Molly Ivins did say that, didn’t she?
Highlights from her Observer years
Little delighted Molly more than stories that were simply a hoot, and she was often at her sharpest when poking fun. To wit, the excerpts below:
Asteriskos, R.I.P.
Oct. 16, 1970
When San Antonio played host to the Hemisfair two years ago the city fathers spared naught in their efforts to make it a classy do. They up and commissioned some of the finest artists around to produce some groovy objets to be scattered about the grounds for the edification and delectation of the fair’s visitors. Among the more interesting results was a sculpture by Tony Smith named Asteriskos. The black steel arrangement of rectangular masses was 17 feet high and cost $35,000. It stood solidly between the arena and the convention center on the Hemisfair grounds, suffering only an occasional indignity. At one point someone pasted a poster announcing a Coming Attraction on it. Then one day Asteriskos disappeared.
Big mystery. How does a 17-by-14-foot, steel sculpture get lost? It turned out that the sculpture wasn’t lost at all. “We just didn’t know it was sculpture,” said the assistant director of the Department of Public Works when the dismembered remains of Asteriskos were discovered on view at the Los Moras Street junk yard.
“It’s just one of those things,” said Mr. Key, the man in charge of the junkyard. “As far as we’re concerned, the whole thing has been real regrettable and embarrassing. We’ve got no use for the thing.”
But someone on the junk yard is an inverse Neo-Dadaist. You remember how the early Dadaists used to take utilitarian objects, like urinals, and make them into sculpture? Well this guy took a part of the sculpture and made it into a utilitarian object: to wit, an ice chest.
Asteriskos was not the first Hemisfair sculpture to grace the Las Moras Street exhibition. barford, an arrangement of painted steel bars by British sculptor Anthony Caro, had disappeared earlier. It disappeared, in fact, shortly after John H. White, first vice-president of Hemisfair, passed the precariously-balanced arrangement with a group of VIP’s in tow and remarked that the thing ought to be junked. Perhaps White was engaging in some hearty provincial levity. In any case, Hemisfair workmen did seem to hear and to heed and barford’s remnants are reportedly buried in the junkyard. Clement Greenberg, who lent barford to the Hemisfair, was not mollified by the city’s offer of a reproduction. According to the city’s newspapers, he received a monetary settlement, amount undisclosed.
The donors of Asteriskos presented a more complex problem. The donors were Mr. and Mrs. Henry Catto, Jr., who gave the sculpture to the city in memory of her father, the late Gov. William P. Hobby. The liaison man in the case was Gilbert Denman, Jr., a discreet attorney who was the organizer of the sculpture exhibition for the fair and who is on the board of the Witte Museum.
The nasty fate of Asteriskos was publicly revealed by John P. Leeper, director of the McNay Art Institute, the Witte’s rival. Leeper, with great drama and indignation, announced that had Asteriskos been at the McNay, rather than the Witte, it would have been “cherished.”
Lo, it is now theirs to cherish, such as it is. Within a week of Leeper’s histrionic performance, the Cattos announced that they wished to save the taxpayers the cost of restoring Asteriskos and would therefore pay for it themselves—provided the sculpture be placed on permanent loan at the McNay. Estimated cost of restoration is $7,000. Catto, who is currently ambassador to the Organization of American States, is being touted in some quarters as a possible candidate for mayor. For his gesture he gets a tax write-off, free publicity, and lots of good will.
The manic MAC truck driver is still on the loose. The truck driver theory has been advanced both by Mayor W.W. McAllister and by Denman. They speculate that Asteriskos was hit by a truck before it was carted away. It may have been the same truck driver who smashed into the 1918 cupola of an Orthodox synagogue which was also demolished while on display at the fair. And it could have been the mad MAC man who is responsible for the disappearance of yet another San Antonio landmark, the Heinrich House. Any city that can lose a 17-foot, steel sculpture, can’t be daunted by the disappearance of a house. It was owned by the San Antonio Conservation Society and was preserved for and used during Hemisfair. No one knows where it is now.
The truck driver, however, was not responsible for the mutilation of a mural by Robert Teimann, a San Antonio artist and professor at Trinity University. The mural, which covers the backs of several Hemisfair buildings, was ignominiously stabbed with air conditioning vents and one unidentified hole that has hairy gunk hanging out of it.
