Westport Crashing

There’s nothing I love more than going to a birthday party. Unless it’s semi-crashing a party, and happily, I did both on a recent Saturday night. The whole thing felt so college that I considered stealing some street signs on my way out.

The night started at McCoy’s, which celebrated its 10-year anniversary with a parking-lot dancefest featuring DJ Westy. I was excited about McCoy’s hitting the milestone, considering that it’s one of my top 20 bars in town. I headed toward Westport around 11 with Research Assistants Bill, Erik and Joyce. By the time we found parking and paid the dollar entry fee to get into Westport itself, I was more than ready for a drink. McCoy’s offered two special brews for the occasion, and I was intrigued by the Celebration Ale, which I heard could knock us on our asses. But on that humid night, girly drinks won out over beer. My summer drink of choice, Orange Stoli and 7-Up, came in a little plastic cup.

For the shindig, the bar charged a $5 cover for patio and parking-lot access. McCoy’s cordoned off the lot by the patio with a chain-link fence; over by the Hurricane end, DJ Westy set up on the stage. He played a good mix of new clubby stuff as well as old-school hits by the likes of Easy E and Rob Base. Occasionally, a fog machine belched out white clouds.

Unfortunately, the crowd was somewhat sparse for the massive expanse of asphalt, as measured by the nonexistent lines to the porta-potties. R.A. Bill spotted one couple who walked in through the gate, paid, laughed, then walked out. However, a steady stream of random people filtered in and entertained us with their dance moves. Three older couples — including a white-haired guy sporting boat shoes and white socks — really rocked out to “It Takes Two” and “Boyz In Da Hood.” When I ran into my friend Mike, he immediately asked, “Did you see that first couple dancing?” He tried to imitate them by planting his feet about a foot apart and moving his upper body in a jerky motion. He explained, “It was like they were trying to dodge something but didn’t know where it was coming from.”

We moved to the patio and scored a table by the railing. From our perch, we spotted some popped collars and the newest addition to our annoyance list: the chickies who don’t realize that white shorts and white clingy miniskirts are basically see-through. I noticed two bachelorette parties, one of which enticed guys to suck for a buck. I decided to talk to one of the bachelorettes. Gina, a 31-year-old who sported a tiara over her short blond hair, was getting married the following weekend and had been out doing the tour of Westport Beach Club, Kelly’s and the Beaumont. The worst line she got that night was from a guy at Kelly’s, who told her that he’d like to lay her down on a table and cornhole her.

Yep, cornholing was the theme of the night in Westport. Down in the parking lot, we spotted two guys hoisting their female friends onto their hips, so I went over and met Josh, Erin and a guy who gave his name as Corduroy Stuart. He tried to spell it for me but forgot how. (I have trouble with that word in a sober state, let alone after a few drinks, so it went in my notebook as Kordoray, along with the vague fuzzy thought, That doesn’t look right.)

Anyhoo, I asked them if they had any great stories about McCoy’s in honor of its b-day. Erin asked Corduroy, “Didn’t you have sex in the bathroom?” The 26-year-old went still and mute.

Another friend of theirs named Kristin came up and lauded the benefits of bathroom quickies. “It’s a little easier. You pull out, pull in,” she said. “Personally, I don’t do it with random people.”

“Guilt-ee,” Corduroy sang out.

By that time, the clock had hit 2 a.m., and DJ Westy had packed up. I heard about a house party hosted by a couple of McCoy’s employees, so we decided to head over to it across Southwest Trafficway. We met up with two more RAs and found that the party was easily infiltrated. Located on a small, diagonal street, the house had a hipster-scenester crowd spilling out of it onto the lawn and the street. I wandered into the kitchen, where 27-year-old Aaron, a McCoy’s employee, had kegs of Landing Light, Hog Pound Brown and IPA.

It was impressive that one of his roommates had thought ahead and applied for a noise permit. Apparently, he just walked into City Hall and paid about $50 for it. They had framed it and hung it by the door. I was examining it when a shirtless guy in overalls passed by. “That’s fucking awesome! Is it legit?” he asked. I dubbed him Dexy, as in Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

The interior of the house was hot and stuffy, so we found seats on the front porch, next to a giant fuzzy white bear. We were enjoying our beers when a guy came out and stood at the top of the front steps. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a rock-and-roll show. And fans!” That worked for me, so we went into the basement, where Brodie Rush, backed by All These Drums, performed a great rendition of Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out.” I was impressed by his ability to make the motorcycle sounds with his mouth.

We made our way back outside, where people were still milling about. As I waited for my RAs, a guy with an Afro stumbled down the steps. “I’m done,” he declared, before collapsing in his friend’s arms.

So were we. We headed back to the bank parking lot, where the previously blocked-in NR-mobile had an empty Smirnoff bottle by its wheel. Oh, well — the blockage was just a small annoyance for a night with the real McCoy’s, in both house and bar form.