A meme at last

I've been tagged, or so it seems. If I seem all flustered, it's because this is my first time. The tag comes from Emaw at Three O'Clock in the Morning who got caught up in a recent meme and like that in 70s shampoo commercial, he was tagged by Joel, who was tagged by John B., and so on and so on.

Here's how this one works:

• Find the nearest book
• Name the title and author
• Turn to p. 123
• Post sentences 6-8
• Tag 3 more people

I was at work when I was tagged and as a result my contribution comes from one the migraine inducing egghead doorstops that public radio is famous for (779 pages w/ index). Still, if you can parse the academic syntax there's something vaguely familiar going on.

Here I go:
"Mellon: An American Life" by David Cannadine

In the brief period from 1898 to 1900, before Roosevelt entered the White House, America extracted itself from the great depression and suddenly surged forward in ways that amazed and intimidated observers, assuming the position of the word’s most powerful economy -- a position which, a hundred years later, it still occupies. One indication of this energy and expansiveness was a sudden mania for mergers and consolidations. So many vast new enterprises were created, and so great was their power and reach, that some Americans began to worry that these trusts (as they were all called) and their owners were becoming so rich, powerful, and monopolistic as to be above beyond, and outside the law.

Who's next:
Davis Jones
Fred Wickham
Scooter J

Gerald Ford was delicious

Gerald Ford died yesterday. And how sad is that I've had this Dana Carvey bit stuck in my head all day? Pretty sad indeed.

To think that there used to be moderate Republicans, and that Dana Carvey was once this funny.

Another Up to Date Jazz Update

Just a quick heads up to the four people who read this blog: I'll be doing an expanded Jazz Update on KCUR's Up to Date this coming Monday, December 18.

I wouldn't call it a Best of 2006 edition, but we will be covering some favorites.

What to expect:

• Christmas jazz ('tis the season)
  
• Uilleann pipes (yes, really)
  
• Brazilian guitars (and whistles)
  
• and (inevitably) a saxophone or two

When to tune in

• Monday, December 18 at 11:30 central (or so, this is live radio, after all)
  

Where to tune in

• KCUR FM 89.3 on your radio
• kcur.org on your internet device

Image: "Saxophone" uploaded by Flickr user lowlighter, aka Curtis Morton.

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Update
Here's the full list. You can listen to the show if you like; the jazz segment starts 28 minutes in. We didn't get to everything but Steigy tells me next year we may take the whole hour.

Artist: Skafish
CD: Tidings of Comfort and Joy (La Befana)
Track: Jingle Bells
(This cut served a seasonal "bumper" to get us into the segment, but the CD features some very peppy treatments of holiday standards. Pairs amiably with your copy of "Ella Wishes you a Swinging Christmas.")

Artist: Mulgrew Miller
CD: Live at the Kennedy Center, Vol. 1 (MaxJazz)
Track: When I Get There

Artist: Hiromi
CD: Spiral (Telarc)
Track: Edge

Artist: Stefon Harris
CD: African Tarantella: Dances With Duke (Bluenote)
Track: Sunset and the Mockingbird

Artist: Ximo Tebar & Fourlights
CD: Eclipse (Omix/Sunnyside)
Track: Inner Urge

Artist: Romero Lubambo
CD: Softly (MaxJazz)
Track: Just the Two of Us

Others guitarists to mention: Russell Malone, Pat Martino

Artist: Regina Carter
CD: I'll Be Seeing You: A Sentimental Journey (Verve)
Track: A-Tisket, A-Tasket

Artist: Gregory Hickman-Williams
CD: Passages (Shoal Creek)
Track: You Don't Know What Love Is

Artist: Erin Bode
CD: Over and Over (MaxJazz)
Track: Holiday

Artist: Sean Jones
CD: Roots (Mack Avenue Records)
Track: Roots

Artist: The Brian Lynch/Eddie Palmieri Project
CD: Simpatico (ArtistShare)
Track: Jazzucar

Artist: Roy Hargrove
CD: Nothing Serious (Verve)
Track: Invitation
With Slide Hampton, trombone

Artist: Gary Sivils
CD: Forever Took too Long
Track: Save That Time

Artist: Scott Hamilton
CD: Nocturnes and Serenades (ConcordJazz)
Track: Chelsea Bridge

Artist: Ornette Coleman
CD: Sound Grammer (Phrase Text)
Track: Jordan

Artist: Kenny Garrett
CD: Beyond the Wall (Nonesuch Records)
Track: Gwoka

Artist: Dafnis Prieto
CD: Absolute Quintet (ECM)
Track: The Coolest

Artist: Millish
CD: Millish
Track: Hungry Man No. 1

Hog Wild

OINK! OINK!
Originally uploaded by LeoL30.


Hapless criminals. The news is full of them. And most of the time the headline tells you everything you need to know. For example:

Man Calls 9-1-1 to Report Stolen Drugs

Last week, however, the Associated Press gave us a "strange news" story worthy of the adjective:

Man Fined for Tossing Pig at Hotel

That poorly chosen preposition could give you the mental image of a pig bouncing off a brick wall, but it turns out the porcine specimen in question, a 60 pounder no less, was tossed over a counter inside the hotel.

Snarky grammar lesson aside, let me just say this: I love this story.

Why? Because it really happened, for one thing.

For another, it defies a quick assertion of causality. Which is to say, even after you've read the details, it still makes no sense whatsoever. It seems that Kevin Pugh, the hero of our tale, didn't know the hotel worker and that apparently alcohol was not involved. Either of those would have explained, if not everything, then an awful lot.

- You know what, that Eldon down at the hotel is a asshole.
- Yep.
- You got a pig I can throw at him?
- You gonna bring this one back?

This is apparently the fourth such pig tossing in recent weeks, which makes you wonder if some Fraternal Order of Pig Tossers has formed in Mississippi. Thankfully the pig is reported to have made it through the incident unharmed (although probably more than a little freaked).

Mostly I love this story because it renews my faith in the insoluble mystery of people. And working every day in news, with its never-ending parade of death and mendacity, that faith takes quite a beating.

So here's to you, Kevin Pugh, you crazy SOB.

Jay McShann - RIP

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
W.H. Auden

When word came yesterday that Jay McShann's health was failing, I spent several hours in a fruitless search for a recording I made last year. Here's why I went looking:

The Thelonius Monk Institute sponsored a Tribute to Kansas City jazz at Paseo Academy in April 2005. The day started off with a master class for the jazz band students taught by Bobby Watson and was to conclude with a performance by McShann. I spent most of the morning sticking a microphone in people's faces.

I interviewed T.S. Monk who was in town for the event and is, by the way, a mind-blowing talker. A 25-minute version of that interview with music later aired on KCUR's Just Jazz and may make it to the web someday. I also sat in on the master class and later put together this audio postcard, which aired on KC Currents.

At one point I asked Bobby a lame question about playing with McShann and (paraphrasing here) he said, quite sincerely: "Playing with Hootie always takes you to a special place, a beautiful place."

McShann's one interview of the day went to BET, which was also recording the concert, but I stuck around anyway. Around 11 a.m. the student body assembled (noisily, as student bodies are wont to assemble) in the school's main auditorium. An authority figure came out and told everybody to pipe down, which almost worked. There followed a series of introductions that were tolerated with increased fidgeting until someone finally said "Please welcome Jay McShann" and someone else wheeled Hootie out to the piano. A fitful silence ensued as they helped him onto the bench.