Another sculpture called Solar Disks by the late Charles Williams of Fort Worth was seriously damaged by workmen as they took it down to return it to the artist’s widow. And a wood sculpture by Joseph Konzal bit the dust. It’s being redone in metal.
Then, of course, there are the fountains. Or there were the fountains. Three Hemisfair fountains were extensively damaged—cause unknown—and a fourth is partially broken, faded, and without water.
One San Antonian, who is both knowledgeable about and loving toward art, finds the situation more tragic than funny.
“It might be well to recognize that there is a certain hazard for art in San Antonio,” she said. “That art objects lead precarious and brief lives, and that no one much seems to care—it makes good cocktail party chatter—until it can be used politically. San Antonio is, after all, a pragmatic political town. All that culture talk and art along the Paseo del Rio serve as a nice tourist front for what’s really important.
“While riotous long-hairs, militant blacks, browns and pacifists are supposedly busy about their business of obliterating selected hallowed civic property,” she continued bitterly, “the hallowed civic property keepers of San Antonio are busy destroying it themselves. These incidents are not met with much apparent official concern for artists or lenders or donors, or needless to say, for any aesthetic value vanished; instead they are used, with polish and acumen, as political tools if at all possible.”
Grandeur, piety & barbecue
June 4, 1971
AUSTIN — There is existential irony and there is the absurd. There is camp and there is kitsch. And then there is the LBJ Library dedication and barbecue for 4,000 folks.
Between the cole slaw and the potato salad we encountered a juiced Eastern journalist who surveyed the throng and said to his cohort,” We really should have told the magazine to hold a full page open so we could write this up as a Great American Scene.”
Great American Scenewise, our favorite was Henry Ford II sipping seriously on a Shiner beer while listening to a chicano trio sing “Remember the Alamo.” Another happy vignette occurred just after the dedication ceremonies ended and the fountain was turned back on. The entire Texas Legislature, and spouses, sitting just to the lee of the fountain, got not sprinkled but soused. Preston, always in character, arrived late and at the wrong gate. Lyndon, who has a magnificent sense of priorities, began his speech by saying, “Chairman Erwin (he is no longer chairman), President and Mrs. Nixon, distinguished guests….” We found the sight of Bill Heatly with his arm around Hubert Humphrey’s shoulders quite moving.
Gregory Peck looks like a movie star. Henry Kissinger looks like a prune. Dr. Suess looks sort of like the grinch, but is very kind. Omar Bradley has aged since World War II. God gave Billy Graham a suntan. God gave Larry O’Brien a sunburn. God proved conclusively that He has no sense of humor: it didn’t rain. Some puckish soul put the Rev. Graham right next to Gus Mutscher on the podium. An Austin newsman claims to have glimpsed Merle Oberon’s underwear (white silk, he reports).
One lady waved her hand vaguely and said to her friend, “Oh, perhaps the Soviet Union next. Angie’s new post, you know….” She turned out to be Ma Biddle Duke.
The New York Times sent more reporters, including their food editor, than the Austin American-Statesman has, period.
The demonstrators were seldom audible, but when they were, their timing was swell. Their black balloons drifted over precisely as Nixon and Johnson came onto the speaker’s stand. In the course of giving the benediction, Dr. George Davis asked the Lord to preserve us from those who peddle only nightmares — clearly intended as a reference to the protesters — at which point a clear “NO MORE WAR” rolled up. Kissinger and Mrs. Katherine Graham (as in The Washington Post and Newsweek) gnawed solemnly on barbecued chicken legs while, “One, Two, Three, Four — We don’t want your f—ing war” came wafting over the tables like Muzak. As the UT band finished the national anthem, police sirens wailed ominously and the cayote yips of the protesters acted as a contrapuntual theme while the band did, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”
We encountered Hugo Black and finally got to use Kaye’s great line on what you should say to a Supreme Court justice for conversation openers. “Hi, Judge, declared anything unconstitutional lately?”
By cleverly stationing ourself between Time and Life during lunch, we got to meet Dean Rusk, Walt Rostow, Willard Wirtz, et al. Nick Katzenbach wandered by forlornly and said he’d mislaid his wife.
We were told, but were unable to confirm, that the only faculty member invited to the Big Barbecue was Darrell Royal.
Nixon was off all day. He not only got “throwing around” for “showing around,” but refrected for reflected, arthur for author and a few others.
Hale Boggs ordered a subscription to the Observer. John Connolly did not.
