Dear friends,

It is almost midnight on April 23, one month after Kansas City’s shelter-in-place order went into effect. At least I think it’s been one month. Time right now is filled with strange air pockets and dead weight, each week its own weird season.

Still, it’s hard to believe we’re only one flip of the calendar from that fateful week when basketball was canceled and our offices closed until further notice, the downtown Kansas City streets empty except for a few bewildered Big 12 fans aimlessly riding the streetcar.

After work that Friday March 13th, I paid a visit to Caravaggio’s John The Baptist in the Wilderness the day before the Nelson-Atkins Museum closed. I wanted to consult with someone who had been around for centuries and had seen it all before. John looked radiant that afternoon, impossibly young, all shadow and light. But instead of offering comfort or counsel, he just stared at the floor, lost in his own troubles.

That night I met my friend Dave at Grünauer, where I drank several steins of Stiegel Goldbräu beer, suspecting that restaurants, too, would likely be closing soon. It felt like the last night of socializing for who knows how long. “You know, if the world needs to take a time out for a while, I think that’s all right,” Dave said.

But the peaceful notion of a “time out” and the panicked reality of a pandemic are two different things. The first time I went to the grocery store, I almost cried. It felt like such a slow motion waking nightmare. Masked customers seeing you at the other end of the aisle and immediately steering their cart in the opposite direction. The impossibly vulnerable cashiers, risking their lives by doing their jobs, performing an essential service on an hourly wage.

There are other worries. Worry for friends, family, doctors and nurses, first responders. For all the local businesses that began announcing they were closing, first voluntarily, then by city order. For all the people losing their jobs. Worry that I will get sick myself and start “shedding virus,” any public outing or shortness of breath leading to pensive moments at the kitchen counter with a thermometer in my mouth.

In some ways it reminds me of the deadly tornado that struck my wife’s hometown of Joplin in 2011. Some people’s homes were destroyed, others remained intact. Not everyone survived and no one who lived through it would forget. After the initial shock passes, the realization sets in that nothing will ever be the same. But what that will look like nobody knows yet.

Like you, I read a lot of news. If you scroll far enough, you start to feel like you are falling. The words begin to blur and just the images remain: the terrifying roller coaster climb of infection rate graphs. The pathos of a playground spring horse wrapped in yellow caution tape. Pictures of statues wearing masks — clever at first, though pretty soon the statues themselves begin to look weary of being used as props.

“The virus doesn’t recognize borders,” public health officials remind us, leading me to picture a fuzzy, bug-eyed virus ball disguised in a trench coat and traveling without a passport, sneaking past border police at the speed of a sneeze. And every time I see one of those graphics that makes coronavirus look like a spiky chew toy, I want to grab a tennis racket and slap it into oblivion. If only it were that simple.

I worry about the country. The spats between different levels of government feels like watching your parents arguing while the house is burning down. “Are we watching a superpower implode?” asks German magazine Der Spiegel, and though they’ve been writing that same headlines since 9/11, it does feel like we’re at a tipping point. Are we going to place our faith in science and public policy, or light torches and set cell towers on fire? Will we protect our elections, or send those we disagree with out to vote in the middle of a pandemic? These are not hypothetical questions.

Home life, on the other hand, is an oasis of imagination and play. Our situation is a privileged one. My wife and I are able to do most work from home. Our kids do lessons on school-issued iPads and then practice the piano. Inspired by Harry Potter, they conduct “flying lessons” for their stuffed animals. On rainy days they set up Rube Goldberg-esque “obstacle courses” involving dominoes, marbles, light switches, and copious amounts of scotch tape. Eventually the stuffed animals graduate flying school and open their own hotel, adorned with inexplicable handwritten signs like “Party Camels only alowd.”

Life right now feels full of contradictions. I am grateful to have a job, though at times I find it hard to picture ever setting foot in an office again. I am happy to be eating healthy, but fall asleep dreaming of Hana’s donuts. I am fascinated by the fact that we are living through an unprecedented time in history, and I desperately want life to go back to normal.

I am trying to stay present. That is not a new challenge, but it feels magnified now. “So what’s your story today?” Todd messaged me one morning while trying to arrange a phone call. I never closed out the chat window, so each morning when I sign on to email the question pops back up, still bulleted in green. “So what’s your story today? is probably the closest thing I have to a mantra.

Lately sitting on my back porch and bird-listening has become my favorite pastime. I recently read that people have been doing web searches asking “why are the birds louder now?” The answers explain that it’s as a result of the sudden quieting of our cities. But I like the notion that the birds are getting bolder, that they sense an advantage in the species and are now chirping with confidence and singing with impunity. It’s the kind of thing you want to cheer on.

I ride my bike around the neighborhood, collecting images as I go. The painted banners in front doors reminding us to “stay strong KC.” The unicorn piñata that dangled from a nearby oak tree for over a month, surviving frost, hail, and multiple thunderstorms, never surrendering its smile. Red tree blossoms carpeting the street at night after a heavy rain. New parents out for a stroll, looking perplexed. An elderly woman wearing a mask and riding to Wal-Mart on a very slow motorcycle.

