Red Mosquito

Monkey_Driven wrote:Want to plug seeing the Arch. It's the cliche thing to do downtown, but it's worth it. They recently remodeled and redesigned the museum below it. A majestic monument and feat of engineering.

Simple Torture wrote:

Monkey_Driven wrote:Want to plug seeing the Arch. It's the cliche thing to do downtown, but it's worth it. They recently remodeled and redesigned the museum below it. A majestic monument and feat of engineering.

I have a fear of heights but was proud that I went to the top (it helps that the elevator doesn't have windows). I stood in the middle and wouldn't go near the windows, but I made it!

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Jorge wrote:I'm going to St Louis in October for a wedding. We're there for 5 days and staying in the Central West End area.

What is there to do in St Louis please

tragabigzanda wrote:Hate zoos

epilogue wrote:

Jorge wrote:I'm going to St Louis in October for a wedding. We're there for 5 days and staying in the Central West End area.

What is there to do in St Louis please

You're better off driving to KC.

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Peeps wrote:I took a bus from pittsburgh to cali and we made a stop in St. Louis

I believe there was a kfc right across the street. Literally right across the street. Some fellow travelers I made friends with on the way couldn’t find their brother. Just the. A security guard from the bus station races by us and around the corner and grabs the brother.

Apparently he was following the locals cause they knew a short cut to the KFC. His brother said, I. Telling mom you’re a dumbass

Security guard wasn’t allowed to Cary a gun so he had what looked like a bed post with nails sticking out of it

Monkey_Driven wrote:Want to plug seeing the Arch. It's the cliche thing to do downtown, but it's worth it. They recently remodeled and redesigned the museum below it. A majestic monument and feat of engineering.

Jorge wrote:

Peeps wrote:I took a bus from pittsburgh to cali and we made a stop in St. Louis

I believe there was a kfc right across the street. Literally right across the street. Some fellow travelers I made friends with on the way couldn’t find their brother. Just the. A security guard from the bus station races by us and around the corner and grabs the brother.

Apparently he was following the locals cause they knew a short cut to the KFC. His brother said, I. Telling mom you’re a dumbass

Security guard wasn’t allowed to Cary a gun so he had what looked like a bed post with nails sticking out of it

I think I'm too stoned to understand this story

tragabigzanda wrote:Don’t know how late it runs, but the Soulard Farmers Market was dope AF

washing machine wrote:

tragabigzanda wrote:Don’t know how late it runs, but the Soulard Farmers Market was dope AF

I've never been to St Louis but this recc would be on the top of my list after reading this thread.

In 1779, the market began at a flat meadow where farmers came to sell their goods.[1][3][4] It was the third public marketplace in St. Louis.[1] Antoine Soulard, who was born in 1766 in Rochefort, France, was an aristocrat and former French military officer who escaped France to avoid the consequences of the French Revolution.[5][6] In 1795, he married Julia Cerré, whose father, Gabriel Cerré, received a grant from Spain for the land where the market was located in 1782.[5][6] Gabriel Cerré gave his son-in-law Soulard a 122-acre plot of land that included the market area.[3]

In 1803, however, the Louisiana Purchase caused a legal battle over ownership of the land, until in 1836, when after Soulard’s death in 1825, his widow, Julia Cerré Soulard, acquired the deed to the land.[3][6] In 1835, her land was subdivided and incorporated in the city limits of St. Louis.[5] By 1841–42, Julia Soulard had donated to the City of St. Louis two city blocks to be the farmers market which was then known as Soulard Market with the condition that it would remain a public marketplace.[1][3][5][7] In 1845, Julia Soulard died, and in 1854, the city owned the property of the market.[5][6]