A prominent artistic figure seriously considered goosing William Westmoreland.
And, as The Houston Post put it, a ball was had by all.
’Preciate it good buddy
February 13, 1976
The subculture of Citizens Band radio (CB), which is itself an offshoot of the trucker subculture from whence it spread to the shitkicker subculture, is gradually seeping to the surface of the state’s consciousness. CB is now so big that the Authorities Are Concerned, novelty tunes about the phenomenon are heard on the country-western radio stations, and the freaks are starting to crash the scene. In what may be a repeat of the fantastic cultural cross-pollination between freaks and shitkickers that produced progressive country music, one now hears CBers with handles (CB identification names) such as The East Texas Roach Clip, Armadillo Rose, and Bogart (to bogart a joint is to hold it in the way Bogey did his cigarettes, instead of passing it).
But for the most part, CB is shitkicker civil disobedience. CB is not, as Newsweek seems to think, a trucker’s medium. It has grown beyond that, and now it belongs to the necks. The impetus for the amazing growth of CB was the imposition of the 55 m.p.h. speed limit in December, 1973. Drivin’ down the highway real fast in your pick-‘em-up truck throwin’ Pearl or Star cans out of the window is a time-honored part of the shitkicker culture: a right, dammit. Kickers, like the wealthier opposite numbers in the oil industry have never thought much of gummint interference.
Amarillo Slim in odd game
April 23, 1976
AMARILLO — It is zoo time in Amarillo. It is Paranoia City at the Potter County Courthouse. Not since the glory days when J. Ernest Stroud, John Bircher, was mayor and used to hold “Honor Rhodesia” days have local politics been this bizarre. The district attorney has tried to sue the district judge who is feuding with the county attorney who is on the outs with the D.A. who could wind up in the clink for contempt, and that’s just the beginning.
Legal history seems to be in the making here. At least, no one in this area could remember a precedent for a judge refusing to dismiss a case when both the prosecution and the defense have moved for dismissal. When the parties involved complained about this unusual development, the judge put everybody under a gag order. However, the spirit of J. Ernest Stroud lives, and one of the gag-ees, who happens to be a radio news reporter, has cheerfully continued broadcasting about the case. The Mafia may or may not be standing by to put concrete lifejackets on all concerned.
The various officials involved assortedly believe that (A) their offices are being bugged, (B) people are keeping files on them, (C) entrapment is afoot, and (D) everyone is out to get them. (D) is true.
This all started last fall when Amarillo Slim got busted for gambling, which is like indicting the Pope for being Catholic. Amarillo Slim is a gambler. He is a very well known gambler. Internationally known. In 1972, Slim a.k.a. Thomas Preston, Jr., won the World Poker Championship in Las Vegas. Slim is not only one helluva poker player, he is also a champion-class gin player, a top-notch pool player, a cowboy, a character, a local folk hero, and a very funny, charming man. Slim will play about any kind of game--backgammon, checkers, you name it.
Like Bobby Riggs, he’ll take almost any kind of bet. A few years ago, he bet his life against $31,000 that he could make it down “The River of No Return” (the middle fork of the Salmon in Idaho) on a raft in mid-winter. Slim also works as a troubleshooter in poker games. If, for example, there is a high-stakes game in Dallas and one guy is suspected of cheating but the others can’t catch the him at it, they’ll call Slim and finance him to join the game and catch the cheat . Some people claim Slim seldom owns more than 10 percent of himself when he plays poker.
Why Coloradans hate Texans
Dec. 30, 1977
DENVER — Maybe Gracie has the best explanation for it. Gracie Lichtenstein was my predecessor out here as Rocky Mountain bureau chief for The New York Times (the reason we got to be bureau chiefs is on account of there ain’t no one else in the bureau). Gracie hails from Brooklyn and didn’t care for the West worth a pitcher of warm Shiner. She is convinced there is no civilization without bialys, a bialy being a sort of a Brooklyn tortilla. Since she was unencumbered by enthusiasm, ol’ Gracie had some pretty fair insights.
Gracie holds that Texans are the Jews of the West. Meaning that they are perceived as loud, vulgar, richer than most folks, and consequently widely resented.
