I hopped on the 51 at about 4:45, last night, and took that down to Westport without incident, and noticed like four attractive women on the bus. That's a piece of the pie. Like frogs thriving in recovering ecosystems, hot, young, single women on the bus are an environmental indicator for the city. I means the city is becoming more of one.
My excitement came to a halt, however, when I walked into McCoy's, and saw that the patio was closed. This was really unreasonable. How could Kansas City's best people-watching patio be closed, not only on Mardi Gras, but also in gorgeous 75-degree weather? The welcome chalkboard inside proclaimed, "The patio is closed! Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked it!" Lame bastards. That doesn't even make sense.
So, I made a bunch of phone calls, and got a couple too, and informed everyone involved that the proceedings would be relocated to the back patio at Harpo's. On the way to Harpo's I saw that Harry's patio, train caboose and all, was closed too. What gives? Why would these bars deny themselves the added business a patio provides? Harpo's back patio, predictably, was already almost full. I grabbed the last table that didn't require setting up a new one and cleaning it, and waited twenty minutes for service.
Liz, Terra, and Holly arrived soon after I finally got my beer, and they got so tired of waiting, they went inside to get their own drinks, up at the bar. From this point on, Theresa, our attractive but lamentably slow waitress talked mostly to me, and almost never to the girls. Geoff, Erp, and Jeff filtered in, over the next hour, as the sun fell behind the building. After a pretty sad(but cheap) dinner, Wes arrived, and we all went across the street to the Dark Horse.
The situation was similar there, and the crowd was filling up all the spaces quickly. We had a large booth, and enjoyed the $2 dark beers, on special that night. After a couple of 1554s, Eric, and a couple of Jeff's friends arrived, and at about the same time, Erp and I ran into Megan and her friend Christy, and some of Liz and Terra's friends arrived then, too. In short, we had a party.
I eventually left with Jeff and some of his friends, and went over to the Stagecoach for cheap-as-free drinks and loud Guns n' Roses music. Soon after getting there, Jeff and I had to go, as the buses were about to run their last routes of the day, and we had to get over to Main and 39th to catch them.
Because the bus system is stupid, the last three or four buses don't go all the way downtown, so I always have to get off at 18th and Walnut, and walk from there. This didn't bother me, because it was beautiful out, and I was digging the tunes on my player. I was enjoying them so much, as a matter of fact, that I walked up Main Street, instead of Baltimore, and wandered right into the H & R Block headquarters construction site. It is for this reason that my shoes are now very dirty.
Figuring I was in a rare spot, illegally treading through a potentially dangerous construction zone, I wandered this way and that, taking in the views, inside the fenced-off(but not to the south, the way I came in) area, and started to make for the northern boundary of the fencing. Right when I had started to move toward the exit, a pair of headlights turned on, about thirty feet in front of me. The car started rolling toward me, and came slowly to a stop right next to me, and the passenger side window started rolling down.
Instead of walking willingly into trouble, I just walked past the car, as if it wasn't there, kept on listening to my music, and slipped through a stretched opening in the temporary chain-link fence. The car started to turn around, as if to follow me, but there was nothing they could do. I think I really upset them, by not allowing them to get a chance to yell at me. Such is life.
I watched the most recent episode of Lost when I got home, and went to bed. I got up earlier than I have in a long time, and picked up Heidi at 7:40 for something I haven't done in probably about ten years: Ash Wednesday Mass. At Heidi's suggestion, we went to Guardian Angels again, and as I type this, I have a smudge of ashes on my forehead.
I got an email this morning from my Dad, letting me know that I wasn't the only one in the family that had fun last night. Check this out.
This just arrived today, to support my new running habit. One of the newest pieces of shininess out of the "labs," at Cowon, it's called a U3, and I found a good deal for it, out on the world wide net. I have been attentively eyeing the tracking status for it for most of this week. It was dropped off at the leasing office well into the business day. So late in the day was its delivery, in fact, that I was beginning to think that UPS might pull one of their impromptu delivery reschedulings on me. Fortunately, they did not.
