By Mickey McClain

We held off on publishing this blog.  The following Dueling Blogs were written ten days ago, but something told us to wait, and see what the week held … Pokemon-wise.  It’s not that we anticipated softening our tone, or rendering some kind of apologia or erratum—which, ironically, we did decide was necessary with our larger project, “The Little Book of Lynching, Part Two”, finished at around the same time.  No, the reason we held off publishing these blogs is that we wanted to see if our fears were affirmed.  And those fears were not so much about Pokemon Go, as such.  Rather, they were about the larger and more frightening trend of opposing parties “cross-talking.”  (That being the case, it is both ironic and eerie that that Pokemon craze really took off during the weeks of the Republican and Democratic Conventions.)  And, no less importantly, our fears were about the larger problem of people who don’t read books anymore not understanding the nuances of debate.

So, Pokemon Goers, here goes:  I have read dozens of articles this week, and my suspicions were confirmed: the majority of your detractors are not objecting to the game itself.  Hey, we get it.  A treasure hunt!  Time honored.  Not as elegant as geocaching, and more simplistic than Ingress, but fun. So far, so good.  Where can I sign up?   But the Pokemon Go defenders have largely failed to listen to the specific and reasonable complaints of the detractors, and as a result, you gamers with your heads stuck up your butts (I know, hard to do while your eyes are glued to the screen) have written these lengthy epistles about what wonderful fantasy and escapism Pokemon Go is, and how you have invented this groovy new-fangled thing called “exercise” and discovered this heretofore hidden treasure called “conversation”, neither one of which were happening while you were down deep in your dungeons playing Arkham Knight, Minecraft, Super Mario Brothers, or Grand Theft Auto.
Hurrah.  You are emerging from your dark basements, breathing the fresh air, and interacting with others of your species.  Walking and talking.  We applaud this, fellow Homo sapiens.  Just don’t forget your sunscreen.

That’s not what we “contrarians” and “curmudgeons” have a problem with.  What we have a problem with is a game that leads children to walk into intersections, and adults who are acting like children to walk off of cliffs.  And no, there are no hyperlinks here.  We are not going to insult you and suggest that you haven’t already read these stories.   So just to clarify, we aren’t discussing what is good about Pokemon Go here.  We are talking about real dangers and disruption, documented world-wide, in alarming numbers, and not one defender has properly addressed that.   IGNACIO ELENCHI.

Nothing in a week has changed this: Nintendo designed a game that is basically unsafe. 
Pokemon Go, as designed and played, is dangerous.  And no, I am not against augmented reality, nor do I think the Oculus Rift is of the Devil.  In fact, I can’t wait for virtual reality.  I can finally tour the Louvre.  See the Pyramids.  Trek to Victoria Falls.  But Pokemon Go is inherently dangerous, and the only way that statement is not true, is if just ONE of the following statements IS true:

a.)    Walking with your head down and your eyes glued to the screen is perfectly safe  OR

b.)    Most everybody who plays Pokemon plays it the way the lawyered-up Nintendo tutorial shows:

WITH THEIR ARM HELD OUT STRAIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM, AT A NINETY DEGREE ANGLE FROM THE BODY, HOLDING THEIR PHONE UPRIGHT, WHILE THEIR EYES ARE CAST AT THE HORIZON, TAKING IN BOTH THE SCREEN, AND EVERYTHING GOING ON AROUND THEM.   (This, by the way, is why parents and grandparents playing with their children are to be applauded:  they have seen the inherent risks, the potential dangers, and are preventing that full stop.  You all have effectively trumped my major argument against the game, you have my hearty congratulations, and you can stop reading now.)

There is no international data base collecting Pokemon-related pedestrian injuries, vehicular accidents, acts of trespassing, EMT and police response calls, or generally rude behavior, but the visual evidence and the reportage is in from all over the world.   Legions of people are behaving in ways that are sometimes rude, sometimes dangerous, often both.  And it doesn’t matter how many there are; once it has been confirmed that in cities and towns all over the world, police, businesses, private properties, sacred places, and oh, just places that are due more basic respect than groups tromping about playing Pokemon Go …they have all had their day-to-day functioning turned upside down by this game.  The very fact that people in such critical public service fields as policing and emergency medical services have had to plead for common sense, post new signs, write new rules, and most importantly, answer more emergency calls, ought to say something to Pokemon Go players.  

Something not good.   If it is negatively impacting every city and town where it is happening in tangible and measurable ways, I don’t need more statistics than that.  It is being played in a way that is fundamentally disruptive, and that is wrong.  And here is where the cross talk happens: your arguments about the benefits of the game are trumped by the problems it is causing.  Until this changes, it doesn’t matter if some good is coming out of the game.  A DICTO SIMPLICITER AD DICTUM SECUNDUM QUID.  As long as a lot of headaches and heartaches are perpetrated on unwilling bystanders—particularly our public servants—then that trumps any fun you might be having.  You don’t get to play games at society’s expense, and if you can’t accept that, then let me suggest now that you run, don’t walk, back to your basement dungeon.  

The arguments and epithets lodged against those of us who have a problem with the game are legion, and they are all flawed.  The defenders rigorously and meticulously avoid these concerns voiced by the detractors, almost as carefully as one might avoid mines in a minefield when playing Pokemon Go in Bosnia.  They say that we are blaming “all the problems of the world” on Pokemon.  No we aren’t.  Just the problems actually being caused by those who play the game stupidly.  That’s created plenty of problems, without blaming global warming or world hunger on those pesky virtual varmints.  They say that we don’t understand the importance of this, that Pokemon Go is just the beginning of virtual reality impinging on the real world.  Of course we get that, and that is precisely why we are so concerned about your behavior. 

And as for all the people who are claiming that Pokemon Go is exactly the kind of escapism that this world needs right now, I say, you are absolutely right.  As long as you are also spending some of your precious time trying to help the world.  And the people in it.  Maybe one of the reasons that the world is in this sorry state is because so many of us are so self-absorbed, and spend so much time in escapism, ever think about that?   It ends up being a circular argument.  CIRCULUS IN PROBANDO.

Only one in four people in the United States ever gets off their fat ass to go volunteer for a cause.  For example, one thin little article claimed that Pokemon Go was actually helping animals in shelters because as a Go stop, one shelter put up a sign saying you could walk a shelter dog.  Here’s a tip:  a lot more dogs would be helped if you would put down your phone and actually go volunteer at a shelter.  
You make fun of us for making fun of you, and then you ask “What would you prefer,  that we play Candy Crush, like you do?  Flame on Facebook, like you do?  Binge watch Netflix, like you do?”  No, what I believe your critics had in mind was read an actual book, with no faces in it.  Go to an actual gym, with no monsters in it.  And make your mark on the world without a screen standing in between you and the experience.

And as for that guy (James Roy) who made the bullet list, and then told you all in no uncertain terms to get OFF his law and to GET a life—here’s what.  Dozens of you congregate on his front lawn all the time, which is both illegal and rude—and even scary.  And your best plan is to mock him?  Kids, in twenty years, when you have a big-ass honkin’ oppressive mortgage, and you spend all of your spare time trying to fight back the insidious crab grass in your damn lawn that is constantly threatening to slither under your front door and choke your children as they sleep, and after you have spent a king’s ransom at Home Depot on petunias and mums and manure and insecticides and herbicides—after you have become a proud homeowner, you tell me how you feel about a bunch of extras from the Walking Dead marching zombielike onto your lawn, kicking over you garden gnomes and trampling a hundred weekends’ worth of work.  That old fart (just 38 yrs. old, BTW) with the smoldering list, he had a right to be upset.  Grow the hell up. 

And speaking of growing up, if the following paragraph doesn’t apply to you, then don’t take offense. How can you even disagree with the following point?  Understanding this distinction represents the nuancing skills of the adult mind.

There is behavior evidenced in the way some people play Pokemon that can be described as nothing less than Social Retardation.   A failure to have developed the skills necessary for navigating society that is nothing short of extreme.  Little armies of rude people taking over places that they clearly should not invade, speaks to the Social Retardation of all those who spend their lives in front of a screen.  Do the research, and you will find that police stations and sheriffs’ departments all over the world are having to ask people to stop playing at these locations.  And this includes instances of players barging into buildings where officers are working, and pounding on the doors of police stations at all hours, demanding entrance, so that they might catch that elusive Pokemon.  For God’s sake, it’s a police station.   And that is not as shocking as the fact that emergency rooms are having to tell Pokemon Go players not to flood in and start playing among and amidst the mangled and the dying.  The fact that numbers of people would even do this is, yes, nothing less than Socially Retarded. And let’s not get started on the allegedly adult couple who scaled the wall of a zoo at 1:30 in the morning to catch a Pokemon.  Even more bizarrely still, players are defending themselves using The First Amendment.   

Listen up, Pokemon players…..in cemeteries…9/11 memorials…the site of the Hiroshima bombing…Holocaust museums…if you need to scream 1st Amendment to justify your playing, then you really don’t get it.  Citizens of any higher civilization have always defined themselves not by what they have a right to do, but ultimately, what is right to do.  ARGUMENTUM AD POPULUM.  Translation: Just because something is legal doesn’t mean you should do it.  I got two words for you:  Fred Phelps.   Did you know that the courts ruled (even upon multiple appeals, to higher and higher courts) that it is quite legal for Fred Phelps and his creepy congregation to stand in Arlington National Cemetery and hold signs that say “God Hates Fags”, while chanting hateful things right next to parents burying their son who died fighting for this country?   For your freedom to play Pokemon?  (Try playing it in some Middle Eastern countries, if you don’t believe me.  They just issued a Fatwah.)  Do you really want to be in the same league as Fred Phelps?  And no, what you do not get to use as a defense is that Playing Pokemon isn’t the same as carrying a sign saying “God Hates Fags”.  Arlington National Cemetery is sacred to this country and its citizens; insults and disrespect can’t be measured, and if you don’t know how upsetting it is, to having somebody cackling and mincing around, catching a fake avatar on top of your loved one’s grave, well I guess you don’t know what it is like to have a father buried in Arlington.

