Date: Wed, 13 Jul 1994 21:21:00 EDT From: Song Weaver Sports Column on Texans in New York, 950 words With photo: MUST credit Greg Havican (card enclosed) Copyright by Gary N. Reese 3406-B South Oak Drive Austin, TX 78704 (512) 447-6408; 463-9780 Howdy! Y'all know which way to those Gay Gaymes? By GARY N. REESE Special to the New York Triangle No, I didn't bring my horse to Baghdad-on-the-Hudson. Don't even own one. Didn't have to check up on my oil wells between sports venues and dance parties. The closest I've come to the oil bidness was several years ago when my father and brother sunk several thousand dollars into an oil rig that drilled nothing but a dry hole. It isn't easy being a Texan traveling abroad. On top of everything else, we have to pack the cowboy hat, the boots, the accent and whatever it is -- je ne sais quoi -- that makes us quintessentially Texan. The first thing you're got to realize about Texas is that it occupies a unique spot in the thinking of people from everywhere else. Whether we're really unique makes no difference in the long run. As a friend of mine once put it: "Part of our cultural heritage as Texans is that at some point in our rearing, each one of us has decide whether we really are as crazy as other people think we are, or if this is just our little joke." He added, "Whenever we go abroad, each one of us is going to be expected to perform." And New York is another country: different food, different manners, different language, and the money looks the same but it's not worth as much. Ergo, the hat, the saddle, spurs, twang, and that studied, slack-jawed look of Joe Buck in Midnight Cowboy, rubber-necking a row of high-rises as he swaggers through Gotham City's concrete jungle. Joe Buck, I ain't. I've been to Nyew Yoark many times. I've been to your Saint-at-Large parties, I've rubbed elbows at the Universal Grill, and I know that cereal names aren't just for breakfast food anymore. But hats, boots and a thickening twang do not a Texan make. No siree, it takes a lot more than that. It takes more than just an honorary citizenship certificate from the Texas Governor's Office. To be a true Texan, one must be recognized by one's peer s as such. Make no mistake, that's not always a honor. What is a true Texan? There's no set formula to it; we Texans are a querulous lot, and about the only thing we all have in common is -- well -- being Texan. For instance, I live in the quirky capital city of Austin, a progressive diaspora in a conservative state that regards its seat of government with suspicion and affection. Suspicion, 'cause we're just a bunch of new-age hippies gone plumb loco down here on the Colorado, giving away shack-up health insurance to live-in lovers. And affection, because no matter what their convictions are, Texans are fascinated with their traditions and their icons. Austin's full of 'em, and it has a scenic, sensual beauty and a rollicking nightlife that can squeeze the juice out of the driest prude. Another thing all Texans have in common is our governor -- God love her -- Ann Richards, renowned for her populist Democratic fervor and her Republican hairspray. Motorcycle Annie, who rides a Harley -- but not often, the helmet crushes her beehive-do - - actually talks like that. She did not pick up that accent by watching John Wayne at the pitcher show. Although the Guv and California Senator Diane Feinstein often look like they could have bought their business suits off the same ready-to-wear clothe s rack, next to Ann, Diane looks -- well, kinda stuffy. But hey, show me another politician who can crack jokes with Lily Tomlin one night, and play host to Queen Elizabeth II on the next without changing her style one lick. Down the street from Ann's doorstep is the only State Legislature we've got. This is the body of lawmakers who passed a resolution commending the Boston Strangler during the 1970s and has continued its surreal behavior right into our own era, notably wh en it re-enacted the state's sodomy law just last year. It was a remarkable sight to behold, with this august assembly slouching toward Babylon and turning back the clock with an unbelievable debate on the subtle legalistic and moralistic aspects of whet her to ban both homosexual and heterosexual buggery. In the end, the Lege stuck with the status quo, which was to keep singling out the queers and let the hets make whoopee any which way they pleased. One innocent bystander, after observing two of the m easures ultra-right supporters slap each on the back and exchange congratulatory high-fives, remarked: "Hey, didn't those two guys just pass a law that says a prick can't touch an asshole?" Never, never accuse us Texans of losing our humor -- we'd sooner lose our minds, and many of you think we already have. Heck, we even find H. Ross Perot funny, and we have to live in the same state with him. The bottom line, I think, is that you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take Texas out of the boy. Texans come and go all the time, but most of them come back, and nearly all of us recognize Texas as a state of mind. (I'll leave it up to you to decide what kind of state that is.) In closing, I can only say -- like my fellow South Austin resident Molly Ivins -- that I dearly love Texas, and I regard that as a harmless perversion. ********** (EDITOR'S NOTE: A lifetime Texan with little to show for it, Gary N. Reese covers gay sports for national and regional publications in Texas, New York City and Los Angeles. He is a cyclist and medalist at Gay Games III in Vancouver and Gay Games IV when not performing his Texas shtick for the curious and the uninitiated.)