Shortly I'll be on a plane bound for Texas, where I'll be attending this guy's wedding, and I couldn't be more thrilled for him and his wonderful bride. While I'm home, I'm getting fitted for a tux for my brother's wedding (!), recharging for a couple days in Austin, and writing up a few Dallas gallery shows: "Senshuct" at Light & Sie, Margo Sawyer at Holly Johnson, and "New Texas Talent XV" at Craighead Green.
Back next week. Surely this wide world web is enough to keep you company, but if you're interested, here's a short item I wrote for the Dallas Morning News on recent acquisitions at the Dallas Museum of Art.
This news from Austin, on the other hand, is much better: The Met is loaning 28 sculptures to the University of Texas on a long-term basis. The NYT has more. The modern and comtemporary pieces will appear around the campus, inside some buildings, and in Bass Concert Hall—just in time for that building's renovation.
Bass Concert Hall
In today's Dallas Morning News I have a story on the Vogels' "Fifty Works for Fifty States" gift. In the article I explain in some detail what Texas will receive—the list's only recently been made available to press (and to the museums).
Jen Graves in the Stranger has some posts about the gift that Washington (state) received.
It's not often that the Concho Valley region makes national news—better that it hadn't. San Angelo is home to many generations of (monogamous) Capps families.
Homeward bound today. Catch up on some Southby blogging if you miss me.
I understand that when I buy things at the grocery store, graphs at universities in fifty states erupt in a fit of activity, as demand curves race to intersect with supply lines. But my knowledge of the hows and whys of this arcane phenomenon is extremely limited. My economist friends will tell you that they've enjoyed a meal ticket whenever I've needed to understand things like derivatives markets. Beyond the smattering of economic facts I've gleaned from these friends over dinner (for example, I know that this constitutes an exchange of goods for services), I'm the last person that any voter should consult when it comes to assessing a candidate's financial principles.
But when the voter's a member of the immediate family, it's a different matter. As the son who lives in the Nation's Capital, my parents depend on me to parse the debates that they see on the news. Well, that's not quite right—typically they depend on me to yell at them for being gullible when they read me slanderous news accounts from e-mail forwarded by my aunt. This week, though, I've played political consultant, fielding questions left and right (and about left and right) concerning the candidates and their positions as my parents' interest in the topic reaches its winter solstice.
For the most part I merely try not to raise my voice when I'm explaining that B. Hussein Obama isn't a Wahhabist terrorist. You'd think that Google would be able to answer all these questions, but the forwarded emails are smarter than that; one that I fielded recently suggested that the intel had been vetted via snopes.com—where you'll in fact learn that Obama was not sworn in on a "Kuran," should you bother to check after you've been assured you don't need to.
This isn't to say that my folks are rubes—just like everyone else, their understanding of the issues is predicated upon their media consumption habits. They just don't consume a whole lot of media about politics, and the information they do receive comes from unreliable sources.
Yesterday, though, I found myself debating a substantive issue with my mother, who (along with my dad) tends to vote on values issues. She approves Obama, for all the dirt she's received about him, but she thinks she should stick with the candidates she's more comfortable with: Mike Huckabee. Southerner, Republican, former governor, Baptist, rarely associated with Wahhabism. The issue that places her firmly in Huckabee's camps is his proposal to eradicate income tax and establish a (what is it? Thirty-odd percent?) national sales tax.
That strikes Mom as eminently fair, even though it's not in her best economic interests (folks are both retired). In response I decided to go for the nuclear option and explained, authoritatively, that Huckabee's plan amounted to regressive taxation. Far from impressed, however, my mother didn't know what I was talking about. Neither did I, I realized.
How do you explain, without using words like "Rawlsian" or reading aloud from Brad DeLong's archives, that flat tax plans that seem so simple and fair in fact shift the economic burden from rich to poor? Another word that isn't so self-evidently clear as I'd long believed: "burden". I stammered on for a spell about pies and proportions, arguing that in life, some people are delivered small personal pan pizzas whereas the lucky get the extra-large meat lover's. It went downhill from there:
Mom: But it's fair if everyone's giving up the same percentage of pizza!I passed the question along to my political-journalist betters, but I ask you: Is there an easier analogy I'm missing, some clearer and cleverer rhetorical path to progressive indoctrination?
Me: But then poor people don't have enough slices left to meet their basic pizza needs!
UPDATE: I don't know that Mom will thank me for it, but I am getting a lot of responses. A few heavyweight economists responded to a bleg on the cabalistic journalists' email network (no, really, it exists; I believe Ezra Klein is the admin), one saying that rich people don't spend, so under a fair tax unemployment rises. Julian Sanchez wrote me with a wealth of devil's advocacy. And Yglesias offers a good point and illustrates it with a detestable celebrity.
Far be it from me to defend the death penalty as it's practiced today, but I'm frustrated by today's New York Times article on capital punishment in the state of Texas. The Times reports:
This year's death penalty bombshells — a de facto national moratorium, a state abolition and the smallest number of executions in more than a decade — have masked what may be the most significant and lasting development. For the first time in the modern history of the death penalty, more than 60 percent of all American executions took place in Texas.In fact nothing has changed about the rate or the application of the death penalty in Texas, except that they slowed somewhat. So what's the development? Nor is it honest or edifying to hang the whole article on that 60 percent figure—which is jarring, even blindly horrifying, but not meaningful without controlling for state population and murder statistics.
