Slippery when Wetzel

The response to Mabel's guest author essay contest--"I don't know what you did last summer, but I would appreciate it if you would tell me"--has been overwhelming. In the past seven days, I've received tales of woe, stories of survival, and a recipe for an out-of-this-world jalapeno-crab dip (the secret is just a splash of Worchestershiresher). But of all the entries, one stands out--a longish, off-topic tale by fledgling guest author, L. Wetzel (pictured at right). A regionally famous bass master, professional cartoon canvasser, and all-around good guy, LW is a longtime friend of Mabel and in my opinion one of the top 50 or 60 authors to ever emerge from Westwood, Kansas. In the following story he takes us on a crosstown joyride...of emotion. This one will make you laugh, cry, and question why you didn't eat a bigger breakfast. So buckle up and enjoy...

Fear and Loathing in the Financial District
Cub Reporter Wetzel on the difficulties of transitioning to downtown yuppiedom

Odd things are afoot in the financial district of Kansas City, Missouri.

This is the conclusion I've been forced to draw after a Saturday night out in downtown KC City, which lots of folks are hyping as undergoing a significant "revival." That may very well be. But if an urban revival depends upon such dubious ingredients as midget telegrams, crack cocaine and Radio Disney, than this is one revival I may very well choose to sit out.

My evening began with a midnight visit to the loft apartment of a local graphic designer. Much of the party's elements were familiar: cleavage shots, loud music by Prince, an appetizer tray of homemade spring rolls. But there were also slightly more subversive elements, including a girl grinding a "party on" pill (gas station pharmacy product inviting you to "drink more, gain less") into a fine powder with a kitchen knife, and a pair of gentlemen squaring off wearing large inflatable boxing gloves.

Soon the lack of booze in the apartment caused us to hit the streets in search of more. It wasn't cold, but there were dozens of groups of businessmen and women walking around 12th street. "What's going on? we asked one of them. "A business conference," he said. "7,000 people." We walked to the Fancypants Hotel, but because their bar was already closed, we made our way past toothless panhandlers, hot-dog stands and the Marriott Hotel to some bar where there must have been 320 neon domestic beer signs in the window.

The crowd consisted mostly of males, many of them desolate looking banditos and hulking sports fans whose teams all appeared to be on a long losing streak. The guy-to-girl ratio was about 19-1, and what girls there were looked like they were made out of plastic. An elderly gentlemen at the booth beside me saw what I was looking at and began offering a few words of advice.

"I see what you're staring at, but let me tell you, son, it's a slippery slope with silicon," the old codger said between puffs of his cigar. "They go from diamond dame to dime-store floozy in no time." After that colorful chat, I brushed by a few cowboys en route to the restroom, where one of the urinals had been covered up by a black plastic trash bag. "I think that urinal died," I said to the other guy in there. Either he didn't speak English, or just didn't appreciate my gallows humor, because he definitely didn't laugh.

In a table back by our booth, I saw an intriguing series of items: a bag of Doritos, a plastic beaded necklace and a stack of business cards promoting Bash-A-Grams' exotic telegram service. The advert read as follows:

BASH-A-GRAMS
Singing & Stripping Telegrams
HOT Males & HOT Females
Novelty Male & Female Fatties
Male Midget
(Belly Dance, Cop, Doc, Nurse, School Girl, Fire Man, Biker, Western, Pizza, French maid, Dominatrix, Zorro, Super Hero, Construction, Tux, Over The Hills, etc.)
entertainer: Cory
(913) 441-5192
816) 737-2667

Female Fatties? Male Midget? Was this Cobb Sawyer playing some kind of trick on me? I considered calling the number, but remembered that I am only a blogger, and bloggers don't do research. A real reporter would secure funding from the New York Times for a six-month sting operation, but I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I passed out the business cards, pocketed the necklace and left the Doritos for someone more desperate than I.

Back at the booth, we raced to finish our drinks against the first sounds of last call. Eventually, the opening strands of the
"Star-Spangled Banner" rang out over the PA. I thought back to all of the newswire articles I had read that day about U.S.-manufactured weapons being used against Lebanon, terror-driven tribunals, the spread of civil unrest across Iraq, and was about to raise my glass to the decline of our nation when a scuffle caused me to cut-and-run from that train of thought.

Apparently, one of the lads I'd arrived with had refused to finish his drink until they played "God Save the Queen," over the speaker. The bouncer, who had not been amused, was punishing him with a Dutch rub, a method of interrogation still officially regarded by our administration as "not amounting to torture."

Finally we made it out of the building. The friendly white-haired owner smiled and shook our hands as we exited, pausing from briefly from his salutations to lift his hand-held microphone and holler for everyone to leave.

"Female Fatties," I said to myself. I hesitated before putting the Bash-A-Grams business card into my wallet, in case I got run over by a trolley and my loved ones later discovered it on my person. It was a chance I would just have to take.

On our walk home, my date for the evening picked up a trampled sheet of paper from the entryway to one of the hotels. "Guess what business conference all of these people are in town for?" she asked us. "Radio Disney." The sheet listed the schedule of that day's special events, from roundtables on how to get the word out about Radio Disney to scheduled banter between Disney personalities before and after their song and dance events.

We walked past another group of suits on the 12th Street sidewalk, and before they were too far away my friend asked them: "Are you Disney?" my severely intoxicated friend asked. "Excuse me?" one of them said. "ARE YOU DISNEY?" my friend asked again, a bit more forcefully. They walked away. My friends wondered why the Disney people were all out so late, but the answer seemed pretty obvious to me: Radio Disney never sleeps.

Finally, we all bid goodnight to each other as well as to the toothless gentlemen who was making yet another round of the
neighborhood asking for change. A marvelous night. Downtown Kansas City may indeed be undergoing its much-touted revival, but until they build a grocery store, patch up some road construction and import some women, I recommend holding off a while before you buy that luxury loft space. At least until after last call.

-30-

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