Sapper's (Fair & Balanced) Rants & Raves Preempts the NYTimes!

Professor Gordon S. Wood (Brown University) reviews the following for the New York Times Book Review tomorrow. Read 'em now via the link below. If this be (fair & balanced) preemption, so be it.

Gordon S. Wood on

Inventing a Nation, by Gore Vidal

An Imperfect God, by Henry Wiencek

'Negro President', by Garry Wills

Jefferson's Demons, by Michael Knox Beran

Thomas Jefferson, by R. B. Bernstein

The Kinkster Strikes (My Funny Bone) Again!

Only in Texas can you find a Palestinian hair stylist. I defy ANYONE to find anything more bizarre. However, that's bidness as usual in the Lone Star State. I wish I had enough moss to justify a visit to a hair stylist. Instead, I go to James the Barber for a $3-Special. Ol' James just sets his clippers on 0 and gives me a Camp Pendleton once-over. I think James learned his trade in one of the units operated by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. The $3-Special is what every new inmate receives upon arrival. However, talking about my hair is depressing. If this be (fair & balanced) self-examination, so be it.

Hair Today...
Yep, I recently had my "Lyle Lovett starter kit" straightened by a Palestinian. Can peace in the Middle East be far behind?

by (Richard) Kinky Friedman

WHY, YOU MIGHT ASK, WOULD A PERSON whose name is Kinky want to fly to a spa in Houston for the express purpose of getting his hair straightened? And why, you might also ask, would a person whose last name is Friedman want to have his moss straightened by a Palestinian? These are some of life's more difficult questions, so don't be surprised if the answers turn out to be a bit, well, kinky.

"Farouk Shami is the greatest hairstylist in the world," said my friend John McCall, giving me a little pep talk as we boarded his private jet. "He's taller, of course, when he's standing on his wallet." John has a pretty thick wallet too. Formerly the Shampoo King from Dripping Springs (The Last Roundup: "Cliff Hanger," August 2002), he's now known in hair circles, along with Farouk, as "the father of the Chi iron," a hair-straightening device that is racking up sales almost as big as the hula hoop did in its day.

On the short flight to Houston, John talked shop. Shampoo, he said, is "all about making people feel better about themselves, thereby making them happier, more satisfied human beings." I'd heard his Shampoo 301 lecture before, but I had to admit that I'd never been able to do anything with my hair. That's why I started growing dreadlocks more than a year ago and only recently cut them off. Shortly thereafter, I allowed my friend Ed Wolff to sell my dreads on eBay. Ed informed me that the first one went for $75 to some guy in Dallas. Ed has nine left, and he's holding them until my career takes off or I fall through the trapdoor. I'm trying to be as helpful as I can.

Before the dreads, I got my hair cornrowed, which made me look like a rather anemic, extremely short NBA player. Before that, whenever I removed my cowboy hat, my hair remained in sort of a gelatin mold that I often referred to as my "Lyle Lovett starter kit." So you can see why I might've wanted to get my hair straightened.

A long, white stretch limo, driven by a cheerful Palestinian named Majed, picked us up at Hobby airport and whisked us off to John and Farouk's BioSilk Spa, in the Galleria. The BioSilk Spa, I was informed, had been widely recognized as one of the most magnificent spas in the world. This didn't mean a hell of a lot to a poor cowboy like myself. I'd been in outhouses, whorehouses, and White Houses, but I was proud to say I'd never darkened the door of a spa.

"Your feet are in beautiful condition," said Demeca as she gave me a pedicure.

"So are your hands," said Nina as she simultaneously gave me a manicure.

"That's because he's never worked a day in his life," said John.

The girls had practically dragged me into the sumptuous spa for these treatments, but I had to admit they felt pretty good. Next Lasonda gave me a killer-bee massage and Tina gave me a facial. What would John Wayne do? I wondered.

"Is all this necessary?" I asked John irritably. "I came here to get my hair straightened with your damn Chi iron."

"You see?" he said to the girls. "He's more relaxed already."

"Where the hell's Farouk?" I shouted. "Throwing a rock at a tank?"

