Scopin' Shorties

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"You'd probably do that for a Hollywood star or some really rich person, right?" I ask.

"That would be the pinnacle of success, I think," she explains. "New York's gonna offer a whole lot more opportunity than Arizona when it comes to this industry."

"Give me an example, consult me, fashion-wise," I challenge her.

"You're dressed nice, your clothes fit well, you got nice dress shoes on, so I think you're looking pretty pimp," she says, smiling. "And you've got a good personality, so you're all good."

I puff up, even more than usual. "Why, thank you very much."

"Yeah, he's the P Diddy of plump," cracks Jett, who then elbows me and says, "Get a load of this freak-a-leek staring at my tits."

Behind me is some guy who looks like Patrick Stewart's dad, dressed in black, drinking iced tea (the non-Long Island kind) and staring at Jett's cleavage like he's an old basset hound and it's the last rib eye on the planet. Says his name is J.R. His claim to fame is that he smoked a doobie with poet Allen Ginsberg back in the day.

"We smoked together when it was a felony in California, and when LSD was still legal. The early '60s. I lived on North Beach [in San Francisco], which was the culture hub of the Beat scene. I hung out in a coffee shop where he'd come to read poetry," J.R. recounts.

"Do you write or do music?" inquires Jett.

"I don't do anything artsy," explains J.R., who's an engineer by trade. "I just get loaded and make it with all the girls I can get."

"Uh, back to Ginsberg," I say.

"You have to understand, he wasn't anybody then," says J.R. "Nobody knew his goddamn name. We had hours and hours of conversation, and smoked dope. That was a big deal. Only about 10 percent of the people on the scene did that. Like I said, it was a felony. It was prison if you got caught."

We talk with J.R. for a while, but it becomes harder and harder to deflect his attention from Jett's headlights, so we ease over to the other side of the bar, where we run into this cat named Sam Eid. Eid's dressed in sunglasses by Gucci and a striped shirt by Valentino. A clean-shaven dude with short black hair, he's drinking an energy drink called Socko, the can for which oddly sports a design similar to his shirt.

"So why aren't you drinking alcohol?" I inquire. "Don't you drink?"

He smiles. "I drink, but it causes me to break out in handcuffs, if you get my drift. So I don't drink."

"Ah, you've learned from experience. So what do you do for a living?" I wonder.

"I help market Socko, actually. It's been out for two months now. It has twice the caffeine as Red Bull, taurine, ginseng, and a couple of aphrodisiacs like horny goat weed."

"I think that's what J.R.'s been smokin'," chimes Jett. "Kreme, get a load of the looker right next to us."

The vision of loveliness before us is Rachel Froyo, 19, an Italian dime-piece who looks like Jamie-Lynn DiScala from The Sopranos, but even more attractive.

"Are you single?" asks Jett.

"I'm single, but I'm not looking for anyone," she says, laughing. "I'm in school right now, studying to be a psychologist in community college, and I'll be transferring to ASU soon."

"A psychologist," says Jett. "You might have to treat the criminally insane?"

"Yeah," she says, her eyes widening with excitement. "Like Ted Bundy. He was really scary because he was so smart. The second scariest was John Wayne Gacy. He almost got my dad, actually. Gacy would put ads in the paper for young boys, then he'd kill 'em. My dad answered one of his ads, but then he was thinking, 'I don't know if I should do this.'"

"Wow!" exclaims Jett. "Does that mean your dad's from Chicago?"

"Right, because that's where Gacy was at. My family's from Chicago. We moved down here about nine years ago."

"How do you like it here vs. Chi-Town?" I inquire.

"I like it better here," says Rachel. "In Chicago, everyone's depressed because of the weather. People have more fun here. Like in this place. This is where the cool Scottsdale kids hang out."

"So who gets hit on more, blondes or brunettes?" I query.

"Guys are scared of brunettes," says Rachel. "It's said that blondes are hot, you know. But brunettes are relationship girls. So guys can hold back on them for a while. Walk into anywhere, if you're a blonde, guys stare. If you're a brunette, they're like, whatever."

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