The Night before black friday....A holiday poem by the Midtown Miscreant

Twas The Night before Black Friday, and shoppers galore

All stood in line outside the Target store.

Same story at Best Buy, Wal-Mart and Cabela’s

Man, Woman , Child and a few Androgynous ....Fellas?

It started out as a lark, all were light hearted

Until around 3 when some fat guy in line farted.

People broke ranks,and the line fell apart

Only the bravest stood their ground,along with the guy who had cut the fart.

As the air cleared and folks returned to the line.

Angry words could be heard,"Hey dick, that spot is mine"

"Go fuck yer mother"

"Go blow a goat"

"I'll tear off yer head, and shit down yer throat"

An anemic young Gamer, who was hoping for a nintendo Wii,

was smashed in the face by someones knee.

A grandma was knocked down, I suspect just for fun .

But it quit being funny, when she came up with a gun.

Six people were shot in the wink of an eye.

"They lose their places" said the Fat Guy.

Then the doors opened and shoppers poured in,

the manager was trampled, and required stitches to his chin.

A soccer mom from JoCo smacked a guy with her purse.

"Out of my way , or shit will get worse."

They filled up their carts with electronics and more ,

and headed to check out near the front of the store.

They had waited all night,

freezing in line

To get a 300 hundred dollar item, for 269.99.

Midtown Miscreant presents.......The Prison Pilgrim

I'm faced with a conundrum. I've got two previous posts that I want to use for my annual Thanksgiving post. They are both heart warming as a mother fucker, and will leave you feeling nothing but peace and good will toward your fellow man. Both stories make me all weepy ,warm and fuzzy inside. I can't chose one over the other, so I'm going to let you clowns decide for me. This first story was penned last year about this time. I'll throw the other one up on Friday since I'll be busy working on some other stuff, and won't be doing the Fast Eddie Friday thing. I've got a deadline coming up for my first paid thang. So make do with these Midtown Miscreant left overs. Oh I almost forgot, have a safe holiday. Don't drink and drive or do any other stupid shit. Be sure and let me know if you prefer todays story over the one I'll post on Friday. If you hate them both, go shit in your hat.

So we all know the story about Pilgrims landing on Pontiac rock and infesting the local natives with the flu and Oprah. Those who didn't die from the white mans bugs, succumbed to soul killing mainstream pop culture and shitty self help books. Most of the white people died too, and those that didn't survived on dry butterball turkeys and canned yams. Okay, I may have my time periods and facts a little askew, but you know the story, so play along. What many of you couldn't know, is that Pilgrims land on one rock or another in a steady stream on a daily basis. Here's the totally fictitious, unauthorized, fable, of one such pilgrim.

Freddie the fish could see the fence and razor wire off in the distance. He had travelled a great distance, several hundred miles, belly chained and shackled to a fat guy who smelled like Parmesan cheese and feet, which really aren't that different, smell wise. Freddie was cold, hungry, and afraid. A stranger in a strange land. When the van pulled through the gate and in to the Sally-port, Freddie wondered why they called it a Sally port, why not a Sheila, or Martha port. Freddie didn't have long to think about this before the van pulled through the gates and upchucked it's cargo of hapless new arrivals. There to greet these weary Pilgrims was a member of the first of two tribes that inhabited the Rock. The greeter was a member of the tribe known as Hacks, also called screws, turn keys or guards. He ushered the pilgrims in to a sterile gray room, made them strip, and sprayed them with a bug sprayer, gave them ill fitting clothes and foam hospital shoes.

Freddie was sent to a settlement known as cell block C, where he was set upon and beaten, robbed of a book of stamps, some Marlboro's, and his girlfriends picture, which he later found stuck to a shower wall, covered in what appeared to be Tapioca and hair gel, but that's another story. The first winter was a hard one for Freddie and the new arrivals. They found the other tribe of natives, the Convicts, were less than hospitable. Trips to the canteen to replenish supplies were fraught with peril and danger. More often than not the pilgrims were set upon by the convicts, beaten and robbed of their ramen noodles and snickers bars. It was after one such encounter that Freddie met a friendly Native, a large fellow named Poke-yer-haunches, or Bubba for short. Just as the Native Americans brought gifts for our forefathers , and helped feed them through that first harsh winter in the new America, Bubba came laden with gifts. Candy bars and cigarettes would routinely appear on Freddies bunk, along with notes welcoming Freddie to his new home. Only later would Freddie come to discover that those things came with a heavy price, one that would exact a horrific toll on Freddies identity, and make him walk like a duck who had been shot in the ass.

Like all pilgrims, Freddie learned to adjust in order to survive. He can be found to this day, on the prison yard , corn rowing convicts hair for smokes and cokes. He looks different, his clothes are too tight, his shirt is tied in a knot, midriff, his eyebrows are penciled in with shoe polish, and he rubs cherry kool aid on his cheeks for a rosy glow. Oh yeah, he goes by Mercedes now. So there you have it, a thanksgiving day story to warm the heart. Don't think too harshly of Freddie, a pilgrims gotta survive.

Perception is everything.

Maybe I'm out of line on this one, like that ever stopped me. The Power and Light Civil Rights March, or as I like to call it, the" I have a dress code dream tour", is old news, but there is something that bothers me about it. Let me just make clear, I could give a rats ass about the P&L district, I don't care about the dress code, I don't care if the shysters running that giant punch bowl and the surrounding over priced eateries close shop and leave town tomorrow. As far as I'm concerned, they could require everyone to wear Tuxedo's, elf shoes, and Assless Chaps, in order to gain admission. From where I sit, the P&L doesn't rank very high on my give a shit list. Then again, I'm not one of the guys in the photo above, acting like I'm marching on Montgomery in the 1960's.



