It’s hard to imagine a criminal court with a more stunning view than the chambers of the Honorable Jeffrey Colbath. Each day as I stepped off the elevator and onto the eleventh floor of the Palm Beach County courthouse this March, I couldn’t stop myself from staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun’s rays knifed through the clouds over the Atlantic, casting shafts of light on the Belvedere towers at the Breakers. Millions of dollars’ worth of mega-yachts packed the Intracoastal Waterway.
Take exit 430A from Interstate 35 in Dallas, then drive north on Oak Lawn Avenue, and you will eventually come to the Ashley Priddy Memorial Fountain, a burbling, five-tiered, stone-and-tile sentry that signals your arrival in Highland Park. As you cross Armstrong Parkway—named for John S. Armstrong, the meatpacking titan who purchased Highland Park’s original 420 acres in 1907—Oak Lawn becomes Preston Road. You’ll notice that the street signs are now blue.
There is a lot going on in the world of Texas women these days: a stamp commemorating Oveta Culp Hobby, former head of the Women’s Army Corps, not to mention one-woman shows in the offing celebrating both legendary journalist Molly Ivins and former Texas Governor Ann Richards.
I called my mother the other day with a hypothetical question. “What would you say if I told you I was engaged?”
Love will be the death of us, I can see that now. The signs have been there for a long time. Right in our midst—and glorified to boot—is a substantial threat to the continuation of our species, as much of a menace as global warming, nuclear weapons, hantaviruses, or trans fats. Please hear me out. This isn’t just bitterness or griping. Precisely how I arrived at this conclusion will take some explaining, but it all began when I went to see David Buss, the mating expert.
A WHILE BACK WE HEARD ABOUT an illegal immigrant who, just north of Raymondville, went directly to the Border Patrol with a wild story of being attacked by “un pollo gigante”! Despite his fright and visible injuries, no one, not even the agents, believed him. The man was clearly crazy.
NHL All-Star Celebration
HOCKEY WILL NEVER BE FOOTBALL. In Texas, at least, this truth is self-evident: No matter how many hockey fans rise up in defense of their sport (or write letters to a certain magazine’s editor decrying yet another football cover, as the case may be), the puck will never outrank the pigskin.
HERE’S WHAT YOU PROBABLY don’t want to take home from a horse auction. A horse with a big swollen knee or a ringbone on the front of the foot or any kind of enlargement of the ankle. A horse with pointy little pin ears poking up from his head or a horse with giant ears. A horse with beady eyes and what they call a Roman nose. A blind horse. A mean horse. An old worn-out bucking horse.
More than thirty years ago the collective might of Columbia Pictures descended on Austin with one of that studio’s blue-ribbon, A-team moviemaking armies: Blythe Danner, Anthony Perkins, Beau Bridges, a hot director named Sidney Lumet, an ingenue named Susan Sarandon, and the same producer who had already made small-town Texas a bankable commodity with the adaptation of Larry McMurtry’s The Last Picture Show. The prestige project settled in at the Chariot Inn, where Danner had a permanent sign o