Tuesdays at the Tivoli

The Janus Film Series for Spring 2008 has been announced and starts tomorrow. Each movie is only $3, free for UMKC students.

stories

Here's three quick slices of life from the past week. If you read through to the end, you'll find a nice little Valentines photo/postcard waiting for you.

Ursinister Sights at Brainblow Blvd.

A surreal last night while driving home: the gas station at 43rd and Brainblow Blvd, which shut down 3 years ago and has been boarded up since, reopened last week as a gift store selling nothing but stuffed white teddy-bears of all sizes and carnations by the dozen. It's creepy to sit there at the stoplight with all 2,000 of those bears staring at you, and I could tell that the motorist behind me was a bit weirded out as well. In a couple of days, these bears will probably be shipped back to an amusement park warehouse where they will hibernate for another year. I can't say I'll miss them.

"At Least He Wasn't Wearing Blackface"

I sang karaoke over the weekend for the first time in years. I couldn't find a suitable tune among the pop hits and ballads of the last century, so I opted instead for the old classic, "I've Been Workin' On The Railroad." My friends later told me that it went over fine and that everyone had clapped along, but from my vantage point the general reaction was very WTF? ("wasn't that fantastic?", in case you were wondering) To keep the tune interesting, karaokemeister Brodie manipulated the sound, looping the vocal into a whooshing soundswirl that gave the "Fee Fi Fiddley Eye Oh" breakdown a very trippy quality. So I didn't get booed off the stage or anything, but it might be a while before I show my face at McCoys again. Unless I go hear Paul deejay tomorrow night.

side notee: The whole thing was eerily similar to Monday's "Questionable Content." Yet another case of life imitating Web comics.

Cries In The Night

The other night at about 12:30 I stepped onto the back fire escape for a refreshing blast of cold air. I lit a cigarette and stared out into the fog, where the red lights of KU Med Center flickered like two dozen blinking beacons on a helicopter lighthouse. Everything was quiet. At least at first.

After a few moments I began to hear a faint shrieking sound. I dismissed it initially, not wishing to acknowledge a domestic spat unless it grew impossible to ignore. Pretty soon, though, the screaming got louder, originating from somewhere in the apartments a few buildings away. Just when I had resigned myself to dialing the authorities, someone turned the volume way up and I could hear not only the screams but the blast of an A chord on an electric guitar -- a jangly, cheap stratocaster by the sound of it. The screaming quickly distinguished itself as just another garage rocker caterwauling his way through the night, and before long a harmonica joined in the prerecorded fracas. I laughed and turned to head back inside, relieved to discover that what I was hearing was not a beat-down after all -- just an unexpected and much-needed blast of rock and roll on a cold February night.

Happy Valentines Day, from me and Clinton Lake.

your pal,

lkswtzl

Bilder

This is the star that hangs above my crumbling balcony. I'm not sure where we found it. Maybe it fell from the sky.


I think that this "see no evil/hear no evil/speak no evil" monkey totem pole, currently the pedestal for my burrito tail cactus (an ideal plant because it requires next to no water), should be expanded or renamed to include a "blog no evil" category. Though that would disrupt the magic number, you could also just rename the other two to something like "fwd no evil" or "comment no evil." Part of my decision to greatly reduce online activity in 2008 stems from a disgust with the user comments I see when I read the newspaper -- or other blogs -- online. Whether it's racist blame-games, vitriol over local sports teams or embarrassingly poor spelling and grammar, comments on the local Internets do not generally engender goodwill among neighbors.


This was the slab of ice we used to escape a frozen Flush Creek near the Troost Bridge. Not big enough to support our weight, it nonetheless kept our boots from complete submersion in the stream.


What's up with this picture? I honestly don't know. It's part of Jenn's recent photo sets on jennybros.com and flickr, along with the rest of these shots shown here today. If you're willing to write a few sentences or more about what you think the story is with this picture, I'd be happy to post it here. I know there's some creative types out there reading this, and I want to give them a chance to shine.

If you came here looking for something intelligent to read, than I'm afraid I'll have to direct you elsewhere, like this story from the NY Times for example.

In the meantime, stay tuned for Giant Squid sightings and some more music-related stuff soon. A big hello to friends overseas, especially those in Swaziland.

cheers,

LW

Ice fountains and the closing of Corinthian Hall

This weekend was like a bit of spring in the middle of winter. Although it was Saturday, we came across this icy wonder in a Kansas City park. If Shiva has deserted his traditional ice-phallus dwelling in the caves of Kashmir, then perhaps he's found a new home in KC's historic northeast.

We were in the neighborhood to visit the Kansas City Museum before it closed for renovations until 2010. And I'm very glad we did. I got to meditate in Indian huts, hunt a stuffed buffalo and watch a 40-year-old filmstrip about the wagon trains of the pioneers. In the 1910 soda fountain downstairs I drank two big chocolate phosphates.

I was also pleased to find that the museum was much less boring to me now than it was as a grade-schooler. Back then I was sick of hearing about covered wagons and Lewis and Clark and the hardships of the plains. I just wanted to play Oregon Trail, and I don't think I was the only student who felt that way.

I enjoyed getting a glimpse of Kansas City in the olden days, and I was glad to see that this town really hasn't changed all that much.

