Brought to You by the Number L

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Big Rig Jackknife, "All Night Truckstop"

Time: Night

Upfront disclaimer: No scary story tonight. I'll do two tomorrow, I promise. But tonight's all about life, not chain-rattling returnees from a Victorian afterlife.

Good things came in 50s tonight.

As I type this, the Chicago Fire are leading the New York Red Bulls 4-1 in the second half. That means the Kansas City Wizards -- barring an utter collapse by Chicago -- will make the Major League Soccer playoffs. For me, that's a much-needed extra 50 dollars for covering the home leg of the first round.

(Update: The final score was 5-2, Chicago. Seven goals but no punch-up, so Nick Hornby wouldn't have called it perfect.)

And earlier tonight, I was the recipient of a random act of caffeine -- a 50-dollar gift certificate to a coffeehouse I really like. I was there, getting some work done on an art show review, when the barista came up to me with a happily baffled (henceforth to be known as "happled," which is a much better state than "hapless") smile.

"Someone just called in with a credit card number and asked me to give you this," she said, as though she still couldn't quite believe it.

The giver has been thanked. Ordinarily, I would do so publicly, by name, but I have the feeling I would get a bit grumbled-at if I did that in this instance. The giver didn't do it for a mention in a blog.

We had a bit of a discussion about what Christ would think about many of the things that go on in His name today. (Upshot: He would not be pleased.) That made me think about the admonition in Matthew: "When you give, do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." In other words, don't give in order to get the approval of others. Don't even do it to feel better about yourself.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

And if you're in the mood to do so right now, whether by 50s or any other amount, might I suggest Heifer International? Every gift there helps people sustain themselves ... and isn't that one of the things we're here for, to help others to live?

Hats off to Larryville

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: Danny Wilson, "Mary's Prayer"

Time: Night.

I went to Lawrence, Kansas, today, for work (present and, one hopes, future). I revisited some familiar haunts, namely Henry's (for an Americano) and the local branch of the Great Harvest Bread Company (just to breathe).

Then, on to the Spencer Museum of Art, on campus at the University of Kansas, to gather material for a review of the quilt show. (I'm turning into quite the quilt-viewer, it seems.) Check it and the other shows out if you get a chance, but give yourself plenty of time to get to the museum ... there's a ton of construction that disrupts foot and vehicular traffic.

Then it was back to Mass. Street for a Latin American lunch (pork al pastor rice bowl with an arepa on the side) at La Parilla. (Its sister restaurants serve noodles -- one Asian, one Italian. That's a global family.)

So why am I telling you all this? To make you jealous?

You know me better than that. I want you to go check it out for yourself.

Only For a Moment and the Moment's Gone

Tea: Chai

Music: The Jayhawks, "Blue"

Time: Night.

Hied myself to Homer's Coffeehouse in Overland Park today, to get some editing done and spend some of the gift certificate my fourth graders gave me for Christmas.

There was a stray pink glove in the snowy parking lot.

Horrid me, my first thought wasn't, "Oh, some poor person has a cold hand." It was "Oooh. Must take pictures."

So I did. Eight of them, to be exact. Then I went inside, had a mocha and a bagel, and plunged headfirst into words for more than an hour. When I came out, it was warmer and the glove was half-submerged in a puddle.

So, of course, I pulled the camera out again. But something was wrong. No matter how I tried, I kept getting my own reflection in the shot.

I may go back later this week to see things in a different light. Maybe the glove will be there. Maybe it won't. Either way, there'll be no second chance to capture the shot I missed earlier today.

And that's fine. I'd rather take my chances on tricks of light than engineer all the reality out of a photograph. There's something appealing in capturing an image that can never be captured the same way again -- which more than makes up for any angst at missing one.

For me, I suppose, that's the difference between a photograph and a photo illustration. It's an odd sort of parse, I know. Maybe it's because for me, photography is like haiku. There's a moment, briefly captured, that is sure to change -- and some things are more beautiful for being transitory.

Originals

Tea: Cranberry.

Music: Autumn's Grey Solace, "Still"

Time: Night.

Do me a favor, will you? Pretend it's New Year's Day. No peeking at the calender. (Hey -- that means you, too. I'm watching you.)

First, let me stress that I have nothing against the nice people who make reproduction posters and prints of well-known works of art. Better to have a mass produced Ansel Adams or Monet print that you really like than one of those pieces of crap people buy at the furniture store because it matches the couch.

