Yesterday marked the Official Heather and Stacia Pre-Vegas Shopping Extravaganza. I arose with the sun, went promptly back to sleep, got up at 9 and enjoyed a brisk workout and a leisurely lunch. At 1:45, Stacia and I embarked on our epic journey across two malls, one Old Navy, and three retailers that were inexplicably closed for Memorial Day.

We started with Penn Square Mall, where I got a cute yet dressy shirt at Georgiou Studio. It was the first thing I tried on, in the first store we went to. Yay me! We moved on to Dillard's, where we scoured the formal section for non-promlike eveningwear. It was mostly a bust for me, but Stacia bought two cute black-based dresses after digging through many shiny candy-colored lycra prom gowns interwoven with glitter thread. I could not find any of these gaudy monstrosities on Dillards' Web site, so I can only assume these lovely frocks hailed from 1993 and had been exiled by the retailer to Oklahoma in a futile last-ditch bid to sell the unwanted Promwear from Hell to unwitting fashion-challenged yokels. Fortunately, we saw through their evil plot and Stacia did not try on the sparkly lime-green lycra number, or the giant taffeta polka-dotted rose-trimmed monstrosity, and she even managed to avoid the devastating teal number, which featured not only a very bright, iridescent material which could be easily viewed for miles, but also glitter thread. And since double-shiny wasn't enough, it was a dark but still really bright teal on top and faded to lighter teal on the bottom. Because you can never overdo eveningwear.

We also looked through the shoe section, where we found a most extraordinary pair of shoes. These pointy-toed mauve and burgundy velvet mules are reminiscent of what you would expect an 18th-century French whore to wear in a low-budget period film from the 1980s. Unfortunately, as usual, I did not have my camera on hand.

After shopping at nearly every store in the mall, we decided to visit Name Brand Clothing, where serviceable designer clothing from several seasons ago is available for mere pocket change, if one is willing to brave the unbearable stench of mildew and one's fellow shoppers, who are mostly cheap strippers with five screaming children apiece, and muttering, shifty-eyed people who do not have access to soap and water (and Zoloft). We are willing to brave the stench and the muttering bag ladies and the screeching toddlers. Alas, Oklahoma City's shining beacon of putrid-smelling out-of-date togs was closed for the holiday, although they did not care enough to post a sign. We then went to Ross, which is like NBC except most of the clientele wash on a regular basis. It, alas, had closed while we were next door in Old Navy, where Stacia found some cute linen pants and I purchased yet another jet-hued top, which means I now have more black shirts than the Italian army in WWII.

Undaunted, we went to see whether the Ross on the northside was still open. It had the same ridiculous holiday hours, and therefore lost out on the huge chunk of money I was going to spend there. We went to Quail Springs Mall instead, and had just enough time to hit Express before closing.

As huge as our shopping trip was, our work is not done. Tonight I am going to go shopping again because I need a pair of shoes for the shirt I got at The Limited, and maybe a few tops, too. We are also going to get our nails done and get Mystic Tans. When we step on that plane tomorrow night, we are going to look fabulous -- and we should, after our epic shopping trip!

Today's post is dedicated to Wastrel Friend Rebecca, who is having problems getting information from her doctor's office on why she isn't feeling well. I have known this sweetie-pie since we were little, and we have been best friends since college. Although the Wastrel Blog is strictly frivolous, I am breaking the rules today because, while the silly things in life are often the most important, there are some things that are more so -- and one of those things is my friendship with sweet, funny, earnest, caring, intelligent, creative and girliest of the girlie-girls, Wastrel Friend Rebecca, who has comforted me through breakups with really great guys and accidental dates with really skeevy guys, helped me sneak out of my dorm room, let me borrow her favorite outfit when I had an important presentation, carried stuff for me when I broke my arm, and rushed to my house after work one day in December to attend my gerbil's burial ceremony. Beck, I love you more than I do some of my own family members and I hope you feel better soon.