 I do.  I  know. 

And while we are on the subject of hate, could you people please learn the distinction between someone who has “an issue” and this thing called “A HATER”.  ARGUMENTUM AD HOMINEM.   People who are critical of your YouTube featuring your cat in a funny burka with explosives tied to it (Muslim pussy) are “HATERS”.  People who take issue with the two dozen Selfies you have of yourself on Facebook featuring you wearing nothing but a bikini made out your parents old CDs are “HATERS”.   People who don’t think Ball Tapping is the coolest new game ever are “HATERS”.   People who think that you writing your college entrance essay on “why Jackass is your favorite movie” is a very poor choice … are “HATERS.”   

And if we are concerned about all the people surrounding us who are staring down at their phones as they cross Fifth Avenue—or just any old four lane highway, like the fifteen-year-old girl who got hit by a car in Pennsylvania—then surely we must be “HATERS”.   But here’s what.   You could make the argument that we are more concerned about you Pokemon players than you are about yourselves.  You could say that makes us rather parental in our attitude.  But not hateful.  There is something primally parental, in the very best way, about vast numbers of people who dread the idea of naïve children (who naturally think they are bulletproof) roaming into busy streets, dark alleys, dangerous waters, minefields, nuclear plants, or Fukushima death zones.  So please, if you wish to navigate life as successfully as you think you are navigating Pokemon Go, you should probably learn now that it is inaccurate, classless, warmongering, and just plain intellectually lazy to call everybody who has a critique of the way you do something “A HATER”.  By a goddam thesaurus, for chrissake.  And not that stupid college edition.  I am talking about the true Roget’s, with the alphabetized word index in the back, and the front table of contents arranged by the way the cosmos is organized.  Yeah.  Yeah.

In the meantime, I have invented a game of my own, whereby I will walk the  neighborhood with my eyeballs pointed straight ahead, and I will search for 151 Pokemon Go players who are easily caught with my lasso made of dental floss, because they are not paying attention to what they are doing or where they are going.  Gotta Catch ‘em All!  Then, I will take them all down to the gym in my basement, tie them up, and make them read the newspaper, eat their vegetables, play Scrabble, and compete with each other in Model U.N., until they finally “catch” a fucking clue.  And those who misbehave will be sentenced to playing Ms. Pacman for twelve solid hours, wearing adult diapers.

And just a quick word to those of you who keep going on about how now, because of Pokekmon Go, you are now out in the world, socializing.  I will grant you, maybe that’s a jot better than you spending your life in a dark room.  But please don’t confuse socializing over ________ (fill in blank of some stupid coveted monster; I am not going to Google it) with what it means to forge a true friendship.  Get back to me in a year, and tell me where you are on the relationship meter with these goofballs.  A friend is someone who is always there for you—or so some say.  Most of these people won’t be.  A friend is someone who listens to you, even after you have droned on about the same thing—the same break-up, the same job, the same fantasy, the same team, the same roommate, the same professor, the same aches and pains, the same hobby, the same boss, the same relationship, the same the same the same, but a true friend goes right on listening—or so some say.   Doubtful your new Pokemon pals will do that.   A friend is someone who drives you to the airport even if they don’t want to, picks you up drunk from a bar even if it’s two in the morning, and shows up with a pair of jumper cables or a lug wrench, even if it’s storming or there’s a blizzard outside—or so some say.   Think your Pokepartners will do that?  Highly unlikely.  And lastly, of course, there is my definition of friendship:  A friend is someone who will help you move.  Someone who loses an entire gorgeous weekend he could have spent at the beach, or kayaking, or sleeping in—or playing Pokemon Go—because he/she has agreed to help pack your stupid crap into boxes you scrounged from the back of the Piggly Wiggly and the ABC store, and all because you think that moving into your new stupid apartment across town is an integral part of your whole new life plan coming to fruition.  A friend lets you keep believing that.  And a friend helps you move there.   But your fleeting friendships from Pokemon Go?  Pokemon No. 

I have to say, at the end of the day, (or more specifically, at the end of twenty days) there has been a lot of name-calling, on both sides.  And little listening.  But I have really tried to listen.  So in return, I would ask you to listen to this.   In the unchanged blog below, I really made one major misstep.  Rather than rewrite it,  I will leave it stand and apologize for it.  I made a glib remark about all those who would end up dead or wounded at the hands of Pocket Monsters.  “Two words”, I said snarkily…“Darwin Awards.”  And while a little part of me still smiles at the meaning behind that, I forgot the bigger picture.  And in that moment, I was an assface.  Too often, I am an assface.   But the difference between me and some of these gamer assfaces is that I can admit I am an assface.

But back to the big picture.  Let me frame that for you now:  so far we have been relatively lucky.  That famous sideswiping of the cop car in Baltimore left nobody badly hurt.  And the fifteen-year-old girl who was injured ended up smiling for the World Wide Web cameras, and apparently will be just fine. But that can’t last.  It won’t last.  Statistics are the karma of mathematics.  My writing partner shamed me (not purposely) when he brought this reality home: for many years, he worked for the railroad … and lore has it, if you run a locomotive for long enough, you will take a life.  It’s not the engineer’s fault. It’s not the conductor’s fault.   It’s the fault of the fool wearing headphones.  The fool who got drunk. Or the person whose only foolish mistake was being a kid, and not realizing that his childish folly could get him killed.  My partner has never killed a human being while in a locomotive, but he has beaten himself up for every poor dog he ran down, guileless lover of dogs that he is.  And he has watched lives permanently damaged, if not completely destroyed, because they did take a human life.   Breaking a train with a hundred cars of grain or fuel is a cumbersome, dangerous, and often deadly proposition, even when that train is crawling along.  The people running the trains are kind of depending on the good sense of the average person not to amble down railroad tracks.  My partner has talked to men who have to spend the rest of their lives knowing that they killed another human being, because that human being had too many cocktails.  Or took a stupid dare.  Or because he had a bad day, a series of bad days, and decided that this was a good day to die.  And of course, there is the man who is haunted by knowing that his oncoming locomotive was the last thing those two little kids, trapped in the back of the car stuck on the tracks, saw—right before he ran them down.  And all because some douchebag parent though they could beat the signal.   

Now, step back.  Look around at the people playing Pokemon Go.   Watch as they stare at their screens. Watch how they walk.   Look where they walk.   Look at all the innocent people behind their steering wheels, innocently driving their cars.  And now, think of that poor railroad guy, seeing the faces of those two little boys, every night before he goes to sleep … and the look of horror in their eyes. 

Now tell me there are no problems with this game.   Explain it so I understand. 

​This is not a rhetorical question.   I am waiting.

By Mickey McClain

                        AN OPEN LETTER TO BLOGGER DUNCAN LINDSAY, OF METRO.CO.UK:

RE:  POKEMON GO, REAL MONSTERS, and keep your gamers the hell away from all things Holocaust.

I woke up Sunday morning and checked the breaking news, only to read some blogger off in Newcastle on Tyne, U.K., calling me a “judgmental moron”.  What?  Excuse me?   He did this because I am one of the many people who has become immediately and passionately critical of Pokemon Go.

In this little epistle, I will take apart the blog points of Mr. Duncan Lindsay—a man whose real job, as he proclaims on his Facebook hagiography, is to render critical analyses of soap operas.  I think that explains a lot.  

Here is the article, for those who—oh screw it; I don’t know who would want to read it.  Unless, of course, as a grim harbinger of the future.  http://metro.co.uk/2016/07/17/why-those-looking-down-on-pokemon-go-players-are-the-ones-who-need-to-get-a-life-6011601/    (Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Two minutes and twenty seconds of your life that you will never get back.) 

Lindsay, you call people who are troubled by Pokemon Go (which has now caused car crashes, cliff accidents, robberies at gunpoint, and shootings) “judgmental morons.”   Quick rhetorical tip for you, Lindsay.  Unless you have a damned good argument to follow that up—which you don’t—calling someone a judgmental moron for having an opinion kind of makes you a judgmental moron. No wait.  It doesn’t “kind of” do that.  It does precisely that.  You, Lindsay, are a judgmental moron.  
The bald fact is this:  Pokemon Go players, in massive numbers, are barging, oblivious, into places where people worship their God, mourn their dead, and live their private lives.   This is, folks--and you will hear this again, in this blog--STUPID, RUDE, and DANGEROUS.   And that’s not just my opinion.   That is being proven out by incidents … and by … how to phrase this delicately, for your particular ears, Little Lindsay--that is REALITY.    And to your possible parry that I am cherry picking incidents—the fact that you CANNOT play the game WITHOUT ignoring the real world around you, but must INSTEAD keep your eyes glued to a screen, absolutely guarantees that we will see much more of this.   What would have happened, I found myself wondering, if that infernal global GPS system had placed a highly desirable Pokemon at the Bosphorus Bridge?  Would PokeZombs just go trundling onto the bridge, not noticing that pesky military coup, or that helicopter firing down on innocent civilians?  

Reality, kids? 

