Molly Ivins did say that, didn’t she?
Highlights from her Observer years
Covering the Lege was perhaps Molly’s finest calling. She wrote so much on it over the years that we can only offer a small sampling of excerpts. But, as she always said, it was rich territory.
Notes from a rookie
March 26, 1971
AUSTIN — I have been covering the Texas Legislature for two whole months now (wow) and, like Chuzzlewitt’s chum Tapley, I feel there is much credit to be earned by being cheerful in such morbid circumstances.
Again like Tapley, I’m frustrated because the worse things are, the more I relish ‘em. Others look upon the state legislature and are sickened with disgust and pessimism. Me, I love it. Stronger men than I go reeling from the halls, vomiting with contempt for the venality and vulgarity they witness. I, muttering “Death to Herbert Gambrell’s toe!” and other great slogans, observer on, unappalled.
All anyone needs to enjoy the state legislature is a strong stomach and a complete insensitivity to the needs of the people. As long as you don’t think about what that peculiar body should be doing and what it actually is doing to the quality of life in Texas, then it’s all marvelous fun.
I am told that when Robert Sherrill edited this publication, he used to call the state capitol, “The Big Top.” I think it is like a zoo, full of the most fabulous and fascinating animals. What a strange, exotic breed is the Texas legislator. What peculiar greeting and mating rituals he displays.
The legislature wants Jonathan Swift’s invective and Dicken’s gift with hypocrisy to be well-portrayed. I humbly acknowledge that I am inadequate; but I revel in having such a rich field to mine.
I had never met a state legislator before Jan. 12, 1971. I did not get 10 feet onto the House floor before at least 25 of them had come up, squoze some part of my anatomy and said, “Hieh, honey, how good to see yew again!” They are a tactile bunch, they are, they are, unable to talk without touching. At the end of a day on the hill, I feel like a roll of Charmin toilet paper.
Let it slide, Clyde
June 4, 1971
AUSTIN — The shrill cry of the outraged politico-bird went echoing through the capitol chambers on May 12, ‘Redistricting?! They call that redistricting?!”
Fort Worth Sen. Don Kennard, with great presence of mind, announced, “A half-wit six-year-old with crayon in hand, blind-folded, could have come up with a better plan.”
Other comments from liberal legislators on the House Redistricting Committee’s new congressional map cannot appear here as they violate this publication’s policy on gratuitous obscenity.
“Is anybody happy with this plan?” I asked a representative.
He meditated deeply and was then seized by inspiration. “Talk to Clyde Haynes,” he said. Rep. Clyde Haynes was chairman of the congressional redistricting subcommittee. Rep. Clyde Haynes wants to run for Congress. Rep. Clyde Haynes, under the plan drawn by his committee, is now eligible to run for a seat currently held by Cong. John Dowdy. Cong. John Dowdy is ill, under federal indictment for bribery and perjury and has just been declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. There are other aspirants to Dowdy’s seat, to wit, Sen. Charles Wilson, former Yarborough aide Benton Musselwhite and Secretary of State Marin Dies, Jr. All three of those gentlemen come from Angelina County. According to the Haynes plan, Angelina County is no longer in Dowdy’s district.
No villains; just asses
June 18, 1971
AUSTIN — Having survived, rather to my amazement, an entire session of the Texas Legislature, I suppose I still conclude that it’s the best free entertainment in the state.
I wish that judgment didn’t sound so facile. I think the first time it occurred to me that most of this mess isn’t really funny was on May 10 at about 1:30 p.m. I was sitting in the Members’ Lounge discussing a just-defeated bill that would have allowed judges to garnishee a portion of the wages of divorced fathers who refuse to pay their child-support allotments. The only legal alternative now is sending such a father to jail for contempt of court, from which position he is seldom able to earn enough to support his kids.
The member I was talking with was ag’in garnisheeing. He was discussing what should best be done with “those people” — those people who produce children for whom they do not accept financial responsibility.
“The only answer is to clip ‘em,” said the member, very seriously.
“Do what?” I inquired, uncomprehending.
“Clip the men and spade the women: it’s the only answer,” he replied.