I would not be able to call myself a proper wastrel if I didn't follow at least one reality television show. For many years, it was MTV's "The Real World." Then came "The Bachelor," which I watched until Alex dumped the faithful and genuine (for reality TV) Trista, and "The Osbournes," which I still enjoy of an evening, like a fine, well-aged glass of Everclear. Later, I watched with combined horror and glee as a horrendously discordant, facial-tic-plagued karaoke queen made it into the final three in "American Idol," and cheered when she got the well-deserved and long-belated boot. "Sorority Life" came afterward, reminding me why I live with a boy.

But with all shows save "The Osbournes" growing a little stale, it was time for me to ask "Who Wants to Be the New Official Wastrel Reality Show?" And the council (just me, actually) has spoken.

At first, MTV's new "Surf Girls," wherein a bevy of tanned coastal chicks compete for a wild-card spot in a pro surfing championship, was the top contender. But despite the jiggle factor, the well-scrubbed, slapfight-free "Surf Girls" was too clean, too "1900 House" wholesome. While a worthy show, and perhaps because it is a worthy show, it is not Official Wastrel Reality Show material.

Therefore, my final answer: "America's Next Top Model," courtesy of UPN. Nothing says Wastrel quite like throwing 10 women, who want to be models and who don't think being on a reality show isn't the best idea, into one crowded penthouse. Viva insecurity and attention-seeking!

After the first-episode elimination of boring afterthought Tessa, whose camera poses recall the arthritic Ozzie Osbourne attempting to scratch his posterior with one hand while trying futilely to touch the floor with the other, nine contenders remain:

The Druggie: Adrianne, the self-proclaimed tomboy, whose dull stare and slow speech are reminiscent of Jay, from the Kevin Smith movies. Whether it's the speed trips making her too jittery to pose or the munchies affecting her ability to stay cadaver-thin, we at Wastrel Inc. are sure she will add a certain something to the mix. Let's just hope she doesn't get arrested for possessing that certain something with intent to sell.

The Enigma: Reserved, mysterious Ebony has a lot running underneath the surface. A face that interesting is sure to be accompanied by a strong character. I'm waiting for Ebony to get a bit more camera time.

The Contradication: What is a grrl like Elyse doing on a show like this? The funky, intelligent clinical researcher and atheist who quotes a Nobel prizewinning chemist in her bio and reads Bust and Jane is a paradox to me. Despite impossible boniness that hints at an eating disorder, she does not seem like the type who would fall prey to the beauty myth. I'd love to find out why she's on the show, but at the same time I want her eliminated ASAP, because she's too good for this.

The Drama Queen: Look for loudmouthed, vivacious Giselle to be one of the models who gets in fights, has mysterious illnesses and calls Top Model's equivalent of "house meetings." Anyone who screams that much over a bikini wax is bound to get her knickers in a twist over the petty trivialities that arise when one lives with a houseful of princesses, and she's already made some bitchy comments about Robin.

The Lusty Virgin: Likeable, Bible-thumping Shannon is the horniest virgin Wastrel has ever seen. Kudos to her on sticking to her values. We hope the evils of New York City don't corrupt this sweet, charismatic blonde bumpkin, but if she should happen to fall in bed with some suave photographer type, don't expect Wastrel not to find it extremely entertaining. Besides, most of the loud self-proclaimed virgins Wastrel knew in college actually ... weren't.

The Bunny: Katie is a business major, and she's good at selling herself. A little too good, perhaps. The chief complaint from the folks at the photo shoot was that the expressions she made looked too much like something you'd expect on a centerfold. My blood runs cold ...

The Professional: Blonde ambition personifies Nicole, who despite not being the prettiest of the would-be models is the most dedicated. Not one to blow her chance by running late for photo shoots or shying away from a bikini wax, Nicole says she's always looked at fashion magazines and seen herself in them. She impressed the pros at the photo shoot by listening to their cues and looking hot despite the bitter cold. If she doesn't win the whole shebang, this wastrel will be in shock.

The Underdog: Robin's got a lot going against her, such as having a good 20-30 pounds on the other, skeletal contestants and being a wheezing geezer of 26. But she's got a lot going for her, too, such as her engaging personality, her determination and her great attitude. She already feels like a success, having dropped down to svelte reality-show foxiness from 206 pounds. I fully expect the producers to boot her with alacrity, but even if she's not the next supermodel, her healthy attitude and healthy size make her a role model for the show's fans.