There are vastly many more people in Texas than in any of its peer states that assign capital punishment. There are vastly many more murders in Texas than in any of its peer states that assign capital punishment. Comparing the number of executions in Texas with the number in South Dakota dramatically understates the fact. Death penalty rates are better for comparison's sake.
A study performed by Cornell University in 2004 found that Texas assigns the death penalty at a rate lower than the national average (2 percent versus 2.5 percent). The most death penalty-prone states were not Texas or Florida, but rather Oklahoma (6 percent) and Nevada (5.1 percent). In part this rate disparity owes to Texas's sentencing standards. In order for the death penalty to be assigned, a crime must meet certain objective criteria (scroll down). For example, when a police officer or firefighter is murdered, when a child under age 6 is murdered, or in the case of multiple murders. Subjective criteria—the "heinousness" of a crime, for example—are not considered. Texas's sentencing standards are those that tend to find sympathy among even moderate opponents of the death penalty.
The speed with which the state carries out capital punishment, however, finds no quarter among sensible observers. Both the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals and the Texas Fifth Circuit are prosecutorially oriented; a state prosecutor explained to me today that there are no is only one defense lawyer serving on the Court of Criminal Appeals. The speed of the system is aggressive, as critics point out, and is certainly out of step with the current national mood. (Indicators of which include the so-called national moratorium—although it is no such thing. The Supreme Court has merely stayed every execution by way of lethal injection that has come across its desk. A formal SCOTUS moratorium would have delayed the hasty execution of Michael Richard; the "de facto" moratorium did not.)
The Times: "The death penalty developments that have dominated the news in recent months are unlikely to have anything like the enduring consequences of Texas' vigorous commitment to capital punishment." True for the convicts put to death, of course; true for the families of their victims, I would imagine. In other respects, this is a dramatic statement. The state's execution of executions is impressive and awful, the product of a pervasive political problem that inflects the justice system. Its devotion to the death penalty, however, is truly average.
I'm leaving tomorrow for Texas, where I'll celebrate Christmas by trekking to San Angelo and then to San Antone to visit with relatives. When I'm not on the road, I'll be with my family in sleepy Post Oak Bend (population: 432). Don't know whether I'm looking at radio silence over the duration (hope not), but I expect that communication will be spotty. Even the mail is slow in POB. Email away, though, and I'll get back to you.
Back in a week! Happy holidays.
"People think we're inventing Texas, I'm sure, but we're not."
A fellow Texan referring to Lockhart, Texas, which Kevin Drum has declared reason enough to attend 2008's Netroots Nation (née YearlyKos) in Austin, Texas. Lord knows that I was sent to spread the message—and I'm up for lunch every day at Kreutz any week of the year—so count me in.
It's too embarrassing to talk about the complete meltdown that is Michigan's season only two games in, so let's all just look away and leave it at that. Except, it has to be said: This talk about firing Lloyd Carr is premature. Things are going so badly for Michigan that it wouldn't even help. The offense is executing poorly, the defense is playing without a playbook, and the whole team is operating under some wicked magical hex. But two games ago, they were ranked 5, and they didn't lose twice because they were outcoached. Otherwise, it's a calm week in the NCAA, especially if you don't particularly care about the outcome of the Notre Dame–Penn State matchup.
But tonight! It's the first Longhorns game this Texpatriate will get to watch on the big screen. And after talking with people who saw last week's game, my expectations about our chances against Texas Christian are appropriately diminished. Colt McCoy will really have to step up early with some plays that inspire the defense to keep #21 TCU from converting. (Every Texas fan knows the curious truth that it's the offense that has to provide the defense with opportunities to shine.) If he doesn't, TCU is without a doubt a team that can walk away with a win. I'm with the Star Telegram: TCU should be playing in the Big 12. (I'd love to switch out Baylor for a team that has a hope of playing competitively from time to time.)
Over in College Station, the Aggies are playing this week minus Reveille; the Aggie mascot was grounded after she bit her handlers. (Bitch.) It's frankly a bad sign for the Aggs that the team didn't have those handlers executed on the spot—they're showing a lack of resolve. And why isn't the Bryan–College Station Eagle reporting this story? Apparently, they have more pressing news to cover.
Even after spending a c-note on the cable college game-day package, this Texpatriate still couldn't watch the Horns play their season opener. Not from the comfort of my own home, not from any of the local bars. Every fall, I'm reminded that I'm a stranger in a strange land.
I'm also reminded that it's fall and college football is back. Right. On. Now, would that I'd actually seen the Texas game, I'd've kept my eye on the defense. I'm anxious to see how how defensive co-coordinator Duane Akina manages the new blitz-centric defense while also debuting three new starters in the secondary. The defenese needed more than a tune-up—they needed a test drive. By the numbers, it was a bumpy ride; Arkansas State led Texas in passing, rushing, and total yards—basically, everything but the final score. Numbers don't always tell the whole story, but today's story sure sounds sounds familiar: A shaky secondary allowed an undeserving offense to establish the passing game and maintain possession of the ball.