I walked outside into the back-to-normal weather, quickly zipping up my jacket, and strolled through the gridlocked evening traffic on Broadway. When I got to the leasing office, I saw that they were holding a customer appreciation day, complete with hot meat balls, mini-quiche, eggrolls, and fresh brownies, all served on nice clothed tables, and the leasing agency staff dressed to the nines in dresses and tuxedos.
I didn't have the heart to ask about my package, for which I had excitedly come. I got in line to get some of the food, which was sensational, and started making conversation with my neighbors. After about fifteen minutes, I got up the nerve to ask about my package which, it turned out, was sitting on top of all the rest. I had another eggroll, thanked the staff, and hurried home.
With knifework that would have been grounds for the revocation my boy scout "Totin' Chip," I sliced open the cardboard shipment packaging, and ripped apart the attractive retail packaging to get at the newest addition to the number of objects for which I would punch you in the temple to protect.
This little beauty holds two gigabytes of musical freedom, and is so light that I'm surprised it does anything besides prettily reflect light. It plays all my file formats, including video, for which I will never use it. It enjoys a 14-hour battery life, comical ease in the copying of new files, on it and off it, and as you can see, occupies about as much space as about two undigested bites of steak.
The sound quality is stunning, as is the level volume which it is capable of blasting into my failing ears. I can't wait to walk and run with it.
After yesterday's stint of real life, I took note of my sleepiness, the melodious sound of spanish being spoken outside my window, and the midday temperature tickling the 80s. I shirked responsibility, put on some soft music, and spent the afternoon napping comfortably. When I woke up, my internet connection wasn't even responsive enough for porn. After a short while, it went away altogether. After unplugging and replugging my cable modem a couple of times, to no avail, I said there was little I could do, and hoppped on the bus, hoping time would heal all cable modems, especially mine.
I met Jeff for a pint and a sandwich at O'Dowd's on the Plaza, before legging it, right quick, over to Royall Hall at UMKC, to watch a very throught-provoking, and thoroughly terrifying film. We met up with Rebecca, a forumer at KCSkyscrapers, and stood talking about various urban topics for a good hour after the screening was over.
I came home on the 10:18 bus, and the cable light was turning on every minute or two, so in one of the clear spots, I navigated RoadRunner's impossible webpage, through about twelve pages and popups to the local support telephone number, and wrote it down. It was only about 11:30, but I figured with no internet access, there's not much to do. So, I wrote a script that checked to see if I was online, every sixty seconds, and log it. I went to bed, and was asleep in minutes.
I woke up without an alarm at about 8AM. It always feels nice to be up in the morning, especially without the customary painful sleepiness I usually feel in the pre-9AM hours. Anyway, my connection is back up, this morning, and looks like it has been since about one in the morning. It's a good thing, too, because I'm being bombarded with messages. Cheers.
In Dubuque, IA, where I went to college, the bars all close by about 1:40 or so. The state closing time is 2AM, but Dubuque's bars exhibit some of the most ridiculous "bar time" policies I have ever heard of. They even apply bar time to drink specials and happy hour.
Anyway, right across the river from Dubuque is the great land of Illinois, represented by the pile of shit that is East Dubuque, IL. One of Illinois' prominent "East" cities(East St. Louis, East Peoria, East Moline, East Dundee, East Galesburg, eastcetera) that are known for basically being trashy towns with loose moral fiber in an attempt to attract drunken commerce. A mantra we had, when the bars would close in Dubuque, was to "go east." We'd all hop into cabs, cross the Julien Dubuque Bridge on Highway 20, and pile into bars that stayed open until 3:30AM.
Now, from the front doors of the bars in East Dubuque, to campus, it's about four or five miles. If that route is taken on foot, as it often was, by me, about a mile and a half of that is on the terrifying , rattling, alarmingly mobile sidewalk hanging off the side of the bridge. The sidewalk is a cement affair with three-foot cement walls on either side. It was very odd for me to walk home, especially at 4 in the morning, when birds are chirping and daylight is threatening, but alcohol, combined with cheapness, had me walking home. I despised the crooked cab service in Dubuque. If you got in a cab with your friends, the cabbie would just say, "how about seven bucks from each of you," and my dumb friends would never argue.