I read meaning into signs that are probably not there. The black trash barrel in the park with “COVID-19” spray-painted on the side is ostensibly a warning to stay home, but it looks like gang graffiti from the 19th Street Covids, a shitty gang that terrorizes old people and keeps kids home from school. A friend sends a “save the date” postcard but forgets to include the wedding date, just the address of an event venue and “five o’clock in the evening.” Instead of a mistake, I prefer to view it as a statement of determination to celebrate whenever it’s possible to safely do so again. And the Community America billboard featuring a smiling Patrick Mahomes and the slogan “We’re Just Getting Started” has taken on an ominous new meaning. But I love that people are displaying the “Keep Calm and Carry On” sign as a profile message, devoid of any alteration or irony.

Without sports, shopping, concerts, or social events, I mostly turn to music. Making coffee and blasting Joy Division’s “Isolation,” which is more uplifting than it sounds. Playing trap remixes of the Caillou and Peppa Pig theme songs to amuse the kids. Grilling burgers while listening to Magic Sam. Lying on the floor listening to Joni Mitchell’s “River” and Neil Young’s “Sugar Mountain” before the kids go to bed. Listening to Low’s “Silver Rider” on a sleepless night, pondering the question of God.

Music also connects me with friends and with the city. Instead of an album release concert on April 3, Kansas City group Fullbloods (the mostly solo project of Ross Brown) hosts a live streaming event during which we chime in via chat and he narrates moments of doubt and inspiration behind the songs. It lacks the sensory impressions of a live show, but somehow all of us sitting at home listening on our headphones feels no less intimate.

My favorite anthem of hope during this time is KC native Kevin Morby’s “Congratulations” from his newest album, Oh My God. Congratulations / You have survived / Oh, you stayed alive / This life is a killer / But, oh, what a riot / Just to wake up each morning / Just to open your eyes. It sounds like a triumphant message from the future, the kind of thing you can’t wait to play at a party for all your friends once this whole thing is over.

Though who knows when that will be. Driving down I-35 one night, I see that the Mahomes billboard has been replaced by a picture of the skyline with the words “This is our 3rd-and-15,” a reference to Super Bowl LIV’s pivotal play. But as much as the crowd loves a hail mary touchdown-cure, the only clear play call in this situation is a months-long timeout. So in a world in which leadership is lacking and sports metaphors fall short, what do we do?

My short list: Stay home. Wear masks. Donate. Reach out. Listen to the experts. Stay balanced, no matter how much things continue to shift. Recognize that there is only so much you can control. Take things one day at a time, accepting that some days will be better than others. Keep on living as much as possible. Don’t kill yourself worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.

I try to take joy where I can, calling friends or setting up Zoom calls even if they quickly devolve into contests of who can create the weirdest background. I hug my children close and try not to lose patience. I find it can help to get a bit drunk, but not too drunk, and not too often.

I am curious how you are dealing with things, too. Each day I see entertaining videos, livestreamed music, improvised meals, rambling hikes, autobiographical comics. I hear people discussing new habits, things they are ready to leave behind, the ways they are beginning to imagine living differently in the future. At a time of relative confinement, I am curious what new spaces are opening up for people mentally, creatively, and spiritually.

While the most important thing right now is to take care of ourselves and our loved ones, it also feels like an opportunity to consider what changes we’d like to see in ourselves and in society. And as we experience those changes on an individual and family level, the world will begin to shift as well. The micro becomes the macro.

For now, with the traditional calendar exerting less pressure than usual, we are free to assign the days and weeks their own unique identities. The Night of the Pink Moon. The week of Ruby’s Birthday. The Weekend of the Tent, which we set up in the backyard in late March, stuffing it with sleeping bags, coloring books, and a cot, thereby creating an oasis for naps, reading poetry, and listening to the wind.

I would like to close with a short poem by Alejandra Pizarnik that I read that week, knowing full well that no lines of verse can make a sick person well, or a loved one get their job back, or a city burst full of life and commerce again. But words can affect the way we feel, think, and deal with reality, and it is in this spirit that I share this entire lengthy message and these short closing lines:

though it’s late, though it’s night,
And you are not able.

sing as if nothing were wrong.

nothing is wrong.

Books I edited in 2019

I was fortunate to work on some outstanding book titles this year through my job as an editor at Andrews McMeel Publishing, working alongside many talented colleagues in design/production/sales/marketing to help a wide range of authors publish some fantastic new work. What made it more fun was that I got to meet with each of these authors in person over the course of the year at conventions, book launch events, or just for dinner and drinks. Below is a short description of these books and links for where to find them.

Nancy: A Comics Collection
by Olivia Jaimes

This book was lots of fun to put together and a true team effort. For those who missed the coverage in The New York Times, Washington Post, Rolling Stone, Vulture, and many other places, the re-boot of the nearly 100-year-old Nancy comic strip by the pseudonymous Olivia Jaimes (the comic strip’s first female author) has been a true phenomenon. Olivia was a blast to work with and this hardcover book, which includes sketches, interviews, and essays as well as comics, turned out beautifully. We also worked together on Nancy’s Genius Plan, a board book for preschool kids in which you have to help Nancy sneak a slice of Aunt Fritzi’s cornbread.

by Tyler Lockett
An all-pro wide receiver and return specialist for the Seattle Seahawks, Tyler Lockett spits lines of verse as deftly and smoothly as he makes dazzling plays on the field. Tyler’s debut book of poetry has reached people of all ages and backgrounds, and with poems that address heavy topics like suicide, anxiety, and depression, he doesn’t shy away from difficult conversations. The book also includes workshop questions, inspirational messages, and “notes to self” that encourage the reader to do their own reflecting. Tyler put a lot of time and passion into this book project and it’s been rewarding to see it hit home with so many readers and fans.