Still a win, though. Hook 'em!
Elsewhere: Michigan lost! To Appalachian State! Picture that horde of hill folk, all crazed eyes and recessive traits, run amok in Ann Arbor, the tune from Deliverance hanging on the air. Squeal like a pig, Chad Henne! I love this game.
A day in which there are sheep in the news is a day wasted spent e-mailing friends and family in Texas in the hopes of coming up with the best Aggie joke. Human–sheep chimeras? Good lord, at least make it a challenge.
Related: What passes for 'cue in College Station.
From one of Spencer's recent dispatches from Iraq:
For some reason, there's a bunch of kids who are able to run around the outskirts of the Camp Liberty grounds. It's pretty crummy for them, as there's not much to play with but dust and sticks, but they seem to like it. Excitedly, they jump to attention when the Humvees pass by . . . and deliver the devil's horns to the soldiers. I had no idea what to make of this. Are they cursing the troops with smiles on their faces? Is this how Iraqis deliver the v-for-victory? The gunner today set me straight: a Texan in the previously deployed MP company made it his mission to teach the kids how to throw up the Hook Em Horns.Yeah, we're all like this.
On my next trip to Dallas I'm taking a brief sidebar vacation down to Austin to splash around in the river and play in the sunshine. Turns out, the Texas Biennial will be in full swing by the time I'm in town. Sounds great—so long as the Texas Biennial is serving margaritas, I'll drag my flipflopped feet to the galleries. (Confidential to TXBi: Could you throw some HTML at this list of artists? Some linkage, something?)
TXBi is showing at stops like Okay Mountain and Bolm Studios, which led me to wonder what the Austin Museum of Art was exhibiting. "The Paper Sculpture Show"—organized by Cabinet, Independent Curators International (iCI), and the Sculpture Center—is not terribly disappointing: "the viewer/reader is invited to assemble three-dimensional sculptures from flat pages designed by 29 established and emerging contemporary artists." Why you'd want to see these in a museum when you can buy The Paper Sculpture Book and DIY, I don't know.
Check out Austin-based, friends-of-friends, Google-proof artists Pink Nasty and her brother, Black Nasty. If you don't like Pink Nasty's cover of "May It Always Be" by Bonnie Prince Billy, you may still not like Black Nasty's "Gimme Your Butt"—but you will have listened to two new songs.
Rachel Cook and the GlassTire staff run down the best and worst in the Texas art scene for 2006. One of those writers is Christopher French, whose paintings are represented here in the District by Marsha Mateyka. Another GT writer gives a nod to Jenny Schlief, whose work I saw and liked in Houston a few visits ago.
(Fierce Austin nostalgia wave taking hold; bear with me until it passes.)
Vince Young just became the first NFL quarterback in the modern era to gain more than 500 yards rushing in the regular season.
UPDATE: I catastrophically misheard the commentary, but I swear that's what he said. Young set a clubhouse record, narrowly construed, but I know that's not what he said, either. Mm. Merry Christmas! Look over here!
Did I mention that I'm in Texas? Far from the District, and its swirling media scandals.
Today, someone rang the doorbell. I'd expect that unsolicited visitors don't come frequently through Post Oak Bend (pop. 432), but there stood at the door a woman bearing packages. Not gifts, but the mail. The town is so small (the town is so small, it's not in fact a town), the U.S. Postal Service won't service it—the lady was a vendor whom POB residents pay to deliver letters. I assume no one here pays any taxes or has much use for services they can't themselves provide; what they could use (and I speak from personal need) is a saloon.
Raymond Uhlir, Verdant Valley Hara-Kiri, 2006.
Raymond Uhlir opens his second solo show, "Fore Fathers," at Deborah Colton in Houston tonight. Glass Tire recommends you check him out, and so do I.
Notes on his first show/ Game Cube Nintendo/ Five percent tint so you can't see up in his window.
Hook 'em Horns woo! Tonight the Texas offense will be too explosive for the Buckeye defense to mount any serious resistance; after three quarters facing the punishing Longhorn O-line, Ohio State's D is going to just crumble. I bet we score mostly on possessions late in the game. There's no doubt that Ohio State will score big, and early, but our defense is stingy—we'll come out on top.
Now, if Comcast would kindly send a service technician out to fix whatever's wrong with my cable, I'd be set.
