But we like to think that Houston’s appeal to tabula rasa types comes from a deeper place: our faith in the notion that no dream’s too crazy, and that the only sin is quitting before you achieve it. From that day to this, people who care about such things have consistently called us the best town in the country in which to start over (for all the familiar reasons: low cost of living, favorable climate for small businesses and job-seekers, etc.). Houston owes its existence to Augustus and John Kirby Allen, a pair of land speculators with the temerity to reinvent a swamp as a city, which is to say a math professor and a bellhop with the temerity to reinvent themselves as land speculators. In order to better display Jane Russell’s assets in his film The Outlaw, Howard Jr. Howard Hughes, Jr.-best known as a movie producer, aviation pioneer, and eccentric-inherited his father’s talent for innovation. And while most of our inventive brainpower has probably been directed at the oil patch, sometimes we’re more whimsical than practical. invented the drill bit that punched the post-Spindletop oil boom into overdrive. In an earlier instance of visionary inspiration, Howard Hughes, Sr. Allen had already made a fortune inventing tools for the oil business, but it’s the Screwpull that’s in the Museum of Modern Art (and sold in their gift shop). Thus, when Herbert Allen’s wife had trouble with a traditional corkscrew, he invented the Screwpull, which, three and a half decades later, remains the most elegant way to extract a cork from a wine bottle. Why did George Ballas create the Weed Eater? Simple: when Houstonians can’t find the right tool for the job, they invent it. What the hell? It made her wonder-when was the last time she’d made eye contact with a stranger? Had a random conversation? Flashed an open grin for no reason? It had been ages. How had she not noticed it before? Nobody in New York smiles at you when she walks out of the restroom, no one chats you up while waiting in line with you. Then, one snowy night, she happened upon a bar, and while standing in line for the restroom, realized something. Such dreams filled her with a longing that surprised her. She found herself dreaming about miles of open road swishing by her as she sped out of town to San Antonio, a few cattle her only witness. She got an apartment so high in the sky she could no longer hear the rain it made her desperate for the sound and oddly sad. Take a Houstonian we know who had the gall to move to New York. Sometimes, you only miss something once it’s gone. Isn’t it high time we celebrated the great natural resource that is our people-in all their eccentric humanity? Shouldn’t we be proud of that peculiar mix of brash, brainy, ethnically omnivorous, cheap and more that appears to have made us uniquely qualified for life in the 21st century? Herewith, the secrets to our success, along with myriad treasures they’ve given rise to. (We counted 250, but math isn’t editorial’s strong point. Also without them, we wouldn’t have these hundreds of reasons to love this town. Without them, we’d be just Philadelphians with humidity, Los Angelenos with mosquitos, Dallasites with sense. A unique combination of attributes-casts of mind, quirks, if you will-makes us US. Houstonians are exactly like everyone else in this great nation of ours, except in a few key respects. Are we really that special? We’d argue in the affirmative. The charm of Houston and the secret to its appeal is-us. But if there’s one thing the last few years have taught us, it’s that Houston possesses one thing no other city does, something more precious than 200-year-old townhouses or year-round balmy temperatures: Houstonians. Sure, other cities have more natural beauty, more illustrious histories, or better weather. You live in Houston, where wallowing in despair is as unthinkable as pedestrians in August, and no problem’s so terrible it can’t be fixed with another idea, another lane on the freeway, another margarita.
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