8.01.01

I'm back, and even updating a little earlier than I normally will. Anything to keep my readers happy.

Had an interesting weekend in St. Louis, well, an interesting Saturday anyway, and my running commentary on the day is going to be my entry for this week. No big philosophical questions or anything this week, just a chance to see what I've been up to and to sort of continute my last entry concerning Jack Kerouac and On the Road. Finished it, by the way, and loved every single page of it.

Still working on the t-shirts and such, so keep your pants on. Maybe next week, I don't know. I'm not in any real hurry on these in case you hadn't noticed, since I'm the only one who will ever be buying anything from them.

Didn't get a chance to see the Miles Davis thing yet, but plan to next week or next weekend for sure. Plans just didn't work out like I had hoped for the weekend due to some bad weather reports that never culminated in anything.

However, that doesn't mean I didn't do anything all weekend and for that, read on...

I had heard it was supposed to rain today, so thinking my spelunking would be best left to a dryer day, I slept in far too long until almost 1:00 in the afternoon. When I had finally worked my way out of bed and gotten a shower, I noticed the sun was shining brightly and maybe a day of exploring was still in order. I got some things together in my new leather briefcase – pens, pencils, a notebook, sketchpad and my copy of On the Road – and headed out around 2:30, figuring at the very least I could go to the St. Louis Art Museum for a few hours anyway. After a pit stop to refuel and get cash, $40 to supplement the $6 I had in my pocket, I was on my way, heading south to 60/41 then east to Forest Park.

Forest Park is the coolest, most depressing place that I’ve ever been. The whole south side of town is glorious, filled with huge parks of grass and trees with the occasional island of culture in the art museum, the zoo, a playhouse and something I would have never expected in Missouri in a million years, a huge cricket field, where today two Indian teams, who surely learned the complicated game from their colonial masters, were playing. I was tempted to stop and watch, but time it was a’tickin and I wanted to soak up the museum as much as I could in the remaining two hours it was open for the day.

Besides the wonderful paintings and sculptures, their collection of tribal arts is a sight to behold. As a man who has a great interest in the way other cultures see the world, I found myself salivating at the site of Aboriginal bark paintings, African ritual masks, Chinese bronze works and Egyptian canopic jars carved from milky white alabaster and still holding the mummified organs of a man who lived long ago. Between these exhibits and the designs of the 20th Century, where trippy, innovative designs of the 1960’s were showcased, I realized that I was not going to be able to see it all in my time today. So I left, feeling inspired, depressed and excited at the wonderful few hours I’d had and looking forward to the time I would return for another round.

I had decided to drive back west to the North Hanley Metro depot, simply because it was just that much closer to home and because it was right off I-70 and easy to get to. So I took the main street, Union I believe, north, taking me through Forest park. Based upon the first few blocks from the museum area, I was ready to pull into the first apartment complex I saw and sign a lease right then and there. This was a place I wanted to be, to experience any day of the week. However, the further north I went, the more depressed I got. Instead of the beautifully up kept old manors that lined the earlier blocks, I soon found those same manors had boarded up windows, bars on their doors, paint faded and chipping away and concrete steps crumbling down. It continued like this, depressing, dirty, with a sense of desperation and hopelessness of situation until I had found the interstate and took it west. It was sad to see a once glorious part of town, where not so many years ago The World’s Fair had been held, falling into the slums, a forgotten neighborhood being crushed under its own sadness.

I purchased a four-ride Metro ticket for $5, figuring I wasn’t sure what exactly lie in the road ahead and I’d hate to get all the way downtown and not have $1.25 to get back. As I waited for the train, only a few minutes, I read a bit of On the Road and thought of my own miniscule in comparison journey for the day. The train ride there was uneventful and I continued to read until reaching a suitable spot to head out – downtown by Busch Stadium, home of my Chicago Cub-loving heart’s mortal enemies, The St. Louis Cardinals.

Downtown St. Louis is a ghost town. Discarded newspapers roll like tumbleweeds through the empty streets. The occasional wandering spirit ruffles by the mausoleum office buildings. Then, like an oasis in the Sahara, a fountain with artificially blue water rumbles with a soft rhythm like that of the ocean. Here is where the ghosts walk freely, stopping in the shadow of the lonely Arch, Gateway to the West, to soak up what little is left of the city’s soul now that so many of the population are moving to the surrounding suburbs. I sat briefly on a park bench, trying to decide what’s next now that my aspirations for downtown were shot. A man asked me for money, claiming he hadn’t eaten in four days. I had forgotten about my solitary $1 bill and told him I had nothing to give; he moved on to the next bench where two women sat smoking and was met with equal disappointment. I had decided the Arch, and the nearby Mississippi must be my next destinations, they being the epitome of the city in question. I made a five-cent wish in the fountain before moving on to the looming figure ahead.