Art Fag City on the opening of Michael Gondry's The Science of Sleep at Deitch Projects:
AFC had the good fortune of sharing the line with most of last years rejects from the failed Deitch sponsored reality show Art Star* a fate only marginally removed from hell. Flanked by an artist with clown red hair and a tattoo that read “I am living art”, it didn’t take long before the words “this is for suckers” passed through my lips. And you know, thank God that thought occurred to me, because when I walked to the entrance to try and get a better look at how the line was moving, I saw that the gallery was only letting five to seven people at time into a sparsely populated gallery. Needless to say, I did not make it into the show and no Gondry spottings were made. I did however manage to take these crappy ass photographs of the cardboard car in the window display, and document the four gallery goers inside the space. Oh yes, it was an evening of great tidings to be sure.Such lines (and, well, bullshit) aren't to be found at the many District openings taking place this weekend. But I won't be having any of it, anyway—not because I'm finally saying no to lukewarm white wine or have exhausted all my excuses for why I'm still out of business cards. No, art nerds, on Saturday night I'll be attending a much more exclusive and critical engagement—my home screening of the Texas–Ohio State game, the most critical game of the regular season along the Longhorns' path to repeat national titles. More on that later.* The gallery notably insists on labeling this piece of shit a documentary.
Though I won't be in attendance, I did want to especially recommend that people with the will and the way stop by G Fine Art on Saturday night to support a fundraiser for Street Scenes: Projects for DC. The first wave of this yearlong series of art interventions is a project called "Art Not Ads," which promises "mobile billboards that will drive around the Washington area displaying poetry, paintings and video." Price of gas being what it is, no doubt they could use the boost.
To be certain, there are some question marks over this series. Several artists have complained about sudden and seemingly arbitrary deadlines, organizational confusion, and lapses in communication. The Web site redirects to last year's "Found Sound" exhibit. But I also know that the work is well on its way, if not mostly completed. And anyway, the list of participating artists is excelsior—Sherman Alexie, Colby Caldwell, Lucille Clifton, Kathryn Cornelius, Joy Harjo, June Jordan, Maggie Michael, E. Ethelbert Miller, Brandon Morse, Jose Ruiz, Kim Schoenstadt, Reetika Vazirani, and Ian Whitmore. The curators (Nora Halpern, Ehtelbert Miller, and Welmoed Laanstra) and organizers (Lisa Kolker and Derya Samadi) should be commended for putting together a street team that doesn't rely on artists typically associated with public art. I'll buy it—this could be interesting.
So here's the deal: I'm going to save the money I intended to gamble on Texas and put it toward Street Scenes (and no, damnit, that's not for lack of faith in the 'Horns!). I'm pledging $50. If someone pledges money in comments, I'll match it (up to, say, another $50). With the cheerleader-in-chief taking up residence elsewhere, someone has to step up with the rah-rah. Therefore: Rah-rah. Give them your money, and I will as well. And hook 'em!
Hello, blog (Hello, hello.)
How'd things go for you today?
Don't you miss me?
How I used to type away?
And I'll bet you dread to spend another postless night with me,
But lonely blog, I'll keep you company.
Hello, window (Hello, hello.)
Well, I see that you're still here.
Aren't you lonely,
Since our entries disappeared?
Well look here, is that a teardrop in the corner of your screen?*
Now don't you try to tell me that it's rain.*
I know too many cogs in the Chris Bell machine back home, and many more tinkerers here who are monitoring Bell's progress, to not feel guilty about the yelp of satisfaction I gave when I heard Kinky made the gubernatorial ballot. Give 'em hell, Kinky! But then loose narrowly to the Democratic candidate!
You know what was awesome? The Rose Bowl!
Hoisted by/falling on Brendan after Vince Young's game-winning touchdown in the fourth.
Reid needs you to throw them horns up.
Fourth quarter wasn't easy, no doubt.
A look at the teeming masses that took to the streets.
Some shots courtesy of Matty, who would no doubt want me to caveat that he hasn't edited his pics, blah blah blah whatever hook 'em!!1!
Okay, time for weekend. Sorry I've been such a bad blogger this week, but I'm still shaking off vacation. I'm catching up on a lot of art this weekend and you'll hear about it here.
Woke up this morning to find that it's still true: Texas. Won. The Rose Bowl. Also not a dream: the mysterious gash on my thumb, which I think is a burn that I self-inflicted (?) some time very early Thursday. Neither was the cell-phone madness a duplicitous collaboration between my imagination and call log (sorry about that, guys). I shed blood and cell-phone minutes, but elsewhere my friend Hardigree actually took a punch to the stomach from one extremely poor-humored Trojan fan.
Much improved between yesterday and today is the gyroscopic motion of the universe. On Wednesday I lost physical orientation at some point halfway through the fourth quarter, around the same time I was arm over shoulder with a dude wearing ass-long hair and a Neurosis tee who'd been bragging annoyingly from the table next to ours about how he'd never watched a Texas game all the way through. (Why in the world was he at the Tavern?) Strange bedfellows, as they say.
This site is now a blog about the Rose Bowl, if that isn't perfectly obvious. Note the poorly placed apostrophe in "GIG 'EM HORNS."
Oh man, those last six minutes . . . intense. Three quarters of the way into thousands of dollars in drink tabs is not the time to induce a collective, bar-wide panic. When the Texas D made the big stop that returned the ball to Vince Younga stop by strong safety Michael Huff, who called his own audible, adding himself to the six guys designated to blitz inside at LenDale Whitethe entire bar jumped to their feet, and no one sat down again. Funny how inadvisable amounts of alcohol emphasizes and encuorages the worst nervous ticksnail-biters gnawing at their knuckles, people who nervously drum their legs running in place.
