Until I get my Mojo back...........

You probably are wondering over the lack of activity around here. To be honest I just keep coming up blank. I'll get a few hundred words in to a post, then it just falls apart. I've been trying to pin down some work, but 50 year old former career criminals aren't in high demand. Background checks, a job market flooded with younger, cheaper, cleaner applicants, and a shit economy are all making it tough to find my niche. So I'm chalking the writers block up to those factors. give me a week or two, and I'll be back up to speed. In the meantime I'm going to rerun some of my favorite stuff over the past 3 years. If you've already read it, read it again. If you haven't read it, it's all new to you anyway, so quit bitchin.
.............Without further ado. ................................

Willie was one of those guys that you instantly liked, always smiling, when he asked how you were doing, you believed he actually cared, wasn't just mouthing the words. I first met Willie when I was around 13, scraping plates, scrubbing pots, and busing tables at my Uncles restaurant. Willie was so fat he looked like he was standing up when he was sitting down, the way really big people do. It's like he couldn't bend in the middle. Willie almost whispered when he talked, a low gravelly voice, like a cross between Miles Davis and Froggy from the Little Rascals. Willie was black, it was the mid 70's, he had the requisite giant afro, the shirts with shoulder width collar, he drove a dollar bill green Cadillac. Willie was the epitome of the stereotypical inner city criminal of his era.

Willie didn't run girls, he didn't sell dope, and as far as I know he never got heavy handed with anyone. Willie ran a crap game out of a house, a stones throw from the little lake on Paseo Blvd.He also fenced stolen property, cars, motorcycles, whatever would turn a buck. Fast forward 10 years or so. Willie was like the Jimmy Carter of the local Kansas city criminal world. He bridged the divide between criminals from separate areas of the city. A black guy steals a car, Willie sells it to a white owned body shop where it was magically changed to a legal car and resold. In other words Willie was able to move in and out of opposing circles. With Willie moving around in so many different circles, I would run in to him in one bar or another along Wornall road. I never had any dealings with Willie as far as that goes, we were in different fields as it were. But we always took a few minutes to talk when we ran in to one another.

Willie was a family man, married to the same woman all his adult life, he had about a half dozen kids, did all the same things with his kids, as regular Joe America does with his kids. He was a good guy. I know what you're thinking, "he was a crook, and that means a not so good guy", and you are right, sort of. Nothing in life is black and white, life is full of various shades of gray. You can argue that Willie, or anyone for that matter, who makes a living illegally is basically a bad guy, taking the easy way, morally bankrupt, and I can't fault your thinking. The other side of the coin, there are guys like Willie who do everything else, just like everyone else. All of his kids but one, turned out well, went to college or some regular job. all I'm saying is that neither one cancels out the other.

One of the last times I saw Willie was in the late 80's, maybe the early 90's, the face of crime was changing, Willie was pushing 60, he looked tired. We had run in to one another at a bar on the south end of the city, so we had a few and he started talking about his youngest son, the only one who didn't turn out so well. Gangs had begun to really take hold on the east side of troost, Willies boy was mixed up in it all. Maybe it was the booze, or the late hour, but Willie was talking about something I had never heard come out of another criminals mouth. Regret. He told me he wished he had done things different, done things right, legit. His kid had caught a drug case and a murder charge, Willie figured he was to blame, set a poor example for his son. Maybe he was right , or maybe his kid would have turned out the same if Willie had been a janitor, or a doctor, who knows. The thing that struck me was the regret. I didn't get it, not back then anyway.

There was a moment when I thought I saw Willie start to tear up, there was a long pause, and Willie got up from the bar, slapped me on the shoulder and gave his standard parting line " Don't get none on ya", then he left. I remember thinking at the time that Willie was just getting old, that his regret was just a by product of getting closer to the end of his life, a superstitious belief that he would burn in hell if he didn't repent , feel remorse.

When I got out of prison it was the year 2000, Willie was dead, killed in an argument over a game of dice. Most of the guys I came up with were either dead or in prison for the rest of their lives. In most cases the thing that killed them or put them away, was drugs, whether directly or indirectly, dope was their downfall. I never fell under that curse, that's probably why I'm still around. Not because I was smarter than the Willie's of the world, I wasn't, I was just luckier and in the end that's all it comes down to , at least for me, just dumb luck.

Good money after bad. Citadel Plaza, what a great idea.

The Citadel Plaza project is back in the news. I won't go into all of the minutia and ongoing controversy. That's better left for guys like Tonys Kansas City, who love him or hate him, has stayed miles ahead of the media on this one. There are funding issues, Peter robbing Paul, to the tune of 20 million I think. In a nutshell the Citadel is a development that is supposed to feature retail, housing, commercial business, all rolled into one big pretty package. It will be located at 63rd and Prospect. Let me repeat that, 63rd and Prospect. It's all about revitalization, bringing commerce to the city's troubled east side. It will resemble those cookie cutter shopping districts that pepper the metro, but with rampant crime. And if this thing gets built, it will fail miserably. Not because the economy is in the tank, although that wont help. The reason it will fail is because of its location. Because of crime. Big time retail chains wont stay in an area where they are used as an atm for criminals, period, end of story.

The reason that the east side of Kansas City is so economically and developmentally depressed is crime, and complacency. The tools that call the shots in city hall, the morons who are trying to find a way to dole out 20 million dollars to a developer who will build this silk purse from a pigs ear, then walk away, they don't "get it". The city will figure out a way to raise 20 million to build something that will ultimately fail, but they couldn't figure out a way to adequately fund the Police department. In a two week period there were over one thousand crimes reported within two zip codes in a 5 mile radius of 63rd and prospect, according to the KCPD crime map. City leaders think it is an awesome idea to invest 20 million for a retail area, in one of the most economically depressed and crime plagued areas of the city proper. Are you fuckin kiddin me? This plan makes as much sense as opening a titty bar in Iran. Build a retail shopping area in a section of the city where unemployment and crime rule the day. Who is going to support the businesses naive enough to open shop on 63rd and prospect? The folks who live there certainly don't have an over abundance of cash to freely spend. The whites who still have money to spend are not about to risk getting their face shot off, or their car jacked on the east side when there are countless retail outlets in their own neighborhood.

The Citadel is the cart before the horse. Clean up the neighborhoods, get crime in check, make it a safe place to live, then invest in retail outlets. Not the other way around.

Ruthless, Worthless, and Clueless.........Swimming with Sharks

Not everyone is cut out for a life of crime. Thankfully, most of you fall in that category. You have that tiny voice, the one that shames you for even thinking about stealing, or cheating to get ahead. Criminals can rationalize away guilt, quell conscience, silence the voice that doles out shame. I had that ability, probably still do. I don't make that statement with any pride or smugness, it is what it is. I choose to not use this criminal super power, like Gary Cooper hanging up his pistols for a plow, I've closed the door on that chapter, although I leave it slightly ajar to share it with all of you. Truth be told, there is a part of me that misses that life, I suppose writing about it calms the itch, keeps my powder dry. There is a small cross section of society that falls somewhere in the middle. Somewhere between John Q Citizen and career criminal. They can't excel in the square world, and they don't have the stomach for the underbelly, and every now and again they wander over to the wrong side of the tracks, never to return. That's what this latest installment is about, people I've known who got in over their heads and paid the ultimate price.

Gina was one of those girls who made men do a double take when she walked by. I knew her and her two brothers since elementary school. They had devoutly religious, overly strict parents, Jehovah Witnesses, I think. The boys were finally given some freedom by Jr. high, and they turned out okay. Gina on the other hand was kept under ever stricter control, the more she matured, the tighter the rein. I've no doubt her father believed his gorgeous daughter was at great peril form the hordes of testosterone amped boys, who looked at her lustfully. so she was driven to and from school, not allowed to date, not allowed friends outside the family's religious circle. The day Gina turned 18 she left home and moved in with a car thief named Darren.

