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A few weeks ago, after seeing Ben Folds open for Weezer, Kara and I decided we needed to make a little road trip to see Ben and our beloved Rufus Wainwright and KC's newest concert venue, City Market.

This morning we strapped Clara "Crazy Little Woman" Jane into her carseat and hit the road. We dumped the kiddo with my parents and high-tailed it to The City, free of all obligations. Fun and mystery, my friends. Fun and mystery!

The rain began as soon as we crossed into the suburbs on the eastern edge of Jackson County. This was no ordinary rain, either. This was the kind of rain that leads extremist voice-hearing types to buy all the lumber at their neighborhood Home Depot and start ark construction.

By the time we reached the city, the rain had not abated, and my head was about to explode from straining to see the cars ahead of me, when I could barely see past the nose of my truck. I bailed onto the surface streets, relying solely on my memories and keen sense of direction (Really, I do have a keen sense of direction. Peachy-keen, even.). We eventually found our way to the hotel (overlooking gorgeous spires of Bartle Hall, then to dinner (burnt ends at Arthur Bryant's). We briefly considered skipping the concert - did I mention that the venue was outside? But upon watching a little local news and the skies, we threw caution to the wind and give it a go.

We arrived at 6:30, just when the doors were supposed to open. And we waited. First, we waited in the street. Yes, the middle of the street. Which wasn't closed to traffic. We all lined up in the eastbound lane of 5th Street, watching the cars squeeze past, while the nearby sidewalk remained empty. Why did we stand in the street? I'm not sure. Apparently, the person in line who was responsible for the difficult decision of where to place the line - an awning-covered sidewalk or a busy city street - has some rather poor decision-making skills. So in the street, we stood.

And stood.

And stood.

The rain continued. Not a deluge like earlier. Just a light, trickling rain. You know. The kind they use on war prisoners to make them talk.

Finally, after 45 minutes, a City Market employee - the first one we'd seen all night - appeared to announce that the doors would be opening in five minutes.

Half an hour later ...

We were still standing in line, growing slowly soggier, but at least the line had moved to the sidewalk. The crowd was getting restless and agitated. I started having fears of a concert riot, but then I remembered who we were seeing. Ben and Rufus fans in a riot? It would probably be a bunch of hair-pulling and bitch-slapping, which doesn't do anyone any good. I suggested getting a big singalong of "Song for the Dumped" (Give me my money back/Give me my money back/You bitch), but realized that was just about as dorky and ineffective as a slap-fight.

An hour after the employee told us the doors were opening, we still hadn't moved nor had we seen any other employees. Kara and I decided we'd had enough. We were exhausted, damp and not wild about investing the rest of our night in a concert that may or may not happen. So we bailed. And on our way out, we saw the rest of the line. Blocks and blocks and blocks of would-be concert-goers, snaking around the buildings. Like they were refugees lined up for bowls of rice. We passed on girl, completely delerious (from booze or the wait, I'm not sure). Poor kid. Whatever she had done to cause her condition, I was pretty sure she'd be hurting badly by the time she got to the show. If she got to the show.

At this point I remembered how all those Kansas City trips of my past turned out. Frozen to the bone from schlepping around the Plaza in the snow. Missing prom to go lose at a debate tournament. Changing my clothes in the QuikTrip bathroom after sneaking out of Temporary Boyfriend du Jour's apartment in the middle of the night before he had a chance to wake up. Having a 6'3" drag queen rub my boobs and ask me if they ever itch ("No," I replied. "But mine aren't glued to thick, furry chest hair. But thanks for asking!"). Those trips never turned out quite how I expected, nor did I ever remember them as they happened. But they're good memories nonetheless, in all their sketchy splendor.

While we drove from City Market, past Westport, through Crown Center and down to the Plaza, I kept interrupting the conversation with yet another KC anecdote from my past.

How did tonight end? With a decaf latte and some bookshopping at the Plaza's huge Barnes & Noble, followed by a hot shower and room service chicken tenders and spinach-artichoke dip. Tomorrow, we'll explore a little more before heading to my hometown to fetch my kid. Good conversation, good food, and a good little escape from the everyday.

Or, I might wind up watching someone get flogged at the Dixie Belle and then leave my underwear in the QuikTrip bathroom. Either way...