I was walking home across the bridge, one such night, and the thought occurred to me that you'd have to be drunk to walk across that bridge without getting a heart attack. When an eighteen-wheeler came barrelling down its side of the two-lane bridge, the whole bridge would shake and rattle, and a mile or so of cement sidewalk in front of you would visibly undulate like a ribbon in the wind, threatening to toss you over the side into the swirling waters of the Mississippi, over one hundred feet below. This was especially terrifying when urinating over the side. The sidewalk was completely unlit, and the angle of the cars on the bridge, combined with the level of the light-shielding, assured that if you were walking there, nobody could see you. This meant that if anything happened to you, nobody would know anything about it until your pummelled body clogged the lock & dam in Clinton, forty miles downstream.
When you set your foot on terra firma on the Iowa shore, you are typically a mass of nerve endings, incapable of relaxation or unclenching. It was this frame of being that brought me to the western end of the bridge, one early morning, when I spotted a grey utility box, mounted man-high, just after stepping off the suspended sidewalk. Drunk, and in no hurry to go anywhere, I approached it, examined it, and noticed immediately an orange-handled lever on the right side, the kind that you imagine seeing next to an executioner's electric chair. Again, please remember that I was drunk, and happy to have survived the crossing. I wouldn't have reacted badly to being shot in the knee by a passing motorist, so elated was I to be alive, and drunk.
There was no padlock in the little hole at the bottom of the lever, where one would usually see one, so, I figured that whatever this lever controlled wasn't that important, if it controlled anything at all. I grasped the handle, and pulled down on it. It slid satisfyingly down, and came to rest against a piece of steel at the bottom. When the lever touched the steel, there was a loud "SHOONK" noise, like the sound of the coupling of two fully-laden coal cars. At the same time as the loud noise and the satisfying report of the lever snapping to, all the streetlights on the bridge went out. In a panic, I pushed the lever back up, which was much more difficult than pulling it down, and with some effort, got it lodged back in the position where I found it. I was no use. The lights remained off.
I guiltily walked the rest of the way home, constantly looking behind me for a sign of uniformed people in pursuit. They never came, and I got home just as the sun began to rise. The next day, I told my friends what had happened, and they didn't believe me, until we were crossing the bridge to go to Van's Liquors, later that day, and saw that the lights still weren't on. They didn't come back on for about two weeks, in fact.
The next time I saw that utility box, there was a lock on it.
I just met Heidi out for a drink at Grinder's, and was excited to see that they added another row of taps, including Delerium Tremens and Hobgoblin. Unibroue Ephemere and Duchesse du Bourgogne are on the way, they said. Awesome. We had a nice talk, and tentatively agreed to come back next week for beer tasting, but the fact that I wasn't going anywhere afterward kind of acted as the catalyst in a chain of realizations that shot me off my happy horse.
Now, I'm pretty depressed, thinking about the state of things in my life, especially regarding women. I walked home from Grinders with my hands and feet feeling numb with depression, walking automatically, scarcely noticing all the smiling people around me, and feeling angry at them when I did. Why do they get to be so god-damned happy?
I have recently discovered that a woman I have liked for a while has blown me off, and upon further reflection, I realize that she has only ever been friendly with me when she wanted something from me. She has emotionally closed herself off from people with whom she used to be friends, myself included, and it hurts. It hurts a lot. I have decided that she's probably never going to come around, and even if she does, I can't risk investing care and emotion again, in someone that might flick it off like a switch.
This might be enough information for whomever she is to figure out that I'm talking about her, but I don't care. To hell with her. I'd love to be her friend, but now I realize that I can't afford to be anything more than that. However, I honestly don't think she's emotionally capable of being just a friend. At least not with me. But that's fine. It's not my problem anymore, and I have my own life to live. I made it my problem, and I opened myself up to it, and that was my mistake. Now I have only pain and regret to show for it. I'll finish feeling the pain of the situation, and feeling bad about myself, and I'll move on.
I'll have to stop thinking about her. Thinking about her used to be exciting for me, but now it just hurts.
It's just really sad for me to realize that I have to start over again.