Gina didn't stay with Darren for long, as soon as she learned how easily she could manipulate men, she found a bigger and better crook, she got herself a dope dealer. She also got herself a first rate drug problem, cocaine. Coke affects women differently than men, it takes a heavier toll on her looks, it kills that thing that makes a woman really something special, it extinguishes that spark in her eye. I watched Gina go through that same slow death like process for about a year and a half. She was still something to see, still drop dead gorgeous, but the light had left her eyes, replaced by a harder, colder something. I cant explain it, you would just have to see it for yourself. If you or someone you have been close to ever got on that end, then you know what I'm talking about, if not, be thankful and hope you never see it first hand.

There are people who like to rub elbows with criminals, like groupies almost, or hanger on types. These same people will begin to think they belong, that they have the same character defects and moral ambiguity that it takes to break the law for a living. More often than not, they don't, and they end up totally out of their element, in way over their heads. I can't say with absolute certainty that is what happened with Gina, but my gut says that was the case. At some point she started an on again off again game with the coke dealer. When it was in the Off phase, I'd see her around, usually selling small amounts of powder to the bar crowd, hustling one guy or another, playing at something she wasn't really suited for. I heard from other people that the coke guy smacked her around, which would lead to a black eye, and a brief off again period. But she would always go back, that's where the dope was.

Sometimes the people who need help the most never get it, nobody offers, even though in many cases, it might actually work were it offered. When you are close to it, when you see someone in trouble, you have to look the other way. You can't save the Charlies and the Gina's, not when you are living dirty yourself. It's a cover your own ass kind of world, as callous as that may be. So you maybe offer up a quick line like" you can do better", or, "who needs that shit", then you go back to worrying about yourself.

It came as no big surprise when I heard Gina had turned up dead. They found her body near a boat ramp on the Missouri river. Her head caved in by a rock. There were never any charges, and probably not much of an investigation. Everyone assumed the boyfriend did it, but who knows. Toward the end she played a lot of games with a lot of different people, so there's no telling who it might have been. I wish I could say that the news of her death had an impact on me at the time, but it didn't. Sure it was sad news, tragic even, but I didn't give the news more than a cursory acknowledgement and obligatory " That's a shame".

All of this took place around 25 years ago, maybe a little longer. Looking back on it now disturbs me more than when it all happened. Maybe it's guilt talking, or some morbid nostalgia. I've drug this thing out a whole lot longer than I intended. It's tough to make someone like Gina sound sympathetic. Of course its tragic when anyone is killed, but when that person isn't living right, is putting their self out there, there is a " you get what you ask for" mentality, sometimes unspoken, but it's there. The thing is, I remember Gina from grade school, when she was just an over protected kid. I watched her grow up, insulated from all of the Boogie Men, imagined by her over bearing father, only to fall prey to a real one.

Fast Eddie Friday

That's right boy's and girl's it's back, Fast Eddie Friday! For those of you who dont recall what FEF is, allow me to enlighten you. When I dont have a planned post finished, or cant come up with anything that warrants one of my long winded tirades, I throw together a hodge podge of vaugley witty, mostly acidic, one and two, 3 or 4 liners, on totally unrelated topics. So here we go, fast and loose.

Politicians please stop using the term Main Street. I dont care which party you are with, you are not in touch with the people on Main street. And while I'm on the subject of annoying political catch phrases, Maverick, stop calling yourself a maverick for christ sake. You voted 90 percent of the time with the president. Senator, I met James Garner, you sir are no James Garner.

Obama, I think you are the lesser of two evils, of course I've been stripped of my voting rights so I can't vote for you anyway. That said, you might want to slow down on those vows to change the way this government is run. It's been running the same way since George W chopped down that tree to carve his first set of teeth. In other words, dont let your mouth write checks your ass cant cash.

If I hear one more politician talk about winning the war in Iraq, my head will explode. Let's cut the bullshit, there were no terrorists, al Qadhi, or weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. We lost that war before it ever really got started, because we had no fucking business there in the first place. Let me emphasize this point, You cannot claim victory in a war that was started based on false information and hidden agendas. Sure we have al Qadhi in Iraq now, because they came there to fight us, they brought the fight to us, not the reverse.

Sarah (Betty Boop) Palin is really getting on my last nerve. I'm not sure if it is her repeated claims that she is middle class, bullshit, her insistence that dealing with polar bears that cross from Russia into Alaska, constitutes foreign affairs experience, or her cutesy winks and that fucking Betty Boop voice. If McCain goes tits up and croaks while in the White House, we will be left with Annie Oakley running this country. Just because you can skin a moose and gut a fish, doesn't mean you are qualified to lead a country. "Say it ain't sooo, Joe!

This morning Channel 5 was covering the over night lead disbursement in Westport, the camera panned to one of the people who apparently was getting shot at. He was talking to the police, while sporting a giant over sized Stop Snitching T shirt. Pot meet Kettle.

My comrade and Kansas City blogger Meesha V. was awarded the Pitch Best Of Award for his blog. If you dont read him , I suggest you start, otherwise the KGB might come a knockin.

And last but not least, a certain self proclaimed crime fighter in Kansas City is really starting to get on my nerves. I have a "Stupid Statement" counter running as we speak. This guy has about 3 or 4 more retarded statements to make, before I let loose a tirade, the likes of which have never before been witnessed. Seriously, Alonzo, give the crazy shit a rest, go back to helping people, rather than sounding like some spoiled kid who didn't get picked first for dodge ball.

Okay, that just about does it. Everyone have a safe weekend, in other words do your drinking in JoCo. I'll be back Monday with my latest installment of ne'er do wells I've known.

First signs of autumn in midtown

If you have been reading me for very long, then you might recall that I document the changing of the seasons, not by grass turning green, trees budding up, or the leaves turning shades of red, ochre and brown. Okay, I have no idea what color ochre is, I heard Bob Ross say it once and it stuck with me. Anyway, here in Midtown the changing of the seasons are marked by the Zombies who begin to come outside more often , hearkening the spring time, like ragged anorexic robins , I wrote about them here. Summer is marked by a rise in homicides . Winter on the other hand needs no help from the local riff raff, it gets cold, snows at the most inopportune times and in copious amounts, so that ones a no brainer. But Autumn, is more subtle, it eases up on you, the morning air is a little crisp, and the sun sets ever earlier, and petty thievery abounds.

Much like the Zombies of spring, the crack heads of autumn are going about their work in Midtown. Just as the hordes of potentially rabid squirrels prepare for the coming winter, so do the crack heads. The street in front of my humble abode is littered with broken auto glass, stereos are ripped from dashboards, leaving them to greet their owner with large gaping holes, that will no longer serenade them with obscure music from angst ridden emo punk electro hip hop bluegrass garage bands, or whatever crap the local art school crowd around here listens to. Burglaries will go on the upswing, shit will come up missing, winter is on its way, there is much work to be done. I have long contended that the local boofers (crack smokers), tend to hibernate through the winter, so it only stands to reason that they would need to stack up some cheddar(money), before it gets too cold to steal.