I never understood the Arch until I found myself peering in awe at the perfection before me. It stands a shimmering testament to modern engineering. In fact, it barely looks like mankind created it at all, more like some strange calling card of another worldly civilization, dropped there as a sort of Kill Roy. It makes me wonder what those who are scavenging the remnants of our society will think of it. Will it be like the pyramids of the ancient kings of Egypt, a strange, huge enigma standing next to an ancient riverbed, historians arguing over its purpose and significance?

As I wandered the early American history museum that rests in the fruit cellar of the shimmering monstrosity, tears welled in my eyes as I read the inspiring words of those adventurous souls who had gone before me. The sadness overwhelmed as I realized that no such words could ever be spoken again, as the West that they saw was gone; lost like the Road to El Dorado to a shining land of the gold of freedom. I bought quite possibly the world’s most expensive one-time use camera in the museum’s gift shop, amid the various trinkets, all bearing the mark of the huge oblong Arch, but that $19 will be well worth it to visually document my day. I also bought an apple cinnamon muffin; surprised that today was buy one get one free, walking with away with two such muffins and a small package of lemon drops from the “authentic” country store.

I continued walking until I found myself by the dirty, muddy waters of the great river itself. The riverfront was littered with people walking to and fro, but mainly standing or sitting, waiting for something, anything. I walked along the river, stopping to rest along the cobblestoned bank to eat one of the muffins that, surprisingly, was both appley and cinnamonly, far from the dry, barely edible lump that I was expecting. I thought about eating the other muffin, but decided to keep it for later in my journey.

After the brief rest, I continuted down the riverside, snaking between the other pedestrians, my bag flapping softly against my side. Finally, I had reached the promised land for the day, a small, St. Louis knock-off of the French Quarter, called Laclede’s Landing. However, as most Johnny Come Lately’s, it fails to capture the spirit of the original, though it does try hard with its rough, old, uneven brick streets and its quaint street lamps dimly illuminating the dirty corner bars.

I went to a neat, dank, cave-like dive called The Big Bang. It is furnished spartanly, the walls are rough stone and wool paneling, giving the feeling of a Neanderthal penthouse. Very out of place is a beautiful, stained-glass skylight, with bright golds, blues, greens and reds glimmering, giving the only hint of style to the joint. As I sat down, a two-man group of piano players were accepting and playing with masterfull skill virtually any song you can possibly imagine, all without the assistance of a single piece of sheet music. They worked the crowd well, getting them to join in on the chorus of songs from Bob Segar, Aretha Franklin, Elvis and The Eagles. It makes me wonder if they are truly talented young men or if the songs of the last 50 years are so simple that anyone can play them if they know only a few key chords. I’d like to think the former. Either way, they are an entertaining way to pass the time while I swig down a few $3 bottles of beer to cool off. I have no idea where I’ll end up next, but I doubt it will be more fun than The Big Bang. As I picked up my things to leave, they played “King of the Road” and I simply have to smile at how fitting it is today.

After The Big Bang, I head north and find myself at a small bar that epitomizes a hole in the wall, called Hair of the Dog. I enter to a hollow place, only the bartender stands watching TV. It has that feeling of a calm before the storm, as though it would be a wild place when the timing is right. Out of pure good manners alone, I order a beer, sitting at the bar to drink while the owner, who came in shortly with another employee in tow, tells a tale of a rowdy patron who was handled roughly, rightly so, by St. Louis’ finest when he threatened to break the front plate glass of the bar with a metal bat after being angered for some unsaid reason. It felt like a buddy bar, a place where all are admitted, but only a few are welcomed. The kind of bar I wished I could find in my sad, suburban existence. After my one polite beer, I left without a word, feeling like one of the admitted.

As I turned the corner, back towards the river, a black man in old brown pants, an ugly teal t-shirt, white slip-on shoes, dingy as hand me downs or second hand store buys are wont to be, and a large, glorious afro asked me if I’d like to help a poor, homeless man by giving a donation of whatever I felt was fair in exchange for a shoe shine. At first I hesitated and then came to the conclusion that has served me well many times before in life, “Why the hell not?”