I have now sat through innumerable legislative abortions, stillbirths and mutants. Sometimes, when I am very angry — and I am beginning to understand that the lucky ones are those who still have a capacity for anger — I wish I were able to turn my eyes in furious slits on every voter in this state and say, “All right, goddammit, you elected them.”
After the House voted to concur in that particularly repulsive tax bill in early May, an ordinarily cool, amused liberal representative came up to me actually trembling with rage. “Just remember that the people get what they deserve,” he spat out. “Spineless, conscienceless, contemptible ….” he broke off, unable to continue over his emotion.
After it is over, and some perspective is gained — be it of nighthawks against an evening sky or a good, stiff drink — rage is almost as hard to remember as is physical pain. It passes.
I have spent more time than I care to remember lecturing my journalistic colleagues.
“The people may be ignorant and the people may be bigoted,” I will declaim to any poor s.o.b. unlucky enough to get stuck with me after a few beers, “but, by God, the people ain’t dumb!” I tell my hapless auditors that the great failure of American journalism is that it has talked down to the people. I am a democrat, small d, and the people may be misled and bamboozled, but they’re not stupid. Only their elected representatives are stupid.
I guess that was the first shock. Ronnie and Kaye had prepared me to find all manner of vile, venal types in the Legislature, villains without scruples and self-interested dastards without remorse. I didn’t find them. I found only stupid men. I found representatives so dumb they can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. There are no villains: there are only asses.
And yet, and yet … is there anything for which I would have missed that incredible show? No. I am an hopelessly addicted observer. Give me a few evening skies with nighthawks, and I will even confess that I have enjoyed it. The House is outrageous, infuriating and sickening, but it sure as hell ain’t dull.
I cannot be of much help to you if you want to know if the Legislature is getting better or getting worse. This is the first time I have seen it and, despite some solid prepping, I almost didn’t believe it. Kaye informs me that they might have done any number of awful things they didn’t do. Perhaps self-restraint is the hallmark of the 62nd. They did pass a bad tax bill, a worse appropriations bill and a terrible redistricting plan. They didn’t really do a whole lot else.
About half-way through the session, we were trying to think of a headline for a story on the Legislature.
“Sixty-second in high gear,” suggested I chipperly.
Kaye gave me her best pity-plus-disgust look.
“Sixty-second in low gear?”
No.
“How about, ‘Sixty-Second Running Downhill in Neutral?”
I think I hit it, but it didn’t fit.
Tedium, ennui, limbo, apathy
July 21, 1972
AUSTIN — In a new all-time world’s record, the Texas House of Representatives became the first left-handed deliberative body with a squint and 70 drunken members to meet non-stop for 18 hours on an appropriations bill. Aside from deciding how to extract money from the state’s citizens, deciding how to spend it is the most important thing the Legislature does, so the process deserves close inspection.
Mister Roberts’ ship the USS Reluctant used to sail from Tedium to Apathy to Limbo to Ennui with an occasional rare stop at Elysium. Thus also sails the Texas House during its marathons.
Turn out the lights the party’s over
June 15, 1973
AUSTIN — The weekend before the Legislature went home, roving bands of conferees were attacking bills, attacking one another, slyly joining and disbanding in a frantic hunt for passable legislation. For a while, it looked as if nothing would be left except the ravaged carcass of Prince Daniel’s reform package.
Midnight finally came, however, and the legislators turned back into slick city lawyers and small-town pharmacists, toy store owners, ad men, bankers, insurance salesman, ne’er-do-wells, two morticians and a shrink. Whether the reforms make any difference in terms of the way the people elect their representatives and the way their representatives conduct the state’s business remains to be seen. But the laws at least are in the books for the schoolchildren of Texas to read and believe.
Half a Loaf! The true story of a bread bill
June 15, 1973
AUSTIN — At one point in mid-session, when I was particularly discouraged with the Legislature, I started to write a column that began, “You wanna know what kind of session this is? I’ll tell you. Hawkins Menefee can’t even get his half a loaf bill passed, that’s what kind of session it is.”