We have 104 murders in this city, the majority of the killings have occurred east of Troost. Most of the victims have been black or Latino. The same two groups that are supposedly being discriminated against and refused entry to the P&L clubs. You won't make it a couple of days in this city without hearing of at least a couple of black or Latino folks being killed. You will hear a laundry list of reasons offered up, some are valid, some are bullshit, but the one thing you can bank on is that the body count will grow. You will see mothers making tearful pleas for justice, you will see news crews in front of one crime scene or another, panning on ambulances and cop cars. What you won't see is the aftermath, when the cameras stop rolling and the police leave the scene, and the grieving survivors are left to piece their lives back together. That's a pretty tall order, the piecing together. There is a major part of the puzzle missing, there will always be that hole in the center of the picture. One more thing you won't see, the guys at the top of this post, linking arms and marching on downtown, on the police department at 12th and Locust, or on City Hall.



There is no shortage of opinion and speculation on the why of it all. Poverty, drugs, poor education, schools that are rife with violence and full of kids who don't see a way out. People blame it on government housing, fatherless homes, video games, gangs, drugs, give it a name. It's a list that is constantly added to, full of reasons, short of viable solutions. Regardless of your school of thought, no matter what your opinion might be, one thing is certain, people are dying, black, brown, and white, and if you happen to be east of troost, your chances increase. Maybe I'm missing the Big Picture, perhaps I just don't Get It. So help me out, educate me, clearly I need it.



The Power and Light district people claim there is no discrimination. They can show you stats that say they have turned away 3 or 4 white people for every person of color, I tend to believe them, at least the ratio of people turned away part. That's not to say they don't target a certain look, that's not to say there isn't discrimination. So these self professed leaders of the black community got their ducks in a row, locked arms, and marched on that bastion of perceived White Privilege, singing we shall overcome, doing their best Martin Luther King I have a dream impression. Meanwhile, east of Troost, the asphalt bears the stains from the blood of their young. The gang culture rules the day, loose lips sink ships, snitches are bitches who end up with stitches. Babies die, caught in crossfires, sometimes still in the womb. Kids too young to vote have their brains scattered in the same yards they played in as children. I recently exchanged emails with teachers who are afraid of losing their jobs if they speak out, I heard from a girl who had her neck broken in a classroom by another student. Where are those leaders in all of this. Sure they hold vigils, 40 or 50 might walk two blocks with a couple of signs. What you won't see is the kind of organization, the righteous indignation, voiced loud and clear. You won't see these preachers marching on City Hall, amplifying that Sunday sermon voice through a bullhorn at the corner of 12th and Locust.



People like to blame the media, hell I've done it myself, more than once. " They don't care because the victims and perps are one in the same, black or brown, poor, no clout. If it happened to a white person it would be different. It's all about money, race, and power." There is some truth to that, but it's a half ass truth. Whats missing from that truth, is the absence of the kind of determination to set things right, the kind of determination that these Shepperd's exercised for their flock during the P&L protest. You don't hear such impassioned speeches on the steps of city hall, you don't see this type of unity in front of a high school where the students deal with chaos and violence on a daily basis. Bodies in the street will get you a two block march and a candle lit 10 minute speech, maybe. But if there is money and power involved. If the offending party has deep pockets, you get what we saw at the Power and Light district. Am I saying these men have no concern for the violence and death in their neighborhoods? Do I think they are uncaring when a 16 year old kid dies at the hands of another 16 year old kid? No, I'm not saying that. I can't speak to their thoughts or their hearts. I'm sure there are countless people willing to school me on all the great things these men have done. I'm certain some moron will say I'm a clueless white guy who couldn't possibly understand. But the perception, on the surface, that lack of outrage and indignation, says wrong only matters when it can line a pocket, support a pet project, when it brings some power or benefit. I don't know what kind of backroom deals, if any, will take place over the P&L issues. But it wouldn't be the first time palms got greased to placate an annoyance. Maybe I'm just a pessimistic prick. That said, I can't help but wonder why these men of the cloth and community leaders can't generate the same level of fervor and outrage over the ongoing genocide in their community, as they have managed to muster over possible racial profiling in an over priced entertainment district. It almost looks like the right to drink 8 dollar beer and eat 15 dollar burgers is more important than the on going slaughter on the east side. Hopefully I'm missing something, hopefully I just don't see the big picture. Allegations surrounding an entertainment district, brought the wrath of God down upon the offending parties. Violence in schools and murdered young, not so much. Perception is everything.

Fast Eddie Friday...... Pedo Elves want to stuff something in your kids stocking.

Great day in the morning, is nothing sacred anymore? Have we come to this?
For those of you with spawn, I regret to inform you that no longer will your mini you's be able to mail letters to the North Pole, or at least they won't get a response. The little town of North Pole, Alaska, where the thousands of volunteers answer letters addressed to Santa in the North Pole every year, will likely have to shut down their program after the U.S. Postal Service enacted stricter regulations on the national program when a sex offender was discovered among the volunteers in Maryland last year.That's right, you read correctly. Those fucking elves are up to no good. I can't say I'm surprised, I never trusted elves, even that friendly dentist wanna be in the Rudolph cartoon. The pointed ears, the beady eyes, and those freaky curled up shoes. They have Pedo written all over em.