I was just browsing a local site's forum when I spotted a thread introducing a hilarious site called Save Our Owners, aimed at pushing through the upcoming stadium ballot issues, for the sake of Kansas City's comically wealthy sports franchise owners Lamar Hunt of the Chiefs, and David Glass of the Royals. It looks like it's made in mockery of a local FUD site called Save Our Stadiums.
I personally find the "Save Our Owners," site a lot more interesting.
I need to remember, the next time I undertake something like this, to realize that late February is not typically a time of 70-degree sunny weather. I kind of fell off running, since my last post, as the weather returned, more or less, to its normal behavior. It warmed back up into the 60s yesterday, but I was busy sitting around being lazy. I didn't even really eat yesterday.
Today was still a little colder than I'd have liked, but nevertheless, I donned my grubby shorts and a too-small t-shirt that reads, "LAPTOPS SUCK," on it, and hit the streets. I pushed myself a little too hard, today, and gave myself a bit of a headache, and some pain in my lower back. If I had kept pushing, I would be coughing uncontrollably, right now.
I'm still working on the balance issue, but when I'm not paying attention, I still put a lot more weight on my right foot than my left. I'll work on it.
I prefaced today's run with a couple of situps, and an actual session of stretching. During said stretch, a horrible cramplike pain shot me in the right side, and never fully subsided until, surprisingly, I started running. Perhaps my nervous system thought it more important to scream at me through my legs and lower back than from the wrenched pseudo-muscles in my right side.
I was able to run farther today than on previous days, but still in the grand scope of fitness, it was a pitiful run. Probably a grand total of a quarter-mile was covered in the actual running part. Nevertheless, it was an improvement, and the mile or so walk there and back was a good warmup and cooldown.
Jeff and I went to Waldo Pizza for some really fantastic St. Louis-style pie tonight. They liked us so much, apparently, that they gave us some Ted Drewes frozen custard, free of charge. As we were burping our dinner, and enjoying some beer on tap from Flat Branch in Columbia, I got a call from a friend, inviting us to a party way the hell out in Shawnee. Neither of us had planned anything more for the evening, and wanted to get in relatively early, so we got in Jeff's car, and made the crazy-long trip out there, with the idea of making it just a short visit.
The party was actually kind of lame, in that there was silly drama going on, and the generally younger crowd seemed more interested in getting blitzed than in enjoying conversation. That kind of makes sense though, because any conversation required shouting over each other. Don't get me wrong- we had a nice time -but we didn't feel very bad about having to take our leave when we did.
It was a nice, relatively quiet Friday.
I got up relatively early on Saturday morning, and hoofed it right quick down to Succotash, on the City Market. I met Ryan, Andi, Eric, and Rebecca there, and we spent a solid three hours enjoying the weather and having a nice conversation. Jeff joined us just before we left the restaurant, and we all went to get some ginger beer and wander around the River Market.
Eric had to go pretty early, so we wished him well. We spent the remainder of the daylight wandering comfortably around the River Market in the sublime sunshine. We went down to the Riverfront Heritage Trail's head, by the old Town of Kansas bridge. Matt joined us down there, and we talked and laughed as we walked around the relatively trashy, neglected trail. From there, we walked up to the Cup and Saucer for a beer and a conversation.
We said good bye to Rebecca, strolled over to Babycakes, and picked up some tasty handmade cupcakes, before going to Harry's and sitting out on the patio. We ate, drank, watched our drunken neighbors, and got a little drunk ourselves before Jeff had to leave. Pretty soon after that, Ryan, Andi, and I decided to head down to Brookside and get some Bell's Two Hearted Ale, so we hopped on the next bus out.
It was one of the nicest Saturdays I have had in KC in a long time.
The temperature hasn't broken 40 degrees yet today. I am not running in this.
I walked a couple miles down to the Brewery at 25th and Southwest Boulevard, today. That'll have to do. I was sick.
Tomorrow, I promise you a real run. If proof of it doesn't surface, you have my permission to come and tase me.
