Believe it or not, I’m writing from Oklahoma City. I won’t talk about how I went to a bar with 120 beers on tap and paid more for the four beers I drank than I would have in New York City. I’ll ignore ranting about how the first thing that I heard upon landing at Will Rogers International Airport was a woman summoning her husband with “Hey, Earl!”, which I believe is the de facto name for every male born in this state. And I won’t get into the story my cab driver (probably named Earl) told me about the two years he spent, long ago, in Ithaca, Michigan, where he ended up in a confusing carnal relationship with a woman more than twice his age who would leave on the table for him $50 and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s before she left for work in the morning. In fact, I won’t get into anything at all, because I want to hang out and eat electric hot buffalo wings with my brother, who’s excelling in law school here.


I forgot to pack underwear on this trip, which means I’m going to have to buy underwear in Oklahoma.