44DDD - Liz Renay - 2009

In 2009 I attended an opening for THE ART OF LIZ RENAY curated by SCOTT EWALT at the 76 Grand Street Gallery. The late artist's contributions spanned two centuries in exotic dancing, literature, and film most notably as Divine's co-star in John Waters' 1977 paean to bad taste DESPERATE LIVING, but the starlet was much more than that role of a dogfood-eating murderess. Her 2007 Washington Post obit listed her many careers as 'gangster's moll, ex-con, author, painter, stripper, Hollywood Boulevard streaker, actress and charm school instructor'.

A sexual pioneer too.

"Well I don’t think anything is wrong with sex. I think it’s a beautiful thing to be enjoyed! Some people want to get married and stay married forever and not cheat on their spouse or whatever. While other people just like to be sexual adventurers (she laughs) and I’m one of those."

Ms. Renay owed her status as an ex-con to a perjury conviction in LA for refusing to snitch out Mickey Cohen. This loyalty earned the actress a stint in prison.

Not jail.

Prison.

"It sure knocked the hell out of my career when I went to Terminal Island. I would have been a big star had I not gone to prison." The actress did the time without complaint and was released after twenty-seven months for good behavior.

With her 44DD-26-36 measurements she must have driven the guards and inmates crazy. She exited from prison a cult figure, whose persona was tawdryized by writing the classic exploitation novel, "My First 2,000 Men."

A good title, although Ms. Renay issued a calm disclaimer. "It wasn't really anywhere near 2,000 men. I led a wild life. But 2,000? C'mon, that's too many, even for me!"

Her 2009 show was packed with downtown illiterati gawking at the deceased diva's art and collection of newspaper clippings. Several transvestites showed up in Liz Renay drag. Big breasts were a must. Her paintings were simplistic, but touching, especially a portrait of an angelic little girl. I thought it might have been the actress herself, but suspect that the young girl was actually Ms. Renay's daughter, who had stripped with her mother for many years until her suicide.

Photos were taken of the attendees. Each aspiring to acheive the greatness of Ms. Renay, if only for a few minutes. I stared at her S&M gear; a shabby whip, leather cuffs, and black undies. If I was into that kind of thing, then she would have been my mistress, instead I wandered from the gallery into the cold night, dreaming of 44DDD cups and wishing having been one of her two thousand lovers.

I doubt I could have survived an hour with her, let alone a night.

Then again I'm a square.

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Much more to come.

Polar Flight Seat #60A - 2016

Seat 60A in a window.

I slept most of the journey over the pole, waking occasionally to peer out the 777's porthole.

Below was the long Arctic night and overhead five stars were visible through the pitted flexi-glass.

Virgin was offering a real Space voyage to intrepid 'astronauts'.

$200,000 to ride Sir Richard Branson's Virgin Enterprise 250,000 feet to the very edge of Space. A porthole vista of the cosmos and 5 minutes of freedom from gravity. The space terminal will be in New Mexico. Not far from Roswell.

There have been no shortage of prospective passengers opting to witness the miracle of the universe such as the strange swirling Aurora Borealis seen over the Norway several years ago.

Scientists were at a lost as to explain the phenomena, however the boreal light show certainly had nothing to do with President Obama's refusal to lunch with the country's king during his Nobel Peace prize weekend.

I have only seen the Northern Lights twice in my life.

Neither was on this last trip over the pole.

The sky was as black as night.

As far as the eye could see above and below.

Unless you counted the old Chinese woman asleep next to me.

She was so celestial.

STARTING ANEW 2009

2009

Someone once told me that how you spend the first day of the year depends how you will spend the rest of the year.

January 1, 2009 I awoke with a hang-over and thought about heading over to the 10th Street Bath to sweat out the poisons of December 31, 2008. Recovery seemed the perfect tone for the new year, except I rolled over on my side and fell back to sleep. Lethargy ruled by day. I read THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE CIA until 3pm and then dressed for a late lunch on West 90th Street.

