But if some Arizonans don't know what it's like to inch over the Sepulveda Pass on a Friday afternoon with a million Angelenos all squeezing onto the same crumbling freeway designed for 1950s traffic flow, at least the locals do have a firm grip on car culture. Like L.A., this place was built as a friggin' monument to the automobile. Problem is, some drivers think the damn roads were laid out as a monument to them. Like the freakazoid Bite Me found herself behind last week on her way to a Sunday brunch. The Chevy-drivin' fool thought a green light meant he should take a nap. So Bite Me tooted her horn.
Big mistake. The freak turned around, peered through his loaded gun rack, fondled a rifle menacingly, and decided to hunt down your humble narrator, chasing her all the way down Scottsdale Road. Sweet Jesus! Even in L.A. she never got more than the obligatory raised finger.
Imagine her relief when Bite Me shook off Road Rage Man and pulled into Sugar Daddy's, her destination and another shrine to the internal combustion engine. In this case, she means the gleaming, chrome beauties manufactured by Harley-Davidson that get parked by the dozens in a sparkling array. To her joy, Bite Me found sanctuary among the leather-clad two-wheel crowd on Sugar Daddy's patio. And not just the dentists decked out in hundreds of dollars' worth of shiny black leather pretending to be bad-asses, but also the genuine article. Like the road-weathered guy sucking on an unfiltered Camel and downing whiskey neat – at 11 in the freakin' morning – who looked in the direction of the wanna-bes and uttered, "Fucking pussies." Sing it, biker boy!
Bite Me ordered a Tabasco-soaked Bloody Mary and a plate of biscuits smothered with Grandma's peppery sausage gravy and set about finding her first victims. No sooner had she sucked down her first cocktail than she spotted a vision in hot pink, a biker babe fresh from Minnesota who was clad in bubblegum leather pants and flanked by sexy men. Pay dirt! Bite Me obnoxiously invaded their space and grilled them on what makes bikers tick. And go figure, these folks were all too happy not only to pose on their bikes, but even to help Bite Me straddle a Hog. Sensing all that power between her legs, she finally understood the attraction.
Bite Me decided there may be no better way to deal with a Sunday morning hangover than the Biker Brunch at Sugar Daddy's. She ordered up another Bloody Mary and set out to make nice with the scruffy dude with the bulging muscles smokin' the unfiltered Camel. Grrrr.
Lucy Rawleigh, Colin McLure, Lance Rowskie and Steve Stewart
Caterer, telecom technician, pastry chef, rock company owner
Bite Me: Lucy, I haaaad to come up to you. Look at you with that pink ensemble and your biker gear. You rock! Where are you from? What do you do?
Lucy: I'm a caterer. I make wedding cakes. I just moved here from West Bloomington, Minnesota, so I could ride my bike.
Bite Me: Can't you ride your bike in Minnesota?
Lucy: Not all year round. Only for three months a year.
Bite Me: I lived there for a few years back in the early '80s. It's frickin' cold. They canceled school because it was too cold to leave the house, freezing cold.
Lucy: Well, yeah, the roads are closed so you can't go anywhere.
Bite Me: So tell me about wedding cakes? Who usually orders the wedding cake? The bride?
Lucy: The bride usually.
Bite Me: Are they hard to deal with? What kind of cake do they order? Do they order what they've been dying to eat after starving for months?
Lucy: I usually give them a choice of the cakes I make. They might show me a picture of what they like and I'll gear it down or make it bigger depending on what they decide.
Bite Me: Do you usually go to the weddings?
Lucy: I do because I'm usually making it for someone I know. (If y'all were wonderin' . . . Lucy has an accent featuring only the cool parts of Frances McDormand's in Fargo.) That's why I don't know enough people down here to do it yet.