At about 5PM, I walked down to the Boulevard Brewery today, amid torrents of heavy wind and angry drivers. I arrived, and took it upon myself to make my own introduction to all present, before hardhats were passed out. We headed over to the new expansion for a our of the new facilities. It didn't take long for me to have an irreparable goofy smile on my face. I don't want to give away too much, at least until I post the pictures I took.
After the tour, we came back, helped ourselves to voluminous amounts of draught beer, went over some of the finer points of representing America's 25th-largest brewery, ate some Waldo Pizza, and then test-tasted some beers one of the touristers brought back to KC from some place that has better distribution. The selection included beers from Anderson Valley, Great Lakes, New Holland, and the always excellent Dogfish Head brewery. DH was represented with their delicious 60-Minute IPA, and their incomparable 90-Minute IPA.
Th rest of the evening after that was kind of a blur, as, unfortunately, beer has a certain effect on the senses, and especially free beer, to which I unabashedly helped myself.
I went to the Port Authority meeting on Thursday night, and enjoyed watching the arguments involving local above-reproach old lady Anita Gorman pontificate on the need for 5000, that's right, five thousand permanent off-street parking spots for the proposed riverfront development. The main opinion rift in the room seemed to be between the white-haired folks and the young people, with the former supporting suburban-style development, and the latter stressing the demand and need for urban development. After that, Jeff and Matt and I went to Davey's for a couple drinks, and then to Harlings for a couple more, along with a serious eyefull of the female clientele.
We rounded off the evening with some Pancho's burritos, and I went to sleep at about 1:30, knowing I had perhaps five or six hours to sleep. I was startled awake by nervousness at about 7am, so I called Ryan, at whose apartment I had left my green sportcoat the previous week, and took an unshowered step outside, for the one-block walk over to his place, to get the coat. I could smell myself immediately. The cigarette smoke had deposited itself horribly into the fibers of my favorite jacket, the previous night.
Anyway, Geoff, who's serving time as a Johnson County resident, had to drive up to downtown and find a parking spot. Once he had, he sought out my house, and we were on our way. We tried to go to Danny's Big Easy for a pre-parade drink, but found that it wasn't open yet, and had recently changed the bar's name to "Daddy's." Surprised by their willingness to throw money away on the drinkingest of mornings of the year, we walked two blocks to Bulldog, where I ate a mudlike plate of biscuits and gravy, drank an Irish Ale, and an amazingly still-in-existence Nutcracker Ale. It was about that time when Andrew and Brody joined us, and we departed, open containers in hand, for Union Station.
We walked into the gathering hoopla for the parade, when we crossed 20th street. Floats were all around, bedecked with leprechauns and pots of gold, and alternating between music by the Pogues and the Dubliners, and Hot 103 Jamz. We arrived at the Sweeney-O'Rourke family float, which apparently was the previous year's parade champion, and decided we needed another drink. Andrew, Brody, and I walked over to Pierpont's, inside the bustling Union Station, and enjoyed a very comfortable drink. I was delighted to see that Pierpont's has Bully Porter on tap.
Geoff angrily called me, saying that the parade was about to start, and that we needed to get back out there. We took a moment to relieve ourselves, and double-timed it back to the float. We found out, when we got there, that it would still be about twenty minutes before we started moving. Clay had joined us by this time, and was bouncing all over the place, trading "your sister is hot," jabs with Geoff.
Finally, the float was able to start rolling, and we walked in front of it, shouting holiday greetings to the assembled masses. Though, the fact that it was frigging cold outside definitely had an effect on the parade's attendance. When I went in 2003, it was over seventy degrees outside, and as such, the parade attracted a good 150,000 more people than this year. Even so, I'd say there were probably about 100,000 people along the parade route.
We were waving to the crowd, shouting greetings to them, and talking amonst ourselves, when I got the idea to start doing drunken cartwheels for the crowd at regular intervals. Thankfully, the parade route was largely abbreviated because of the arena construction inside the loop, so the left side of my body was only slightly throbbing with pain when our float turned off Grand at 15th. We rode on, back to Union Station, where we took the float apart, and enjoyed another beer.