It was at an Episcopal church. The pastor was a woman in her 40s. I had been invited by her cousin, an actress from Quebec. My hang-over dissipated with the 2nd glass of wine and my body was replenished by ham and lentils. The conversation was entertaining and by 7pm I was feeling a little more human.

This was my New Years.

Friends, fine food, and wine.

I left the soiree early and took the Lexington Avenue south toward Union Square.

At 59th Street a large crowd got on the train. Most of them were young. Two Brazilian young men spoke with six well-dressed black girls. They were laughing, as if they had spent a good first day of the year, then the taller Brazilian backed away from the women with a raised right hand. He was giving them the finger.

"Putas. In my country I could kill you for rejecting me and the police would give me a medal." He was drunk, but several newspapers had reported on the noblisse oblige the police accord macho behavior. Only this wasn't Brazil and I told him, "Boyo, soy tranquilo. No one wants any trouble."

He muttered something under his breath and his friend sat next to him.

I got up and moved closer to the girls. A black man in a leather jacket mumbled, "This ain't over."

Two seconds later the tall Brazilian jumped from his seat and ran down the train. Several feet before the girls he leaped in the air to kick at the girls. This feat proved his undoing for he slipped and fell to the floor. As he rose to his feet with something in his hand, the girls pushed him away. I tried to restrain him, but he cut my hand with a sharp object.

My plans for the first day of the year changed with my kicking him in the stomach.

He went down and I made sure he stayed down.

At the next stop the black man and I tossed the unconscious attacker from the train onto the platform. I taught him a few more lessons about manners. I threw off his friend too, booting him in the ass for not controlling his friend.

I asked the girls if they were okay.

Two were crying, but neither had been hit.

Before they could thank the black man and me, a score of cops hustled onto the platform. They surveyed the two fallen men and questioned the girls about the incident.

"That guy attacked me." The prettiest one explained to a rookie policeman.

"And how they get laid out?" The cop was looking in my direction. I stuck my bloodied hand in my coat. The girl's eyes met mine and she said, "I didn't see anything."

"And what about you?" The cop's query was directed to the black man and me.

"All I saw was that guy attack these girls. They did nothing."

"Me too." The black man followed my lead.

"So you saw nothing?"

"Nothing."

The engineer sounded the train was leaving the platform. The cop knew something was wrong, but only because we might have done something right.

The doors slid shut and the train pulled out of the station. I turned around and thanked the black man. He shook my hand. It was sore as was my knee. At 56 I don't give a beating without some damage.

Our fellow passengers applauded our actions. I was a little ashamed by the intensity of the violence, however 2008 had been a tough year, but 2009 promised to be better, because at least I wasn't spending the first night of the year in jail.

Pacem.

The River Is Wide

In August 2009 I took my daughter Angie to the highest point in Thailand. Doi Inthaton was wraithed by fog and I lent her my jacket, even though I had bought her a bright pink poncho in Chiang Mai. She liked anything to do with me. Angie is my daughter. She and I climbed to the highest pagoda and there she asked if i still loved her.

"Pon lak kunh mak." She was my first child. We spent most of her first five years together, until her mother deserted me for an up-country lover. I have gotten over the pain thanks to my new wife, Mam, and our son Fenway, but my love for Angie remained strong despite her mother's betrayal. I had to ask, "Why?"

Angie explained that she opened my computer and saw pictures of another baby, Fenway, and none of her.

I felt her hurt and held her in my arms.

"I will always love you forever." I told her this in Thai with a Boston accent. She made a face like I was speaking Klingon, but then buried her face in my chest. I could feel her heartbeat.

My daughter said nothing. She has never told me that she loves me. Angie is a funny girl that way.

Her mother waited at the car. We had a serious conversation about Fenway. I had kept him a secret. He was no secret now.

"Angie has a brother."

We drove to Sukhothai in long silence ripped to shreds by angry accusations.

"You left me. You had a boyfriend. You made your bed. You keep up this shit and I'll get out of the car now and you'll never see me again.Is that what you want for Angie." My anger was verging on cold blood. "I love her 100%"

She sat in the back.

