After an early afternoon dashing through the boring Museum of Western Expansion at the base of the Gateway Arch (the highlight being animatronic William Clark of Lewis and Clark fame), I needed something else to do. My efforts to see the most I could by spending as little as possible led me to Forest Park, home of several free attractions, including the St. Louis Zoo, which I had been told was fairly cool. Now, I recognize that I'm 29 and maybe shouldn't be going to zoos while on vacation, but it had been awhile since I'd ogled the caged and tamed animals of the world (at the Staten Island Zoo, which I think is the only zoo I've ever been to, unless you count the Catskill Game Farm). So, really, no time like the present, right? Did I mention it was free? OK, good.
Anyway, I hopped onto the Metrolink, and about 15 minutes later, I was at the Missouri History Museum in Forest Park. I breezed through the exhibit on the 1904 World's Fair and checked out the wares in the gift shop before I realized that the history of Missouri, even when not paying to learn about it, was not something I was going to find terribly interesting. It was time to figure out where the zoo was. So I asked the woman at the information desk for the best walking path to the zoo. She handed me a map and told me it was a fairly long walk. No problem, I told her. So she mapped out the long way but then told me that I could take a shortcut "if I didn't mind walking up a steep little passageway." Sure, no problem.
So I started walking along the golf course (and almost into someone's tee shot) and looking for the "steep little passageway." I saw a fountain and a little reflecting pool to my left, with the Art Museum perched way above it on top of a hill that looked to be on about a 60-degree incline.
I soon realized that this was the steep little passageway. The long way around suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Time was ticking, though, so I trudged up it and after passing the Art Museum and the outdoor Shakespeare Festival, I was at the zoo. The first thing I saw was an animatronic Charles Darwin (Wednesday was Fun with Animatronics Day) whose mouth was flapping away while no words came out. I'll leave the punchline to that joke to those on the far right.
Anyway, that was an auspicious start to what was supposed to be a cool zoo, so I headed to the outdoor path in search of something a little better. Unfortunately, the animals weren't providing much more oomph. It was a hot day in St. Louis, and apparently the alleged "kings of the jungle" and "fierce beasts" would rather spend hot days in their fetid caves than come out to say hello. Zoo life has made them soft. The first leg of the zoo trip was saved by the hungry, hungry hippos like the one below, who at least put on their game faces.
Most of the lions and tigers and bears were all big pussies who couldn't be bothered. It made for a relatively dull zoo experience, enlivened only briefly by monkeys picking bugs off each other and a pack of wild asses. Actually, I just wanted to use the phrase "a pack of wild asses." I took a picture of them for just that reason.
I was almost ready to declare the zoo a big, fat disappointment until the penguin and puffin center, which wound up being by far the coolest (in every sense of the word) part of the zoo. The sign outside warned that it would be 45 degrees inside the exhibit and that under no circumstances should you touch the penguins. Touch the penguins? What am I gonna do, jump into the water, swim out to wherever the hell the penguins are, and start tackling the little bastards? Why wasn't I given a similar warning not to touch the lion or the grizzly bear? That would seem just as likely a possibility as me touching a penguin.
But then I walked in and there were penguins right there. It would've been really easy to touch them. But I didn't. Just took pictures.
Satisfied after getting close enough to touch a penguin, I left the zoo and headed back down to the steep little passageway back to the Metrolink and Night Two of Twangfest at Blueberry Hill.
***
Night Two was the night where I knew the least about the bands on the bill--the Transmitters, Glossary, Deadstring Brothers, and the Dirtbombs. Of the four, I'd only seen the Deadstring Brothers, at last year's CMJ Bloodshot BBQ, and I wasn't really blown away by that. I had heard the Dirtbombs on the only show worth listening to on terrestrial radio—The Best Show on WFMU—but didn't really know all that much about them. The Transmitters and Glossary were completely new to me. And the Twangfest sets from those two bands were good but nothing really spectacular. Sometime during Glossary's set, I wondered if I should cut out after the Deadstring Brothers and catch the last train back downtown.
But the Deadstring Brothers' set was far better than I remember them being at the Bloodshot BBQ and kinda reenergized me for the night. I think touring more has probably made them a better band, and certainly has improved their showmanship. At the BBQ, I remember thinking they were a solid band but nothing all that special. But at Blueberry Hill, they were all strut and swagger, with strong vocals from Masha Marjieh and Kurt Marschke (shown above) and a real solid sound all around.
I thought I was enjoying the show, but the guy next to me seemed to think I wasn't, as he tapped me on the shoulder after Marschke executed a few Townshendian guitar moves and asked me, "Do you realize how lucky you are to see that thing?"
"Um, yeah?"
"Good, because I've been watching you and you don't look like you do."
Well, all right then. How about you don't watch me and let's both watch the band? And I'll enjoy things the way I do and you enjoy things by flailing around like a rotating water sprinkler. Cool?
Should've said that.
***
Even after the Deadstring Brothers' set, I was still contemplating ducking out after a few Dirtbombs songs. I don't like taking cab rides, particularly after being driven through the backstreets of Charlotte by a guy who thought I was looking for a newspaper office and, more damagingly (I doubt that's a word), getting a ride from Nassau Coliseum to the Hempstead train station from a cab driver who offered to drive me back to Staten Island for $75 and then told me how he would pick up fares at the prison and accept, ahem, alternate forms of payment (turned out the Hempstead terminal and 10 bucks was my preferred option). So I like to avoid cabs unless absolutely necessary. Or If I get the urge to service a sweaty fat guy while he drinks a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew, which, I'll be honest, hasn't happened yet.
Anyway, I knew the Dirtbombs were characterized as a garage rock band, and I usually get tired of that after awhile. Nothing against the genre, but all the bands seem to blend together after awhile. So when they took the stage, I was thinking, "OK, five songs and I'll head out. Maybe six."
And then they started playing, everybody went nuts, an older guy stage dove, and I figured I might just stick around for the whole thing.
With a lead singer/guitarist, two bass players, and two drummers (with full drum kits), the Dirtbombs don't play music as much as attack it, crashing and slashing, jumping and thumping until you have no choice but to submit. And though I'm not completely sold on every song they played, and I have a feeling that CDs may not do them justice, I wouldn't mind listening to their cover of Sly and the Family Stone's "Underdog" every day until my ears gave out.
I finally did bail right before they came out for their encore, because I thought I had time to make the last train. But I had "12:48" in my head instead of "12:28," so that ended up being an unsuccessful mission. So I had to suck it up and take my first cab ride on the trip, which also turned out to be my only one, making me both slightly proud and marginally wealthier. Hooray for me. The cab driver was quiet and pleasant and didn't bring up oral sex once, so that was nice.
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