Redwood Fantasy

If you’ve ever wondered what drinking in an Office Depot would be like (and who hasn’t?), we highly recommend a visit to Rosedale’s Redwood Inn. Thanks to its office-chairs-as-bar-furniture motif, drinking is now ergonomically sound and lumbar-ific!

Located near 47th Street and Mission in the strip mall just east of Oklahoma Joe’s (mmm … crack fries … ), the divey Redwood Inn has long been a source of interest for us, primarily because of those chairs. If we were to construct a Venn diagram, the Redwood’s wheelie seats would be the overlap between “bar olympics” and “office olympics.” During our visit, we were hoping to cheer on some drunken chair relays, but sadly, that was not to be. When we headed over with Research Assistants John, Amy, Joyce and Erik on a recent Saturday night, we discovered that our visit coincided with karaoke night.

As we walked in, a couple of beefy guys who were well on their way to wastoidalness were warbling “Because I Got High.” We walked up the two steps that led to the huge rectangular bar, which was sunken into the ground. Most of the patrons sat in office chairs around it. A giant screen behind the bar broadcast the song lyrics, so everyone stayed in place and just passed the microphone around.

We made our way to the bar and loomed over the bartender as we ordered Jack and Cokes ($4.25) and the special of the night: $2.25 Bud longnecks. We then sat at a table outside of the karaoke circle and assessed the place. The front part of the room contained two pool tables, a dartboard and a pinball machine, more office chairs haphazardly strewn about, and a Silver Strike Bowling game (the new Golden Tee). However, another game machine caught our attention. Fantasy 95, a stand-up machine, had a screen that alternated a graphic of a blond woman flashing a nipple with silhouettes of men and women with their naughty parts clearly outlined. Never before had the term joystick been more apt.

We decided that we had to check that out, but we needed to imbibe before testing our virtual stripping skills. So, as we drank, we entertained ourselves by watching our fellow lushes get into their singing. The Redwood attracted a friendly, mixed crowd. The regulars dominated the scene: Older mustachioed guys in flannel shirts and stiff-looking baseball caps sat by bosomy women in scoop-necked T-shirts tucked into blue jeans. A young guy in a tan suede jacket drank by himself before quietly slipping out the door, and a blond woman with a mohawk played a video trivia game.

At the end of the bar sat a longhaired guy who was about to do a shot of Jäger with the two women next to him. We went over and asked if we could talk to him. “No, ’cause I’m drunk,” he slurred. “Come back in the morning, when I’m sober.” Hmm — morning and sobriety being anathema to us, we declined his kind invitation.

Instead, we chatted with one of the off-duty bartenders, who was more than happy to fill us in on the vibe of the place. “It’s As the Redwood Turns,” said 24-year-old Lara, the woman with the mohawk. “Everyone knows everyone, and everyone talks about everyone. It’s pathetic. I’ve heard stuff about me.” She described the way that some women have gotten mad when their boyfriends chatted her up. She said one woman nearly beat the crap out of her.

“It’s the women who won’t let their boyfriends have friends,” she said. “I’m completely neutral. I’d rather sleep with her [the girlfriend] than him.” She thought for a moment, then added, “That’s not true. She sucks.” She also told us that some of the older guys have complained that the Redwood was going to turn into a gay bar. “Don’t be jealous because I bring beautiful women in here and get more pussy than you,” she said. That’s definitely thinking outside the box.

Next, we chatted with 37-year-old Pete, a regular who lives nearby. He described himself as a carpet layer and said he’d laid the Redwood Inn’s carpet about four years ago. We refrained from making any sexual innuendoes but snickered inside. When we asked him if he had any tales about any embarrassing mergers and acquisitions, he gave another example of the soap-opera nature of the bar.

He told us that he once gave a ride home to another customer, who was very, very drunk. He walked her to her door, and when she got inside, she took off all of her clothes. He walked away, but to his mortification, she chased him. He declined to spill any more details. “It doesn’t happen with the girls you like, goddammit,” was all he would say. “I’m the nice guy down here. Nice guys always finish last.”

Aww. Not necessarily, Pete. Just ask Ben, another regular who was sitting at the bar with his wife, 53-year-old Alex, a sweet woman who works at the Westport Laundromat. She told us that in June, the couple will celebrate their 26-year anniversary.

They met at a Johnson County bar on a blind date. Alex told us that her ex-husband’s aunt, who worked with Ben, set them up. Three kids and two grandkids later, they’re still on the nightlife scene, which we thought was cool.

“Any band or bar, we try to help out,” Ben said. “Any bar we go to, we try to meet the manager, the bartenders, the bouncers. We’re friendly-oriented.” They certainly were.

Another friendly-oriented sort was “Jonas,” a dapper guy in a white cable-knit sweater hat, a striped shirt and a gold front. A big Sinatra fan, he had sung a great rendition of “My Way” earlier in the night. “I’m the don of karaoke,” he said.

He also turned out to be the don of Fantasy 95, and he played an exhibition game for us. The game was weirder than we expected. You have to guide a Prince-like symbol to draw boxes over the silhouetted figure; once the box is complete, a patch of flesh is revealed. If evil-looking butterflies and maggoty worms intercept you while you’re drawing the box, the Prince-like symbol explodes.

As Jonas skillfully maneuvered the symbol, a disembodied female voice moaned, “Ooh, keep it up.”

“Oh, I’ll keep it up for you, baby,” Jonas replied. He finally uncovered the picture, and a chick with huge silver-dollar nipples emerged for maybe 10 seconds. Ugh. That was more nightmare than fantasy, and it skeezed everyone out.

We ended up staying until the bar closed. Our memo re: Redwood Inn: It’s our new favorite bar. And you can rubber-stamp that and copy it in triplicate.