It's a shame this museum will be closing down for so long, but I think the exhibits were more than ready for some spiffing up. I just hope the Fairy Princess (a female alternative to Santa Claus who enthralls children at the museum every winter) finds a suitable local alternative to reside in the interim. She's more than welcome to crash at my place, but I'm afraid my digs might be a shade humble for royalty, at least that of the fairy variety.

Meanwhile, more info about the KC Museum here, and a few more shots of the weekend are up on Jenn's flickr site.


Parting shot: I'd already mentally written the first line of this post when I found an inscription on a bench near Brush Creek that sums it up even nicer: "In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer" -- Albert Camus.

Have a nice week and go easy on the hell-broth.

LW

update: there's a nice lil' video on the Star site today of some kids enjoying the museum yesterday. The aforementioned Indian hut and buffalo can be seen in the background. Which reminds me: there was a kid on Saturday who marched into the gift shop behind us shouting "Me like Buffaloes and Cows!" repeatedly. Rather than correct his grammar, the mom actually repeated the kid's words back to him, as if to encourage it. Oh well. It's her kid, I guess.

You know it's October because...

...The fountains run red-orange with the pulp of blood oranges

In case you haven't been to the Country Club Plaza in the last several days, this is what has become of the once-beautiful fountain in Mill Creek Park. When I called city officials, they insisted the water was dyed orange in tribute to this weekend's Nextel Cup at the Kansas Speedway, but the occultists I consulted say otherwise:

Says me: "It looks like a scene frozen from the Trojan War, with the horses leaping out of giant pools of blood."

Says Cristina: "It looks like the horse tried to break out of hell and got turned into stone from trying."

Says Burton: "It looks like Tang."

Whatever the case, the Plaza area fountain is certainly not the only part of Kansas city awash in phantasmagoric properties. While driving through the West Bottoms last weekend, I found much to fear in our god-fearing cowtown.

...The West Bottoms have come to life

It was a dark and stormy night. Brian and I drove downtown with the aim of getting pizza, but were denied at every turn. Grinder's was busy being City Market Jr. and was off limits. Another nearby pizza place was already closed. Faced with a shortage of eateries and a bunch of streets closed to construction, I proposed a back-up plan.

"We can always take the 12th street bridge into the west bottoms and try and find this hot-dog vendor near the Edge of Hell," I told Brian. Neither of us had any particular appetite for the Price Chopper brats and potato chips served by the sausage schlepper in question, but the idea of visiting a hot-dog vendor at the Edge of Hell sounded too romantic to refuse.

The Edge of Hell, by the way, is one of Kansas City's oldest haunted houses -- seasonal theme park/buildings that open up to give visitors a chilling (and expensive) trip into netherworldly madness.

Unfortunately, we couldn't find the guy's stand. We drove around in circles for a while, crossing railroad tracks and passing flocks of haunted-house goers, the screams and sound effects from the five-story slides following us as we drove through the bottoms. Probably it was too early in the season for the vendor to be out, especially with the rainy weather that night.

If you've ever been to the West Bottoms on such a night, you can attest that it's a spooky experience, regardless of whether you pay 20 bucks to visit one of the haunted houses. As far as I'm concerned, the real haunted houses are the buildings that have stood unused for decades, imposing red brick structures that housed various businesses decades ago and have since fallen into ominous disrepair.

Still, one of the most chilling images of the evening was driving on the bridge overlooking the the Edge of Hell entrance. The name of the building is printed in white on the red awning, and with a night watchman supervising a small crowd, it looked very much like a seedy hotel in the East Village, or a halfway point between eternal damnation and Kansas City, Kansas.

We drove back out of the area and then decided to go down Cliff Drive, a narrow street that trailed into darkness. It looked as though the street might be blocked off, but we were able to turn right and drive under the bridge between downtown and the West Bottoms. After crossing a pond-sized puddle, we found ourselves back amid the brick buildings and shadows of the Bottoms.

At that point, I looked up, and what I saw nearly took my breath away. I grabbed Brian's shoulder and pointed up to the right.
It was a gargoyle, completely by itself, the largest I'd ever seen. Not some pansy Parisian decoration, either, but a truly hideous, three-stories-tall monstrosity. We stopped the car to stare at and laugh about our discovery. I may complain about Kansas City being unexciting at times, but in this case I had to hand it to the urban planners responsible for this terrifying work of art.

This picture was taken by Steven Bower with 120 slide film and cross processed (mixed with improper chemicals) with C-41 development to give it the crazy red look. You can see more of his photos here.

...Dinosaurs devour senior citizens just East of Lee's Summit

Fortunately, the West Bottoms are not the only place in the metro area where you can come face to face with giant monsters.

For one more week and one more week only, Powell Gardens is hosting Jurassic Gardens, an exhibit of life-size dinosaur sculpture set amid its vast and scenic arboretum.

Jenn and I drove out there instead of going to the Plaza Art Fair. With all due respect to watercolorists, candlemakers and sculptors of fine glassware, the possibility of seeing dinos greatly outshined the Plaza's biggest fall event.

Powell Gardens caters mostly to elderly folks, and as we drove through the parking lot, we wondered if any of them were being brought there by conniving family members to be fed to the dinosaurs.

