I go to a funeral this last weekend. It’s near Washington D.C. at Arlington National Cemetery. It’s for my girlfriend’s grandfather. The heat is sticky icky with puddles of sweat collecting on the backs of the flinching, sun-glassed attendees in seersucker and khaki as synchronized shots are fired by men in snow white uniforms.
That has nothing to do with the Thunder, but it was something to see.
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A lot of conversations are had between me and people I’ve never met before over the course of the weekend. They ask me who I am. I tell them. They ask me where I’m from. I tell them Oklahoma. To this, they have only two responses. All weekend long it was one or the other. Keep Reading…