"No, my dear friend," said a suave voice behind me. I turned and saw Farouk wearing a sharply tailored suit, a pair of red boots, and a charming smile. He was walking toward me brandishing a large gleaming implement that vaguely resembled an abortionist's forceps.

"I'm not pro-choice or pro-life," I said. "I'm pro football."

Moments later I was sitting in a thronelike chair, with Farouk ironing my hair and white wisps of steam actually rising from the top of my head. The ceramic lining on the Chi iron, he explained, was creating negative ions and causing the cuticles of my hairs to lie down and shine. "Whatever your dreams," he said, "they shall be fulfilled."

It wasn't long before we both discovered a basic law of science: Kinky hair covers bald spots; straight hair does not. The scope of the problem soon became obvious, causing Farouk to have to resort to plan B, a fairly massive comb-over that made me look like Hitler as a used-car salesman.

Farouk tried to put the best spin on things. "It looks different, doesn't it?" he said enthusiastically. "I have such a wonderful job! I wake up excited every morning because all I do is make women look beautiful and they pay me for it." I did not respond immediately. I was too stunned by my image in the mirror. The top of my head looked very much like a beach toy.

Later that evening, in a fashionable suburban neighborhood, John and I and nineteen members of Farouk's extended family attended a sixty-first birthday bash for Farouk at the Kobe Steakhouse. Majed, the driver, told me he was under the impression that the Kobe Steakhouse was owned by Kobe Bryant. Many of the other patrons in the restaurant, possibly observing the St. Louis Arch on top of my head, were under the impression that I was Prince Charles, down here for a fox-hunting trip.

The festivities were also to celebrate the inauguration of a new business enterprise. With Farouk Systems, the BioSilk Spa, a popular hair conditioner called Silk Therapy, the Chi turbo hair dryer, and the Chi iron under their belts, Farouk and John were both already as rich as Croesus. But Farouk and I had cooked up yet another venture. It would be known as Farouk and Friedman's Olive Oil, and it would be imported from Farouk's family's orchards south of Jerusalem. The orchards had been tended and harvested by Farouk's ancestors since before the time of Jesus.

"This could be big!" John said. "Everything Farouk touches turns to gold. That is, everything except Kinky's hair."

"L'Chaim!" said Farouk, lifting his glass.

"To Farouk and Friedman's!" I said. "We might just be the last true hope for peace in the Middle East."

Copyright © 2003 Texas Monthly Magazine

I Don't Care What He Writes About, Kinky Friedman Is Funny!

Texas is blessed with a number of State treasures: Willy Nelson, Kinky Friedman, and Molly Ivins, are just a few. The Kinkster makes reference to Clayton (Claytie) Williams; the putative Republican shoo-in for governor in the late 80s. Clayton (Texas Aggie to the bone) was quoted by a reporter as making reference to an inevitable event by likening it to being raped: Just lay back and enjoy it. Har har har. Ann Richards (another State treasure) upset Claytie and was defeated by W when she ran for reelection. The Kinkster strikes again. If this be (fair & balanced) nonsense, so be it.

[x TX Monthly]
Unhappily Ever After
Once upon a time, there was a writer— it doesn't matter which writer—with talent to burn. Wanna guess how the story ends?

by (Richard) Kinky Friedman

LIKE THE TIDES, THE SEASONS, and the Bandera branch of the Jehovah's Witnesses, the Texas Book Festival is coming around again, allowing us to meet authors we love, hate, or very possibly, find a little ho-hum. I always look forward to the book festival because it provides me with the spiritual soapbox to give advice to other authors, an audience that, predictably, has never learned to listen. Conversely, I've never learned to pull my lips together, so the system works. My advice to authors, and the misguided multitudes who want to be authors, is a variation on a truthful if sometimes tedious theme. "Talent," I tell them in stentorian tones, "is its own reward. If you're unlucky enough to have it, don't expect anything else." These wise words, of course, come from a man who's spent his entire professional career trying to eclipse Leon Redbone.

