Behaving like you Belong
At the time of its construction in 1973-74, the Kemper Arena in Kansas City was slated to be a 17,000 seat, state of the art facility. Located in the west bottoms, it was surrounded by dingy warehouses, abandoned factories and the occasional dive bar. The stockyards were still operating so these were mostly frequented by actual cowboys along with a healthy mix of street walking ladies and drunkards; each group adding to the ambiance of the area.
Upon completion of the project, a revival in the bottoms kicked into high gear. Restaurants, loft apartments and chic boutiques peddled anything and everything the yuppies of the day could want. If you were headed out for the evening and someone was to ask where you were going, the simple reply of "the Bottoms" was sufficient enough. You never had to specify a specific “bottoms,” like the “east bottoms.” Nobody ever went to the east bottoms, lest you get robbed, were looking for narcotics or were doing business with Mafioso types.
A young, extremely conservative attorney neighbor of ours was elected to the city council around this time. As a part of his perk package, he was given two tickets to most of the events that happened in the city. Having a newborn at home and a tendency to shy away from anything resembling fun, my siblings and I were the usual recipients. If the cherished “free passes” were ever spoken for by someone else, we had other means to gain entry if our financial resources were lacking.
Concerts were a huge draw at Kemper. The biggest bands of the day came through on what seemed like a weekly basis. It was not uncommon to show up at the back delivery entrance with an empty guitar case in hand and have the doors opened wide as you lazily strolled in; acting like you were supposed to be there but didn’t care – rock n’ roller style.
Tractor pulls required an empty five gallon gas can, and the American Royal Rodeo required a saddle slung over your shoulder. Some western clothes with boots, belt buckle and hat were the clincher.
Professional sporting events were always a bit tougher and rarely successful.
A couple of teenage boys with acne dribbling a basketball while walking toward the gate never worked. We were too old to be “water boys” and too short to be players.
We also dribbled the ball with the skill of a blind man. Hockey games proved a fair bit better, carrying our shoulder pads and sticks while we argued back and forth violently about anything just to look like hockey players. I thought once about blackening out one tooth with Halloween wax, but realized my looks were just too good to adulterate in any such fashion.
Conventions were always entertaining, especially the annual Food and Beverage get together. Appetizers of every variety were generously handed around and the single ounce plastic cups of refreshments flowed without fail. After five or six of these, and from our wobbling up and down the aisles, security personnel caught on quick and escorted us to the nearest exit.
It also wasn’t until this period in life that I learned the American Bar Association had nothing to do with alcohol. The additional challenge of fitting in without a three piece suit and an alma mater pin were sure giveaways. I was prepared to tell anyone who asked that I specialized in Tort Reform, but was never given the opportunity.
I think I would have enjoyed the chance at sneaking in the American Kennel Club show with my Pomeranian. Softly stroking her golden mane and saying, "It's okay Snookums, Daddy has you" would be interesting. The muscled man holding the velvet rope wouldn’t want to deal with me or my ankle biting cohort, he would just pull the brass hook off the rail and step aside. "Oh, good girl, my little muffin top. Let's go win a blue ribbon," I'd say as I passed. Who wants to argue with that?
