Hog Heaven

Given the unofficial Night Ranger motto — “We go to these places so you don’t have to” — how could we not do our civic duty by checking out Johnny Dare’s?

Sure, we were curious about Mr. Dare’s new trailer-trash-themed biker bar, which sounded like it would either be a skanktastic good time or an experience that would scar our psyche. We also were intrigued by the layout of the place, which took over Stanford’s in Westport. So on July 29, we met Research Assistant David Wayne and infiltrated the semiprivate opening.

We had no trouble finding it; our beacons were a motorcycle over the entrance and two mudflap chick silhouettes on the edifice [insert your own edifice complex joke here]. The bar was much smaller than expected; the annex that formerly contained Club 504 had been blocked off, so the downstairs level was long and divided into two sections, with warm-toned wood floors and walls and a stripper pole near the bar. Astroturf-covered steps led to “Whisky Tango’s,” the wood-paneled trailer that made up the small second floor. Bathrooms had Port-a-Potty doors, and waitresses walked around in schoolgirl outfits, complete with knee-high white socks. As the theme went, the bar scored an A. So did its drinks. Despite Dare’s brag that anyone who ordered drinks with more than three ingredients would be scorned, we found a drink menu that served … well … girl drinks. We got the Indep-Mo (“We figured it was about time that Independence was known for something besides Crystal Meth,” read the menu) and enjoyed the mix of vodka, melon liqueur, cranberry juice and Sprite.

Surprisingly, we had a fun time, possibly because we were loaded on whiskey and froufy drinks. We were ready to hate the place, but it wasn’t too horrible. Of course, it helped that the majority of the crowd (listeners who had won tickets — i.e., beefy guys in their thirties and forties, many in muscle shirts) were also jovially tanked. But it was a friendly group, and even though the NR seemed to be viewed as the Exotic Other, the guys were respectful as they ogled. “They’re all about the Asian persuasion here,” David said. “At first I felt sorry for you, but then I realized you’re golden.”

We saw another Exotic Other: Becca, a huge, cross-dressing cop from Arkansas who was impressively decked out in a black-and-gold beaded dress. She met Dare when he and his biker friends stopped for drinks at a hotel in Eureka Springs — the same hotel where Becca had organized a cross-dressing convention.

“Everyone here looks macho as hell,” Becca told us. “But I tell ya, one in ten guys has panties on.” As we talked, a drunkoid approached Becca and asked her to sit on some guy’s lap. “I’m strictly heterosexual,” she said charmingly. Turning back to us, she said, “Three GGs — generic girls — came up to me tonight and said [gesturing toward her boobs], ‘I’ll trade mine for yours!’ I said, ‘Don’t show me that. I’m fixin’ to grab ’em!”

Little did we know that we would soon witness some tittage ourselves. In the distance, we saw two chicks lifting their tops; the blond flasher, who was wearing a flesh-colored bikini top and had overhang, had some guy tweaking her nipple. She leaned back against a ledge, and a test tube shot was placed in her waistband for Carl, 30, in honor of his impending deployment to Iraq.

We later found the blond flasher making out with CPJ — Cerebal Palsy Jesse, a Dare show regular — at the bar. Sadly, she was too lit to talk, but she managed to tell us that she’s known Dare for about 4 years.

“We’re going to have a long, loving relationship,” she slurred, smiling fatuously at CPJ.

“Hey, you’re like Connie Chung!” CPJ blurted to the Night Ranger. Cameron, a construction worker from Harrisonville who was sitting nearby, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure you had sushi for dinner,” he snorted.

“Hey, I got to say stupid shit like that. That’s why I’m on the radio,” CPJ said.

We understood. Talking shit and getting it thrown back in our face is all in a night’s work for us, too.