Breakin’ Like the Wind

I was piddling around the house (read: cooking up meth in the bathtub) Saturday night, when a colleague texted me to inform me that it was “the last night of the Hurricane as we know it” [witness the for-sale domain]. So, once my batch of crank was done, I headed down around 11:30 and entered the club, packed inside and on the deck for the latest installment of the Donkey Show (number XIII), which was appropriately themed “Rock Your Face Off.”

A band had just finished playing, and Nightlife Jones was hyping the crowd. NJ’s a rather new face on the scene. He’s a near-albino looking guy who dresses all ’70s-old-man, always wears shades, and is notorious for being kinky as hell. Apparently, performance art is also part of his repetoire, because for tonight’s fete, he had safety pinned 100 $1 bills to his body, on his arms, stomach, back and thighs. He appeared on stage in his trademark hat and sunglasses, wearing only briefs down below. Two boxes of latex gloves were duct taped to the central column. His plan was to convince the crowd they could get their admission money back by snatching the bills off his body. He’d done it in other cities before and described the experience as “like getting attacked by a flock of chickens.” He hopped off the stage and into the fray, which relieved him of every single dollar from his pasty flesh in about two seconds. Friends of mine walked away with upwards of $12. I got nada because I wasn’t fast enough. Later, we did shots with him at the bar. We probably shouldn’t have ordered tequila shots, though, because NJ, the proud sicko, rubbed the salt and lime into his fresh safety pin wounds, lifting his shirt and painting his body with the lime slice. Kinda hurts to think about, doesn’t it?

It would also hurt to think about the Hurricane’s resident middle-aged sprite Ricardo Mejia not having a place to dance with himself. But I’m happy to report that Rick will be taking his show to the Record Bar, which is appropriate because RB owner Steve Tulipana used to bartend at the Hurricane. Don’t say KC doesn’t take care of its own.

It’s Over followed Nightlife Jones, bashing out their highly original brand of groovy pop. I’ve said it before, but they’re one of the best new acts in town. Next, one of the best older and repeatedly overlooked local bands, Be/Non, hit the stage in a cloud of smoke, decked in wigs and shirtless with black and silver grease smeared on their chests (their bodies were supposed to spell BENON, but they didn’t use sweatproof markers, evidently). The crowd had thinned, but the band put on a killer show, sending riffs and yowls into the outer atmosphere, and the people who had stayed and become drunk (self included) rocked out, many of us ending up onstage, in various stages of undress, slapping cymbols and dancing like fools. (Full disclosure: OK, there were just three of us making right brilliant arses of ourselves: me, Donkey Show kingpin Bill “Roach” Sundahl and his lovely wife Wendy. But who gives a fuck? It was the Slurricane’s last night, damnit!)

After the show clattered to a finale, the room’s focus centered on club manager of 20 years, Stan Henry. A speech was demanded, and space was given to Stan on the dancefloor. Rather anticlimactically, the tubby candidate said something to the effect of “All the friends I’ve made in 20 years are going to stay my friends the rest of my life.” And that was it. Still, it did not stem the swelling of sentimentality, as people began to look around for things to loot. I thought it would be fun to demolish the joint because the new owners are going to redecorate anyway when they turn it into a snooty Plaza bar, but all I managed to do was pull three flyers off the wall and throw them in the trash.

Outside, I met an iguana named Jeff. It was surreal. Some guy had a big-ass iguana on his shoulder with a three-foot tail. And its name was Jeff. Even though iguana bites transmit salmonella, I nonetheless proffered my finger, which Jeff declined to chomp off. The rest of the sidewalk people began leaving for an afterparty at Brodie’s, shouting things like “I’m gonna make out with a boy!” and flashing breasts and looking for drugs. I forgot to mention the recent product from my home methlab, so I went home alone and cuddled up to my big chunk of bluish-gray crank like a teddy bear and slept like the naked dead.

May you too rest in peace, Hurricane.

(Dear cops, I don’t really have a meth lab. Please do not invade my house; you might accidentally let out the cat.)