Page 11 of 12

Why, I ask?

"Cops," he responds simply.

"Yeah, but they don't bug the car clubs as much," adds Rick Valles, our cruising partner. "If we're all together, they know we're just showing off our cars."

Valles and Valdez-Berriel started Reminiscing Car Club two years ago, and the pair go out every weekend to show off their rides. When a man on a motorcycle stops at a light, looks over and says, "Nice ride, man," Valdez-Berriel just smiles. With its opalescent white paint job, white upholstery and blue trim, the Buick is an eye-catcher, and he gets stopped all the time. The car is also a business card for his skills: He and Valles do all the work themselves.

We cruise down to Mississippi and then head back up to 84th Avenue, prime cruising territory. But nobody's around, not even in the Sonic parking lot up north or the gas stations that litter the strip. There's not even a cop. But the ride itself is glorious.

And as they drop me off at the gas station at 38th Avenue, finally, some action: Two red cars collide just past the intersection. It's a hit-and-run in progress, but we don't catch the license-plate numbers. "There you go," Valles says. "Something happened on Federal."

Still, not even a cop. -- Amy Haimerl

Saturday Night Live
7950 Federal
11:15 p.m.

Something seems different about this strip club.

Like at any other strip club, the guy at the door gives you all singles for change when you pay the $4 cover, as does the waitress when you buy a $4 bottle of Budweiser. On the four stages, there are plenty of girls with whom you can exchange one of those dollars for a moment's intimacy.

Still, something seems different.

Same clear plastic high heels. Same tattoos on the small of the strippers' backs. Same schoolgirl outfits, cheerleader uniforms, tiny business suits and bikinis. Same G-strings and the same cheap perfume. Same music, too.

But something's different, all right: All the breasts look real.

Reminiscent of an old-school Playboy, the breasts are big, they're small, and they're real. And the air-conditioner in the room is set just right to highlight Saturday Night Live's main attraction.

On one stage is Diva, the proud owner of a set of 38DDs. She's chewing gum, has a pierced tongue and long eyelashes, and is the mother of a six-month-old boy. She sports a tiny black dress -- too tiny. "Bad kitty," Diva says, spanking herself between her legs.

"Bad kitty," she repeats, as Snoop raps about being beautiful in the background. Diva goes down on my nearly empty Budweiser bottle, all the way to the label. She can shove a dollar behind a man's belt buckle and take it out with her mouth. Now she puts her finger in her mouth, and my money, too.

I think she really likes me.

An angry dancer comes over and tells Diva that she's pissed and it's time to go. A dude in sunglasses seems to be sleeping in the back of the bar. The bouncer has an ice cream cone in one hand and a tall blonde in the other.

The next round of dancers includes a thin Latina who's especially gifted at picking dollars off of faces with her breasts. She looks to be about a B cup, maybe a C, and she gets the attention of a couple of guys who step up and each shove a George Washington in her thong.

Across the stage from the Latina is a white girl in a white dress who lifts it up to her chest with an "oops" expression on her face. The dress goes up and down during a double batch of Tone Loc before it comes off for good.

I think she really likes me.

The only female in the audience not dressed like a stripper is a Vietnamese woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt. She's tipping the girls on stage. She used to work here but hasn't danced in three months. Something overcomes her on this particular night, though, and she goes back to put on a bikini and then steps on stage.

"I'm so nervous," she says as she starts her first dance. She then proceeds to do the splits, throw her legs over the crowd's heads, wrap her legs around a pole, pick dollars off of faces with her butt cheeks.

KEEP WESTWORD FREE... Since we started Westword, it has been defined as the free, independent voice of Denver, and we'd like to keep it that way. With local media under siege, it's more important than ever for us to rally support behind funding our local journalism. You can help by participating in our "I Support" program, allowing us to keep offering readers access to our incisive coverage of local news, food and culture with no paywalls.
Sara Behunek
Drew Bixby
Patricia Calhoun co-founded Westword in 1977; she’s been the editor ever since. She’s a regular on the weekly CPT12 roundtable Colorado Inside Out, played a real journalist in John Sayles’s Silver City, once interviewed President Bill Clinton while wearing flip-flops, and has been honored with numerous national awards for her columns and feature-writing.
Contact: Patricia Calhoun
Jessica Centers
Amy Haimerl
Dave Herrera
Contact: Dave Herrera
Jared Jacang Maher
Alan Prendergast has been writing for Westword for over thirty years. He teaches journalism at Colorado College; his stories about the justice system, historic crimes, high-security prisons and death by misadventure have won numerous awards and appeared in a wide range of magazines and anthologies.
Contact: Alan Prendergast
Michael Roberts has written for Westword since October 1990, serving stints as music editor and media columnist. He currently covers everything from breaking news and politics to sports and stories that defy categorization.
Contact: Michael Roberts
Jason Sheehan
Contact: Jason Sheehan