Lindsay, your arguments are all straw men—a typical symptom of writers ensnared in eternal adolescence because they don’t bother to read actual books.  Writers who don’t reason, but tweet.   Who think emojis trump the OED.    But back to the game:  You defend Pokemon Go with a brief but broad swath talking about how gaming helps “problem solving skills, decrease anxiety and develop motor skills.”  You can say the same thing about Lincoln Logs.    Of course all those benefits are possible, if gaming is enjoyed in moderation, like good wine and soft porn.   Lindsay, nobody has a problem with that kind of gaming.  It’s when it turns to addiction, and gamers have to wear adult diapers so they won’t have to leave the game, and eventually they pass out from dehydration.  And sometimes die.   Gaming is an addiction for many people today, and that is what we judgmental morons are worried about.  Addiction is worrisome.  That doesn’t make the worriers morons.   Nobody ever died from playing a board game. 

You compare Pokemon socializing to people holding “cans of beer” at parties.   Here’s a wee difference. The people holding cans of beer are usually making eye contact.  Looking at each other, and talking.   As YouTube after YouTube reveals, Pokemon Go players spend virtually (hah, joke) all of their time staring at the screen, ignoring important features of the landscape like other humans, approaching buses, and large memorials to the dead.   This is not cool.  Nobody has a Pabst while they are at mass, I’ve never seen anybody playing whist beneath Van Gogh’s Starry Night, and you don’t see a lot of Selfies being snapped at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.  It is almost as though there is something more important going on in that location than “The Self”.

Yes, Little Lindsay, to return to your shallow arguments, people may criticize that Pokemon is not real, but as is so typical of those who do not read much or interact with the living on a regular basis, you have missed the nuance of their point.   Nobody has a problem with fantasy.  Ever since the world stood up to applaud and adore a little girl following a white rabbit down a dark hole, in a book written by a grown up man for a very fetching little girl—long before that, and ever since—the world has adored a good fantasy, escapism.   But what we do not attempt to escape—when relishing that fantasy in the privacy of our homes, or the safety of a darkened theater—are core survival tactics like rules of the road, traffic signals, large warning signs, and basic human courtesy. 

Lindsay, you compare Pokemon to “Game of Thrones”, but people don’t climb over walls plastered with clear warnings and fall down cliffs to get to their TV remote.  And for all the future tragedies that are impending, I have just two words for the victims:  Darwin Awards. 

Little Lindsay, since apparently you think that the way to show you really feel something strongly is by using capital letters—as opposed to, oh, using a more scintillating vocabulary, let me make clear to you the real problem with Pokemon Go.  IT IS VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE  (again, small joke, for those engaged in the debate about the literal meaning of words, and mourning  the demise of the dignity of the word “literal”), AGAIN,  IT IS VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO PLAY THE GAME WITHOUT SPENDING VIRTUALLY ALL OF YOUR TIME STARING AT A SCREEN.  THIS IS STUPID, RUDE, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, DANGEROUS.  Little Lindsay, I am so open minded about this whole thing (my writing partner is teaching me Cid Meyer’s “Civilization” as we speak), that I would be just fine with Pokemon Go and its playground of augmented reality, if it were set up more like a traditional scavenger hunt, where players actually did commune with each other, put their heads together to figure out clues, and mind the WALK/DON’T walk signs.  

And Lindsay, you threaten that Pokemon Goers who are criticized may look through my social media and peruse the kind of commentary I wield at the world.  Please do.  I/We are moviesforyourmind.net.  And we write about the real world, which is falling apart because wanna--be journalists like yourself who produce little polished turds called “blogs” are drowning in a pond of Narcissism, while the real world screams for your real help and attention. 

Little Lindsay, in a world where people are discovering real wonders, taking on the real monsters, creating great art, and spending their time helping others, your little Pokemon Go-Obsessive lives will never be taken seriously.  As I am one of the rabid critics of Pokemon Go, I am apparently one of the people whom you feel needs to get a life.  Hmm.  Let’s see.  I have published eight books, publish a longform blog, I own a miniature museum (involving yes, a lot of fantasy and escapism), I have taught at three universities, I am in the American Forensics Association Hall of Fame, I have worked extensively with animal rescues and assorted political campaigns, and, most importantly for our purposes, I have traveled the world while actually looking at the things in it.  Specifically, most of the states in these United States.   Also, most of the countries in the E. U., having developed a particular fondness for the cities of London, Bath, Paris, Hon Fleur (even though I got food poisoning there, admittedly the one bad thing that can’t happen to you while playing Pokemon GO), Rome, Pisa, Venice, and Naples, Malaga, and Morocco.   I have also traversed Teheran, Chiraz, Persepolis, the jungles of Panama, the mountains of Peru, the wilds of Mexico and Ecuador—and you know what, Li’l Linds, I never saw one Pokemon.  And I had a marvelous time.  You know what I DID see, Little Lindsay?   I saw Chartres Cathedral, our nation’s capital, The David, my first Van Gogh, Machu Picchu, the crown jewels of England, the Eiffel Tower, the Panama Canal—and oh yes, the monument to the war dead at Dachau.  I didn’t even take a camera, much less a Pokemon tracking device.

Because I understand that there are already some very moving photographs of Dachau available to me. Along with some very interesting stories about the place and the people who lived there.  Correction. Were murdered there.   Don’t ask me to articulate it, but that just felt, oh, more important than stalking for Pokemons around the crematoria.

You talk about the up swell of naysayers to be as predictable as the sun rising in the east.  Lindsay, what’s the last time you or your ilk even WATCHED a sunrise? That, my friend, is the whole fucking point. 

How dare you tell me to get a life, you little Pokemon Fairy Fart.  YOU get a life, but before you can do so, you will have to get some manners.   Perhaps you and your father should go looking for Pokemon in the woodshed.

​On Thursday, April 14, 2016, Governor Bill Haslam vetoed SB 1108, a bill making the Bible the Official State Book of Tennessee.  This blog, published on the April 13th, misrepresented Gov. Haslam’s actions.  I regret this error.  The blog will be corrected and a notice posted, when the corrected version is available.

​By Mike Pickwick
 
There is a sometimes silly, but nonetheless passionate exercise in this country, in which the various state governing bodies determine that particular plants, animals, or objects define the nature, desires, and good sense of their citizens, and differentiate them from those poor souls who do not have the good fortune of living in that particular state.  I live in Virginia, Mother of Presidents, The Old Dominion.  My state has determined that my official bird is the Northern Cardinal (nice choice, I approve), and, not surprisingly, like so many good choices, six more states (I’m looking at you, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, North Carolina, and Kentucky) have, either through laziness or cheek, without compensation, or even gratitude, used Virginia’s extensive research, long hours of analysis, and thoughtful deliberation, by blithely naming the Cardinal as their state bird too.  Or is it possible that people in all of those places actually agree on something?
 
We also have a state motto, Sic Semper Tyrannis - Thus Always to Tyrants, and who would argue that we Virginians, above all other Americans, will not suffer tyranny?  We have a combo state flower and tree, the Flowering Dogwood, again copied by others, but such is the cost of original thinking.  In fact, there are many Official Virginia State things.  We have our own fish, both fresh and salt water (take that Kansas), our own state dog, drink, fossil, bat, and even our own Tartan.  I could continue to lord the richness and diversity of our state stuff over you, but no, after all, Virginia’s state emotion is kindness (I made that one up).
 
States sometimes go a little nutty with this thing naming…  thing.  Consider this: 20 states have passed legislation naming their official state soil. Seriously?  Official state dirt?  Now, those of you who thought (and you know who you are), that this was simply swept that under the rug?  I believe apologies are in order.  Kansas (Etch-a-Sketch), and Pennsylvania (Slinky), felt compelled to name a state toy.  Every state has a state bird, and a state flower.  Oregon has a state microbe, Saccharomyces cerevisiae, known to the rest of us as brewer’s yeast.  Oregon has its priorities straight.  Hawaii proudly celebrates its Black Coral.  South Carolina, in a rather aggressive move, named the Carolina Wolf Spider, as the nation’s only state spider.  Seven states and the District of Columbia have state dinosaurs, but none of them are available for adoption.  And don’t mess with Texas.  They chose a state cactus, the Prickly Pear, and don’t even think about changing their minds.  (“They can take my Prickly Pear Cactus when they pry it from my cold, dead, needle ridden hands” – Yosemite Sam)
 
So the naming of state stuff can be, and usually is, a fairly illustrative example of the democratic process.  For the most part, this exercise is conducted in an atmosphere of righteous passion, pressure from the apparently requisite special interest group, some old fashioned partisan politics, and oftentimes, good natured fun.  Yes, it can become a bit silly, when, well when the almond and hazelnut factions duke it out for state nut honors, but in the end, civility and statesmanship usually prevail.  This could have worked out for those of you pushing for the almond.  If you had done your homework, you could have done an end around on the hazelnut crowd, and gone for official state Drupe (look it up, I’m not going to do all the work here).  What are they paying those lobbyists for, anyway?

​Well, at least this is the way the process is meant to work. 
 
State Mottos, on the other hand, generally take a more serious tone than state things, and they can offer thought provoking insights into a state’s character.
 
California’s motto, Eureka – I found it, reassures us that something important, which was lost, has now been recovered.  They are not very forthcoming about what it is that they have found, perhaps they’re a little embarrassed.  I’m not surprised at this apparent carelessness.  After all, the state has long been accused of being home to those who are, perhaps, a little too laid back.  However, though this admission may not seem like much to you, it takes guts for an entire state to admit that it screwed up.
 