While the Postal Inspectors are at it, I'd like to suggest they take a Look at Mr. Kringle. Seriously, think about it. Here you have this old fat guy, kids sitting in his lap while he is disguised in a fake beard and ensconced in red velvet. He gives "Presents", to kids he doesn't even know. He breaks in to houses, creeps around, steals milk and cookies, and probably roots through the dirty clothes hampers.


Or maybe, the USPS is just overreacting. They are afraid to let someone in Alaska have access to some kids name and address in San Diego, or Kansas City. I guess they have a kid shortage in Alaska, or the tots wear so many layers that the pervs just can't get the little tykes down to their underoos fast enough. Whatever the case may be, one thing is clear, Govt. shot callers are morons. We aren't talking about Chester the Molester being a camp counselor, or some creep on the Internet pounding on his keyboard and potentially contacting some local kid in his area. What we have are tens of thousands of letters, from all over the world, letters that parents sent, letters that the kid will show to his parents. There is a difference between erring on the side of caution, and total stupidity. I'd like to give props to the US Postal service for highlighting that difference.


Speaking of stupid, anyone care to explain the latest coup at city hall? Abe Lincoln meets Tim Burton, Mayor Mark Funk-en- stuff has managed to get 6 council members to oust the City Manager. On the surface it might even be warranted, but that's not what disturbs me. What bothers me is that these same council members , approximately a year ago, gave the city manager a fat ass contract, in spite of the Mayors objections. In fact you could say they did it to spite Mayor String Bean. They say politics make strange bedfellows, and it seems to be true. The mayor and the city council have been fucking this city from day one. Talk about knocking the bottom out. If Kansas City had Ovaries, they would be bruised from all the hammering.

That's it for this week. Stay safe. See ya Monday.

Just because there is snow on the roof, doesn't mean there isn't a filter in my furnace.

I'm as much of a man as I ever was, period, end of story. Of course that's like the guy who dresses up in the Hamburglar suit for commercials , saying he is as good an actor as ever. Here's the thing, since I hit that half century mark back in July, I'm getting fucked up emails for erectile dysfunction, penis growth tablets, and electric Snuggies. I even got some shit from AARP. To be honest it's starting to wear a little thin. Sure I've got a few white hairs in my beard, okay, my beard is entirely white, but that's nothing new. My beard turned white in a matter of months, courtesy of the multi count federal indictment I was hit with back in the great fall of 95. I'm tempted to use the old adage about snow on the roof and fire in the furnace, but that one doesn't really work for me, seeings how my roof , or head, has no shingles, hair.

Oh Snap, here goes MM on another of his unintelligible rants. Wonder what brought it on this time?

Allow me to fill you in Skippy.

I think my white goatee is giving people the wrong impression. Cashiers are talking to me in that special tone of voice, the one reserved for blue haired ladies who dip themselves in perfume so noxious and over powering that it makes you feel faint just standing in the same room. The voice people reserve for the dull witted, the feeble minded, and puppies. I've considered dying the goat, but then I'd just look like some third rate Vegas Magician, or an out of touch broken hipster, never that. I've shaved it off, but then I just look less menacing, and more Elmer Fudd-ish. I could go out and buy a Kanga hat and a yellow sport jacket, but we already have more of those types running around than we need.

Let me splain what brought all of this on. I was on my way to meet with my soon to be editors yesterday. Man do they have their work cut out for them. So I stop to get gas, I'm in a hurry, the pump wont take my card. So I run inside, have the 20 something under achiever stop texting for three seconds to scan my card for 20 on pump 4. The scan takes, I decline a receipt, then head for the pump. Well the pump still won't come on. I go back in and tell little miss congeniality that her shit ain't workin, and she says she will have to scan my card again. I reply that no she wont be scanning my card again, double dipping my account, and causing me to make repeated calls and trips to the bank to get one of the charges removed. Then she does it, starts talking really slow, like I'm wearing a football helmet minus the face mask, like I might start drooling and evacuating my bladder right there at the counter. She repeatedly calls me sir, then tosses in a couple of Dears just for good measure. Lets just say the conversation deteriorated from there, she worked her minimum wage magic, and viola', the pump worked. But the incident, the talking to a puppy voice, kind of fucked up my day.

I head down to the City Market area, meet with my soon to be employers, who are like half my age. While I'm there, they need a picture for my Press Pass. I detest having my picture taken. While there was a time when I had a pretty good cut to my jib, hard living, incarceration, and a less than sunny disposition have not worn well. I'm no great shakes in the looks department, and that never translates well to still photography. Why do you think The Pitch hid my mug behind a dollar store Santa hat with attached beard, made from an Albino Muskrat pelt, when they ran me on their cover. So I trudged back home, yelled at my girlfriend, kicked the dogs, and slapped the shit out of Oscar, our Cockatiel for good measure.

Now it turns out that I may have been .....wr.....wro....wrwr...wrong. Seems like maybe that 20 something cashier at the local shit n git didn't get my card scanned right the first time, and I inadvertently got away with not paying for that 20 bucks worth of Texas Tea. There was a time in the not too distant past when I would have chalked it up to Karma, and kept my 20 beans. But I'm in a transitional period, and I'm trying to play by the rules and regulations that most of you L7's play by. In other words, I'm gonna have to do the right thing. While giving back the 20 bucks is no biggie, I'm dreading the prospect of being assaulted with the slow, talking to a wobble head voice, that I know is waiting for me. Maybe I'll mail em a check.