Then McShann's hands moved over the keyboard and something magical happened. From the first notes of a stomp blues, whose title I don't recall, the tension washed out of the room and the kids were up on their feet and with him. He played a short set backed by Gerald Spaits and Tommy Ruskin. Watson joined the trio for one number. They ended with "Jump Your Blues Away," and with the kids still on their feet, ready for more.

Erudite discussions will continue, as they should, about the place of Jay McShann in history of jazz. What bears remembering is that the base of his music's appeal and Hootie's great gift was the transmission of joy.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.

---

Also:
KCUR's Laura Spencer put together this fine remembrance.

Happy in Bag has some vintage (and out-of-print) McShann to share.

The Kansas City Star also put together this helpful Hootie history.

Another asshole makes the news

Flatulence Forces Plane to Land

(12-05-2006) 18:12 PST Nashville, Tenn. (AP) -- An American Airlines flight was forced to make an emergency landing Monday morning after a passenger lit a match to disguise the scent of flatulence, authorities said.

A Word for Bill McBirnie

The flute may be the least respected instrument in mainstream American jazz. Over the years a lot of sax players have added it to their panoply of skills and many big band arrangements use it for "color" but it rarely stands on its own as a soloist. Of the more than 13 thousand musicians in AllAboutJazz musician directory, fewer than 40 play the flute. Then of course, there was the whole Ron Burgundy incident.

Fortunately, there's room for all in the Church of Swing. So you can add Bill McBirnie's name to the select column that includes Herbie Mann, Hubert Laws, and Yusef Lateef to name a few.

In addition to working as a sideman in the tastefully teeming cultural stew that is Toronto, McBirnie is a member of two latin jazz ensembles. (Not surprising considering that, unlike it's northern cousin, Latin jazz adores the flute.)

McBirnie has put out two CDs under his own label Extreme Flute (which, yes, does seem to be over selling things a bit): Nature Boy (2003) and Paco Paco (2005). He brings precise technique and solid swing to a collection of tunes by Coltrane, Monk and Nat Adderley among others, as well as a dreamy version of Bernier Simon's Poinciana. Samples of McBirnie's work in MP3 form are available here.

---

And while we're on under-appreciated jazz instruments, how about the steel pan? (I hear they're a lot easier to pack than a steel drum.)

Check out Anthony Guppy's Over Drunk Blues, recorded live in Japan.

Ida McBeth

I had the pleasure of interviewing a great Kansas City singer this week. Ida McBeth has been laying down solid blues, jazz, soul and funk in KC since the late 60s. While she's not well known outside Kansas City, audiences here continue to gather for her regular gigs at Jardine's and the Blue Room.

Here's the feature I put together from our half hour of chat.




She releases her fourth album today. "Live on the Vine" was recorded at the Blue Room at 18th and Vine. While it suffers from the Blue Room's so-often-poorly-tweaked sound system and a few weak song choices, Ida's voice still shines through as the wonderful thing it is.

Personal note: I first caught Ida's act in the late 80s at The Point, a kind of neighborhood joint that has gone they way of the rotary dial phone. The show was always amazing, particularly to a kid who had just drifted out of South Dakota. Between sets, Ida would make a beeline for a stool at the far end of the bar, where she'd wait with her head down until it was time to go back on stage. Turns out that around that time, not only was Ida's mother dying of kidney disease, but Ida and her husband Roy Searcy were going through a divorce. Talk about living the blues.

» To find out more about Ida than I could fit in 5 minutes and 20 seconds (not counting music) check out Tim Finn's profile of Ida from Monday's KC Star.

» And here's a "bootleg" video of Ida and her band at the Corporate Woods Jazz Fesitval doing Willie Dixon's "Wang Dang Doodle."

Up to Date Jazz Update - November

Another month, another passle of new jazz. Here's what Kraske and I covered on KCUR's Up to Date.

Headliner
Stefon Harris - African Tarantella: Dances With Duke (Bluenote)
Track: "Thanks For The Beautiful Land On The Delta"

Harris has been called "the most exciting vibraphonist of his generation." African Tarantella features selections from later suites by Duke Ellington, namely New Orleans Suite (1970) and Queen's Suite (1958), plus excerpts from The Garner Meditations composed by Harris. It's no mean feat: successfully paying tribute to Ellington while still making all the material clearly his own.

Also spun:

Keith Jarrett - The Carnegie Hall Concert (ECM)
Track: "Part VII"

The Brian Lynch/Eddie Palmieri Project - Simpatico
Track: The Palmieri Effect

Russell Malone - Live at The Jazz Standard, Vol. 1 (MAXJazz)
Track: Flirt

Gerald Dunn & The Jazz Disciples - Out Of The Comfort Zone
Track: My Baby's Struttin'

----

Unfortunately, KCUR doesn't include music selections longer than 30 seconds in its podcasts. You can listen to the segment in the Up to Date archives - it's in the last 15 minutes of the show.

Six things

"JEFFERSON CITY, Mo., -- A Republican-led legislative panel says in a new report on illegal immigration that abortion is partly to blame because it is causing a shortage of American workers." - Associated Press, Nov. 13, 2006

Six other things Missouri Republicans blame on abortion

• That nice Tedd Haggard's sex/meth scandal
• MonicaGate
• Feral hog menace
• Cancellation of HEE HAW
• Hot pizza cheese burns on the roof of the mouth
• The Regis Philbin Christmas Album

Leaf circle

Seen at 53rd & Brookside: Natural occurance or rake art?

Either way, somebody should call M. Night Shyamalan.

Polling place OUTRAGE

I Voted
Originally uploaded by kc tripper.

I made it to the polls today around 12:15 today. From the look of the parking lot at 2nd Presbyterian, I was expecting a line. I politely accepted a Vote No on 2 flyer on the way in and placed it in a trash can in the mens room. Once inside I was stunned to be one of only three voters. So I voted, and only felt compelled to write in "Anyone Else" once.

The OUTRAGE came when I turned in my ballot and was told that they were out of the "I Voted" stickers. Apart from the blessings of democracy and the right to loudly bitch, the stickers are one of the chief pleasures of voting. And if you're careful, they last a lot longer than a purple finger.

The good news is that this means a lot of people had already voted. May we all be counted. And may we all win.

Turn, turn, turn

Ed moved to the Bay Area about six months after I did. Last I heard he was still there. He grew up in St. Joseph and was a year ahead of me in college. Over the years I'd bump into Ed, usually at one coffee shop or another.

We consistently had a particular exchange about the weather. I'd say that the weather in the Bay Area was boring, and Ed would shake his head and say, "What are you talking about? The weather here is great."

Ed meant that the climate was moderate, which is hard to deny. Average highs and lows are in a comfortable range and snow is extremely rare. The fog generally blows in to cool off even the hottest days.

What I meant was that the weather, as a backdrop to my day-to-day life, was pretty dull. And as a born-and-raised quadraseasonal, I found that the Bay Area's sempiternal quasi autumn made it easy for me to lose my temproal bearing. I lost track of three years somatically waiting for winter to arrive.