Michigan’s motto Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice, while definitely a mouthful, is certainly friendly and welcoming, if somewhat lacking in passion (see New Hampshire).  Translated from Latin, it means, If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.  Adopted in 1835, this was, perhaps, an early form of advertising, like West Virginia’s Wild and Wonderful, or Texas’ It’s Like A Whole Other Country.  Although it is possible, of course, that this vote was taken late in the day, and everyone just wanted to beat the traffic getting home.
 
But, if there was ever a motto born out of acute ennui, it would have to be that of the state of Washington.  “By and By”?  What the hell, did someone just close their eyes, open a book, and point?  Now I have family in Washington, and I can tell you that they are sober, clear thinking folk, fully capable of coming up with a motto far more inspiring than the one under which they are forced to live.  Maybe there should be term limits on State mottos.
 
But, back to business, one state’s motto was amazingly prescient.  Kansans chose ad astra per aspera - to the stars through difficulties.  They chose this in 1861!  Wow!  Just ask NASA.  Kansas nailed it.
 
And then there is Wisconsin, which, with typically mid-western understatement, chose for its motto, Forward.  This is solid, sound advice, albeit a bit obvious.   There is no need for anything belligerent or flowery, for the good people of Wisconsin.
 
Hawaii might take a lesson here, having gone a little over the top perhaps, with Ua mau ke ea o ka ʻāina i ka pono (aren’t fluent in Hawaiian? You know what to do.).
 
The naming of official things and the adoption of mottos is not a uniquely American exercise, but it certainly seems as if it could be.  It might well be held up as demonstrating some of the essential qualities of the nature of getting things done in this country. Everyone participates, everyone has a good long, loud argument, and once the thing is decided, everyone shakes hands and moves on, despite some inevitable grumbling from the losing side.  And while my description may seem hopelessly Pollyannaish, there is an essential truth to keep in mind.  When a state names something as officially representing itself, it is done with good intention, on behalf of all of the citizens of that state.  So, it is rare that anyone feels as if they have been somehow marginalized, or pointed out as being less welcome in their state, as a result of the naming of a bird, or the adopting of a motto.
 
Naming an official state bird, or tree, or fish, or even an official state cactus, is not law, not law in the sense that by declaring to the world, especially in the seven states named above, that Northern Cardinals have no special significance to you; and that as a result of your eternal allegiance to the Red-winged Blackbird, you might be fined, or even caged up for a while (sorry).   Just how, exactly, does one break the Prickly Pear Cactus law in Texas, anyway?  But, as I said in the opening paragraph, these actions by states’ general assemblies or legislatures are nonetheless meant to send a message, to the people of a state, and to anyone else who might be listening.    What is important to me, and I believe, what is important about this exercise in governance, is that when it comes to these expressions of state pride, is that it is very difficult for any American to feel hurt or looked down upon, as a result of any state, naming any thing.
 
You may live in the reddest of states, say Texas, or Alabama, or the bluest, like Massachusetts, and California, and know that even if it seems that folks in these (and 15 other states) agree on almost nothing else, that they all “officially” agree about one thing, the Square Dance.  What could better exemplify the celebratory and unifying nature of this ritual of naming state things than the fact that many states have a state “dance”, and that 19 of them agree that it should be the Square Dance.
 
I realize that this is taking a bit of time, but please bear with me.
 
At its best, this small exercise in American democracy reminds us that there is much we all have in common, much that we agree to be true.  At its least, it does not divide.  It does not target.  It does not raise up any group as inherently superior, or more American, unless one fixates on bragging rights.  And for that reason (almonds and hazelnuts aside) it should deeply offend every American, no matter their politics, to see it used for an arrogant, purely partisan, pointedly hurtful purpose.
 
What is this all leading to?  I thought this was supposed to be funny.  Well, it was, but some folks can’t leave well enough alone.
 
The idea of states naming things as officially representative was, in my opinion, never meant to be used as the state of Tennessee did last week.  Tennessee has co-opted, no, it has weaponized this normally innocuous process, by passing Senate Bill 1108, sponsored by Sen. Steve Southerland, R-Morristown, designating The Bible as the official state book.  Not any particular Bible, mind you, although Linda Lemmon, executive secretary to the president of The Bible and Literature Foundation in Tennessee, favors the King James Version of The Bible. On the Christian Science Monitor website for April 5, 2016 she said, “I think it ought to be every state’s book, every person’s book”, later adding that “we have freedom of religion, but not freedom from religion.  Chilling.  I suppose the importance of elevating The Bible, any Bible, in order to ensure that the 1.4 million non-Christian Tennesseans clearly get the message that their holy book, or lack thereof, marks them as somehow less Tennessean than Christians, trumps the need for specificity.  Thus, some version of The Bible needed to join such other august Tennessee things as the Tennessee Cave Salamander, as official state amphibian, the Tulip Poplar, as state tree, Channel Catfish, official fish, Milk, official beverage, and my personal favorite, the Barrett M82/M107 sniper rifle, as Tennessee’s rifle of choice.
 
Why this bill, why now?  Was it that Christians in Tennessee had, in frighteningly large numbers, forgotten the name of the holy text which guides their spiritual lives, and in the name of good governance, seized the idea that naming The Bible as the Official State Book, would be a great memory aid?
 
To be fair, the bill was not universally supported in the Tennessee Senate.  Sen. Ferrell Haile (R) of Gallatin, voted against the bill saying in his floor speech, that The Bible was intended to be recognized by individuals and "not as a nation, not as a state."  Democratic Senator Lee Harris was quoted in his floor speech against passage, saying “My constituents tell me they want to respect diversity of faith traditions in our state,”…  “One in five Tennesseans are not Christian…  I am a Christian but I do not think we should promote a bill that supports just a single religion.” 
 
The ACLU weighed in with an interesting, and broader perspective with this statement.
 
Excerpt from Christian Science Monitor (April 5, 2016):
 
The Tennessee chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union condemns the bill, calling it a "thinly-veiled effort to promote one religion over other religions," as well as an affront to those who practice no religion.
Hedy Weinberg, executive director of the ACLU in Tennessee, says that the bill represents a response to increasing diversity in the state and the Supreme Court’s upholding of same-sex marriage.  “The rich and growing demographic diversity and the backlash against the equal marriage decision may be driving some legislators to put a big red stop sign up by filing bills that not only violate constitutional guarantees, but attempt to slow down progress and discriminate against individuals,” she says.
 
End excerpt
 
Tennessee’s Governor, Bill Haslam, called the bill “disrespectful”, saying that The Bible should not be included in the Tennessee Blue Book, which is the repository of official state symbols, along with the catfish, or tulip poplar, or “Rocky Top” (state song).  Even the state’s Attorney General weighed in, indicating that the bill is probably unconstitutional.  There was even an effort to amend the bill by naming President Andrew Jackson’s Bible, as the official Tennessee Bible.  Not Tennessee’s state book.
 
So, how did SB 1108 fair when it reached the Governor’s desk?  When the bill reached him, he stood firm in his convictions. Given all of the objections to this bill, considering its intentional divisiveness, and as he, himself considered the bill “disrespectful” of the holy script that guides his life, he knew what he must do.  As more than half of Tennesseans self-identify as Evangelical Christians, in a state that boasts the largest publisher, and the largest distributor of Bibles, and in an election year, Governor Haslam’s course was clear.  He would veto this divisive bill, right?
 
Governor Haslam courageously let SB 1108 sit on his desk, untouched, for the requisite ten days, after which it became law by default.  The Bible won.  Yay!   You have to know that this was no sure thing in a state in which 52% of the population identifies themselves not just as Christians, but Evangelical Christians.  And another 28% as, I suppose, merely Christian.
 
Let’s be clear.  The Bible is not an inherently divisive symbol.  No holy text, of any faith is divisive or hurtful simply because it exists.  The degree to which the various holy scripts bring people together, or drive them to oppress or even kill one another, rests entirely upon the intentions of those who adhere to the beliefs they contain.  I freely confess, as a white Anglo-Saxon man, brought up Methodist (we’re talking full WASP pedigree here, including the English surname), that The Bible is the holy text that guides my spiritual faith.  It is the good book by which I was raised … it informs my morals, frames my world view, and inspires my life.  However, as a Christian, I also know this to be true: My God is not so weak that I need to be afraid of people of other faiths, or hate gay men and women who wish to show their devotion to another human being, by entering into marriage.  I don’t believe it is my place to insinuate my faith into the lives of those who have chosen other paths, in some inexplicable attempt to continually remind them of our differences--no actually, to remind them of the superiority of my beliefs.  In ill-intentioned hands, The Bible, just like any other religious text, can become a weapon for those who would seek to divide us by lifting themselves up, while driving all others down. 
 
For the first time in American history, as near as I can tell, an official state symbol of divisiveness has been named.  Making The Bible the Official State Book of Tennessee is an act of theater, no more meaningful or effective than a high school pep rally, and clearly meant to pander to aggressive Evangelical Christians in an election year.  They would seek to divide us into our respective camps, by cherry picking verses which, taken out of Biblical context appear to highlight differences which have no merit in the public forum of a secular nation.  And make no mistake:  Gay Rights, Evolution, Same Sex Marriage, Islam, Atheism?  The proponents of this bill fear each of these and much more, and would use The Bible to shame or intimidate all Americans into joining them in their fear.  The question we must ask ourselves is this: Are we a secular nation which prizes and protects the freedom of every American to practice their religion, or to not practice religion, without being oppressed by those who believe that “theirs” is the only way?  Or are we to become a Christian Theocracy, with all that that implies.  Hey, that’s the ticket.  Look how well intolerance works for Islam. 
 
It is long past time that, as Americans, we claim the religious freedoms guaranteed to us, not by way of cynical political theater, but as codified in our Constitution.  I am sometimes left speechless by the incoherent screeching from the religious right, demanding that we return to a strict adherence to the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, with the clear intent by the screechers to cynically reserve those rights to themselves.
 
