13 Hours in Oklahoma

Feat. Hanson, Sid Vicious, and Ron Padgett and Joe Brainard's High School

My flight to Tulsa was on a very small airplane, with two seats on each side of the aisle. I was sitting in the second row of coach, if we can call it that, after about four rows of plush, wide first class seats. Like most writers, I am always watching people around me, and so let me tell you about some of the people I observed. Sitting across the aisle was a young couple (young = younger than me, in their thirties) with a baby who was probably a year old. I loved this baby, and waved and flirted with her as much as possible. Her parents were cool—her mom had a Huipil-via-Anthroplogie dress on, and cute little clogs, and her dad had bleached hair and looked like Zac Efron. He looked so much like Zac Efron, actually, that I spent at least an hour thinking, did Zac Efron have a secret baby? But then I looked more closely at his face, which was less pointy and intense than our pal Zefron.

In the seat in front of Zefron, there was another young (again, young = younger than me) guy, this one with a swirl of floppy hair and a Canadian tuxedo, a paperback copy of Dune on his tray table. (I always, always pay attention to what people are reading.) There was one guy on the plane with his own hardhat, and steel toe boots, like he was commuting to a construction site via regional aircraft.

Anyway, I spent some time with Louise Erdrich and some time with Sandra Bullock and when we got off the plane, I noticed that one of the people who’d been sitting in first class, a man with a slicked back, Mad Men-style haircut and a pocket square, was taking a selfie with one of the women who’d been on our plane. I looked more closely at his slightly miss-aligned eyes and his blond hair and his wide mouth, and I thought, that is the oldest Hanson brother.

He’s in the middle.

Are Hanson from Oklahoma, I wondered? Are they very very Christian? (Click here for the Vulture piece on Hanson getting into trouble with their fans for various reasons related to Covid, BLM, and Pinterest boards.) I couldn’t remember anything. Nevertheless, I made my way down to baggage claim and was waiting for my trusty yellow suitcase (the ONLY time I’ve had to check it this whole trip!) when I saw something strange. The besuited Hanson was talking to my friend, the baby. Zefron was not Zefron. Zefron was the youngest Hanson.

You see it, right? And then Dune wandered up, and of course, yes, he was the middle brother. They waited for all their guitars and all their gear and when someone’s duffel bag got stuck on the little baggage chute, Zefron leaped balletically up, despite the airport security’s protestations, to rescue it for its owner. That is the move of a person who is used to many thousands of people chanting their name, and loves it. This is when I got the text messages from my publisher and agent telling me that I’d hit #3 on the NYT bestseller list. I considered going up to Hanson and asking them to record a brief message of congratulations for me, but decided against it. I also showed great restraint and did not photograph them surreptitiously, because I am not a Deux Moi creep. And thus began my 13 hours in Tulsa.

Jeff Martin of Magic City Books picked me up and showed me the sights on the way to the event. Above: the sight! This is where Ron Padgett and Joe Brainard went to high school. Then we went to the Tulsa Artist Fellowship and hung out with some very, very cool writers and artists who are on two or three year-long fellowships in Tulsa, with a place to live, and studio space, and stipends. Everyone should apply to this! Cheyenne, my new best friend, who runs their programming, is building a mobile astronomy unit to bring to underserved neighborhoods in Tulsa. Just the coolest people!

Cheyenne could teach Mac and Shawn a thing or two about NASA. You can follow her @blackspacegirl.

Here is Jeff, in his very cute jumpsuit, in front of Cain’s Ballroom. Ron Padgett has been texting my mom (#humblebrag) about how his parents used to go dancing at Cain’s in the 1940s. My friend Jon, who plays in the band The War on Drugs (#humblebrag), was texting me about how cool it is, and why—they have a special spring-loaded floor, and decades of incredible music history. Jeff told me that when the Bob Dylan Museum opened a few weeks ago, Elvis Costello played, and Patti Smith. But the thing that absolutely everyone tells you is that Sid Vicious punched a hole in the wall.

I’m leaving the picture big so that you can read the sign more easily. It says: The Sex Pistols’ Sid Vicious left his mark on Cain’s Ballroom by smashing his fist into the wall of the green room on January 11 1978. What an asshole.

The event was wonderful—warm, funny, and friendly. This is Beth, who asked me a question about Rookie. When she came to get her book signed, I noticed her amazing Hanson t-shirt, and told her about my plane ride, and then she told me an amazing story about Taylor (Dune) going to her office and using a coffee cup and spoiler alert— she kept it. Unwashed. Beth gave me her permission to tell you all this story.

After that, I went back to my hotel, ate a Kind bar for dinner, and woke up six hours later to go back to the airport. Home stretch of book tour, leg one!