Then, we made what was, in my opinion, the biggest mistake of the day: we went to Westport. I pretty much despise Westport, and if you throw ever-increasing crowds on top of that, I am just plain counting the minutes until it's time to leave. We went first, thankfully, to Dave's Stagecoach, which while is technically in the Westport area, is definitely not part of the scene. With tshirts for sale that read, "Dave's Stagecoach Inn: Your First Stop After Parole," it's is largely devoid of the teenyboppers that clog the streets only a few blocks away.
We then paid $5 to get into Blayney's, where they had raised their drink prices for the holiday. After making and receiving some phone calls, we decided to go over to the Dark Horse and grab a table while we still could. It was early, only 2pm, but the bar was one in, one out, and the tables were all, of course, taken. So, we got some overpriced beers, and picked a spot in the middle of the floor to stand, and started hanging out. About a third of the discussion, all carried out in hoarse shouts, centered around leaving Westport. But, it didn't seem that anyone was actually interested in going anywhere, because the hours went by, and we stayed right there.
Sick of Westport, I left by myself, and got in touch with Josh, who was just getting off work, and would be arriving at the 39th & Main bus stop shortly. I waited there for him for perhaps three minutes before he arrived. We exchanged hellos, ran over to his apartment, extracted Callie, and caught the next bus to downtown. On the way, we decided to see how busy the Crossroads was, and got off at 19th and Main. We got a drink or two at Balanca's, where the holiday was definitely being celebrated, but with no shortage of available seating.
By this time(about 6:30pm), I was starting to lose momentum, and was only able to get two more beers down. We moved on to Grinders, ate some dinner, talked some smack, and I called it a day. I made one last walk, to get home from Grinders, before I collapsed into my desk chair. I wasn't drunk, I was just exhausted. I capped my day watching Peoria's Bradley Braves knock KU out of the NCAA tournament in the first round. I posted a couple of incendiary remarks about the greatness of the Missouri Valley Conference on a local forum, made a last trip to the bathroom, and went to bed, at about 11:30pm. I was asleep in less than a minute.
I awoke ten hours later, still sore from walking all day, and slamming my body against the ground with drunken cartwheels. My voice is starting to return, and the realization that it's Saturday is kind of shocking. All in all, it was an excellent St. Patrick's Day.
After a lively run over to 11th and Wyandotte, I caight the 51, headed south. There was some kind of traffic-fostering happening going on downtown, as is often the case on Saturdays, but that ensured that the bus was a little late, and allowed me to handily have enough time to catch the bus.
I got off in Westport, fresh with the news, via text message, that Jeff would probably be another 45 minutes. I had some time to kill, and wasn't in much of a drinking mood. I was hungry though, so I went to Mesa Wraps for a tasty spicy burrito.
As I was walking out of the restaurant after a leisurely chomp, Jeff appeared, walking from another direction. We settled down to a couple of ESBs at McCoy's, and some chips and salsa. After that, we made our way over to the Flea Market, where Jeff had one of their famous burgers, and we split two pitchers. Feeling a bit dizzy, we decided to head over to Dave's Stagecoach for some $2 Flying Monkeys, before catching the last bus of the day, back to downtown.
Having missed his last bus, Jeff reluctantly accepted a futon-appointed place to sleep, and that was that.
Jeff picked me up downtown for the Wilco show, as we estimated that the buses wouldn't be running when the show was over, and we drove to Midtown, like a couple of suckers. We grabbed a cheap pitcher of Flying Monkey at Fitz's, and wandered over to the Uptown, in the cold. After being pretty much blown off by the people we hoped to meet when we arrived, we grabbed some ten dollar beer, and hoped the concert would make up for the rest of what had happened since we entered the building.
The band, a six-piece affair that enthusiastically jumped around stage, put on, I was delighted to find, the best show I have ever seen at the Uptown. Jeff was only slightly familiar with Wilco, but reportedly had a great time, and cheered just as loud as everybody around at each transition.
They played Hummingbird, I am Trying to Break Your Heart, Forget the Flowers, Airline to Heaven, Handshake Drugs, Muzzle of Bees, At Least That's What You Said, a b-side I didn't know, Hell is Chrome, Spiders(kidsmoke), Jesus etc, Theologians, another b-side I didn't know, a new song, I'm the Man Who Loves You, A Shot in the Arm, A Magazine Called Sunset, I'm Always In Love, War on War, Kingpin, The Late Greats, Misunderstood, and closed with another, very upbeat, new song that I didn't know.