I sat on a stoop as the man, using his already dark skinned fingers stained them even darker with shoe polish that he rubbed into the dry, cracked, and dusty wrinkles of my faithful old Doc Marten boots. He told me of his hardships, of having to rip up a t-shirt for rags to do his shining and the shirt he wore tonight was the only one he owned, of having his shine tools stolen from him and having to make do with napkins from a local bar where I was sure he’d probably end up spending whatever money I gave him anyway. Even if he did go spend it on drinks, what’s wrong with buying a stranger a brew? The world would be a much better place if we all did so every once in a great while. He told me how he had prayed to God to send him some new brushes and God had answered because he was expecting a man to sell him some later this very evening. I wasn’t sure to believe a word the man said as he rubbed my feet with his nicotine stained hands, but I didn’t rightly care. I was getting my old boots shined on a street corner stoop in the ancient city of St. Louis, not one hundred yards from the Old Man River hisself. It’s not everyday that that happens to a boy from a small town in Central Illinois.

After my shine, I thanked the man, gave him my last $5 in cash and continued down the street. It wasn’t long before I found a place called Hannegan’s; their slogan was “Happy Days Are Here Again”, so I figured I had found a place for me. I couldn’t have been more right. The menu was full of red meat, seafood, even duck, all served with homemade bread, an Idaho baked potato, the meat was cooked to order, and on each booth was the name and party affiliation of a politician who had voted to repeal prohibition; now I knew I was in the right spot. The décor and atmosphere were straight out of the first half of the 20th Century; old, stained wood, beautiful green upholstery that any tree would be jealous of, and a piano man playing old jazz and blues tunes on a raised stage so all could see and hear. The only hint of modernity was the generic electronic drum machine he used as his “band”, continuously strumming hackneyed drum beats, cymbal clacks and bass lines that are commonly found when you hit button #17 on your Wal-Mart bought Casio keyboard. However, this cheese gave it a very unusual tone, a perfect symbol of their trying to recreate the past, but further proof that it simply cannot be done.

I contemplated the duck in raspberry sauce, oh, how I contemplated it. However, with a place that was trying to recreate the days of yore, back before a beautiful slab of slightly-red, slightly-bleeding steak was bad for you, I decided they probably knew how to make their former cows. I ate a meal fit for an inmate who’s big day with the lightning was soon to dawn. A wonderful Kansas City strip steak, cooked to pink perfection medium-rare, a big baked potato, cut zig-zagged down the middle, unzipping to reveal its starchy innards and a pint of slightly-tart, local brew wheat beer. The meat was so pink and tender and delicious, I was forced to take my time devouring it, savoring every bite. After the meal, I couldn’t help but order a piece of cheesecake, mounds of strawberries lining the wedge of decadence like the banks of the Mighty Miss. I was reminded of the last time I’d had cheesecake, some five years ago, baked by a young woman I was madly falling for, but knew in that same heart that we would never work out. She was a lively, amazing woman, almost perfect, her only fault being that she wasn’t ready or able to settle down or even commit for a while to any one man, choosing instead to date, among other things, any man who was willing. And with a body and spirit like hers, there were plenty of such men, me being one of them. However, I saw this early on in our relationship and, thankfully, decided that I would be the only one hurt if I were to continue along the chosen path and let her go about her ways. In hindsight I was disappointed, as her cheesecake was much better.

It was 9:45, forty-five minutes since I’d entered this unusual, politically-themed restaurant, separating itself from the Planet Hollywood’s and Hard Rock’s of the world by being the only place to have pictures of those men who’d battled each other in the House or the Senate, rather than against rabid groupies or alien invaders. I decided I’d had enough, and with only a few more hours before wanting to catch the train back to my lonely little car, I had to get a move on. I gulped down the last of my wheat beer, packed up and hit the road again.

As I left, I wandered the streets, not finding anywhere but generic dance clubs invading the streets with their generic tribal beats that cause generic, midriff-baring young women to bounce and sway pointlessly, with men, no boys, who stand along the bar wearing their designer label jeans and store-purchased, pre-weathered hats bobbing their blank, hungry stares in a similar manner. I decided to stop by an ATM and get $40 in the hopes I would find a more interesting and suitable place to spend it.