But here's my New Year's challenge for 2008:

This year, find a way to get your hands on an original -- a signed original, if possible. Painting, sculpture, art pottery, glass, photography, any manner of mixed media, whatever. Buy it. Trade for it. (No stealing.)

Get it because you like it, not because it harmonizes with the area rug. When people ask you about it, tell them about the artist. Tell them about the place where you bought the piece -- be it a gallery, a coffeehouse, an art fair or an auction.

Prints are acceptable, so long as they come directly from the artist. I realize not everyone has a bazillion-dollar personal art budget. I know I don't (but I wouldn't mind one.) A lot of artists do studies and small pieces, too. Be creative.

Now, here's the fun part (and I mean that literally): Talk to the artist, if you can. And by that I mean more than "Would you take fifty bucks less for it?" Get a sense of the vision and passion you're buying. After all, you're inviting the artist into your home as a permanent guest.

And by all means, get rid of that furniture store monstrosity over the love seat.

Out of the Silent Steeper

Tea: Candy Apple

Music: King Crimson, "Indiscipline"

Time: Afternoon.

Hi, kids.

Yeah, I've been gone for a while. No 'Net access in southwest Kansas (I mean, they have 'Net access there. I just didn't have any myself) and a huge jumble of blargh since I got back.

No excuses, though. I've been slacking.

So ... first, to tea. The Candy Apple tea is part of a parcel that friend/colleague/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes sent to me. (More tins of tea! The rest of the family uses the same words, but with a question mark and different inflection: "MORE tins of tea?")

I'm going to be needing a lot of caffeination in the coming days, though. Remember the camera Seánan sent me? Um, yeah ... I've been taking a lot of pictures with it. A ... lot ... of ... pictures.

Last month, the owner of Nighthawks Coffeehouse was kind enough to offer me a show. The middle room, March and April. Plenty of time to get ready, right?

Enter the monkey wrench. The room opened up when the scheduled artist ... well, vanished. Brian -- said kind owner -- asked if I could get something up by next week. So, I'm getting something up by next week.

It'll come together. As it does, I'll thank Seánan with every sip of steeped fuel -- and when it does, I'll thank her again for the camera and the impetus to start shooting again.

Cup XLIV: And Reams to Write Before I Sleep ...

Tea: Earl Grey Bravo

Music: Suzanne Vega, "Tom's Diner (DNA Remix)"

Time: Morning

It's not quite deadline day, but the line is definitely getting its affairs in order.

I've an arts profile to finish, pitch letters to bat out to all fields, much audio to transcribe, and a double handful of fictional characters nudging me to move their lives (and afterlives) along.

So ... if I'm head down for a while, present in body but not in mind, don't fret. I've just stepped away for a while, and I'll be back.

But just because I'm pounding away on my own words and turning others' spoken vowels and consonants into ones and zeroes doesn't mean you should sit around and be bored.

If you're in Kansas City, get out and enjoy the glorious fall weather. Go to Loose Park, or wander among the outdoor sculptures on the grounds of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, or do some caffeinated people-watching outside at The Crave Cafe.

(But wait ... I have wireless and a laptop. I can get out of the house, too, so long as I get my work done while I'm at it. Permit me a short Charlie Brown dance of joy for technology.)

Today's story:

Robert Hitchens, "The Black Spaniel"

Cup XLII: Inside, Outside, KSU

Tea: Earl Grey

Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band

Time: Afternoon

Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.

I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.

Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.

The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.

I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.

It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).

It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.

I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...

Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)

We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.

Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.

But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."

For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.

Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:

A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"

Cup XXXIII: Agley (but That's Okay)

Tea: Spring Sprouting Jade

Song: Christian Langer, "Moonchild"

Time: Night

This was not the day I thought I would have. I had anticipated being out on the road with friend/collaborator/fellow traveler Seánan Forbes, who arrived today from New York. I had envisioned being here or here, possibly both, doing research for travel/food writing.

Instead, a more than minor glitch with one of the two family cars kept the two of us in the Kansas City metro area.

But you know what? We went here for lunch (yes, the same place from the first Foodspedition) and discovered new tastes (and new combinations thereof). We shared chocolate and conversation here and here. And there were fortune cookie moments, one of them leading to surprised delight on the part of a promising young writer, and they were good.

All of it was good. Better than.

Funny how things work out that way sometimes.

Tonight's story:

Eleanor F. Lewis, "The Vengeance of a Tree"