No fear of climate ennui now that I'm back in Missouri, particularly at this time of year. This week, for instance, we've already had a high a high of 72 (Monday) and a low last night of 23. Climate change is, as they say around here, a whole nuther thing.

Never a dull moment indeed.

Gnarls and/or Bierce

The video for Gnarls Barkley's lovingly faithful cover of The Violent Femmes' "Gone Daddy Gone" is up on YouTube. It's a hoot. And it demonstrates that somebody's been reading their Ambrose Bierce.

Favorite user comment: "gnarls is genius for not showing themselves in videos... because they are some ugly mo fo's."

Speaking of Bierce, "Civil War Stories" is still showing at KC's Screenland Theater. It's well worth checking out, and I'm not just saying that because I'm in it. For those of you outside KC, it'll be out on DVD this month.

And while I'm flinging links around, the director Don Maxwell was on KCUR's Walt Bodine Show a few weeks back. Enjoy.

Take that, Lonny June!

Here's how it went down:

My everyday shoes were starting to look ratty, which was fine by me because they felt great and it had taken all summer to get them that way. But school was coming soon and Mom wasn't having one of here kids going around in ratty looking shoes. So we got in the Fury III station wagon and headed for the Western Mall and the shoe store where we always bought my shoes, Lavergne's I think it was called.

The best thing about this shoe store was the fire engine. It sat out in the middle of the store, an antique number that some clever person had converted to display shoes and hold shoeboxes. The best thing about the fire engine was that you could climb into the driver's seat and crank the steering wheel, although by this time I was at the age where I was starting to feel self-conscious about "playing" if other kids were around.

I picked out a pair of red sneakers (this was years before the term "athletic shoe" had any cultural significance). They had white rubber soles and white laces and white caps on the toes and I thought they were so damn snappy that I wore them home, walking with a special new-shoe bounce in my step.

Then my sister Lonny got a load of my new shoes. Particularly as teenager, Lonny had an exceptional gift for sarcasm, and she proceeded to rain coals of sarcastic fire on my head, to the point that Mom told her to lay off. But, of course, the damage was done.

I got over it, because that's what you do after one of your older sisters makes fun of your shoes. I kept wearing those red sneakers, because we were not the kind of people who returned perfectly good shoes because somebody made fun of them. Eventually those red sneakers started to look ratty and were replaced by another pair of sneakers. That's how it is with shoes.

But somewhere in the back of my mind was a tiny nugget of grief over the loss of that new-shoe shine. I suspect this is so because last summer my friend Fred had a post on his blog that made reference to buying himself a pair of bright orange Pumas because he felt special. I suspect that the idea of brightly colored shoes drifted into the back of mind and bumped up against that nugget of grief.

Then a few days before my last birthday, I came across the shoes pictured above in a catalogue and thought, "Damn it, I'm getting myself a pair of red shoes!" And so I did.

And if the angels want to wear my red shoes, I can't say I blame them.

On MySpace and television

I updated my MySpace profile today. Woop-dee-freakin'-doo.

My experience with MySpace has been that works as a way to keep up with musicians that I'm interested in. Otherwise, MySpace and I aren't a good fit. There's something that rankles me about asking people to be your friend and vice versa. I didn't like it in grade school and I don't like it now.

Anyway, the following pensee came out of the Interests: Television category, replaced by the names actual television shows (how lame of me, but what do you expect from a person who uses words like "pensee"?).

-----

I would like to say a word for the Digital Video Recorder (some folks call them a Tivo). That word: amazing.

Another word would be transformative. Not that the DVR that came with our satellite television system has transformed me. The device has, however, transformed my television watching experience. Not just because you can record what you want to watch and watch it when you choose. That's all well and groovy, as is skipping over lame commercials (and watching good commercials over and over).

The amazing part is being able to pause the program, skip back and watch something over again or pick up a line of dialogue you missed. The transformative part is that I now find myself wanting to do this to the radio and even to living/speaking human beings.

I'm not sure if this is all good, but I am convinced that it is both amazing and transformative.

Lions in Winter

I missed the McCoy Tyner show at the Gem last weekend. Too bad. From what I'm told, Tyner (who turns 68 in December) is still laying down some serious notes. Here he is ten years ago with a solo take on John Coltrane's Giant Steps.



I heard the Jazz Geek on KKFI yesterday refer to Tyner as a "senior citizen" and he meant it admiringly. This is true, technically. I'm sure the AARP has been after Tyner for 20 years. But it seems that if a musician attends to his or her corporeal self, 68 is still very much part of the prime.

Speaking of senior citizens, C and I caught Jim Hall at the Folly a few weeks back. Hall is coming up on 80 and while his gift and sensitivity were still very much in evidence, I fear his hearing may be in decline. I hope I'm wrong. Hall was performing with pianist Geoffrey Keezer who made everything work for me, prodding and supporting the elder statesman.

Here's a short interview with Keezer, talking about playing with Hall.

Return of the Jazz Apostate

Some are born critics, some become critics, and some have critical status thrust upon them. Or words to that effect. I'm somewhere between 2 and 3.

For six very happy months last year, I was the host of a jazz show. For two hours a week I was allowed to foist my taste on whoever happened to be listening to KCUR's Just Jazz. The health of the show's longtime hosts, Ginney Coleman and Ruth Roden, had put the future of the show in question and I offered to hold the fort until the station decided what to do with that portion of Sunday afternoon.

It was a very pleasant experience all the way round: I had access to new releases and what remains of the station's jazz library (which is still considerable). More importantly I had motivation to go to the library and do research on artists I only thought I knew about. I also had the chance to interview several great Kansas City jazz artists, including Alaadeen, The Aurora Consort and Dan Thomas. The show's format also allowed me to function as more of a jazz enabler than a jazz critic, because who needs that kind of pressure. And so it was with some regret that I gave up the gig when the station decided to retire the show last October.

Fast forward one year to last week Wednesday, my first appearance on Up to Date to talk about some recent jazz releases with the show's host Steve Kraske. I was introduced as "KCUR's Lee Ingalls" and we listened to some selections from and chatted amiably about the following:

Kenny Garrett - Beyond the Wall (Nonesuch Records)
Pat Metheny & Brad Mehldau - Metheny/Mehldau (Nonesuch Records)
Roots - Sean Jones (Mack Avenue Records)
Live at Lincoln Center, Vol. 1 - Mulgrew Miller Trio (MAXJazz)

Have a listen if you like: It's in the Up to Date archives - the last 10 minutes of the show.

In the wrap-up, Kraske said something like "That's Up to Date's jazz critic Lee Ingalls." So now I'm a critic, I guess, but it'll take awhile for the suit to fit.

I'll be on again Nov ember 9 with more jazz to share. In the meantime, I'll plan to foist my taste on all four people who read this blog.

Radio spotting

Today's my birthday, so I'm taking stock of the last year. The verdict: It was a pretty damn good year (for me personally, if not for the nation/world - definitely some general suckage to go around). Thanks to everyone who participated.

Much of that time was spent working as a copywriter for Kansas City's Union Station. My favorite part of the job -- by far -- was coming up with radio spots (aka, commercials). Before this my experience with commercials has been as one of the voices in them (listen to samples here). At Union Station, I had the chance to write and cast each one-minute play, and then (kind of) act as producer at the session.