But of course no such things were taking place. Unlike the animatronix "Dinosaurs Alive!" exhibits I saw as a kid, the residents of Jurassic Gardens were totally inanimate. And though I found little to fear from these particular tyrant lizards, the sculptures did attain a certain grace in their carefully landscaped setting.

We visited the chapel just before a wedding party arrived -- unfortunately not on the backs of dinosaurs, as we had hoped.

And we learned a few things. For example, that Missouri has its own dinosaur, the Hypsibema missouriense, also called a Hadrosaur. This herbivore had jaws that contained over 1,000 teeth, and it lived in Missouri during the Late Cretaceous Period, which I think was shortly before I moved back to town.

Overall, I have to say that the gardens did have a transformative power.I turned into a brachiosaurus.
And Jenn turned into a butterfly.

Look for more examples of the supernatural, monstrous and mysterious all month as this site celebrates the Halloween season.

KC Wolf, etc.

This photo by David Eulitt and article from Sunday's KC Star is one of the finest examples of sports journalism I've seen in some time. KC Wolf came to my grade school one year to speak out about the dangers of drugs and alcohol (at least I think so -- that's what most speakers in wolf suits came to talk to us about). It's good to know he can put his money where his muzzle is.

Most of you in town have probably already seen this, but for Chiefs fans abroad and my friends in countries where football means something entirely different, this should at least show you that "touchdownball" (as German sporting goods stores call it) can indeed be an fun, visceral fan experience. I am of course referring to the video of the Chiefs mascot taking down a drunken fan who ran out onto the field before being tackled by the 7 foot 2 wolf and a pair of security guards. Emboldened by the play, the Chiefs went on to win the game against the Minnesota Vikings, 13-10.

While I'm link farming, I might as well send you to a couple of other vids that show how interesting life can be in America. The first is another view of the Kerry speech in which a student was tazed. I know...I found the whole thing ridiculous and annoying, too, but this is a well-done spoof. The only thing that eclipses it in silliness is this short interview with a hippie filmed during anti-tazing protests at the Florida campus where the incident took place.

Enjoy, and look for a more traditional post soon.

DDR Night in Kansas City

I'm a big fan of Germany. I studied there, I have friends there and I'd like to go back at some point. Most of you know this. So you can imagine my excitement when I walked into Muddy's coffee shop on 51st and saw a shiny poster advertising a special "DDR Night" at the UMKC Campus.

At first I was perplexed. Why would our local university sponsor a tribute night for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik? (The DDR, or the German Democratic Republic in English, was the offical name for East Germany from 1949 - 1990)

Then I was excited. I figured there was a former Ossi in the school's German department, or maybe a bunch of kids had somehow developed an interest in the former East Germany and wanted to meet up to discuss the benefits of socialism, dress up in stonewashed jeans, eat Spreewaldguerken and dance to Nina Hagen. Whatever they planned to do on DDR night, the shiny, retro/futuristic poster sure made it look it would be fun.

The next meeting was scheduled for Monday, Aug. 27, so I arrived at the UMKC dorms that night with a freshly trimmed punk-rock haircut and a volume of Brecht under my arm only to find this.

Apparently in the United States, DDR does not stand for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, but instead a video game called "Dance Dance Revolution" in which players move their feet to a set pattern on a dance pad, stepping in time to the general rhythm or beat of a song. How foolish I felt.

Even though the cameraderie I was looking for at UMKC didn't pan out, I do have a couple of film recommendations for anyone interested in learning more about East Germany. Good Bye Lenin is an excellent movie about the transition from life in the DDR to western capitalism, and The Lives of Others provides a fascinating look at the scrutiny East German artists faced by the secret police.

If you didn't see The Lives of Others in the theater, it's now available to rent on DVD. Even if you don't have any interest in the subject, it's a fantastic film and you'll easily see why it won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film in 2006.

Finally, here's a few songs you might enjoy from the former East. The first is featured in the Lives of Others soundtrack, by the East German group Bayon. The song, "Stell Dich Mitten in den Regen," takes its lyrics from a poem by the German poet Wolfgang Borchert, a Hamburg native who was killed at age 26 in WWII.

The second is a propaganda tune called "Ami, Go Home" performed by the Freie Deutsche Jugend, a sort of boy scout group for former East Germany. The lyrics, set to the tune of "Jesus Loves The Little Children," basically tell the U.S. occupiers to go home and split the atom for peaceful purposes. Thanks to Susi and Adam for this one.

Track #3 comes from the DDR prog-rock group Berluc's 1979 album, "Reise Zu Den Sternen" (journey to the stars). This song, "Bleib, Sonne, Bleib" is a nice hopeful number about the experience of leaving Earth behind, something East Germans prog-rockers and Dance Dance Revolutioners can surely both relate to.

Thanks for reading and stay-tuned for a more general mix of German music soon.

Live blog of the lunar eclipse

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I would be doing daring and/or innovative things to keep this blog from moving to Blogger-mandated rolling blackouts, and one of the bright ideas is to do a live blog of the eclipse. So here you go. Stay tuned for updates...

4:51: Last night's dinner of tacos and red wine has not sat particularly well, so I am able to wake up with little difficulty to go outside and see what this eclipse thing is all about.

