Home > Wendy Does Waco > Archives > 2008 > December
December 2008
Embrace your Waco-ness
Everything has sort of been a whirlwind since I got back from Vegas, but now that Christmas is over and I’m finally unsick, I do have some post-Vegas ruminations I wanted to share.
While covering the whole Vegas/Cranfills Gap story I was struck by how well Las Vegas markets itself and I couldn’t help but think that Waco could learn a thing or two from this frontier city.
I learned from the folks at R&R Partners, the marketing firm that literally has the city of Vegas as a client, that “What happens here, stays here” isn’t just a campaign, it’s actually the city’s brand. What I love about this brand is that there’s no pretense, it embraces the city’s reputation as a “where people come to let loose” kind of place. Vegas seems to say, “we are what we are and we do ‘us’ well.”
I love that. I wish Waco could be a bit more Vegas in that respect. I wish Waco could say “we are what we are and we do ‘us’ well.” But instead, it seems like Waco ignores its strangeness and apologizes for its colorful past. The fun and funky things about this town seem to get whitewashed.
Waco is a weird little eclectic place, that’s why I love it. I tell people outside of Waco about World Hunger Relief, Cameron Park, the Hippodrome, the once upon a time red light district and the intellectual wealth that is a byproduct of Baylor — and they say, “Really? Waco?”
A couple of Vegas natives I spoke with said they pictured Waco as the high plains, tumbleweeds and all. Another guy, a cabbie and former trucker who has passed through Waco many times, exclaimed about how pretty he remembers Waco being in the summer. Another lady, American and in her 50s, said she had never heard of Waco or the Branch Davidian siege. (Clearly, she has been living under a rock for many, many years.)
Sometimes I feel like I’m on this crusade to set people straight about Waco. I find myself wanting this weird little town to embrace its inner Vegas, so to speak. But maybe I shouldn’t try so hard or even care about how or whether the city markets itself. Because the truth is, I kind of like us being such a well-kept secret.
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Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. But he doesn’t do interviews, kid.
My press ID has gotten me a lot of places — a Pat Green concert, a speaking engagement with George Herbert Walker Bush, Las Vegas — so I was sure it could get me a little face time with the man with the bag. WRONG.
In this era of doom and gloom, I had a stroke of genius Tuesday. I figured I’d talk to Santa himself in what has to be the happiest place in Waco right now — his set up at Richland Mall. It snows every hour there but you don’t have to shovel the driveway and there’s a nice Grandpa-like guy asking what you want for Christmas. It could only be better if it was Dave Matthews’ lap and he was handing out new laptops or Vera Wang perfume. (Or maybe that’s just me)
Anyway, I’m sure Santa would have enjoyed our chat as much as I would, but it wasn’t to be. Santa’s pimps, er, um … handlers? managers? won’t let the fat man say a word. “Our employees are not allowed to do interviews,” I was told by the other end of a 1-800 number. And here I thought Santa was beholden only to the children of the world.
I’m a little peeved to say the least, but I’m not mad at Santa. Maybe he fell into a bad sub-prime mortgage situation on a new crib in the North Pole. Maybe he had to sell his schtick to a company and become the hired help, just to keep all those elves and reindeer fed. We all sell out some time. PR will get its claws into me one day even.
Ever the tenacious reporter, I don’t plan to give up so easily, though. I mean, I know Santa is a little busy, he’s currently over Iran, according to NORAD. But he has to have a cell, even my Pop, 86, has one. And my friend Jenn has his number. I heard her tell her five year old, Madison, so the other day. All parents get Santa’s number, she explained. I’m no parent, but certainly Jenn will share the number, maybe I can bribe her with free babysitting.
I just need a sound byte, a “Ho” or two. Come on, Santa, perks like this are all that a lowly reporter has to hang on to :)
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Christmas karma
It’s not even Christmas day yet, and I’ve already experienced a nice little character lesson.
Y’all know I worry about money. Earlier this season I was fretting whether I’d get my annual raise, much less a Christmas bonus. But I also know that as little as I might make, at least I have a job and I can pay for all my expenses easily. So I made a command decision. I decided to feed both the miser in me and the need to be a good person by shopping wisely for family Chr’mas gifts and using the money I save on the less fortunate.
I got the family gifts bought lickety split and then rallied my friends (Caitlin, Adam, Amie, Chris, Jeff, Kate and me) and adopted a mom and her little girl and boy from the Family Abuse Center. I figure, being less privileged is tough, but going through abuse on top of that is something I can’t imagine. Me and the girls had a blast shopping for Hannah Montana and Spiderman stuff, plus something nice for mom.
I got so into it, I bought stuff for the two girls our newsroom adopted as well. I loved every second of it, from the planning to the wrapping.
And the next week, my editor hands me an envelope and says “Merry Christmas” — my bonus. That same week came a good annual review and a pay raise. I’m not someone who takes things for granted, this included. It all seemed to me to be a message, something like, Help me take care of others, and I’ll help take care of you. I don’t claim to have any idea what I’m talking about, I’m just telling you how I felt.
