On My Own

Ah yes, another allusion to musical theatre.

Last night was the first Friday of the month, which in Kansas City (and actually in Lincoln as well) means open art galleries, complimentary munchies and an eclectic array of people. I had hoped to venture into midtown with Ellen and some new friends from Jacob's Well (Ellen's church, possibly soon to be mine). But Ellen went to South Dakota, Rachel was out of town and Emily never got back to me.

What to do? It wasn't the first time I'd been alone in KC on the weekend. A few weeks earlier I'd driven myself to Shakespeare on the Green, and though I got painfully lost doing so (I called my dad and had him google me to a place where I could ask for directions), I did enjoy Acts 2-5 of Richard the III.

So I set off once more for a night out on my own. I don't think I realized how badly I needed to get out of the house until I was on the highway. My little red '93 Pontiac Grand Am has seen better days. She currently lacks air conditioning and I lack the funds to fix that, which means the windows are always down. This is usually sufficient for city driving. It's excellent when going 70 miles per hour.

I reached my destination in good time, quite pleased with my ability to follow directions. The only problem was that I hadn't left my house until nearly 8:00. Many of the galleries close around 9:00, and at 8:25 I still needed to find parking. I headed toward 18th and Broadway, hoping the parking there would be less expensive.

I enjoyed my singleness, my anonymity and ability to appear and disappear at will. I checked out a three-floor building housing something like three-dozen independent artists who all rent out little spaces to work on and display their work. There were welders and painters, jewelry makers, photographers, and this guy who collects "found objects" and random pieces of "junk" that look like letters in the alphabet. I think the M was my favorite. On the top floor is an open loft area where a small band was set up a large table of picked-over finger foods stood behind velvet ropes. My guess is that either there was some kind of party or the roped off sections were reserved for artists. It was hard to tell.

Following the people in front of me (who I later noticed were wearing special name badges), I walked into the loft and past the crimson cords. "Are you with them?" a suspicious black woman asked me. I nodded and continued on, making careful observations of the remaining food choices. I picked at some roasted asparagus and sampled a few salsas, trying to blend in without actually striking up a conversation. I made my way to my target - the wine bar. The little blonde behind the counter knew just about as many people as I did, and happily poured me a glass of Chardonnay, which I carried with me back through the gallery, and sipped on as I spoke with a few of the artists.

A while later I wondered into a place called "The Fringe" (one of the half dozen or so galleries still open after 9:00 pm). Outside the door a small crowd was watching short independent films that were projected onto a stucco wall. Inside a man clad in a straw cowboy hat, sleeveless multi-colored zebra print shirt, and navy skirt with a baby blue floral spray strummed on a guitar and sang about the way he loved his girlfriend's stomach. I doubted his sincerity based on the fact that he prefaced the piece by stating, "This is a song for fat people." Did I mention he was wearing make up and accompanied by another guy (?) wearing Frankenstein boots, fishnet hose, a tattered black skirt and playing the bass? Yep. This, I assume, must be normal in Kansas City.

I noticed that the vocalist was wearing flip flops as he sang "we are just misplaced parts." Eclectic? Yeah, that's probably about the best word for it. I mused some more on the scene around me and decided that the singer's voice reminded me of the guy from Deep Blue Something that sings "Breakfast at Tiffany's." I don't really think that artist knows anything about Truman Capote, the story line of the novel or even the film about which he sings, but that's beside the point.

I ventured out of The Fringe in search of other galleries that might still be open. I came across a woman selling jewelry in front of an old Diner. I wouldn't have stopped if it weren't for the call from her scraggly-bearded but rather congenial husband, "Free jewelry, plus tips!" I stopped and chatted with him a while. He was quite a character. I'd wager he'd had at least four beers in rather steady succession before our conversation. He didn't talk me into purchasing anything, but he did pique my curiosity. The entire night, really, I just watched and observed and considered (and occasionally interacted with) people.

I found a pottery exhibit in the basement of an old office building and wandered through an array of bottles and Buddhist paintings displayed in a small nook outside a bar that had cabana-style window service for its outdoor guests. I'm pretty sure I crossed a few barriers and opened a few doors that weren't really meant for me, but when you look like you know what you're doing it's amazing how seldom people question you, even when you're grabbing a beer from the cooler in the back room.

For most of the evening I felt like I'd arrived late to a party that was ending early (which, to some extent, I had). It was alright, but next month I'm definitely going to arrive an hour or two sooner. I may go with friends, I may not. It's far easier to be anonymous when you aren't with someone who knows your name.