Kansas City, Missouri: home to Kauffman Stadium, the Kansas City Zoo, the beautifully crafted Country Club Plaza, Westport, Nelson-Atkins Art Museum, Oceans of Fun, and other charming attractions loved by locals and visitors alike. I’ve grown up and lived in the Kansas City area for the past 24 years. I’ll let you in on a treasure I recently discovered. There exists a unique establishment few have heard of – a place with its very own zipcode, way out in Eastern Jackson county at the end of a lonesome, curvy road. My coworkers begged me to go. “You won’t be disappointed,” they said.
And they were right. At the end of the evening, I realized that if there were ever a nightclub built just for me, Funky Town was it.
“You groovy chicks have a super-swingin’ time,” the man who collected our six dollars said with a wink.
We stepped into a 70’s explosion, with a whirlpool of neon-colored lights, Ron Jeremy look-alikes, and people who seriously knew how to jive.
I decided to mellow out with my favorite drink, a dirty shirley. It only took one of those and a beer for me to become a dancing queen.
Suddenly, the song changed to “Stayin’ Alive” by The BeeGee’s. No matter what the circumstances, this song always makes me dance. “To the cage!” I hollered, practically tripping over myself to get there first. Once in the cage, I twirled, dipped, and shimmied until everything was a rainbow blur between the cage bars. Jessie finally made her way into the cage and somehow, we managed to look like professional gogo dancers.
Afterwards, I made my way to the upper level, which overlooked the entire dance floor. With tunes this sweet, I couldn’t stop myself. I was a dancing sensation. People below the balcony had stopped to watch me. One woman was in awe. Soon, a group of people had joined her, following my moves. I don’t know how I transformed from an awkward, goofy dancer at home to a far-out, dancing diva – the music must have transported me to an era I belonged in. Maybe I just had boogie fever. Whatever it was, I could dig it.
Not far away, an old man walked vigorously around a raised, square platform. Glittery young babes climbed up there to join him, their afro wigs bobbing to the electric beats. My furry legwarmers carried me away, strutting to the sounds of KC and the Sunshine Band.
The night ended with a huge carwash brush descending from the ceiling. Bubbles and foam blasted the crowd. I left in a psychedelic daze, and woke up the next morning in 2010 – a sad place to be when you’ve had the most bitchin’ night you can dream of.