After ordering a Boulevard Wheat at Lew’s during the Waldo Crawldo on May 18, we turned around and — da da dum! — spotted our nemesis: Captain Morgan himself, nefarious fake eyebrows and all.
We’ve held a grudge against the Captain since he stood us up a couple of Halloweens ago. We wanted to follow him for this column as he went around Westport to promote his grog. Plans were made, and he was supposed to call to tell us where to meet. On the day of the event, he never called, therefore earning our enmity for life. So when he showed up at the Crawldo with his saucy wenches (“the Morganettes”), the Night Ranger evaded his luv attempts. He tried to stroke her cheek, and she fled. Meanwhile, Research Assistant Erik had other qualms that night: “I hope he doesn’t try to plunder my booty.” Or make anyone walk his plank, if you know what we mean.
We ignored the Captain like a scorned lover. Instead, we started chatting with his gorgeous Morganette, 30-year-old Tasha, an incredibly sweet model-slash-actress. She wore a black pirate-style shirt with red laces, a black miniskirt and knee-high boots. She and her fellow Morganette were about five hours into the job.
So, Tasha, are you often harassed by random guys while dressed all sexily? “Oh, all the time,” she said. She was out one night at Kelly’s to promote Smirnoff and Guinness, and as usual, the place was packed. One obnoxious guy started in with, “Hey. Hey, you! Give me a T-shirt!” She told him that if she saw him drinking what they were promoting, she’d give him the shirt. He replied, “I’m not drinking what you’re promoting. You basically lost a customer, you fucking cunt.”
Now, if we could think of the male equivalent of such an offensive word, we’d use it here. Perhaps we should hold a contest to come up with one. Send in your suggestions; the winner gets a jolly rogering from Captain Morgan.
But Tasha said the attention usually isn’t that bad. Guys will try to schmooze her or will ask to take her out for a drink. She said she once felt someone grab her butt and rub up on it, and when she turned around, she came face to face with some chick.
The Captain and the Morganettes moved on after that, and we stayed for a bit to suss out the crowd. The Crawldo — the spring counterpart to the Falldo Crawldo pub crawl — attracted a mixed group of people, agewise. We were impressed by the ballsiness of the Crawldo organizers for holding this event on a weeknight, and for a Thursday, it attracted quite a lively crowd. Then again, this is KC, where every night is a good night for hardcore drinking. So kudos to you, Thursday-night lushes, for helping support rampant booziness on a school night. (Cue the swelling Bud Light “Real American Heroes” music.) Oh, and all that drinking was for two good causes: the ticket proceeds went to the Lymphoma and Leukemia Society and to the fund to build a fountain at the corner of 75th Street and Wornall.
We started off at Lew’s, where $15 at the door ($10 in advance) got us a crawl passport — which, if we got this stamped at all six bars on the tour, would render us eligible for prizes, such as a couples spa certificate, which we were dying to win. The atmosphere at Lew’s was festive because it was the only bar on the tour that set up an outdoor patio drinking area in its parking lot, complete with a big tent canopy encircled by a white lattice fence. Inside, the tables had been moved to the side, and people were rocking the faux dance floor in the middle of the bar. However, their dance needs were quashed when the staffers moved the tables back in a Footloose-ian dance block.
We spotted some older parental types, but the majority of drinkers were younger and overwhelmingly white. At Lew’s, we encountered guys clad in ironic T-shirts that clung to their torsos like Saran Wrap. Clusters of boys in polo shirts also abounded as well as the glossy-haired girl groups. We also saw several examples of what our friend Karen dubbed the “jet skirt” — so short that whenever the wearer bends over, you can almost see her cockpit. One egregious example was a denim mini with pocket lining peeping out from under the hem. It was very Britney Spears, circa 2003.
After Lew’s, we made a quick pit stop at Tanner’s, where the crowd kind of died out during our visit. So we headed over to Bobby Baker’s, which is definitely on our top-20 list of favorite bars in town, thanks to its loungey, divey atmosphere. That’s where we ran into two lovelies: Annette and Renée, both Waldo residents in their thirties. They told us they’re regulars at all the neighborhood bars — even the police love them. Then Annette started telling us that her neighbors hate her and call the cops when she has friends over. Why do they hate her? “I’m white and pretty and single,” she replied.
Our final stop of the night was Kennedy’s, which was packed with revelers drinking up before the 1:30 closing time. After ordering more beer, we wandered around and soon met 26-year-old Mike, who had staked out a spot by the big-screen TV. He was hanging out with his friends from Rockhurst High School. He seemed personable, and ladies, he’s single. “I’m into long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, fast cars and fast women,” he joked. “I could go all night.” He meant with the clichés, but of course, since we’re in seventh grade and fans of The Office, we mentally added, “That’s what she said.”
At that point, Kennedy’s announced last call. We didn’t make it to Waldo Bar for the up-to-3 a.m. drinking. It was a school night, after all.