Monday, June 26, 2006

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.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Neon

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

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

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.



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!

Sunday, June 18, 2006

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.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

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.

Monday, June 12, 2006

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.

Thursday, June 1, 2006

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!