The Diva: Sultry Kesse calls herself a diva, and if you aren't convinced, she'll quote you an acronym to prove it. (For the record: Devastating, Intriguing, Vivacious and just plain All that.") With the combination of talent (great mugging for the camera at the shoot) and attitude (being inexcusably late for said shoot), she could be the next Naomi Campbell (career-wise and lawsuit-wise) if she doesn't self-destruct too soon.

That concludes the list of contestants. My top picks for next week's casualty: Elyse, because of her conflicts with the others on the show over religion, and because she seems a fish out of water; Robyn, because she doesn't fit into the superskinny teen-age mold of pro modeling; and Katie, because she hasn't shown anything special yet.

The killer shoes have struck again. This time, the sadistic sandals were not satisfied by merely removing the skin from my toes, nor with causing blisters the size of shooter marbles. Even killing innocent gerbils by emanating their demon rays of sheer malicious rage in the general direction of the terrarium would not suffice. Instead, they committed the ultimate act of spite -- they decided that if they couldn't have me, no other cute shoes would.


On Monday, after my workout, I noticed that my back was in terrible pain. Was it killer cramps? No. It was the wrath of the killer shoes! My chiropractor tells me that, because the felonious footwear required me to adjust my gait in an unnatural way last Friday (when I wore the shoes against my better judgment), my back was weakened. Thus, when I used the Ground Zero squat machine on Monday, even though I use it three times a week, my fatigued muscles were not able to resist the crushing weight of the 60-pound resistance, and my back sustained a strain. Thanks, sandals.


So, after two days of lying around icing my back, I have returned to work full of misery and loathing. I am not allowed to work out for two or more weeks and I have been advised to wear flat shoes. That requires a massive wardrobe adjustment, because I have only two pairs of non-gym-related flat shoes. One is a pair of non-office-appropriate bowling shoes, and the other is red. So, I will be wearing a lot of red attire this next week. In Vegas, however, I will be wearing heels at night -- but they will not be the Evil Heels of Death. Those are going to the trash can, just as soon as I can walk to it.

As much as I like Oklahoma, I am somewhat a fish out of water. I do not own a truck, I don't listen to country, I have yet to pick up a drawl, you will never hear me say "y'all" or "fixin' to," and I think football is dumb. Most noticeably, in the tanning-bed capital of the U.S., I am paler than most makeup lines' lightest foundation. Until, that is, I discovered Mystic Tan.

Mystic Tan is a new breed of self-tanner -- one that does not involve orange palms, streaks, or walking around the house nude and glistening for half an hour while trying manically to avoid the usually welcome attentions of Mr. Wastrel.

Last night I went to L.A. Tan (conveniently situated just 1,190 miles from Los Angeles) and doffed my clothes, rubbed aloe gel on knees, elbows and feet, smoothed barrier cream on my hands and stepped into a machine about the size of a Port-a-John. After I closed the door, I pushed a glowing green button, stood with feet shoulder-width apart and arms stretched out like a scarecrow, and let a machine apply my tan for me. I was in the Port-a-Tan for fewer than 60 seconds, getting misted front and back with self-tanner. I was able to towel off and dress as soon as I exited the machine, rather than running around bare-ass nekkid for 30 minutes. It was quick, convenient and clean. Today, I woke up with glorious golden skin. It is the closest thing to a real tan I've ever experienced. No streaks, no blotches, an even transition from wrists to hands. Just smooth, even bronzing!

I have tried just about every self-tanner known to woman in my quest to not resemble Nosferatu, and I can safely say that Mystic Tan is worth the $25. With my new berry-brown glow, I could easily be mistaken for an Oklahoma grrl -- at least until I open my mouth.

So now an intern has come clean about her affair with JFK. BFD, I say. It's not the first we've heard of such indiscretions, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Our presidents may not be as open as French politicians about their inability to keep it in their pants, but neither are they known for their chastity. In fact, many of our founding fathers mixed business with pleasure. No big deal. If I were president, and I had a Jude Law-like intern throwing coy looks at me on a semiregular basis, who's to say there wouldn't be a copy-room rendezvous one or twice? Sure, it's unethical to screw your underlings, but let he who is without subordinate-ogling (or, worse yet, child ogling) cast the first impeachment vote.