Like always she said nothing.

Nu shut up. No one was right, but Angie came first.

Night came fast. The road was difficult. My phone rang. It was Mam. I spoke with her and said that Nu knew everything now. No one was happy, although i had Nu stop at a gas station so i could buy some beer.

Sukhothai seemed father away every time I looked at a distance panel, but around 9pm it was only 30 klicks away. The radio warned of flooding. The Yom River was over its banks. Nam tuam. Sukhothai was the ancient Thai capitol. The Burmese had burnt it to the ground on several occasions. There was nothing in the history about flooding, but as we reached the city proper, the water rose higher and higher until it was up to the doors.

"This is fucked up." I kept driving towards the muang bulan. The ancient city was on higher ground.

"Jam dai 5 pii gon. Anthong mii nam tuam." Nu was referring to high waters in Anthong 5 years before.

"Jam dai." Sandbags lined the Asia Highway. Water gleamed an inch below the rim. I had never seen flooding like this. It was like New Orleans a day before Hurricane Katrina went crazy.

We reached dry road and found an open hotel. Sukhothai is a town that closed early. We ate a late dinner and I had Angie sit on my lap. She was scared on the racing waters.

"Mai huang." I told her not to worry. "I will be there always."

And the same goes for Fenway.

We are family.

420 - 2009

My introduction to marijuana came on a drive from Nantasket Beach in the summer of 1969. Frank E Smith (not my brother), Thommie Jordan, and John Gilmour were friends from the Surf, a dance club on the beach. We had just seen the Rockin' Ramrods, the South Shore's #1. They wanted to smoke marijuana on the way home. I was the hold-out.

"I don't want to get a contact high." My drug of choice was beer, wine, and any other form of alcohol. I turned the radio in my VW Beetle to WMEX. They played hippie music this late at night.

"Smoke it." John lit up a reefer. He attended Catholic Memorial. It was my school's archrival. "You'll feel good."

"Smoke it." Thommie Jordan played hockey for Archbishop Williams. He had long hair. His sister was cute. "It won't hurt you."

"Smoke it." Frank E Smith was heading into the Marines. He wanted to see the world. "Girls like it, especially that hippie girl from Weymouth you like. Susan Finn."

"She does?" I had spent the entire night trying to get her out to the beach.

"Yes, she does." A match flared before John's face. He inhaled off the joint and then passed it to the front. I took it from him and inhaled, ending my days as a straight person. Two minutes later we were stopped at a green light in Hingham. Time had reversed direction. I was ruined for society and glad of it.

FTW

And especially on 4/20, National Smoke Day.

420 wasn't the original choice for this holiday, however 4:20 was the mythical time that these pothead from San Rafael High School in California would meet at Louis Pasteur Statue to get high.

Hence 420.

Not much else to say other than I'm going out to break the law.

ps I haven't smoke in over three years. Health reasons, but I condoned breaking this federal law.

Defund the DEA.

It's time to free the weed.

If you got it, smoke it.

Hawaii's Missile Threat

Published 2009

North Korea launched a Taepodong-2 rocket in the general direction on Hawaii. No sirens sounded in Pearl Harbor. The missile failed to achieve orbit, although the hardline worker state crowed about their propaganda "victory" on state TV and the state organ newspaper declared the test as a "historic event that sounded the cannon's roar of victory in building a great, prosperous, powerful nation."

President Obama was quick to threaten North Korea with a scathing rebuke from the UN Security Council, except African guest member Burkina Faso balked at criticizing the hermit state at the behest of its patrons, China and Russia.

GW Bush at the opening day of the Texas Rangers baseball game wasn't available for comment, for after his eight years as leader American school children no longer have hide under their desks in the event of a missile attack.

At 56 I can recall the nuns of St. Mary of the Foothill telling us to pray for our eternal souls during nuclear bomb attack tests.

"God will welcome you."

The Sisters of St. Joseph never indicated whether that welcome was to heaven or hell.