Sure, it certainly looked like a fait accompli after that stop. And it's hard to say why Pete Carroll thought it was reasonable to keep a tight deep-pass defense when Young hadn't hit up Sneed or anyone else for more than 20 yards all night. No QB spy? I understand what Pats fans were complaining about. But I'm not sure that anything could have stopped Vince Young on that 4th and 5.
When we won, when Young proved his mettle and put a stop to the Troy-fecta, of course Austin dissolved into complete madness; we marched to the campus and did like you'd expect, singing, climbing on things, honking horns, smashing our heads against one another's, hugging total strangers. It's all very cliche on television but no! the gods, they demand it, and it's infinitely more fun and necessary when it's Texas that's won the game.
So I'm dying to know whether the Once and Future Quarterback sticks around for another yearI think it would be fantastic but maybe pointless, since he's never really going to develop to NFL-appropriate status with his sidearm. I'm dedicated to following whatever team picks up Michael Huff. God, what an amazing game, season, and team. I am now ready to join the proud ranks of crotchety old men, because you don't know shit for football, young man, so let me tell you about them ought-five 'Horns. . . .
Holy shit, the over/under for the Rose Bowl is 69 1/2. I'm going to throw up, this game is going to be so amazing. I still think that's a high number but I'll be more than pleased to see a 3821 or 4521 Texas victory. Now, Reggie Bush is very good, and Kevin Drum's a nice guyno one's tempting fate over herebut we're going to kick their asses. Now, time for Shiner.
It's a strange twilight here in Austin, Texas. Late into last night our expedition group could be found in the bowels of the University of Texas Life Sciences Librarythe library directly under the UT Towerlooking for treasure. The ultimate treasure. The National Treasure of Texas: the Rose Bowl. The site of Texas's ascendancy. Or, for our purposes, the best place to watch it live.
"It's no use!" cried Matty, brushing aside a stack of old scrolls and blueprints. The team's television surface-area logistics expert was sweating in sheets. "We'll never find a site with enough screens!"
"Silence!" Danny's voice boomed throughout the cavern-like space of LSL. "Patience will reveal the path." His eyes flashed wildly; Danny, a member of the Ilonghornati, ran his hands through his hair, flashing for a brief moment the seal of the Longhorn tattooed across his brow. He was sooo drunk that night he got that thing. As a member of the ancient spirit sect, Danny has awaited the return of the Longhorns since, well, they won in '69, I guess, which wasn't so long ago, but whatever, hook 'em.
Brendan, the group's getaway driver, stood smoking in a corner. That was Brendansilent but deadly.
"Look," I say, my telegenic jawline revealing a level of stubble suitable for facing imminent danger, "we need a site"
"Dude, did you just characterize me as a fart?" interrupted Brendan.
"never mind that now! We have no time! We have to find the bar that matches all the clues. We need to maximize the total inches of TV width and highest concentration of cute waitresses while minimizing beer prices and distance to campus. From the bar we'll take a bus toward campusthe school, get off, and tip it over ourselvesthe national championship calls for blood. Yes, gentlemen . . . we go to . . . [torch flickers; Brendan mumbling] . . . the Tavern."
* * * * *
Here's my prediction: Texas, 31; University of Spoiled Children, 21. On SUC's side that's three touchdowns by Reggie Bushthat many and no more. Holding him to three may not mean stopping him, but that is containing him. For Texas I'm calling one running TD (by Jamaal Charles, I bet, now that he's healthy, but it could be anyone from Texas's running committee), one TD either by special teams or defense, and two by Vince Young. Southern Cal looks weak on the corners and Texas is going to exploit that all night long.
On the peripherals, I bet Leinart throws an INT and so does Young. I think it's crucial that the Youngs (Vince and Selvin) get through this game without putting the the ball on the groundfor one thing, because USC will exploit the fumble, and for another, because USC isn't strong enough defensively to force the fumble, meaning that those turnovers are all on Texas's nerves. So: no fumbles for Texas (and no fumbles for USC, either). And just for icing on the cake, at least one sack by UT's #7, Michael Huff. Huff's going to rattle Leinart's cage from the secondary.
Most importantly: Mack Brown is playing to win. No conservative playcalling, no reading his mind, no playing to get through or get over or get out.
You know what to do, folkshook 'em horns!
Howdy! Feels as if I should be saying "Aloha!" since I've been wearing sandals and short-sleeves since I arrived in the sunny ATX. Or maybe "Holy-shit-fantastic!" since I can hardly describe how great it is to be home again. Like the man said, it feels so good, feelin' good again.
And it feels so good to be back in Austin. It's not just college nostalgia that draws me to this town. That's a powerful magnet, a force tempered by the fact that when I get together with my old buddies, we quickly revert to college freshmen—guzzling down Shiner by the gallon and giving one another purple nurples (a shock-and-awe twist attack targeted at the nipple) at every unsuspecting moment. And siren song that the purple nurple may be for every young professional male struggling with business cards and blazers, it's not devastating nipple violence that draws me back.
