They’re where you went to get your hair cut or to see a picture show or to watch the squirrels on the courthouse lawn.
It’s Houston’s driveway, a twenty-mile kaleidoscope of bankers, punkers, strippers, surgeons, students, grackles and cars.
If you think Texas is pretty much the same as it was ten years go, you’re wrong. Nineteen seventy-three remade the state overnight.
Charlie Brooks was the first man to die by lethal injection, but everyone wondered whether he or his partner was the real murderer. In his last days, Brooks answered that, and other questions.
And I’m telling you, if you can’t batter it, fry it, spike it with chiles, or bathe it in buttermilk, it’s not worth your time.
Can Texans be won over to the antique tradition of tea and little sandwiches in the afternoon? Dallas’ and Houston’s new gilded hotels are counting on it.
Texas opera lovers would have ended the season happily just having seen a lively Rosenkavalier, a magical Rheingold, and a fiery Wozzeck. But then the Houston Grand Opera’s Pagliacci came along and took their breath away.
Gandhi presents its title character as all but a god and India as all but a paradise. Starstruck is a lark; Sophie’s Choice is a letdown.
Treasure hunters want state booty; Republicans aren’t so hot about Phil Gramm; there’s hope for Texans with money in Mexico; Texas newspapers worry about USA Today.
Sing along, turn around, dip in.
End of the line for a cop, a coach, quilters, and the Confederate Air Force.
The unhealthy politics of emergency medicine; according an accordionist his due; sucking it up for Lite beer; the condo boom that went bust.