1. 911 audio — April 7, 2023 OU swatting case Your browser does not support the audio element. Courtesy of Norman Police Department

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Colton Sulley, assistant sports editor

After snapping a four-game losing streak, the Sooners are looking for a late-February win streak to springboard back into the NCAA Tournament conversation.

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Oklahoma has rarely found itself in the vanguard of antipoverty thinking, but the class to which the two women were heading embodies a vigorous new idea—something known locally, and archly, as “the marriage cure.” Traditionally, singleness has been viewed as a symptom of poverty. Today, however, a politically heterodox cadre of academics is arguing that singleness—and, particularly, single parenthood—is one of poverty’s primary causes, for which matrimony might be a plausible tonic. For the past few years, the state of Oklahoma has been converting this premise into policy. In an initiative praised by the Bush Administration, which aims to seed marriage-promotion programs nationwide, the state has deputized public-relations firms, community leaders, and preachers (among them the pastor at Holy Temple Baptist Church) to take matrimony’s benefits to the people. Last summer, that marriage drive reached Sooner Haven. “Come learn about relationships!” said the recruiter who knocked on the housing project’s beat-up doors.

ne July morning last year in Oklahoma City, in a public-housing project named Sooner Haven, twenty-two-year-old Kim Henderson pulled a pair of low-rider jeans over a high-rising gold lamé thong and declared herself ready for church.

Perhaps best of all, from Fizzle’s perspective, anyway, he would become a breeding rooster. Life in the country, it seems, has its upside.

Turning them into dinner does not seem to be popular, sustainability benefits aside. In

So the question becomes: How to get rid of them?

where a tour highlighting the best in backyard avian architecture—think coops with eco-roofs and heated floors—attracted more than 600 people last year)

Questions of sustainability and food provenance and, to a lesser extent, fears about economic instability have motivated folks in more and more cities—places like Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Fort Collins, Colorado—to install chicken coops in their backyards, in the hope of reaping fresh eggs, free fertilizer, and organic pest control. Of course, introducing all these chickens into cities has had unanticipated consequences, flashes of red tooth and claw that interrupt bucolic fantasy: family pets gobbling up chickens; chickens gobbling up lead-based paint chips. But all this is nothing compared to the mysteries of chicken sexing.

Time was running out for Fizzle the rooster.

On June 9, just before noon, a group of young men entered the Foot Locker in Bushwick. A different manager, Jay Barns, 20, greeted them, and they asked him to bring out several pairs of shoes to try on. “Ten or 15 people,” he said. He was suspicious and told them he didn’t have those sizes.

The one-shoe policy.

Once upon a time, stealing a pair of sneakers was a play in two acts: 1) try on sneakers, and then 2) run away.

How did it come to this? The Bushwick thieves cannot even claim to have invented the scheme; accounts of similar thefts have turned up as far away as Denmark and Sweden. For a complete history of the sneaker, one need only visit the nearby Brooklyn Museum, where the exhibit “The Rise of Sneaker Culture” opened Friday. But the clerks of Bushwick tell of more recent patterns in their stores.

She scrolls, she waits. For that little notification box to appear.

On the morning of her 14th birthday, Katherine wakes up to an alarm ringing on her phone. It’s 6:30 a.m. She rolls over and shuts it off in the dark.

Her scooter sat in the garage, covered in dust. Her stuffed animals were passed down to Lila. The wooden playground in the back yard stood empty. She kept her skateboard with neon yellow wheels, because riding it is still cool to her friends.

Her feet are kicked up onto a coffee table, and her mom’s old MacBook is on her stomach. She’s working on her capstone project, a 12-page essay and presentation on a topic of her choice. At the beginning of the year, she chose “Photoshop and the media,” an examination of how women are portrayed in magazines.

One afternoon, Katherine accidentally leaves her phone in her dad’s car. She shouldn’t need it while she does her homework, but she reaches for it, momentarily forgetting it’s not next to her on the U-shaped couch.

“It kind of, almost, promotes you as a good person. If someone says, ‘tbh you’re nice and pretty,’ that kind of, like, validates you in the comments. Then people can look at it and say ‘Oh, she’s nice and pretty.’ ”

He clicks on the car’s satellite radio and changes the channel from “60s on 6” to “Hits 1,” the station he thinks Katherine and Lila like. It’s playing Justin Bieber. He pulls out of the driveway and glances over at the passenger seat. Katherine is looking out the window, headphones on.

Nothing her dad could find on her phone shows that for as good as Katherine is at math, basketball and singing, she wants to get better at her phone. To be one of the girls who knows what to post, how to caption it, when to like, what to comment.

He says that a lot. He’s a 56-year-old corporate lawyer who doesn’t know how to upload photos to his Facebook page. When he was 13, he lived only two miles away. He didn’t have a cellphone, of course, and home phones were reserved for adults. When he wanted to talk to his friends, he rode his bike to their houses. His parents expected him to play outside all day and be back by dinnertime.

Lila can’t find her tap shoes, Rachel is sick, the dogs are waiting for breakfast, and Katherine is heading straight to the garage.

on a cloudy Thursday in March

The breast cancer appeared right after Katherine was born. It went away, then came back when Katherine was in third grade. In fifth grade, Alicia and Dave bought Katherine a cellphone, in case things took a turn. She was one of the first in her class to own one.

“It kind of, almost, promotes you as a good person. If someone says, ‘tbh you’re nice and pretty,’ that kind of like, validates you in the comments. Then people can look at it and say ‘Oh, she’s nice and pretty.’”

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Right now, Katherine is still looking down.

Somewhere, maybe at this very moment, neurologists are trying to figure out what all this screen time is doing to the still-forming brains of people Katherine’s age, members of what’s known as Generation Z. Educators are trying to teach them that not all answers are Googleable. Counselors are prying them out of Internet addictions. Parents are trying to catch up by friending their kids on Facebook. (P.S. Facebook is obsolete.) Sociologists, advertisers, stock market analysts – everyone wants to know what happens when the generation born glued to screens has to look up and interact with the world.

She’s on it while her 8-year-old sister, Lila, is building crafts out of beads.

She doesn’t respond, her thumb on Instagram. A Barbara Walters meme is on the screen. She scrolls, and another meme appears. Then another meme, and she closes the app. She opens BuzzFeed. There’s a story about Florida Gov. Rick Scott, which she scrolls past to get to a story about Janet Jackson, then “28 Things You’ll Understand If You’re Both British and American.” She closes it. She opens Instagram. She opens the NBA app. She shuts the screen off. She turns it back on. She opens Spotify. Opens Fitbit. She has 7,427 steps. Opens Instagram again. Opens Snapchat. She watches a sparkly rainbow flow from her friend’s mouth. She watches a YouTube star make pouty faces at the camera. She watches a tutorial on nail art. She feels the bump of the driveway and looks up. They’re home. Twelve minutes have passed.