Went to a strip club last night for a bachelor party.  (Yes, that’s correct.  And, yes, I did take a bottle of Purel in with me. Don’t judge.)  The plan of attack for the evening was as follows:  Drink obscene amounts of alcohol at a bar, go to strip club, drink to excess again, leave, repeat.

Joy.

The evening’s festivities started at 7pm when a bus picked up the motley crew.  The den of iniquity we visited was Bonita Flats.  It was on the outskirts of town … and by outskirts I mean I spotted a coyote fishing around for god-knows-what outside the building’s dumpster.  Like any quality establishment of ill repute, the place looked as if surly longshoreman had constructed it in less than three days.  Once inside, I quickly realized that the longshoreman who built the joint had never left.  They were imbibing alongside what appeared to be a convention of truckers.  Not only that, but – bonus! — many of the male extras from the movie “Cocoon” were also on hand to revel in the revelry.

After paying my obligatory $5 to get in (bargain!), I did what any smart patron would do … I immediately looked for fire exits.  One can never be too safe when partying inside a dimly lit tin can, mind you.  After my eyes adjusted to the glowing orb of black light, I was in for a visual feast.  It was a veritable bonanza of thinly veiled girls as far as the eyes could see.  Unfortunately, being sober and having perfect vision, I realized this was not, repeat NOT, Kansas City’s finest.

The girls at Bonita Flats have lowered their standards so much, it’s almost as if they’ve given up trying.  The highlight of their dance routine is eagerly spraying down the stripper pole with Windex Plus after each performance.  I sat back, ordered a drink and let the fur fly … so to speak.  Before I had even been served my white wine spritzer, a lovely young lady Blondieee (“with three E’s”) came out of nowhere and landed on my lap.  She must have rappelled down from the ceiling because I never saw her coming.  She asked if I wanted a dance and looked incensed when I politely declined.  I mentioned that her schoolgirl uniform did not look regulation, but did appreciate how well she accessorized her ensemble.   I didn’t see much of her after that.

Kansas is – by and large – filled with white people.  So imagine my surprise when I saw dancers of every race, creed and origin.  It was like a poor man’s United Colours of Benetton ad.  I’m not sure, but I think one of them may have been pregnant.  No matter – she was still very limber and agile.  I predict the baby suffers from vertigo.  The dancers who came up to me – all six of them – were all very congenial, but focused on the task at hand:  to separate me from my money.  They were unsuccessful.  Total dollars spent for the evening:  $2.  And that was only because you are forced to give $1 whenever the head stripper comes around with a tip bucket.  I didn’t ask.  I just plunked down $1.  She smelled like cheap perfume, gin and regret … so it was the least I could do.

And don’t even get me started on the shoes.  Most of the girls there are 5’5”, but suddenly become a 6ft. Glamazon with the help of 6+ inch heels.  It’s fun to watch new girls teeter around like they’ve lost their equilibrium and/or their minds.   I wonder how many broken ankles befall these girls?   I actually took the time to compliment one girl Lola (“with one A”) on her killer footwear.  “My hoofers are hurting,” she lamented in a voice that sounded like my very butch mechanic.  She was also wearing a feather boa – which I think may have covered up her Adam’s apple, less I digress.

Men – once plied with copious amounts of alcohol – truly believe these girls enjoy spending time in their company.  Fortunately, the guys at the bachelor party were seasoned veterans and were having no part of it.  Many of them just spent their evening drinking heavily and ogling.  And then one by one nearly every one of them lost their ever-lovin’ minds.  More on that in Part II.

I’ll admit … I’m a bit of a foodie.  And I enjoy dining out more than even the most astute restaurant critic.  After 15+ years of working as a server, it’s nice to be waited on hand and foot.  And one of my favorite places to go is Café Trio – a bistro which overlooks Kansas City’s famed Country Club Plaza.

I started going to Café Trio years ago because of several strong recommendations.  “You must try this place … and not just for the drinks, either,” said one of my alcoholic friends.  “They have a phenomenal menu – which I never partake of because I’m too busy drinking.”

Their original place used to be nestled in a little nook in Midtown.  It was cozy – but that just added to the ambiance of the place. (I eavesdropped on more juicy conversations smushed up against other diners than I care to admit.)   It had a mixed bag of décor … with mirrors, velvet and deep burgundy tones.  I always felt like I was dining in the parlor of a whorehouse.  Yet, it still worked.

When Café Trio moved into their new space, regulars were a little skittish about Trio losing its intimate setting.   That quickly subsided when we all got a chance to see the gorgeous new digs, the updated, inspired menu and killer martinis.  Trio recently celebrated another anniversary – the 2^nd at its spacious new location.

The wait staff has been working there for years – always a good sign in an industry where high turnover is the norm.   And like any restaurant, there’s always a cast of characters to take your order.  There’s the overly-affectionate, huggy-kissy-gropey server that I avoid making eye contact with.  There’s the perfectly-coifed, devastatingly handsome server who flirts with men, women, small children and dogs in order to increase his tips.  There’s a litany of female servers who have dealt with bitchy gay male customers for so long they can diffuse any situation with a “Hey, gurrrrl” or “The guy at table four thinks you’re cute and he bought you this drink so you’d shut the hell up.”  (Keep in mind – there IS no table four.  Or cute guy for that matter.)

The food ranges from flesh of a dead cow to flesh of a dead pig, chicken or fish.  It’s a carnivore’s paradise.  (Or there’s a gourmet version of Mac & Cheese – the lethal Mac Daddy — if you’re craving vegetarian.)  I always – and I mean, always – get the same dish.  In four years, I haven’t deviated from the pistachio-encrusted tilapia.  Yes, it’s that good.  And, yes, I think everything in life should be rolled in nuts before being served.

But the reason why I try to eat at Trio at least once a week is the ambiance.  It’s always buzzing.  The patio is a veritable who’s-who of social butterflies.  There’s good juju throughout the building.  A lounge singer plunks away on the piano while belting out anything from jazz to show tunes.  The bartenders – without a doubt the best in the city – are always whipping up new adult libations for an unpretentiously pretentious crowd.  And the owners cater to the crowd and are heavily involved in GLBT philanthropic organizations.

I take everyone there … friends, Romans, countrymen.  And they are always dazzled and/or impressed with the entire experience.  And you will be too.  Three words:  Pistachio-encrusted tilapia.