Another sure fire way to tell it's autumn is by the changing of the neighbors. The lease runs out for the people who live above me just as summer comes to a close. You might recall that I had an ever changing cadre of Art School students living above me. The leader of the group a homely, painfully thin, perpetually greasy haired young woman, who was a professional student and rug weaver. She had a giant fucking loom, and many a day and evening was filled with the thumping sound of the loom, slowly wearing a hole through the hardwood floor overhead. There was a steady procession of greasy haired , one size too small wearing boys and hippy-ish young women, also living with the ugly rug girl. Now they are gone, leaving piles of trash behind as the only proof that they were ever here at all. In their place are 3 hippy-ish 20 something guys, who are slowly growing louder with each passing day. By mid winter I will have reached my breaking point, there will be much posturing, beating on walls, and finally a profanity infused tirade from yours truly telling them they had best keep the fucking noise down. Thus the seasons have come full circle once again.

Ruthless, Worthless, and Clueless......ch 2... Dude looks like a lady.

Some people are born crazy, and I dont mean clinically depressed or a little bi polar, I mean bat shit crazy. Dave would fall under that category. I wasn't close friends with Dave, I dated his sister, knew people he knew, we crossed paths and that's it. Dave was an opportunistic thief, dope dealer, forger, whatever. If he saw a way to slide in , turn a buck, get out, then that's what he did. In some circles, this type of non specific criminal is called a sneak thief or a shit heel, I have no idea why, but Ive used that term myself. Just consider criminal slang a form of Yiddish for felons. Anyway, the guy was a shit heel, but a mostly harmless one, or so everyone thought.

The first sign that Dave was more than a little crazy was when he shot his wife, a school teacher, paralyzed her from the waist down. The thing is he claimed it was an accident, and his wife said the same. The story goes that he is in the kitchen cleaning a pistol, a semi auto 9mm, the gun goes off, twice, hits the wife, twice. Later his sister told me that it wasn't an accident, who knows?

Now might be a good time to mention that Dave had a drug problem, a meth problem to be exact. Meth can take an already wacky person and turn them in to a walking cartoon, one of those really violent cartoons from the 30's. He would go on long binges, steal shit from his sister and mother, a real nice piece of work, our Davey. Every now and again the sister would tell me he was "back on that shit", this proclamation usually followed by a story about him stealing something from someone. I stayed clear of her family in general and her brother especially, so I had never witnessed his finer moments first hand. All of that changed one morning when I get a call from the sister, blubbering about Dave stealing her car and would I take her to go get it. He was holed up in a hotel off 71 near Grandview. I said Id take her, but I wasn't getting involved, other than to make sure he didn't chloroform her and eat her face.

The sister told me that Dave was bugged out and in what he referred to as Ninja Mode. The way she explained it to me, was that Dave would get all crazy from too many sleepless nights of happy dust. The lack of sleep, his already unstable state of mind, and copious amounts of dope had Dave convinced that "They" were looking for or following him. "They", being the cops I suppose. Having heard her describe what ninja mode meant, I knew what to expect when Dave opened the door, and I wasn't disappointed. Dave was kind of fat, balding, had a perpetual blue shadow always on his face. He was one of those guys that look like they need a shave five minutes after shaving. He reminded me of a balding Barney rubble, but fat. So Dave opens the door, in a dress. Yes, you heard me right , a dress. and not just any dress, he had on one of those grandma sundress/house dress things.

Before you jump to conclusions, thinking maybe the guy gets off dressing like Aunt Bea, that just isn't the case here. He dressed like that because he believed whoever was looking for him wouldn't recognize him as the drag equivalent of an 80 year old Russian woman. While I highly doubt anyone was after him, I'm sure in his drug addled mind it was all too real, and his response was not only logical, but crafty to boot. So there he stood in the doorway of his hotel room, sheepishly grinning as he handed his sister her car keys. a 6 foot tall, 220 pound, bald headed , generic, grandma. It was both frightening and breath taking in its weirdness.

About a month or so after the hotel incident, Dave pulled a feat that was the epitome of insanity. He painted the front of his house, black, flat black. He lived on a dead end street on the east edge of Independence. Trees lined both sides of his house so all you could see from the street at night, was the front of the house. Dave painted it black so you couldn't see it at night. Makes perfect sense, if the cops cant see the house, they wont find him. Ive never ceased to be amazed when confronted by the thought process of dope fiends. Dave was an extreme case to be sure, but the people I have known who boarded the crazy meth train, have all ended up brain damaged to one degree or another.

I'm not sure what ever became of Dave, I stopped seeing his sister a few months after the house painting incident. I imagine he either ended up dead, in jail, or the nut house. It's been 15 years or better, he probably is dead. I can only imagine what the casual reader must think when I start describing or writing about some of the people Ive known or encountered. Believe me if I hadn't seen some of it with my own eyes, Id have trouble swallowing it as well. Most people live normal lives, in normal neighborhoods. The closest they come to calling someone crazy, is when they talk about the old hippie neighbor , who bought one of those ugly ass Pontiac Aztec SUV's, or the funny looking Goth kids that hang out at the house across the street. In other words, most people are more normal and less odd than you might first think, at least compared to some of the real crazy's that occupy the under belly of society, that most never encounter or come in contact with.

Perp , victim , or both ?

I am almost at a loss for words. I was watching the news, I think it was ch 5, to be honest I was so stunned by what I saw and heard, that the channel escapes me. A young thug goes in to a small grocery store on Prospect, pulls a gun to rob the guy behind the counter, the intended victim pulls his own gun, shoots the robber who stumbles outside and dies in the parking lot. A woman is being interviewed afterward, it was that short interview that left me stunned and almost unable to write or even utter a single word. Okay, not really that stunned, I've got plenty to say.

The woman is visibly upset, crying in fact. She tells the reporter how she ran to help the young man who was bleeding out in the parking lot. Then she says an amazing thing. " He ( the clerk) didnt have to kill him. He could have just wounded him." I sat staring at the television. This woman, heavy set, clearly poor, living in the epicenter of a Kansas City war zone, during one of the city's bloodiest seasons in recent memory, and she feels compassion for the guy who tried to rob the store. Wow, that is amazing. I doubt anyone short of Mother Theresa or the Baby Jesus could have mustered up the anguished compassion that this woman displayed. I actually backed the DVR up to hear it again, to be certain.


So I'm sitting staring at the TV , trying to wrap my head around what I've heard. One short sentence is running on a loop over and over in my mind, a small voice, just repeating the same thing over and over, in reaction to the Christ like compassionate words the woman spoke. All I could manage to say, at first just in my mind, and finally out loud, was.............Are you fucking kiddin me? He should have wounded him? Better yet, he should have just reasoned with him, or thrown gum drops and skittles at him. Maybe the group that was up the street holding a prayer vigil could have come down and prayed for the young guy. Clearly this young man was poor, underprivileged, probably no decent role models. The robbery victim should have just handed over the money, wished the young man godspeed, and hoped that he wouldn't kill him for his kindness. At the very least, the clerk could have just shot the gun out of the kids hand, like in the old Lone Ranger TV show.



Then I follow a link from TKC over to Alonzo Washington's site. He tossed out a two or three sentence comment on the story, here it is "KC Store clerk kills robber. If that's how it went down. The story sounds a little fishy. This store fought crime in a big way. Although, if you would have asked them to support anti-crime efforts in the area they would not have given you a dime." Once again I was momentarily struck mute. Seriously, The story sounds fishy, what does that even mean? A conspiracy, subterfuge, a cover up, what? The young man was trick or treating for UNICEF, the clerk shot him for no reason, slapped a throw away piece in the guys hand and shoves him out the door.


It all seems pretty cut and dried to me. Robber pulls gun, robber gets shot, robber stumbles outside, bleeds out on the sidewalk. It's a wasted life, and it's awful that someone died, but this little prick isn't the victim in all of this. I know Alonzo Washington works with the police, and some of the African American community. I realize that the woman who helped the dying would be robber was probably traumatized and in shock. So I'm not without some sympathy, that said I would be a total fraud if I ignored the giant fucking elephant in the room. It's called accountability, you know accepting responsibility for your actions. It's called laying the blame at the feet of the person responsible. I think having spent 5 years and change in prison, being accountable for my decisions, gives me some authority on the subject.

