Volume 4, Issue 17
August 22 - September 3, 2002

Nightlife

by Rob Williams

Kidnapped!

It's hard to turn down a double date. I'm not talking about you and your best buddy taking out the Jonesy twins for a Saturday at the malt shop. It's something else entirely to be taken hostage by a couple of punk rock girls, not to mention Go-Go cover models, for a night on the town. Little did I realize the insanity that would ensue.

Not that I/m an innocent shoeshine boy who keeps to himself or anything, but I really wasn't prepared for my night out with Anika and Karen of Hemi Cuda. These hard rocking divas left my liver feeling like 20 miles of bad road, my wallet empty and my soul in mortal danger. Had I bought the farm, the paramedics and morticians would be damned trying to get the smile off my face.

How did it all start? Innocence had nothing to do with this night on the town. I was minding my own one Wednesday night, enjoying a Jack plus, when Anika strode into the bar. Resplendent in black jewelled battle shorts and a chop top that would make ZZ Top smile. She demanded to know why our "On Tour" issue (Vol 4, #14) didn't feature her band, though we used Hemi Cuda to illustrate the story.

When a platinum-wigged diva in go-go boots demands an answer, I pay attention. . Well . none of the other bands gave me press photos, so I thought it best, not to mention funny, to illustrate the story with a girl band. . Which was true. Anika wasn't having any of it.

She leered over my table flashing perfect white teeth. "Tonight you are gonna find out what its like to be on the road with Hemi Cuda." Before I could utter a response, Karen appeared over my left shoulder, beehive 'do and silver hot pants reflecting the neon Bud sign over the bar. Anika smiled, "Finish 'em up. I need to see some tits."

Second later I was ushered into the sleek silver tour van, destination unknown. . Should have packed the flask, . raced across my forebrain as we careened through the city. Another thought crossed my mind from a trip in Paris: "never get in the van."

The van came to a rest in a parking lot on Santa Fe. Not exactly Pigalle in the spring, but there loomed the buzzing neon sign of the Paper Tiger . The Tiger. Renowned among bikers and the budget-minded for a bit of flesh for fantasy on this lonely stretch of road. No cover. Two for one booze. No six-dollar longnecks here.

You get what you pay for. I was girl-handled by my elbows and force fed shots while B-list strippers worked the tiny stage, dropping dollar bills into the juke box for their nightly grind rather than chatting into the ear of some hapless DJ. Still, the juke was packed with booty-shaking favorites. Liquor ran like the flooded Danube down my open craw. I stared in wonder at the myriad of bottles and shot glasses littering our table. Anika busied herself showing off her tattooed belly to a longtoothed exotic dancer while Karen matched me shot for shot and reminded me I was buying.

How could I refuse? Before Anika could join us for the next round another girl had joined our table. A slinky French Viet girl with a southern accent filled my mitt with ones and demanded I tip the dancers heavily. And dance they did.

Her skin was like chocolate milk, her ass moved like her g-string was full of bumble bees and her name was Dalacious . Not delicious. She sauntered over to our table, and asked if we would like a little Kung-Fu Fighting. NOTthe Tom Jones/Ruby re-mix from Supercop . She was talking about the Carl Douglas original, a 45 rpm single which sits in my collection of vinyl at home. We forked over handfuls of tented bills as Dalacious worked the stage, kicking and posing in a way that would have made black-belt Elvis Aaron proud. And she did it topless in a g-string. Well worth the trip.

Karen shouted in my ear, "let's get outta here" and before I could say "holy pasties, batgirl!" we were back in the van, rocketing across town to the 15th Street Tavern . We hustled through security like we were on rails. Mindbending punk riffs slam-fucked my ears as another round of Red Headed Sluts appeared as if by magic. We were there to see Roller, a hardcore four-some from Akron, or Boise, or some other blue- collar blip on the map.

My left eye was developing a twitch when Karen suggested to Anika that I should appear in their upcoming video shoot for their song "Thick and Tasty." I quickly agreed, knowing my fish- white, hairy chest was in dire need of a sun lamp and bronzer. But with a compliment like that, was I going to refuse? Hell no. I relinquished another stack of bills to our bartender.

We had gathered at the end of the bar nearest the life-giving taps and made a run at bankrupting Milwaukee as we pounded beer after beer in time to the sonic attack on the diminutive stage. I vaguely heard Anika yell to the girl working the t-shirt booth across the room, but my vision cleared like an eagle zeroing in on a prancing bunny, or perhaps as Bob Ross would have said, a small, happy child The t-shirt girl popped her top. Anika followed suit. Karen slammed her fist into my ribs and shouted "see what you started?"

Moi? How could this be. After all, I'm the last boy scout. How could this be blamed on me? As if it mattered. While defending my feminist views to Karen the corners of my eyes delighted as an impromptu "best rack" contest evolved around us. I might be a feminist but I'm not blind. Before long, tattooed Sharps were baring pierced pectorals for Anika and Karen was pouring Jager down my gullet and reminding me she wasn't one of 'those' girls. As if a good-looking-guitar- wielding-punk chick with liquor in her fist wasn't like rock cocaine to my inner Marion Barry. Hah! I matched her Slut for Slut as the contest raged on around us.

Just as I announced Anika the winner (though I'm not sure how I became the judge in this contest) our little tryst was broken up by two heavyset guys in Hawaiian shirts reeking of cheap gin.

"Who the hell are you girls anyway?" One of the beefy-necked dingoes slurred.

Karen grabbed a fistful of Go-Go's by the front door and declared, "We're Hemi-fucking-Cuda!" Those two wolves turned to pups as Anika and Karen produced fat markers and scribbled autographs for the less-than-dynamic duo. One of them finally begged the question "and who is this guy?" His rheumy eyes dancing over Anika's recently re-covered charms.

"Rob is our date," And suddenly my cheeks and ears were covered in lipstick and probing tongues. I leaned over, flipping open the copy of Go-Go and signing my column "Sucks To Be You" to our interlopers.

With my ears ringing and stained with lipstick and promises, my captors summarily dumped my sorry carcass on the stoop of my bachelor pad. Penniless, disheveled, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed. Happy ending? When was the last time you had a Wednesday like that? You can try:

The Paper Tiger
1196 South Santa Fe Drive
303-777-9960
15th Street Tavern
1501 E. Colfax (Colfax & Park)
303-867-9703
Hemi Cuda www.popsweatshop.com/hemicuda.html