Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, September 15, 1995 TAG: 9509150012
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO PHOTO: KINKY
SOURCE: ENID NEMY THE NEW YORK TIMES
DATELINE: KERRVILLE, TEXAS LENGTH: Long
``It's part of my charm,'' he says, his rakish mustache twisting into a smile. At the moment, he is explaining how the name Richard, which is on his birth certificate, evolved into Kinky.
He sweeps off the black cowboy hat with a grand gesture, displaying what he calls his ``moss.'' Hair or moss, it is decidedly kinky. ``Chinga gave me my name,'' he says.
It's no surprise that Kinky Friedman would have a friend called Chinga (originally Nick), or vice versa, and that another friend once known as Larry is now Ratso. But for the moment, while tooling along Route 16 to his trailer home in the Hill Country of south-central Texas, we are talking about Kinky, or at least he is, and he is saying, with some accuracy, that ``with a name like Kinky, you should be famous, or else it's a social embarrassment.''
Friedman, 50, isn't really famous yet, except in some quarters, but it looks as if he's en route. He is, however, a full-fledged original. At various stages of his career as a songwriter and performer, the Kinkster, as he sometimes calls himself, toured with Bob Dylan, traveled with Willie Nelson (``I was beating him like a drum,'' he said of the marathon chess games they had), played the Grand Ole Opry and sang and strummed guitar with his country-western band, the Texas Jewboys. He also dashed off songs like ``They Ain't Makin' Jews Like Jesus Anymore'' and ``We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to You.''
Another little ditty - ``Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed'' - got him booed off the stage and chased off the campus by feminists at the State University of New York at Buffalo in 1973. The following year, he says, the National Organization for Women named him the male chauvinist pig of the year. He accepts all this philosophically and says, somewhat proudly, ``I have managed to offend everyone at one time or another, including Texans, Jews and feminists.'' He is, he says, ``of the Jewish persuasion, but I'm not religious.''
Friedman disbanded the Jewboys (who, incidentally, were not all Jewish) in 1976, and for the past decade has been writing mysteries, always with you-know-who as the hero. His eighth book, ``God Bless John Wayne,'' was published by Simon & Schuster this month, and he's already polishing the ninth, tentatively titled ``The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover.''
His last two books, ``Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola'' and ``Armadillos and Old Lace,'' have sold, in hard cover, in numbers sufficiently respectable to bring forth musings from him about ``losing my cult status.'' The two books also are out in paperback (Bantam Books).
``Mysteries are comforting in that they offer us resolution, and life itself rarely does,'' he says, at the wheel of his dusty 1983 white wood-paneled Chrysler LeBaron convertible. The car belonged to his mother, Min, a speech therapist, who died in 1985. Friedman himself never uses the word ``die.'' His dearly departed have either ``stepped on a rainbow'' or ``gone to Jesus.''
Friedman is resplendent in blue jeans, a turquoise polo shirt, a beaded-and-fringed brown suede vest and a belt studded with silver medallions, each with a Star of Texas entwined with a Star of David. He is heading for Echo Hill Ranch, a 350-acre spread owned by his father, Tom, near Kerrville. The ranch is dotted with white and blue buildings, hummingbirds, armadillos, dogs, horses and children. Tom Friedman, retired from teaching psychology at the University of Texas, bought the property in 1953 and, with his daughter, Marcie, operates it as a summer camp for children.
Kinky Friedman's home on the ranch is a trailer that will never again go anywhere. It's a strange shade of green (a broccoli would recognize it), and for a reason even he can't explain, there's a watermelon slice painted on the inside of the door. The whole thing looks as if it might, at any moment, topple through the crape myrtle and juniper into nearby Wallace Creek.
The trailer has, in fact, toppled and been washed away several times by floods and has survived not only all that but also a family of raccoons and a fire. Since 1985, it also has survived the Kinkster himself and a decor of mashed cigar stubs.
It's 9 a.m., and the ashtrays are overflowing, but Friedman forestalls comment. ``Cigars give you a relaxed mindset,'' he says, with an authority that brooks no dissent. So, OK, breathe as little as possible and let the eyes wander - to the flag-framed Army cot, a little stove with a rickety coffee pot (he generally eats at his father's house), a picture of Mahatma Gandhi and a poster of Hank Williams. And a little farther along to the framed letter with a handwritten addendum: ``Dear Kinky: I have now read all your books. More, please. I really need the laughs. Bill Clinton.''
After a few minutes, the place begins to exude an odd charm. At the far end, there's Kinky's wardrobe hanging on a length of pipe, almost brushing a Smith Corona typewriter on a small wooden table that has to be admired simply because it's standing.
The toilet - perish the thought of a door - sits beneath a century-old head of a one-eyed steer. On the bathroom wall, there's a 25-year-old notice that he took from a Singapore hotel: ``In order to avoid unpleasant odors, please pull this chain before leaving this lavatory.''
Nearby are two unrelated maxims: ``Image is more important than knowledge'' and ``It's 3 a.m.: Do you know where your restaurant is?''
The coffee has perked, or boiled, and he pours a cup. He is engaged in his usual activity - he once said, ``I'm not afraid of anything, just that I may have to stop talking about myself for five minutes'' - and is overcome with embarrassment when he realizes he hasn't offered his guest a cup.
``I'm so used to being alone here,'' he says. Not always. And certainly not everywhere. The Kinkster has had numerous romances and been semi-broken-hearted several times, but not for long. He now has a new romance with a woman in Texas. And that's all he'll say about that. ``I'm a gypsy,'' he says. ``I'm married to the wind.''
by CNB