We cut the spots at Evolution Audio here in KC with the invaluable direction of a wizard named Don Martin. Here are four I'm especially proud of, in no particular order.

Holiday Spirit: The Holiday Spirit Train - :60
Wherein we meet the Elves Grindleberry and Mirthella, who wish to ride the Holiday Spirit Train.

Holiday Spirit: Membership - :60
Wherein Grindleberry and Mirthella try to find out what they're getting for Christmas.

Holiday Spirit: New Year's Eve Party - :60
Wherein Grindleberry and Mirthella confront what it will take to get into a fabulous party..

Smithsonian's Sports: Bob & Jan - :60
One of those commercials where the guy is such an idiot you can hardly believe his wife hasn't poisoned his Rogaine®. But such is advertising. Great performances by two great KC actors: Brian Paulette and Sarah Crane.

Volunteerism

Volunteer basil
Originally uploaded by kc tripper.

I take comfort in the tenatiousness of flora, in plants that decide to make a go of it despite a lack of encouragement. This volunteer basil plant, for instance, practically grew from underneath our deck without much in the way of encouragement from this distracted gardner, waiting until the pushy cucumber vines had died back to make a break for some sunshine.

Seems a shame to turn it into pesto, but what better reward for tenacity than an ecstatic union with some good olive oil and garlic? A guy could do worse.

This week's winning headline

From KMBC.com, aka The Kansas City Channel:

"Police: Body Found In Apartment Is Suspicious" - One guess what it's suspicious about.

This is followed by the helpful subhead: "Relative Finds Man Not Breathing"

Which reminds me of Monty Python's Dead Parrot sketch, so here it is:

Doings at the Sandwich

After a month or so off, I've started dabbling once again with my scratchpad blog (don't know what else to call it) An Oddment of Sandwiches. It's something, that's for sure.

Recently:
- Prepare to Meet Thy God
- Troubling vines
- An exchange on fluids
- Go (rhymes vaguely)

Ken on K.C.

Apparently, it doesn't take a Brainiac to see that Kansas City's Union Station is no people magnet.

All too short a date

Fall is probably my favorite season, bringing with it cool nights, my birthday and pumpkin pie. Even so it's sad to see the long days and balmy temps fade away.

This sappy little video -- hastily assembled from footage of the crazy sunflowers in our yard -- is my way of saying goodbye to summer's lease.

Big Razor

From the Daytripper Department of Over Thinking

I'm a blade man and have been since I started shaving. No electric razor has ever satisfied me and neither has the thinness or multicolored nature of my beard. So when a package arrived in the mail about two weeks ago my first thought was: Cool.

The good folks at Costco had sent me a fancy new razor to try out, The Gillette Fusion. The coolness of the situation arose from the fact that it was a) free stuff and b) I've been planning to ditch my old razor, the Gillette Mach3.

I took up the Mach3 about five years ago (and having typed out the name twice now, I can't believe I've been shaving with such a piece-of-crap marketing cliche all this time), because it had become hard to find cartridge refills for my Gillette Atra, which is a perfectly serviceable razor despite its quaint two-blade system.

I've never been satisfied with the Mach3's lack of precision. Adding more blades to the cartridge makes it seem like you're shaving with a tennis racket: All well and good on the smooth places, but no control around the edges. The Fusion seemed to have solved this problem. Yes it had a whopping five blades on one side, but on the other was a single blade for trimming sideburns and shaving under the nose.


(The press around the Fusion's release was another inhibiting factor. It was as though Jesus returned in razor form. Seriously, does Gillette own MSNBC? How else to explain this infomercial. The Fusion also inspired what is in my memory the Lamest. Morning Edition segment. Ever.)

The problem with switching razors is that you're really just buying the handle and committing yourself to purchase cartridges on a regular basis so you can go on shaving. It's your basic pusher strategy: Like Big Oil with its siren songs of heat and mobility and plastic bags, or Big Pharma with the enticements of sustained allergy relief, magically lower cholesterol, anticoagulation and such. That's how Big Razor gets you.

The Mach3 cartridges cost more than the Atra cartridges. Not a whole lot more, but since I also had to pop for a new handle it added up. I know, I know: mama needs ROI. But that price hike was the thing holding me back from switching to the Fusion. Hence my delight when the free fusion handle arrived unbidden.

After several attempted shaves, I can tell you this: The Fusion is a lousy razor. Neither the five-blade set nor the single blade trimmer worked as well as the Mach3. Then I finally checked out the cost of the replacement cartridges and almost spit. Instead of being just a bit more than the Mach3 blades, they are almost twice as much. On average, they're around $2.50 a piece and that's at the reduced Costco price. So no thanks, Gillette. For $5 I bought a package of two-blade disposables for the trimwork. They'll last a long time.

Someday, of course, Gillette will stop making the Mach3 cartridges, and the time will finally come to buy a straight razor and start practicing on kiwi (you can get those pretty cheap at Costco and you can eat them).

Belated IrishFest recap

Before the month gets away, a recap of my visit to the Irish Festival.

I'm not Irish. My paternal grandmother was a full Scot (and by most accounts a mean old gal) and she died 15 years before I was born. As far as I can tell she never spurred my dad to embrace his Gaelic roots (her parents name turned up on a Cherokee census, so it's hard to know what was actually going on).

I am, however, enough of a ham that when the KC Irish Festival came calling for emcees last year I jumped at the chance. The deal was simple: introduce a couple of bands in return for free admission and two complimentary beer coupons. Free beer for talking, that's my kind of deal.

Last year I introduced two guys from Omaha (one was originally from Dublin and ran some kind of martial arts dojo so, again, it's hard to know what was actually going on). As people tend to say in Kansas City, "They were all right." Which means that C and I wandered off in the middle of their set, got another beer and eventually ate some Italian food.

(Quick cultural footnote: I love how at almost any ethnic festival in Kansas City you find the folks from Scimeca Italian sausage set up and grilling, with people of all nations lining up for the pork.)

This year, I had the pleasure of introducing Millish, five guys from Michigan who tore up the Boulevard Pub stage on Sunday afternoon (for clips, bios and even a couple of movies follow the link). While they have a uileann pipes and fiddle player, their approach is more jazz oriented than anything you're likely to hear at an Irish festival while still remaining recognizably Celtic.

Their set included a version of Dave Brubeck's Blue Rondo that took several meaningful detours into Grand Funk Railroad, the BeeGees and even "Eye of the Tiger" (yes, the theme from Rocky III. Michael Byars introduced them on Saturday and said that the Brubeck number spawned a host of Michael Jackson references.) All of which may sound hokey, but it was held together, as all art has to be, by the skill and commitment of the artists participating.

Kansas City may be the easiest standing ovation in the nation, but this is one band that deserved theirs.

Jesse Lee Mason, the guitarist for Millish, told me that after a summer playing the festivals circuit they were all headed back to Michigan where they're all studying jazz in one way or another a number of colleges in the Wolverine State.

I hung around for the end of Millish's set and even took the stage to do the obligatory "Give it up for..." In a spasm of zest, I even called them "the future of acoustic music." I would love for this to be true. Acoustic music could do a hell of a lot worse. But the future is the future's business and it's pretty much impossible to tell what's going to be go on.

