day 40: i went to a barbecue contest

I haven't eaten meat since March. I'd like to say I've developed a greater appreciation for the subtle nuances of tofu, or that soy-rizo really is as good as its spicy Mexican counterpart, but the reality is this: I sometimes smell bacon when there is no bacon.

I'll be driving down the street with my windows down, or walking to the bathroom at work, or shopping at Target, and from out of nowhere the savory smell of crispy-fried pig strips will seduce me into a fit of drooling. At first I worried I might be having a stroke, but the other possibility seemed more likely: my body needed meat.

So when my friend I. invited my boyfriend and me to a barbecue contest in Louisburg, Kansas, last weekend, I said fuck it; I'm gonna eat all the goddamn meat I can, just for one day.

I went prepared with an empty stomach, but I didn't know what I was getting myself into. After arriving in Louisburg we drove through several quiet blocks of old homes before an ambulance and several fire trucks marked the site of the gathering.  

"Yep, that seems about right," my boyfriend said, "for a bunch of fat people eating meat."

The thing about fat people and meat, though: they know how to do it right. There were probably 25 tables set up, and for $5 they let you in and set you loose. I marched right up to the first table and held out my plate. 

"This is our homemade sausage," a woman said, plunking down a piece of tube meat that left a greasy snail trail as it slid across my plate. "We've won a lot of awards with it."

And the moment the sausage touched my tongue fireworks went off in my brain as I remembered that meat is, in fact, fucking delicious. I jetted from one table to the next, shoveling pulled pork, beef brisket, chicken, baked beans and chocolate-covered bacon in my face with reckless abandon. At one point I realized I could definitely outrun everyone there, so if I wanted I could make off with the entire plate of bacon chocolate and nibble it in the bushes like a diabetic squirrel with high blood pressure.

Exhausted and sweating, I did eventually run out of steam, and my meat euphoria lasted another hour or so before it turned into something hateful writhing in my guts. It was, perhaps, bad vegetarian karma coming back to bite me for assuming that vegetarianism has a "pause" button. And perhaps my intestinal punishment was justified, but the smell of phantom bacon is still something I'm too weak to ignore. 

day 39: i watched a meteor shower

Each time I've tried to watch a meteor shower, I've gotten lost and ended up in the kind of neighborhood where I'm pretty goddamn sure I'm gonna catch a stray bullet.

Whether this is due more to some subconscious death wish, a latent need for adventure, or my spinning-compass sense of direction I can't be sure, but last night I unwittingly ended up on Quindaro Boulevard, a formerly thriving neighborhood now infamous for being goddamn dangerous and scary, for what was probably the tenth time. And each time has been at night. And warranted or not, I always panic, pulling an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road and high-tailing back in the other direction.

holy shit, this was so not my experience.

Last night I drove to western Shawnee hoping to escape the city lights and see at least part of the Perseids meteor shower. And, parked in front of a beige suburban house on a dark suburban street with sprinklers hissing a soft spray of water over the manicured lawn, I pointed and ooh-ed and ahh-ed as a lone falling star dripped faintly down the sky.

Then, off in the distance, a suburban dad approached, identifiable by his khaki shorts and baseball cap. Instead of telling him that I, the lone stargazer, was waiting for the first chance to break into his house and empty his fridge of the mid-quality beer (probably Beck's) I knew was in there, I got the hell outta there.

Despite my hopeful trek further down K-7, I couldn't escape the rows of streetlights that streaked below the bridges like landing strips, or the occasional cluster of fast food joints and box stores. I finally gave up and decided to head home.

Don't ask me how I ended up on Quindaro. Along with letting me borrow your shit (hint: if I return it at all, it will be damaged if not irreparably at least to a point rendering it temporarily useless) you should never, ever ask me for directions or follow me anywhere you've never been before, because odds are I will get lost, and if I don't get lost I will take a rambling, indirect route that will cause your fucking brain to explode. In other words, directions are not my strong suit.

Despite my nearly hourlong detour, I did eventually make it home at 1:30 a.m. without any whiz-bang bullets biting me in the thigh, or what have you. And was it worth it? Probably not. But that's life; not everything has to be fraught with meaning. Sometimes shit just happens, you know?

day 38: i saw bob dylan in concert

There was no shortage of frizzy white guy 'fros, skinny jeans, and dark sunglasses at Saturday night's Bob Dylan show at Starlight, rocked mostly by kids young enough to be the iconic folk singer's grandchildren. It says a lot for the enduring relevance of Dylan's songwriting that he's still attracting a new fanbase some four decades after his heyday.

Of course no one goes to Dylan 2010 expecting the hemp, hippies and hype of Dylan 1969. But for those who, like me, grew up listening to him and were seeing him for the first time, I can't help but suspect that the show was somewhat of a letdown. Most if not all of the songs in his nearly two-hour set list deviated so severely from the original versions that they were almost unrecognizable.