Sorry I Ruined Your Childhood
by Ben Zaehringer
Ben has been writing and illustrating the offbeat, bizarre, and hilarious webcomic Berkeley Mews for the better part of a decade. With comics that skewer Santa Claus, Disney princesses, God, and family relationships, this debut book is the perfect antidote to the schmaltz and sentimentality of Disney+. So far it’s been a hit with readers and fans, and if you’re in search of laughs I highly recommend this book and/or Ben’s Instagram page

The Unicorn Whisperer: Another Phoebe and Her Unicorn Adventure
by Dana Simpson

Dana Simpson is an enormously talented cartoonist whose Phoebe and Her Unicorn series coincided with and helped usher in a new golden age for unicorns in fiction and storytelling. The winner of a comic strip superstar contest a decade ago that launched her syndication and book career, Dana’s comics have drawn comparison to Calvin & Hobbes thanks to the complex and innocent friendship between fourth grade Phoebe Howell and her best friend, the magical unicorn Marigold Heavenly Nostrils. She’s also sold something like 1.5 million books.

Snug Harbor Stories: A Wallace The Brave collection
by Will Henry
Will Henry is a wildly imaginative cartoonist from Rhode Island whose coastal surroundings come to life in his detailed watercolor illustrations of a group of kid explorers, adventurers, and mischief-makers. Will took home the Reuben Award for Best Newspaper Strip this year, who has received critical praise for the childhood magic, vivid imagination and elaborate visual storytelling of his comic strip universe. This book is perfect for kids ages 8 to 12, though adults will enjoy it as well. Here’s a short book trailer showcasing Will’s art style.

War and Peas: Funny Comics for Dirty Lovers
by Jonathan Kunz and Elizabeth Pich
One of the most popular webcomics of the past few years, War and Peas combines a dark sensibility with a dry and oddly uplifting sense of humor. The awesome thing about this book is that the comics can be read individually, but also work together to tell a linear, interweaving story about a boy who becomes a ghost, a robot in love with his scientist creator, a hapless grim reaper, a dog who is tired of being a “good boy,” and a slutty witch (their words, not mine). Definitely an adult-themed collection, which is super refreshing for me after working within the confines of newspaper taste standards for the past 10 years. (out in March)

How I Broke Up with My Colon: Fascinating, Bizarre, and True Health Stories
by Nick Seluk
Mysterious illnesses. Freakish injuries. X-rays revealing something weird that got stuck in your foot. These strange but true stories are among the 24 medical tales retold in comic form by bestselling author/illustrator Nick Seluk, the creator of The Awkward Yeti comic strip. Featuring fascinating stories submitted by people all over the world, How I Broke Up with My Colon is an educational and hilarious tour through the bizarre workings of the human body. This book will be a delight for doctors, nurses, those in the medical profession, and anyone who would rather read a cartoon collection than an anatomy textbook. (out in March)

Pearls Takes A Wrong Turn
by Stephan Pastis

This Pearls Before Swine treasury includes 18 months of Stephan’s comics, with an intro and commentary by the author. To do the cover shot, we set up along some decommissioned railroad tracks outside Belton, Missouri, unfortunately only moments before the area was hit with a “gustnado,” a bizarre weather pattern involving tons of rain, lightning, and funnel-cloud-style winds. Thankfully we had access to a good studio back in downtown KC. (out in March)

Fowl Language: Winging It
by Brian Gordon
Brian is a former Hallmark illustrator whose comics of ducks dealing with the throes of early parenting have become a viral sensation. His comics perfectly express the intense exasperation and emotional delights of parenting, expertly deploying F bombs whenever necessary. This collection is an extra special one, as it includes a dozen essays about topics such as siblings, school, activities, vacations, and parental coping mechanisms. Brian is a gifted writer as well as a cartoonist and I recommend this for anyone with both kids and a sense of humor.

Tomorrow’s Woman
by Greta Bellamacina
This poetry collection from one of the U.K.’s finest young poets combines the vivid imagery of French surrealism and British romantic poetry with a modern, first-person examination of love, gender identity, motherhood, and social issues. Greta’s poems are filled with wonder, sadness, and hope. I first encountered her work through New River Press in London and am delighted we got to work together for her first collection of poems to be published in the U.S. and internationally.

Little Big Nate
by Lincoln Peirce
In addition to all his work on the Big Nate comics and books for middle grade readers (and a new series, Max and the Midknights, with Crown Publishing), Lincoln introduced a new version of his character for preschool readers this past fall. This is a beautiful little rhyming story for young children and a fun extension of Nate’s identity. Also coming out this spring is Big Nate: Hug it Out! one of my favorite covers/titles of the Big Nate series through AMP.

