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Now, we'll go anywhere for work-reimbursed drinks, and we've been rarin' to pay a visit to WT for some time. Its cheesetastc nature sounded like the best sociological field trip ever. How could we resist the tales of cage dancing and Whiskey Girls clomping on bar tops?
On the way out there with a caravan of research assistants, we passed our easternmost bar limit —Missouri Highway 7 in Blue Springs. (We once drank there at Class Reunion.) Ten minutes later, we exited onto Grain Valley's main drag and turned onto Outer Belt Road. We drove past the sketchy-looking Kozy Inn and turned into a gravel lot packed with cars. A grain elevator — or something farmish — stood nearby. As we walked up, we passed a good sign of a rockin' bar: a cluster of cowboys carrying a woman out to the backseat of her friend's car.
We paid the $5 cover and entered a space as big as a football field, with an occupancy of 3,200. Seriously. The interior actually looked clean and well-kept. Ten pool tables occupied one end zone; the other contained an elevated — and empty — VIP tiki bar, complete with futons, faux palm trees and Corona patio umbrellas. A massive wooden dance floor spanned about 60 yards, and two cages flanked one of its entry points. Above the dance floor hung an item we immediately coveted: a giant wagon wheel covered with small silver mirrors. It was disco-ball-fantabulous, though, sadly, it didn't spin or light up.
We made a beeline to one of the three bars and asked about drink specials. The bartender replied that the DJ would announce specials throughout the night. Ah, the Kmart-blue-light approach to cheap booze. We saw this in action later, when we heard the call for the Whiskey Girls. Clad in black tank tops and armed with bottles of Jack, Jim and Crown, they lined up atop one of the sideline bars. Then they dispensed free shots directly from the bottles into gaping mouths while Toby Keith's "Whiskey Girl" blared from the speakers.
Because we're leery of this sort of group drinking, we ordered our own $4 Jack drinks from the bar. We then made a couple of laps around the place. Surprisingly, our fellow drinkers seemed more frattish than country. To quote the sage words of the Osmonds, it was a little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll — though, we hasten to add, that particular ratio veered more toward 75-25.
In any case, the Night Ranger had theme-dressed in her best western shirt, along with a denim miniskirt and red cowboy boots, but still felt a little out of place, considering that most of the chickies went for the tit-baring tops, jeans and jet skirts. (That's the skirt that, when the wearer bends over, reveals her cockpit.) We spotted a guy on the dance floor in a mostly unbuttoned black silky shirt and denim manpris, which we haven't seen in years. That also goes for the backless halter tops, which still lingered in these here parts. As for the buckaroos, an inordinate number rocked the floofy-hair-and-polo-shirt combo as they strutted about, along with the more rural types who sported broader accents and crass T-shirts ("I love your mom" and "Your mom likes it"). Of course, a horde of guys were clad in Stranglers — i.e., tight Wranglers that revealed whether a bull whip slung to the left or to the right. In one astonishing case, a guy in stonewashed Stranglers strolled around, oblivious not only to our drunken gawkery but also to the end of the '80s.