I dont care that the kid came up poor, I dont give a shit if the deck was stacked against him due to economic and racial disparity. Look, it's a fact that African Americans, in general are poorer and have less opportunity than whites. It's wrong, it's unfair, and it shouldn't be that way. And every single time some young inner city African American fucks up, someone will come to their defense, blame it on society, race, poverty, the cops, and there is a part of me that sympathizes, up to a point. But when you throw guns in to the mix, when someone gets shot, killed or harmed, my sympathy usually extends to the victim, not the gunman.



Anytime someone dies a violent death it is tragic, it's a waste, it's sad. That being said, if you decide to stick a pistol in a strangers face to take what is theirs, then you run the risk of getting killed. You automatically lose your right to play the sympathy card. My attitude has changed over the past year or so. You can go back through my archives and see the evolution. I am seeing things in a slightly different light. I am not so quick to give people a pass based on race or poverty. I'm beginning to think that maybe part of the problem is just that, a perpetual pass.

I know there will be the typical reactions from some folks who read this. There will be the racist morons who will take what I've said as an indictment upon every person of color breathing air, and there will be the knee jerk reaction from the other side of the coin, I'm just an out of touch middle aged white guy talking out of his ass about something he knows nothing about. Both reactions would be dead wrong. I dont have on blinders, no rose colored glasses here. The police dont do enough, the city government doesn't do enough, the school district doesn't do enough, white society as a whole does not do enough, and I'm sorry but the African American community in this city doesn't do enough either. Nobody is doing enough to change the way these young killers are coming up. Making excuses for them, giving them a pass and pretending that the killers are somehow victims by proxy, based on skin pigment and poverty, is complete and utter bullshit. Implying that something is fishy, tossing in a red herring just for shits and grins, also falls under the bullshit category.

Urban Blight Tour 08...........East Side

There is no way I could cover every corner of what most of us call, Kansas City's East side. East of Paseo, or Troost, or even as far as Prospect, pick your jump off point. The most bleak area in the city, is centered by Prospect Ave, and runs from 39th north to the 20's. If you live in a better area than this, and you most likely do, then spending twenty or thirty minutes driving around here will depress you, and make you feel like the love child of Donald Trump and Oprah. After spending some time driving through this war zone, I feel rich beyond measure, and trust me, if it cost a quarter to shit, I'd have to throw up.

The first thing you notice when you drive through these neighborhoods, every single person you pass, they look at you and the look says you don't belong here. Like the black guy said to Edward Norton in American History X, "Just remember, in here, you the nigga. Not me." That is true in practically every prison in the Nation, and equally true east of Troost. If you are white and prowling these streets you are either a cop, a victim, an addict, a trick, or a mildly retarded blogger. I don't mean to sound crass or insensitive, but the unicorns of Brookside, don't venture east of Holmes road. So I cant write about the East side in a sensitive and politically correct tone. It wouldnt ring true. It's a hard place, and it begs for the hard truth. Not every single home is run down, there are people who take pride , who bust their humps every day, and who live there by choice, or circumstance, doing the best they can. That said, you don't have to look far to find blight, poverty and whole lot of shit you are better off not finding. In fact you would be hard pressed to drive down any side street and not find at least a couple of boarded houses every block or two.
If you pay much attention to the News, you know that the majority of killings happen to the east, you also might see some local Politician on the news, selling the latest war on crime, or guns, or weeds, or the latest revitalization effort. Judging from these pictures, I'd say the weeds and blight are winning the battle. With a murder rate that is on target to be one of the highest in the city's history, and a city hall mired in a quagmire of bullshit and incompetence, things are going to get worse in the city's poorest area.
I stepped outside about halfway through writing this post. There was a police helicopter circling around outside, I can never resist going outside when I hear one. Around here I hear a lot of them. They fly low, all you can see is the lights, hear the trees whipping up. It's not particularly smart to stand outside in the dark when a police helicopter is searching for suspects. You could get shot by the cops, or who ever they are looking for. So when I'm standing out in my darkened driveway, watching it all unfold, I'm never totally relaxed, my eyes are always scanning my surroundings. Driving around the east side of Kansas City today, in broad daylight, is a lot like that feeling, multiplied by 50. In most every single post on urban blight I have cracked several jokes at the expense of what ever area I was writing about. But I've got to tell you, I got nothin. This shit just isn't funny, not on this level.

Everyone has their own personal opinion about why the east side of Kansas city is in the shape it's in. I think there are plenty of guilty parties, but that's not what this post is about. This just gives you a quick glance of a place. the east side is like Humpty Dumpty; And all the kings horses, and all the kings men...........well , you know the rest.

The Urban Blight Tour 08

Ask anyone from Kansas City which area of the metro is the most crime ridden , blight filled part of town. Most will say the East side, or KCK. While both of these areas are definitely contenders, there are countless smaller pockets throughout the city. Over the next few weeks, I am going to take you to some of them. So lock your doors, roll up your window, and put on your best fake cop face. Here we go.

Forty Highway, maybe you drive it on your way to work, or to the Chiefs and Royals games. Unless you are completely unaware of your surroundings, which makes you an excellent target by the way, then you have probably noticed a few rundown motels and trailer parks scattered among the mostly commercial section that runs east from Van Brunt. Hopefully you have never had an urge to explore the interior of these trailer parks, and if you felt the urge you were smart enough to not act on it. Lucky for you I'm neither particularly smart or easily frightened. I really love the grit and grime that stubbornly clings to the city.

There is a mile or two stretch of 40 hwy that stand as testament to vice in its most base form. Sex and Drugs, and Rock, minus the Roll. While the hookers don't stroll through here in the same numbers as Independence Avenue or even Troost or Prospect, they are here. It is a safe assumption to say that hookers and smokers use the small No Tell Motels as their base of operations. You don't have to be Mike Hammer to figure out the appeal of cheap motels that don't require, or probably even accept credit cards. The smaller motels , I'm gonna go out on a limb here, are family owned, probably East Indian families. Some of the bigger hotels have not fared so well. The largest motel on 40 hwy, the old Stadium Inn, later named the Sunset Inn sits abandoned, and probably stripped of its copper pipes and wires. I'm willing to bet, its empty rooms are home to a few of the nocturnal inhabitants of this area. The only way to be sure is to walk inside the abandoned building, and that just ain't gonna happen. Now, crack and prostitution are just two of the three deadly sins that are a mainstay of the 40 hwy strip. In fact, as ragged and filthy as these motels and the occupants may be, they are living in the Ritz Carlton in comparison to what you are about to see. So make sure the boss isn't looking over your shoulder, put down that donut, trust me you don't want to be eating right now. Let's take a ride through Bunker Hill and Mayfair, hands down the single most filthy place this side of the landfill, where Meth is surely the drug of chioce. Bunker Hill and Mayfair trailer parks sit side by side, nestled 100 feet or so off of 40 hwy. Strangely enough this may well be the most integrated area in the city. Whites and Blacks live in harmony. Okay, that bit about harmony, was bullshit. I doubt peace and harmony have ever set foot in this rats nest that passes for a trailer court. In fact, trailer park residents everywhere may file a class action suit against me for defamation of character. These two parks are cesspools, pure and simple. When I turned in to the Mayfair, the first thing I noticed was the absence of any dogs, and thankfully, children. I should say that I heard dogs barking, several of them, but I didn't see a single one. As I idled through the park , I passed a wire thin guy in bibs with a bushy beard that clearly hadn't seen comb nor soap since it was a 5 O'clock shadow, but more about him in a minute. Here are a few of the classier places in the Mayfair. Actually, this Is hands down the cleanest looking building in the two parks. And the only one that doesn't have a hitch and wheels, I might add. As I rounded the bend on the far end of this horseshoe shaped park, I came across this airy and spacious custom painted home. Someone has really put a great deal of time and effort in to the place.