60 should be a real hoot, I can't wait.

And the race is on............

Anyone following the Heather Ellis vs Walmart case? No? Well I can't say I blame you, but you really should be , it's turning into quite the spectacle. This is the little case that could, or wishes it could, go national. The drama is set in a little town in the Missouri Boot Heel. it's a living breathing John Grisham novel. Here is the official MM condensed version, just to get you cave dwellers up to snuff.

Heather Ellis is a young ,black, school teacher, who is married to a Highway Patrolman. Make a note of that, I'll be coming back to it. Heather was in a Kennett Missouri Walmart with her cousin. They were in different check out lines. Heathers line isn't moving fast enough, so when her cousin gets to the register, Heather leaves her line, cuts in front of other customers, tosses her stuff on the conveyor with her cousins, and pissing off everyone else in line. These are the only facts of this hot mess that everyone agrees upon. At that particular moment in time, Heather is doing what people tend to do every now and again, she is being rude and inconsiderate, no class, but not a crime either. Chances are all of us have committed a faux pas or three in our lives. I was a thief, and not for nothing, but stealing money that doesn't belong to you is pretty rude. So I'm not going to get drawers in a wad over a little line cutting.

Let me just state for the record, I haven't spent much time in Kennett, in fact I've never laid a single foot in the Missouri Boot Heel. But just as I don't need to go to France to know that they wear beret hats and horizontally striped shirts, just like that mime fella, I also know that folks in the boot heel tend to be rustic, country as a chicken coop. I believe the county seat for Kennett is Nabisco or Keebler, not sure which, but I'm certain it's cracker country. I don't base this on some lil Abner hillbilly stereotype that I heard perpetuated on the local news. Instead I base my opinion on the dozen or so guys I've done time with who were from the Boot Heel. You could do a sociological study of the inmates in any joint, and you would get a better feel of the people from each area than you will from the US Census. Take the criminal convictions from the equation, and discount the occasional parent killer or cannibal, and convicts are pretty much like all of you L 7's. So the guys I knew from that region of Missouri were mostly ill educated, meth users, farm equipment thiefs, and racist to their core. I'm making this long drawn out point to say that there are some racial elements in the Heather Ellis case, but not quite like Ms. Ellis and her supporters are claiming.

Back to the Walmart debacle. Ellis claims the workers at Walmart, the customers in line, the management, and the police all used racial slurs towards her. For cutting in line. She also claims that the cops just up and jumped her out of the blue when they got outside. The cops say Ms. Ellis grew agitated, refused to leave the property. Upon being told she was under arrest, she allegedly snapped, crackled and popped like a rice crisp, busting one cop in the eye, and splitting anothers lip. Here's the rub, Walmart has more security cameras than Midtown convenience store. Ive got to believe that the whole thing is going to turn up in court. I also tend to think that no matter how country the law may be in Kennett, they have looked at those security tapes. I believe Ellis will be convicted of the charges based partly on those tapes.

There have been a couple of marches in Kennett, some NAACP members, no leaders, just a few card holders, and some activist out of New Jersey. No Sharpton, no Jesse Jackson. That says a lot about this case. If anyone in their right mind thinks that big Al and rev. Jesse wouldn't be all over this thing like white on a Klansman's hood if there was some substance to Ellis charges of racism, well you've got another thing coming. The Klan or some group of hillbillies with rebel flags have shown up at the march, calling cards allegedly from the Klan have been found on the ground. Ms. Ellis claims a cop threatened her by showing her a Klan card. This is the kind of shit that Al and Jesse live for, so where are they?

The media and Ms. Ellis camp have done their best to blow this thing up. The headlines read, School Teacher faces 15 years for cutting in line at Walmart. The truth is, she isn't on trial for cutting in line, she is on trial for battery on the police. 15 years !!!! While she is charged with crimes that carry up to 15 years, that's a highly unlikely sentence, rarely in this type of case would a first time offender draw the maximum. Remember when I said she was a teacher, married to a highway patrolman? At the time of her arrest she wasn't married, she was a student, but the implication of a teacher married to a cop being put on trial, has a better impact than say a three year old case against a college student.

There really doesn't seem to be any evidence of racial discrimination, or racism in the case, that is until the Ellis camp introduces it. Then the crackers jump out of the cabinet. You can bet your NAACP button that there is no short supply of racists in the Missouri Boot Heel, they are as thick as fleas on a stray dogs back. If a group of blacks march, you can count on the racist crowd showing up, and you better believe Ms. Ellis and her supporters were counting on it. Even the appearance of a couple of dozen rebel flag wavers didn't bring out any heavy hitters, no Sharpton, no Jackson, nada. Another seldom reported fact in this case, Ms. Ellis could have taken a plea for a misdemeanor, basically a ticket, she refused the offer. Her father, a minister, asks "Why would she plead guilty, she is innocent". The Ellis camp came itching for a fight. A young woman, a seemingly decent person albeit one carrying a huge chip on her shoulder, blew a minor incident in to a major felony. Now the wheels have been set in motion, and I'm willing to bet she wishes she had kept her cool, not played that card so quick.

