Hair Apparent
In doing our part to bridge the chasm between social tribes in Kansas City, we’ve been big proponents of the Drunken Antic — the phenomenon of going up to strangers in a bar and just starting shit with them (not maliciously, of course). Of course, both parties must be wasted, and finding Research Assistants who are up to the task of spouting all sort of nonsensical stuff — such as offering to be someone’s wingman, or just going up and infiltrating a group — is key.
Through trial and error, we’ve rediscovered that Kelly’s in Westport — stop groaning — is a great place for this; everyone is generally lit and receptive. (Plus, it has tasty Jell-O shots!) Then, on a recent Saturday night, we decided to test Fin’s Waldo Bar with RAs Kevin and Laura. Conditions seemed promising: Take the only 3 a.m. bar in Waldo, add cheap beer served in red Dixie party cups and factor in the noteworthy crowd surge after 1:30 — how bad could it be?
Well, it could have sucked less. Fin’s is a good bar for hanging out, but the mingle factor is hit-or-miss. And the late-night overcrowding, the über-smoky air and our pet peeve — the touch-choice jukebox — were kind of annoying.
We got our $2 Dixie cup Bud Lights and were rebuffed when we tried to worm our way into the large group at the next table. “Oh, no,” said a woman dressed nicely in a poufy satin shirt. “You’re Jen Chen. We read you every week, but we don’t want to be in your column.” Ha! Our questionable reputation precedes us, we see. So we turned to her friend Zach, a 25-year-old nursing-school applicant.
“Are you here to pick up?” we wanted to know.
“I would, but I don’t see anything,” he replied. “I’m really attracted to journalists, though.”
Oh, Zach. Flattery will get you everywhere with us. Um, assuming you’re talking about us, that is — we throw around the j-word rather lightly. He then told us that he knew the group through a guy in a plaid shirt sitting at the bar; they were in tenth grade together at Shawnee Mission East.
“Do you have an embarrassing story about him?” we asked.
“Well, in high school, he ran down Lee Boulevard butt naked with Roman candles in his ass,” Zach said. “It was on a dare.” Oh, those wacky Lancers! However, Plaid Shirt, breaking down under our expert questioning skills, confessed that the Roman candles were not up his ass.
“They were in my hand. It looked like they were in my ass because I was streaking real fast. It wasn’t on a dare, either,” he said. We only hope that stodgy Lee Boulevard has recovered from the shock.
We weren’t sure if it was a dare that prompted Erykah, 23, to show us her ass crack, but that’s how we stumbled upon her. She was perched on a bar stool and was leaning over and wagging her butt cleavage at us. Erykah, a pretty blonde in a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap and pink Ponys, seemed all too pleased that a photo of her display might be published in the paper.
“I’m a journalism major at KU on the ten-year plan. Hey, stop putting ice cubes into my ass crack!” she yelped. (It’s around this page in our notebook that the quote “Look at it — it’s tight as shit” appears, but like many of our notebook scrawls, we’re not sure of its proper context. Perhaps Erykah, with her j-school experience, can enlighten us about this sometime.)
We soon found the guys we wanted to observe in action: Justin, 25, and Mike, 26. These two good-looking prepsters gave off the faint vibe that they were on the prowl, but in a non-assholic way, which made them all the more intriguing. And because we’re a sucker for accents, we liked Mike’s slight New Jersey tone. He came to the Midwest to go to KU, and a great job right out of college in insurance kept him here.
“So are you here to pick up?” was our standard question for the night.
“We always have to pick up,” they said. We offered our wingman services; the guys seemed ready to take us up on that. Mike told us he had spotted a dark-haired chick he wanted to chat up, and we looked around for her.
“Oh, nice,” Justin said, distracted while pointing out a blonde walking by.
“I like dark-haired girls,” Mike said. “East Coast guys are into that. Blondes are ditzy and fake. Brunettes are sexy and chic.” Oh, Mike. Just make out with us now.
“I’m a Midwestern guy,” said Justin, a KC native. “Pick a blonde. I’m all about blondes.”
“Why are East Coast guys all about the brunette?” we quizzed Mike. He told us that, in general, there were more brunettes there. “Blondes on the East Coast are fake,” he said. “Plus, there are no blondes on the East Coast — the ones who are there are transplants, and that’s not a good look for them.” We lost them in the crowd.
Little did we know that the hair theme would continue with Brandon, 22. Then again, he was sporting a big Afro — which, he told us, has been an object of fascination to strangers, who ask if they can touch it. “Ladies love it,” he added. (At this point, we had to restrain ourselves from earnestly reciting, Ladies love me, girls adore me/Even the ones who never saw me. We’ve scared many a co-worker by randomly breaking out the Rob Base lyrics.)
Um, anyway. Brandon and his friend, Michael, 21, work the night shift at Berbiglia’s at 45th Street and Belleview. Naturally, they get the odd assortment of characters in there.
“A gentleman came in and asked the difference between blackberry brandy and peach schnapps,” Brandon told us. “We get crazy regulars all the time. People make out at the counter. It’s, like, hey, hey, hey, calm down. It’s all good fun, though.”
Ah. And, we’re definitely proponents of all of these things, too.