As you can clearly see there is an open area toward the rear of the home, it reminds me of the homes in Southern California and Hawaii that have entire rooms that open up to the outside environment. Now I know you are trying to figure out what the hell the spray painting on the front says. I was going to get out of the car and move that bush to make it clearer to read, unfortunately, the Princess of the Park came out of a trailer directly across from this one, and she was giving me the stink eye, no pun, so I thought I should move along. I did blow it up and here is what I came up with.

There are letters that have been changed, the two L's look like they were N's, and the S was also covering another letter. I have no idea what this means, maybe bad spelling, or perhaps a cover up by this Mark the Murderer fella. So back to the Princess, who was rubber necking the middle age white guy, with the flashing black box that steals your soul. We call it a camera, but the natives of the area don't seem to understand what it really does, you will soon see why. The princess , much like the emperor, had no clothes, well she had no shoes, and was sporting coochie cutter shorts which displayed a tattoo that looked like it was done by an epileptic in full grand Mal seizure. Her hair was died a flat black, and she could have used a bra, or else she had twin tumors poking mid torso out the front of her t shirt. Either way, it wasn't a pleasant sight. As I drove on , I passed this place Which is private property and marked accordingly. And this place which needs a little work. And I found the source of the earlier mentioned barking dogs. This RV was literally rocking back and forth and the dogs were raising hell. I was almost tempted to free them, but didn't want to end up eaten by hungry pit bulls. So, as I'm making the last turn that leads out of the Park , to my surprise, Bearded Bib Guy, Trailer Park Princess, and a black guy with a big plastic sack, are standing in front of bib guys trailer. Princess was doing the Meth inspired Ozark high Step. Meth users have this funny thing they do with their legs when they have been up too long. Like the Funky Chicken or the Jed Clampett dance. Well she is pointing at my car and then back up to the trailer, and I swear to god, she makes a sign language gesture of me taking pictures. That was my cue to leave, but how could I without one last parting shot for posterity. I stopped the car, leaned out the window zoomed to the best of my ability, and fired away. Bib guy was a whole lot smarter than the other two. He understood that if someone is snapping pictures, and you don't want to be captured on film, you move out of sight. He was smart, the other two, not so much.

Well there you have it, installment one of my bi state expose on Blight, Crime and little known corners of the Kansas City Metro area. Thursday we will journey to the Kansas City Kansas area along Quindaro Blvd. I would be remiss if I didn't give proper thanks to JOCO SOB who originally came up with the idea for a top ten list of the worst blight in the area. I thought it was a great idea, and he told me to run with it. I decided to change it from a list, and instead will do my best to give you a feel of the areas, and let you the reader draw your own conclusions as to the best of the worst. Also I'm going to set up a flicker page so you can peruse all of the pictures Ive snapped of these areas, these are just a small sampling. I'll post a link when it's ready.

Charlie.... Part 3....

Okay, at this point you may be questioning the type of person I am. Being involved in fraud is one thing, now I've thrown drugs in the mix. I can feel my stock plummet as I write. All I can tell you is to read this story to the end, and draw your own conclusions. When writing about my unsavory past, I made myself a promise to just put it out there. I'll change names, leave out certain details, etc., all in the interest of covering my own ass. Aside from that, I'm not going to lie or try to make myself sound like a Hollywood version of a good bad guy. This ain't Oceans 11, that Robin Hood-esque criminal life doesn't exist. I've got a long list of things I wish I could do over, but that's not an option. So what you get is what it was. No sugar added.


Charlie Part 3...........................

Charlie was buying his way out of a major maiming at the very least. He was given a certain amount of money and was to bring back a certain amount of product. Charlie already had a connection through his mother. And just for the record it wasn't the white trash slim fast that his mommy dearest was slinging from her cracker condo, I would have smelled it, and really it doesn't matter what brand of poison he was getting, it's all bad anyway. I never touched it or in anyway came in contact with it. The original plan was for me to pick Charlie up in Oildale after I went to Los Angeles. At some point on the drive down, midway through Colorado, Charlie had informed me that he was going to fly back. Prior to 9/11, and this was way way prior, it wasn't hard to conceal something and carry it to wherever you were going. To be honest, I thought it was a bad idea, bad for him, but good for me, I thought it was a better idea to remain mute.

I picked Charlie up at his sisters house. Lets call her Lena. Though I have known her from her diaper wearing, pre-peeled onion days, I cannot for the life of me recall her first name. So we will call her Lena. Being dragged under that truck, not only peeled her cap down to the bone, it broke a bunch of shit as well. The end result was that Lena's wig tilted one direction, and the other side of her body was tilted the other direction. Her stance reminded me of a mime doing his blowing in the wind shtick. She always looked like she was leaning,.... thus Lena. When Lena answered the door I tried to focus my vision over her shoulder. I always felt uncomfortable when I had to talk to her. If I looked at her face, I was afraid she would think I was staring at her fucked up wig, if I looked down from her face, I couldn't see past her crazy, clown car milk cannons. The last thing I wanted to do was give her mixed signals. I stared at the giant framed Wolf/Dream Catcher picture on the far wall. I mumbled something about telling her crack head brother to bring his ass on, and went to wait in the car.

When Charley high stepped and twitched his way out to my car, I almost drove off without him. The only thing worse than chauffeuring a semi retard to his deal, was chauffeuring a high, completely sprung, semi retard to same. But I just wanted to get it over with, probably the same thing many of you are feeling regarding this mini series. Anyway, he directs me outside of town to some Almond orchard. They grow almonds in that area by the ass load. Where you have California farms, you have Mexican workers, and not all of them are making their money ensuring you don't run out of blue diamond smoked almonds.

We pulled down a long road that ran alongside an Almond grove, until we finally came to a little cluster of crappy looking houses. Charlie went inside, while I sat in my car, marvelling at all the aftermarket shit these guys had bolted on their new pickup trucks. Not for nothing, but I also kept my engine running and my eyes glancing up to the rear view. Had anything gone wrong, charlie would have been ass out and on his own. Loyalty and friendship don't extend to getting shot or killed. Surprisingly, all went well. Charley reappeared and we headed back to my motel. From there Charley had his sister, the lovely Lena pick him and his shit up, I wanted neither of them near me until we left for LAX the next morning.

***** That's it for this installment. I'll be back Monday with another installment. By Tuesday we should be putting this thing to bed.***

Charlie

I made a decision when I first started this blog, that I would refrain from writing about actual crimes I was a party to. This decision wasn't based on fear of being charged, that part of my past is far behind me, hanging out with the Statute of Limitations. I've read a couple of blogs by guys who talk about the dirt they did. It comes off sounding like bragging. It also comes out sounding contrived, if not complete bullshit. So I wanted to avoid making myself look like a bigger waste of space than I already seem to be. Makes sense, no? So it is with that thought in mind, that I go against that original decision, and delve in to a page from my seedy past, not to glorify or make light of, but some stories just have to be told. I'll just warn you in advance that this wont be like a regular blog post. This one will be in several parts. It may get a little long winded, and it may be a complete bust. Just consider it a short story or a mini novella, whatever gets you through the day. And kids, please don't try this shit at home.