4:52: Just as suspected, the moon is just above the television tower in the sky west of my apartment. A tiny bright sliver is in view below a murkier looking sphere.

4:54: Girlfriend wanders out into living room, confused as to why I've suddenly decided to go outside.

4:56: I look below to see if any of my neighbors are out on their scooters or skateboards to take in the event. The only person walking by is a crazy-haired kid with a dirty t-shirt and a white rat perched on his shoulder. I've seen this guy around once or twice before.

4:58: Sliver has more or less disappeared and the moon has turned a burnt red and gray color.

5:00: Girlfriend goes back to bed, but not before we listen to a 30-second clip of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" on iTunes.

5:10: I decide to go live with the eclipse blog, knowing that this could turn out to be a significant event in the history of Midtown Kansas City live lunar blogging. Besides, it's nice and cool outside.

5:20: I'm not sure that I'm ready for coffee or tea, and begin to wish that I had a Boulevard Lunar Ale in the icebox to help wash down the experience. Unfortunately Berbiglia will not open for another several hours, and I'm not sure this new, polarizing local brew is available at the nearby KwikShop.

5:22: It dawns on me that, as cool as live blogging an eclipse is, it would be much cooler to spend the night at some secret campsite in Clinton Lake in the company of friends, preferably with a small campfire and no worries about work or school the next day. I hope that some of my friends are having an experience more like that.

5:27: Oblivious to my flurry of entries, the moon has grown darker still so that it's burnt orange almost fades into the dark blue sky. In areas with lower light pollution, the effect is probably more dramatic, but this is still impressive. At this stage, and for most of the past half-hour, the ecliptical orb would be hard to identify as either the sun or moon by the casual observer. The color suggests sun, but the low brightness suggests moon. Perplexing.

5:30: I still don't think I'll get ahold of any Lunar Ale, but if I did I'd have to go ahead and mix in a bottle of Leinenkugel's Sunshine Wheat to achieve a ratio that sufficiently represents both celestial bodies/brews.

5:40: The moon is really dark at this point, especially on the right side. It almost looks like it's disintegrating. Hang in there, moon!

5:42: The time is flying by, but not too fast to allow some moon-related recollections to creep into my head. I think back to summer nights as a young boy on lake Okoboji when my great-grandmother would sing "Moon, Moon, Bright and Shiny Moon, Won't Ya Please Shine Down on Me?" I guess it was supposed to be a light-hearted song, but the part about the guy around with corner with a Gatling gun always scared me quite a bit.

5:44: Another moon-piece comes to mind, specifically American poet Vachel Lindsay's old nursery rhyme, The Moon's The North Wind's Cooky. The first part reads:

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

5:51: Driven mad by lunar hysteria, I begin tearing up the upholstery and writing free-verse poetry in a frenzy (not really, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention)

5:52: According to my chart, total eclipse has been underway for an hour.

5:53: I decide to have a cup of green tea (a neutral color so neither moon nor sun thinks I'm taking sides) and an M&M Kudos bar. Kudos, by the way, have not aged well. Remember how they used to be completely coated in chocolate? No longer. Now only the bottom is covered in chocolate, making them basically any old granola-type bar. Which is sad.

6:00: Gradual lightening of the sky. The eclipse is lowering slowly out of view in a soft pastel blend of orange and light blue. Most of the moon remains obscured.

6:15: Though I have only been listening to crickets up until this point, the sound of cars and buses motivates me to listen to a version of "Sail To The Moon" that Radiohead performed in Portugal back in 2002 (click link to listen along). Though I could easily listen to enough moon-mentioning songs to keep me busy until the next lunar eclipse on Feb. 21, 2008, I think I will limit it to this track. And maybe the entire Neu! 75 album.

6:23: In the growing light of day, I can only see a tiny shard of moon. The prospect of live-blogging the eclipse also begins to look less attractive as I think ahead to a 10 o'clock staff meeting. But I'm not giving up just yet.

6:30: If the moon is the sky's earring, she appears to have lost it. The moon has disappeared somewhere beyond St. Luke's Hospital, the building in which I was born.

6:33: Daylight, basically. People walking their dogs. A squirrel does a hire-wire act on the power line across the street. Lovely light purple and blue shades on the western horizon.

6:35: I have lost sight of the moon, but it occurs to me that perhaps my friends elsewhere haven't. Friends in California, for example. Rather than exhaust everyone trying to come up with every notable moon reference I can think of, I would like to encourage you to add comments or links in the comments section of your own favorite moon mentions.

6:39: It was neither a murderous red Jean Toomer moon, nor a phantasmagorically overblown Tim Burton moon, just a full-on, balls-out overlapping of the light from both spheres. I'm glad to have seen it.

6:43: Cars are going by, air-conditioners are dripping and I'm starting to hear saxophone solos in my head, a conditioned response from many semesters of waking up early to play Jazz in the Morning on KJHK.

6:47: The moon and sun have left the playing field. I wish them well but I'm sure I'll see them again. Painfully soon, in the sun's case.

6:52: I have now been live-blogging the lunar eclipse for exactly two hours and boy has it been fun. Now I'm going to smoke a cigarette and go back to bed, if only for an hour.

So if you'd like scientific information, this might not be the page for you, but if you're up for entertaining coverage of all the big events, stop back by. Thank you for reading, and I bid you all good morning.