I've heard that live experimentation is kind of Dylan's thing, and I respect that; after all, I'd get bored too if I'd been playing the same songs the same way for nearly half a century. For their part the band sounded tight, as did Dylan when he rocked the harmonica in the way only he can. But his trademark voice sounded shot, and in something between a growl and a mumble he spoke more than sang the lyrics. The classic "Just Like a Woman" reached the chorus before I knew what was what.

For the most part the crowd was mellow, with only a few exceptions: near where I sat, a man waved his fingers in front of his face, entranced; a long-haired, drunken behemoth in rainbow tie dye shouted "thank you, Bobby D!" after each song; and another man plopped down on the ground and emptied his pockets when an usher asked to see his ticket. Also, my friend E. ordered an eerily green margarita that tasted like goddamn lighter fluid.

But that's about as crazy as it got. Whenever anyone got down to serious business getting down in the aisles, an usher with a flashlight was quick to shoo them away. One woman we dubbed the "picture Nazi" watched for deviants trying to capture the moment with their cell cameras, much to the dismay of the woman directly in front of me, who had been taking recordings intermittently throughout the show and texting them to seemingly everyone she knew.

Naturally I'm glad I saw Dylan - along with Tom Waits, Lucinda Williams, the Pixies, Leonard Cohen, the Pogues, and a few others I'm sure I'm forgetting, it's an experience I'll probably relate to either my grandchildren or my 15 cats someday. But as has increasingly been the case with big shows I've attended over the last decade, the whole event felt more like a sleek, money-making production than anything of real emotional value or substance. And even in 2010, sincerity is the least I would have expected from Bob Dylan. 

day 37: i plundered a vineyard

Even after putting up with 27 years of its bullshit, sometimes Kansas can still surprise me. For example, I never would have guessed that in Basehor, Kansas (one acceptable pronunciation of which is apparently "base whore"), resides the fruitful Holy-Field Vineyard and Winery, which houses reds, whites, and a man-sized dog named Corky.

(I asked the woman behind the counter what breed he was, but at that point I was kind of drunk on Tailgate Red and could only point at the dog in awe and ask, "What is it?" Unfortunately I don't remember what she said.)

Last weekend Jason and I met some friends at the vineyard for an evening of jazz and wine tasting, but the experience ended up feeling more like the most epic night of summer vacation, like when my friend R. and I used to play on the trampoline for hours while singing Christmas songs and then leave secret gifts for her neighbors, Boo-Radley style.

We sat at tables surrounding the outdoor stage, sipping wine out of plastic cups and watching ominous gray storm clouds roll in. When it started to sprinkle, employees moved chairs and equipment inside while we ran amok between the rows of grapes.

Seeing the green and red bunches hanging from the vine was strangely exhilerating, much like seeing apples being pulverized for cider or gazing up at an avocado tree (seriously one of the highlights of my trip to Hawaii). There was something oddly exotic about holding a glass of delicious booze in my hand while having the source in front of me. I wanted to exclaim, "So that's where it comes from!" Instead I plucked a fat red one off the vine and shoved it in my mouth. It was seedy and sweet.

Sunset turned the still-clear sky to the west pink, while lightening streaked across the dark sky to the east. Off in the distance, the horizon was blurred by intermittent downpours. The band set up in a dimly lit room inside, illuminated only by a lamp below the singer's face. It felt like listening to a ghost story at summer camp.

We danced and and drank and stood in a gazebo in the warm summer rain and didn't worry about our hair. And that sense of abandon, of letting go, is what will make it memorable. Because the only thing that mattered was the crazy light show in the sky and the feeling of Jason's arms around my waist and his beard tickling my neck.

hey royals: maybe baseball just isn't your thing

On Monday I witnessed one of the worst Royals defeats of all time as they were spanked 19-1 by the Twins. Several beers, er, innings in it became funny - the inept outfielders seemed to be bird watching, and the sluggish infielders must have been scarfing nachos and Mountain Dew in the dugout, because they just stood there and lazily watched the balls roll by.

Instead of turning their humiliation into anger to come back and fuel a victory, the very next night they lost 11-2 in equally pathetic fashion, leading me to suspect that baseball just isn't their thing.

The good news: these days, career changes are the norm.

Here are 5 possible careers the Royals should consider instead of baseball:

