh Playas

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We stumble into one of those down-to-earth types right after we bid Garner adieu. The cat's name is Tim, and he's just arrived in a black stretch limo, rented for Tim's pal's b-day. Tim, 28, is dressed casually in a white tee and jeans, and he explains this is his first time to Suede.

"What do you think of the new 2 a.m. deal?" I ask.

"Well, I just moved back to Arizona from Oregon, and it's been 2 a.m. there. So I'm used to that. Ever since I've been back, I'll be out at 11 or 12 o'clock, and I'll be like, 'Holy shit, these people don't party like they do in Oregon.'"

"Whoa!" I say. "That's some weak sauce, bro. 'Cause when I think about Oregon, I don't think party animals. I think beavers."

"Yeah," says Tim. "Or ducks. But people are so much happier up there as compared to here. Maybe it's the weather. But you've got your hippie dudes, your yuppie dudes, your regular dudes, and they all get along better than here. The girls up there are a lot different from down here, too."

"You mean, it's easier to get into their pants?" asks Jett, her interest piqued.

"Hell yeah!" exclaims Tim. "Up there, they're not into what I call the BBD, then Bigger Better Deal. Down here, the girls are all about that -- what kind of car you drive, what kind of house you live in, how much it's worth, and all that bullshit."

"Thing is, man, you gotta be able to spit some game," I tell him. "If you ain't got the looks, the fast car and the shiny shirt, you gotta be confident and talk your ass off. Also, it doesn't hurt if they're drunk. Which is why the 2 a.m. thing is a step in the right direction, for fellas like us."

"Look at you, giving advice on females," says Jett. "That's like Stevie Wonder driving."

"You guys got it all twisted," I tell 'em. "I've got to conversate with someone with some positivity. Y'all are making me jones for a handful of Zoloft."

I wander off, and step to this gorgeous gal with straight, shoulder-length auburn hair, sipping a glass of Chardonnay and groovin' to the beats, the warm red light of the club lighting up her lightly freckled flesh. She goes by Sandi Cristiani, and guess what? She's a DJ, too. What is this, The House of a Thousand DJs?

"So what do you think of the new drinking time, since this is our first night of it?"

"I think it's a fantastic thing for Scottsdale," she beams. "It's going to raise a lot of revenue for the bars, which are basically what keep Old Town alive."

"You think it'll bring new people out, or the same people out later?"

"The same people out later," she says. "I'll probably party later. Why not?"

"Being a DJ and a hot chick, do you have stalkers?"

"Not really," she says, laughing. "Maybe I'm not stalkable."

"Sure you are. I'd stalk you if I were so inclined. But I'm afraid of jail. Otherwise, it'd be an honor."

I could talk to Sandi all night, and into the next day, and then some, but I'm not sure she likes me enough for that sort of commitment. So I perambulate on. Jett, it seems, has flown the coop. Maybe one of her lezzy admirers slipped her a roofie.

Which leaves me to approach two more ladies all on my lonesome. It's a duo of bodacious babettes sitting to the side, each with a set of majestic mounds, if you catch my breeze. Their names? Diane Soza and Yvonne "Hurricane" Vonsh.

"Hurricane?" I ask. "So where's the eye of the storm, baby?"

The luscious Yvonne chortles, "Only a very few people know."

"Did you get that nickname because you have a temper?"

"No, because I'm from Texas," she says. "I've lived all over Texas, from Amarillo to Austin. But at the time I got it, I was living in a place that got hit a lot with hurricanes, so that's how I ended up with the nickname."

Texas is on the Gulf Coast, I recall. "Do you like it better here in the Zona?"

"Absolutely. People underrate it here, but there's much more of a party atmosphere than in other places. Life's a lot faster. And now that they've got the 2 a.m. thing going on, forget about it!"

Miss Hurricane is married, and Miss Soza is newly divorced, but with boyfriend. Both have kids, and explain that this is a "ladies' night out." Somehow their conversation turns to breasts (for real, fellas), and each cops to having had some augmentation.

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