Snoopy: First Beagle in Space
by Charles Schulz
This year marks the 70th anniversary of Peanuts. Even though Sparky himself has been gone since 2000, Peanuts itself feels timeless in many ways. This collection includes all the space exploration themed comics and some classic storylines, with a “more to explore” section for kids all about space travel. And the astronaut outfit seen on the cover is similar to what Snoopy wore to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade last year. (out in April).

Hot Dogs, Hot Cats
a Mutts treasury by Patrick McDonnell
9781524852283_featurePatrick McDonnell is a master of the comics art form, and his beautiful, minimalist comics of cats, dogs, and other animals show the universe through a lens of wonder and zen-like appreciation of the universe. I love the cover illustration on the latest treasury, a play on Frank Zappa’s famous “Hot Rats” album cover. (Also my daughter Ruby got to contribute a couple illustrations, big thanks to Patrick for that opportunity!)

In addition to these individual books, I also got to edit and help with ongoing series including Zits, Baby Blues, Sherman’s Lagoon, all of which have excellent new treasuries out on shelves now. And you can find a lot of other fantastic humor, gift, and poetry titles from Andrews McMeel on the publishing site.

I’m a bit worried I’m leaving something out, since I’m not at my office and don’t have all the titles lined up on the shelf in front of me, but if I don’t catch it this time I’ll add it later or mention in my next list of titles worked on.

Thanks for checking them out and let me know if you need help tracking down any of these titles. Happy reading and Happy New Year!


The Year of the Owl

After two years of writing (2015-2016), two more years of tinkering (2017-2018), and one year of doing nothing (2019), I would like to finally share “The Year of the Owl.” This selection of 365 short entries was extracted and compiled from various studio writings, notebooks, voice memos, letters, stories, and essays. Some of these lines have appeared over the years in gallery shows, on billboards, zines, or published poems. Attempts to pare down and put into publishable format have mostly failed, and since different dates/entries appeal to different people for what I presume are many different reasons, there seems to be some strength in numbers. As for the title, I chose that just moments ago. There is of course no Year of the Owl in the Chinese calendar, but these writings don’t reflect an actual year’s timeline, either. My hope is that they will provide friends, family, or curious readers with amusement or contemplation, or possibly even spark an idea, prompt, or even title for your own artistic projects. Feel free to quote, incorporate, or reproduce any of these lines wherever you choose. And thank you for reading.


Selected Letters From The Landlocked


Dear X,  

Please don’t make me contemplate eternity. It’s one of your most debilitating side effects. For me, all’s well that ends, period. What I love the most about your poems is that they all fit on a single page. I used to try to stay awake all week but these days I would rather have a lone thimble of sugar than a whole jar of syrup. And yes, I see you in the doorway, smiling and refusing to check your watch. There’s nothing I appreciate more than your perfect attendance.


        * * *


Dear Y,

Thank you so much for the walking tour. I don’t think my feet touched the ground more than twice the whole night. I’m amazed and more than a little alarmed how few of the neighborhoods I recognized, especially the new houses along the old shipping canals. And I very much approve of your plan to introduce bioluminescent algae along the docks, as well as establishing a meditation center in the southernmost turret. But do you really think this will succeed in attracting our young people back to the province?


        * * *


Dear Z,

It’s such a relief to be free of all this mammalian pretension, to party like my lifespan is less tortoisean, to take flight on the strength of an idea. Today, for just a moment, the streetcar construction paused and I was able to drag my toes through the grooves and soak up the low currents of electricity, my hair standing on end and my unending anxiety relieved for a precious few moments. I had carved out such an exquisite niche I nearly disappeared.


        * * *


Dear W,

In your last invitation, you asked how I was doing. The best answer I can give you is “exceptionally not bad.” On one hand, I am trapped in America without a valid passport. On the other, it is the very lap of luxury. For a while I considered attending one of your famous séances, until I realized it would no longer be prudent, family life and all. Though I do miss the lights that used to flare up in our eyes when we ran around at sunrise, gesturing with sweeping arms at the miracles of animation in the natural world and in ourselves. I am happy you have kept a steady column of sacred smoke rising above our home state, which is in desperate need of such radical imagination.


        * * *


Dear V,

I know my sight is not what they used to be, but I can always sense when you are near by the way the bugs vanish, the way the big cats begin to purr and the train whistles bend into slowly dissipating echoes. I try to meditate, but mostly I drift, and when I return you are as present as a whisper. Remember when we bought those galoshes and waded into the storm sewers to see what relics had surfaced during the flood? Meanwhile our public symbols left a lot to be desired. The state flower was the corsage, the state insect was the fire ant, the state shape was and remains the trapezoid. Today our once-proud, once-rural estate languishes in escrow. On the wall of the toolshed is a laminated picture of you and me at the dance, a cardboard sickle moon hanging above us like a glittering half halo. For now I remain all ears and eternally at your surface.


        * * *


Dear K,

I had a good laugh when you said your spirit manimal was a sad sasquatch who makes pots of coffee that he tosses out after barely so much as a sip. I know we typically define leaders as those with a track record of getting things done, but there is also room for folks like us who drum up all kinds of excitement about things we never see through. All I ask is you write more than once every fifteenth Friday and/or whenever you feel inspired. Consistency will take you places. Maybe not the promised land, but certainly somewhere more interesting than this.


