By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
Over at the Double Deuce, a Goliath biker clad in a Hell's Angel hat, leather jacket, and T-shirt sits at the end of the bar. But he rises quickly and becomes territorial when his stripper girlfriend shows a bit too much interest in the Hamm's Bear.
"NO CAMERAS OR CELL PHONES," scream the signs, but the Hamm's Bear is no mere regular. Pictures are taken of him with the owner, with the owner's sidekick (who carries out the bartender's suggestion to "grab the bear's crotch") and with Sherry (no last name, please), one of the dancers who presses her boobs into the Hamm's Bear's face, kisses the Hamm's Bear's nose, and puts her hands all over the Hamm's Bear's fur as the boys on sniffer's row look on and, perhaps, wonder where they can find a bear suit.
"There's only six of these [suits] in existence," says the Hamm's Bear. "We get offered boatloads of money from collectors for it all the time. The Hamm's collectors come to these conventions, and it's like a Star Trek convention. They see it and they want it."
He'd be crazy to give it up, because spend even one night with the Hamm's Bear and the old rock star bromide comes true: Women want to be with him and men want to be him. That's certainly the case at the Double Deuce, where the overheating Hamm's Bear quickly straw-shotguns a couple of PBRs and says, "Let's roll."
On the way out, the Hamm's Bear stops for a few last photos with a dancer and a biker.
"See?" says the Hamm's Bear, as if to ask: Does a bear piss beer in the woods?