Steve Martin’s new comedy All of Me is half-baked; The Gods Must Be Crazy is an amiable tall tale with giraffes; Tanya Roberts is sexy-heroic as Sheena, queen of the pulp jungle drama; Last Night at the Alamo is a rowdy last stand.
Inspired by last summer’s media mania in Dallas, our expert offers a few suggestions for spicing up future nonevents.
The cattle are dying, the grass is gone, the ranchers are selling their land. The center of Texas is in a drought that may be the worst in a hundred years.
Just the thing to go with barbecue or chicken-fried steak—a good bottle of Texas red. Wine, that is.
Pompeo Coppini’s heroic sculptures and European air were just what Texas’ fledgling gentry was hungry for in 1901. Since then his name has faded from memory, but his works endure.
Every son sees his father as his greatest competitor—until the day he becomes a father himself.
Texas’ beloved live oaks are falling victim to a creeping fungus, and no one knows how to stop it.
A flood of new Brahms recordings that honor the composer’s 150th birthday reveals an oeuvre of surprising richness.
Houston catches up with itself.
In 1883 the University of Texas got stuck with two million acres of West Texas scrubland. Then it hit oil, and the money started rolling in.
It all started at my grandmother’s when I was seven years old. No biscuit has since measured up, but my lonely search for that sublime confection continues.
There are a hundred of them, and their job is invisibility. They come into giant office buildings after everyone has gone home and, if they do the job right, make the evidence of the day’s work disappear.
At a slightly wacky hotel in southern Mexico, you can lose your inhibitions and find a little romance.
He had it all: a wife and a mistress, a limousine and a motorcycle, the second-highest job at the Pentagon and some good-time Dallas buddies. Then the SEC took an interest in his life.
Why are we crazy for Cadillacs, silly on Suburbans, passionate about pickups? Because Texans love their cars, that's why.
It’s all here in black and white.
Trauma for Texas hospitals; more trouble (what else?) for Clinton Manges; why Doggett should win—but probably won’t; and real deals in Houston.
Great café meals, dubious political deals, Luckenbach’s ideals.
A new Henry Lee Lucas mystery in Lubbock
“Herd It Through the Grapevine,” a new disc anthology, has the top of the pop crop.
Prince’s Purple Rain is short on plot and dialogue but long on fancy anguish; The Bostonians is a namby-pamby treatment of Henry James’ biting novel.
Remember when children played dress-up in their own clothes? They still can.
UT reports on how well students from Texas schools do.
The Public Opera of Dallas aimed its first season at opera greenhorns and scored two bull’s-eyes.
Roger Staubach finds happiness by swapping Rolaids for real estate.
On the Edge of Life
William Humphrey’s Hostages to Fortune tells a sodden fishing story; C.W. Smith’s The Vestal Virgin Room tells of an empty quest for fame; Rosemary Catacalos’ Again for the First Time is an outstanding collection of verse.
Dallas, Scotland: the city that’s everything Big D isn’t.
Where to find a life-size statue of businessmen shaking hands, the best right-wing burgers, and other landmarks of Republican life.
How Texas became a two-party state in spite of the GOP.
Turn off the TV. Go fishing. Here’s the inside story of what will happen at the convention, complete with Nancy Reagan’s tacky visit to a bowling alley.
Sculptor Donald Judd had the vision. The Dia Art Foundation had the money. Now they’ve had it with each other.
He changed the face of Texas by building warehouses that looked like office buildings. Then he built office buildings that looked like warehouses.
Aggies and UT play beach brawl; Valero’s gas pains; education bureaucracy shake-up; the truth about those Hines rumors.
Is Texas shrinking? Are the Kimbell’s spirits sinking? Are Midland and Odessa really linking? Where are Houston’s sports fans drinking?
There’s a world of difference between an icehouse and a convenience store.
Mark White has finally earned high marks in lobbying the Legislature.
Ghostbusters is funny but flawed; Streets of Fire is not the place to spend a care-free afternoon; plus three films from abroad.
Elyse Robins will sell you that gaudy bauble she’s wearing at dinner for only forty. Thousand, that is.
Isn’t it great that in this big, cold world the Republican party and Dallas have found each other?
Bobby Morrow was America’s most celebrated Olympic athlete in 1956. Today he wishes he’d never left the starting blocks.
At this year’s dismal San Antonio Festival, the English National Opera and the Texas productions were the only shows worth seeing.
Nirvana in unofficial Dallas
Jamboree, a new Joffrey ballet commissioned by the City of San Antonio, features prancing rhinestone cowboys and just plain silly choreography.
On Sunday it is legal to buy beer but not baby bottles, screws but not screwdrivers, disposable diapers but not cloth ones. No place but Texas.
Sandi Barton works from 8:30 to 5 as a secretary in a downtown Dallas office. She knows a lot of women look down on her job, but it suits her just fine.