It's easy for me, a middle aged white guy to sit back in my chair and dismiss Ms Ellis claims. It's easy for a handful of folks to claim racism, especially in a part of the country that is rife with it. Maybe the problem isn't race, maybe it just comes down to perception, a hyper sensitivity brought on by ones life experience. In a country divided by race, especially in a place like the Boot Heel, racism is alive and kickin. But in this case, that dog just won't hunt. I figure Ms. Ellis will be convicted, but won't see a minute in jail. I don't believe she should either. I think she has just painted herself into a corner, maybe she was having a bad day, shit escalated to the point she couldn't turn it back. The irony in this case is that it most likely didn't begin as a racially motivated incident, but when the accusation was made, it brought the people and groups out of the woodwork, and race became the issue. Like the river card in Texas Hold Em , that one card, in this case, the race card, changes the entire hand.
So the trial is under way, and in the words of an obscure R&B group from back in the day, "Let the sideshow begin".

Excuse the mess....

Maybe you noticed the change, maybe you are one of the people who keep emailing me with complaints, and sending me your bills from the Lasik clinic. After over two years of listening to you ingrates pissing and moaning about the black background/ white text, I'm changing shit up. But MM the change is as dull and plain, as the other look was retina burning and annoying.
Quit your bitching, this is only temporary. Since I don't want cartoon blue birds or note pads and sea shells on my template, I'm working on having some geek fix up a template for me. So just hold your horses, put up with the current look, or I'll go back to a template with a background as black as my ex wives heart, with text so dazzling white, your face will melt off.

Anyway, any of you who have ever told me to change the template, should now be able to sleep better at night. You were heard, I hope you will shut your soup holes and return to posting smug comments. The next person who complains in an email, gets bombarded with Farm Porn and Nigerian emails promising millions.

To be honest I've been sick of the old look for at least a year, I just hate to cave in to reader demands.

I've got some other news that I've been sitting on. I don't want to jump the gun on this, and I can't reveal too much, but I'm going to let you all in on a little news. Beginning Dec. 1st, you will have to venture to another site to read my pearls of wisdom. It may be a once a week thing, or possibly more frequently. I've yet to iron out all the details, but it's a paid gig, and I'll expect my traffic to follow me. Otherwise I'll turn this site into a mommy blog, or something equally repugnant. I can't reveal much else at this point, as I don't want to piss in my Wheaties before I get em in the bowl. Suffice to say, like me, it's kind of a big deal, and should make me even more annoying and opinionated than I already am. I'll still be doing whatever it is that I do here, so don't get your shorts in a wad.

Now, it's on with the show..................

Fast Eddie Friday....A sheet aint a parachute, no matter how much you wish it was.

People love to tempt fate and then act all surprised and shit when it doesn't turn out well. When I was a kid my family lived in Oklahoma. From about the time I was one until we moved back to KC when I was about seven. We lived way the hell out in the middle of nowhere, I'm talking little house on the prairie, or more exactly, little trailer house on the prairie. My folks were young, just starting out, pops drove over the road. I watched these shows back then, like Sky King, and Twelve O'clock High. One of them, I don't recall which, had an episode where they were dropping shit out of a plane, attached to a parachute. Now, we had this big ass hole in our red dirt yard, the old man was going to put a new septic tank in there, but hadn't gotten around to it, so it was just a big fucking hole, about 12 feet deep and 12 feet across. My parents had warned me not to be dickin around by this crater, which was like telling me to jump right into it. My sister and some little girl up the road convinced me that I could parachute into the hole if I tied a sheet to my trike. Seemed like a good idea at the time.


Now, I knew that I wasn't supposed to be playing around that hole in the ground, and I'm pretty sure I knew that the parachute theory wasn't a good idea. So I did what you would expect, I took a sheet off of the clothesline, tied it to my trike, and prepared to pedal my dumb ass into the gaping chasm. My sister convinced me that speed was the most important factor in making this thing work, so I backed up a good distance to build up sufficient speed. My sister volunteered to help me get up to speed by pushing me a little ways to get my momentum going.
I remember her hands in the middle of my back, I recall lifting my feet off the pedals, and the pedals slapping the soles of my shoes as she pushed me as fast as possible. As I was nearing the hole, I seem to recall having an epiphany, I realized this wasn't such a great idea. I think I told her to stop, I might have heard a giggle. Next thing I knew I was at the bottom of the hole, arm twisted funny, my mother picking me up and carrying me up one of the steeply sloped ends of the hole.


Now at 5 or 6, whatever I was at the time, I knew that trying to float like a feather to the bottom of that hole was a bad idea, and if my sister hadn't pushed me into the fucker, I probably would have pussied out at the last minute. More importantly, I knew I wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the hole. I tempted fate, and it bit me in the ass by way of a broken arm. I spent the next 30 years or so tempting fate, and more often than not, it worked out none too well. I'm not alone in my stupidity, and that makes me feel a little better. The latest folks to tempt fate, then act all surprised when it doesn't go well, The Hyde Park Homeowners Association. Rather than just take their lumps, they want to spread the pain.

Stay with me, I'm actually heading somewhere with this.

