So we left the World of Beer with Lurleen.
- Good night
mooncigar guy from New York. This is Arizona. In the summer, we wear hats and drive cars. We wear hats and drive cars or people die. It’s that simple.
- Good night, drunken Canadians. Enjoy your raid on the fresh AZ seafood.
- Good night, Baldies.
- Good night, Eddie Vedder on a skateboard.
Then it was down the alley for research on a spec article for the New Times: “6 best alleys for boozy shagging in the shadows.” Since the fine folks of Gentrifying Chains R Us on Mill Avenue insisted on taking out the trash at that particular minute and then waiting for us to clear the parking lot, there is nothing to report.
Then it was off to the side streets for an investigation of the fold flat capabilities of car seats.
“Nothing says romance and sophistication like boning in a wagon. – David Lee Roth, scholar and Renaissance man
Finding no spots that were suitably dark, lightly traveled and unmetered, we went for the industrial ghetto after dark tour. I saw it in a movie or something and it looked like fun.
No hookers around, though.
We did find a building with a sign calling it Dick’s. On its best day, this place looks like an abandoned Denny’s that’s been turned into a failed windowless strip dive that was last open in 1988. It’s surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. In previous junk porn shoots a couple of weeks ago, we saw some dude unlocking a gate and actually going in. So, we came back during vampire hours to see if the place was open.
It was, with cheesy blue lights on the pillar, like every bad strip club you can imagine. Lurleen was in a mood, and we danced around the idea of going in. Tits for the win, as they say. Luckily, Google informed and dissuaded us. Spurning the kielbasa, Lurleen noted that the Xecutive showclub was right around the corner. Evidently, it is the Dexter Lake Club of tittie bars, except that they have a Snickers night and do not serve double rock and ryes or 7 Carlings to crackers. Alas.
It was time to surrender to the night. Or at least to the inner freak. Time to take this party someplace brick and mortar. Away from the pretentious yuppie money pits. Good night sticky bar. Away from any mood-killing, “it’s not you, it’s me” stripper interactions that weren’t in the budget anyway. Good night sausage bars. Away from the cops and the several felonies they would make up to meet their quota. Good night prison bars. Away from the “do you know how many murder porns start out like this?” nature of every other scenario we came up with. Good night mysterious rebar-wielding skull fucker crusher lurking in the shadows behind that Dodge Avenger.
Besides, back at the shag palace there would be beer, showers, beer showers. And epileptic fits of Parkinsons or something, except not the bad kind. So, win!
Victory is mine – Sheen
[Ed.: and this is why men should not write romance novels. QED.]