Politicians have flaws, just like the rest of us. They fall prey to lust, avarice and addiction, just like we all do. But having sex with an intern is not a crime, and if it doesn't affect foreign policy or the economy, it shouldn't make us respect the job an elected official does any less, no matter how little we respect him or her as a person.

It is when politicians resort to murder to cover up their other transgressions that we should be concerned. Sadly, the case of Joe Scarborough's unfortunate aide, Lori Klausutis, is much less publicized than JFK's affair with an intern some 40 years ago. Apparently, it is OK to spread Democrats' trivial indiscretions far and wide, and to play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon to connect Bill Clinton to Vince Foster's suicide, but when a Republican's aide mysteriously dies in his office and the autopsy findings contradict the crime scene evidence, not only is it swept under the rug and kept out of the media, but the politician in question then is rewarded for his creepiness with a job at MSNBC hosting a talk show with a title that sounds suspiciously similar to a famous slogan for cigarettes, which coincidentally are also believed to be deadly. Liberal news media indeed. Now, where's my intern?

Some people live in fear of going to the dentist. They put it off for years, and have nightmares that involve drills and sadistic dental practitioners. When you say words like "tartar," "cavity" or "root canal," they cringe visibly. Perhaps because I have never had a cavity, or perhaps because I have a high pain threshold (or maybe I'm just a masochist), I am not one of those people. I have many a fond memory of smiling at a dental hygeinist through a mouthful of gritty, fluoride-sweet dental polish, gleefully accepting a bag of brushing and flossing goodies and skipping out of the dentist's office with whatever he was giving good brushers as a reward for not having cavities -- most often, paradoxically, a lollipop.

However, thanks to a breakthrough in dental technology, my brand-new dentist has informed me that, as I suspected, I have four cavities. Mere poking and prodding by a sadistically thorough hygeinist did not detect the decay, which is why I fired my old dentist and visited Dr. Johnson. My new dentist uses a state-of-the-art laser device to root out (ha! get it?) tooth problems. It can detect even pre-cavity decay -- and it doesn't hurt at all. I don't really mind all of the usual jabbing and scraping because my teeth are very strong and not particularly sensitive, and also because I am enough of a pain junkie that I had no problem piercing my navel with a dull safety pin, but I did appreciate the laser's speed and accuracy. I have suspected for years that I had cavities, and that my old dentist was less than thorough.

The best part is that since my cavities aren't terribly bad, they can be filled using some kind of water-and-laser device, which eliminates the need for anesthetic shots and drilling. So, sometime in the near future, I will have painless, indetectible porcelain fillings. The only bad news in all of this is that I will have to pay half, because my dental insurance thinks metal fillings are just fine and dandy, and so are drills.

Overall, however, I think getting fillings at my new dentist's will be completely stress-free -- even for Mr. Wastrel, who is one of those people who run screaming for the hills when the initials "D.D.S." are mentioned. And I'd tell my ex-dentist to bite me, but if he takes care of his own teeth the way he took care of mine, he'd probably leave three-quarters of them in my ass.

Wastrel Link of the Day: www.blogchalking.tk!

A nice guy named Daniel Padua has created a neato way to help lil' bloggers like me get their sites listed on search engines like Google. Thanks, Daniel!


This is my new blogchalk:
United States, Oklahoma, Edmond, Southwest Edmond, English, Heather, Female, 26-30. :)

Today, after weeks of waking up early and working out (or hitting the snooze and dreaming about ab crunches), I finally experienced the famous "all-day" boost. Last week I was a very good grrl and arose every day at 6:15 to hit the gym for an hour. The first few days it was sheer torment and my all-day boost manifested itself in the form of all-day lethargy, slow-wittedness and eye-irritation. A few days, I felt energized post-workout but then dragged after lunchtime. Today, however, I bounced out of bed in a very un-Wastrely manner with no snooze-slamming whatsoever, maintained 150 or more paces per minute for 20 minutes on the elliptical machines (which I hate), kicked butt on the Cybex and Ground Zero machines, cranked out 250 crunches, and came to work filled with energy.