CHARLIE
part 1
We all have at least one friend who is a perpetual fuck up. You know the type, they are always breaking shit, the list including but not limited to their own bones, other peoples stuff, random shit in stores. Give them a brand new car and it will have 6 dents in it within the first week. Walking accidents and a solid argument for legal abortion, everything they touch, no matter how well intentioned, turns to shit. Charlie was that friend in my life. Charlie and I went back to the second grade, he was that kid who always smelled like pee, he was a walking target for schoolyard bullies looking for an easy mark.


I was an oddball in my own right. Born in Kansas City, transplanted to Oklahoma for those formative years when one learns to speak, then returned to the bosom of Kansas City, just in time to start first grade, with a full on Okie accent and sounding as country as a chicken coop. While I did not smell like pee, or break an inordinate amount of shit, my twangy accent made me stick out. Charlie and I were friends by proxy. I never outran my Okie accent, some days it's more pronounced than others, but it has stuck. Charlie managed to stop smelling like piss, but he never escaped being the walking accident he was, and probably is to this day.


Charlie was the first in my circle of friends to go to prison. He made the full tour of boys homes around the same time I did. I got out, had brief periods of productivity, managed to stay out of jail for the most part, for a very long time. Charlie on the other hand, was 6 months out of Booneville and got busted stripping a stolen car in his mothers driveway. The reason he got caught is a good example of Charlies thinking process. The first thing he stripped off of the car and sold, were the wheels. The car sat on cinder blocks for two weeks in his moms driveway, no way to move it, before the cops pinched him. Charlie wasn't a bright guy.


Jump to 1990-ish. Charlie and I had kept limited contact over the years. Said contact mostly limited to Charlies uncanny ability to track me down and borrow money. Charlie developed a pretty nasty drug habit sometime in the early 80's. While I grew up in the late 70's, and did my share and yours, of experimentation, it wasn't a full on occupation for me. I dabbled, as did a lot of other people back then. Charlie didn't dabble, Charlie wallowed in it. So it was no big surprise when Charlie came to me one day asking for help.

Charlie, like all dope fiends, decided at some point, he was going to sell drugs. Drug dealers are by and large scumbags. The bigger the scumbag, the better drug dealer they make. Charlie was stupid and had more issues than TV Guide, but he wasn't on the same level of scummage as most dope dealers. Charlie had periodic moments when he was a good guy, as fucked up as a soup sandwich, but hard to dislike. So when he told me that he was in to someone for a lot of money, I couldn't say no to the likable Charlie.


Off and on for about 8 or 10 years I made periodic trips to California. I would stop in two places, Bakersfield, which always seemed like a small Oklahoma city, shitty, dusty and depressing, and Los Angeles. I loved L A, as much as I hated Bakersfield. I'm sure you are wondering what I was doing, and I'm not going to tell you. I will say it had nothing to do with drugs, I had no business doing it, and it could have been construed as illegal, mostly because it was. Besides, this story isn't about me anyway, it's about Charlie. So stop being so nosey. Not for nothing, but Charlies people lived in an even shittier area, next door to Bakersfield, Oildale California. And that small factlet is why this story is possible.


When Charlie showed up at my door he looked like 10 pounds of shit stuffed in a 5 pound bag. He had that big black eyed stare that comes with a 3 or 4 day coke binge. Coke fiends always reminded me of rabbits, tweaked out Precious Moments figurines, or surprised babies. You know that wide eyed look babies get when they hear an unexpected loud noise. Like they touched something hot. That's the way Charlie looked. He needed a ride to Oildale, I should have said no, but I didn't........................
To be continued......

Crime scene tape football

You may or may not have noticed that I have been serving up MM lite lately. Over the past couple of weeks Ive come down off my soap box regarding crime on the East side of the city. While there have been killings, shootings and stabbings aplenty, to be honest I get tired of writing about it. I mean I haven't really been doing more than stating the obvious and peppering it with snide remarks. Which is not to say that I don't care or take lightly the constant war zone atmosphere east of Troost.


I was going to write about the woman and her brother who were shot, the woman killed, in the front yard of their home, while the woman's 2 children looked on. Anyway you slice it, whatever the motive, that is some horrendous shit for a kid to deal with. This would normally be the point where I spend a couple of hundred words expounding on the contemptuous scum bags who perpetrated this heinous act. Again stating the obvious.


This time is different for a couple of reasons, and of those two reasons there is a common thread that links one with the other, Inundation. The truth is every single day there is someone in the city either being killed or seriously fucked up, and after so much news of it, it just looses its sting.
There just isn't anything left to say that hasn't been said. So I was sitting here looking at the lit screen in front of me, trying to figure out some new way of saying the same old thing, and coming up blank. Then the news came on, KCTV 5. It was breaking news out of some piss poor apartment complex on the east side, someone had been killed. Nothing new there, but it was the shot from the news camera that caught my eye. it apparently didn't dawn on the reporter or the anchors, they failed to mention it or comment on it, but there it was. Inundation in action.



The shot from the camera showed an area wrapped in yellow crime scene tape. Cops were milling about, the reporter was doing his or her best to sound like a real journalist. Notice I cant even tell you if the reporter was male or female. The shot from the camera, at least in my minds eye, was so arresting that it had my complete attention. Just feet in front of the crime scene tape, about a half dozen kids, 10 or 12 years old,were tossing a football around. Now that is inundation at work. These kids have seen this shit happen day in and day out, to the point it doesn't even merit moving away from it. It reminded me of news footage from some war torn country. You know , the scenes on the news of some kid in the middle east playing next to a building pockmarked with bullets.



And it was that short blip on the news that pretty much sums up the crime problem today. It is here to stay and probably only going to get worse. If you ever found yourself wondering how a particular perp could commit a particularly heinous crime, you need look no further than the example I've just given. When you grow up in the midst of violence in what is tantamount to a war zone, it's just business as usual.

Zombies invade Midtown!!!!

I saw one of the first signs of spring here in Midtown yesterday. It wasn't a Robin, fat from wintering in the South. There aren't any new buds on the tree branches, at least not that I noticed. No the true harbinger of warmer weather isn't marked by the traditional signs of Spring, at least in my mind. Somebody stole some tools I had sitting alongside the garage in back of my building. Huh, what does that have to do with Spring, you ask. Well I'll tell you.

When the weather is cold they stay indoors. I think they must hibernate, like anorexic bears. They only start to venture out when the weather turns warm. They, who the hell is They? I fondly refer to them as Zombies, most people call them Crack Heads. As the season changes and the weather turns warm, shit starts to come up missing. I park off the street, so I have thus far managed to keep all of the windows intact in my car. People in other buildings on this street aren't so lucky, they are forced to park on the street. Once or twice a week I will walk past a pile of glittering glass laying in the street, glass that in an earlier life was a car window. Often times there will be some newly arrived to the neighborhood hipster or Art school student, looking pissed and bewildered, looking from the pile of glass to the hole in their car that once held it. Unable to refrain from stating the obvious I will usually ask " Car get broken in to ?" And this will generally get me an icy look followed by an admission to leaving a phone or briefcase in the back seat.

Another sure sign of Spring in the city will be an increased body count. In fact one just turned up a few blocks away. Something about warmer weather that brings out the worst in people. Now back to the Zombies. If you think I am exaggerating , if you believe I might be taking literary liberties , (making shit up), then just take a drive along Armour road, or Linwood, or any of the major roads from 39th street north to Independence Avenue, in the evening, around dusk. And you will see them. They are easy to spot. Always painfully thin, always moving at a frantic pace, head constantly moving in all directions, scanning their surroundings, looking for and at things , real and imagined, that most of us cant see.