Just as I had reached the end of The Landing district and was about to turn around and head home, utterly disappointed, I heard the thing I had been longing for all day – jazz. At first I thought it was only a recording and so considered my original plan of making my way home. But as I listened, I realized it was a live band, blaring out the brass that I love so much. I turned the corner, allowing the sound to be my Pied Piper.

Inside a small patio surrounded by wrought iron bars designed to keep out those unwilling to pay the $5 cover, was a band of men called The Chia Band. They played a wonderful mix of jazz and big band with a splash and a dash of Latin Salsa for good measure. Although only consisting of the most basic ingredients, one trumpeter that blew like his life depended on it, a saxophonist who was calm and sedate but dynamic, a tromboner who played his parts with gusto and a lead guitar, bass guitar and drummer relegated to the back of the stage, allowing the horns to star as should be, they played with the energy of a symphony. Their songs were riotous and energetic, allowing the jazz and salsa to blend into a wonderful stew of chords and riffs.

I got a beer, only $1 for drafts, and sat at a table strategically situated between the band and the beautiful barmaid. As I sat, bobbing my head and banging out a rhythm on my plastic, uneven patio furniture, a blonde chick stood nearby, hip pointed out in a completely unnatural, but beautiful way, waiting to get a drink. Her hair was curly, naturally or permed that way I could not tell, but I didn’t much care. She had a wonderful, alive look in her eye and I was sorely disappointed when she returned to a table where an inconsiderate frat boy, with his silly, infantile backwards ball cap, sat waiting for her to return.

The band played on, their Latin roots coming out ever stronger as they began to mix in choruses of Spanish words incomprehensible to us gringos of St. Louis. They were a great mix of the spontaneity and improvisational nature of jazz, allowing the players to wail for long stretches with a driving beat of bass guitar, drums and cowbell going on behind. This is what I had been looking for all day, and to think I had almost given up. It was then that it dawned on me that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I was in a beer garden, but had no idea who’s. I suddenly wished I had brought my cigars.

Four women, beautifully over-dressed for any establishment on The Landing, came in. They sat looking radiantly at each other, the least attractive of the quartet knowing she looked better than most women on the block just because. I fell in love with the short-haired one with her cat-eye glasses, conjuring up an elaborate story of how we would meet here in this anonymous beer garden, she would go to dinner with me where we would discuss all the things you’re supposed to on a first date and more, finding we were perfect for each other and already planning our wedding and picking out baby names. However, the girls didn’t stick around long before deciding this place was too boring for them and that was when I realized my cat-eyed girl was probably not right for me anyway and let her go without a thought.

As I purchased my third drink, an equally inexpensive, but doubly effective Long Island Iced Tea, I realized with horror where I was, thanks to the heavenly tight, pink baby doll t-shirt worn by my well-equipped barmaid - I had somehow wandered into the back alley of Planet Hollywood! Bah! Of all the places I was looking for, those small, unknown-except-to-only-a-few bars I had been seeking, I found the most well known, but failing empire I could find. Although I could have considered this a major failure on my part, I kept a positive attitude in that I had at least found a cool band that helped offset the damages.

I left the way-too-hip back alley of Planet Hollywood at 11:15. I had it in my head that I might be able to catch a jazz bar that I knew of in one of the burbs before it closed at 1:00. So, I made my way to the Metro station.

There is no greater boredom than that experienced while waiting for a train. The Metro was running late, or early I suppose the case might have been and the 11:19 train didn’t show until the 11:34 train was supposed to, blowing any real chance of hitting my jazz bar. I stood on the platform, waiting with skater punks in their dingy-white wife beaters, khaki cargo shorts that were 4 sizes too large and their spiked hair every color of the rainbow as they chain smoked anxiously. Luckily, the depot at The Landing is by the far the most interesting on the Metro line that I have witnessed thus far. It’s built inside an old rail bridge that has probably been in use in some form or another for at least 50 years, probably longer. The beautiful brick archways of the elevated platform allow one to look out on to the street below where people, young and old alike, stroll down those rough and tumble streets, dressed to the nines and looking for the next good time. The walls are stained black with soot and grime that has probably been there longer than I’ve been alive, contrasting sharply with the shiny metal poles and florescent lights of the much newer Metro furnishings; yet another example of the schizophrenia this town suffers from. Finally, the train arrived and I was on my way home.

The Metro is an amazing place to be. One Saturday afternoon I want to get up early, head to the nearest depot and just ride it all day. I guarantee I’d have some amazing characters and moments to fill my stories with for the rest of my life.

