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Volleyball Goes Goth

If you were in Kansas City yesterday, you may have noticed that it was raining, sometimes heavily, and that the sky was filled with lightning for most of the day and night. Any normal person would have guessed that their weekly sand volleyball game would have been cancelled. The team we were supposed to play against at 10:00 pm were normal people and didn�t show up. My team is not normal. At 8:30 pm, we left the house amidst a light sprinkle and a summer sky filled with a heavy cloudscape alternately midnight blue and warm orange and vivid pink. As we arrived at the sand volleyball court/bar, lightning filled the sky and a rainbow arched over the rooftops, disappearing through part of the night sky and reappearing over Broadway. It was pretty and scary and everything I love about living in the Midwest. Storms are cool� except when you are supposed to play volleyball in them.

We peered out from underneath a tent as the sky continued to light up with bolts of lightning. For what seemed like forever, thunder rolled all around us. Pitchers of lukewarm beer were consumed to bolster our confidence against what could be a formidable opponent. We made bold statements about how none of us were willing to risk our lives to play volleyball in a lightning storm. We declared the people on the courts idiots incapable of assessing the risk they posed to themselves as they continued their game despite lightning that was no less than six to eight miles away. We hypothesized about the liability policy held by the owner of the volleyball court and whether or not we waived all rights by signing the releases at the beginning of the season. But promptly at 10:00 pm, we kicked off our flip flops and stepped into the moist cool sandpit.

It quickly became apparent that our formidable opponents had decided to skip the game due to the weather. Luckily, four people who had just finished their game agreed to stick around and kick our asses. We really suck. We were, however, rewarded with a checkmark in the �W� column due to our intended opponents forfeit, and after a couple of games, we headed back to the bar. In the hour since we�d left, the whole aura of the place had changed. What we�d seen as a dingy oddly placed dance floor under a heavily used ex-wedding tent had since turned into a haven for Goth and 80�s fans alike. Gone were the active mid-twenties co-eds in old t-shirts and gym shorts drinking cheap beer out of plastic pitchers and in their place were skinny men dressed in head to toe pleather with pale faces, dark red lipstick and heavy eyeliner. Confused and a bit lost, we took seats at the bar and watched the scene unfold over another pitcher of lukewarm beer consumed from plastic cups.

A DJ had set up his equipment under the tent, and one would suspect he would be more comfortable laying down some hip hop mixed with a bit of rap followed with a splash of dance music. Instead, he played Joy Division. The in-crowd nodded knowingly at each other casting surly scowls at each other as a form of greeting. We lamented Joy Division commenting that while critically acclaimed, no one really liked Joy Division and people only pretended to like Joy Division because, we agreed, they thought it made them seem cool and in the know. The DJ switched CDs and next we were treated to Aha�s �Take on Me�. This inspired the Goth kids to stand around sullenly while the Preppies channeled Katrina and the Waves on the dance floor. The Goth kids were rewarded for their patience by a song from The Cure, and one actually squealed aloud as he sprinted to the center of the dance floor. Preppies and Goth intermingled and bopped about happily while we took great pleasure in criticizing every mood they made.

We stayed until 1:00 am watching this unfamiliar bit of nightlife. We were amazed by the lengths to which each individual would go to in their costuming. One young woman had gone for the Angry Betty Boop look. She wore a permanent scowl on an exaggeratedly pale face. Her dyed black bangs cut harshly across her forehead emphasizing a puffy jowl frighteningly similar to Renee Zellweger. She wore a black and white striped boat shirt, a short black mini skirt with a subtle ruffle at the hem, black fishnets and stiletto heels that were at least 5 inches tall and as sharp as a hypodermic needle. Without the shoes, she was about my height � 5�1. With the shoes, she appeared taller, however the shoes owned her. She tromped across the floor like a truck driver, knees far apart, feet stomping as she lifted each high off the ground in order not to trip over the stiletto heel as it grazed past her calf. You could tell the shoes were painful, and she made the mistake of kicking them off early in the night so that she could dance with her lover to New Order. Her scowl turned to a grimace when she once again donned the stilettos.

As the night wore on, a few more Preppies trickled in. Some had dared wear the revealing blouses of today which equate roughly to a napkin strapped to the torso with a couple of rubber bands. At one point, a tall beautiful woman channeling Tawny Kitaen proved that white people can�t dance missing every beat available. Her inner-drummer must have had muscle spasms as she jerked wildly on the dance floor to the rhythm of a song played 20 minutes earlier. Simply shocking and wildly entertaining.

As the night wore down, and the last drip of beer poured from our pitcher we were all disappointed to recognize that we needed to go home so that we could be productive in our jobs today. The skies had calmed into a wonderfully cool evening that invited open windows for a restful night of slumber with these new images of the Kansas City nightlife dancing in our heads.

I hope everyone has a wonderful and safe Fourth of July. Also, thanks for all of the guestbook comments lately! Love them!

12:18 p.m. - July 01, 2005

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