Plastic Bags Forever - 2009

Published on: Nov 4, 2009

Scientists have reported that ocean currents have created a Sargasso Sea of plastic in the Northern Pacific. The expanse of waste products is approximately the size of Texas. No one wants to admit their hand in this phenomena, but everything made of earth seems to be wrapped in plastic. Most of it ends up in the ocean.

Several nations have banned plastic bags outright and more have imposed a plastic bag charge. The vast majority of countries are oblivious to the rising tide of trash. Thailand's 7/11 are famed for packing purchases in several layers of plastic bags. One for the coke can, one for the straw, and one to insure the other two don't break is a classic example of the store employee to distribute plastic bags to millions. If the clerks don’t give them, them are of being kee-nio or stingy.

Phuket has reacted to the complaints of beach goers to the plastic bags semi-buried in the sand like jellyfish doomed to never deteriorate. The city council has given major retailers the right to charge customers for plastic bags. The fee has succeeded in Ireland with a dramatic 90% drop in plastic bags. Of course the proper tactic would be banning them, however some people love their free plastic bags.

They make good Loy Krathong balloons.

ps The Sargasso Sea is created by four ocean gyres or currents. It has no contact with land. According to Wikipedia 0] The Great Atlantic Sargassum Belt is the largest such mass of seaweed in the world.

Bah Humbug Stop your Kvetching

My 2009 Xmas season consisted of a marathon work schedule at the diamond exchange. 7 days a week. 9 hours a day. No caroling or egg nog or festive cheer. I was at work to sell diamonds and jewelry to the public to support my families in Thailand. Business on 47th Street is better than last year at the Plaza Retail Collection. After the banks' collapse in 2008, sales weren't good but it was not dead.

Our clientele make big money. Earlier in the year I had sold a ruby for a million dollars to a woman from Detroit. Richie Boy had sold a D-flawless Pear Shape for $600,000. None of my friends were buying anything for their wives. Maybe a cashmere scarf and a bottle of perfume. Not a single call for a strand of pearls or diamond studs. Only the rich had money and the other day Richie Boy called me a hypocrite.

"For all your talk about re-distribution of wealth, you end up earning your money off the upper class."

"I never said I wasn't a hypocrite, but how I make my money has nothing to do with my political beliefs."

"You want to overthrow the capitalist system. What kind of jewelry do you think revolutionaries buy? Nothing?"

"Our customer base shrinks year by year. The rich get richer and the rest of the world has no money. That's why they don't buy anything, but potato chips." I had been thinking about a red star ruby ring for myself. I remain true to the cause. My tastes run left of anarchy. My only jewelry at the moment is a claddagh ring and a half-dozen Buddhist talisman.

"Well, I couldn't be happier for my friends, who are richer this year than last, because without them we wouldn't be in business." Richie Boy had met most of his customers at bars and discos during the 70s, 80s, and 90s and even now. They liked to party as did we. Neither of us were quitters.

None of the rich ever spoke about their good times with the wives around them. They were smarter than Tiger Woods that way, but I didn't have to like them.

"They're all schlubs.

"What about your customer this week. Owns a natural gas company. Was a submarine commander. He's on MSNBC."

"He's a nice guy." The customer was looking for a $300,000 Emerald-Cut Bracelet. I had one from Cartier. The stones were not a great color. The broker pulled the three biggest diamonds. When the setter put them back, he polished out the 'Cartier' stamp. The piece lost $100,000 on that mistake. "I'm going to make him the piece. It will be gem. He'll be happy. His wife will be happier."

She had liked my story about Uncle Carmine being buried with his dogs ashes. Aunt Jane had no idea whose cinders belonged to whom. The three cans are resting well above Schoonic Bay.

"You shouldn't think any of these people are your friends. They're are all Gs." A G was a Goy. They bought retail. "Why not? You do." Richie Boy hated the idea of my customers becoming friends because the commission ratio lifted from 10% to 25%.

"Today's strangers are tomorrow's friends. Opportunity knocking on the door."

"Fucking commie."

"Goddamn fascist."

The door opened for a couple. The husband visibly was in a hurry to buy something for his wife of twenty-some odd years.