        * * *


Dear T,

I know how much you love getting high, but you have to admit it’s marvelous here on the floor. Eating crumb cake with your fingers, no need for apologies or napkins. You’ve been walking around town in a leather aviator helmet for almost two decades, and the furthest you ever got was county line. But now you’ve got a new script.


        * * *


Dear S,

I remember when I saw you in the stairwell the Friday before Halloween. You wore a cape and a black feather boa. There were red wine stains on your plastic vampire teeth. Back then your sustained campaign against equilibrium rivaled even my own. Our ancestors were equal parts fun-loving and puritanical, and at times that seesaw hit us in the head. Now your profile pictures are all blank and your last posted coordinates don’t show up on any app. So it’s funny to be writing you now, when I don’t even know where to send this. But I hope this reaches you all the same.


       * * *


Dear J,

I’ve been asked not to renew your lease. You may thank me later, if things go where they’re heading, which is nowhere fast. For now it’s best to lay low. Speak only when spoken to. Dispel with those myths of sparkle over substance. Nostalgia is a hansom cab whose driver has no face. The flora is brittle, the fauna has no scent. What we forget about first impressions is that these scenes were often only made fresh by virtue of their freshness.


        * * *


Dear Q,

When did you go from being an omnivore to a nadavore? I know there is nothing new under the sun, but I’m tired of viewing everyone as phonies. I believe in pseudoscience to the degree it is metaphorically true. A fire burns in you, too, I know it. Even if you don’t always know where to find it, you’ll know what to do with it when you do. Right now the gaps between where you are and where you thought you’d be seem insurmountable. But they themselves are of little matter. What will you fill them with?


        * * *


Dear H,

“Don’t lose sight of the stars,” you said. If only it were that easy, with all this light pollution and space debris, unsanctioned drag races on the rings of the gas giants. I was much happier not knowing about all those Kepler giants, the mirror solar systems. I still feel bad for Pluto, the now demoted planet first discovered by a young man from Kansas. But tonight the local heavens have opened, while I sit here flightless and free of labels, on the rooftop terrace below the paint-stripped billboard, basking in the light of something long since burned out.


* * *


Dear M,

I am touched by your concern about my soul, which I can assure you is healthy, if perhaps a little opaque. It’s possible we do not find God in the same places. My glimpses into the eternal often arrive unannounced, like the child scientist alone in the barn, studying acorns and silently praying. In spite of my apparent apostasy, I feel the peace of the Lord quite strongly at times. Yesterday, for example, shirtless and holding my sleeping baby, who had just moments earlier awakened, crying. And later, in the muted sunlight of a December day, when no sunglasses were needed. There are truths I have always known and of which I need to be reminded. There are lights.


(originally published in “The One Thing That Can Save America,” 2016, revised 2019)

Prose poem essay for a short ambient film about parking garages

Here it is: the parking garage. The modern day stable. The gateway to my work day, activated by magnets, a chopping yellow robot arm, a white collar portcullis.

You spiral up, as if still dreaming, twisting higher until you find an open space. Don’t be fooled by those “too good to be true” spots, which in fact contain Honda Fits, or are reserved by number, or are coned-off corner non-spaces.

While you’re in the car, you are part of the steel and concrete apparatus, a native animal in a shadowy terraced dwelling. But this place is not meant for humans. Once you get out, you are prey. Furtively darting between parallel cars, swishing tires. Unsuspecting, hesitant, in dress shoes or high heels, always evading, never actually getting hit.

In the parking garage, the car is king.

We all look sketchy in this lighting. Liminal, sickly, replaceable, painted within pale yellow rows. Crooked angles, the truck in the compact spot. Slamming doors, glowing phones, secret cigs, distracted life.

The garage is near the arena, and in the evenings the day and night crowds share space but do not mingle. A man and his teenage son leave the rock show, an elderly couple holds hands on the way to the religious rally. The concert goer pisses in the corner beside the beer cans, a hurried, transitory tailgate.

In the stairwell, a vapor smoker on a bluetooth headset, a cloudy whiff of graham crackers surrounds him like an aura.

On the sidewalk, vendors hawk plastic light up wands to resigned Disney on Ice moms. A man plays the drumbeat to “Wipeout” on an empty 10-gallon bucket.

Along the ramps, skateboarders, doing tricks or stopping to pose for pictures taken by a friend.

On a school holiday, a pair of teenagers looking for a roof to climb.

In a car with the exhaust running, the murmur of a radio, fogged windows slightly cracked.

Comings and goings. Young people in pajamas, walking to their loft apartments. Office drones, workers, salesmen. Someone who had dreams once and wonders how it came to this. The young suburban semiprofessional with coffee-splashed sneakers, a bit lightheaded, always late.

There but for the grace of God go I, in reverse, my lights illuminating a lady dragging a wheeled suitcase, a lithe professional phantom who quickly disappears.

Confusion in the double helix, the Up rows are not the same as the Down, people get off track, driving fearfully against the grain. Exiting is a rodeo for the regulars, it pays to know which cones can be bypassed, reaching out to tag the key card bullseye while the suckers line up to pay.