The same sensibility that drove SB 1108 into law in Tennessee also drove the passage of laws recently in Mississippi and North Carolina, and drives the bill now sitting on the desk of Georgia’s Governor, each seeking to restrict the rights of the LGBT communities in those states.  It is what drives Kim Davis’ furious attempts to protect her religious freedom by denying marriage licenses to gay and lesbian citizens of Kentucky.  In a revealing parallel incident, a Muslim flight attendant recently refused to serve an alcoholic beverage to a passenger on her flight, because that act would have denied her civil right to freely practice her religion.  And there is a burning, salient point of legal equality at play here:  if Kim Davis can bring her religious restrictions to the work place, so then can the Muslim flight attendant—if, in fact, we are the religiously tolerant society we claim to be.  Just stop for a moment, and think about that. 
 
It echoes in the words of those who hysterically trumpet the need for “religious freedom laws”, including freedom from the oppression of having to bake cakes for gay weddings, freedom from the burden of being forced to take pictures of those weddings, freedom from the injustice of working with homosexuals … and perhaps most importantly, our “religious freedom” to know precisely whom and what gender is doing what and why in the bathroom stall next to us, regardless of how invasive, judgmental and just plain nosy that makes as, as good Christians.  Or as in the case of the new law in North Carolina, to prevent, and I quote, “trans-gendered men from using the bathroom …next to our little girls”.  Despite the lack of any evidence of intention or commission of a crime, this bathroom example is always trotted out, I suppose, because they haven’t thought of anything more frightening yet.  Give the fear mongers time, this ain’t over.
 
So this, I would ask of Americans, and American Christians in particular.  Once we have completely covered ourselves in the laws necessary to ensure the dominance and inviolability of our Christian values; once we have codified The Bible into law, what then do we say to other religions, Islam for example, when they seek to follow our example?  What is our response to the Muslim flight attendant?  Does she enjoy that same Constitutional Right to Freedom of Religion? 
 
Would our energies not be better spent framing a consensus which ensures that the debate is focused not upon which group will win, but upon finding  the best solutions to the many challenges bearing down upon us as a nation?  Have we the courage to ensure that our nation continues to evolve, welcoming new ideas, regardless of their source, confident in the knowledge that our Constitution endows us with the tools necessary to choose wisely, fairly, and for everyone’s benefit?
 
One thing is certain.
 
 If we give in to the selfish temptations of the current political climate, we will lose our way.   America has problems outside of its borders.  But its true crisis lies within; if we are looking to place blame for the state of our nation, we need look no farther than one another.  And sometimes, we must have the courage to look in the mirror.  All too often, the gesture of reaching across the aisle is an excuse to slap, or punch.  And on other occasions, an obscene gesture is what passes for eloquence.
 
America will endure, if we want it badly enough.  Those who would destroy us, no matter their numbers, are nothing in the face of our nation united.  But an America hobbled by fear, and hate, and greed?  Or, a balkanized America, fragmented spiritually, ideologically, racially, even regionally?  Those who would cynically divide us, those without the courage to reach out, those are the states of the mind and of the heart, which given their head, have the power to end this noble experiment.  Unless we all commit, today, to stop screaming at one another, and start listening, our nation will not reach its potential.  In truth, our nation may not survive.  Today, each of us, must be resolved that compromise is not the enemy, and that fear and hate are not the solution.

Meg Langford
 
I tend to write long form, and that is because I suffer from a condition called Logorrhea.   It is not one of the disorders recognized by the APA as an actual psychiatric condition, but it is one of the go-to words learned by any kid taking the Scripps Spelling Bee seriously, so that’s good enough for me.
 
My condition--that of being perpetually logorrheic--is why it is odd for me to admit, that when it comes to the issue of States Naming Official State Things, I have precious little to say.  Mr. Pickwick expounds upon the issue to make his larger point:  Why the hell are we using this to be divisive, as a nation?  As a once great people?  I can’t think of anything to add to this that would not be an act of gilding the lily. 
 
When I think about this business of States Naming Things, it is to me a kind of perfect Trifecta.  (Redundant, I will grant you, as a Trifecta is, by definition, a kind of perfect choosing.)  That said, to me, States Naming Things represents the perfect trifecta of Pride, Unity, and sheer Joy (read also whimsy, silliness, or liking a thing just because it’s so cool.  Read “cool” as: beautiful, tasty, rare, delightful.)
 
And when it comes to States Naming Things, even when the process creates debate, the debate is endearing.  Refreshing.  However it all shakes down, it’ll all be OK.  America will survive it. 
I have always liked the idea of States Naming Things, and I was once again so enchanted with this idea that I got swept away in examples, and that is about the best I have.
 
Mississippi, known for generating racial controversy from time to time, really stepped up in the Naming Things arena, when they named as their Official State Toy the teddy bear.  The reason is obvious and appropriate.  Many of us know that the Teddy Bear was born when its likeness, Teddy Roosevelt couldn’t shoot a little bear cub, but how many know that happened in the Great State of Mississippi?
 
And leave it to one of our great Midwestern states, to be ambitious enough to have a whole big Official State Meal:  Oklahoma designated an Official State Meal In 1988, consisting of fried okra, squash, cornbread, barbecue pork, biscuits, sausage and gravy, grits, corn, strawberries, chicken fried steak, pecan pie, and black-eyed peas.
 
The state of New York almost had a great moment, when they considered making the rescue dog their state dog.  One wonders if New York realizes the ironic tragicomedy involved in their decision not to choose that dog, as their state dog, and instead choose something else?  But at least there was an impulse, there, for a brief, shining moment.
 
The legislators in Albany, New York also had knock-down, drag-out time of it when a group of 4th graders, as part of a ‘tween civics project, tried to get yogurt named as New York’s official state snack.  The verbal fracas was so heated it found its way onto a now infamous segment on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, along with Senior State Snack Correspondent, Jessica Williams.  Your tax dollars at work.
 
There’s just no point in being a bad sport in this business of Naming State Things; that’s what’s so cool about it.  It forces you to play nice.  Pennsylvania Rep. Kelly Lewis, for example, has publicly denounced the whole business as “a total waste of time”.  He thinks there are no grounds for wasting time picking a state dirt, and shuffles off from the idea of naming a state dance.  But everybody who knows Lewis is aware of the fact that he only took that stance after his effort to make Hazelton the state soil failed hugely in a 177-22 vote.  He has mud on his face.  So much for pouting in the halls of the legislature.
 
And speaking of 4th graders, another group of them in the Great State of New Hampshire actually visited the halls of their legislature, to watch (they thought) their proposed bill become law:  That the Red Tailed Hawk should become the Official Raptor for the Granite State.  Wow!  Not only did the legislature vote against it, as the poor little crushed schoolchildren looked on, but one representative (again, while the children were watching) swooped down on the children’s proposal, likening the raptor’s shredding of its prey to an abortion, using his time to attack planned parenthood.  Again, wow.  There must have been a heck of a lot of awkward conversations around dinner tables across New Hampshire that night.
 
And if I may wax serious for a moment, and reference Mr. Pickwick’s article about The Bible, there is a way to declare a state book that doesn’t involve hurting feelings, or getting everybody’s librarian bloomers in a bunch.  Oregon did the cool thing: they threw the process out to the people—you can’t get any more democratic than that--and asked the populace to nominate titles.  Not surprisingly, the good people of the Beaver State chose breathtakingly wonderful books that were either written by Oregonians, or set in that beautiful state, or both.  See?  This way, no matter who wins, everybody in Oregon wins.  This criteria, once applied, however, would not work for Tennessee—as last time I heard, God does not live (exclusively) in Tennessee.  Nor is Genesis set in Tennessee. Although I could be wrong.  I expect a forum comment to suggest as much any minute now.
 
For a taste of good old fashioned Oregonian pride, and as a nudge to Tennessee, here is a list of fine books, excerpted from an article on the Oregon Public Broadcasting site:  Ken Kesey is clearly the winner among our listeners. “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Sometimes a Great Notion” are fighting for the top honors on our Facebook page, Jaz Marie suggesting a third Kesey-related pick with Tom Wolfe’s “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.”  The Happy Canyon Pageant in Pendleton chimed in with a lesser-known, but rodeo-focused Kesey pick, “Last Go Round.”  Ursula LeGuin also received a lot of love, with “The Lathe of Heaven”, “The Wind’s 12 Quarters”, and “The Left Hand of Darkness” getting numerous mentions.  Several listeners pushed for a relatively recent release in “Mink River” by Brian Doyle, including caller Lorraine from Oregon City.  Geek Love” by Katherine Dunn got quite a few shout outs on our website.  Doug called in to suggest H.L. Davis’s Pulitzer Prize-winning “Honey in the Horn,” which was a popular suggestion among our listeners.  Sue called from Portland to suggest “Winterkill” by Craig Lesley, and a number of listeners agreed with her.  Oregon State Librarian MaryKay Dahlgreen added Lesley’s “Burning Fences” to the list.  A few commenters suggested said, “Dune” by Frank Herbert, saying he went to high school in Oregon, and was inspired by the Oregon Dunes near Florence. Andrea Sargeant and several others said “The Jump-Off Creek” by Molly Gloss. We saw a few votes for “The River Why” and “The Brothers K” by David James Duncan.  A couple of listeners gave the nod to “Ricochet River” by Robin Cody.  Arras Heiress said “Trask” by Don Berry, which several others also mentioned.  A couple of people suggested “The Clan of the Cave bear” by Jean Auel.  Several commenters pointed out that Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita” was written in Oregon and was a worthy contender.  (“Your Picks For Oregon's Official State Book by Dave Blanchard” by Dave Blanchard, OPB, March 27, 2015)
 
 
But back to the fun.
 
