We’re drinking bourbon and cola, with more water than either, while top forty pop sleazes over us. The girl is Moroccan. It sounds exotic. Really, it only means a tan, an accent, a certain fullness and some unusual piercings. I watch her crawl down stage, her dark green eyes sketching back and forth as her lips move out of synch. Colt slips a five into her garter as she passes, and whispers to me that Australia needs dollar bills. Staring down the barrel of her womanhood, I wonder if we really need more ways to pay these women less.