I don't read the datelines of newspaper stories very often. Usually, the headline ("Green Zone bombing kills 23," "Mick Jagger takes a leak in the Seine") tells me all I need to know. Sometimes it doesn't. Last week, I was scanning an article about Steve Fossett's bizarre (but impressive) solo avionic circumvention of the earth when I spotted a reference to the mission control, which was located "in a remote spot in the middle of the country."

Damn, I thought, they must be in Salina. And, after a cursory check of the dateline (and a re-scanning of the story to find a reference to the Salina South High School marching band), I ascertained that, indeed, they were in Salina.

That would be Salina, Kan., the town where my youngest brother was born and where I went to kindergarten. My main memories of Salina are Kansas Wesleyan basketball games (my dad worked at the college and often had tickets) and my induction into a Jaws fan club. The rules required only ownership of an official Jaws beach towel, not actually watching the movie (my mom gladly bought the towel, but never let me view the flick; to this day I have never seen the film).

There are other memories, of course. I spent hours walking along the sugar beet-infested banks of the Smoky Hill River, a pastime which certainly helped foster my fascination with moving water. There was a bicentennial parade on July 4, 1976, and my mom made semi-period (I'm quite sure she used at least some polyester) outfits for all of us. Not long after that, I recall walking along the river with someone or other (not my parents) and learning that I would be moving to Lawrence, Kan., within a month. I'm sure my folks had mentioned it to me before then, but for some reason it never really meant anything until I was wandering next to this river that I have only seen a couple times since.

Indeed, I can't remember the last time I was in Salina. I know we went back at least once to see some friends and hang out at an art fair (which was in that same park along the river), but most of my trips through Kansas (and there have been myriad) have taken me through the southern reaches. Wichita, for example.

And hey, Wichita has been in the news, too. When I first heard about the B.T.K. killer, I assumed it was some sort of bacterial outbreak at Burger King. When I read about Dennis Rader's 30-year career of killing, I can't say I was surprised. Not that Wichita is more likely to breed a torture killer who decides to call himself "Bind Torture Kill", but more that there are people like that everywhere. Most of them get a bit greedy for publicity long before he did.

I remember Wichita mostly for trips my family took to one of its malls while we lived in Salina. We always stopped at a Farrell's restaurant before heading home. Farrell's had a "gay 90s" (1890s, of course) theme, and the menu consisted of terrible food and loads of ice cream. We ate the ice cream. Years later, we stopped at a Farrell's in Albuquerque, and I came to a whole new appreciation for my folks. Fill two kids (Aaron was still too young to partake, methinks) with ice cream and then drive for a couple hours? What the hell were they thinking?

But Wichita is more than home to seedy malls and a long-closed Farrell's. An old railroad hub, Wichita moved countless head of cattle and innumerable bushels of grain through its yards. Boeing and Coleman have been instrumental in helping the city grow into a true industrial metropolis of the plains. Wichita is home to the original Pizza Hut--and that first restaurant is preserved on the campus of Wichita State University. With all that history, it's hard to say that Wichita is in the middle of nowhere. After all, it's 100 miles south of Salina--which is, in fact, the true middle of nowhere.

My own connections to Wichita are somewhat minor. My wife Barbara lived there during the summer of 1991, interning for the Wichita newspaper. She could tell you a few things about the joys of living in a supposedly whitebread city that would scare the shit out of you. But she never mentioned B.T.K. to me. I guess 1991 was one of his idle periods.

I have no idea how Kansans are taking all of this publicity. I suppose the folks in Salina are having a lot of fun--after all, they let the band skip school on a Thursday afternoon just to play for a few rich people and a guy limping out of a goofy-ass plane with the worst "gotta pee" shuffle I've ever seen. I have read a lot of "how could this happen to our town?" nonsense from Wichitans, but that's just for the cameras. I think the capture of B.T.K. is a long-term wash. After all, the kids are still learning that evolution nonsense, and they're threatening to teach the birds and bees to high school seniors. There are important fights to fight.

It's Kansas, after all. The middle of nowhere.

Nowhere, that is, as long as you want to call the United States of America "nowhere."

Jon Worley wasn't born in Kansas, but he lived there for some seven-plus years, which means that he lived there longer than any state other than Missouri. And, by the way, how 'bout them Tigers? Rock chalk chicken hawk, fuck KU!