Our Modest Metropolis

Kansas City's urban renewal ambitions scored some PR points with a front-page feature in Thursday's USA Today. The headline, accompanied by a nice photo of the new Nelson at night, read: Kansas City: Modest Metropolis in Midst of Mighty Renewal.

The article contained the usual fanfare about new buildings, how much companies are investing in the Power and Light district, and some quotes from New York publications about how schnazzy the Bloch building is. The "If You Go" sidebar even mentioned my favorite neighborhood barbecue joint/gas station combo, Oklahoma Joe's.

The most colorful part of the article, in my opinion, is the transition from talking about entertainment options to mentioning at length the WWI museum. And I quote:

Among the more established draws is the 18th & Vine Historic Jazz District, home to the American Jazz Museum and nightspots such as The Blue Room. But tourism also has gotten a boost from another significant new museum that opened in December, the National World War I Museum.

Built underground at the site of Kansas City's iconic Liberty Memorial — a 22-story obelisk-like war monument that is one of the city's most imposing structures — the new museum offers a comprehensive history of the Great War, with thousands of rare historical objects ranging from battle flags to biplanes.

"I can guarantee that this is the only place where you can touch the tube of a Bavarian field howitzer," says curator Doran Cart, rubbing his hand along one of half a dozen howitzers on display.

I haven't been to the WWI museum in a couple of years, but just from reading that last quote, it sounds amazing.

In fact, I think when visiting dignitaries or heads of state first arrive in our modest metropolis, they should be greeted with the customary kiss on both cheeks, handed a platter of OK Joe's fries and addressed with the words: "Welcome to Kansas City -- the only place where you can touch the tube of a Bavarian field howitzer."

point of departure

Last week I climbed up this signal tower to see what kind of signal I could get, but unfortunately I forgot my computer and telephone so instead I just let my eyes adjust until I could see all the way to New Zealand. Pretty soon I'll come down and we can all catch up. In the meantime, here's a set of photos from Adam's visit to Kansas City.

Music/Appreciation

Yesterday evening I was invited to a little gathering at Tim and Lily's. They live on the other side of the art gallery from me, not a far walk at all. The theme of the party, besides an opportunity to sample delectable treats such as masa cakes, fresh vegetables, brie and homemade chocolate mousse, was for everyone to bring their favorite song to play.

Trying to pick your one favorite song is kind of a nightmare scenario for music aficionados. The very idea of selecting one tune before all others can be paralyzing. But with music so often relegated to background noise or informational "ones and zeros" (as they say), having an active listening party was a great idea. People played some great songs, all of which Tim is compiling onto a disc. And music goes down so well with several glasses of red wine.

As I left that night, I thought about Kansas City versus Chicago, where I just got back from. There's sort of a classic pattern middle-class American lives follow, from college town to big city and eventually back to the suburban origins we sprang from. I generally think of the "big city" phase as taking place somewhere cool like NY, Chicago or San Francisco, but for some of us this just isn't practical.

The other day I looked at all the stuff piled around my apartment -- books, crayons, guitars, tennis rackets, multicolored plastic easter eggs, obsolete foreign currency, photographs, harmonicas, a small wooden artists model dancing behind a pair of candles -- and saw it not as the mess it is but as the work of art it's trying to be. In Kansas City, I thought, it is possible to live the dream.

Someone asked me recently if I ever worry that life is passing me by. Of course I do. I'm always looking at where people I know are moving to or traveling through and thinking how much fun that would be. Living in the town you grew up in, it's hard not to feel stuck at times. Life passes all of us by, whether we like it or not. But part of being free is to free yourself from sticking to goals that no longer apply and letting your dreams morph into something new.

Big cities and foreign countries will always be cool to me. And I'll never take my eyes off that prize. But for now, we've got a nice little city of our own, my friends and I. Life, like a pop song, is short. Cities, like favorite songs, are multitude. In the end the one you pick is almost arbitrary. Better to enjoy it while it lasts.

KC celebrity sightings, part 1

Last month, while dining at one of the sidewalk tables of Chipotle on 39th Street, a guy approached Jenn and I and asked us for a few dollars for cab fare. While that isn't too unusual, the guy's appearance (clean-cut, white, collared shirt) were a bit atypical for a Midtown panhandler. He said his car broke down and he needed to catch a cab back to Overland Park. We didn't have any cash, and while the guy's story didn't sound too far-fetched, the broke-down car story always sounds suspect. He said thanks anyway and walked on to try his luck at Starbucks.

About 15 minutes later, he walked back by. "Any luck?" I asked. Not yet, he said. He said he'd been at KU Med Center earlier visiting a friend and the limo hadn't waited for him. "So your car isn't broken down?" we asked, somewhat rhetorically. He shook his head and told us a few unsolicited details about his situation. He was 44-years-old, had gone to Rockhurst and was just in town to visit his Mom. He had left Starbucks just then because some people had recognized him from working for the Royals and he was worried that something might get into the paper. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things they printed in New York, he said.

"You worked for the Royals?" I asked

"Yeah, well...I was a pitcher."

"Really? What's your name?"

"David," he said. Then a pause. "Do you follow baseball?" he asked.