1. They should run a hot dog stand.
   Selling everyone's favorite ballpark indulgence on a street corner outside a dive bar should suit the team just fine. Patrons will find it charming when Cy Young winner Zack Greinke wraps up their order, cocks back his arm, and tells them to get ready to catch a 97-MPH fastball, and David DeJesus will be on hand to grin affably and pass out relish and mustard packets. The only thing that might fuck it up: Alex Gordon gets confused and runs a "buck night" promo; Billy Butler and Bruce Chen get hammered and eat all the raw dogs.
2. They should manufacture luxury bath products.
   Selling an overrated product to a small group of hapless but inexplicably loyal consumers is a business model with which the Royals have become increasingly familiar. They should use this to their advantage to make bath salts, soaps and scrubs with baseball slang-inspired names, such as clean-up hitter, caught looking, bases juiced, scoring position, sweet spot and fielder's choice. The only thing that might fuck it up: Yuniesky Betancourt makes "exfoliating body wash" out of petroleum jelly and gravel.
3. They should open a costume store.
   That way they can dress up as the New York Yankees or the St. Louis Cardinals and pretend they're relevant and good at baseball. The only thing that might fuck it up: They accidentally dress up as the 2003 Detroit Tigers, whose 43-119 record is an all-time American League worst; Butler and Jose Guillen can't stop arguing over who gets to be Albert Pujols.
4. They should start their own psychiatric practice.
   Depressed patients will come in to air their grievances and be one-upped with the team's tales of epic failure. Former ace Gil Meche can talk about how a shoulder injury ended his 2010 season with an 0-4 record and a 6.66 ERA; manager Ned Yost can whine about his bullpen giving up so many home runs to the White Sox that he was surprised Chicago had enough fireworks left to celebrate; and Greinke can explain how it feels to wake up in a cold sweat every night after dreaming again of drowning. They might even want to invite Mike Sweeney over to tell about the time he injured his back while tying his shoe and played only 60 games of the 2006 season. Patients will leave feeling considerably better by comparison. The only thing that might fuck it up: If anyone at any point mentions the huge salary he has in no way earned.
5. They should purchase a Subway, Jimmy Johns, Starbucks or Chipotle franchise.
   That way, when they fuck it up, someone who does it better is only a block away as opposed to in St. Louis, Chicago, Minnesota or Colorado.

don't let Bill Murray get you down, boys.

day 36: i celebrated christmas in july

I am fairly certain Christmas in July is more fun than regular Christmas. Not only can it be celebrated poolside, but all the money you'd normally spend on gifts can be reallocated to buy booze.

Despite Saturday's incessant thunderstorms, Christmas in July at my friend L.'s house was a joyful occasion of tacky holiday vests featuring cats in scarves, snowmen in earmuffs and be-glittered poinsettias and trees, jingle bell necklaces, gold lame scrunchies and spiked fruit punch.
 
And best of all, you didn't have to worry about getting a little too smashed and cussing out great aunt so-and-so who always gets a little too pushy about when you're going to get married already. In fact, as long as you were sober enough to climb on a pool raft, you were pretty much golden.

box wine holiday
by Charles Bukowski*

she insists mistletoe
is poisonous
before snatching it from the corner 
of the tabletop umbrella
and cramming it in her cheek
like a wad of chewing tobacco.

i watch and drink my wine,
sunset blush from a box
i tore apart
to squeeze out 
the last bit of color.
the sun's set but
sweat still trickles down my chest
and there's a rock in my shoe.

"you'd like that," she says,
spitting the wad of green
atop a cigarette butt in the pool.
"you'd fucking like that,
wouldn't you?"

her teeth are wine-stained
her lips crusted with the red dregs
she sucked down several hours ago 
while sprawled on the concrete
her toes dipping in the water
bouncing across the surface like stones 
as she laughed toward the sky 
and told me she felt 
invincible.

i yank down the other sprig of mistletoe
and jam it in my mouth.
it is bitter on my tongue.

*not really. i wrote it. i probably enjoy imitating bukowski more than i should.

day 35: i confirmed the myth of the community garden

These days my hometown of Stilwell, Kansas, is more suburb than farmland, but when I was growing up it was still quite rural. 

My parents built their house in the 70s, and on their two-acres of land my dad has always planted a vegetable garden - tomatoes, corn, bell, jalapeno, cayenne and poblano peppers, broccoli, yellow squash, zucchini, carrots, cauliflower, spinach, lettuce... even the occasional pumpkin when my brother and I abandoned our rotting, frowning jack-o-lanterns in early November and one or more rogue seeds took root the following spring.

When I moved into my own place the summer after I graduated high school, I didn't realize how much I would miss having ready-to-pick cherry tomatoes in my back yard or having fresh broccoli on which to pour a shitload of melted cheddar cheese. Instead I had a concrete rectangle also known as a "patio" facing a dumpster on which someone had spray-painted "fuck you" in neon purple. 

Given my affinity for planting seeds and watching them grow - both literally and metaphorically, mind you - I was super excited when I began hearing that urban community gardens were becoming a thing in KC. Despite all the chatter, though, I never saw one anywhere, much less in my neighborhood. I began to suspect, like the so-called "snow plows" that supposedly clear the streets in the winter, that it was all a myth, too good to be true.

But last Sunday my friend I. and I were walking off our latest Christopher Elbow ice cream adventure (blueberry lemon sorbet with toasted coconut ice cream - yum!) when we totally stumbled upon a community garden on 51st and Main, where each plot is owned and tended by a different group or family.

"Holy shit," I said, "they do exist," and then I pulled out my cell phone and started snapping pictures of some rhubarb, much to I.'s confusion.

And if further rumors are to be believed, a community garden is coming to my boyfriend's West Side neighborhood, which means I just may have time to plant a fall garden. Fingers crossed.