That's twenty three songs. The previous concert I attended at the Uptown was Cake, and they played perhaps half that many songs, and stayed on stage for less than half the time. Also, we were so interested in the music that we never got away for long enough to spend more than $20 apiece on beer(ie: two beers apiece), so in my opinion, it was a very good concert. We went to Chubby's and got some health food, before calling it a night.
Unable to stem the tide of influence from around the web, I have replaced the email page with an "About," page, with the email form at the bottom of it. You can reach it by clicking on the "About," link in the left menu.
I actually enjoyed staying in tonight. I was able to get a lot done.
I got up yesterday at the customary hour, caught up on my internet stirrings, showered, shaved, got dressed, and got out the door and started driving to Waldo at about 11:30. I did my every-three-months ritual of dropping off the car at the Goodyear on Wornall, and walked over to the old-man barbershop that I love so much, to get my haircut. While I was there, I convinced my barber to vote against giving the Royals and the Chiefs a billion dollars in the upcoming election. It was very satisfying.
After the haircut, I walked across the street to Chipotle and got a burrito and ate it in leisure. I sat by the window and watched the considerable crowds go by. There are a lot of young attractive women in Waldo, pushing strollers. It's unfortunate. Lots of stay-at-home moms, years younger than I am, passed my window, and I scoffed at the shame of such attractive women settling down at such a young age, basically missing out on their 20s, and eliminating my chance to ogle them without guilt.
This weekend, and for the first half of next week, I will be helping Julia move from Cleveland to Boston. Unfortunately that means that I will miss Opening Day at Kauffman Stadium, and my chance to vote down the terrible ballot questions. So, I looked online to see about absentee voting. Geoff will also be out of town on the 4th, and, being a sucker for antiquity, with a pen and paper, he wrote the county board of elections about the matter, and never heard back. I didn't want the same experience. The website I looked at told me that I would need to go to the square in Independence to vote absentee.
So, I finished my lunch, and I walked back over to the Goodyear, where my car was ready. I went all the way down to I-435, and followed that all the way to I-70, and took that all the way to Noland, which I followed all the way to the square. It was about a half hour drive, all told, mostly going over 70 MPH. I parked, and walked up to the board of elections building, where I was helped by a patrol of blue-haired old ladies, who eventually determined that I needed to vote at a place within walking distance of my apartment.
Resisting the urge to swear and throw loose objects, I informed them that the website told me to go to Independence, so they need to have that changed. I then drove all the way back downtown, found the building they told me about, and punched in both of my No votes. Happy to finally be done with it, I saw that I had put 47 miles on the car. I hate how spread out this town is.
That evening, I met Mary, an old friend from college with whom I recently connected on MySpace, down at Tomfooleries on the Plaza, for a drink or two. She just moved to KC a couple of weeks ago. We relocated to O'Dowd's for spinach dip and potato skins, along with a delicious Irish ale made by 75th St. Brewery. While there, we talked with a couple of Aussies that had just flown into town and were looking for something to do. I directed them to Harling's for Big Band night.
Mary dropped me off at the bus stop, and informed me that I would be her guide in Kansas City for a while. I accepted, but I might not know what I'm getting myself into. We'll see.
Winter gave us a reprise for the last week or two, rendering me completely unable to run. I understand that the body heat generated by running will keep the runner warm, but I am currently so out of shape that I can't maintain a running pace for more than a minute or two, meaning that if I ran in the cold, I would get cold. Dangerously cold. So, in my out-of-condition condition, I can only run when the temperature is moderately comfortable. It's just under 70 right now, so I went for a run today.
About one lap of the park into my run the 20-mph winds were combined with pelting rain, which then gave way to steady rain. Not excited about getting struck by lightning, I ran home, and got drenched en route. Nevertheless, my heart is still pounding, and I'm still breathing heavily.
Happy April, ball-heads!
Time for bed.