Postcards from State Avenue

"I used to come here with my folks way back in 1951, when it was a place called the Westheight Café. It's been a lot of things. It was a barbecue pit for a while and, in the 1960s, it was one of those shops that sold tie-dyed T-shirts and, you know, paraphernalia."

"That's it," Murphy laughs. "I knew it wasn't a pot shop. Anyway, it's been a little bit of everything."

A brawny construction worker in a blue T-shirt razzes Murphy. She snaps back. "He tells me I remind him of his ex-wife," Murphy announces to everyone in the joint. "That made me feel good."

A lady with short-cropped hair snubs out her cigarette and asks Murphy if she'll ever retire. "I wish I could retire," Murphy snorts, "but I can't find anyone to support me."

The queen of Wyandotte County waitresses rules alone. -- Charles Ferruzza

1 p.m.
Wyandotte County Fair Grounds
There's a king on State Avenue and his name is Max.

In a big metal barn lined with bleachers and stalls, Wyandotte County teenagers practice showing their pigs in front of a judge.

At the slightest provocation, the pig-raising adolescents flirtatiously turn their sticks on one another, giggling and swatting.

The fairgrounds are quiet, because it's the middle of the day on a Wednesday, and most of the games, rides, shows and exhibition booths won't be open until about 4. The next pig races aren't until 5:30, and the big yellow Scientology tent -- offering stress tests and insisting that "something can be done about it" -- is closed. Even the Republican Party registration table sits unmanned. For now, the hoofed and feathered far outnumber the human.

The chickens are presided over by young kids: 8, 9 and 10 years old. One of the chickens has been disqualified for having the wrong number of toes. "Must have five toes on each foot," his scorecard reads. "Poultry," his water dish says.

Near the cattle stalls, 17-year-old Kurtis Schweinfurth is making friends with two girls his age -- one is here to sell angel food cakes, and the other to cheer on her brother's steer. Schweinfurth is showing a cow for his fifth year in a row. When asked if his cow has a name, he shakes his head. "He's gonna die on Friday or Saturday night," he says. "Why get attached? You keep these cows from February or March until now. Saturday night, they're not yours any more."

The carnival area is abandoned. Later, it will become a red-light district of balloon-popping games, with game-pimps calling out to naïve passers-by, promising stuffed-animal prizes. Kids will hop on the Fun Slide, which -- with its rainbow-colored sign and pink triangle lights -- is the gayest slide on Earth. They will wander through a psychedelic funhouse that beckons, "Enter here, dudes." They will spin around in a circular room, sticking to the wall when the floor drops out. They will get air-brushed phat-toos.

Maybe they will see Thumbelina, the midget horse attraction advertised with signs that read, "Could this be the WORLD'S SMALLEST HORSE?" The booth next door, operated by the same family, showcases a zebra-donkey hybrid known as a zony, a zorse or a z-donk. His name is Safari. Safari's roommate is "the weirdest hairless dog in the world, a remarkable canine wonder! Naked dog from South America."

Tyler Rinehart, an 18-year-old whose pop runs these sideshows, is setting up shop. He explains that Thumbelina is, in fact, a real horse, that she's small just like a human midget is small. We mention that, 16 years ago, we saw the world's smallest horse in Sedalia, at the Missouri State Fair. Is Thumbelina smaller than that horse was?

"We book it as, 'Could this be the world's smallest horse?'" he says. And with a coy smile, he adds, "It could be." -- Gina Kaufmann

1:23 p.m.
Robert J. Dole U.S. Courthouse
500 State Avenue

Looking uncertain, an older couple slip into the modern-looking courtroom. "Is this the Wittig trial?" the woman asks.