Buzzard Bait

I thought I was going out for a reasonably quiet nightcap when I left my apartment and headed down to Buzzard Beach a couple nights ago around 11:30. I figured I’d maybe see one or two people I knew, have a couple cold ones, a little diverting conversation, and then go home. Because no one ever told me that Wednesday nights at the Buzzard bring one of the best (if not the best) mid-week parties in town.

Tulipana and Metal Mark

Evidently other people knew this, because the outside deck was full of drinkers, and the inside upstairs (I never visit the downstairs part for some reason) was reasonably busy. I hung out with some friends and acquaintances on the deck, watching them buy round after round from the friendly cocktail waiters (you wouldn’t think a dive like that would have such service…or maybe I’m just easily impressed) while I paced myself because I hadn’t brought much cash. Out on the parking lot, a truck pulled up and Steve Tulipana — Record Bar owner, Roman Numerals player, long-time KC stud — hopped out and began unloading his DJ equipment. Earlier inside, I’d run into Metal Mark — El Torreon booker, around-town DJ, tattooed wildman http://www.missioncreep.com/mundie/gallery/gallery22.htm — but little did I know they were going to be tag-teaming the decks for some hard-on inducing party action.

Before long, the two had set up, and one of the most wonderfully heinous dancefloor jams ever was pumping through the PA: Dirty Laundry. And it only went up from there. As if the place were a zoo, I stood outside the windows behind the DJ table and watched as people started boogieing unselfconsciously to Michael Jackson, Queen, and all manner of trash disco tracks. One merry couple consisted of a dude in khakis and a blue polo who looked like he’d just gotten off work at Office Max, plus the 40-year-old blond trashy businesswoman he picked up at McCoy’s. Later, I’d see that blonde, thoroughly drunk, grab two lovin’ fistfuls of some poor black guy’s hair and give his head a good shaking. I think he was pretty much into it at that point, however.

I moved inside. Beastie Boys. “Nuthin’ but a G Thang.” The crowd was the most diverse I’d ever seen in Westport. There were some stylin’ black guys with corn rows and bling, tattooed barista babes and swank office gals, thick-necked dudes and artsy hipsters, and a good contingency of over-30s alcoholics, who were doing most of the rug-cutting. I ran into Robert Moore and asked him if he came to this night a lot. “It’s the only night I come here,” he replied, then added, “It’s the only time you get to see Steve Tulipana get really drunk.”

Moore was partially responsible for that. A few minutes later, he was doing shots with Steve and Metal Mark over the turntables. And a few minutes after that, I watched Steve go from a full-standing position to lying flat on his back under the DJ table. He hadn’t passed out, in fact, he was wearing a calm expression on his face, as if he’d just decided, “Fuck standing up — the floor’s where it’s at!”

I should have mentioned that all that was after Metal Mark and Steve had swapped shirts, Mark donning Tulipana’s black Oxford-like button up and Steve rocking Mark’s basketball jersey, which allowed him to reveal the fact that he has almost as many tattoos as Metal Mark. More importantly, though, the shirt-swapping inspired two women on the dancefloor to swap tops, and for a brief moment or two, there were two bra-clad broads pumping to the beat.

I ended up staying until closing. I’d hit up the ATM for money I didn’t actually have (hello, overdraft fee!) and was pretty lit by the time I found myself back by the ice machine talking to Wes, the drummer from Doris Henson (second from right in the garden o’ heads). Of course, I don’t remember a word I said to him, but I do remember idiotically punching a plaque on the wall for no reason. I wasn’t angry; I just wanted to smash a motherfuckin’ plaque, OK? I failed, scraping a knuckle in the process. (Note to self: There’s a reason pubs and bars always decorate with garage-sale Americana brick-a-brack. It’s impervious to drunken attacks!)

The lights came up soon after, and I began walking. I was so sweaty by the time I got home that I stripped down and got in the shower — and promptly wiped out in the tub. I wasn’t hurt (badly), and, in fact, I counted myself lucky. Not everyone I saw that night had been able to reserve their nudity and/or clumsiness for the privacy of their own bathrooms.