I know what you are thinking, why in the world would anyone live in the city if that's how it is? Why not just move? I've tried moving, lived in the burbs, even moved to the sticks once, but I always come back here. Dating as far back as the mid 70's when I took my first apartment on Warner Plaza off of Main street, right behind Milton's Jazz and Juice, a long gone dive bar, I keep coming back.

There's a scene in the movie "A River Runs Through It", where the successful brother offers the troubled brother a chance to move to Chicago with him, to leave his troubled past and Montana behind. The troubled brother responds " Oh, I'll never leave Montana, brother" The point is, he cant imagine leaving the good parts of his past and present life behind. I get that, and I feel the same way. For all it's flaws, this is home and I can't imagine living anywhere else.

Win a Date With Drew Peterson!!!!!!

I found the link to this story on Crime Scene KC. As hard as it is to believe Drew ( my wife ran off) Peterson ,was trolling for dates on a local radio program in Chicago. The radio station people came to their senses and squashed the idea, and Peterson's attorney said the timing was bad for such a contest, ya think.

Come on ladies, who could resist the swarthy good looks and continental charm of a 50 something , 4 time married, ex cop, whose 23 year old wife has vanished with out a trace?

Well today is your lucky day. In my endless quest to better serve my vast network of loyal readers, all 7 of you, except for you mom, I contacted McDreamy Drew and offered to post his personal ad to advance his efforts in finding that perfect gal. And without further ado here it is.

Elusive Silver Fox seeks Damsel Under Duress

Hellooooooo Ladies ! Do you ever wonder if Prince Charming is still out there? Tired of dating Men born in the same decade as you were? Do you have low self esteem, a Daddy Complex, little or no contact with friends and family? If you answered yes to all of these questions then I might be the answer to your nightmares, I mean dreams, the answer to your dreams. I will remain loyal to you until death do us part, or you disappear, same difference. I like to go on long, late night mushroom hunts in secluded wooded areas, which is why I always carry a shovel with me. I have a great sense of humor and am very out going as evidenced by my constant hamming in front of the news crews parked outside my house. I am very loyal and will stick with you through thick and thin, or for a couple of weeks if you go missing, same difference. So don't be shy take a chance on love. What have you got to lose, except life, limb and where abouts.

****Disclaimer*****

This ad was a parody and in no way intended to insinuate that an actual meeting between myself and Drew Peterson ever took place. Had such a meeting taken place, it would have involved a pair of pliers , a blowtorch and a confession.

Not Another Heath Ledger Tribute

Another young talented celebrity with everything to live for has died, and while the results aren't in, every indication is that he died at his own hand. Maybe it was suicide, maybe an accident. The Internet and airwaves of television and radio are mourning the loss of Heath Ledger. I expect this young guys untimely and tragic demise will occupy many hours of discourse in the weeks to come. There will be tributes and interviews, talk and speculation, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

In the meantime back here in the real world , real tragedies will continue to effect the less famous and garner little if any attention and certainly nothing on the scale of Heath Ledgers death.

A young girl is shot and killed while waiting in line at a drive through . Some moron decided to shoot her at random, no motive no reason. That is really a tragedy. But it wont garner much more than a quick blip on the radar. Young inner city kids will continue to die pointless deaths, some long battered woman , somewhere will die at the hands of an abusive husband or boyfriend. Defenseless children will be abused and murdered at the hands of the persons responsible for their care. Sure these things will make the news, maybe, but they wont garner the attention or draw the mass mourning across the Internet like the death of a single actor who was found face down and surrounded by sleeping pills.

Don't get me wrong, anytime a young person dies it is a tragic thing, but somewhere along the way we have become a culture that places a higher value on the lives of spoiled over privileged celebrities, who most of us will never see in person, let alone speak to , all the while ignoring or discounting the tragedies that happen here in the real world. Lets face it, we really get tired of all the gloomy real world tragedy that happens on a daily basis. Who wants to listen to the news anchor report another 3 marines being killed in the middle east, when we can salivate over the latest stand off at Britney Spears mansion, or see which Hollywood party girl forgot to wear panties when she left the house.

It seems to me the real tragedy is the misplaced empathy we have for those we have the least in common with, while virtually ignoring the genuine tragedy that touches the lives of people we may well have brushed shoulders with in our daily lives.

The Long Answer to a Short Question.

In the comment section of my post on Quindaro I was asked by a reader , Leigh Ann, who has about a million blogs going all at once,” How do we fix it?" I gave her the easy way out answer and said I had no idea. Well that wasn’t an entirely truthful response. So here is my answer. I apologize in advance for taking you the long way around the block, but stick with me and in the end we will get there.

Boonville Missouri State Training School for Boys. Some kids go to Penn Day or Notre Dame di Sion to get the all important middle and high school education. I received mine courtesy of the state of Missouri. I was deemed incorrigible and beyond parental control. My crime was Truancy and I was a habitual violator. The court in its infinite wisdom decided it would be in my best interest to be sent to the notorious reformatory nestled in the central Missouri farm land. Nowadays the juvenile justice system in Missouri is touted as one of the finest and used as a model that other states strive to emulate, but in the early 70's being sent to Boonville was as bad as it could get, short of being sent to an adult prison. In all fairness the courts did try other options and methods to get my mind right before washing their hands of me and sending me to that little corner of hell. I ran through those options in short time. There were alternative schools, Vocational schools, group homes, and McCune boys home, I did the full tour.

To my mothers credit she did the best she could, but working two jobs and caring for 3 kids virtually on her own there was no way to keep up with me. So after running off from McCune 3 times the court sent me to Boonville. When I arrived in Boonville it was during a transitional period. They were revamping their approach to dealing with Juveniles. During the day the place was filled with well meaning and completely clueless social workers and shrinks. At night it was pure bedlam, and probably more violent than any prison or jail I’ve been in. There was a popular saying at the time, "Fight, Fuck, or Climb a tree". I was scared of heights so I got in a lot of fights those first few months. In fact I spent more time in disciplinary lock down the first 6 months I was there, than I spent in general population.

I don’t want to give the wrong idea here, I wasn’t a tough guy, I didn’t like fighting. But I had 3 strikes against me when I first set foot in Boonville. I was 14, the average age was 16. I had long hair and was a good looking kid, if I do say so myself. And I was white. That’s right, being white made me something that most people don’t associate with being Caucasian, I was a minority. So I fought , raised hell and earned a reputation as a trouble maker. I spent 20 months in Boonville when the average stay was 6 to 9 months.

It wasn’t a big leap for me to continue to raise hell and generally screw up once I was released. I was pissed at the world, and had a chip the size of the sprint center on my shoulder. So if I seem to have some empathy for these young guys from the inner city that do heinous shit, its not because I think they are blameless, I don’t. But I do understand that anger and getting dealt a bad hand does have some major implications on the choices they make. In the end, we choose to go one way or another. We can take life’s hard lessons and be better people for it. Or we can be hardened by it all and take a path that ultimately leads us to even more trouble. I chose the latter, and it took me 25 years to figure out that I couldn’t win. I wont go so far as to say that I'm a better person for it, that all of those wrong headed years somehow transformed me in to a good person. I hear that from a lot of ex cons and former criminals. They equate going straight with some spiritual metamorphous. They make it sound like all those years of doing dirt and going straight makes them like Gandhi. That line of thought is pure unadulterated bullshit.

The truth is that most criminals will continue to be criminals until they reach middle age. They stop because they don’t want to grow old in prison and not because they have suddenly seen the error of their ways. That’s why I stopped. I take no pride in saying this, nor am I ashamed to admit that I would much prefer pulling down a large chunk of change once or twice a year and doing as I please. As much as that still appeals to me, the thought of spending another day locked up is unacceptable.