"You're up, Che." Richie Boy always gave me the opening. I was the fluffer for the firm. A hypocrite with a golden heart. A man too lazy to lie. A revolutionary waiting for retirement.

My second wife is only twenty-seven.

That's revolution enough for me.

Judas Priest - Better By You, Better Than Me

This weekend I went on a Judas Priest binge.

HEADING OUT ON THE HIGHWAY, DIAMONDS AND RUST, ROCKA ROLLA etc, until YouTube popped up the lead singer's testimony in a 1990 Nevada civil suit accusing the group of inciting two Reno teenagers' suicide pact via subliminal words 'do it' in their reprieve of the Spooky Tooth song BETTER BY YOU BETTER THAN ME.

The suit was thrown out of court to the protest of conservative lawmakers and church leaders threatened by the demonic aspect of heavy metal. Comedians rallied to the defense of Judas Priest and Rob Halford suggested that a better death command would have been 'buy more of our records'.

Those forces of revision; the church and the right, ruled the country for the last 40 years.

In the summer of 2009 in Iowa City I was siting in a bar whith Alan Lage aka Colonel Rockford, and Brock Dundee, a Brit spy serving the West's Endless War in Afghanistan, when I overheard one of three overweight corn middlemen say, "This country was founded on conservative values."

I put down my drink. My good friend Alan Lage lifted his hands. "Violence doesn't solve anything."

"You're right about that." I signaled I was cool, calm, and collected and said to the old hippie, "I'm just going to say one thing."

I walked over to them and glared , as I said, "This country was founded on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness and it makes me very happy to tell you dumb motherfuckers to shut your holes."

The fattish trio were stylish attired in Midwest Stretch-band khakis and a blue skirt like they were cult members. I was in black leather. No one threw a punch, but I felt vindicated by my exercising the freedom of speech. The young bartender, who had recently returned from a National Guard stint in Iraq, gave Alan Lage and me a beer.

"I'm working, so I can't say a thing. Thanks for being my voice."

"Can I ask you a favor, can you play HEAD OUT TO THE HIGHWAY?"

Coming right up."

And I still love Judas Priest.

Rock on.

To hear BETTER BY YOU BETTER THAN ME go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqAPVB4u9Zs&NR=1&feature=fvwp