Tonight at the second stop on my way west, three black men got on, still dressed in their government-issued blue Post Office uniforms. These men represented three generations of Americans – my own Generation with the horrible moniker of X, a member of the Vietnam era and an old, retired Navy according to his hat, member of the post World War II Baby Boomers. I don’t mean to sound like a bigot, but these men reminded me of gorillas as they quietly lumbered onto the train and took their seats with a slight sigh of exhaustion and relief. They were all big men, especially the one in his forties, who wore a big, thick, black beard that overtook most of his weary face. Once they had come to the realization that they were on their way home and away from the workplace, the two younger men began to chatter away, arguing over who’s generation of quarterbacks were better. Was it Joe Montana and Brett Farve or Johnny Unitas and Terry Bradshaw? Their conversation started out quietly, but grew in intensity as such heated arguments often do; but they always kept a friendly tone, exchanging joking unpleasantries about the other’s IQ and/or mother throughout most of the ride. The thing that struck me most was the old man, his white-tinged goatee and hair reminded me of an old silver back male, who simply sat wisely reading his St. Louis Dispatch while the two younger gorillas fought for dominancy. As I sat there watching him, paying no mind to the fruitless bickerings of his younger friends, I thought he would probably be very interesting to chat with over a few beers. He seemed like a wise old man, his glasses hung down on the tip of his nose as he read, who had probably seen much and experienced much. What I wouldn’t give to hear how the world has changed in his lifetime through the eyes of a black man.

Besides the Post Office gorillas, a man sat with his daughter nestled in his arms after a long day of too much fun in the big city. The young girl of probably seven or eight lay gently, peacefully with her head in her Dad’s side, her feet curled up on to the seat by her, not caring who lead their team to more Super Bowl victories. The man stared into the moving darkness as we traveled from station to station until finally he could no longer keep his also heavy eyelids open. They both rested until the father, somehow, miraculously awoke just as we pulled into their depot. He nudged his daughter who begrudgingly picked herself up and moved like a zombie out the sliding doors and into the night.

At that same stop, a young couple climbed on board and took the seats across the aisle from me. They were both very somber and quiet as she put her arm into his and sleepily put her head on his shoulder. They were dressed in obviously second hand clothes, but they didn’t seem to mind. The man sat staring ahead with empty eyes, possibly thinking about his life or the one he and his woman, only a few months pregnant but already starting to show, were going to bring into this world. He didn’t look angry or sad or happy, but more distant and comptemplative than anything else. I wondered if he was beginning to realize that the woman sitting by him, whom he no longer or never ever did love, was going to be a part of his life for as long as he cared about the baby; or maybe he was madly, deeply, perfectly in love with her and was simply reflecting on what a wonderful life lie ahead for them. I don’t know which the case was, I just knew they had an unusual aire about them and when they finally left, not saying a word during the entire ride, the train felt like it had been changed somehow, taking on a gray feeling somewhere between life’s wonderful beauties and concerning uncertainties.

Finally, my stop and my drive home where happily uneventful. After talking to my roommate, who at 12:30 at night was playing a football game on his Playstation 2, and, sadly, had been playing it non-stop since 10:30 that morning, I went to the porch to have my much-wanted cigar and reflect upon my day in the city.

Despite the fun time I had, I was still disappointed in my day. My plan was to get up bright eyed and bushy tailed and spend the whole day exploring Forest Park and its various cultural offerings, a thing I was sorely missing out in the suburban wastelands of Genericana’s McDonald’s and convenience stores. However, I could not complain about the art museum and the time I had spent there. The Arch was a site to behold and I was looking forward to the time I might be able to take the ride up to it’s peak and look down on the city below, another day perhaps. The Landing, although fun, was still a bit of a disappointment. I was hoping that I would find some great, smoke-filled jazz club with the lights turned low except for the single, soft spot light that illuminated the stage where young men and women poked and prodded, trying to find that vein into the bluesy past of St. Louis itself. Alas, none was to be found amongst the dance clubs and Hair of the Dogs of the district. With this in mind, I decided that my next St. Louie adventure would need to be a little better planned out. I’ll do some exploring online to see what I can find and make some appointments to check them out. Although it might not have the spontaneous color of today’s adventure, I simply can’t believe that that is all this town has to offer. As I threw my well-smoked cigar into the duck pond, the fowl still swimming in the moon’s reflection, I was happy that I had spent my day exploring, at least so I’d have a better feeling for the city just a short trip away.

Space Monkey