The oldest member of Millish is 24 and a lot can happen in the life of a young man close to the end of or just out of college. I'm content with knowing that these talented young men put on a hell of show and even if they don't end up being THE future of acoustic, they'll be a part of making whatever happens happen.

Election season (again)

Just in time for the midterm election foofaraw, The Hypothetical Seven has put their campaign ad spoof on YouTube. It was shot back in 2004, but political advertising hasn't changed much in the meantime.

It's funny stuff (and not just because I'm in it).



The Hype 7 kids will be building scene to suit your suggestions as part of the Kansas City Improv Showcase at Union Station on September 29.

Go ahead, suggest "proctologist" if you must.

Of ground meat and grammar

Overheard at KC Irishfest:

"I thought bangers was like a sausage."

Cruisin' the Mall

Two local bloggers -- Happy in Bag and Three O'Clock in the Morning -- have had so much fun recently with the demolition of the Mission Center shopping center that they inspired me to make a little film about the place.

Waiting out the storm

When yesterday's big storm broke out I was inside Costco. My umbrella and rain jacket (?) were cleverly stashed in my truck a hundred yards away so I decided to wait for the rain to let up a little before making a dash. That was about 5 PM. Ten minutes later I went back inside for a berry smoothy and then took my post.

People came and went. Or tried to. It was a carnival of humanity with our best and worst traits on display.

People offered umbrellas to strangers. People ignored the Costco employees trying to make direct the chaotic flow of people, carts and cars. Some laughed and shrugged, some fumed and yelled at their kids. In general, the more expensive the car the worse the driver behaved.

A doofus in a big land crusher of some sort first practically drove through the doors, then he backed into a line of shopping carts being wheeled back to the store and without bothering to look raced of into the downpour.

My camera's battery was almost dead when I arrived, but here's a patched together minute from the 45 minutes I spent waiting.

Tall

Behold this year's sunflower crop.

Right as it went on the market, our house's previous owner planted the tallest sunflowers he could find. As to why, I can only speculate. Whimsy, madness, maybe a childhood dream. If he was looking for seeds with growth potential, he succeeded.

When we arrived in town to take possession of the place three years ago, a storm had knocked down the tallest one, which was 14 feet if it was an inch. I dragged it out to the driveway, laid it by the garage and eventually chopped it into manageable pieces. ("Eventually" is a key concept in my approach to yardwork and indeed life.)

The rest remained to round out the season and drop their seeds. The next year the seeds came up and we let a few of them come up again. This is our third go round. The only downside to this annual ascent is the annual chopping. But eventually it gets done.

No liturgical calendar (even a wordless one like ours) is free of a time of reckoning. At the moment we're happily still on the rise.

---
Update: The tall guy took a beating in Sunday's storms, but the bungee cord is holding.

Book taggers

Catching up on several KC blogs last weekend, I discovered that some of the kids are caught up in game of blogger tag - some would call it a meme - about books. Name a book that changed your life, book you've read more than once and so on. Nine questions in all, then you tag some other folks. I've enjoyed reading the results, mostly, and was glad not to have been tagged because I'd still be agonizing over my list.

Here are a few:
Emaw
Dan
Happy
Jessi

Joe's response to #7 ("Name one book you wish had never been written") took me back twenty years to my Survey of English Lit course.

I know Joe only through his blog and his Flickr stream but I've always admired his forthrightness and conviction and willingness to ask tough questions even of himself. So I'm guessing his answer to #7 ("I'm not like that") is actually a coy reference to John Milton's Areopagitica.

Back in the 1640s, the English Parliament had passed an order requiring all authors to submit their work to a board of censors before it could be published. The state was mostly trying to maintain its publishing monopoly but Milton thought it also amounted to the state control thought. So he wrote a defense of freedom of expression.

It's an issue that's still very much with us in these days of Net Neutrality and so-called moral so-called majorities. Just for laughs, here are a few salient bits, chewy syntax, upper-case gods, sexist pronouns and all, with thanks to Joe for the trip down memory lane.

---

From Areopagitica: A Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing

...books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragons teeth; and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.

And yet on the other hand unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God’s image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.

Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. It is true, no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which whole nations fare the worse.

We should be wary therefore what persecution we raise against the living labors of public men, how we spill that seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books; since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a martyrdom, and if it extend to the whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at that ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of reason itself, slays an immortality rather than a life.

Memes, myself and I

Sterling blogger Fred over at Bullseye Rooster took up one of those web-roving questionnaires recently. The challenge: Name five weird things about you.

Fred came across the weird things challenge from several other blogs. That's how this sort of meme-ish biz works: You read two friends' blogs and they read two friends' blogs and so on and so on... (extra points for anyone who can name that shampoo ad with one Google tied behind your back).

I enjoyed Fred's list, like I enjoy most anything he writes. That said, I don't think being irritated by Philip Glass's music makes you a snob. That seems to me more a sign of mental/emotional health and saying so probably makes me a snob of some variety. Here's a weird thing about the word snob: in England (according to Merriam-Webster) it refers to a cobbler. Or is that a weird thing about the British?

Five weird things about me:
1. I enjoy spending otherwise valuable time looking up the etymology of words on the Internet.

2. In entirely arbitrary circumstances, I think that words with the letter z in them are lucky.

3. I prefer to sit just to the left of center in a movie theater. On several occasions when I've had to sit on the right side of a movie theater, I've left with a headache (even when Philip Glass hadn't composed the film score).

4. My permanent teeth all came in straight except for one lower tooth.

5. I'm a little paranoid about people knowing about things like #4, so I'm not saying which tooth it is (although I did spend a considerable amount of clicks researching the exact name of said tooth and the etymology of said name).

6. I resent these kinds of questionnaires but can't resist filling them out. I have the same weakness when faced with a television screen in my peripheral vision or an easy pun (see title above). And once I get going I usually end up with more responses than the exercise requires.

Moving On: A Tale of Two Layoffs

This stern warning stands above one of the doors at the place I used to work. On July 28th, I turned in my employee badge and parking pass and this old sign took on a much more literal meaning. A couple days ago my severance check arrived in the mail, which makes my layoff complete.

I've only been laid off one other time, back in 2001 at the outwhooshing of whatever was inside what we've come to call the Dot-Com Bubble. Everything about that layoff was very dramatic. For one thing, I wasn't expecting to get laid off. I was the only person doing my job, after all. For another thing, I'd just arrived back in town after driving for almost 48 hours from San Francisco to Denver and back (a long and essentially pointless story), so I was sleep deprived and road loopy. I packed up my desk and went for a long boozy lunch with some co-workers at the Holding Company (somewhere there's a polaroid of me at the table wearing a big Dr. Seuss hat). That was followed by a nap and then more drinking that evening in the Financial District with the laid off contingent and sympathetic still-employeds. I awoke the next day with a huge hangover, few prospects and little motivation to look for any. It would be months before I worked at anything but freelance gigs. In my defense, I was also very occupied with getting the woman who is now my wife to move back to California from Tennesee (a long and profoundly essential story).