I was pretty sure who it was, but for some reason I went ahead and asked his last name. Sure enough, it was D. Cone, one of the top pitchers in the MLB for a decade and a three-time World Series Champ. Why he was asking us for money was anyone's guess, but I think it might have had something to do with alcohol. He'd had a great night at the Plaza the night before, he said. But tonight was not going quite as well.

After giving the appearance that we had no idea who he was, things were kind of awkward, so he said goodbye and walked off. Jenn remembers him saying, "Look it up, the stats are there," but I don't remember that part.

As soon as we got home, we looked up old Dave on the net. From the first photo we saw, it was unmistakably the same guy.


Pitcher D. Cone rejoices with teammates after receiving enough change from strangers to pay for cab fare to Overland Park.

And the stats were indeed there, from the Cy Young Award to All-Star selections to being only the 16th pitcher to ever throw a perfect game. There were also some more colorful stats, however, such as the New York Post headlines reading "Weird Sex Act in Bullpen." I could list a few of the other stories/rumors we uncovered, both positive and negative, but this piece from the Village Voice probably does it best. As talented and well-spoken as he may be, my boss's description of Cone as "a troubled soul" struck me as particularly apt.

But it is not for this blog to pass judgment on a fellow Kansas Citian. Rockhurst guys don't always make a great first impression, but they are usually good people at heart. I just hope the next millionaire I meet at Chipotle is handing out cash instead of looking for a handout.


Fans go crazy after Cone scores enough cash to buy a burrito to eat while riding home in stranger-sponsored cab to Johnson County.

Loft apartment lullaby

In my frequent weekend visits to the San Francisco Towers, I've spent untold hours gazing out at the Western Auto building, a structure I've admired since I was a boy. Inspired by the building itself, as well as songs like Toby's "Kansas City," I decided I'd write a little ballad about falling asleep on top of the building.

I've got $18.95 worth of credit left at Sweatlodge Studios, Lawrence that I aim to record this song with. But before I do, I wanted to open up the floor to lyrical and musical suggestions, ideas for new verses, or even entirely new compositions about this cosiest of cowtowns. (Snakin, Red, Coates, Cali G...I know you're out there). In the meantime, here are the lyrics. I hope you enjoy.

Let Me Sleep On The Western Auto Lofts

I want to sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

If New York's the town that don't sleep
are we the downtown that doesn't wake up?
I think there's still lots going on
but the pace is just not so abrupt

There's shopping and dining
ballparks and parades
rock concerts and artwalks
pools and cold lemonade

So let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

Should I grow up or sleep in
or go to the zoo?
or just walk down to Keno's
catch a Tivoli feature or two

For now I'll just relax
have a drink in the shade
once I make my bed on top
of the lofts, I'll have it made

so let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
right under the giant neon light
on a bed made of straw

We can wade in the fountains
by the old cabarets
and place our bets on boats
that never go no place

Life's as lazy as you make it
and this town's the same way
so let me sleep on top of the lofts
on a futon of hay

When the sign's lights go out
I'll close my eyes too
and fall asleep on the Western Auto lofts
and dream about you

photo credit: kspsylo

St. Patrick's sends his regards from KCMO

Dear Reader,

It's 1:26 AM, the day after St. Patrick's Day, and I am at Steak & Shake. There is not a whole lot of shaking going on. As usual, March 17 was a monochromatic disaster. All day strange things were taking place. At the parade I saw old men double-fisting corned-beef sandwiches. The local police were singling out anyone they deemed non-Irish and working them over with giant styrofoam shamrocks. Even the floats themselves appeared to be intoxicated, with one inflatable young lady bending backwards at every intersection to reveal her petticoats to the masses. A disgraceful business.



Down a sidestreet, I saw a pair of fraternity-boys hoisting a pot of gold into the back of an SUV. The driver did not appear to be in any condition to drive, either, based on the reckless manner in which he sped through the barricades, critically maiming a leprechaun pinata in the process. No sooner had the vehicle sped off than a host of street urchins pounced on the pinata, tearing handfuls of lucky charms, confetti and cabbage from the leprechaun's mutilated innards. Personally, I found no pot of gold at the end of the parade, just a group of kids smoking pot in a car parked by the cemetery.

There was one bright spot in the procession, however, and that was the sound and presence of several young drill teams, comprised of drum majors, dancers, acro-bats, whistle-blowers and baton-twirlers from the inner city schools. Normally, I care for snakes even less than Indiana Jones, but those Marching Cobras are really something.



Afterwards I attended a barbecue in the backyard of an old university acquaintence. There was rockabilly music playing on a boombox, and a group of kids with grease-sculpted hairdos and leather jackets drank cans of cheap beer on the wooden patio. A young lady wearing a plastic green tiara introduced me to the party's guest of honor, a three-legged dog who was scheduled to be put to sleep the next day. The dog did not look well (god rest its soul), and the fact that it was not long for this world gave the St. Paddy's day ribbon tied around its collar an especially poignant quality.



By the side yard, a group of lesbians were playing easy to get. One of them had on a button that said "Homophobia is Gay." I was forced to agree with her -- I mean, no... (you know what I mean). We all tried to interest the dog in a game of fetch, but it showed no interest. When I went inside, I saw half-a-dozen people sleeping on the couch while an overtime basketball battle played out soundlessly on the television. From the looks of things, no shortage of brackets had been busted that day, to say nothing of all the bottles.

