Get the Funk Out

We recently visited the mecca of Kansas City nightlife establishments, and now we can retire happy.

Yep, that’s right — we went to Funky Town. Because we’re fans of cheesy theme bars — especially those of the retrorific ’70s and ’80s variety — we can’t believe it’s taken us so long to check it out. For some reason, though, we had a hard time convincing our Research Assistants to spend a Saturday night in eastern Jackson County. “Let’s go to this ’80s club near Raytown! It used to be Stadium Honda, the little dealer in the ditch! Doesn’t that sound awesome?” we’d say excitedly.

“Uh. I think I’m busy that night,” they’d answer, slowly edging away.

“Actually, Funky Town is its own zip code,” new Research Assistant Erik said. “6-4-double-0-FUNK.”

However, our persistence eventually wore them down, and off we went with a cadre of RAs. (For places like this, going with a big group is key, as is predrinking.) After paying a $5 cover and discovering that the bar was cash-only (which sucks — oh, won’t you take me to … the ATM?), we loaded up on drinks. As per the dictate that every retro bar must offer some sort of wacky, fruity drink (e.g., the fishbowl at Have a Nice Day and the entire drink menu at Polly Esther’s), we were pleased that FT had three different alcoholic slushy drinks ($7.50; each comes with a lei). Even better: These drinks were served in souvenir fruit-shaped plastic containers with screw-on lids and built-in straws. Drinking from a giant plastic pineapple was very Worlds of Fun.

Actually, the bar itself — which is set up kind of like a little town — felt like a bastardized version of Worlds of Fun. Or perhaps Exchange City, that quintessential KC sixth-grade field-trip destination, only with alcohol and cage dancing. In the room to the left of the entrance, two roads (both called Electric Avenue) intersected, and Paisley Park was a fenced off area that contained pool tables. (According to RA Erik, whose dad used to work at Stadium Honda, Paisley Park used to be the showroom floor.) The larger room to the right of the entrance (the former service area) contained the dance floor, as well as a plethora of diner-style tables and chairs. The “Stairway to Heaven” led to a sofa-filled balcony area. As to be expected, Funky Town was rife with the retro décor, such as the huge Monopoly board sticking out of a wall, the old metal lunchboxes on display, and the line of arcade games (including Galaga, Pac-Man and Asteroids). The effect was bizarrely fantastic, and we wished it would relocate downtown, closer to Night Ranger HQ.

But perhaps its east Jack location is essential, because the anthropological aspect of the night was quite fascinating. “This is a real cross-section of humanity,” RA John remarked. Not surprisingly, we spotted a bachelorette party as well as not one but two Ron Jeremy look-alikes. An older couple who looked stuck in the ’80s were practically having sex on the dance floor. The trendoid factor was low; the crowd consisted mainly of those in their mid- to late 30s and older. We found the natives pretty friendly. Then again, the Night Ranger was wearing her bright pink wig, which garnered much attention from both sexes. Note to readers: wigs = great pickup device. “You’re hot … hot pink!” said one guy with incredibly bad breath who had quasi-stalked the NR down Electric Avenue. Said another guy we ran into in front of the men’s restroom, “You look like you’re having fun.” Pause. “You look like trouble!”

The NR’s inner showtune dork kicked in. “With a capital T? That rhymes with P?” she yelled over the din. Sadly, he didn’t hear that and fled into the bathroom.

Oh, well. We soon spotted who we thought should be the mayor of Funky Town. Donnie, 40, was dancing by himself in the cage. He was preternaturally tan, had longish hair and a mustache, and was wearing tight white jeans and a (seemingly homemade) T-shirt that read “Don’t flatter yourself I was looking at your friend.” As he did this funktastic, fast-shaking dance move (which we dearly wish we could have captured on video), a woman went up to the cage and put a dollar down his pants. He told us that this dollar-stuffage happens a lot; on good nights, he’s made $15.

“I’m kind of famous,” he informed us. We were intrigued. Apparently, he’s a well-known nightlife figure at Orlando’s, Joshua’s and America’s Pub.

“Are you single?” we asked.

Ladies, he is. “I’m the best date. I’m the best at everything,” he said. He pulled up his shirt, showing off a tanfastic stomach. “So tight,” he added, then danced off into the night.

After that display, we noted that the cage was reclaimed by different groups of women for the rest of the night. We also spotted a guy sitting at its base. Wondering if he had positioned himself there to look up skirts, we went over to investigate. “Derek McDickerson” (his faux porn name) denied any lascivious intent; he had just eaten two T-bone steaks at the Argosy buffet and was too lethargic to notice much of anything.

We asked why he was at Funky Town. “I have no fucking idea,” said the 29-year-old. He had been dragged there by friends. “I hate the decade of the ’80s. There’s something about it — it’s so fucking Duran Duran. I can’t deal with it. Now, the ’70s I can handle, even though I was barely born then. For some reason, I can appreciate the ’70s.” We sympathized with his food-coma-slash-I’m-in-hell state and stopped pestering him.

Instead, we wandered around a bit more and discovered that most of the couples we talked to had met their significant others at Funky Town. Eerie, we thought. Perhaps something in the Worlds of Fun drinks makes people more amorous (besides the alcohol, that is). We got proof of this when we met Sondra, 41, and Dave, 39, a cute, friendly couple who met at FT in February and were rocking the dance floor. We first spotted them when the Grease medley was on; Dave was tapping Sondra’s white-shorts-clad ass in time to the hand claps during “Greased Lightning.”

After chit-chatting with them, we got down to business. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen here?”

They started laughing. Hard. Sondra leaned over. “Sex in the parking lot.”

Because the music was loud, Dave hadn’t heard, so we relayed what she said, operator-style.

“She told you?” he asked, astonished. They laughed even harder and high-fived. Yes, indeed — they claimed they had done it the night before, in the gravel lot. As the phrase “who’s gonna drive you home?” took on a new meaning in our heads, we decided to get the funk out and make the trek back to our own zip code.