This time around, I saw the layoff coming and welcomed it like a dry and weary land (see KC Star, summer 2003, ad nauseum) welcomes rain. Instead of giving me my papers and showing me the door like civilized people, my most recent employer told me that I'd have to work through a 60-day transition period before the gift of severance would descend. Sixty days of counterproductive cubicle purgatory followed. Whatever. When the 60 days was up, I signed the necessary papers and headed over to my other part-time job (which I had before I even before I started the full time job in July 2005). That evening I had a drink and dinner with my wife at home. I've since found full-time work that I really enjoy and started doing it (another long story that's just begun).

This is the point where a writer worth his This American Life salt wraps things up in a neat little package: "I guess it all comes down to this..." You know the drill. Maybe something poetic: "Two layoffs, one lightning, the other a long twilight..."

I'll give it some thought. In the meantime, there's work to do.

Back in blog

With apologies to all three of my readers [Hi, Fred!], I'm back (hopefully) to blogging and reading blogs.

A recent job change has been soaking up most of my admittedly limited free mental space and in addition to just learning the new job, it requires waking up everyday by 4 a.m. and I'm one of those night people you've heard about. The good news is that the afternoon is full of naps.

Anyway, see you in the funny papers.

A Saturday goofball

The world's an increasingly scary place of late, what with wars and rumors of wars, climate change and crazy/sad/pathetic Mel Gibson. So today I offer this bauble: OK Go on Treadmills. Not only have the fellas crafted a peppy pop tune (infinitely more difficult than it seems) but they've also worked out a delicious one-take performance that could make even Buster Keaton crack a smile.

Imagine that: people working together...

Some summer re-reading

About ten years ago, I read Ursula Le Guin's novel The Left Hand of Darkness for the first time and really enjoyed it. When I really enjoy a book, I try to get around to re-reading it. The LHOD is set on the planet Gethen, also known as Winter since the planet is in the midst of a period of glacial expansion. And what better time to pick the book up again than in the middle of one of the hottest Julys on record?

The Left Hand of Darkness is the story of Genly Ai, a representative of the Ekumen, a galactic federation of planets. He is an Envoy whose solo mission is to bring Gethen into the Ekumen.

The Left Hand of Darkness is also the story of Estraven, the prime minister of Karhide, one of the major kingdoms on Gethen. Estraven is one of the few people in power to accept Genly Ai's mission and attempts to help Ai.

Ten years ago, I was most struck by the novel's examination of gender: Gethenians are all the same sex, which is to say that they possess both male and female sex organs and everyone on the planet is capable of bearing children. (There's no hot Gethenian-on-Gethenian action in the novel so pervs needn't bother.)

Reading LHOD this time around, what struck me was the political intrigue. Estraven is labeled a traitor and forced into exile by the ambitious Tibe, who preys on the fears of Karhide's insecure king. Tibe becomes prime minister and to confirm his place in power threatens war with the neighboring nation of Orgoreyn. All of this depends upon dramatic appeals for national unity.

The best fiction -- whether it has "science" or any other modifier in front of it -- holds up a truthful mirror to reality. I couldn't help but think of things going on in our own planet when I read the following passage. Genly Ai suggests that Estraven hates Orgoreyn.

"How does one hate a country, or love one? Tibe talks about it; I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in the autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply? What is love of one's country; Is it hate of one's uncountry? Then it's not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That's a good thing, but one mustn't make a virtue of it, or a profession. Insofar as I love life, I love the hills of the Domain of Estre, but that sort of love does not have a boundary line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope."

Ignorant in the Handdara* sense: to ignore the abstraction, to hold fast to the thing. There was in this attitude something feminine, a refusal of the abstract, the ideal, a submissiveness to the given, which rather displeased me.

Yet he added, scrupulous, "A man who doesn't detest a bad government is a fool. And if there were such as thing as a good government on earth, it would be a great joy to serve it."

* a mystical Zen-like order that Estraven trained in as a young man.

Prepare to Meet Thy God

Exit 95, east of Little Sioux, Harrison County, Iowa

And if thy god is not at the off-ramp
When thou makest thine exit,
Fear not: Thy god shall find thee.

Look not for thy god in the abandoned Stucky's.
Thy god may be counting sparrows in the hills
or suckling fox kits in a ditch.
Your god's child is circling high above
and the Spirit rustles through the corn.

No preparation is ever wasted,
even if thy god should smite thee.
No person seeking is ever lost.

Have faith: thy god will surely find thee.
Prepare.

Dreamers

What a week. The heat finally broke, and all souls in Kansas City can breathe a sigh of relief. But it's worth remembering that the past week not only brought us two 100+ days but also KC's first-ever red ozone alert (the alert was red, not the ozone). Considering the fact that the majority of ground level ozone comes from the cars some many of us around here love to drive, we might take advantage of this brief cool spell to consider our transit options.

Early in the week, the Star's Steve Penn wrote a column comparing Smart Moves, a transit plan (or laxative) offered by the MidAmerica Regional Council with a plan backed by Clay Chastain.

Chastain has made news around here recently by returning from self-imposed exile in Tennessee to promote yet another light rail initiative for Kansas City. (He also managed to complicate things for local blogger Heidi recently one last time before she leaves town.)

I haven't read Chastain's plan but apparently in addition to light rail and electric shuttles it features gondolas that run from Penn Valley Park to Union Station. Apart from helpfully adding words like "funicular" to the local vocabulary, I can't see what purpose this would serve. Maybe if the cars were shaped like shuttlecocks...

Penn's take: Smart Moves doable but dull, Chastain crazy but creative (alliteration ladled by Lee). But isn't that always the way?

[By the way, no comparisons intended but seeing as there are wikipedia entries on Walt Bodine, Charles Wheeler and even Tech N9ne, I think it's high time somebody put together one on Chastain. Don't all volunteer at once.]

Transit is a guaranteed snoozer of a topic in Kansas City, but I boldly offer this link to a pre-blog Daytripper column.

It concerns another dreamer from long ago whose bronze backside is pictured above: William B. Strang. You might call him the father of Overland Park and by extension of the Johnson County suburbs where thousands wait everyday to turn left into a enormous parking lot.

Like Chastain, Strang was a man with big plans (and some pretty florid marketing). Back at the turn of the previous century, he built a movie studio, an aviation company and (more to the point) a commuter rail line to lure Kansas City residents out to homes in OP, KS.

That's right: public transit made our 'burbs what they are today. Moreover, when planned right, transit pays a community back with returns much better than an Olympics or a Superbowl or a World Series.

Scat cat

Having just a handful of superstitions myself, mostly in the realm of lucky underwear, I try to be charitable toward those held by other people. Never put a hat on a bed, for example, because some people (particularly stunt performers) think it means that someone will die. Don't whistle in a theater or say "Macbeth" around actors (even though it is fun to see them freak out - they're actors, after all). But even my own superstitions come with the phrase "if you can help it" attached.

Even so, what I saw driving home from work yesterday amazed me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little black cat with a fancy collar headed for the street. I kept on going since it hadn't even made it to the curb by the time I passed. The car in the oncoming lane slowed to a stop. They're going to let the cat cross, I thought. How thoughtful. When I glanced in my rearview, their reverse lights were on. Then the car backed up half a block and into a driveway, turned around and headed the other direction. Hope they weren't late for the movie or dinner or vespers or whatever.

Now that, my friends, is committment to a superstition. Cue the Stevie Wonder...

