Blue Moose, 11 p.m. Thursday
The sports bar is standing-room-only. Men in polo shirts and women in an array of shoulder-baring tops are wearing party gear -- silver watches, leather cuffs, bling rings. A number of patrons and waitresses also are decked in half-inch yellow elastic Livestrong wristbands, seemingly in support of six-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong and his cancer-research foundation.
"The new cause, the new fashion," says the Pitch's fashion expert, a straight guy named Bud. But Bud is puzzled to see revelers sporting the anti-cancer token while they're smoking cigarettes. "Guess it's like supporting the cause so you can cash in later," Bud says.
He wonders if the members of this beer-swilling crowd are just Livestrong poseurs.
Greg Goss, 27, wears his wristband because his best friend's dad died of cancer. Peter Maxwell, a rep for Kansas City's Armstrong-affiliated Sunflowers to Roses ride, doesn't have a bracelet anymore, just a tan line. Minutes ago, he gave his bracelet to a friend. The wristband's distributor is backlogged, and as the bracelets get harder to find, Maxwell likes to give his own to people who support the cause.
Other patrons are less reverent.
"It doubles as a blood-doping device," says Clint, referring to allegations that Armstrong has used performance-enhancing drugs. He clarifies: "It's for the guy with nut cancer." Clint says he's already broken one band by playing with it too much. He snaps his new one against his arm repeatedly.
Standing by a brick column near the bar, Jamie, a 21-year-old, athletically built blonde, holds a Marlboro Light in her right hand. A yellow band is wrapped around her left wrist.
"I got it here, actually, from a guy who had just finished his bike ride," she says. "And he told me about it, and I said, 'I want the bracelet.' I haven't taken it off since."
She says the bands are getting trendy, and that's a good thing. They can double as an icebreaker -- it's how she met her new boyfriend (who also has one) and connected with a group of similarly decked high schoolers at last week's John Mayer concert. She doesn't see a problem with wearing the band and smoking.
"No, I haven't really thought of that at all. I just wear it to support it," she says. "I'm a social smoker."
Notes from KC's blogosphere.
I sat down the other night to watch the "special" DVD that my friends picked up for me while they were over in Amsterdam a few weeks ago. Whenever someone I know goes overseas, I always tell 'em to bring me back some of that good (insert name of country here) porn. And would you believe someone actually did? The DVD goes by the title "my dog is my cure" and it's a bestiality movie. You know, girl meets dog, dog falls in love with girl, and dog does girl. Not big on plot or character development but it's a dog. His main lines are wag the tail, drool a lot, lick lick lick, and hump the girl. Not a whole lot going on here if you know what I'm sayin'. So I put the DVD into my computer to check it out, and on my TV I had the local news on. I actually found myself watching more of the news then the movie. It was that fucking boring. I mean like goddamn, it's not like I'm gonna walk by some chick humping her dog and not watch, but on film it was just blah. All it consisted of was some fat chick blowing her fuckin Dingo and trying to sit on it. Poor fucking pooch. It ain't bad enough that you're taken from your native wilds and stripped of your dignity, but then your furry ass is thrown into a room full of hot lights and forced to do some chick I wouldn't fuck for a chew toy. All I could think of while watching the movie was what was the dog thinking? Is it going "damn that's one butt ugly dog they stuck me with." Or "My big chance to fuck a human and this is the best I got to work with?" But actually, since it's a dog it's most likely thinking, "food food food food food food must lick balls must lick balls must lick balls." Michelle told me that because the movie bored me, it was a sign of how jaded and indifferent the Internet has made me. I told her she was full of crap.
From Deaths Door, the blog of Greg Beck