“My Other Ride Has Tits,” says the back of a man’s bright orange muscle shirt. That’s how you know you’re in a special part of Scottsdale, a place where Arizona cultures collide. It’s called Greasewood Flat and the parking lot is filled with Lexuses and motorcycles. Suit-types and the type that wear the shirt above bump elbows here to get a bite of their famous burgers. It looks more suited for cowboys, but maybe we, a bunch of guys out to lunch before my wedding, are just the cowboys of the new old west.