For those not familiar with this ongoing hot mess, allow me to enlighten you. One of the loudest voices in the movement to "clean up" a stretch of Armour road is local blogger Toellnor Tells it. Now I'm not out to trash this guy, I don't have anything against him personally. I do have a problem with what he wants to see happen, and at whose expense. Toellner and his cohorts have a beef with section 8 housing, more to the point, they don't like the fact that some buildings along Armour are entirely dedicated to section 8, just as they have been for as long as section 8 has existed. If they have their way, all the folks living in these buildings will be dispersed through out the city. The thinking being, if we get rid of section 8 buildings, spread the people out, it will reduce the killings, crime, drug traffic, and prostitution. On the surface, that sounds like a great idea, sort of like parachuting with a sheet sounds like a good idea to a kid.


I don't know how long these people have been in the midtown area, my time there dates back to the 1970's, and while I've lived in Independence for about 5 or 6 months now, Midtown will always be near and dear to my heart. The problems with uprooting hundreds, maybe thousands of folks who currently live in the area seem to either be ignored by, or totally unimportant to the small handful of people who are calling for it to be done. Toellnors theory, although he may take exception to my view of it, is that this stretch of midtown can be a bargain hunters paradise if they can just get rid of the riff raff. In order to get rid of the riff raff, they want to get rid of the section 8 housing. Sounds good so far, yes? No, not so fast Scooter. The majority of section 8 folks are poor, black, elderly, disabled, single mothers, etc. In other words, they are honest folks with no money. Many of these people have spent their lives living there, they may not want to be uprooted just so a handful of white folks who bought a whole lot of house for relatively little money, can take a Birkenstocked stroll along the tree lined streets without the locals making them nervous.


This theory, and the movement behind it has more holes in it than a Simi Valley porn set. For starters, that particular stretch of road is no more prone to crime and violence than any other area in the city that is made up of mostly poor, mostly minority residents. Getting rid of section 8 isn't going to stop crime in an area that is bordered by Troost. The crime problem isn't about section 8, it's about poverty, lack of police presence and resources. If you move these people out, against their will, crime isn't going to go away. It will however be dispersed to the outlying areas, or wherever the people are forced to move. In other words, if crime is bad on Armour, lets just share the misery with the rest of the city. Never mind that the rest of the city already has crime problems, and forcing people to spread out, will only spread crime out along with it.


My biggest issue isn't about the crime being spread out. My issue is with the arrogance of a handful of people who believe that their wants and needs trump those of the poor and disadvantaged. They don't care about the effects and repercussions of forcibly relocating people, they only care about turning this stretch of road into their own idyllic pipe dream. Midtown has always had more than it's share of bad actors. Midtown was a high crime area in 1975, and it's a high crime area today. Forcing poor folks out isn't going to change that. The people who went in and bought a whole lot of house for relatively little money knew what they were getting into. It's not like they assumed Midtown was a Mission Hills annex. I'm all for cleaning up the bad element. I'm all for revitalizing depressed areas in this city, just not at the expense of the people who have spent their lives in the area. If the Hyde Park people really want to clean up Midtown, they should be 6 feet up the mayors ass. I've yet to see them picketing in front of city hall or the police station. They should drag the building owners into court, make them hire security. There is a long list of things that could be done, forcing the poor to bend to their will ain't one of them. All I've seen is pseudo concern on the nightly news, false claims that they want to make the area better for everyone, while they work to displace people who have lived in the area long before the majority of the Hyde Park Home Owners ever set an earth shoe on Armour road.

Moral of the story; Don't move into a high crime area, then act shocked when you encounter crime. A sheet ain't a parachute no matter how much you might wish it to be.

Somebody cue the banjo music.........

News reports are saying that five, count em, five family members are being accused of sex crimes. The charges date back to the 1980's and into the 1990's. Investigators are checking the Bates City farm of one of the suspects for bodies. Burrell Edward Mohler Sr., 77, Independence, Missouri, is charged with five counts of child rape. Burrell Edward Mohler Jr., 53, also of Independence, is charged with three counts of child rape. David A. Mohler, 52, Lamoni, Iowa, is charged with one count of child rape. Jared Leroy Mohler, 48, Columbia, Missouri, is charged with four counts of child rape, and Roland Neil Mohler, 47, Bates City, Missouri, faces one charge of felony use of a child in a sexual performance.

Shit gets deeper. The father and his four sons allegedly committed ongoing sexual assaults against female family members, daughters and sisters alike. The news is doling out details that seem almost unbelievable. There was a German Shepard involved in some of the atrocities, there were ritual weddings performed prior to many of the rapes. The probable cause stated the female relative was forced to have an abortion at age 11 and was also forced to "marry" several of her relatives. The victim said she and her four sisters were part of several mock marriage ceremonies that would be conducted before the men would have sexual intercourse with them. She said she and her sisters would adorn their hair with flowers and wear special dresses for the ceremonies. The abuse included pencils, screwdrivers, a pet dog and "marriage" ceremonies followed by sex in a chicken coop and a camper. I'm not kidding about the chicken coop. If you've been paying attention on this blog, I often use the phrase "as country as a chicken coop", I had no idea it was so fitting. note: I actually stoled that phrase from Samuel Jackson in his role as Ordell Robie in Jackie Brown.

There are also supposed to be jars with hand written notes buried on one of the suspects farm in Bates City. The notes were alleged to be written by the victims. The crimes started in the 1980's and continued through the 1990's. There are claims of bodies buried on the Bates City farm as well. There are a lot of unanswered questions, like why it took so long for someone to come forward, why now? How the decades long sexual abuse of young girls slipped under the radar of school officials, law enforcement, neighbors, and extended family members. The allegations are so bizarre, the mind can't take it all in. That said, presumed innocence aside, where there is smoke, there is generally something on fire.

