Cup and Saucer Inaction News

So long, C&S?

Weighty rumors have been circulating that the Cup and Saucer, a beloved River Market haunt (if you didn’t know that, you are a loser), will be closing soon. How soon, I don’t know. I do know that this news makes me feel dark inside. First and foremost, I like that place. The restaurant had good food, the coffee shop had good coffee, and the bar was the only reliable place where you could go catch some live experimental jazz and DJing — and never have to pay a cover. Suck!

Secondly, I will miss it because one of the bartenders, Chris Packham composed a largely fictitious, promotional newsletter concerning the place called The Cup and Saucer Action News, which, and I do not exaggerate, was the funniest local publication of any kind I’ve ever encountered in KC. Here’s an excerpt from one of my faves — actually, here’s the whole damn thing:

BUT WAIT: I should probably go ahead and tell you now that American Catastrophe is playing at the C&S on Sunday night. Go to www.myspace.com/amcat if you don’t know what they sound like. And as soon as I find out more about when the joint is closing, I’ll let you know.

T H E C U P A N D S A U C E R A C T I O N N E W S

10.26.05

I’ve had to spend the last couple of weeks dodging this auto repossessor, and meanwhile, I’ve also been getting a lot of calls from collection agencies. “�Que?” I say, when they ask if Chris is home.

And to make matters worse, I found out the hard way that it’s actually illegal to sell your blood. Why would they call it a “Blood Bank” if there’s no cash transaction involved? It’s more like a “Blood Collection Agency,” if you ask me. They might as well be taking your blood at gunpoint. At least there’d be some kind of incentive. What kind of a sick, cruel ‘Ghost Whisperer’-watching world is it, when you can’t even earn an honest buck by bleeding a few times a week?

“Man,” I thought to myself as I accelerated the car through a puddle on the side of the road in order to splash some stupid pedestrian on the sidewalk, “It’s like nobody cares about their fellow human beings, anymore.” The girl on the sidewalk dove out of the way, left-fielder style, but I was already turning the corner, so I couldn’t see how wet she was.

The repo tow-truck was outside my apartment again, so I drove to the Cup and Saucer to have a Happy Hour beer. Chico was working. He handed me my Pabst Blue Ribbon, and then shook his tip jar at me, which was sort of adorably optimistic, since if I didn’t have money to pay my tab, how was I supposed to tip him?

“You need to get a job, Chris,” he said.

“Man, I don’t want no stinkin’ job. Besides, I’m tired.” I said that last part in the shrill, whinging voice children use to discourage parental nap-enforcement. I really was tired, though. I’d donated a pint of blood that morning, before those lying cretins at the Red Cross blood bank told me it had been illegal for over a decade to sell your blood.

“You tried to sell your blood?” Chico asked.

“Yeah. They didn’t bother not paying me until AFTER they’d taken it out. And I was like, ‘No way am I just GIVING my blood away.’ ” By way of demonstration, I brandished the bag of my blood at Chico. “Say,” I said. “Can you stick this in the cooler until I figure out what to do with it?”

“No,” said Chico. “What gave you the idea they’d buy your blood?”

“Oh, I saw this totally wack Walter Matheau movie from the seventies, where he donates blood for money twice in one day. I was gonna drive to every blood bank from Overland Park to North KC until I had enough for a set of sweet rims. Say — how much blood does the human body contain, anyway?”

Chico thought about this, while sizing me up. “I dunno. I’d say… Fifty quarts. More, if you’re fat. I mean, ‘Big or Tall.'”

“What’s that in pints?” I asked. “I don’t want to be bled dry based on some kind of NASA-style metric conversion error.”

“That’s a moot point, since they’re not buying what you’ve got to offer,” Chico said. “Anyway, Jill says you have to pay your tab tonight, or you’re cut off.”

I attempted my usual response to collections queries, which is to fake a cardiac “big one,” ala Fred Sanford, clutching my heart and staggering around while shouting “ELIZABETH! I’M COMING, ELIZABETH!” at the ceiling. But I was a pint low on blood, and I hadn’t eaten anything for lunch, and also I chugged that PBR a little too rapidly. I stood up too quickly, intending to launch into an elaborate Red Foxx impression, and passed out.

From my perspective, it was the hokiest thing you’ve ever seen — I actually floated up out of my body, and hovered near the ceiling, like every hackneyed out-of-body experience you’ve ever read about in the pages of Reader’s Digest. Somewhere above me, I could see a bright light, and I felt the urge to move toward it.

“Chris!” a voice called. “Don’t go into the light!”

“What? Why the hell not?”

“Because — I don’t know. What if that tiny little woman from ‘Poltergeist’ is in there?”

I looked around, and saw Andee Hindery floating behind me.

“Andee? Are you astrally projecting? Why are you in my out-of-body experience?”

“I think I’m having one, too. I got knocked out! I was walking down the street, and some jackass sped by and splashed water at me, so I dove out of the way and hit my head.”

I couldn’t think of a rationale that minimized my involvement in her predicament, so I decided to be very annoyed with Andee for walking down the street unescorted by a family member. But before I could vent my indignation, she said, “I was on my way here to tell Chico to bring home a bottle of wine when he gets off work.”

The next thing I knew, somebody was holding something really foul under my nose, trying to revive me. I had just enough time to shout, “I’ll give Chico the message,” and then I was looking up at Andrew and Kevin. “You can put your socks back on Kevin,” Andrew said.

“Chico, Andee says to bring some wine home with you tonight.”

“When did you talk to her?”

“Just now. She’s floating up by the ceiling — well, you can’t see her now, but trust me — she’s watching all of us, just like Santa.”

“You’re talking crazy, Chris,” Chico said.

I ran outside, and with the help of Kevin’s socks, managed to revive Andee. The whole point of this story is that while I was doing that, somebody STOLE MY BLOOD, and unlike the stupid Red Cross, I’m actually offering cash for its return. Please write me at this address if you come across a pint of type AB blood, no questions asked.

The Cup and Saucer on Delaware Street

412 Delaware Street

Kansas City, MO 64106