By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Keegan Hamilton and Francisco Alvarado
By Jake Rossen
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
It's almost midnight on a Friday at Assman's Wacky World (3000 E. Oakland Park Blvd., Fort Lauderdale), and 42-year-old Dave Tarr, the Assman himself, is bending over on the deck behind the restaurant to plant a kiss on his thin, blond girlfriend's butt. He stands up and rests his lanky arm around her tan shoulders, bare but for the two baby-blue spaghetti strings of her tank top. Lori, for whom Assman's boat, Lori's Ass-ets, is named, puts her arm around his torso, and they walk inside the club and start dancing to Sean Paul's "Like Glue." A crowd of 30 is mingling on the 50-foot deck and getting sloshed while a pug scampers around their legs. Sandwiched between a railing of the deck and the roof is a translucent set of plastic, white legs that are blinking with the seizure-inducing rapidity of the strobe light inside. It flashes across the Intracoastal at Shooters Waterfront Café (3033 NE 32nd Ave., Fort Lauderdale) as if to say, "Kiss my ass."
"Shooters is what got me into the bar business," Assman explains. "Two years ago, I was sitting at the restaurant bar with my girlfriend and a friend of hers. They were all drunk and having a good time, not doing anything wrong, just dancing together, just getting crazy.
"A security officer comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder and says, 'I want you out of here. '
"I said, 'Why?'
"He said, 'Your girls.'
"Well, first off, I didn't realize that I was responsible for somebody else's behavior.
"He goes, 'Listen, I don't need lip. I just want you out and never come back. '" Then, Assman says, he walked quietly to his boat. Soon, a guard showed up and arrested him when he asked his companions, "Can you believe this shit?"
Assman returned to Shooters about six months ago and, he says, the same security guard, an off-duty cop, approached him and whispered, "I didn't like you then, and I don't like you now." The guard stepped back and in front of the entire crowd at the pool said, 'I want you and these prostitutes out of here. '"
Assman recalls, "I said, 'My friend, I hope you didn't just call these women prostitutes.'
"He said, 'You want to go to jail, don't you?'
"I was so angry, I started calling people. Apparently, the security guard had told the manager [John Wile] that I was a pimp soliciting girls for sex at his club. It must have been the hat, you know?" he says, pointing to his papier-mâché top hat decorated with tiny plastic palm trees. "I look like a pimp."
Wile confirms that Assman was arrested at Shooters because girls in his company were out of hand. But the Shooters manager asserts: "He was arrested by the police, not by anybody at Shooters. We had nothing to do with it." On a recent weekend afternoon, Wile contends, there were few diners at Assman's joint. "It appears that Mr. Tarr needs to pay more attention to his business," he says, "and a whole lot less to ours.
So, Assman's Wacky World, which opened three weeks ago, was conceived in controversy, huh?
Well, that's just the start. The newborn restaurant/nightclub emerged from the womb well-equipped for a life of masochism and debauchery. There's a little hand-propelled, kick-yourself-in-the-ass machine fashioned out of pipe with four black shoes that spin around and strike your cheeks one after the other. Then, there are the miniskirted nurses who deliver shots of alcohol from IVs and a sign for "assoholics anonymous" pointing the way in to the onetime home of the Down Under.
You might ask yourself: Is this place gonna make it?
Dunno, folks, dunno.
Don't ask me why, but I had a lot of questions after I strapped on a rubber ass and put on an Under Construction tape belt. I had more when strangers began smacking my faux ass and telling me to bend over just as my second tasty Assman's Private Ass-et cocktail started kicking in: Is there anything enjoyable about this? Is there a place for ass-obsession in today's Fort Lauderdale of valet parking and $9 cosmos?
Then Bill, a mustachioed boater in his late 40s, asked me to lift my fake ass so that he could take a look at my real one.
Oh, blast this tedious research. I obliged.
"Diamond," he said, referring to the nirvana slot, the space between a woman's thighs right beneath her ass, displayed as a heart in AWW's logo.
Lori turned tail, and Bill continued his assessment: "See, she's a heart. Assman likes hearts, and I like diamonds."
I asked, "What are you? Why don't youbend over?"
He sat still in his chair behind a sneaky, feline grin.
"Don't objectify me," I said.
Bill and a couple of others insisted that I define objectify.
OK. "Make objects of women -- boobs and ass -- like they're not real people but just body parts."
"Now, wait a second now," Bill returned. "What's derogatory about wanting to look at women's asses?"
"Nothing," I said, "but why don't you bend over?"