The Crown Room ain't no penny drink place. This is for the hustlers who're rockin' the $50s on top, and the Benjies on the bottom of their rolls. And like the man said, you get what you pay for -- big drinks with the finest hooch, served in the illest of environs, with low, plush couches and chairs, Bellagio-like glass fixtures in the ceiling, and dim lighting accented with deep reds. The crowd is smaller, and despite the price tag on the likker, not as stuck-up as at other Scottsdale spots, at least on the evening that we make the scene. In fact, as soon as we're in the door, my own Pussycat Doll, a.k.a. Jett, is feelin' up this tall blonde with curly hair named Stacey, another lass who claims to like it both ways.
"I've made out with this chick before," squeals the Jettster, her hands grabbing the gal's chi-chis.
"Christ, who haven't you made out with in this town?" I wonder of the switch-hittin' Tori Alamaze.
"Uh, well, you, for one," she cracks back.
"Oh, right. Well, then, how did you two meet?"
"She just came up to me and said, 'You're hot, wanna make out?' So we did," explains the sultry Stacey. "She's the best kisser."
"She has really nice boobs, I remember that," says the J-unit, her paws glued to Stacey's headlights.
"Nice. And did you two go downtown?" I wonder.
"Nah, we just made out, Kreme, pull your mind out of the gutter!"
"With you around? Riiight," I sputter as they go at it.
Believe it or not, fellas, watching squalies swap spit and grope each other can get old after a while. I mean, no matter how good the porno is, you don't wanna watch the same DVD over and over again. So I let Jett get her grind on and perambulate over to the bar, where this bartender Jeremy is holding an empty bottle of Malibu rum with a napkin stuck down its neck like a homemade bomb. He sets the napkin alight, then takes a swig of whiskey or something and sprays it before the flame, creating a ball of fire. Must be good for tips. After Jeremy does this trick two or three more times, he takes my drink order. I decide to chase my vodka-Red Bull with a glass of bubbly. After all, if no one's makin' out with me, at the very least I'm gonna drink well.
Next to me is this ebullient blonde in a pink shirt with the Rolling Stones tongue on it named Autumn. Autumn is a honey, and I have no problem admitting that I'd like to do to her what that tongue on her tee is implying. She's in the house tonight with her pal Dublin, who's off in another part of the bar. She swears he's just a friend. Flash back to that old-school Biz Markie song. But hey, there's no harm in conversatin' with a hottie, is there?
"I'm a newly single bartender," she informs me, flashing her ivory-white grill with a grin. "Write that in your article. It pays to advertise, right?"
"It does if the message is right. So where do you sling drinks, girl?"
"I start next week at the Satisfied Frog up in Cave Creek," she replies. "But I used to be down here, at the Grapevine. I just moved up there. I've got a new everything. New job, new roommate, new house."
"Did you have to lie to get your first bartending job? Most bartenders I know tell me that they had to, you know, pad the résumé."
"Not me. I kind of just lucked into it. It's my personality. I have no problem telling people to fuck off, or to come on over. They seemed to like that," she says.
"Guys like it when a hot chick tells them what to do," I state, smiling.
"Ex-actly," she responds, sipping her margarita. I have no idea if this is going anywhere. If only ladies came with a flashing neon sign that told you what was goin' on in their noggins.