Sunday, March 9

Bowling for Cutlery, Kansas City Style



Friday evening the Boss Rabbit and I went to take in the sights of the new Kansas City Power & Light District and the Sprint Center. We scored freebie tickets to the Michael Bublé from one of BR's coworkers. Free is always good, although until I Googled Mr. Bublé, I had no idea who or what we were going to see. 
Now, before you start pasting labels on me for going to see a young, heartthrob crooner, let me say this in my defense. Drop dead. This kid, whom the BR and I got to meet in person backstage, put on one hell of a show. A crooner beyond his years, a great voice and a fun show for the screaming ladies in attendance. I would actually pay money to see him next time he rolls into Kansas City, My Home Town - provided I don't have to step foot into the Sprint Center again. More on that later.
Besides, the opener was a New Yawk-based hip-hop, a cappella, voice-play group known collectively as Naturally 7. Damn. You want a warmup act? They were unbelievable. Doo-wop harmonies with a hip-hop style. See them if you get the chance.
Before we got to the arena, we shopped around for some chow - good luck with that, chump. Every place we went was on a two-hour wait or more. We finally stumbled into Lucky Strike Lanes - I guess the second floor location may have confused some of the locals - we trotted right in and I had a damn-respectable cheeseburger and the BR had the Tomato S'Mores. A cocktail each and we cashed out at around thirty Georges. Not bad. There is, in fact, an eight-lane bowling alley, a few pool tables and a seventy-foot bar. The waitresses were all decked in short skirts and fishnets, and while they were all trying to get used to the new-restaurant-routine, the service wasn't that bad. It will improve, I'm sure.
We were supposed to meet our backstage handlers at 7:30 for the Bublé handshake and pictures session, so we wrapped up our bowling-alley experience about 7:15 and headed across the street, got in line for the main entrance and had our tickets at the ready. There were ample guards at the front door, each manning airport-style metal detectors. Welcome to the 21st Century. I shoveled out my two sets of keys and my cell phone, and as a last-minute thought, I reached into my other pocket and dug out my Buck knife and tossed it all into the security guy's Texas Tom's  french-fry basket.

As I went through the metal detector, it buzzed, but Front Door Barney didn't care about that, he was more concerned that I not be able to continue on with my plain old Buck Squire single-blade pocketknife - suggested retail, $58.00. You can get them at Mickey's for a lot less.

"You can either take this back to your car, or I'm going to have to confiscate it." said the guard. 

"What? said the upper-middle-aged, overweight, bald, suburban victim.

"I'll have to confiscate this." Said the dipshit.

"Is there some way I can claim it after the show?" I asked, knowing full well that the answer was going to be, "Huh?"

"Huh?" would have been a conversational upgrade. He just turned away from as though I had suddenly begun to speak Norwegian.

By now, it's nearly 7:30. I'm standing in front of of a line of two thousand people who have been freezing their asses off outside waiting, and who want nothing more than than to get indoors. I can make a federal case out of this, get my ass kicked out of the arena for the night, or I can make the BR stand there while I go back the ten blocks to the car to put away my fucking pocket knife. Discretion is the better part of marriage, so I let the Barney have the knife, and we went on inside. At least it wasn't the Original Knife, the one my daughters gave me for my first Father's Day. Nor was it the Leatherman tool that normally rides my hip. The holster broke last week, so it sits at home. That one would have gotten me tased, cuffed and sent to Devil's Island.

So, let's recap.
I voluntarily empty my pockets to go through the metal detector, which buzzes.
No one cares about that, only the 2-3/4 inch Buck knife. The knife gets taken away, and now likely resides in some RentaCop's pants pocket. The sum total of the equation is that I've been penalized for honesty. If I hadn't fished out the knife in the first place, I still would have been able to get into the fucking arena, see the show and go on my merry way. I also could have walked right in with a sawed-off shotgun stuffed down my jeans. I could have been carrying two boxes of ammo in my ample down coat and still had room for a couple of Bowie knives. 

I went out to Bass Pro Saturday and bought another knife. This one is a Gerber lightweight, but it's enough to get me  through most days peeling apples, opening boxes and the like. It is not, however, my knife - the knife that I've grown accustomed to. The one that fits my hand and my pocket.

I'm going to stew about this for a while, and I don't plan to visit the Sprint Fucking Arena anytime soon. Never would be just fine. But if I do, I plan on showing up with a 48-piece place setting of the finest stainless steel tableware that the local thrift store can cough up and that I can stuff into every available pocket of my jeans, jacket and under my hat, if I can. Then, I'm going to demand that I be scanned and re-scanned and re-scanned through their little Tunnel of Dumb until I have emptied every last knife, fork and jelly spoon out of my pockets. Then they can escort me from the premises and put my name on their Anschutz Entertainment Group Homeland Security Brown-Shirt Shit List. But they are not going to get my fucking pocket knife again.

5 comments:

Spyder said...

Tomato S'Mores ????

Le Grand Lapin said...

Yeah - it was tomato and melted mozzarella on little toast rounds. Pretty tasty.

Spyder said...

Lapin- That sounds yummy@

Applecart T. said...

Those jelly spoons can be hazardous. Just look at what Oedipus was able to do.

I always thought it was hilarious how the school district security guys would always let me through no matter how I buzzed. Wear buckle shoes to City Hall and point them out when the alarm goes off and they won't check further either, in my experience.

Le Grand Lapin said...

I'm going to have a scar tattooed on my head and tell them I have a metal plate bolted to my skull. I think they'll buy it.

Applecart, maybe you don't look dangerous enough.