I found my friends in the kitchen violating a green-frosted creme-pie with three unpeeled ripe bananas. When I asked T___ what in the Lord's name he thought he was doing, he replied that they were taking the cake to its logical conclusion. Clearly, it was time to bail.

We walked to I___'s and whittled away the rest of the afternoon eating corn-dogs and sharing stories about what we'd seen that day, all except for A___, who sat on the sofa and, between hiccups, repeated a line from Conrad's The Secret Sharer. "It was no time for gentlemanly reproof, so I felled him like an ox."

Before nightfall was upon us, we parted ways, with the greater part of our group stumbling off in the direction of a bar district known as West Port. Based on what I pieced together from their rather disjointed series of text messages, West Port was an excessively drunken scene that night, populated by underdressed young women and bellicose thirty-somethings. The intoxication was so prevalent that even the cab drivers were forced to hire cabs, and my friends had to hitch a ride with a horse-mounted policeman in order to make a safe return to their suite at the Motel 6.

As you know, I gave up the drinking of spirits during the sixth century. Still, I shall continue to feel somewhat responsible for all this revelry as long as my name is attached to the holiday, which I must confess I've never understood. If this carries on again next year, I will have to consider renouncing my sainthood.

slainte,

Patrick

Behind parade lines: St. Paddy's personal stenographer and photographer

a salute to the imperial truffle

I have a saying about businesses in Kansas City: Never get too attached to any one place, because as soon as you do, it will close down. Well the phrase rings true once again, as my next door neighbors, Annedore's fine chocolates, will be closing shop on March 1st.

I guess the owner is having a baby or something and doesn't want to do both. Plus, there's a Starbucks that just opened up nearby. Which I swear I'll never go to. Not so much because I hate Starbucks but because Annedore's already had the best coffee in town.

I've only lived in Midtown since November 2005 and I've already seen quite a few of my favorite local places shut down: Recycled Sounds, The Music Exchange, Joe Joe's Italian Deli, even the Osco Drug. But at least there are plenty of unofficial crack dealerships in the area. I don't mean to sound so bitter, but without my weekly dose of imperial truffles (pictured above), I don't know how I'm going to cope.

Well, I guess I can think of a few ways. Like walking my chocolate dog around the neighborhood, taking shots of expresso from a dark-chocolate shot glass, calling up my friends on my chocolate cell phone and lighting up a chocolate cigar before speeding off on my chocolate chopper. That's a pretty tall order, though, and even with the current sale it's going to cost a pretty chocolate penny. So I better get to work. So long, Anne D's.

sunset over 43rd street, Annedore's is on the right. Photo by JLB.

Kansas City Chemical Plant Explosion 2007

This is a photo I doctored from one on the Kansas City Star's Web site. It's not my favorite from their slide show of yesterday's incident (in which no one was harmed, I might add), but it features Union Station and the American Flag -- two distinctive local and national symbols.

The only other poster I designed this year was a modification of the "Put Your Lance Face On" banner advertisement that American Century Investments hung on the side of the office tower where I work. I was going to hang up copies of my own version of this poster in the building, but didn't think it would be worth getting in any trouble over.

The storied afterlife of the Zambezi Zinger

One night out at the casinos, a withered old fellow named "Hombre" told my friend and I a story about how the decomissioned Worlds of Fun rollercoaster, the Zambezi Zinger, was partially buried in a nearby bend in the Missouri river.

Drunk on inexpensive cocktails and flush with our earnings from blackjack, we set out to the spot the man described and spent several hours digging through the muck of the Missouri in hopes of excavating one of the original green rollercoaster cars. I didn't know what we planned to do with it, besides maybe spiff the thing up and convert it into some kind of all-terrain go-cart, but we were determined to find something.

In the end, we found no rollercoaster cars, no curvy tracks, no towering green support beams. We did, however, succeed in unearthing a host of memories about one of the most legendary rollercoasters of all time.


If you grew up in the Kansas City area anytime between 1973 and 1997, you're almost certainly familiar with the Zambezi Zinger. The Zambezi was located in the Africa section of Worlds of Fun, and to get to the line you had to pass through an adobe hut with a painted sign out front that read, "No pygmies shorter than 4 skulls can ride without adult." The ride itself began with a slow, suspense-building spiral ascent, finally giving way to a 40mph free-fall that clicked and curved wickedly left into tunnels and tree cover.

The photos I found here do a pretty good job of illustrating the basic structure of the rollercoaster. I found them through a Web site designed by a couple who had met while working at the ride one summer and eventually got married. When I told this to my brother David, he said, "When you ride the Zambezi Zinger with someone, you might as well be married."

It's true. If you ask anyone who rode the Zambezi Zinger what it was like, the all-too-comfortable coziness of the seating arrangements is one of the first things they're likely to mention. While a favorite among couples, going pot-luck on such a ride -- especially as a kid barely 4 skulls tall -- was usually more awkward than thrilling. In fact, I'm half-convinced one of the reasons the Zambezi was banished from Worlds of Fun was due to the uncomfortable intimacy it bred between otherwise perfect strangers.