ROADS OF THE FLYOVER Part 3 by Peter Nolan Smith

"Where are we going?" Brock studied the map. We hadn't seen a single human being for an hour. The low sky muttered distant thunder. To the west clouds gathered in a darkening threat. I had never seen a tornado and stepped on the gas. "North." The rural dirt road paralleled US 169. No one in New York or London had ever seen this route through Iowa. "I know that." The Scotsman couldn't drive, but knew the points of the compass. "When you think that family left that house." "Back in the 90s." The paint peels off its wood like potato chips. "Stop." He was the boss and I punched the brakes to batslide to a halt. I got out of the rented Ford. Metal ticked on plastic and the V6 was in time. Brock set up his movie camera. I had been on film shoots before. His was the most minimum set-up of all. "Barry once said to a journalist, “I enjoy the third dimension and I appreciate material in time and space. I find it exciting to the eyes.” "Then he'll love this." The house was timeless. The sky was changing. The May trees bend to the wind. "Let's go." We stopped at the Blackcat Fireworks store. "I love a little pyrotechnics." Four days ago Brock had been in Afghanistan. He spent $100 on rockets and M80s. He was homesick for the noise of war. We blew up the fireworks on a dirt road. Iowa had them by the thousands. I lit the fuses and Brock watched the explosions. "Not even close," he said as the report of the last M80 faded into the treeline. We got back in the car. Des Moines was Iowa's capitol. We arrived after 5. The city sidewalks were empty of people. "Is America dead?" Brock meant that a plague had killed everyone. "Only sleeping." I wished it was the truth. We visited the city's hare. Brock focused his camera on the statue. I sat in the car and called Thailand. My son Fenway was better. His mother was angry at me. "Why you go trip? Why you not see son?" I said nothing, for a man is always wrong in the eyes of his woman. We spent the night in Des Moines. Brock and I ate ribs. The restaurant was next to the motel. The TV over the bar showed fast cars. At the end of the meal I ordered a doggie bag. "Why did Barry sculpt hares?" I saw no different between hares and rabbits. "One day he bought a dead rabbit from a butcher in England and remembered a jumping hare. To him it represented freedom. All kinds of freedom." Freedom was hard to find in America of 2009 and I called Rockford in Iowa City. The old hippie was looking forward to seeing us. The next morning we left Des Moines. Silos towered over the old highway. "This is farmland." Iowa was the center of America to me. "Corn and wheat." "Tortillas and bread." "And prisons." "My friend Rockford spent two years doing hard time. The cops found something else other than the grass they knew he had." Snitches were a problem everywhere. "And we're meeting him tonight?" "But of course." Rockford and I went back to an acid trip on Moonlight Beach. The year was 1975. He was more than good people. Train tracks were quiet out of Des Moines. I took to the Interstate. Rockford had called to say he was holding something special. Rockford and his son met us at a bar on the outskirts of town. I hadn't seen John since he was a baby. The years went fast. I gave John a Ferrari jacket from my defunct internet site. He loved it being red. His friends picked him up. We spoke to the bartender. Jake was back from a 3rd tour in Iraq. "It sucked." Three right-wingers were drinking Bud-Lite at the bar. A chubby one said, "This country was founded on conservative values." I slammed down my PBR. "This country was founded on Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, so shut the fuck up about your conservative values." I liked Obama as president. "Calm down, my friend." Rockford suggested we move to the Deadwood, which was Iowa City's best dive bar. "Sounds good to me>" Brock and I had more front teeth than any of the regulars at the Deadwood. Rockford broke out a bottle of Bolivian Pink 1975. "I've been keeping it for a special occasion and nothing more special than an old friend visiting me." Rockford offered me the first blast. 1975 had been a good year. "Was he a hippie back then?" Brock's 'he' was me. I hated being third-person. "Not even close, but he was good people." Rockford knew my soul. I got another blast. 2009 was even better, because we were alive and alive was all there was everywhere in the world. Rockford was still at his pile at dawn. We had to go. A museum in Minneapolis was expecting Brock. We said our good-bye and hit the road. It was heading north.

THE FLY-OVER Chapter 2 by Peter Nolan Smith

CHAPTER TWO

“There's nothing like this in Afghanistan.” Brock had spent the last two months outside of Kandahar. shot the spreading Mississippi with his movie camera. Farm houses seemed to float on the flood plain like Huck Finn's raft.

In the 90s I had driven across the Roof of the World. There were few trees and little water, but lots of desert.

Here the unplowed fields bloomed with flowers.

"Is this going to be in your film?" I hadn't asked too many questions about his Barry Flanagan project.

"You never know what will mean something in a film." Brock was a one-man crew. Two, if he counted me as a driver. He stopped shooting. "But this film is for Barry. Imagine yourself trapped in a failing body. You'd want to see all this, wouldn't you?"

"And more." Every mile was new to me.

We traveled US 54 to Vandalia, then turned northwest to Paris on US 25. The rental Ford hit 80 on the straightaways. The V6 could go faster given the right conditions.

"Aren't you scared of police?" Brock aimed the camera at me.

Yesterday I had explained why we were on the backroads, but this was my scene for the movie and I said without taking my eyes off the straightaway, "They're out on the Interstates revenue hunting. Remember this is the deep Flyover. No one from not here comes here, except anyone who lives here, but it's not a wasteland. This is America's breadbasket, although most of the corn goes to cows."

We passed a farmhouse and Brock said, "I feel like we're in COLD BLOOD."

The Scottish filmmaker had chosen Truman Capote's opus about two drifters murdering a Kansas family as his travel book.

"We don't look anything like Hickok or Smith." The young killers had been hung at hanging at the Kansas State Penitentiary in 1965.

"Or Truman Capote."

"Not much has changed out here since then."

"And not much will in the future."

