(This piece aired on Kansas Public Radio in early August.)

This year marks the 65th anniversary of film version of The Wizard of Oz, and I'd like to say once and for all—I hate this film. I'm done with it, and not just because of the saccharine sweet songs or the nightmarish set designs, which are like German Expressionism gone horribly wrong. No, I hate The Wizard of Oz because of what it has done to this state. The thing is, you can't go to the movies or turn on the television without hearing "we're not in Kansas anymore," or "there's no place like home." These catchphrases are everywhere, and hearing them always makes me cringe. When this whimsical little movie came out in 1939, who would have guessed that it would saturate our culture so thoroughly? Who would have guessed it would become so representative of our identity as Kansans?

Of course, Kansas has always embraced this sort of Oz-sploitation, and it's become a major focus of the tourist trade. You might have noticed that every store in the state has its own retail shrine to The Wizard of Oz. Some of these knick-knacks are passably tasteful, but do we really need Scarecrow ashtrays and Dorothy Gale mud flaps?

I've lived in Kansas my whole life, and I've noticed that one of the chief shortcomings of people here is a distinct unwillingness to promote ourselves. We just take whatever label we get and then run with it. For example, Kansas may be relatively flat, but it's certainly not the desolate, Grapes of Wrath-type wasteland that the world seems to think it is. Kansas played a critical role in the Civil War, but does the rest of the country know about this? Not really, because we don't brag about this kind of thing the way Virginians or Pennsylvanians do. Maybe we should. Maybe we should take the time to dispel some of these myths and, in the process, bolster our flagging self-esteem before The Wizard of Oz siphons out our very souls and turns us into zombie caricatures of ourselves. After all, we do have a few other things to be proud of, don't we? We have the Flint Hills. We had Buster Keaton, Gordon Parks, Amelia Earhart, and Billy Mills. Langston Hughes grew up here, William S. Burroughs died here. We had Eisenhower for president and, for better or worse, we almost had Bob Dole.

And look, if it's a matter of replacing The Wizard of Oz as our cinematic ambassador to the world, I'd propose selecting a film like Kevin Willmott's CSA, which was a huge hit at Sundance this year. Or maybe Carnival of Souls, that fantastically creepy little horror movie that was largely filmed in Lawrence. Wouldn't that generate some classic merchandising opportunities? The point is, we can do better than this whole "Wizard of Oz" thing, which has established our image in the eyes of the world as a bunch of provincial, gingham-clad yahoos who own yippy dogs and hallucinate about witches.

So when the inevitable happens, and TNT starts broadcasting The Wizard of Oz twenty times a day like some kind of Orwellian mind-conditioning experiment, just remember, TVs were made to be turned off, as well as on. Arise comrades! Cast off your mind-forg'd manacles and join me in the sun. Together, we shall build a truer, more self-reliant Kansas, which does not need the crutch of Dorothy & Friends in order to stand. We can look the world in the eye and say, "yes, we have worth, we have contributions to make." Then the veil of ignorance shall be lifted, and they shall see us as we truly are—a vibrant, creative people with hearts like lions (and not the cowardly type, either). Join with me today, before it is too late. We have nothing to lose but our ruby slippers, and they never worked right anyway.

(I wrote and recorded this piece as a radio commentary for Kansas Public Radio. It aired on January 27, 2004.)

When asked that question about the five people I'd have to dinner, if I could choose from anyone in the entire scope of human history, the first two who always come to mind are Lincoln and Douglas. This is so I could hear them argue the merits of popular sovereignty between bites of Hamburger Helper. I'd egg them on, too. "Oooh. Good one Abraham," I'd say. "What do you say, Stephen? You gonna take that from him?"

In short, I love political debates.

I live in Lawrence, a town with no shortage of competitive sporting events. And yet, nothing is as fun to me as getting some friends together, popping some popcorn, and watching one guy tell another guy he's no Jack Kennedy. We are now approaching the Olympics of American politics—the presidential election. In presidential debates, we get to see a small contingent of alpha men—and occasionally an alpha woman—duke it out to see who's still standing. My favorite is when the candidates are given the chance to ask one another questions and then rebut, as the Democrats did in Iowa earlier this month. This is the equivalent of a cage match in professional wrestling, where a steel cage is lowered over the ring and neither person can get out until the match is over. The candidate asking the question may snarl, feign righteous indignation, or adopt the coy charm of James Bond, but, inevitably, he or she will go for the jugular. I love this part. If the attack is successful, I get a vicarious thrill that makes me feel a little like I'm watching bloodsports at the Coliseum. Likewise, if the rebuttal is a slam-dunk. But lest you think I am merely interested in the Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome aspect of debating, I can assure you there's more to it.

The reason I get worked up about this stuff is that I care about the issues. There's a lot at stake here, and the results affect all of our lives, whether we want to admit it or not. It's kind of cathartic, too. Sure, I vote, but beyond that, what I really want is someone to fight for me. I want a politician willing to go into battle and get bloodied up in my defense, and in defense of everyone else who cares about this country.

It's too bad Kansas won't get to host any kind of national debate, cause I'd be right there in the front row, shrieking like a groupie at a Stones concert. I'm also disappointed that we won't get our own presidential primary this year. However, the state's relatively low profile on the political landscape won't stop me from getting as caught up in the elections as I always do.

Now, I'm well aware that the reality of politics is sometimes ugly. And yes, sometimes we get less-than-ideal results. But the idea of elections, of debate in particular, is an incomparably beautiful thing. It's a celebration of free speech. In an era of tabloid talk shows and reality show prima donnas, a political debate is one fight you can actually feel good about enjoying. In fact, you'll be doing your civic duty. So grab some snacks and settle in for a long, debate-filled election season. Become an activist if you can. And above all, remember what Tina Turner's character says to Mad Max, when he asks how a person gets into the great combat zone they call the Thunderdome. "That's easy," she replies with a wry smile. "Pick a fight."