What is life without music? And by logical extension, what is a state without an Official State Song?  Most states choose something traditional, predictable—something with the name of the state in the title.  Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together, and give it up for the Buckeye State!  Ohio, almost inexplicably, chose “Hang on Sloopy” for their Official State Song.
 
And while the fight isn’t over, talk about something that is hard to equivocate:  nobody thinks of Kansas without thinking of “The Wizard of Oz”, and that’s why the powers that be are sensibly on their way to naming the Kairn Terrier as the Official State Dog.  Again, see, non-partisan.  (If someone is a Republican, is their dog, then, a Republican?  Would a liberal’s dog vote Bernie by Proxy?  All dogs are Libertarians, that’s what I think.  Except for untrained dogs, who are clearly anarchists.  And cats all being monarchists.)
 
Mr. Pickwick was quick to champion Oregon’s Official Microbe, Saccharomyces cerevisiae, Brewer’s Yeast, but let’s not give short shrift to Wisconsin’s ongoing effort make Lactococcus Lactis their Official State Microbe.  Touted as “not your average microbe”, (something I must admit I never pondered), the hardworking little bacterium used to make cheddar, Colby, and Monterey Jack cheese is an “unsung hero” of the nation’s Number 1 producing cheese state.  Is this microbe lesser than the Brewer’s Yeast microbe?  Don’t make me choose between my cheese and my beer.
 
Rhode Island, tiny but mighty, is so far the only state to be pushing through a state appetizer:  calamari.  One of my great weaknesses, especially the batter fried ones at Bonaroti’s in Vienna, Virginia.
 
In 2009, the Washington State Legislature was ready to name Aplets and Cotlets the Official State Candy, but not if the Almond Roca crowd had a say.  Since no official candy is named on its site, I am guessing the matter got ugly, and was left unresolved.
 
The Mormon state has chosen “Jello” for its Official State Dessert.
 
The Official State Sport of Maryland is jousting.
 
And the Official State Sport of Colorado is—wait for it—Pack Burro racing.  Nascar, watch out.
 
South Carolina actually has an actual Official State Craft Grass, as in, a sturdy kind of grass used to weave baskets, an art it proudly attributes to its slaves (not sure how I feel about that), who brought with them, in those slave ships, the knowledge of how to weave baskets so tight they would hold water.  The slaves are free, but the art form continues—using the nation’s only Official Crafting Material, Craft Grass, aka Sweetgrass (Muhlenbergia filipes)  
 
And New Mexico.  You have to love New Mexico.  Of all the fifty states et al in this glorious country of ours, New Mexico is the only one that has … wait for it …an Official State Question!  This, from the website Mental Floss: New Mexico really got down to the symbolic nitty gritty when, in 1996, the legislature passed a House Joint Memorial declaring "Red or green?" as the official state question. The options refer to the red or green chilies native to New Mexican cuisine, and is the inquiry most often heard in local restaurants. Chiles are the state's top cash crop, and the adoption of the peculiar question acknowledges the pod's historical importance. Unsurprisingly, New Mexico is the only state to have such a designation.  (Mental Floss, 13 Bizarrely Specific Official State Appetizers, Toys, Soils, and More.)
 
Massachusetts did not expect to create a global “Kerfluffle” when it decided to name “The Fluffernutter” sandwich as the Official State Sandwich.
 
And sometimes, the Proud and Joyful Unity (the Trifecta again) even trickles down to smaller provinces than the big ol’ states.  I was ambivalent about Madison, Wisconsin until I found out that their Official Bird is the Plastic Pink Flamingo.  Now, a visit to Madison is on my bucket list.  Even as I make a mental note not to ever move there.
 
And what list would be complete without a nod towards all fifty state desserts?  (Well, Mr. Pickwick’s I guess, since he didn’t get around to addressing the subject.)  This list makes me proud to be an American.  A fat American, I will grant you.  But an American nonetheless.   What the heck could be partisan about this list?   For the record:  only eight of our states have official state desserts.  And may I ask, what the hell is up with that.  But I offer this list through the creative stylings of L.Z. Anderson, in her playful Slate article, “The United Sweets of America”.
 