Take New Year's Day. We ambled over to the Chili Parlor for a hangover treatment (cheese enchiladas, smothered high with jalapenos and XXX-level chili), where my friend Red John tells us about a hobby he's picked up from his college-aged sister. It's called letterboxing, and it's a scavenger hunt in which you follow clues to find hidden boxes containing specialized ink stamps. You collect these stamps but also leave your own behind in the letterbox's journal, so there's a treasure-collecting dimension to the game. Imagine Indiana Jones, were he a notary public by trade. So we're climbing all over Chili Parlor to solve a puzzle, decoding old country lyrics and dusting signs for prints and the like, since there was a letterbox nearby (this game is played everywhere, apparently).
Left there for Barton Springs, where we played Tarrou by the water. Tarrou's a card game played on something like a regular deck combined with a tarot deck. OK, the city's gotten a little froggier since I left it, but I'm a real sucker for cardgames and had a blast. From there: hair of the dog and some dancing downtown, where we saw our waitress from the Chili Parlor getting down to a Television/Cure 80s set. (Later, we flicked on the TV to be greeted by her on A&E's excellent new series about the Austin Rollergirls; Chili Parlor was none other than Venis Envy, one of the documentary's stars. Lunch = hotter in hindsight.)
Spending two-thirds of the day in the sun, either driving around town or sitting on a beer-garden porch or swimming (in January), you really see it in Austin—the pinks, limes, teals, golds, torquoises, and burnt orange that make up the color scheme of every enchilada emporium; the Christmas lights strung at the drop of a hat over any freestanding structure; the tacquerias, the cacti; the old Texas typefaces on the saloon signs. And Austin at sunset! You can't beat this place.
Improbably. . . impossibly!G.p is the number-one Google return for "anti Texas Longhorn". I really don't want to talk about it.
And you! You bastards looking for Trojan agitprop! FUSC!
. . . even if it wasn't pretty. All I could think while I was watching the game was how extraordinarily comforting I found it to know that USC does not run the option. That's the play that allowed Aggie redshirt backup Stephen McGeeplaying his first touch in his college careerto throw off Texas and put first-quadrant numbers against the Texas defense. The option! What Rodrique Wright was doing before he swatted the ball from McGee in the fourth quarter to force the turnover, I can't say, but he should have been closing down that option and making Mr. McGee take to the air. Because there's simply no way that a redshirt freshman can pick apart Michael Huff and the Texas secondary.
Say that we didn't show up to this game, but in fact we showed up too thoroughlyI think Texas was looking at an A&M team and seeing a W, not a hungry team with nothing left to lose, looking at lights out, led by a squeaky quarterback with nothing-but-nothing to prove. If McGee can make not one but two attempts sneaking on the corner for the TD in the third quarter, then Texas didn't fully appreciate the fact even that late in the game. The Longhorns' bad hands early on strike me as exactly what you might expect of an extremely overeager team.
It's fine, ultimatelyan ugly victory still goes in the win column, and perhaps Vince Young will play with a little more hunger now that the Heisman isn't on the table but an even bigger question mark looms over the Rose Bowl. And that game is most definitely still up to question, naysayers be damned: Texas has played extraordinarily since last year's Rose Bowl triumph over Michigan and weathered a steady promenade of gloom and doom from the commentariat, from the upset over OSU through talk of the inevitability of Vick's Va Tech squad. Acknowledging that Reggie Bush is a very special playerno questionI'll say nevertheless that 1) Texas's juggernaut committee of runningbacks is an unquestionable threat, 2) Texas's secondary is stingy enough to squash any aerial threat in college football (holla, Huff), and 3) Vince Young is the most valuable quarterback in college football. That'll be more than enough to see us through the big dance.
Speaking of naysayers (sort of). The Washington Post article calls this season the greatest in college football history, highlighting USC as "the best team ever assembled"; proclaiming Reggie Bush as "the most exciting player in the modern era"whenever that means; and noting a renaissance among historic programs Alabama, Notre Dame, and Penn State.
The last point is inarguable. But was it so recently as 2003 that Oklahoma was crowned Teh Best Squad Evar? And how did that turn out? Maybe it's less than wise to take one team as your data point (in the Post's case, USC), draw a hasty conclusion about the fate of the season, and stamp it for posterity. Texas ought to at least figure in for a mention, if this is indeed the best season of all time. That brings up the real question at hand: how does the paper get away with having Tommy the Trojan write its sports opinions?
You know the difference between a champion and a runnerup? Seven ten-thousandths points of computer love. First in the nation! Have I ever metioned how much I admire the pure logic of BCS rankings?
It is seriously beginning to look like a lot like Christmas from where I'm standing.
How's my day? I walked through the rain to the Townhouse Tavern, my favorite District hole in the wall, only to find that ABC isn't broadcasting the TexasOU game. That's rightthey're showing Virginia vs. Boston College instead of the Red River Shootout, which is only one of the most storied rivalries in college football today. And furthermore features the #2 ranked team in all college football.