When the lot is full, or when we need to breathe, we park on the roof and watch the sun set. Tired but not yet ready to go home, even though it’s freezing and the sky streaks have nearly faded and the wind is threatening to pull off the driver’s side door.

Summer nights, looking out toward the lightning, which fills the sky in sheets or breaks up, striking the top of the TV tower.

On lunch break, I sit on the concrete bumper and eat a simple sandwich. It’s a bit like camping. The steel bumper guard is a log. The vistas contain buildings rather than mountains. You can see for miles. Human wildlife. The girl six blocks away looks beautiful, distant, out of reach. The man at the bus stop with a long coat, beard and bags appears unusually calm.

Some days I just sit in my car, reading or listening to music. I open the windows, facing the sun but not directly, leaning back in the seat to close my eyes, for 15 or 20 or 45 minutes.

On St. Patrick’s Day, you can hear bagpipes play in the distance.

Where would we be without this place? On the streets, dealing with newfangled parking meters, confusing systems of card swipes and numbers, squeezed into 2 hour spots. Here we are sheltered from the elements, insulated from the chaos of the outside world. Here there aren’t any hard decisions. Here all you have to do is park.

Dreams again, descending spirals, marbles set loose on a downward track.

Dual exits, patterned treads, guaranteed for so many miles. Revolutions per minute, heavy rotation of CDs, tires, planets. The traffic cone, an orange icecap. Cautionary stripes and emergency jump starts from the old man in the neon vest.

Look both ways. The structure shakes when cars pass below or rumble overhead. The peaceful minutes between arriving and exiting, between lifting the handle and not going anywhere yet.

You are silent, invisible until the key cranks. Might as well enjoy this floating sensation, a car ascending high above the streets. Heat rises, you too are hot, the air vents offer brilliant windows to building and sky.

The parking garage is no-place.

The parking garage is home.

When our coffee mugs are empty, we plug into the hybrid car chargers just to get a jolt.

Walking between the lines, a small pond of oil forms beneath our feet. Petroleum rainbows rise above our reflections, wavering like halos until a sudden humble “SPLASH”






Excerpt from a 2015 downtown arts proposal I never submitted and can’t remember writing

On a walking tour of downtown, the guide pretends to be visiting from a later century and describes all the scenery in condescending, past-tense terms. “Here is where dozens of lawyers labored in an attempt to change the tax codes, depriving a distracted public of millions. Here is where sad office ladies wore faux fur coats and smoked analog cigs while reading paperback novels. This building used to be a sub-basement-level food court, serving canned “energy” drinks and microwaved chicken tenders. Here is a condominium that touted its own luxury even as its residents were tens of thousands of dollars underwater, to borrow a term from a bygone fiscal era. And this is an entire city block where the signs (“Barber Shop,” “Pizza Parlor,” etc) remain but nothing is left, like all the shop owners and customers had to evacuate overnight and never came back…”

Happy Old Year

Author’s Note: In my December 2017 column for the Pitch, I promised to stop writing columns and just listen for an entire year. Amazingly, I managed to keep that promise, if less out of virtue than because I was lazy or distracted with other things. And there was, in fact, a lot of listening to do. All the same, I wanted to share a few things from this year before it comes to a close, posted here in this dusty showroom of a personal website. I hope you enjoy this present-tense compendium of 2018 events, and if it drags a bit, you can always keep scrolling or just come back later.


* * *


I am invited by a friend to be the January 2018 poet laureate for the Wonder Fair, an art gallery and arts supply store in Lawrence. My duties include writing a short poem that will be displayed on a letter board behind the counter. But when my brother visits, he reports that the previous month’s poem is up instead. My slot is pushed back to February. My pride is wounded, but I can’t complain. The December recipient’s poem, a brief ode about living inside a snow globe in a city with no escalators, is much better than mine.


* * *


For the first time in seven years, I turn my Facebook off completely. The main benefit I notice is having more mental space. Walks at night are pleasant and freeing now that I’m not mindlessly auto-composing status updates in my head the whole time. What else have I missed by not being on Facebook? I don’t know. That’s kind of the price of inadmission.


* * *


I visit a friend in Massachusetts and we drive up to ski for a day in New Hampshire, my first time skiing in over 15 years. I am excited to be in New Hampshire because its state quarter features The Old Man of the Mountain. We drive by the landmark on our way through Franconia Notch, but my friend tells me the Old Man’s face crumbled and fell off in a 2003 landslide, just a few years after the quarter was issued.


* * *


My friend and I stay home with our sons while our wives and daughters attend the “March for Our Lives” event at Theis Park. It feels important, like this time people really want things to change, though the year will see a horrific wave of additional mass shootings. It gets to where you can’t remember the last time the flags weren’t at half staff.


* * *


While we meet up with friends to watch the NCAA Tournament, my 4-year-old son develops a strong affinity for the song “One Shining Moment,” even going so far as to declare it his favorite song. My daughter is partial to Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” which we read and sang from a library book. They both adore “One Little Star” from the Sesame Street movie Follow That Bird. All of these songs are about togetherness, of being so close yet so far apart, even in the case of the Luther Vandross championship jam. After all, one person’s shining moment is another’s confetti-covered heartbreak.


