And Then Finn Threw His Bra on the Stage. Oh, Maybe That Was Me. My Bad.

We took Finn to his first concert festival yesterday. They called it Jiggle Jam, and it's a weekend full of seedy booth wares and bouncers, miniature hookahs that blow nonstop bubbles, face painting that made every kid look like an extra from Apocalypse Now, the unrated version (joke provided by Dennis!), a water fountain of nymphic decadence (and rather unfortunately, I mean that a little more literally than I would like), the lilting (and now I'm going ironic) jams of kids' music--all topped by a rousing performance (meow!) by They Might Be Giants.

(What is it about musician dads with hipster flair that gets to me? Bear, I think you started it.)

Finn, liberally doused with equal parts sunscreen and sugar, loved it. We met up with a few handfuls of his chums and he climbed, accosted, and boogied his way through about three hours of the festival before we made it to the culminating concert--a full hour of They Might Be Giants' ABCs, 123s, and adult sing-a-longs. (Istanbul!)

I have to admit, I had a lot of expectations for the concert--mainly because I haven't been to a live music anything on this side of forever--and They Might Be Giants fulfilled.

But I had other expectations that, unfairly, were all wrapped up in Finn and his reception of his first "rock" concert.

I imagined him screaming in recognition and delight as They Might Be Giants took they stage with the "Alphabet of Nations." I imagined him clap and stomping with abandon to "Clap Your Hands," sweat scattering in slomo like Peckinpah squibs. I imagine him reaching a banshee pitch, ripping his hair out, stripping off his t-shirt and waving it around, salivating, his eyes full of tears, when they sang "No"--in a feverish identification with a band that finally understands who he is and how much absurdity he has to put up with.

That didn't so much happen.

Finn sat and then later stood, front row center, and watched the concert. He clapped, mostly at the end of songs. And he asked to leave the concert early to get an ice cream.

Maybe it's because he didn't know any better?

To provide context, this is the first full-scale hootenanny we've ever taken Finn to. There have been no monster trucks or Disney characters on ice or other freakishly scary children's concert extravaganzas. (The circus scared him.) And most of that was done with deliberate calculation.

As much as we could, we've limited Finn's exposure to the Wiggles and folk music. We didn't announce tour schedules. And when his toddler buds swaggered into those forbidden conversational territories, drunk off juice boxes and eating out of the dog bowl, we'd whisk Finn off to other, more acceptable topics of conversation. Like, who should Buffy choose, Spike or Angel? (Finn says, "Spike. And Angel . . . Buffy should choose.")

So it's not his fault that Finn didn't lose control when presented with some fortysomething hipster dads. He hasn't been instructed on the art of mania.

Don't get me wrong. Finn throws a good fit. He's well-versed on tantrum. The difference lies in the fine line between excited aggression and aggressive excitement.

Or maybe it's just the difference between what he wants and what we do.

Retraction

This may not go over well with the KC locals, but I'm afeared that some of my readers my have misconstrued my KC post.

So I make this noncommittal (re: wussy) disclaimer, because I feel I must stand at some level of proximity to honesty, if not squat indelicately and forcefully atop of it: just because I can find 10 things I like about KC doesn't necessarily mean I love living here.

Kansas City, Here You Are

So let's say, hypo, that you're coming a visitin'. What shall I reveal to you about my Midwest digs? What will I show you? What will I feed you?

Here's my meme. My KC tops. Spread the word, and then share the word.

In no particular order, except for the fact that I, well, ordered them:

1. Nelson Atkin's Bloch building. We have a new addition in town to our city museum. And if it's not fab--that's under discussion--it is unique and the hands-down hottest thing we have going. It's been covered in NY Times, New Yorker, and other sundry estab'ed pubs.

2. Boulevard Brewery. Actually, we haven't been there, but we've sampled its wares quite often. In fact, right now! (Ah, the gratuitous exclamation point. How I abhor thee. And yet, how useful you are!) We do have a rockin' brew. And that's not just because I'm drunk.

3. Record Bar. Which must have the best logo (recordbar) and slogan (eat. hear.). Their menus are posted on vintage 70s albums, like those real gatefold things. Great indie bands, great trivia nite. We like The Nuge sandwich. You post the cash for the 'sitter. We'll buy your sammie.

4. Murray's Ice Cream and Cookies. OMG, my peeps. It's the Amy's of the Midwest. Not as good, granted. But we're at least 10 hours away. My favorite flaves: Truffalufagus, Citrus Avenue, Malt Licker, Smitty's French Lemon (creamy, baby), Fred & Ginger. And the Snickerdoole is a half-inch high.

5. 18th and Vine. Our own little Hollywood and Vine, Haight-Ashbury, Beale Street, etc. It's Peach Tree Restaurant (re: sweet potato muffins), it's the Jazz Museum, the 24-hour jazz jam that we've never been to but we'd like to be invited to (members only), Negro League Baseball Museum. Charlie Parker, among others, started here. See Altman's Kansas City. We should split this out, but we've only got 10, so I feel the need to conflate.

6. 18th and Wyandotte. As weird as KC gets. And we, as former Austinites, like us some weird. Birdie Panties, Spool, and YJs. Lingerie, baby goods, and caffeine. Back to back. It's the nexus.

7. City Market. Here we go. First, we'll do breakfast at Succotash and see Sean Ward's painting of Jamie Warren eating tomato soup. Then we'll buy heirloom tomatoes from the Amish. We'll buy a bedley of spices at the Middle Eastern shop, eat risotto gelato, grinders from the vendor stands, spring rolls from the Vietnamese restaurant, and whittle away whatever cash we have left on the scarified juggler of knives. Oh, yes, Baby Cakes, the yummified morsels of glory are here.

8. 39th Street. Vintage shopping at Revue, Boomerang, Prospero's Books.

9. Christopher Elbow's Chocolates. Objet d' art chocolate. Seriously, they're almost too purty to eat. But somehow I get past that. We're actually looking toward a second mortage on our house to finance my obsession. Fleur de Sel turtles. Chocolate and salt. Nuff said.

10. And the cliche of Kansas City. BBQ. We'd take you to Gates. "Hi, may we help you!" Being the Texas expats we are, we'd never say the BBQ here is better than Texas (e.g., Coopers, Rudy's, Salt Lick, Green Mesquite, Lufkin BBQ Company). But KC comes close. Closer than say, Nashville. (Game on!)

Okay, it's your turn. I meme you Austin, Fort Worth, Portland, Bloomington, Houston, Omaha, and my lone China reader. Crank out your tour. I'll even post the worthy right here.