So when I get home (I have the complete college gameday package, you see. I'm not playing around.) I'm treated to this snuff piece by the WaPo. No recognition of the fact that Texas is ranked number two, whereas Oklahoma is ranked not at all. No doubt the fishwrap is perfectly comfortable running an abject hagiography for Virginia Tech, who are good! but ultimately ranked below the Longhorns.
And I'm treated to this commercial every break about the glory of college football that features . . . Oklahoma, Ohio State, and USC. Texas A&M ought to feel burned for not being invited to the Longhorn hate fest.
Fine by me. We have a double-digit lead over the Sooners, and that score's only going to go higher. Today I'll be perfectly comfortable with Mack Brown running up the scoreI hope, even, that there's time to put in the second string. Just so Bob Stoops knows where he stands under the new dispensation.
Hook 'em!
I haven't talked to any friends or family from Texas who haven't had a crazy story for me about Hurricane Rita20 hours to go 150 miles, says a buddy of mine from the Burnt Orange Report about his girlfriend's trip from Sugarland to Austin. I think that all my people are safe nowhope y'all have it the same.
Guest blogger: JL of Modern Kicks
One point I havent made explicit here, though Dan alluded to it, is that Im not writing from DC as Kriston does, but from southern New England. Given that fact, and that I now have access to a Texans website, I cant resist commenting on something I normally might not:
The Dutch oven "a welcome and dependable" stalwart of chuckwagon cooking is on its way to becoming the official state cooking implement. Texas lawmakers have previously grappled with weighty issues of bluebonnets, pecan trees, lightning whelks and jalapeo peppers. The state Senate approved a resolution Thursday to designate the three-legged cast-iron pot as a state symbol.
Mmm, chuckwagon cooking. Not a phrase that sets the mouth watering in readers of a certain age. What stands out, of course, is the silence of the barbeque lobby. Its serene indifference to the Dutch oven stands in contrast to such epic battles as that between coffee milk and frozen lemonade for state drink. Im sure the Dutch oven has played a role in Lone Star cookery. But to see the legislature of the state of George W. Bush and Tom DeLay declare one of the exemplary tools of Yankee cuisine a chosen symbol is just touching. As the article notes, the history of the Dutch oven goes back to New England and then to those nefarious Europeans; it is, in fact, the perfect pot for making Boston baked beans or Yankee pot roast. That Texas has chosen to acknowledge the superiority of the Norths favorite braiser over the dry heat and smoke of pits is a hopeful sign of dawning civilization.
Check out Austinist!
Who start the damned thing off right by praising Maria's Taco Xpress ("Fucking moon people know about Marias tacos") and the notorious Austin Craft Mafia. Austinist can just repeat those posts and every once in a while note the interesting new ways in which "every band" and "OU" are worthless beyond reason. And then take a week off for tubing!
On March 2 of every year, the genuflexuous meditate on the glorious promise that is the birthright of every ethnic Texanindependence. The Sherman-Denison Herald Democrat gives a solemn sermon on our origins:
The government in far away Mexico City had failed its basic duties to its citizens in Texas. General Santa Anna had abrogated the constitution of 1824 and taken over as a despot. The people of Texas would suffer the yoke of oppression no longer. They would be free and independent from Mexico, and the declaration signed at Washington-on-the-Brazos that March 2, 1836 made those intentions clear.We also remember the martyrs who have sacrificed themselves for the cause of Texas. It's been nearly a decade since a clash with the Federal Government left faithful Texans dead (the Davis Mountain Stand-off of 1997). Texas has not been paid the restitution owed her ($93,492,827,008,096 by her enemies (the United States, the Federal Reserve Board, the International Monetary Fund, and the Holy See of the Catholic Church), a sum that would boost our standings from a paltry eighth largest economy in the world to our destined hegemonic spot. But Texas is not diminished by her enemies, and last week our long-lost freedom fighters, The Republic of Texas, resurfaced in Overton, Texas.
Their fight is an uphill battle. Consider the revisionist apostasy of the decadent, liberal-elite professor Felix Alamarz of the University of Texas-San Antonio:
For those handful in the Alamo who were fighting, their goal was to restore the Mexican constitution of 1824 that Santa Ana had abrogated. . . . They were looking for an opportunity, because if they ended up on the winning side, the reward would be in the form of money.What use is money for the Texan who looks forward to 99 Shiner bocks in the afterlife?
Diaspora Texans who want to celebrate without fear of mockery or oppression should make their way to The Austin Grill, where a traditional holiday dinner is free for anyone who can prove his Texan ethnicity. Which, of course, a Texan can recognize by the spirit in yer eye.
No photo alteration performed whatsoever by Justin.
