Ahhh, spring! Birds on the wing, daylight hours on the rise, strippers on the see-through stiletto.
For most of us male of-agers, spring means wedding season, and wedding season means bachelor-party season. As someone who isn’t married (yet) but who has planned a handful of bon voyages to bachelordom for friends and family members – and is planning another one now – I think I have a good grip on the basics.
Essentially, here’s what you need to know. You have four types of bachelor party, in no particular order:
The Sin City: Unless you live near Las Vegas, The Sin City party is chiefly for moneyed, milquetoast martini-sippers. Not recommended for guys whose idea of “fancy footwear” is a pair of flip-flops and/or work-boots; guys with insane, clingy girlfriends; or curmudgeonly, imperious, pale literary types.
The Kirk Cameron: pretzels, pop, and prayer. Not recommended for, well, any grown man who isn’t of the cloth.
The Bukowski: usually takes place at a friend’s backyard or neighborhood bar and involves no niceties, no balloons, no gag gifts – none of that shit – but maybe a little greasy food, a little pre-Sammy Van Halen on the stereo, and a lot of boozin’, cursin’, laughin’, shit-talkin’, and possibly fightin’.
The Private Dancer: Avoid if possible. Most strippers nowadays aren’t what they used to be. Back around the time of the contemporary bachelor party’s birth, circa the 1950s, strippers were aspiring actresses, singers, or showgirls, beauties whose time in the presence of The Pole was just a pit stop on the road to stardom. Today, most strippers are lifers, and as lifers, too many of ‘em care less about doing what they’re supposed to – flirt with the groom-to-be to boost his self-esteem – than about milking desperate dudes of all their dough.
Unless money is no object or all of your friends are clergymen, here in Cowtown, you’re left with two options: The Bukowski and The Private Dancer. Considering my distaste for the latter, we normal dudes really have only one option, the one that takes its title from legendary skid-row poet Charles’ surname. The question now is where?
Well, other than friends’ houses (always a good bet), you have a couple of viable options, including Fred’s Texas Café, the erstwhile White Elephant Beer Garden – now the Love Shack – and an old joint that just popped up on my radar; after stopping by last weekend, I think Feathers at Green Oaks Hotel could be ideal. The best part: For Private Dancer-types, or for friends who magically turn into Private Dancer-types after a few beers and several shots, one of Fort Worth’s best strip clubs, New Orleans Nights, is literally right across the street.
The hotel where Feathers is located is a Westside staple with great rates. A suite there won’t run you more than about $140 tops – perfect, if passing out is on the night’s agenda. The club’s interior is cozy: a lot of warm woods and dim lighting, and a low ceiling. The space is anchored in the center by a square bar, meaning that other than the passage through which the bartenders and bar-backs travel, every seat at the bar counter is a good one. On one side of the space is a tiny dance floor. On the other is a long window that looks out onto assorted Westside street lamps and lighted signage – and out below to the parking lot.
And, if you look closely, across to New Orleans Nights.
Feathers at Green
6901 W Fwy, FW. 817-738-7311.