Have you ever woken up in Dodge City, KS and said, “Holy shit, what a wonderful place to be!”  Neither have I.  The sun is hot here at oh-nine-thirty, and in the breeze, the fertilizer of our fields, the fertilizer of our dreams.  Sweet Jesus, it feels good to see spotted cows eating grass in the golden hills that wave gently along the uneven horizon.  Horses grazing from hay bales, necks craned in synchrony to the passing of the train.  What a world, what a morning, moving west.

As for Missouri, it showed me cities that made no sense, which makes no sense, the people so wrought with a sense for solutions to the simple questions life demands.  Isn’t that where sense comes from?  Incidentally, now passing King’s Taxidermy -there’s a solution.  And the calves run wild…

The cab drivers in Kansas City were awfully talkative, and on the way out from Parkville, I heard the first refrain of a recurring theme about the place from where I come – no one really knows much about New York out here.  It might as well have been anywhere else in America, though I did here some detailed digressions about hot springs in the Ozarks, a world in the folds of an ear.

My hotel was in Westport, the Q on Westport Road, the only green/HD hotel in KC.  I’m sure they saved a shitload of watts when I was there because I was never really there.  As soon as I got in on Saturday afternoon, I hitched a ride with one of the hotel clerks down the the City Market, an old open air market founded in 1857, spread out on an asphalt lot, farm fresh vegetables lay dirty and irregular like something born from the earth should invariably be.  There were a few ethnic shops in the solid storefronts surrounding the market, including a couple of nondenominational Middle Eastern places, Vietnamese, and Indian.  I tasted a lot of homemade pepper jellies and some kick ass Jamaican jerk, but for some reason, the only things I bought were a few pieces of a dried mango and a jar of pickled beets.  Both the lady and the jar said they’re the best darn pickled beets in the state, though which state she was referring to, I know not.  I’m sure they’ll be good if the jar doesn’t leak beet juice all over my gear first.  My cheeky homage to the Beats.

After the market, I tried to walk up an appetite by heading to Arthur Bryant’s BBQ on foot.  The frittata cooked up by the ladies at the Porch Swing was more than filling and only a little bit uncomfortable.  However, with no map and nothing more than a hat to keep the heat off my face, I succumbed to my arrogance and took a cab.  Arthur Bryant’s is a few blocks from the 18th & Vine part of town, a historically African American neighborhood that houses some of the best jazz venues around, as well as the American Jazz Museum and the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum.  Unfortunately, after my meal, I was barely able to walk down the street, my senses dulled by barbecue-induced brain damage, or BBQIBD.  The line in this place was slow, mostly owing to the sluggish pace of payment and having nothing to do with the pit chef and pork pullers behind the glass window where slicers whirl and big men put big handfuls of smoked meat on white bread.  Make that Wonder Bread.  Now, I’m all for the attitude that comes along with barbecue culture, and the down-home novelty of eating a sandwich on white bread is cute, but for fuck’s sake be reasonable.  After the first bite of my pulled pork “sandwich”, the bread was no longer recognizable as such, probably owing much to the pork’s consistency, which was more like pork chili or a sloppy joe.   I used up all of my complimentary pickle slices just trying to add a textural change, and by the time they were gone, I was full, tired, and a bit disappointed.  In hindsight, I should have gotten ribs (the sliced beef sandwiches seemed to be the favorite that day), however, I felt a strong urge to stick to my favorite (and purest) barbecue dish.  It was a muddied, almost haphazard mix of flavors, more briskety than pork-like.  I’ll take Dinosaur in Syracuse any day.

Needless to say, the meal required a nap, the itis setting in nearly immediately.  Regaining consciousness, I figured on spending the night walking around Westport (populated with bars, restaurants, and shops), but after doing a double take at the front desk, I inquired about any other goings on about town.  Tera pointed me in the direction of a show at Grinder’s, the previously mentioned outdoor concert venue behind a pizza place, and being a sucker for the suggestions of a pretty girl, so I went.  As I was waiting on line for a ticket, I asked the gentleman in front of me just what I was getting myself into, and after a few minutes of conversation, he revealed himself to be a promoter of the show, but more than that, a genuinely kind person, and thus, Wiz placed a ticket in my hand and introduced me to a few handfuls of people having a good time.  Karma is an active pursuit.  Seriously, if I met you at that show and you have my information, I want to hear from you.  Read Cat’s Cradle.

Yesterday, Bruno made good on his promise and as I stepped outside into the sweltering heat, a little red Mazda hatchback fired around the corner, and the bald bearded sage swung open the door of what was about to be a long afternoon.  An old artist who lived in LA for thirty years, Bruno was the kind of strange character with whom one could kill an afternoon in a weird place.  We drove around the wealthy parts of town, windows literally rolled down, admiring the grand opulence of the Kansas City and wondering what the fuck they did with all their money in this god forsaken place (I think Bruno actually likes living there, though he’s up on the north side of town).  Grabbed some strong coffee at The Filling Station, talking about the state of the world, as though we had any idea how bad it is.  Two misplaced souls, one a reflection of the other at different times, his beard white and about a foot long, ice blue eyes that can take on a hue of distant madness.  We drove out to his house where his wife was expecting us for lunch, and afterwards he showed me all of the things he’d restored, created.  A pristine, yellow Beetle, the sewage pipes (he was proud of the pigtail section that kept the smell out), his gigantic cabinet speakers through which he blasted my mind with Brian Eno and Bill Nelson, his one of a kind crayon art.  Weird guy.  Twisted my arm to see The Dark Knight at the Tivoli in town (are all the theaters out here called the Tivoli?), an old school one screen theater restored and refurbished with a bar and a great sound system.  It turned out to be awesome, a really entertaining and well done movie, and I thought the cuts during the action sequences were a few tenths of a second longer than in Batman Begins, which was less nauseating and more continuous.  I was adamant about not going to the movie, to walk around the station, to think, to write, but he flipped a coin and I lost.  The clock approaching nine thirty, my train leaving at ten fifty five, I had nearly pulled my beard to pieces, the movie ending at nine fifty, we had to move.  We made it, only to be told the train wouldn’t show until nearly one am, all that anxiety assuaged.  Some of my biggest worries never happen. So we got some coffee and french fries, hung out on the tracks for a while, he talking about trains, me listening.  I got on, he went to check out the engine, which didn’t get cooking for another forty five minutes.  We finally rolled out of Kansas City near three, by which time I was on my way to a much needed sleep.

I’ve been writing this post for two hours, and the sheer energy it takes to rehash all of these events precludes any idea of editing.  I wish I could go back and make these more cogent, more contemplative, but I’m happy enough at this moment, the sweaty conclusion of a long session at the keyboard.

Listening: 

A Manuel Dexterity: Soundtrack, Vol. 1, Omar Rodriguez-Lopez

Hail to the Thief; In Rainbows, Radiohead

Reading:

Book of Longing, Leonard Cohen

Jennifer Government, Max Barry

Body Odor Index (BOI):

3/10 – German

…later