But by gum and by golly if we don’t sit here today with a real, live half a loaf bill. What this bill does, folks, is it allows you to buy bread in quantities under a loaf. Before long you’ll be able to buy half a loaf, a quarter of a loaf or even just a couple of slices. That may not strike you as a world-beater, but that poor ol’ bill went through as much legislative trauma as if it had been oil unitization, no-fault insurance and a state income tax rolled into one. The bill mostly benefits single folks, like Menefee, who have to buy a whole loaf of bread and then watch half of it get stale before they get around to eating it. Most single folks wind up throwing out a lot of stale bread.
Sen. Bob Gammage, in one of the most eloquent flights of prose heard in many a year pointed out yet another benefit of the bill to his slightly stupefied colleagues. “Think of the hardhat, gentleman,” began Gammage. “He’s working construction and he gets a half-hour off for lunch. Say he doesn’t have a lunch bucket with him. He goes to the store to buy himself lunch. He buys a bottle of Big Red. Does he have to buy a whole case of Big Red for lunch? NO! He can buy just one bottle of Big Red. He buys potato chips. Does he have to buy a gallon can? NO! He can buy himself a 10-cent bag of potato chips. He gets some baloney. Does have to buy a whole stick of baloney this long? NO! He can buy himself a couple of slices of baloney. But bread, gentlemen, bread. The poor hardhat has to buy a WHOLE LOAF OF BREAD! Gentleman, this is your hardhat vote for the session.”
It seemed simple enough at the outset: other states sell bread by the slice and their commonwealths seem to have survived it. But ere long the bill acquired a reputation as a special interest bill. Not the special interest of single folks and hardhats, but the special interest of the big bakeries. Or the small bakeries, depending on who was telling the story. Big government, big business, big labor unions – as though the Lege didn’t have enough to worry about, they were suddenly beset by the spectre of Big Bakeries. Opponents claimed the small bakeries didn’t have the machinery to wrap bread in smaller quantities, they’d be forced out of the business by the B.B’s. Menefee, a Houston liberal, doggedly stuck to it that the real opposition was coming from the Big Bakeries themselves.
There is some correspondence to support this theory. Rep. Lane Denton of Waco received a letter from one of his constituents as follows: “Dear Lane: Thanks for the editorial on the bill Rep. Menefee has introduced. I appreciate your interest.
“My only disagreement with the article is that possibly Rep. Menefee is [not] eating too much bread when he says he has a half a loaf left on Wednesday. A loaf of one pound round top bread has 14 slices in it, which would mean that he had only eaten seven slices in two days. To get proper nutrition, you should eat the equivalent of six slices per day.
“If Rep. Menefee is trying to do the bakers a favor by introducing the legislation, he should watch his comments.
“Also, you might tell him that if the other half of his loaf is ruined after two days, the he ought to switch to Mrs. Baird’s. It Stays Fresher Longer! Sincerely, Carroll Baird, Mrs. Baird Bakeries, Inc.”
Menefee, with his bread-eating practices under attack, felt compelled to respond.
“Dear Lane, Thank you for sending me a copy of Carroll Baird’s letter. If the bakers can convince us that our nutritional needs amount to six slices of bread a day, they will not only monopolize our appetites with bread, but will force us to pay the price of an expanding waste [sic] line.
“As the good Bible says, `Man cannot live by bread alone.’ Half a loaf will leave room for other necessities of life. Sincerely, H.M.”
On the other hand, the bill did have some big-gun lobby support. The ubiquitous Lynn Coleman, who is about to become the Washington lobbyist for Vinson, Elkins, Searls, Connally and Smith, registered as a lobbyist for the Menefee legislation on behalf of Campbell, Taggart, Inc., of Dallas.
Sylvia DeLeon, Menfee’s administrative assistant, reported with some wonder that Menefee got more calls and letters about his half a loaf bill than any other subject before the Legislature, including the controversial anti-pollution measures he carried. Many and dreadful were the puns during committee hearings. “A crusty subject,” “On our salaries, we need more bread, not less,” “It’s all in how you slice it, right?”
At one point it was demanded that the bill be re-written because it called for half-loaves rather than half-pound loaves. It seems that some tricky old bakers, when not required by law to produce loaves that weigh a full pound, puff up their dough with air so that loaves look as long as a regular loaf but actually weigh less.