Better yet, it is now 4 hours since lunch and I have not yawned or rubbed sand out of my eyes once. Yes, the all-day boost is finally here, and it is beautiful to behold!

One of the drawbacks to living in Oklahoma is the weather. When Okies talk about "weather" they are referring to what the rest of us know as bad weather. When a thunderstorm is predicted, we're "expecting some weather." Last night, Oklahoma had some "weather." An F3, to be precise. This evening more "weather" is predicted, which means we will be staying in, ready at any minute to jump into the bathtub of our guest bathroom.

Fortunately, although it destroyed more than 300 homes, last night's tornado did not kill anyone -- it was a lot far cry from the F5 that tore through the southside in 1999 and killed 44 people. "May 3" is not just another date to Oklahomans. At the first hint of a storm, TV anchors start tossing around allusions to that date of infamy in such abundance that a drinking game based around our weather coverage would probably leave its players comatose within half an hour.

On the way to work today I noticed some trash by the roadside. Since we work just north of where the twister hit, I thought it was storm debris, but Mr. Wastrel laughed at me and said it had been there for weeks. So far, other than the images on TV and the hubris-tinged ravings of our slightly deranged local weather crews, which greatly annoyed me by pre-empting the entire Thursday night lineup on NBC, it is hard to find evidence of the tornado. Some friends drove through the damaged areas on their way to work and said it really didn't look bad. As usual, Oklahoma's journalists, having been through one tragedy, are making a mountain out of a molehill on the next occasion that slightly resembles the first, because their employers are too cheap to pay for counseling.

Hottie of the Day:
Gael Garcia Bernal

Tonight I have a date with Gael. Well, really not so much a date with Gael as a date with my DVD player and Wastrel Friend Amy, who shares my obsession with his earthshattering hotness. Already fans of Gael's work in other films such as Amores Perros and Y Tu Mama Tambien, as well as his gorgeous eyes, sensuous mouth and yummy lean physique, we have come into possession of a copy of The Crime of Padre Amaro and we are sure that whatever it is, we can forgive him. Especially if his crime involved nudity or saying something sexy-sounding en Espanol.

I am willing to try anything once. Rolling the dice on novelty is how I discovered I like chess, Thai food, parasailing, markup languages and home improvement, and how I found that I don't particularly enjoy aerobics, rap music, asparagus, camping or being a Republican. The one thing I hated the thought of so much that I resisted even trying it was liver, but my mom made me eat it anyway. It was revolting, just as I suspected. On occasion, however, I have found that something I thought would be horrible was actually quite fun. That is what I am hoping will happen in Las Vegas this month.

Yes, you read that right. I, Wastrel Heather, pillar of all that is not tacky, am going to vacation in a place where people wear sequins before nightfall and where Elvis will never, ever leave the building, even if you try chasing him out while brandishing a crowbar. And where you can visit a legal brothel with someone you just wed in a drive-thru chapel after meeting him or her in a casino.

The airline tickets have been purchased and the hotel has been booked. Since going to Vegas is, in itself, the height of poor taste according to the Wastrel Guide to Avoiding Situations in Which One Could Possibly Encounter Jay-Z, Wayne Newton, or Pamela Anderson-Lee-Rock, it is only fitting that I am staying in a hotel shaped like a pyramid and which terrorizes the night sky (and outer space, too) with the brightest light on the Planet Earth.

Whilst in Sin City, I shall partake of such delights as the slot machines, giant buckets of brightly-colored booze, and a Siegfried and Roy show. The tacky fun will not end there, oh no. We will also see a very famous girlie show, the Follies Bergere. I have been assured that the women are not being objectified. In the true Las Vegas spirit, I am betting $10 that they are. (I'm quite the high roller.)

Now, don't get me wrong, I am a party girl -- but not in a buffet-grazing, video-poker playing, fake-landmark-gawking way. I am still holding out for the nightclub scenes in Ibiza, Prague and Reykjavik, where the buildings don't just look old and there is nary an Elvis to be seen. But Wastrel Friend Eric has said we will indeed enjoy Vegas, if only for the Cirque du Soleil show and the mini Guggenheim inside The Venetian, and we trust him. Mr. Wastrel, Eric, Stacia and I will toss the dice on the Vegas Experience and I will discover whether Sin City is something I never knew I'd enjoy, like AC/DC, or if I was right all along like I was with liver.