There is no doubt that Coloradans do love to hate Texans. For one thing, we are buying up their state at an appalling rate. Vail, one of the two biggest and best ski resorts in Colorado, is now owned by Texans and is referred to here as “the Dallas Alps.” Coloradans seem to feel there is something a trifle kitschy about Vail’s imitation-Swiss décor. This is only because they are unfamiliar with Dallas shopping centers and do not know the true definition of tacky.
Another frequent complaint involves the way we drive. Ron Wolf, a Colorado reporter and reliable source, assures me that Texans do 80 on the flats and no more than 15 m.p.h. on the mountain passes. “Whenever you find a car holding up a long line of traffic on a pass, you’re safe to bet it’s got Texas plates,” says Wolf.
As we all know, before the energy crisis, the Good Lord intended for people to drive 80 on the flats, but I was profoundly shocked to hear that Texans do 15 on mountain passes. Do you have any idea how far you can fall off those damn things? Ten, in my opinion, is the maximum safe speed and I personally prefer seven.
There is a currently fashionable intellectual thesis which holds that the country is becoming more and more alike from one end to the other. It’s supposed to be an endless strip of Howard Johnsons on interstate highways, where we all read the same magazines and learn how to talk from Uncle Walter Cronkite (a Texan, be it noted). I believe that’s a bunch of bull. The astonishing thing about this country is how different it is from one corner to another.
Texans are not, in fact, like other Americans. For one thing, we are obnoxious to be around when we are having fun. We talk loud, laugh loud, get drunk, and bang our beer bottles on tables, we whoopee and hoorah and are generally a pain in the hmmm-hmmm. We yell when we are having a good time. We do not yell when we get mad. We tend to get real quiet just before we stomp someone or shoot someone. Foreigners consider this peculiar.
Since Texans mostly come to Colorado to have fun or to buy the place, they aren’t looked on with much favor. They are widely held to be a bunch of no-class yahoos with more money than taste. They also throw beer cans out of their car windows: since many Coloradans are serious environmentalists, this is considered the apotheosis of tackiness.
I am naturally doing my best to disguise my origins here. Ol’ Gracie left me a four-wheel drive vehicle, which one needs to be a Coloradan just as one needs a pickup to be a Texan. I figure that if I get me some Earth shoes, new jeans, a lumberjack shirt, a down vest, and a bumper sticker for my four-wheel that reads “Texans Are Tacky,” no one will know me from a native.
I myself favor ecology and think that flushing only once a day is fine, but I hold that no toilet paper is extremist. Being a tolerant sort, I’ve never minded healthy people. Someone wants to quit smoking, give up beer and booze, and eat only vegetables and jog, I believe he or she should be commended. But it’s right disconcerting to have people drop to the floor and do 5 pushups whenever there’s a lull in the conversation. Coloradans are very healthy.
I believe, finally, that the anti-Texan prejudice here comes down to, as prejudice so frequently does, numbers. As a light sprinkling, we Texans are not hard to take. If we but seldom constituted more than two to five percent of any grouping outside our borders, I think we’d doubtlessly retain our reputation for being odd but quaint. But we infest Colorado. It is impossible to drive Interstate 25, the main north-south highway, in either summer or winter, without noticing the high proportion of cars with Texas plates on the road — going 80 m.p.h. with beer cans periodically emitted from within. In Colorado, we are not a curiosity, we are an invasion. I have long maintained that Texans are not easy to love: we are, like anchovies, an acquired taste.
I myself feel that we should be given points for our enthusiasm. All good Texans get excited when they see a really big hill, like a freeway overpass: our delight in Colorado mountains is touching. “Sumbitch,” we breathe reverently, upon sighting the Rockies. “Scenery is for goyim,” ol’ Gracie once said. At least Texans retain a capacity for awe in the face of something as awesome as the Colorado mountains.
Being a chauvinistic Texan (if that’s not redundant), I am left mildly depressed not so much by the Coloradans’ distaste for Texans, but by what our zest for Colorado says about us.
We have crudded up our own natural beauty in the making of money — go look at the Golden Triangle if you don’t believe.
The classic Colorado bumpersticker reads, “If God had meant Texans to ski, He would have given them mountains.” To which the Texas sticker replies, “He meant for us to ski; He gave us money.” My point is that money can’t buy us what we’ve ruined through our greed. Our hunger for natural beauty is, I think, affecting in its earnestness. But we wouldn’t need to come to Colorado for it if we’d save the Big Thicket and the Gulf Coast and the Hill Country and the Rio Grande Canyons and the High Prairie.