A daytrip at last

C and I found ourselves with no commitments on the Fourth of July so we jumped in the car to fulfill our patriot duty to fossil fuel. We made it to Parkville and Excelsior Springs and back by way of Liberty, North Kansas City and the West Bottoms.

More pictures: Here's a link to the Flickr set.

Highlights -

The Power Plant Brewery in Parkville, particularly the Colonel Park's India Pale Ale. However: I ordered a club sandwich that came grilled, resulting in sort of a Club Melt. Not what I expected but I ate it all.

The Elms in Excelsior Springs which was beautiful and, like the rest of ES, felt pretty vacant. The hollow reminder of the town's past as a thriving resort town is sad to see. Still, if there's any money left by then, I plan to check into the Elm's for some pampering.

Paleteria Tropicana on Southwest Blvd. - I can't find a link for this but it's 4 doors down from the corner of Summit. The popcicles (paletas) are so good they make you want to cry (the mango-chile ones really will) and a satidfying end to any meal or daytrip.

We sat outside in the heat and listened to the neighborhood explode. With a cold paleta and a hot wife, it felt good to be an American.

He hates fireworks

Independence, Schmindependence. The Fourth of July is just a lot of racket when you're the little dog.

No image? No problem

Last month, J. Michael Mullis, a business consultant from Memphis spoke to area leaders (of the elected and business variety). Let us now picture the scene: While our civic elite picked at their chicken breast and rice pilaf, Mullis informed them that Kansas City didn't have a national image: "It's not negative. It's not positive. It's neutral." After a round of polite applause everyone went back to work all sullen, and Mullis and his consulting fee flew back to Memphis.

The Star saw this as an opportunity to engage (or pander to, depending onyour point of view) its readers and invited them to come up with a new slogan for Kansas City. Today, the results are in. Judging from the responses the paper chose to publish, none of these nice people will be receiving a call from Madison Avenue anytime soon. The responses also suggest that the locals are as foggy on KC's image as the rest of the country.

"We've come a long way since Lewis and Clark stopped by"
- True, but then the town wasn't actually here when they stopped by.

"Life's Good On The Prairie"
- If you're a well-tended cow, maybe. Most of us live in town now.

"Leave your hat, boots and spurs at home; Kansas City has come of age"
- Unless you're coming for the rodeo or one of our cowboy themed gay bars (or both), in which case you will need your tack (and condoms, for crying out loud).

"Kansas City: Friendly, cool and delicious"
- Especially good for attracting cannibals.

"Kansas City: From Cow Town to WOW! Town"
- A genuine cringer, although it does remind me of something the Albert Brooks character in Lost in America might say.

"Kansas City: The Center of the World" - Tellingly, this was suggested by a native of San Diego. Most southern Californians grow up believing that wherever they are is the center of the world and this seems to suggest that the sentiment travels wherever they go.

"Time to settle down? Better hurry before the rest of America finds us"
- Um, and just whom exactly are we addressing this to?

My (only half kidding) suggestion: "Kansas City: Shut up already and eat."

But seriously, did we really need to pay somebody from Memphis to tell us that we have no national image?

I really don't see Kansas City's lack of a national image as a problem. Companies and families planning to relocate look at statistics about crime and schools when they make their decisions, not marketing slogans. And before we go making KC attractive to tourists from the coasts, we should make sure it stays livable for those of us who already live here. I personally would trade a few rolling stadium roofs for working sewers.

We might take a page from KC history and get back to what made the area such a rip-roaring success back in the late 1800s: ripping off people passing through (gold diggers, settlers, Mormons) rather than being ripped off by suits from out of town on their way to the next consulting gig.

Never Trust the Man

The weather man, that is. Especially if he sounds like me.

If the Arbitron ratings are accurate, I spent Friday evening and Saturday morning assuring tens of thousands of listeners in the metro KC area that Saturday's forecast called for partly cloudy skies and a high temperature in the mid 80s.

Around 3:oo, I'm on the couch munching happily through Fluke, a very enjoyable novel about whales (and many other things) by Christopher Moore, when I hear a familiar rumble outside. I step out on the front porch and mutter words the FCC won't allow you to say on the radio because this is going on:



My dad, an avid weather watcher, has always fallen back on a maxim he heard for the first time in Texas: "Anyone who tries to predict the weather is either a fool or a damn yankee." Meteorology has come a long way, thankfully, but we are frequently still a bunch of damn yankees.

Neon

At night the truth comes out. (Spotted at 31st and Gillham Road.)

Take me to the Rhythm (& Ribs)

Thousands showed up to hear the Rev. Al Green perform last Friday at the 2nd Annual Rhythm & Ribs festival. But few seemed to enjoy the show as much as the dancing dude 20 feet in front of us.

The stage was in deep center field in one of the diamonds in Parade Park and we were standing in the infield, between second base and the mound. We could have pressed closer but that would have meant standing in front of someone foresighted enough to bring chairs. It was a comfortable distance and the sound was good.

The Rev had his own dancers on stage with him, two strong young men with good moves. He also had a great backing band and his daughter (Deborah, I think) was backing him up on vocals. And he's still got it, Al Green does. Still has the pipes and the verve despite the years. And he's at peace with his early "secular" music and ready to testify on behalf of his savior. Even ready to tack his savior onto the end of "How Can you Mend a Broken Heart?" "... with Jesus," he and the backing vocalists crooned after restating the musical question. (this reminded me of the way my grandpa used to wait for the last note of "Happy Birthday" to chime in "...without a shirt!")

But back to our dancing dude: late 30s maybe early 40s, modest build and wearing the uniform of the white summer American: tee, cargo shorts and running shoes. He'd brought what I'm guessing was his three-year-old son with him. Obviously an Al Green fan from way back, he greeted each classic Al Green song (Let's Stay Together, Love and Happiness) with a spasm of recognition, leaping up with his hands in the air and then stirring the dirt enthusiastically, occasionally pumping one or both fists. Sometimes he'd take the little boy's upraised hands and dance a little jig.

Now I don't know if he's churchy or not, but there was something vaguely Pentecostal in the dancing. He was not "getting down" or "grooving" as people like me used to say all those years ago. He wasn't even trying to "get down" or "groove." He was exulting in the music. It fit the descriptions of "praise dancing" I've heard (and seen, on those "praise music" cds you see advertised on basic cable late at night, often right alongside – in another blending of the carnal and the spiritual - the ads for the Girls Gone Wild videos.)

In an earlier, snarkier phase of my life, this dude and his dancing would have been cause for indignation. But in the end, so what? You pay for your ticket and you get to express your appreciation however you choose. One burst of air-pummeling arm joy did almost graze a passerby, but I'm sure they would have worked it out. Probably would've been a different story at the Warped Tour.

At the same time, don't give me too much credit: We did try to get a quick movie of him, but the dark was too much for our modest camera.

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Regional footnote: We decided to go to the show less than an hour before it started. On a Friday night, no less. We found easy parking a few blocks from the venue and the ticket lines were short. We stood in another modest line for a delicious Scimeca sausage on a bun and arrived at our spot just as jovial Brian Busby introduced the Rev. We didn't fight any traffic on the way out. This entire scenario would have been inconceivable when we were living in the Bay Area.

So... Viva the Sticks, bitches!

