He Ain't Kinky, He's My Governor!

Jesse (P*ss-ant) Quackenbush now has a rival for my franchise: Richard (Kinky) Friedman has announced his candidacy for Governor of Texas! Be still my heart! I provide for your reading enjoyment, a pair of essays that Friedman wrote for Texas Monthly: (1) "Oaf of Office" in the March 2003 issue (before [Fair & Balanced] Rants & Raves got started) and (2) "See Kinky Run" in the upcoming February 2004 issue. "Oaf of Office" was a trial balloon for the Kinkster. "See Kinky Run" is a campaign declaration. How I failed to see the obvious is disheartening for the moment, but now I have a candidate and I have a cause. Why the hell not? is the Kinkster's campaign slogan. Count me in, Governor Friedman. (I like the sound of that). In fact, if the Texas governorship launched W, why not Kinky Friedman? If Texas can survive a W, why not a Texas Jewboy? If this be (fair & balanced) kingmaking, so be it.

(1)
[x Texas Monthly]
Oaf of Office
Seventeen years after my last foray into politics, I'm thinking of running for something again. Say a prayer for me—and yourselves.
by Kinky Friedman

AT THE WHITE HOUSE RECENTLY, as I was advising the president on Iraq, I thought I heard him mention putting me in charge of the National Park Service. It's about time he appointed a real cowboy, I said to myself as I adjusted my fanny pack. I knew, of course, that this would not be a Cabinet-level appointment. I would probably have a portfolio of some kind, a small staff of busy little bureaucrats to do all the work, and I'd no doubt carry the title of Undersecretary. That was fine with me. I'd probably be spending most of my time under my secretary anyway.

As I left the East Wing, I became more and more certain that, if not exactly offering me a position, the president was subtly encouraging me to get back into politics. I'd been on hiatus since my unsuccessful campaign for justice of the peace in Kerrville in 1986, but that was then and this was now. I remembered a letter he'd written me soon after he got elected. He thanked me for mentioning his name in this column "without using any curse words," and he asked me if I intended to run for J.P. again. On a cold day in Jerusalem, I'd told him. Now, after practically getting vetted by the leader of the free world himself, I found myself standing ready to serve. I waited in the full-crouch position for a call from someone in the administration. When it didn't come, I couldn't decide whether to kill myself or get a haircut.

There must be a place in politics for a man of my talents, I thought. Dogcatcher might be a good place to start. I could free all the dogs and encourage them to lay some serious cable in the yards of people I didn't like. Or maybe I could run for mayor of Austin. I could fight against the fascist anti-smoking laws. I probably couldn't win without appealing to all the techno geeks, but a good slogan would help—something like "A cigar in every mouth and a chip on every shoulder" might work. Basically, though, it'd be too small a gig for the Kinkster. I have bigger fish to fry.

Well, what about governor of Texas? That might be therapeutic, I figured. It's a notoriously easy gig, and I'd certainly be the most colorful candidate to run for the office since Pappy O'Daniel. Hell, compared with Tony Sanchez, I'm practically Mr. Charismo. I can work a room better than anyone since the late John Tower went to that great caucus in the sky. When I meet a potential voter, I'm good for precisely three minutes of superficial charm. If I stay for five minutes, I can almost see the pity in the person's eyes.

Nevertheless, being governor might be a lot of fun. I've known the last two and a half governors, and they didn't seem to be working all that hard. Of course, I saw them mostly at social events. In fact, I once mistook Rick Perry for a wine steward at the Governor's Mansion. I said, "Hey, you look familiar. Do I know you?" And he said, "Yeah. I'm the governor, Rick Perry." Then he gave me a friendly handshake and looked at me like he was trying to establish eye contact with a unicorn. He didn't seem as funny as Ann Richards or George W., but he came off like a pretty nice guy—for an Aggie.

After some minor soul-searching, I decided to throw my ten-gallon yarmulke in the ring and form an exploratory committee headed by the dead Dutch explorer Sir Wilhelm Rumphumper. The committee had one meeting and came back with the consensus that, as long as Willie Nelson or Pat Green didn't decide to run, I could be the next governor. They offered the opinion that many of Pat's people were probably too young to vote and that Willie, God bless him, did not quite present as clean-cut an image as I did. Also, neither of them had had any previous experience in politics. Not only had I run for J.P., but I'd also been chairman of the Gay Texans for Phil Gramm committee.

Though the report was encouraging, I had to admit that I was beginning to find the prospect of the governorship rather limiting. I aspired to inspire before I expired. There had to be something I could do for my country besides flying five American flags from my pickup truck and telling the guy with four American flags on his pickup truck, "Go back to Afghanistan, you communist bastard!" But what of the president's offer? To clear the boards for my race for governor, I asked my old Austin High pal Billy Gammon to check the status of my appointment. Billy's so close to the president he gets to fly in the White House helicopter. "I stand ready to serve!" I told Billy.

"I'll get back to you," he said.

And he did. He told me that while the Bushes obviously considered the Kinkster a dear friend, the president had only been engaging in light banter when he'd raised the possibility of my moving into public housing. Billy also said that though I might have made a "fantastic contribution to government," George W. could see how I might well have been a "scandal waiting to happen."

"That's good news," I told Billy, "because I'm running for governor and I'd like you to be my campaign manager."

"I'll get back to you," he said.

I got over my disappointment quickly. Like most of us, I determined that I'd rather be a large part of the problem than a small part of the solution. Besides, I've got Big Mo on my side. I'm not sure how traveling with a large homosexual will go down with the voters, but hell, I'll try anything. Just this morning, for instance, I tried making a campaign pitch to my fellow passengers on a crowded elevator. After several of them threatened to call 911, however, it unfortunately put me a little off-message. "Now that I have you people all together," I told them, "I can't remember what I wanted you for."