My theory is that in all areas of creative human endeavor, the presence of true talent is almost always the kiss of death. It's no accident that three people who were tragically forced into bankruptcy late in their lives were Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, and Mark Twain. It's no fluke of fate that Schubert died shortly after giving the world the Unfinished Symphony. You probably wouldn't have finished it either if you had syphilis and twelve cents in your pocket. Or how would you like to have died at age 29 in the back seat of a Cadillac? If you're Hank Williams, that's what talent got you. But what is talent? And why would anyone in his right mind want it? As Albert Einstein often said, "I don't know."

In fact, talent is such a difficult quality to identify or define that we frequently end up losing it in the lights, relegating it at last to the trash bin, the cheap motel, the highway, the gutter, or the cross. My editor says I'm one of the most talented writers he knows. The problem is that even if I have talent, I don't know what it is—and if I did, I'd get rid of it immediately. Then I'd be on my way to vast commercial success. Talent, however, is a bit like God; you never see it, but there are moments when you're pretty sure it's there. So because I can't clinically isolate it, I'm stuck with all my wonderful talent, and the most practical thing I can do is start looking for a sturdy bridge to sleep under or a gutter in a good neighborhood.

If you have a little talent, you're probably all right. Let's say you're good at building birdhouses or you play the bagpipes or, like my fairy godmother, Edythe Kruger, you do an almost uncanny impression of the duck on the AFLAC commercials. These kinds of narrow little talents have never harmed a soul nor kept anyone from living a successful, happy life. It's when you're afflicted with that raw, shimmering, innate talent—talent with a big T—that you can really get into trouble. Remember that Judy Garland died broke on the toilet. Lenny Bruce died broke on the toilet. Jim Morrison, just to be perverse, died fairly well financially fixed at the age of 27 in a Paris bathtub. Elvis also died on the toilet, though he definitely wasn't broke. Along with a vast fortune, he had well over a million dollars in a checking account that drew no interest. Who cares about money, he figured, when you've got talent? I myself was a chess prodigy, playing a match with world grand master Samuel Reshevsky when I was only seven years old. It's been downhill from there.

They say it takes more talent to spot talent than it does to have talent. Conversely, it's easy to know when it isn't there, although someone without talent rarely notices its absence. Some friends of mine had a band once, and they went to audition for a talent scout in his office. The talent scout said, "Okay, let's see what you can do." The leader of the band began to pick his nose while playing the French horn. Another guy started beating out the rhythm on his own buttocks while projectile vomiting on the man's desk. The other two members of the band jumped simultaneously onto the desk and began unabashedly engaging in an act too graphic to describe in this magazine. "I've seen enough," shouted the talent scout in disgust. "What do you call this act, anyway?" The French-horn player stopped playing the instrument and stopped picking his nose. "We call ourselves," he said, "the Aristocrats."

Another example of what might help define talent takes us back to Polyclitus, the famous sculptor in ancient Greece. Polyclitus, it is said, once sculpted two statues at the same time: one in his living room, in public view, and one in his bedroom, which he worked on privately and kept wrapped in a tarpaulin. When visitors came by, they would comment on the public work, saying, "The eyes aren't quite right" or "That thigh is too long," and Polyclitus would incorporate their suggestions. All the while, however, he kept the other statue a secret. Both works were completed at about the same time and were mounted in the city square in Athens. The statue that had been designed by committee was openly mocked and ridiculed. The statue he'd done by himself was immediately proclaimed a transcendental work of art. People asked Polyclitus, "How can one statue be so good and the other so bad?" And Polyclitus answered, "Because I did this one and you did that one."

So what can you do if you don't have talent? To paraphrase Claytie Williams, you can relax and enjoy it. Any no-talent fat boy can make it to the top of the charts, but it takes real talent, like that of the brilliant American composer Stephen Foster, to die penniless in a cheap hotel on the Bowery. But with or without talent, you might ask, how can hard work and perseverance pay off in the creative field? Why are you asking me? Who the hell knows? In this day and age, just as the tortoise is finally crossing the finish line to win the race, he'll very likely see three men in suits and ties, standing there with their briefcases. "Hello," they'll say. "We're the attorneys for the hare."

Copyright © 2003 Texas Monthly Magazine