Whatever the reasons for its deactivation, the Zambezi was removed from Worlds of Fun in 1997 after nearly a quarter-century of magic. The more expansive "Mamba" and "Patriot" coasters took its place, but were hardly a replacement. In a moment of melancholy over the Zambezi's disappearance from the North Kansas City horizon, I coined a phrase that equated riding the Zambezi Zinger to journeying into the afterlife. In other words, saying "she's riding the Zambezi Zinger now" would be another way to say "she's no longer with us." It hasn't really caught on yet, but I find it rather poignant.

The only thing is, it's not really accurate. After doing a bit of research, I discovered that the Zambizi Zinger IS STILL IN OPERATION, except that now it thrills riders at the Parque National de Cafe theme park in Bogota, Colombia. (Unlike the first two paragraphs of this column -- which I'll concede might not have ever happened -- this is a documented fact.) The only difference is that it's now called the Montana Rusa, and the color scheme has been changed from all green to blue and red with yellow cars.

So if you hear someone say, "She's riding the Zambezi Zinger now," it does not mean that that person is dead -- it means they are at a theme park in South America. And even though the name, color and location have changed, I personally take great satisfaction in knowing little Colombian kids are experiencing the same thrills my friends and I enjoyed as teens and tweens in Kansas City.

Viva le Zambezi!


Post-script: For a nice look at the Zambezi's history, stats and a bunch of enthusiastic ratings of the Zinger, check out its page on ThemeParksOnline.org. Also, this entry is dedicated to Chiefs Founder Lamar Hunt, who also founded Worlds and Oceans of Fun. Mr. Hunt passed away this week at age 74.

of dream homes and destruction

"A perhaps overly dramatic end to tonight's Skittles fight. Breaking down the door felt good. It looked so sad, the Star Wars poster still on it. It was a statement, I suppose, more violent than the kind I usually make. Laura was laughing uncontrollably, and I laughed a little, too, but afterward I just wanted to go outside and cry."

-Excerpt from the Oct. 2nd entry of LW's Deconstruction Diaries

Right now there is a bulldozer in front of the house I grew up in. I'm not speaking poetically -- it's true. Though the house has been wonderful, it's been through a lot and was plagued by a few structural problems, and the family all agreed it was time for a complete overhaul (as long as the cold-war era bomb shelter remained intact).

In memoriam of 4832 Adams, I've included a lone entry from my journal of the house's deconstruction process, as well as this old photo taken by my aunt Joan in which the front yard almost looks like a Japanese print.



It's a bit of relief for everyone that the process has begun, even if it looked like it might not really happen until the last minute. Pookie Thornhill and friends had threatened to form a human chain barring the wrecking crew from the property, but they didn't follow through, and I kind of figured they wouldn't. I didn't, however, expect that the person operating the equipment would be none other than Sam Stepp.




Sam Stepp: Homewrecker

As traumatic as I imagined all of this would be, it hasn't been so bad, and it's not like I don't have my own apartment. Even so, I've done some surveying of the region and found a home that I think would be suitable once I decide to take up turnip farming and start a family. I first drove by it on the way to a cousin's graduation party at a barn outside of Lawrence. It's made of stone and quite lovely.


dream home


miles and miles from nowhere

I eventually picked up the Douglas County Historic Building Survey from a few decades ago and identified the home in question.


VERMILIA HOUSE
1 mile north, 1 mile west Jct. 24-40
This stone house was built by Ed Vermilia for himself and a sister in the 1860s. The coursed stone walls probably come from the hills just to the north of the home. The home is vacant but owned by area residents.

So, if you happen to be the area residents in question, please know that I am very interested in your property. I'm not so handy with stonework or home repair, but I am willing to do what it takes. You can reach me at mossby at gmail.com.

febrile fantasies from the pumpkin patch

As promised, I am back with more Halloween-themed subject matter. To get into the spirit, I went with some family and friends yesterday to Schaake's pumpkin patch outside of Lawrence (see left). In fact, I was so overcome with Halloween spirit and the month of October in general that I dug up a particularly bizarre ballad I wrote five years ago when I was homesick and had a bad fever. It's basically about what all the Halloween folks are up to in the off-season, though some of the details (chili-dogs, Dr. Pepper) are hard to read as anything but a celebration of childhood. At least one friend I shared it with some years ago voiced his concern for my mental well-being, but I kind of have a soft spot for it. Read it here, and see what you think.

UPDATE! Even if you find the poem itself to be juvenile and absurd, you might enjoy the director's commentary I just added at the bottom of the poem itself. It reveals, in tantalizing detail, the origins of each charater and how they were filtered from real people, personality types and life events into cartoon monster archetypes.

Also, in case you're wondering why I've created a second blogger site, it's mostly to make a home for some of the more lyrical experiments that for one reason or another I feel like putting online. If you prefer more conversational, poorly punctuated musings on life and daily events, you might try my newly created MySpace page. Otherwise, most of what I write will still wind up here. Thanks for reading.

Froggy boy goes to the art gallery

Last night, Froggy Boy paid a visit to the art gallery


He became one with the artwork of Magdalena Abakanowicz


At midnight, the Nelson's new addition looks positively spectral


Later, Froggy discovered his old street would never be the same


So he went to the art institute disco and hopped the night away

all photos and illustrations by natalya bond aka jennifer brothers