 
 Alabama: Lane cake
Also known as Alabama Lane cake, Lane cake is one of those boozy, eggy, dried-fruit-filled confections we don’t eat enough of these days. Invented by Emma Rylander Lane in the 1890s, a Lane cake is a sponge cake layered with a raisin-bourbon filling and frosted with a marshmallow-y “boiled white frosting.” Lane cake is also to Harper Lee what the madeleine is to Marcel Proust: The baked good makes several appearances in the Alabama-set “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Alaska: Baked Alaska
OK, fine, so the baked Alaska was not invented in Alaska. It wasn’t even invented by someone who had been to Alaska. Cakes topped with ice cream and encased with meringue were served for decades before Alaska became a state, under names like “omelette surprise” and “omelette à la norvégienne” (Norwegian omelette, probably an allusion to Norway’s cold climate). But it was the name popularized in the 1870s by Delmonico’s Restaurant in New York — a tribute to the newly purchased Department of Alaska — that stuck. It’s easy to see why the visually apt name caught on: The white, mounded dessert bears more than a passing resemblance to the snow-capped Mount McKinley.
Furthermore, Alaska is the only state name that describes a dessert not merely as a modifier, but as a noun. To omit this singular sweet from a list of pseudo-official state desserts would be a dereliction of my duties.
Arizona: Sopaipilla
Sopaipillas are similar to frybread — invented by Arizona’s original residents, the Navajo — which is to say that they’re deep-fried circles or squares of leavened dough. While frybread can be served with sweet or savory fillings, sopaipillas are more commonly served drizzled with honey as a dessert food. Some dessert experts see sopaipillas as more of a New Mexico thing, but it’s not fair for New Mexico to hog all of the American Southwest’s desserts.
Arkansas: Red velvet cake
Red velvet cake is having a moment, according to the New York Times, which insists that the scarlet-hued cake was invented at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, “though some Southern cake historians believe that story is more legend than fact.” Whatever its true history, red velvet cake is firmly situated in the public imagination as a creation of the South: Who can forget the armadillo-shaped groom’s cake in Steel Magnolias? Granted, Steel Magnolias is technically set in Louisiana, but that’s not far from Arkansas (which doesn’t have any state dessert specialties to speak of). Plus, red velvet cake is colored cardinal and white — the official colors of the University of Arkansas.
California: Meyer lemon cake
Meyer lemons, a cross between lemons and oranges, grow easily in California’s temperate climate, so it’s no wonder Alice Waters’ crew at Chez Panisse seized on them when they were inventing California cuisine in the 1960s. Nowadays, elegant, not-too-sweet Meyer lemon cake is ubiquitous on West Coast restaurant menus.
Colorado: Pot candy
The legalization of recreational marijuana in Colorado at the beginning of this year opened the floodgates to a vigorous and controversial edibles industry. It was never any question that Colorado’s state dessert would be laced with THC — the question was, what kind of sweet edible should get the crown? Cookies? Brownies? Gummy bears?
Thankfully, Maureen Dowd recently settled matters in an instant-classic column describing a “caramel-chocolate flavored candy bar” that made her “convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.” If you’d like to make weed-laced caramel-chocolate bars at home in Dowd’s honor, here is one of many recipes available online.
Connecticut: Spice cookies
Connecticut is known as the Nutmeg State not because nutmeg grows there (it doesn’t), but because “its early inhabitants had the reputation of being so ingenious and shrewd that they were able to make and sell wooden nutmegs” — in other words, they were able to pass off fake nutmegs as real ones. It’s a bit of a convoluted origin story, and one that doesn’t speak well of the state’s integrity. But it does make a certain amount of sense: Connecticut’s earliest settlers were Dutch, and the Dutch are big on baking spices. Spice cookies aren’t quite as popular in Connecticut as they are in the Old World, but it’s hard to find fault with the soft, aromatic New England variety.
Delaware: Strawberry shortcake
Strawberries were declared the official state fruit of Delaware in 2010, and you can’t argue with House Bill No. 203 (“Whereas, strawberries are an important product of Delaware’s agricultural industry; and whereas children and adults love to pick their own strawberries; and whereas strawberries can be a refreshing part of everyone’s diet …”). Strawberry shortcake is indubitably the best strawberry dessert, so this one was easy.
Florida: Key lime pie
Key lime pie is the official state pie of Florida. There is an annual Key lime pie festival in Cape Canaveral. Florida media outlets specialize in lists of the best Key lime pies served in the state. And the limes in Key lime pie are named after the Florida Keys. This choice was easy as pie.
Georgia: Peach cobbler
The Georgia Peach Council might have the slickest website of any American agricultural association. Not only is the design eye-catching, with accents of aquamarine and, well, peach, but you can also win an iPad if you share your “Georgia Peach experiences.” Point being, Georgia peach growers know that peach is practically synonymous with Georgia, and they’re milking it for all its worth.
Georgia has its pick of peach desserts, so why did I assign it peach cobbler instead of the more obvious peach pie? The Georgia Peach Council offers two cobbler recipes but no pie recipes. Surprising, yes, but I’m not about to argue with professionals.
Hawaii: Shave ice
Does the phrase “shave ice” make your grammatically fastidious brain hurt? You clearly have never had real Hawaiian shave ice, which is so good it’s been known to cure pedantry. Made from large blocks of ice shaved into the finest flakes imaginable, drenched with whatever fruit-flavored syrup your heart desires, and sometimes drizzled with sweetened condensed milk, shave ice might be Hawaii’s most important contribution to American culture. Case in point: America’s first Hawaiian president almost always stops in for some when he’s back in his home state.
Idaho: Huckleberry pie
Did you think Idaho’s state dessert was going to be a potato cake? Come on, now. OK, fine, potato cake exists — but it’s hardly the regional treat huckleberry pie is.
If you’ve never eaten a huckleberry, it’s probably because agricultural scientists haven’t yet figured out how to domesticate them — they only grow in the wild. If you have eaten a huckleberry, you probably live in the vicinity of northern Idaho. Or you’re a black bear. Or both. Either way, you probably like the sweet-tart goodness of huckleberry pie.
Illinois: Brownies
Brownies made their debut at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, so I thought it was only fair to credit Chicago for one of the world’s favorite baked goods. After all, the original recipe, which contains a pound of chocolate and a pound of butter, is a good one.
Indiana: Sugar cream pie
According to the Indiana Foodways Alliance, “Indiana’s contribution to the nation’s pie mythology is sugar cream.” What is a sugar cream pie? The name is pretty literal: It’s a pie whose filling contains cream, flour, sugar, and vanilla — no eggs. It’s also sometimes called Hoosier sugar cream pie, just in case any other state wanted for some reason to take credit for it.
Iowa: Cherry pie
As a famous gourmand once said, “tastes so good, makes a grown man cry.” Every year at the annual fundraiser known as Veishea, Iowa State students sell thousands of cherry pies to raise money for the Veishea Cherry Pie Scholarship Fund. This bake sale tradition has been going on since 1920.
Kansas: Dirt cake
A chilled concoction of instant pudding, imitation whipped cream, and crushed chocolate sandwich cookies, Kansas dirt cake is the most prominent dessert named in honor of Kansas. (I promise, I looked for other ones, but this was it.) Kansas dirt cake is not to be confused with Mississippi mud pie, which is a totally different soil-themed dessert.
Kentucky: Bread pudding
The home of bourbon deserves a bourbon-flavored state dessert, and the very best bourbon-flavored dessert is bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Granted, a bunch of Southern states (notably Louisiana) lay claim to bread pudding, but given that none of those states would be able to make decent bread pudding without bourbon, I’m giving this one to Kentucky.
Louisiana: Bananas Foster
Louisiana has an unfair number of desserts it could plausibly assert ownership of. There’s king cake, which seems too Mardi Gras — specific to represent the Creole State year round. There’s bread pudding, which I gave to Kentucky on a bourbon-related technicality. There are beignets, which are usually eaten more for breakfast or a snack than for dessert.
Then there’s bananas Foster: invented in New Orleans, adequately boozy, easy to set on fire. Both festive enough for Louisiana’s pre-Lenten revelries and simple enough to make any other time of the year. Yes, bananas Foster will do quite nicely.
Maine: Blueberry pie
Maine is the country’s leading producer of lowbush or “wild” blueberries, which tend to be smaller, brighter, and more intensely flavored than the commercially viable highbush blueberries. Predictably, Mainers won’t shut up about their blueberries, and every Mainer you meet probably has a prized wild-blueberry pie recipe to sell you on. The Maine state Legislature’s designation of blueberry pie as the official state dessert in 2011 was a foregone conclusion.
Maryland: Smith Island cake
Smith Island is a tiny community of a few hundred people on the Chesapeake Bay. When they’re not catching soft-shell crabs, Smith Islanders spend their time making absurdly exacting cakes of six to 12 layers interspersed with chocolate icing. The Smith Island Baking Company, the only bakery on Smith Island, has proclaimed itself “the #1 Dessert Company in the World,” and assuming they’re judging on a scale of arduousness, I have to agree. Even though Smith Island cakes aren’t commonly made in the rest of Maryland, they became the official state dessert in 2008 — a testament to Smith Island’s PR power (and to the paucity of other Maryland dessert specialties).
Massachusetts: Boston cream pie
The Parker House Hotel alleges that its chef invented the Boston cream pie — a sponge cake layered with pastry cream and topped with a chocolate fondant — in 1856. History blogger Tori Avey takes issue with that origin story, explaining that “cream pie” was a common 19th-century term for round cakes layered with pastry cream, that the chocolate topping came into play later, and that people only started calling this dessert “Boston cream pie” because there was already a well-known dessert called “Boston cream cake,” which was in fact not a cake but a cream puff. (Got all that?) Regardless, the name stuck, Bostonians embraced it, and no less a distinguished Massachusetts family than the Kennedys championed the dessert as a symbol of the commonwealth. Sometimes, the myth is more important than the reality; this is one of those times.
Michigan: Fudge
Anyone with milk, butter, sugar, and chocolate can make fudge. But the residents of Mackinac Island, Michigan have taken fudge to another level, building an entire tourist industry around it and claiming to have “perfected” it. Michiganders aren’t the only ones who think this: In the history and recipe book “Oh Fudge! A Celebration of America’s Favorite Candy,” author Lee Edwards Benning calls Mackinac Island both “the fudge capital of the United States” and “the fudge capital of the world.” And when “the fudge king of Mackinac Island” died in 1996, he got an obituary in the New York Times, the ultimate endorsement of the importance of one’s life’s work.
Minnesota: Seven-layer bars
Page 4 of “You Know You’re in Minnesota When …” states “a potluck isn’t a potluck without bars.” The best bars for a potluck or any other occasion are seven-layer bars, so called because they contain butter, graham cracker crumbs, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, walnuts, shredded coconut, and sweetened condensed milk, in that order.
Mississippi: Mississippi mud pie
Mississippi mud pie is a relatively dignified affair compared to its thematic cousin, Kansas dirt cake. And it’s a relatively straightforward affair compared to Boston cream pie, in that it’s actually a pie, not a cake, and it contains one or more elements that resemble mud. Depending on the baker, Mississippi mud pie might contain a chocolate crumb crust or a traditional pie crust, which might be filled with chocolate pudding or chocolate cake or brownie batter, which might be topped with whipped cream or ice cream. Two things are certain: It will contain chocolate, and it will be just about the richest thing you ever tasted.
Missouri: Gooey butter cake
Gooey butter cake is a St. Louis curiosity that seems to defy description (despite the seemingly specific nature of its name). It falls somewhere between a sheet cake and a bar: It starts with a layer of thick, extra-buttery yellow cake (doctored from a cake mix box, usually), but the gooey part comes from a filling made of cream cheese, powdered sugar, and eggs. Like most great regional specialties, it comes with a host of contradictory origin stories, all of which place its birth somewhere in the 1930s or 1940s.