Sex on Wheels

Nothing gets my motor running like a weekend dedicated to hurtling around a cone course in a car I don't own. Actually, there are many things that get my motor running like that, such as shoe shopping, dyeing my hair, street hockey and Madonna concerts, but I felt compelled, as if by Charles Manson, to use that cheesy lede.
Be that as it may, the Mazda Rev it Up event was definitely up there in terms of fun. We spent Saturday night and most of Sunday in the Dallas area taking professional driving clinics and racing through a fun little course. Despite having to pay $3 for a 20 oz. Coke, everybody had a great time. The RX-8, scheduled to hit the pavement in 2004 (that's July, in car talk), was sexy beyond words, although sadly we were not allowed to drive it. It has a unique RENESIS rotary engine design, neato industrial/sporty accents, and an ingenious door setup which eliminates the need for center pillars. No idea how crashworthy it is (my guess is, not very), but I would never crash my yummy little RX-8 anyway, and at under $30K base price, it is a dream within reach!
But, on to the car I actually drove. The Mazda 6 was a fun little car, very cool for its class, and I loved the clutchless standard. As my dad (and his very patient car) can attest, the clutch is not my forte, so being able to shift gears without causing a wreck is a big plus in my book. However, I didn't like where they put the speedometer and a lot of the interior seemed cheap, so I probably wouldn't buy one. (I am willing to overlook any such shortcomings in the delicious RX-8, though!)
Embarrassingly, I was chosen as one of the Mazda showcase drivers, and the announcer followed my performance over the loudspeaker as I drove the course and gave me free Godsmack tickets afterward, which I promptly scalped. I wasn't as fast as certain speed demons going around the course, but I wasn't the slowest either. And I didn't knock over any cones on my hairpin turns. All in all, I put in a pretty respectable performance for someone who drives an average of once a month.

In the annals of evil inanimate objects, right up there with The Mangler and the infamous china doll of scary slumber-party story fame, are two objects that I never thought would end up in the Malevolent Item Hall of Fame -- my new shoes.

Now, I adore shoes -- don't get me wrong. I am a sucker for sandals, a boot-buying babe, I'm mad for mules. But these shoes are pure evil.

I bought them on Sunday and wore them on Tuesday to dinner and a movie. They fit perfectly in the store. But when I put them on at home for the first time, rather than conforming to my foot, they dangled on it only by grace of the single strap across my toes, flapping against my heels like crazed seagulls. I clopped awkwardly out the door, and tripped into the car. OK, I thought, I can't walk in these shoes. But they still look good, and I can learn to adjust my gait.

When we got to Bricktown, we didn't have money for parking, so the attendant waited while we walked two blocks to the ATM. Half-a block in, my toes started protesting.

"Help!" they shrieked piteously. "We're burning!"

"Shut up!" I hissed. "You'll hurt the shoes' feelings and they will retaliate."

But the toes kept up their clamorous kvetching.

After the meal, we walked back to the car. By this time, the chafing the toes had been complaining about had caused the poor tootsies to swell up with hideous blisters. However, as we wanted to get to the movie on time, I did not remove the malevolent tan leather slides. That decision would come back to haunt me later.

After the movie (and requisite torturous walks to and from the car and through the mall), we hastened home so I could take off the sinister sandals. It was too late. My toes lay near death, oozing fluid from the wounds inflicted by the merciless sandals, a red stripe across each foot indicating where the traitorous strap had cut into the innocent piggies.

With the little shoes of horror safely put away, the toes are making a gradual recovery, but it hasn't been easy. The red marks and missing skin are a constant reminder of what happened the night the felonious footwear decided to attack my tootsies.

Also, I don't have any proof that the shoes are responsible, but my gerbil Pikachu perished yesterday after a mysterious coma. I do not think it is a coincidence.

Perhaps one day, like the Hope Diamond, my shoes will be infamous for the tragedy that accompanies them everywhere they go. But for now, they lie buried in my closet. Will they, like Michael Myers, one day re-emerge to wreak havoc once more? I suspect they will.