One things certain, if this all plays out like the victim is alleging, the great state of Missouri will edge out it's Arkansas cousins for the title of most perverted hillbillies in America. And that is one tall order.

Staring in to the abyss........

There is a consequence to surrendering your anonymity when you write. When your face and name become attached to the writing, every single word has the potential to incite anger, hurt feelings, and create tension in the circle of people who know you, your family, friends, and foes. It really makes no difference if you do it for a living, a hobby, or just for the love of watching your thoughts unfold, at some point in time, you will be faced with a choice.

A choice has to be made, either you avoid anything of a personal nature, parse your words, analyze everything you write, discarding anything that might cause a rift, or you let it spill out, the chips falling where they may. Anyone who writes, free from the cloak of anonymity, will eventually arrive at a crossroads. Let it out, or leave it be. This is one of those times, one of those decisions on which path to take. If you are reading this , I guess you know which one I chose. As of right this minute, I'm still not sure myself.

Over the past couple of months Ive heard the talk. It started out delivered as a half assed punchline, a subject that people jokingly make reference to, the humor intended to assuage the harsh reality of life and death, the unstoppable forward progress of time. "He's starting to lose it", "He got lost driving home", usually followed by an uncomfortable chuckle, a half hearted attempt to make a joke. Not out of disrespect, or an absence of concern, more like a nervous tic brought on by the inability to make things, better.

The reports, once sporadic became more frequent, the murmurs became a constant hum, and no attempt to laugh it off, or explain it away, could smooth the hard edged reality of it all. "He doesn't remember people", " He shuffles when he walks", " He poured a bucket of water in the deep fryer". The hum will one day soon become a roar, and his mind will be completely gone to where ever Alzheimer's takes it.

And you can't help but wonder at the cruelty of it all.

I've only seen my Uncle a handful of times since I got out of prison in January of 2000. The first couple of times he seemed naturally older, a little smaller, but he was still the same guy, still one of the people I admired most in my life, he was still a hero. Long before the word was run into the ground, Jimmy Ray had it, Swagger. Not the bullshit generic version that every clown with a gold chain and a loud mouth professes to have, but real honest to god swagger. When I was a kid I wanted to be just like him. He would hold court in one of the booths at his restaurant on the corner of Gregory and Prospect. One day he was shooting the bull with a couple of Homicide Detectives, the next day it might be a genuine enforcer , or the guy who ran a craps game and hookers out of the second floor of his Prospect Avenue barber shop. From cops to killers, pimps to mechanics, they all had one thing in common. They loved Jimmy Ray. He had their ear, and more importantly and to the point, he had their respect. He was a white man running a restaurant in a high crime black neighborhood, in 30 plus years he was only robbed once. When the 7/11 next door was knocked over on a near daily basis, only once did someone rob his place. After word got around, it never happened again.

While I was busy fucking up my life, I'd call him for bail money, or if I was in a jam, and he would help me out. When I was in my early twenties, after he closed his place down we would sometimes make the rounds, 3 or 4 different bars along Wornall road, where Sinatra and Bennett played on constant loops, dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging above the bar like a cloud. He drank Chivas and water, smoked Winston 100's, hair lightly oiled, combed straight back against his head, tight and never out of place. He had that natural coolness, like a Jackie Gleason or Dean Martin, he never posed or tried to look cool, he just was.

A couple of years ago he was robbed by some young thugs, they got the drop on him in his front yard in Waldo. He was pistol whipped, had his jaw broken, closer to 80 than he was to 70. It was big news at the time, not because of who he was, but because of where it happened, and the sheer violence of the crime. News crews parked in front of his home, the reporter describing how this man in his 70's was robbed and beaten. it was hard to reconcile those events as having happened to him. If it had happened 5 or 10 years earlier, they would probably been reporting a different outcome. He never really recovered, and some of the people who should have stepped up, myself included, let him down. He still went to his new place every morning to open up, he fought through that shit, he kept doing his thing, he was that kind of guy.

I've seen him two, maybe three times in the last couple of years. Each time he looked a little older, a little more tired, but he always recognized me, and his voice still had that easy Jackie Gleason type coolness to it. Now, if I believe everything I'm hearing, he might not recognize me at all. When I first started hearing he was slipping, I called bullshit, didn't want to believe it, I couldn't. Now, no longer able to ignore and deny, the humming has become a roar, truth and time won't be denied.

If I was a better man, I'd go see him, but I'm not and I won't. I don't want to know how it feels to not be recognized, I can't bear to hear the words. If I have one saving grace, it's my willingness to embrace my flaws and character defects. I own my own shit, as ugly as it may be, I don't try to make it anything it's not, I don't try to dress it down or play it off. My Jimmy Ray still drives a long white caddy, he still dresses in black clothes that come all the way from New York. His hair still lays down perfectly, his wrap around shades still show me my reflection. He is still the coolest guy I've ever known. He is beautiful, and that's how I'm leaving it. I tell myself he would want it that way. His pride and dignity should be left intact. He wouldn't want anyone to witness his rapid descent. But that ain't the truth. The truth is much more simple, and ugly. When we watch those we love and admire grow old and frail, we come face to face with our own mortality. Nietzsche said" When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you". I guess that sums it up. I owe him better , but that's one debt I just can't find in myself to pay. If he taught me nothing else, at least I've learned to own my own.