This map generally takes a skeptical eye toward breakfast food, but it will make an exception for gooey butter cake: Although many sources identify it as a snack or breakfast dish, I cannot condone eating such a sweet and rich course before sunset.
Montana: S’mores
The s’more was not invented in Montana, but hear me out: Montana is one of the best hiking destinations in the country. It’s home to Glacier National Park and part of Yellowstone; its name means “mountain,” for crying out loud. And anyone who plans a hike, camping trip, or other mountain-based recreational activity without bringing graham crackers, milk chocolate, and marshmallows is a fool. QED.
Nebraska: Popcorn balls
Nebraska is the country’s leading popcorn producer, growing about one-quarter of our national supply. According to legend, popcorn balls were invented during a day of wonky Nebraska weather: First heavy rains sent syrup flowing from sorghum grass into the cornfields, then extreme heat caused the corn to pop, and finally a tornado swept the sugar-coated popcorn into clusters. Climate change makes this story seem actually kind of plausible, but the folktale gives short shrift to whoever really invented candy-coated popcorn spheres, Nebraska’s homegrown contribution to the nation’s dessert menu.
Nevada: Chocolate fondue
The Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas is home to the world’s largest chocolate fondue fountain, which is reason enough to award melted chocolate dip to this state. But the extravagance of Las Vegas isn’t the only relevant factor here: The Silver State is the most mountainous state in the country, according to the National Park Service, and its superficial resemblance to the Swiss Alps lends a nice congruency to the pairing of Nevada with this alpine treat.
New Hampshire: Whoopie pie
New Hampshire, Maine, and Pennsylvania have all claimed ownership of the whoopie pie, which raises a question: Why haven’t any of these states come up with a less cringe-y name for it? (Some people call them “gobs.” Keep working on it!)
Whoopie pies are not pies: They’re chocolate cake disks sandwiched around vanilla frosting or marshmallow fluff. And while the Pennsylvania Amish and Mainers both have strong, proprietary feelings for whoopie pies, Yankee magazine has proclaimed that the best pies are made at a bakery in the Granite State.
New Jersey: Salt water taffy
Atlantic City, New Jersey, has made a number of lasting contributions to Americana: Monopoly, the Miss America pageant, that Bruce Springsteen song and, most importantly, those color-coded candy cylinders that, despite their name, contain no salt water.
New Mexico: Bizcochito
New Mexico became the first state to adopt a state cookie in 1989, when it made things official with this traditional anise-and-orange-scented sugar biscuit. The fact that New Mexico went out of its way to declare a state cookie before anyone else did speaks to a serious-mindedness that this map would be remiss not to respect.
New York: Cheesecake
New York state is much more than New York City — but New York City’s signature dessert has acquired such mythic proportions that it overshadows the rest of the state’s sweets. In fact, New York-style cheesecake, with its impossibly tall and dense layer of cream-cheese filling, has eclipsed all other styles of cheesecake to become America’s definitive cheesecake style.
“In a city of constant ethnic flux, cheesecake is itself a constant, offering something for everyone,” wrote a New York Times reporter in 2004, and the statement still rings true today. The Big Apple has seen its share of culinary fads, but ranking the best slices of cheesecake in the city remains an ever-popular pastime.
North Carolina: Sweet potato pie
Sweet potato pie is one of those pan-Southern desserts, a mainstay of soul food with roots in slave cooking. So why does North Carolina get it, instead of, say, Georgia, Virginia, or Mississippi? Tar Heels grow more sweet potatoes than residents of any other state, which gives them dibs on the tuber’s most illustrious dish.
North Dakota: Krumkake
I must confess that I’ve never been to North Dakota, but I’m nonetheless pretty confident about my choice of krumkake as this state’s dessert. Krumkake is not a crumbcake: It’s a thin, rolled up Norwegian cookie, somewhere between a pizzelle and a waffle cone. And it’s pronounced kroom-cacka.
Here’s why I feel it’s the right choice for North Dakota: The Roughrider State’s official tourism site includes two krumkake mentions on its list of “6 ways to experience ‘home for the holidays’ in North Dakota.” A blog post by one Kaitlin Ring of Williston called “Things North Dakotans Like” lists “krumkake as one North Dakotans’ favorite ethnic foods. (“Ethnic for us is German and Norwegian,” Ring explains.) But what sealed the deal for me was a recipe for krumkake northdakotakitchen.net, presented without comment, as though the reasons for its inclusion were obvious to any North Dakotan worth her salt.
Ohio: Buckeye candy
Buckeye candy is so called for its resemblance to the nut of the buckeye, the state tree of Ohio and nickname for its residents. Like a cross between peanut butter fudge and peanut butter cups, Buckeye candies consist of a ball of sweet peanut butter dough dipped in melted chocolate. Congratulations to Ohio for producing a confection that actually looks like the thing it’s supposed to look like, and that’s delicious to boot.
Oklahoma: Fried pie
“It was an abnormally cold winter in the year 1893.” So begins the rather dramatic origin story of Oklahoma’s oldest fried pie company. The tale continues, “The different ranchers in the Arbuckle Mountains had their ranch hands go out into the midst of the inclement weather to tend to the cattle …”
Long story short, the ranchers were miserable that winter until one resourceful woman started making them fried pies. That woman’s granddaughter, Nancy Fulton, is now known as “the Fried Pie Lady,” and she has turned her inherited knowledge of fried pies — fruit-filled turnovers, basically — into a miniature empire that’s extended its tentacles into Texas and Arkansas.
Oregon: Blackberry cobbler
Blackberries grow like weeds in the Pacific Northwest, and Oregon is the top producing state. Fresh blackberries are pretty good raw, but they’re even better cooked into a sweet, buttery batter — try this gorgeous recipe.
Pennsylvania: Banana split
Thanks in part to the sugar-loving Pennsylvania Dutch, the Keystone State lays claim to loads of desserts: apple dumplings, shoofly pie, whoopie pies, etc. But the United Sweets of America can choose only one, and it’s a classic of the dessert canon. In 1904, a young soda jerk named David “Doc” Strickler halved a banana lengthwise, nestled some scoops of ice cream in between the two halves, added some whipped cream and flavored syrups, and made history in Latrobe, Pennsylvania.
If this provenance weren’t enough, the chocolate sauce that’s a required topping on all banana splits provides a nice nod to one of Pennsylvania’s most famous brands.
Rhode Island: Frozen lemonade
Rhode Island was a tough one: It boasts two iconic sweet substances, coffee milk and frozen lemonade. After a lot of reflection, I decided coffee milk qualifies primarily as a beverage, not a dessert. (It’s literally just milk sweetened with coffee-flavored syrup.) Frozen lemonade also possesses beveragelike qualities, but at the moment it’s served, this tart, granita-like slushy is thick enough to eat with a spoon, which makes it a dessert in my book. The most famous purveyor of frozen lemonade in Rhode Island is Del’s, which has been cooling palates since 1948.
South Carolina: Coconut cake
Many bakers make coconut cakes, but only one baker has trademarked the phrase “Ultimate Coconut Cake.” The creation of pastry chef Claire Chapman, the pastry chef at the Peninsula Grill in Charleston, the Ultimate Coconut Cake® has been fêted by the likes of Martha Stewart and Bobby Stewart. New York Times tastemaker Florence Fabricant describes it thusly: “Coconut-infused butter cream is slathered between six layers of golden poundcake made with coconut milk in the batter. … In Charleston, some brides are ordering it as wedding cake.” The state that has taken coconut cake to its overelaborate zenith is the state that gets coconut cake as its official state dessert.
South Dakota: Kuchen
Like North Dakota, South Dakota has a fair amount of inhabitants of German and Scandinavian extraction. Kuchen just means cake in German, and in South Dakota it can refer to a number of different types of cake, but the type recognized as the official state dessert, according to the 2011 South Dakota Legislative Manual, is “a sweet dough crust filled with custard, which is served plain or studded with fruit, such as prunes, peaches, blueberries and apples.” To get a better sense of how kuchen is made, check out these pictures from last year’s Kuchen Festival in Delmont, South Dakota, or start making reservations for this year’s festival.
Tennessee: Banana pudding
Many states — perhaps all the states — wanted banana pudding as their state sweet. The layered concoction of sliced bananas, vanilla pudding, vanilla wafers, and whipped cream is an honest-to-God American treasure. And Tennessee is the state that has developed a festival worthy of banana pudding’s charms: The National Banana Pudding Festival and Cook-Off has been running for five years in Hickman County, Tennessee. In addition to naming “the best maker of banana pudding in the United States,” the festival crowns a Miss Banana Pudding, a ritual of retrograde sexism that is forgivable only because it’s done for the greater glory of banana pudding.
Texas: Pecan pie
The pecan tree is Texas’ official state tree, the native pecan is Texas’ official state nut, and San Saba is the self-proclaimed “pecan capital of the world.” Does it surprise you that the Texas House of Representatives recently named pecan pie the official state pie? It should not. Texas has covered all its bases where it comes to pecans, and to give this Thanksgiving dessert to any other state would just be wrongheaded. (It would also probably qualify as “messing with Texas.”)
Utah: Jell-O
Utah is the only state whose dessert is the same as its meat. (Come to think of it, Jell-O is one of the only desserts that is made out of meat.) There’s a reason the so-called “Mormon Corridor” is also known as the “Jell-O Belt” — Zell-O is the most potent symbol of Latter-day Saint culture and cuisine. (Literally the most potent — remember, Mormons don’t consume coffee, tea, or alcohol.)
Vermont: Maple candy
The Pieces of Vermont store, “Your Vermont maple candy and maple wedding favors specialists,” isn’t the only place you can buy maple candy — a magical confection that is made from pure, concentrated, whipped maple syrup — but it is the most aptly named.
Virginia: Chess pie
Chess pie (the name is possibly a corruption of “chest pie” or “cheese pie”) is filled with a custard containing eggs, butter, flour, sugar, and usually cornmeal. Chess pie is awarded to Virginia because the very first written recipe for such a pie, hiding under the alias “transparent pudding,” appeared in The Virginia House-wife in 1825.
Washington: Nanaimo bars
Yes, Nanaimo bars get their name from Nanaimo, British Columbia, and they are indubitably Canadian by birth. But it’s unsurprising that these sweets, which consist of a layer of graham cracker and nut crust, a layer of pudding or buttercream frosting, and a layer of chocolate, gained popularity south of the Canadian border as well. And it was Seattle-based behemoth Starbucks, which has sold Nanaimo bars seasonally, that introduced them to the rest of America.
Washington, D.C.: Cupcakes
The cupcake craze of the early 21st century did not begin in Washington, D.C., but it ended there. Our nation’s capital is home to several independent cupcake bakeries, including Georgetown Cupcake, which rose to prominence on the TLC reality show “D.C. Cupcakes” — the program that forever linked the District of Columbia with cupcakes in the nation’s imagination. No one tell D.C. that macarons, pie, whoopie pies, and doughnuts are the new cupcake.
West Virginia: Shoofly pie
Shoofly pie is a colorful name for molasses pie. It seems to have been invented, like so many other desserts, by the Pennsylvania Dutch, but molasses is a beloved ingredient throughout Appalachia, as evidenced by the West Virginia Molasses Festival, held annually in Arnoldsburg, West Virginia, since 1967.
Wisconsin: Kringle
What is a kringle, you ask? Why, just head over to kringle.com, which tells you everything you need to know: The home page bears several photographs of the ring-shaped, fruit-filled, streudel-like pastries and a large insignia reading “Official State Pastry of Wisconsin.” Wisconsinites know that the best kringles are found in Racine County, whose Danish immigrants have made it “America’s Kringle Capital.”
Wyoming: Cowboy cookies
The connection between cowboys and cowboy cookies is unclear, unless it’s just that cowboys, like the rest of us, enjoy oatmeal cookies packed with chocolate chips, pecans, and coconut. Regardless, as the state with the most enduring cowboy cred, Wyoming gets cowboy cookies.
 
Except for guess what.  You watch.  Now that it’s out here, they’ll ruin it.  Somebody will see this perfect, star spangled dessert list and just have to mess with hit.  Some dopey Fanati-evangelist will probably take issue with all this, and very soon, I expect to see some lawmakers from Tennessee, or Mississippi, or North Carolina, or some such state will change their perfectly fine dessert choices and replace with something like “Christian Cake” or “God’s Pudding” (so wrong, on so many levels) or “Baptist Bundt Betty” or something like that.
 
Just as long as there’s no Devil’s Food Cake on the list.  Sorry, but I had to go there….