* * *


The most amusing thing I see all month is a squirrel carrying an improbably large plastic bag up the trunk and branches of a tall tree at Westwood Park. The bag is so expansive that at first you can’t see the squirrel and it just looks like a steadily rising trash ghost. In the end the squirrel drops it and our cheering stops, but what a heroic effort.


* * *


While eating out at Taco Via with my family, I teach my kids a lesson about why they shouldn’t play the claw game by showing them what happens when you play the claw game. They each lose. I decide to play, too, barely missing out on the stuffed smiley on my first try. I was so close that I keep on trying, draining dollar after dollar, until both kids are crying and my wife is mad and the old couple sitting nearby goes from smiling politely to looking grim and almost certainly having their dinner ruined. 


* * *


After a posh company dinner at Room 39, I drive to the jazz district to see the ACBs. Tonight they’re playing in an unfurnished, unofficial space on 18th and Vine, the address displayed in the window in pink neon, a small crowd of art and music kids inside and on the street. Listening to Konnor’s pleasant repetitive stairstep riffs, Kyle and Colin’s blood-tight rhythm section, and the space waves of Ross’s flummoxing wobulator (or whatever that synth thing is called), I feel for a moment like I’ve died and gone to Kansas City.

* * *


Jeff hosts a 4th of July party at his backyard pool. A lot of old friends are there with their kids. John Philip Sousa music is playing in a triumphant loop and there are abundant donuts, Lay’s potato chips, and a huge platter of hot dogs. The water balloon skirmish planned for the kids quickly devolves into a semi-serious water balloon battles between the parents. It’s easily the best party I’ll attend all year.


* * *


I visit The Ship to hear Dave play drums in a new band, The Freedom Affair. A phenomenal group, especially if you are favorably disposed toward funk music. Seeing their early shows at the Ship reminds me of when I first saw Hearts of Darkness in 2009 (coincidentally, upstairs in the same building). 


* * *


Dockless scooters take over the city. I find them annoying and dangerous to pedestrians, and saying so online results in a mild controversy. On the other hand, I really wish these things had been around when I was in high school. Back then there was nothing to do downtown except drive around and listen to Portishead and trying and failing to get into jazz clubs, checking out graffiti and hoping to avoid sketchy dealers. And sometimes hang out at YJ’s. 


* * *


I revisit the same nature preserve in Florida I’ve gone to with my friends the previous two years, arriving at the beach only to find out it’s no longer there. Instead of a continuous surf, the water flows in every direction, in strange eddies and tide pools, an apocalyptic pumping unit dominating the horizon. We walk all the way to Wiggins Pass hoping for a different view, but instead we find a drunken vet with a microphone and P.A. system shouting along to “Like A Rolling Stone.” When a ranger rides by on a four wheeler to enforce the sunset curfew, we flag him down and ask what happened to the beach. “Irma took all the sand and threw it into the river,” he explains before asking us to leave.


* * *


I begin seeing art in all kinds of unexpected places, thanks to Open Spaces, a unique and marvelous two-month-long, city-wide, open-air art exhibit and performance series. The first exhibit I come across is “Fractured Horizons” a sculpture by St. Louis artist Claire Trosclair in which the fractured ruins of a house stand in the middle of a park. The drywall, studs and torn wallpaper remind me of the 2011 Joplin tornado wreckage. This piece is lovely, though, and there’s a lightness to walking along the dirt and grass, looking at the sky from the fractured foundation of a house that never was.


*  * *


We go to Germany and eat sausages and ride on small boats across sub-alpine lakes and drink beer in parks and stop and watch street musicians play in front of storefronts in the pedestrian zones. At the Egapark, a landscaped garden park in the former East German city of Erfurt, there are large sculptural displays made out of pumpkins. A rocket ship, a small biplane, a howling wolf, a grand piano. A woman in a wheelchair stops in front of an impressive pumpkin-made module of the Lunar rover. She stares at it in apparent fascination, as if she’s only just now beginning to believe in the miracles of the space program.


*  * *


For the first time since I was 20, I re-read Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. Its pages transport me to the illumined heights of spirituality, the mysterious depths of the human soul, and the complex, hilarious tragicomedy of existence. Functionally, however, my main takeaway is feeling the almost irrepressible urge to use the phrase “Devil take you, sir!” in all of my professional correspondence. For the most part, I manage to resist. 


*  * *


While sitting with my sister at a coffee shop in Chicago, I realize something that strikes me as both terribly profound and completely obvious. While Lois studies for her law exams, I compose and tweet the phrase: “Technically all snakes on two-dimensional flat surfaces are snakes on a plane.” It gets 20 likes, which is about 19 more than usual.


*  * *


The election results are announced. Some of the bad guys lose for a change. Spontaneous fireworks and scattered cheers erupt above the backyards of my residential enclave, a polite neighborhood where we almost never talk about such things.


*  * *


I play a round of disc golf at Rosedale in the snow, just after sunset. The snow is deep and it gets dark fast and I only make it through 10 holes. Finding my disc takes some time, since the flashing red LED lights taped on are growing faint and it keeps getting darker. Each time I find my disc half-submerged and blinking in a snowdrift, it feels like a minor miracle. Like I am expertly identifying and defusing completely harmless plastic landmines.