Lillian Davies makes the case in Glasstire against Turner Prizewinner Jeremy Deller:
Another much-discussed manifestation of Texas in London was this Decembers Turner Prize for the best contemporary exhibition by a UK-based artist, which was awarded to yet another ArtPace alum, Jeremy Deller. Deller beat out Kutlug Ataman, Langlands & Bell, and Yinka Shonibare for the big award with his piece Memory Bucket, a work involving found objects and a film, which he put together during his residency last year in San Antonio. Dellers hackneyed presentation of the Texas ethos was greeted locally with tepid praise and even derision, but it was obviously a big hit elsewhere, where the Texas stereotype still has some life left in it. One bright spot in his film involves sublime footage of a colony of bats leaving a Central Texas cave at sunset (indeed, anyone whos watched this majestic phenomenon from one of the bridges over Austins Town Lake can but hardly be moved by it).I was under the impression that the latter image was more characteristic of Memory Bucket, but I'm pretty sure that the clips I saw online weren't the complete work. Regardless, I have to sympathize with Dellerthere's probably no place on Earth in which an honest attempt at bricolage can lead to a more seamless portrait of a stereotype. To wit: My parents recently moved from suburban Dallas to a place a ways outside the exurbs. My first drive around town (I use the term loosely), I saw a classic movie theater that had been converted into a church (completed by the reformatting of the attendant marquis); a Christian bookstore (slash Internet cafe!) with a story-high sign featuring a cartoon penitent pilgrim; and a structure that I could only describe as a bunker, which was in fact a dinerinside which hung a POW-MIA flag, a self-styled Don't Tread on Me flag, and a neon decorative thingee juxtaposing the outline of the USA and a cross. The diner, obviously enough, offered several variations on the chili-cheeseburger.
I'm as fascinated as those voyeur Brits by this stuff, but because I lived in Texas for years, I know that an accurate pictorial presentation would involve a lot of pictures of Staples, Chile's, Walmarts and what have you, suburban housing subdivisions, cacti and mesquite. Pretty dull. For the kind of quasi-photojournalistic art Deller practices, the urge to take exciting photographs of interesting stuff competes with a certain obligation to accurately describe what is primarily homogenous and boring. (I think so, anyway, though let me admit that I'm not well versed on the ethics of photography.)
In so many words Davies accuses Deller of either a Stockholm syndrome enchantment with or brute condescension toward our great state. But it's hard to see how it could turn out otherwise, because definitionally a photographic survey promotes favored images to the exclusion of equally viable alternatives. Discrimination is the process and the point; it should speak about Deller, not Texas.
UPDATE: Other good Glasstire material to check out: Heather Mathews on Laurence Miller's arts-related program activities in Austin; Christopher French on the Beuys retrospective at the Menil. (Did anybody out there see that show? Sounded fun.)
I'm already nostalgic for yesterday's gamegood lord, did Texas deliver or what? I could watch Vince Young's Texas two-step all day long. Frankly, I could also watch for days that segment about how Derrick Johnson precisely tackles by locking on the guy with one arm and targeting the ball with the other. They ought to change Young and Johnson's respective positions to "Offense" and "Defense."
We had a hell of a time trying to watch the game. Yglesias, Tom, Susan, some inexplicably blogless friends and I had planned to watch the game at the Lucky Bar. Feeling surprisingly hangover free (my status would deteriorate over time), I arrived first only to find that the bar had not yet opened. While I waited, I became increasingly aware that the other sports fans showing up for a 5 p.m. kickoff were wearing decidedly nonTexas-or-Michigan sports scarves in support of some team called "Chelsea." Chelsea certainly didn't sound like a college football squad, so I figured they were probably part of the Pac 10. But it was worse even than thatChelsea was a soccer team. And dozens of people had shown up to watch them play, knowing full well that other sports were being televised.
Yes, believe it or not, right here in the capital of God's U. S. of A., a barkeeper bucked a college championship bowlgame from the big screen in favor of the lawless, unruly sport of soccer. Not only is there a whole country you can go to if Chelsea is the team you follow, there are two continents for those who would rather watch soccer. America gives so much to the world, and we ask so little in return. Just a handful of days every year on which we may unilaterally watch our superior interpretation of football.
Leaving that dispute for another day, we went to Buffalo Billiards, where the Lord's covenant with man still holds and the Rose Bowl was being shown on a massive HDTV screen. Many Texas fans, many Michigan fans, and many hangovers. Everything's great until a few minutes into the game, when from a Michigan table to our 3:00, we hear, "That'sinyo'face!" A pronouncement we heard each and every time Michigan moved the ball.
First down: "That'sinyo'face!"
Tackle: "That'sinyo'face!"
Touchdown: "That'sinyo'face!"
Decent beer commercial: "That'sinyo'face!"
It's altogether an effective way of emphasizing your approval of a situation, and I think I'll be incorporating the phrase here at G.p from now on (e.g., That'sinyo'face, Delbow). But at the bar, during the game, it was supremely annoying. It didn't accompany well the continual thumping most people were already feeling in their heads. And as our annoyance grew, so did our relative maturity levels decline. His efforts to coarsen the discourse were working. Ought we have echoed Dusty Mangum's nailbiter of a field goal in the final 0:02 with a choral "No, sir, it is in fact in your face"? It's a question for Bill Simmons, but of course we should have. Were there justice in the world, all the Texas fans in the bar would have joined us in the responseinstead we left content with a victory over Michigan and all of Texas's critics. It's a surprisingly effective hangover cure. Hook 'em Hornsthat'sinyo'face.