Drop off

Every year for something like 15 years, Kansas City's Gorilla Theatre Company has staged Gorilla Greek, the performance of an ancient Greek play - alternating comedies and tragedies - at (or near) sunrise on (or near) the date of the summer solstice.

I'm just enough of a pretentious egghead to think this is very cool. (This year's comedy "the Wasps" by Aristophanes is "a satiric look at the Athenian jury system" poking fun at their love of and addiction to litigation. Sound familiar?) I am also a life-long slugabed, which explains my lack of attendance since moving back to KC in 2003.

Some day I will go. But Saturday (opening morning, so to speak, for The Wasps) wasn't one of those days, although I was actually awake in time. In fact, we could see the back of the stage in Theiss Park as we drove past on Volker Blvd. But C and I were headed east on an errand of great personal significance: The free antifreeze, batteries, oil & paint (ABOP) drop-off at the Linwood Shopping Center, sponsored by our fair city.

When we moved into our house almost three years ago, we inherited in the process a collection of cans paint and satins and turpentine, some dating back I'm sure to the Reagan Administration. Apparently none of the previous owners could bear to haul them out of the basement and I can't really be that hard on them since we haven't managed it either. So the cans sat, their dented sides and bent lids staring at us glumly on any basement errand.

A few weeks back I read a post about the drop-off on Tony's Kansas City. For Tony it was fodder for a jab at Independence. Fair enough. But for me, it smelled like freedom. Freedom from glum can staring, which is a very particular and narrowly defined sort of freedom, but freedom all the same. It was also an important step in the unexpectedly long process of taking possession of the house and making it ours. I'mnew to home ownership, so this process still intrigues me.

So we got ourselves out of bed early and tossed our cans in the back of Fred Wickham (my truck) and headed toward 31st and Prospect. The drop-off was scheduled to start at 8 and when we got there at 7:55 there was already line spilling out of the parking lot. We snaked our way through and once the transfer was complete, a lady with a clipboard asked where I'd heard about it. The Internet, I said. She chuckled and shook her head.

It is a funny world sometimes.

Rosencrantz on the skins

Caught the Jerry Lee Lewis concert last Friday at the Folly. And now it is that time in the post for me to tell you that the name of the series of which the concert was a part is Cyprus Avenue Live. (Sorry, an inside-KC joke, and inside-KC public radio, no less.)

We arrived too late for host Bill Shapiro's pre-show chat, but the crowd at The Folly was in great spirits and primed for the Killer's arrival. And since I'm no reviewer I will make no attempt to assess the show. My ears were buzzing at the end of it, which I'm given to understand is the desired effect and why Mr. Crankypants sees so few live rock shows. Past 70 and a teensy bit wobbly, Jerry Lee still managed to whip the crowd into a frenzy. For their part, the crowd didn't seem to want it to end, but that could be because, after 40 minutes they thought there would be a whole lot more shakin' goin' on.

I will foist this appraisal: The four-piece backing band of Memphis musicians was excellent. They came out and warmed up the crowd, each singing lead on a series of songs that were hits before your mother was born. They were loose and tight and hot and very cool. Then the headliner came out and the drummer got me thinking about English literature.

Tom Stoppard wrote a play called Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead about two minor characters from Hamlet. Both characters die in both plays, but in Stoppard's they spend the bulk of the play waiting for Hamlet to show up and pondering their place in the scheme of things.

Up until Bill Shapiro announced Jerry Lee Lewis, the drummer, a big burly guy at least 25 years younger than anybody else on stage, was all over the drum kit and having the time of his life. Once the legend arrived, our hero became a more of a metronome, restricting himself mostly to the snare and the hi-hat. He was a damn fine metronome, but a metronome nonetheless. He also punctuated Jerry Lee's blurry stage patter with the occasional much-needed rimshot.

After the piano bench was summarily kicked (and I mean kicked, the thing rolled over twice, prompting JL to give it the "stay" signal) and the Killer left the stage to wild applause, the drummer came briefly back to life. Once again he was full of pep, all over the kit. He and the rest of the band played out the last song and bolted, grabbing their guitar cases etc. Clearly there would be no encore.

Out, out, brief sideman! Life's but a backing drummer, a poor player
That taps and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
At least until the next show.

Hail yes!

We had us a big ole thunderstorm on Saturday night. A real frog strangler. It was accompanied by some big ole hail stones. The Subaru was safely stowed in the garage with moments to spare. Afterward, the dogs went after the chunks of hail as though it were manna from heaven.

The Global Toilet Report

Happy in Bag weighs in today on one of my favorite topics: cooties. Specifically public restroom cooties.

"Ladies, there are only two types of guys- those who wash their hands after they go to the bathroom, and those who don’t. The ratio is about fifty-fifty."

Frankly, I think he's being insanely generous with that estimate. Call me a cynic, but I'd put the figure at 90/10 for the unclean. This is especially true (if that's even possible) of white male business execs with whom I've had the misfortune of sharing public restspace. CEO = Cooties on Every Occassion.

Which make the Onawa, Iowa rest stop on I-29 a germophobe's delight. Once inside the gents' all you need touch is yourself and the soap dispenser: the toilets and urinals are on sensors, as are the sink and hot-air hand dryer. The doors are hung so you exit with a slight shove of the shoulder and find yourself unsullied under the tall Missouri Valley sky. (Yes, this whole post is an excuse to share this picture I took there two years ago.)

And now for the "global" part: check out this post from Lindsey, a UMKC student spending part of her summer break in China. Not for the excessively squeamish (you know who you are). Beware the small bucket!

Me and my English

Your Linguistic Profile::

55% General American English

15% Dixie

15% Upper Midwestern

5% Yankee

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Thanks to Curb Girl for this.

The results are a little skewed but so am I.

- I grew up saying "pop" but have since taken to calling sweet carbonated beverages "soda".

- I've never pronounced "aunt" to sound like "ant" although that is the prevailing pronounciation where I grew up (and I took much ribbing on account of it).

- I think of "the sweet spread on top of cake" as frosting, but the I'd never swap it out in the expression/cliche, "...the icing on the cake."

- I never called an easy class a crip course, a gut, or a blow off. I called it an easy class (and believe me, there weren't that many). When I moved to Missouri for college, I noticed that people referred to low-level classes as "bonehead" classes.

- "Y'all" doesn't trip off my tongue, but I think that English is much in need of a second-person plural.

- I suspect my 5% Yankee is just pretentiousness.

- Finally, what does "Midwestern" sound like?

A doghouse ramble

Caught the Kansas City Bass Quartet at Jardine's last Sunday. For the record, they are bassists Bob Bowman, Gerald Spaits, James Albright and Craig Akin. Four upright basses (a.k.a., bull fiddles, doghouses, etc.) two hours of music, three beers. The performance was exactly the elephant freak show I had hoped for. (In case you're curious, the quartet played the Friday before on KCUR's Up to Date. And if you are curious, you are curious indeed.)

The KCBQ was recording the show, which must explain the tent cards at each table. A nice gesture, although not to everyone's liking as the photo above demonstrates.

It reminded me of a recent post (of mine) about a loud drunk woman at this same venue. I don't think it would've helped much. The challenge, as always, is getting people to read. Just ask anyone who owns a newspaper.