Anyway, it seemed like a nice message to come at the end of the year, something to remind me next year to quit being so self absorbed and get out there and help where I can.
End of lesson, grasshopper :)
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Harrah’s owes me new pants
Vegas tip No. 6 — Never, EVER go anywhere near Harrah’s if it’s even slightly moist outside.
Monday night, a friend got me in to see the Cirque du Soleil show Mystere, the one thing I really wanted to do while in Vegas. The show was amazing and afterwards, I felt so good I set off on foot from Treasure Island rather than dish out $10 for the cab ride back to the Grand.
I was eager not to pay $50 for dinner as I had the night before, so when I eyed a Chipotle across the street, I nearly cried. I went to the appropriate crosswalk, crossed, but put one foot on that horrible, fake, orangish Harrah’s sidewalk treatment and went down. Hard.
With a knot forming on my elbow, and dress slacks drenched and dirty down my right side, I limped on over to Chipotle, grabbed dinner to go and cut through the excessively smoky, stinky Harrah’s to catch the Monorail.
While falling sucks, I almost feel like it’s a Vegas rite of passage. I cannot tell you how many people I saw fall while walking around the strip. It’s like the paralell of flashing for beads in New Orleans, I think. Though most people do both of those things drunk probably. I was neither drunk nor amused.
I left Vegas on Tuesday and came down with something the same day. I rolled into town 11 p.m. with a fever and chills and left my luggage in my car for the next two days. I was too sick to make the Spelling Bee I was supposed to be in at the Hippodrome (sorry again Scott!) and nearly coughed up a lung at the Thursday night school board meeting.
Sweet Caitlin brought me coughdrops and pho and I’m ultimately really glad to be home.
But I’m also glad I went. It was all worth it to watch the Bellagio fountains jump and dance majestically to the Hallelujah chorus. Easily my favorite-est Vegas attraction.
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Vegas — I did it myyyyyyyy wayyyyy.
Sure, you can get Vegas advice from just about anybody. They’ll tell you when to go, where to stay, what to do. All good things to know, I’m sure.
But this is my first time here and I have no idea what I’m doing, so I won’t even pretend to give you that kind of advice. I’m here mostly for work, keeping tabs on the town of Cranfills Gap as the city of Vegas shows our neighbors from that little town to the West a good time. The Gap, as I’m sure you know by now, was chosen to kick off a new marketing campaign for Sin City.
Anyhow, the marketing masterminds at R&R Partners, the brains behind “What happens here, stays here.” have been unbelievably helpful to me. And Vegas itself has been kind to a fault. But this trip is still a bit of a tease, because I’m by myself, so my drinking and gambling are way tempered.
There are a few things I’ve picked up on already, though, and I’d like to share them with you:
1) The M&M’s shop on the Strip doesn’t seem to actually sell M&Ms. Yes, you could get an M&M onesie for a baby, but the candy, itself, I couldn’t find.
2) Vegas has possibly the coolest mayor ever. Oscar Goodman never appears anywhere hardly without his signature gin martini and a showgirl on his arm.
3) Put a couple video cameras on you and people will believe that you are a celebrity. Seriously, if these cameras that are on the Gap folks were on me, I could convince people I’m Lindsay Lohan with a thyroid problem.
4) All along the Strip, there are people in T-shirts that say “Girls. Direct to you.” These people want to hand you little cards that show women in various states of undress. I say — take the cards. You can create an adult version of Go Fish with them. “Do you have any buxom brunettes in a red thong?” “Go Fish.” I, of course, didn’t accept any of the cards … because I only play gin and 31.
5) If you play a slot machine just to get a free drink, make sure the waitress sees you and comes over. Otherwise you lose $5 and still have to go buy a $10 glass of organic red wine. Trust me on this.
Ok, this is all I got so far, but I’m back out on the Strip tonight, so I’ll let you know if I learn anything new. And in a day, I should have another Gap update.
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My foot fetish and 6 to 8 black men
A friend told me to be more edgy in my post titles. I think this one qualifies. Really, though, I just have some random inanities for you.
— First, I finally took the plunge and fed my shoe fetish (“foot” sounded edgier in the title). I bought a pair of knock-off Uggs. At $12, they would probably be considered knock-offs of knock-offs — whatever.
This morning I put on my knee-length brown skirt and soooo wanted to wear the tall, beige Ugg-like creations. It took every ounce of decency I have, plus my stylish, long deceased Nanny sitting on my shoulder saying, “What, in God’s name, are you putting on your feet?” for me to slip the boots back off and go for the gold flip flops. That’s the funny part here, the Uggs are so ridiculous that they actually make my flip flops seem reasonable.
Oh, but the story doesn’t end there. The weird Waco winter weather (say that 3x fast!) may have been flip flop friendly this morning, but news of the cold front moving in allowed me to change into the boots at lunch. Other people might have met the news of 50 degree weather by changing into pants or grabbing a sweater. I kept the short skirt and went for the fake suede boots. That’s how I roll.
