We drag the river for stuff you didn't know you were missing.

Backwash 

We drag the river for stuff you didn't know you were missing.

Threads
Off the rack and on the town.

Kona Grill, 11:30 p.m. Thursday
We hear women talking openly about other women's clothes, hair and mannerisms, but men don't seem to judge each other that way. The Pitch's official fashion expert, a straight guy named Bud, wants to know how other guys size up the competition.

We've come to Kona Grill -- alpha-male ground zero -- to find a straight guy bold enough to define what makes another man attractive. Bud theorizes that it's the ol' standby: tall, dark and handsome. "The attractive male is a smooth, generally cocky bastard," Bud says. "He'll either answer our questions or kick our asses."

From the slick-haired twentysomething in the corner to the dude in the yellow, flipped-collar polo nearby, most seem inclined toward the latter. Young men with gelled hair and striped dress shirts are negotiating the gridlock around the bar; others in sweaters and loosely slung ties post up near the open windows facing Brush Creek.

"Come on," Bud prods one guy. To another: "Just describe the competition." To a third: "No, not in a gay way." Seated beside a striking brunette, his back to the windows, a guy in a KU T-shirt and KU mesh hat finally decides to say something. "I really don't know that much about the attractive guy from a guy perspective," says Dustin Wok, a 25-year-old with a bleached-orange buzz cut, a star tattoo on his right wrist, and piercings in his lip, tongue and ear. He drinks red wine. (She's drinking white.) "If a lady likes me, she'll approach me. If she doesn't, I guess she's got something else to do."

Julian Battle, a 22-year-old African-American decked in designer denim cargos, a blue Enyce shirt and white retro Nikes, gets specific. "Probably 22-32. Well-dressed, nice pair of jeans, nice shirt, mostly clean-cut, muscled," Battle says.

He's surrounded by a trio of equally well-dressed men sipping clear drinks from highball glasses. A glint from two sparkling ear studs bounces from his freshly shaved head as he mouths a toothpick. "I'd be sitting down," he says. "Probably drinking or on the phone. I'd look like I'm important, like I got a roster."

Net Prophet
Notes from the blogosphere.

Editor's note: Besides the usual crowd of navel gazers and war bloggers, this town has its share of Internet writers whose work actually deserves reading. On one of our frequent forays into the Kansas City blogosphere, we found this entry.
Over the weekend I was puttering around the yard, minding my own business, when I was attacked by a pack of wandering Christians. The Methodists up the street wanted to know if I knew the "word of Jeezus." Not in this house, pendejos. They were trying to invite me to their church for services, and handed me a packet with a letter on it. The letter was signed, "your neighbor, Mrs. Adams."

After they left, I kept looking around at the neighbors' houses. Which bastid did this? I'm sure the old lady probably saw Tec and me boozing on the porch a while back. With lit candles. Discussing Wicca. We were casting spells, no doubt. And what with the appearance of many skulls on my porch days later, she probably concluded that my immortal soul was in dire peril.

They also made sure to tell me that it's a "welcoming" church. So I suppose they think I'm a lesbian witch. Great. They didn't appear to have molested anyone else on the block. And when they were done with me they went back from whence they came, leaving me with a stack of pamphlets with lambs all over them.

Lambs are good for two things: lamb ribs and wool. And sheeple ain't good for nothin'.

Yeah. I know they mean well. I just wish they'd proselytize all over someone else.

(Later, since I figgered no Methodist had ever poisoned anyone, I did eat the jelly beans in the packet.) -- From "The M. Toast Hivemind," the blog of Andrea Harden

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