* * *


Taco Via turns 50 years old this month, and I take the family there to celebrate. How does a place that objectively bad survive to such an age? Maybe because if you grew up with it, it actually is good. I’m hoping the milestone will lead to wild celebrations in the strip malls and parking lots of Lenexa, including free rides in the Taco Via hot air balloon, the mystical and ethnically ambiguous lady in the logo shedding a tear for all of us taco sinners. Until then, you can find me in the labyrinth of peeling vinyl booths, crunching my nachos, playing Galaga or vintage pinball, taking quiet sips of taco sauce to ward off the darkness.


* * *


For now, let us pray for a kinder and more humane 2019. May we do our best to live our best lives, and help create opportunities for others to do the same, regardless of what side of the fence we are on. May each of us find warmth, comfort and meaning wherever we can.


re: Theis Park
The city’s most Daoist park (literally spells “the is” park). If I had to put together a short list of preferred protest songs it would include Gimme Some Truth by John Lennon, Lying Has To Stop by Soft Hair, A Whole Lot of BS by Funkadelic, (Abandon) Extreme Wealth and Casual Cruelty by UMO, and Women of the World: Take Over by Jim O’Rourke.

re: Shy Boys + ACBs
2018 has been a big year for the Shy Boys (virtually identical in lineup to the ACBs) and I hope these guys get a lot more love and listens in 2019.

One of my favorite things about this town is how you’ll wind up attending an amazing show at an unofficial venue you’d never heard of until that day and may never attend again, watching a local or touring band that isn’t that well known yet but could easily go toe-to-toe or note-to-note with the best groups in the world. It’s a magical feeling, and even if I rarely experience it these days, it brings me joy to know that scene still exists.

And speaking of scene-building, there might be a big opportunity to give the regional music scene a big boost. Given all the financial woes faced by the Zona Rosa, I’m hoping to put together a Kickstarter to bail out the troubled shopping center near the airport and rename it for the ACBs 2010 album “Stona Rosa.” With medical marijuana recently approved by Missouri voters, it would be a natural site for dispensaries, in addition to musical venues, chiropracters, and whatever else people in the Northland are in to. Far-fetched, yes, but a lot more possible in 2019 than ever before.

re: Open Spaces
The actual exhibits are amazing, including the watery, shapeshifting floors of Nick Cave’s intense audiovisual chapel, “Hy-Dyve” in an abandoned church, the psychedelic floral daydreams of Ebony Patterson’s “…called up” in a forgotten pool, and the all-too-at-home bird hobos camping out in the former nature center in “For the Birds aka Swope Shelter” by Jillian Youngbird. My other favorites were the tours by Blue River Road Investigators and unexpectedly encountering “Where We No Longer Gather” by Anthony Marcos Rea. Kansas City has seen some exciting things in the past few years, from a World Series win to the new streetcar. But Open Spaces in some ways felt more significant, not just because of the national talent attracted, but in how the exhibits highlighted, explored and in some cases literally illuminated pockets of the city otherwise often overlooked. I discovered places I’d never been in two decades of exploring. It forced me to open my eyes, to seek things out, to pay attention.  

re: Germany
Given the cruelty and racism of the current U.S. administration, Europe’s intense skepticism about Silicon Valley, and the reactions I experienced there in the Bush era, I was expecting to see a lot of graffiti and expressed anti-U.S. sentiments in Germany, but they seem to be absorbed in their own problems. Last week French protestors literally tore the tits off the Marianne. We’ve entered a new era in which everything feels out of balance at once. It’s not anything to feel good about, but in a way everyone having their own national problems makes us seem less “exceptional.” As the 20-year-old tour guide at the Guyasamin museum in Quito told us nonchalantly, after calmly explaining a painting about class warfare and mass slaughter, “we all have our dictators.”

re: Freedom Affair
Freedom Affair has a 45 coming out next year with Colemine Records, which also released “My God Has A Telephone,” a gospel tune from 2017 that sounds like it’s from 1966. 

re: Facebook
The only reason I am tempted to get back on Facebook is to reinstate my lone upcoming event, “Hanging Out” which disappeared along with my profile. Since the details are still general, however, I can basically catch you up to speed. The event is called “Hanging Out,” with a location of “somewhere” and is currently scheduled from 4:30 to 7:30 p.m. on July 4, 2036. “Hanging Out” started back in 2011 as a joke, a way to see how far the calendar would let me go, and then a humorous and perplexing invite, a guest list with an unusually high percentage of committed “maybes,” a growing list of attendees as new friends were made or re-made over the years, lots of promises to bring things like “frookies” (futuristic cookies) and scouting out potential locations including the volcanic slopes of Momotombo.

But there’s something real toward it, too. Hearing about the 2040 deadline for a cataclysmic climactic shift, I realized our party would only be a few years away from who knows what upcoming catastrophes. And who knows what kind of crazy stuff will happen between now and then. But one thing’s for certain: at that point there won’t be anyone to blame but us. We will be the ones in charge, the ones leading the way the best we know how. Will we listen then to our protests now? To the protests of our children? Will we try to make it easier on them than we feel like it is for us now? How much more will they have to contend with, and how much harder will we work to make sure things aren’t even shittier for them? I don’t know. But it’s something I will be thinking about over the next 18 years.