— Now, the “6 to 8 black men.” If you love author David Sedaris like I love David Sedaris, you know what I’m referring to. “6 to 8 black men” is a piece he has written about Christmas traditions in the Netherlands. It is so funny, you’ll shoot eggnog out of your nose. I promise. So read the essay in his book Holidays on Ice or, like me, listen to it. It’s even better when hearing him read it. You can even find the essay on YouTube, some guy has put weird video to it.
— And lastly, while the picture of Waco winter seems to be the HEB parking lot freakishly covered in grackles, there are some places where the Christmas season looks like its supposed to. Places where my fake Uggs would make sense. Here’s a photo of our house in St. Louis one season. Not a grackle in sight.
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My Broadway debut!
As an 11 year old drama geek in San Antonio, in white face and suspenders, mime-ing my heart out for the UIL judges, I prayed for this day to come. That’s right, Wednesday, Dec. 17, I will make my Broadway debut.
Ok, so my guest appearance in the 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at the Waco Hippodrome next week includes no singing and no acting and it’s actually my “Broadway on the Brazos” debut. Picky, picky — I’m still very impressed with myself, so let me have my fun.
Erica Harpold, from Channel 6 news, and I will be the guest spellers in this hilarious musical. Two more guest spellers will be pulled at random from the audience. I’ve been studying a painfully difficult list of words and I’m just praying to spell the first one they lob me correctly.
Here’s a clip from the Tony Awards, where there was a very special guest speller:
So I’m extending an invitation to everyone to come see me in the show next Wednesday. While I fancy the idea of being smooth and brilliant, so much so that the cast begs me to stay on with them and travel the world, I know I am much more likely to trip on my flip flop and bust a lip. Either way, it should be amusing for you.
Tickets are already on sale at the Hippodrome and Erica and I each have our own cheering sections. If you call 752-9797 and say you want to be in the Wendy cheering section, you can even get a discount on your ticket.
Now, I have to address something else. There are some of you out there who pretty much stopped reading after you saw the word “mime.” Yes, I was a mime. A darn good mime! My “trapped in a telephone booth” and “little girl playing dress-up” would have moved you, would have brought you to your feet with applause. “Brava!” you would have said. So quit hatin on me and just come to the Spelling Bee!
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Fall into The Gap
Take Hwy 6 toward Meridian and hang a left at Clifton and go a ways more and you’ll come upon a pause in the road called Cranfills Gap.
Cranfills Gap, known for its Norwegian roots and Lutefisk dinners (no disrespect, but, Eeeww!), has recently become the darling of Las Vegas. Sin City looks upon the Gap as the model small town, with a population of 358 regular folk that the rest of the regular folk in the world will be able to relate to.
One third of this small town (and maybe me) are getting whisked off to Vegas for a vacation, because the Las Vegas visitors bureau says, in this economy, people are working hard and need a break, a vacation, even.
So I went out to the Gap Thursday to get interviews for my story, and had a pretty good time. I love the Horny Toad Bar and Grill with its wood burning stove, which I tried not to stray very far from. That place is rustic, small town, Texas cool. Owen Carlson, part owner of the watering hole, showed me the beer cans and bottles that they pulled out of the wall when they renovated the place. Apparently, the establishment had once been a gas station and garage — hence the large, brown garage doors you walk through as you enter the bar. Later, the place was a feed store, which explains the huge feed scale near the stove.
Some time in the Gap’s history, people would toss their empties in the wall. And there they stayed. Owen showed me cans of Lonestar so old, they had to be opened with a church key.
The people at the Horny Toad were super nice and the brisket (only available as a special) was awesome. I’d love to come back and see the place in high gear, packed with bikers and/or locals. But someone else has to drive me because it’s a ways out there.
Should you find yourself in BFE and happen upon the Horny Toad, definitely stop in. They only close on Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. Oh yeah, and for the Vegas vacation.
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Two years
So I totally forgot to mention that Monday was my two-year anniversary of being in Waco. I had intentions of celebrating last night even, but by the time I went out, I had forgotten about it and ended up spending the mild milestone with a Diet 7up and saltines. It’s hell to get old and forget things!
Anyway, it’s nice to actually be celebrating my longevity somewhere. Other places I have lived, those anniversaries have been a source of depression, clouded by thoughts of, “Why am I still in this cesspool?”. And even when I don’t hate the place that bad, the second year means I’m creeping up on the three year itch. Usually by three years somewhere I simply have to get out. Blame it on my nomadic existence as a child.
But, God help me, I love Waco. I’ve been in and out of San Antonio my whole life, but after only two years, I already love Waco far more than SA town. And though I love the Carolinas collectively, I’m not sure there’s a specific town that I like this much. Charlotte, Greenville, even Asheville are great, but Waco is mine.
I’ve made a decision to try to stick around for a while, newspaper job or not. And lately, I’ve even been wondering if this blog has run its course. Have I jumped the shark and should bow out with a tad of dignity still intact? Though I’d be sad to not have this outlet, I don’t think it would change my relationship with this town at all.
I started doing things in Waco so I could have “Wendy does Waco.” But now it has come to be simply who I am, what I do. And I hope to be doing it a lot longer than two years :)