Oklahoma is definitely not my Dream State, but it is a nice place to live, and terribly underrated -- the main reason being that the state has no self-esteem. We're the people whose license plates used to bear the ringing endorsement "Oklahoma is OK." As John Steinbeck put it in The Grapes of Wrath, "we're the people that live -- we go on." Wow. Impressive. We haven't died. We're like indestructible cowboy cyborgs.

(Of course, if we "go on" then why would anyone need this? But I digress ...)

Anyway, between those images and our lack of good PR, Oklahoma projects itself as a bucolic stretch of cow towns where the only excitement comes during the big barn dance when we celebrate the wheat harvest (well, it is a boot-stompin' good time). The rest of the nation only hears about our disasters -- the yearly tornado season and the 1995 Murrah bombing. Then we get to trumpet our well-scrubbed Midwestern heartland "survivor spirit" (TM). Well, frankly, I think it's time that Oklahoma became known as a place that's more than OK, and where people not only survive but thrive. (Granted, that's difficult with our godawful school system.)

Instead of trying to woo commerce and tourism with attractions such as the Riverwalk, I mean, Bricktown Canal, and San Francisco Flyer, err, Oklahoma Spirit Trolley, which by copying other cities' accomplishments sell Oklahoma short, Oklahoma City should play up what we already have.

That, of course, being a very pretty and clean downtown, a lovely historic section (whose revamping should never have included the San Antonio facelift), and a thriving artistic community which is always downplayed by the old rednecks whose money funds lackluster tourism campaigns that inevitably fetishize those very donors' banal careers in the oh-so-scintillating cattle and oil industries.

In addition to its rich cultural heritage and proximity to scenic nature spots, Oklahoma City is the third-largest in the U.S. in terms of square mileage, and despite its poorly maintained roads has excellent traffic flow. It has a variety of suburbs varying in density, affluence and attitude, and it is the only major U.S. city where someone earning minimum wage can afford to buy his or her own home.

Although there are relatively few yuppies, trendy tech people or pretentious literati in Oklahoma, the people who do live here are very friendly and helpful. If your car is stalled at the side of the highway at 4 a.m., the first car that passes is likely to help you out. Kitty Genovese would still be alive today if she'd lived in Oklahoma.

Not only is Oklahoma home to many friendly and helpful people, it has also produced an interesting range of luminaries and innovative inventions.

The Sooner State is the birthplace of such bands as The Flaming Lips, The Nixons, The Mimsies, Hanson, and the All-American Rejects, and was home to musicians Dizzy Dean, Woody Guthrie and John Denver, too. Brad Pitt has ties to Oklahoma, as does Joan Crawford. Martial-arts figure Chuck Norris and flamboyant hoopster Dennis Rodman are former Okies as well. If all that is making your head spin, maybe Dr. Phil can help. Before his big break, he hailed from Oklahoma City.


Technology is alive and well here too. Scott Sabolich Prosthetics, based in OKC, fitted this guy with a state-of-the-art prosthetic leg, enabling him to make basketball history. If you enjoy such conveniences as PB Slices and shopping carts, you have Oklahomans to thank. Oklahoma also has the dubious distinction of being the birthplace of the parking meter.


When people hear the words "pioneer" and "trailblazer," they think of dusty Old West museums. What they should be thinking of is what it means to be a pioneer. Oklahoma is home to innovative, creative people, many of whom are descended from those rebellious "Sooner" settlers who just couldn't wait until it was legal to stake their claims in Indian Territory. That same spirit lives on in the likes of Shannon Lucid and countless other curious, nonconformist, envelope-pushing Oklahomans. The fictional Joads' words "We're the people" are right, in a way. Oklahoma isn't about the Bricktown Canal or the cattle or the oil or the wind that comes sweeping down the plain. It's the funny, crazy original people of Oklahoma who make it such a great, underrated place to live. The pioneer spirit isn't about Conestoga wagons and longhorn cattle. It's about progress. In looking back on the '89ers who settled Oklahoma, we shouldn't neglect our modern-day trailblazers. That's how we get licence plates telling the world we're just OK.