Fighting a cold or flu, or something.........

Go read a book or a mommy blog, Ill catch up to you all on Monday. Have a safe weekend.

Stoopid Twosday... Exactly like Fast Eddie Friday but different

Over one thousand people lined up yesterday on 63rd street to get assistance with their utility bills. Times are tough, and I imagine anyone willing to wait in line for the day is really in need. I'm not knocking any of these folks for being poor, however I am going to knock a few of them for being stupid out of season, and for a sense of misplaced indignation and playing the victim. So a thousand people show up, the cops are called out because they are blocking driveways, intersections, and the crowd is apparently getting a little chaotic. One guy was reportedly selling spots to cut in front of him in line. Anyway, the police show up, traffic control cops start issuing tickets, 30 of them, many for expired tags. One lady was pissed that she got a ticket for expired tags, and I'm willing to wager if she couldn't be bothered with keeping her tags current, then insurance was probably nonexistent as well. Another lady interviewed says it was all a set up, the cops knew these people were going to be there, and it was all about getting some revenue through tickets. Because targeting people who can't pay their bills is always a sound strategy for banking the scrilla. Not for nothing, but being broke doesn't mean it's okay to ignore parking laws, like don't block driveways, or run around with expired tags. I'm not without sympathy here, if it cost a quarter to shit, I'd have to throw up, times are tough. Being broke doesn't give you a pass to show your ass, ignore the law, or play the victim when you get caught short.

The people who produced the Pro Combat Tax renewal commercials think you are an idiot. Yes I'm talking to you dummy. I tried to find a link to the commercial, but after 2 minutes I said fuck it, you'll just have to trust me on this one. The commercial shows a few kids playing on some slides and skipping around all innocent and shit. Then this voice over comes on, "Drug dealers are always looking for new customers" the scary voice tells us. Yikes! Call me a cynical douche bag, but I'm not buying what the commercial is peddling, and not for nothing, but drug dealers are probably not slinging crack for milk money and a Power Rangers action figure with a missing leg. I was kind of non committal over the Combat Tax, I could take it or leave it, if it passed, whatever. But now I think I'm against it now just on general principal. If you have to sell something using scare tactics that are so blatantly scary, and counterfeit, then it must not have much merit.

Lastly, but not leastly, or something like that, I want to make a confession, sort of. I'm not real happy about the way I wrapped up my 3 part Paradise post. Sometimes what you write falls flat, and I think that's the case in this instance. I was trying to convey the randomness of some really horrific events, the way two paths cross and the deadly consequences. Anyway I think I lost something in the translation. There's no fucking do overs in this joint, so it is what it is. If you felt cheated, like you were strung along , you probably aren't alone. Like I told my three former wives, "Stick around, you'll love me again in the morning". That line didn't work on them either.

Paradise Lost and Found....pt. 3

In prison you are aware that the guy next to you in line may have done some really heinous shit. You never let yourself get completely relaxed. Looks and demeanor can be deceiving, so you treat anyone you don't know with a degree of caution and suspicion. Kusumben Patel, the grandmother who was murdered at the Paradise Motel probably treated her customers with a modicum of caution. John and Mildred Caylor most likely felt safe and comfortable in the little home and bookstore, Raytown is a fairly quiet suburb, bad shit happens there, just not with the same regularity as it does on Prospect.

What are the chances of being robbed and killed? As of 2009, Kansas City Metro Area's population is around 2 million. On any given day, your chances of meeting a violent end are slim. If you are a regular law abiding citizen the chance is even more remote, like winning a really fucked up lottery. The metro wide homicide numbers as of this writing are probably around 150 or so. Subtract the number of people killed who were involved in criminal activity, and the numbers drop to maybe 30 or 40 at best. Scratch domestic violence murders, crimes of passion, people killed by a spouse, significant other, family member, or friend, and the numbers are single digit, a handful every year . Square world people killed during robberies fall within that tiny demographic. The odds that you will be struck by lightning are around 1/700,000. Your chances of being robbed then killed pale in comparison.

Most of the time when someone commits a robbery, their goal is to get what they came for, then get away. Those fuzzy surveillance camera shots of the guy at the tellers window, or the grainy photo of the underachiever robbing a 7-11, more often than not show a guy who is almost as scared as the victim. Then there are the heavy handed types, they shoot a hole in the ceiling, push and shove the victim, they exhibit a semi controlled violent nature. They might pistol whip you, they may beat the hell out of you, but they aren't looking to kill you. Then there is a thankfully small percentage of the criminal world, who want to kill you.

In my mind the thing that the Caylors and Mrs. Patel shared, was really bad luck of the draw. Out of two million people, they were unlucky enough to cross paths with someone who came to kill them, just to find out what it feels like. Killing for killings sake. It certainly was never about the money. There's the rub. How do you guard against that? Truth is you don't, you can't. A guy walks into the Ward Parkway mall and opens fire, another randomly shoots people at a school, a guy walks into your place of business and decides to kill you, just for shits and grins. So the thing that the victims shared in this series of posts, at least the thing that most stuck out in my mind, was the horrible hand they were dealt, the 1 in 2 million shot . I imagine they each had that sudden realization when they knew how it was going to end. A crystalline moment, a sharp intake of breath, then an oily blackness closes in on the light until it's just a pinhole, then nothing. They woke up and started out the day like every other day, just like every other day, exactly as we all do. Then that one in two million shot of bad luck walked through their doors.