k l a t OF THE TOWNS
by bill beggs jr.
grand center
We thought you might want to know about the upcoming night of conversation and comedy with comedian-cum-senator Al Franken at The Sheldon Concert Hall on Sunday, Nov. 21. Well, the aptly named “Al Franken’s The Only Former U.S. Senator Currently On Tour Tour!” is sold out, but at least now you know that, too. As far as anyone knows, Franken is the only U.S. senator who was also one of the original writers for Saturday Night Live. During his 15 seasons with SNL, Franken won five Emmys for writing and producing. He’s authored No. 1 New York Times bestsellers, including Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them—A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right and Al Franken, Giant of the Senate. Franken served Minnesota from 2009-2018, and he served on the Judiciary, Energy, Indian Affairs and HELP (Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions) committees. He resigned from the Senate in December 2017 following accusations of sexual impropriety. In any case, the Al Franken Podcast is one of the nation’s top 10 politics and public affairs podcasts with guests like Malcolm Nance, Sarah Silverman, Paul Krugman and Chris Rock.
u. city
An unnatural disaster struck us at home Oct. 28. We noticed a brook babbling down the sidewalk into the storm drain right outside the front door, but it was barely drizzling. Then, OMG: At the end of the walk about 30 feet away, water burbled out of two other drains. Cate dispatched me for sandbags and contacted CPM, our condo management company. Lisa at CPM asked whether we’d called the water company; Lisa said she would, too. But Missouri-American’s switchboard wouldn’t accept calls from Cate’s or my phone: We aren’t customers—CPM is! Cate, frantic, managed to get somebody at the water company on the line and pleaded for an emergency response—muddy water was spurting out of the drains. She called 911; U. City police and fire both responded promptly—seems firefighters know rushing water as well as they do roaring blazes. One unclogged the drain outside our door, shoveled mud against the sandbags, then rearranged them to release the encroaching waters. Neighbors and gawkers with cameras and dogs appeared. Meanwhile, thanks to Lisa, I waved to the plumber who showed up, shrugged, and left; a disaster mitigation company called us, too. Our impressive water feature was turning the yard into a mess that mud wrestlers would have loved. Finally—three hours after the first calls—a water-company van drove up. The driver pulled a long, T-shaped wrench out of the back, but his shut-off efforts were for naught. Mud kept sloshing in, blocking the valve. Without a word, he drove off. Trucks started appearing. They turned off the water to the street. As a backhoe rumbled across the yard, dusk was falling— then, ‘Poof!’… flood lights bright enough to prevent a prison break. The sounds of thumping, scraping and concrete cracking were like fingernails on a blackboard. A big chunk of sidewalk thunked next to the mud pile on our cute baby grass. Workers dumped gravel over the maw where they’d removed the walk and replaced the pipe, turned the water back on, sprayed and shoveled away some mud, and vamoosed. Bottom line: Despite a day of noise and rushing waters outside, we stayed dry inside … somehow. We are grateful. But also left to wonder when Missouri-American might plan to come back and restore the yard. Oy; what chutzpah—at this writing it’s been, oh, 12 days since all this muddy mishegas started.
the metro
When my two younger brothers and I were snot-noses in the 1960s sitting in the rear-facing back seat of our Ford Country Squire station wagon, a game we’d play to relieve our boredom on a trip was to see what state license plates we could spot. Since we lived in the Baltimore-Washington area, everybody spotted a boatload of Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania plates. (I spied an Alaska plate once, but nobody ever saw one from Hawaii.) As an adult who’s over the hill and picking up speed, with our kids grown, I often have only myself to amuse during the awful traffic backups on I-170. For the last few years, it’s been fun to spy ‘status’ plates. One rush hour a few weeks ago, traffic was a doozy, and so were the plates. I merged in at a crawl right behind a gorgeous electric-blue Lamborghini that was so close to the pavement you’d have to limbo in and out of it. The Florida plate read WRIT-OFF. Hmm… snarky. A minute and maybe 50 yards farther down the Inner Belt, a sporty red Audi merged in slowly beside me: TTTTTTT ... I counted seven T’s—Seventies. Wowsers. There once was a cherry red ’65 Mustang convertible in a downtown Webster Groves display window: NE1410S. Anyone for tennis? Another: WLEXOT. It belonged to the husband of my son’s 5th grade teacher, an awesome artist for either Marvel or D.C. comics. (Don’t we all sort of feel sorry sometimes for Wiley Coyote? The ‘X’ stands for the Greek letter Chi, you see.) 2HARTZ on a minivan—last name or awww? But my favorite is on another Audi, a white one I’ve seen the hind end of at Deer Creek Coffee in Ladue: 4TUNE8. It always makes me feel exactly that.
TTia ☛ triv 8|
TOWN&style
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NOVEMBER 17, 2021
CHUTZPAH AND MISHEGAS, OR MISHIGAS, ARE FAVORITE YIDDISH WORDS OF YOUR SCRIBE, A LAPSED PROTESTANT. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? (‘MISHEGAS,’ NOT ‘LAPSED PROTESTANT,’ ALTHOUGH IT’S A VALID QUESTION.)
LAST ISSUE’S Q&A What’s one business slated to occupy the acreage cleared in western U. City? Costco has laid claim to the vast acreage cleared at the northeastern quadrant of I-170 and Olive in U. City. For about the last seven years, several blocks have fallen within the 50-some acre ‘Interchange District’—one of four set out along Olive by U. City planners. To the east of McKnight/Woodson is the ‘International’ District,’ followed by the ‘Park District,’ then the ‘Industrial District’ as Olive approaches Skinker.
