It is hard to imagine Bob Bullock wandering into the Blue Genie Art Industries studio cum fun house in East Austin. The building's exterior is painted like a panel from the Sunday funnies, with Hanna-Barbera-like minarets and tents and a red-hot houri on a magic carpet. Stepping inside feels like walking on to the set of a cartoon; the cavernous space is filled with grinning robots, dancing fire hydrants, and such.
The O Brother soundtrack went gold and shot up the country charts.
With the new of California’s electricity crisis getting worse every day, should Texans worry when this summer brings the first test of a deregulated, competitive electric power industry here? Are blackouts, bankruptcies, and bigger bills in our future? The answer appears to be no for blackouts and bankruptcies—but bigger bills may be a different story.
I never really thought I wanted to be an actress. I was a bookworm, and all I did was sit around and read. In fact, I dodged doing things. When I was in the sixth grade and was asked to read a speech for Black History Month, I did everything I could to get out of it. By the time I got to high school, I was bored. It was so cliquish, and I didn’t think that applied to me. I decided to audition for a performing-arts school in Dallas.
That things were going to get a little out of hand when I saw George W. Bush make his formal good-bye to Texas at a celebration in Midland, where he had lived for a while as a boy and then later when he worked in the oil business. Bush came out onstage wearing cowboy boots and a white-felt cowboy hat.”Wait a second,” I said to Charlie Younger, his longtime Midland buddy. “Did you ever see Bush wear a cowboy hat when he lived in Midland?”
“Well, um, no.”
Although the Dallas Symphony Orchestra and the Houston Symphony hardly recognize each other’s existence, classical-music fans have argued about which city has the better orchestra for decades. Back when both symphonies were poorly housed, Houstonians could point to their name-brand conductors—Leopold Stokowski, Sir John Barbirolli, André Previn—as proof that they could attract the best. But by the end of the eighties, the strategies of the two organizations had clearly diverged.
Brandon Langley and Denise Hewitt met in an online bar.
As sixteen-year-old of skinny arms and knobby knees, I stood at the front of a U. S. history class with a big red poster board and a bit of self-righteousness. Our teacher had assigned a research project, and as I roamed the Brownsville library's bookshelves without direction, I had found a tiny treasure: a book about a Mexican man from my own hometown. It was thin and floppy, written by a graduate student in history at the University of Chicago.
Congratulations, Governor! We knew you would like to win something by a decisive margin. Something with no need for a recount. Something even a butterfly ballot couldn’t make confusing. And here it is: You’ve been elected our Bum Steer of the Year. It’s quite an honor. Your dad was awarded it twice.
The house was on Blanco Street, in the heart of Old West Austin, less than a mile southwest of the state capitol. The front porch was rotted and sagging. Instead of curtains, a tattered blanket had been placed across the front window. When the wind was right, the smell of urine and feces seeped past the wildly overgrown hedges in the front yard and drifted toward the street.
At eleven in the evening on July 2, as radio and television commentators were announcing that the candidate of the Partido Acción Nacional (PAN), Vicente Fox Quesada, was leading in the race for president of Mexico, the chairman of the Federal Electoral Institute, a newly depoliticized body, issued a statement affirming that Fox was the election's apparent winner. The institute's announcement was based not on vote counts but on exit polls.