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(2)
[x Texas Monthly]
See Kinky Run
How's my semi-serious, nontraditional, not-entirely-implausible campaign for governor going? Glad you asked.
by Kinky Friedman

MANY MOONS AGO I WROTE a rather whimsical column about the possibility of my running for—or more accurately, taking a leisurely stroll toward—the high and mighty office of governor of Texas ("Oaf of Office," March 2003). There have been a number of interesting developments since then, and not all of them have transpired entirely within the febrile confines of my gray-matter department. There actually does seem to be genuine support for my candidacy. A good bit of it, unfortunately, appears to be emanating from the Bandera Home for the Bewildered.

In Washington last October, the president himself promised me that if I ran, he would be my "one-man focus group." During the same White House visit, I had a cordial meeting in a hallway with Colin Powell and later found myself in the men's room with Donald Rumsfeld. Though neither man offered to help with my campaign, I did mention to Rummy that he was not the most famous person I'd ever wee-wee'd next to. The most famous, I told him, was Groucho Marx. Rummy told me he couldn't touch that one but that his wife had once danced with Jimmy Durante.

A few weeks later, at the Texas Book Festival, my campaign won the support of Molly Ivins after she asked me point-blank why I was running. "Why the hell not?" I replied. "Beautiful," she said. "That's your campaign slogan." Any candidate for governor who has the support of both George W. and Molly can't be all bad.

Texas, as Molly pointed out, has a tradition of singing governors. I thought back to Pappy O'Daniel's successful race for that esteemed office in the forties. He had a band called the Light Crust Doughboys. I had a band called the Texas Jewboys. His slogan was "Pass the biscuits, Pappy." One of my most popular songs is "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven (And Your Buns in the Bed)." The parallels are uncanny.

Thus, with George and Molly aboard, I felt empowered enough to do an interview with the Kerrville Daily Times, break the news to my friend U.S. congressman Lamar Smith, and green-light a first printing of bumper stickers that read "He ain't Kinky. He's my governor." The Kerrville paper trumpeted my interview on page one, the bumper stickers proliferated throughout the Hill Country faster than jackrabbits, and Lamar suggested that the race, quixotic as it might seem, would be a no-lose proposition. "You'll come out of this," he predicted, "with a book, a wife, or the governorship." I don't want a wife, I told him. I'm already married to Texas.

It was around this time that some people began asking me if the whole thing was a joke. For some reason this rankled me more than I'd expected. I'd always seen myself, in the words of Billy Joe Shaver, as a serious soul nobody took seriously. Why should they take me seriously now? But I wasn't about to retire in a petulant snit to a goat farm for sixteen years. I would tell them the truth with humor, for humor always sails dangerously close to the truth. Some things are too important to be taken seriously, I told them. The question, I added, is whether my candidacy is a joke or whether the current crop of politicians is the joke.

But there was a time in late November when I didn't have such a positive attitude. I paced back and forth in my log cabin, wondering if I was bound for the Governor's Mansion or the mental hospital. I was so uncertain of my chances at that dark time that if I'd been elected, I would have demanded a recount. Did I dare dream the impossible dream? Go for the long shot? Then the phone rang. The caller said he was from the Times. "That was some interview you guys did," I said. "What interview?" asked the guy. "Isn't this the Kerrville Times?" I asked. "No," he said. "It's the New York Times."

The Times story, headlined "Guess Who Wants to Be Governor," ran on Saturday, November 29, a day that will live in infamy in the minds of those who wish to perpetuate the politics of the status quo. The switchboard at the ranch lit up like a Christmas tree in Las Vegas. Fielding the congratulatory calls and offers of support was a daunting task, but I tried to be as gracious as possible. I told them all I'd get back to them in about two years.

But the calls kept coming. My old pal Tom Waits offered to come down and help the campaign, as did Willie Nelson, Dwight Yoakam, Robert Duvall, Billy Bob Thornton, Jim Nabors, Jerry Jeff Walker, Lily Tomlin, and Johnny Depp. In addition to this galaxy of stars, Penn and Teller, the Las Vegas magicians, promised to come to Texas and "make the opposition disappear." Meanwhile, Craven and Nancy Green, the parents of a struggling young songwriter named Pat Green, came up to the ranch from Waco. They brought with them the Sunday Waco Tribune-Herald,which had carried the New York Times story. "It's on page one," they said excitedly, but they seemed a bit hesitant to show me. After some badgering, I got them to hand me the paper. The story was there, all right, but the Waco editors had changed the headline to read "Uncouth Hopeful Eyes Governorship." The campaign was already getting personal.

So what kind of governor would I be? When I was in Washington, George W. asked me what my platform was. I didn't really have an answer at the time, but I've had a chance to think it over. Next time I see him, this is what I'll say: "My platform, Mr. President, is that I'm not a politician. My platform is that I'm not a bureaucrat. My platform is that I'm a writer of fiction who speaks the truth. My platform is to fight the wussification of this great state, to rise and shine and bring back the glory of Texas. My platform is, no hill for a climber. My platform is to remember that when they went out searching for Sam Houston to try to persuade him to be the governor—and he was the greatest governor this state has ever had—rumor has it that they found him drunk, sleeping under a bridge with the Indians."

On second thought, maybe I don't really want a platform. They might try to put a trapdoor in it.

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Copyright © 2004 Texas Monthly Magazine