Gammage’s eloquence carried the day and the bill in the Senate, but House opposition was ready with facts, figures and amendments. Menefee and Rep. Neil Caldwell of Alvin worked up a front-mike-back mike Mr. Bones routine.
“Mr. Menefee, how about pie? Do I have to buy a whole pie in order to enjoy one slice of blueberry or can I get it smaller?
“Mr. Caldwell, you can buy pie by the slice.”
“How about watermelon, Mr. Menefee? Do I have to buy a whole watermelon?”
“No sir, Mr. Caldwell, you can buy a slice of watermelon.”
Menefee worked the floor and begged and pleaded and by George, it passed and everybody said, “Hallelujah!” or something else. And went home. The End.
The speakers’ race: Below the belt
June 7, 1974
AUSTIN — For awhile there it looked as though the campaign for the speakership of the House would turn into a real horse race. Fred Head had the lead coming out of the turn, Carl Parker was moving fast on the rail and Billy Clayton was still running strong, while some of the lesser candidates looked ready to fold near the rear. But then the whole thing turned into your normal vicious, paranoid brawl.
We had tried to tell you (see Obs., for the last 20 years) that speaker’s races are a particularly virulent strain of Texas politics. The speakership of the House is generally counted the third most important office in the state, but given our weak-governor system (not to mention our weak governor) and an occasional lieutenant governor of less than overwhelming abilities, it can be the most powerful elective position in Texas. The kind of energy, and money, that is spent in other high-office races to convince 12 million folks of the superiority of one fellow or another is, during speaker’s races, concentrated on 150 people. With the wheelin’ and dealin’ and windmill fixin’ that goes on in the space of one week in a speaker’s race, you can O.D. your average fan of triple-cross spy thrillers.
Happily, allegations of bribery have recently arisen. This is a great relief to long-time speaker’s race fans, since there were some early fears that ree-form had ruined the whole sport. However, there is now enough rumor-mongering, lying, double-pledging, intimidation and possible bribery to please even the most critical aficionados. Two days after Speaker Price Daniel, Jr. called in all the speaker candidates to tell them to cool it during the constitutional convention, the tension and hostility swirling around the race was such that it was possible to come within a tooth-skin of touching off fistfights just be asking questions — and then checking the answers with those named in them.
The Little Prince
September 20, 1974
AUSTIN — The man most likely to reign over the tiny kingdom of the Texas House of Representatives next session has a 12-year political record that is utterly without redeeming social value.
Rep. Billy Clayton of Springlake was first elected to the Legislature in 1962 and during the six sessions since then, he has compiled a consistent and dreary record. It is a record more reactionary than it is conservative — it is anti-labor, anti-urban, anti-reform, anti-progress and anti-human concern. The man who amassed this unenviable record is a prince of a fellow personally — no horns, no tail. He’s a 46-year-old Aggie, grandpa, rancher, farmer, Mutscherman and quondam water lobbyist. He says he has always voted his district — just voted the way folks out there wanted him to, that’s the way they all think out there. One is tempted to ask why he didn’t move long ago.
Funny Money
November 29, 1974
AUSTIN — In May, 1972, Dolph Briscoe accepted a $15,000 cash campaign contribution he never reported. The money was given to him by Clinton Manges, a South Texas banker, rancher, mystery man, and reputed political mover, who has sometimes been called the heir-apparent to George Parr’s title as the Duke of Duval County. Briscoe said in a deposition given on Nov. 14 that he never reported the contribution because he planned to return it. According to testimony, the money sat in a pigeonhole of a closet in Briscoe’s office at his Uvalde bank and was never taken out of its original bank wrappers. Briscoe said he had tried unsuccessfully for two years to return the money to Manges. He apparently never thought of putting it in an envelope, writing Manges’ name and address on it, and sending it to him by registered mail. Sissy Farenthold, who is suing Briscoe for alleged campaign financial irregularities, has requested that the court impound the money to protect it from “alteration, exchange, destruction or any other forms of disposition.” Judge Herman Jones of Austin, who is presiding in the case, ordered Briscoe on Nov 18 to show cause why this should not be done.