My book for this trip was ON THE ROAD. I looked more like him than the killers.

I had yet to open Kerouac's homage to America, but his trip had begun up the Hudson at the Bear Mountain Bridge. I knew it well.

"The last time I came through the Midwest was in 1994 in a Studebaker Hawk." Meg had done most of the driving.

"That's why I wanted you with me. You're American."

I pressed PLAY for Arthur Lee and Love's IF 6 WAS 9 and my foot hit the gas.

The Ford was all go.

It hit 90.

Fifty miles east of KC rain sploshed off the four-laner and I slowed to 50.

THE WIZARD OF OZ belonged to Kansas. The sky turned black.

"Stormy weather." It scared Brock.

"Nothing to worry about."

I had never seen a tornado, but I didn't need to tell Brock that.

Twenty minutes later the rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. Kansas City rested on a hill and a golden nimbus transform the city into Oz.

"I love America." Brock filmed two minutes of our approach.

I doubted any of it would be in his film.

"My friend, Joe, ran away to Kansas City in 1965. He was 13 and wanted to see if there were any pretty girls there."

"As Wilbert Harrison sang in the song."

"He found none and the cops sent him back to Boston."

"But he got here and here is a long way away from there."

"And that's the truth."

Downtown Kansas City mimicked St. Louis' purgatory and we booked a room in Kansas not far from the house of my old friend from the South Shore, Ray Santo. The South Shore native was free tonight and we met for ribs. Brock and I got sloppy. Ray stayed clean.

"I have to play later." Ray was a drummer in the KC scene.

"We're coming with you." Brock ordered another round. The three of us left the restaurant. Ray hailed a taxi.

"Kansas City cops hate drunk drivers."

Ray gave the driver directions.

""But not drunks," I muttered, because Kansas was next to Oklahoma and that state didn't believe in curved road, unless they were connected to a tornado.

Five minutes after we arrived at the crowded nightclub, Ray hit the stage. The band performed a tight set of country-western music. Brock yee-hahed during a break.

"How do you know Ray?"

"He went out with my sister." Ray had a Corvette. He played good hockey and shot better pool. My mother didn't approve of his dating my younger sister. "Back in 1970."

"That's almost thirty years ago."

"Yep, and I haven't seen Ray in too long." I yee-hahed and Brock joined me.

Drinking beer was good and listening to music was even better, espically since they did have pretty girls in Kansas City.

The next morning we had coffee and donuts at the motel and then I drove us to Overland Park. Flanagan's Hare statue was in the middle of the Johnson County Community College campus.

Guns were not allowed on campus.

A uniformed guard gave us a pass. Our parking space was reserved for 'visitors'. The art director met us on the walkway.

"Not many people around," said Brock.

"School's not in session. It's Spring Break."

JCCC offered its student body of 37,000 the chance of changing lives through learning. It was a big school.

"That's fine. We're here to see the Hare." Brock broke out his equipment and we entered the interior quadranlge of Administration Building.

"Well, here it is." The director stood before the 11-foot statue of a Hare on a Bell. I liked the one in St. Louis better. It was very Nijinsky.

Brock asked our host about the Hare. I made myself scarce during the interview. I liked to know nothing and pulled out my cellphone to call New York.

No one answered, so I visited the Nerman Museum attached to JCCC. The sky threatened rain and the clouds weren't telling any lies.

An hour later Brock ran to the Ford to beat a downpour. He carried the camera bag under his coat. I was listening to Dave Van Ronk's BOTH SIDES NOW and I turned down the volume, as the Scot sat in the car. Rain dripped off his hat and he wiped his face with a towel. "That was great. I interviewed seven people. They really understand the Hare."

"So they don't think it's a rabbit?"

"They think it's something much more."

"Like what?"

"Freedom and wildness."

"And those are good things."

"Always for us. so now what now?"

"North to Iowa."

"On the highway?" Brock was a little concerned about his schedule.

"Not a chance." I pulled out of the parking lot certain no one had said 'North to Iowa' in this century and more importantly I was glad to have heard it at least once in my lifetime.