Am I a better person than I was 10 years ago? You bet I am. Is it because I am reformed and rehabilitated? If by reformed you mean I underwent a major transformation and learned the error of my ways, then no I am not. If a guy is a plumber for the majority of his adult life and changes careers at 4o and becomes an electrician, that change in his day to day life doesn’t change his way of looking at things. He will always be a plumber at heart, deep down he looks at things through the eyes of a plumber. That said , I find my life now more fullfilling and I would never return to my old ways.

So what is my point to this rambling missive? Well it goes back to those early years in Boonville. I don’t lay the blame entirely at the feet of the system. I had ample opportunity to change. I made a conscious decision to ignore the rules of society and I accept full responsibility for the decisions I made. The thing is , if there was ever a chance to turn me around, it was when I was in Boonville, those early years. Hopefully the system of dealing with young offenders has figured that if you catch a kid early and really make effective change in their surroundings and their way of thinking, then you have a shot at turning them around. If not, then eventually time or death will do the job. Hopefully I have answered Leigh Ann's question.

Quindaro the Pearl of Kansas City, Kansas...or not

I have been working in KCK for the past week. I have mentioned before that my "Job" consists of driving up and down every street in a designated area, tracking wireless signal strength. Included in the every street description are cemeteries, parking lots, alleys, anywhere a car will go, so go I. So my area this week included Quindaro, State, and Minnesota, from 5th to 38th. Trust me when I say that the area surrounding Quindaro makes 39th and Prospect look like Mission Hills.

On more than a few streets there were more houses boarded up or burned down than occupied homes. It is a bleak , filthy mostly forgotten part of our city, save for the crime related news stories. There were streets that reminded me of pictures of Chernobyl after the meltdown, or war photos from some foreign country. I intended to take a camera with me, but I kept forgetting, although I may go back just to take a few shots of some of the things I saw.
I drove through one of the cemeteries that dated back to the early 1800's. I am neither religious or particularly sentimental, but what I saw as I drove through this solemn ground both saddened and angered me. Many of the tombstones were so old that they were indecipherable, whatever words once etched into the stone were worn away with time. Surrounding some of these markers was an array of discarded tires, trash, bottles and brush. Stones were knocked over, reduced to shards, insuring that whoever was laid in that plot was lost as well. Even the resting place of the dead isn’t safe around there.

As I wound through the neighborhood streets I came across several makeshift memorials. You know, the kind you usually see at the site of a fatal car crash. Usually a cross, some balloons, stuffed animals, placed by some relative to mark the spot of the tragedy. The difference here was that these weren’t crash sites, they were on residential streets, one was across from an elementary school. I have no way of knowing who these memorials were for, but its a safe bet that many of the victims were young. It is also a safe bet that they were mixed up in guns, drugs, gangs and violence. A lot of people might say that they got what they deserved or they put themselves in the position that led to their deaths. Maybe there is some truth to that, but dying on a street corner before you are old enough to buy a beer or to drive, regardless of the circumstances, is a hard thing to make sense of.

Even more striking than the tragedy and oppressive air that hangs over these slums, are the little islands of hope I came upon. I would be driving down a street lined with boarded up derelict houses and abandoned cars, then out of nowhere there would be a blast of color. I suppose you could chalk it up to bad taste, or color blindness, but there were houses in the middle of all of this mess, painted in the brightest loudest colors I’ve seen. A bright pink house, a lime green bungalow, a blue one with bright orange trim and a purple door. Sure the colors were gaudy and a little tacky, but amidst all of the shit that surrounds them they sparkle like jewels.

Anywhere else I would write it off to really bad taste, but not there.

I imagine that these small brightly colored homes are the residents way of fighting back. Giving a bright pink and blue trimmed finger to all of the day to day garbage and despair that must come with living there.

Great Inventors, Thomas Edison, Bell, Eli Whitney and Joey the Nose..

Okay Joey the Nose is a fictitious character. In prison you cant take a trip to the local Wal-Mart whenever you need something, and even if you could, some things just aren’t allowed or available. That is where the ingenuity and inventiveness of inmates comes in. Everything from boiling water to introducing contraband falls under this category. Whether it be a jail or a prison, people will find a way to get what they want or come up with a close substitute.

The Stinger.
While instant coffee is readily available in many institutions there is no way to heat the water. This was the case in a federal holding facility I was in, so we used a Stinger. A Stinger is 2 razor blades secured with dental floss to a 1 inch long piece of toothbrush handle, an electrical cord from a broken radio is attached to the blades. You drop the device into the water careful to not touch the cup during the process. You plug the stinger in and Voila the water will boil in under a minute. In a classic example of ass backwards thinking, razor blades and electrical cords were readily available but a hot pot was a security risk, go figure.

Drugs and other contraband are brought in by visitors, inmates and staff. The most common way is through the visiting room. Contact visits where the family sits at a table was the way most smugglers got the stuff in. Weed , heroin, cocaine, etc is usually packaged in balloons and swallowed by the inmate. Immediately after the visit the guy returns and throws up into a sink or trash can recovering his product. Should he fail to get them up by regurgitation he would wait until nature takes its course and catch them on the other side. Weed that passed through someone’s digestive system was known as Dookie weed. No matter how well sealed, the shit ended up smelling like, shit. Always seemed like a good way to catch something to me so I refrained from partaking of herb from that type of pipeline. Some guys will forgo all the swallowing and vomiting process. They use a bullet. A bullet is when the contraband is sealed in plastic and shoved up the rectum. This is also known as keeping it in the safe. Again not a very sanitary method, and as much as I’ve been known to enjoy a little herb as a way to fight off glaucoma and hair loss, I passed on the dookie weed. Employees also were a major pipeline for drugs in prison, rarely is it a correctional officer. Usually the employee is a regular worker, kitchen staff or maintenance. There are a lot of guys locked up with a lot of money on the outside. the square people working in prisons don’t make so much that some of them cant be bribed.

Tattooing in prison is another cottage industry. There are some really talented artists in the joint. But with so many blood born diseases available today, its not a good idea. The tatt gun itself is usually made up of an electric motor from a walkman, a mechanical pencil and a piece of a G string from a guitar. Ink is anything from ashes of burnt plastic to paint pigment from the paint shop. I’ve seen some really good tattoo work done in prison but its just not a good idea considering you don’t know where the needle has been.

Hooch, home made booze, is usually a witches brew of sugar, yeast, tomato sauce or some kind of fruit. Its put in a trash bag, hidden away, usually in food service or one of the industry shops and allowed to ferment . When ready it is strained through a T shirt and served chilled. It smells like vomit and rubbing alcohol. Again not something I would choose to ingest and would advise against.

Weapons. The shank also called a shiv or bone crusher is probably the most recognizable type of contraband . Everyone in the free world has heard the term shank. They are as simple as a razor blade for slashing, a pencil, a bed spring, a can lid, toothbrush handle, you name it and someone will figure out a way to stab you with it. Plastic was the preferred material because it was not detected by metal detectors. A couple of bars of soap in a sock or towel ,often used to beat the bee Jesus out of someone, was another popular choice for those so inclined.

I’ve already touched on the gay guys in prison. Wait a minute that didn’t come out right. The prison concubine better known as a Punk is another master/mistress of ingenuity. They would pluck their eyebrows and pencil in new ones with shoe polish. Red Kool-Aid was used as rouge and lip color. They seemed to favor tight clothes and they grew their nails long. Regardless of what enhancements they used, they just looked like a man with shoe polish eyebrows and really big hands. The slogan "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline" does not apply in this instance.

I’ve just skimmed the surface of contraband and the ingenuity of the average convict. Suffice to say that prisons thrive on their own black markets, not unlike some impoverished countries. If people want something bad enough, they will find some way to get it or a close facsimile.