Culture

Without a doubt, the Kimbell Art Museum’s show tracking Piet Mondrian’s long, slow evolution into a 20th-century icon. A gloriously middlebrow effort, the show–organized by the Musée d’Orsay and on display through December 8–sets out to “analyze…the disparate influences upon [Mondrian]–aesthetic, historical, intellectual and spiritual.” In other words, museumgoers are treated to that guiltiest of pleasures, a narrative of historical progression, a tale of artistic development in all its outré, Hegelian glory. By consigning formalist analysis to the trash heap of jargon whence it belongs, the organizers manage to telescope much of the story of modernism into the tale of Mondrian. Best of all, they also produced a readable, 100 percent jargon-free catalog.

Addison? Theater mecca? Whodathunk that a few years ago? Then along came an Alabama grad named Terry Martin, determined to turn a small but well-loved community theater company into a major force in Dallas-area arts. He’s done that by consistently raising the bar in the choices of plays, casting the best-trained professional actors and overseeing the redesign of the interior of the WaterTower space in a compelling way for every new production. As a director, Martin, 45, recently reinterpreted Cat on a Hot Tin Roof as a battle royal between nouveau riche Southern social climbers, with the usually cantankerous Big Daddy (perfectly cast with actor R Bruce Elliott) almost welcoming the “outing” of gay son Brick as a way of reclaiming their relationship. Martin has spent 10 years at WaterTower. Only problem with all the directing is it leaves him little time to get onstage himself. His performance in Neil LaBute’s Bash during the WaterTower’s spring “Out of the Loop” festival was one of the best by an actor on any Dallas stage this year.

Since 9-11, most right-thinking Amurkins have had lumps in their throats when it comes to the sacrifices made by dutiful police and firefighters. But the throat bone doesn’t connect to the wallet bone, and sentimentality will only get you so far (not very) when you ask Dallas taxpayers for a 17 percent raise, especially when times are hard for everyone’s budget, particularly the city’s. What were Dallas’ police and firefighters thinking, putting this issue on the ballot now? Oh, that’s right; they thought all that “honoring our heroes in blue” stuff was sincere. Suckers.

We’ll admit it: We wish we had that damned story, not Wick Allison’s Park Cities Greensheet. So, when D ran that cover with Hicks, or a Photoshopped Tommy, flashing empty pockets, we pretended it was so much tabloid hogwash, Allison’s way of proving to his moneyed pals he couldn’t be bought by this town’s richest fellers. Turns out that story was dead on the money, no matter how hard Hicks tries to deny it; after all, if he really wanted to stick with a winner, he would have held onto his Dallas Stars, our most recent champs in any major sporting league. Instead, he’s selling off his NHL team (worth about $200 mil) and his stake in the American Airlines Center (estimated value: $400 mil). Why he’s dumping the AAC is beyond us; yeah, we hate the place, but it’s gotta be the rich man’s ATM, unlike the Arlington-owned Ballpark, which will soon enough start to look like it smells. (Ya know, now that we think about it, that place always was a hokey hodgepodge.) Maybe Hicks just couldn’t get over his man crush on Mike Modano, who’s gone from underrated to overrated in three seasons’ time; maybe he just likes the drive to Arlington. Or maybe he’s got a thing for guys in tight pants who grab their crotches and spit. Dunno. All we know is this Texas Ex is dumping the one team he owns that’s respectable in order to keep the one that’s reprehensible. Does that make any damned sense, or cents, to you?

Judging by how often he’s cast in local productions, Bill Jenkins appears to be a director’s darling. In the three leading roles he’s had at three theaters here this year, he’s proven versatile, likable and dependable as a performer, expertly tackling a wide range of accents and acting styles. For Addison’s WaterTower Theatre, he roared as the ghost of John Barrymore in the high-spirited I Hate Hamlet. At Theatre Three (where he was voted “Patrons’ Favorite”) he raised the roof as an ambitious young Baptist minister in God’s Man in Texas. For Theatre Britain at the Trinity River Arts Center, he oozed cockney charm as The Mysterious Mr. Love. He’s also performed major comedic and dramatic roles at Kitchen Dog, Stage West, Casa Mañana and Circle Theatre. Watching Jenkins onstage is a lesson in acting technique. His diction is crisp, his physicality well-tuned. His handsome face, with its deeply dimpled smile, can shift from utterly beguiling one moment to dangerously brooding the next. There’s something old-fashioned about Jenkins’ approach to stage work. He doesn’t just say the words and strike the poses; he inhabits the characters and disappears into the roles. When his name is in the program, you know you’re in for something good. Applause, applause.

Quite a fuss was made when the Angelika Film Center & Café opened at Mockingbird Station, but here’s the dirty truth: Parking is impossible, and once you actually get inside the theater (if you do; shows sell out quicker than most business majors), you’re surrounded by every North Dallas soccer mom who still thinks going to see independent (or–gasp!–foreign) films is edgy. Quietly, the Magnolia was up and running a few months later, and since then, it’s beaten the Angelika at its own game–finding the sweet spot between the art house and the cineplex–even if the scoreboard doesn’t always reflect it. You can grab an adult beverage at Fuel (the cozy and classy bar upstairs) and a Hebrew National hot dog from the concession stand, then sit back and relax with some of the finest films coming through town. And you can do it all in an atmosphere that feels more like you’re in your living room with friends instead of the odd man out at a Jewish singles function. Bonus: The Magnolia houses one of the only digital projectors in Texas.

Grand Prairie’s Nikki McKibbin was one of the final three contestants, and Burleson’s Kelly Clarkson won the whole shooting match. Maybe A&R reps will start paying a little more attention. Then again, what good did winning a televised battle of the bands do for Flickerstick (since bought out of its contract with Epic Records) or D-FW as a whole? Discuss.

Whew. Talk about a way to make enemies. They’ve all got their niches, as well as their weaknesses–oops, we mean quirks. Here, then, a few peeves and observations. Some of the “top” galleries in this town (no names here) are way too tuned in to the biennials for our tastes. Others (no names) try way too hard to be hip. And of the few good galleries in this town, only a handful–we’re talking three, maybe four–fundamentally get what art is about. Too many get caught up in marketing and PR and society columns and party pix and Who Attended What Opening and all that folderol that, in the end, undermine art’s only legitimate purpose: the promotion of ideas and honest debate. We know we’re sounding a bit puritan here. And we’ve got nothing against a good party. But we should never forget that making, selling and writing about art are silly and frivolous occupations that mask very serious purposes. In the words of one theoretician, they are “wasteful, privileged endeavor[s] through which very serious ideas are sorted out.” Oh, sure, artists have gotta eat, and gallery owners have to pay rent, and it helps to move a canvas here and there. But way too many galleries in this town are more concerned about selling than about serving as good, old-fashioned marketplaces of ideas. And so, with reservations, we’re going to have to pick Pillsbury and Peters Fine Art. Yeah, we know. They don’t do emerging artists; they don’t take big chances. And in a recent, rather unpleasant instance, they seemed to be unable to understand the difference between art criticism and promotion. But the folks at the top, particularly Ted Pillsbury, get the marketplace-of-ideas thing. And it’s the one place in town where you can always see something worthwhile. Honorable mentions go to Mulcahy Modern and Photographs Do Not Bend, two places run by folks who are in it for all the right reasons. If they had the space and resources of Pillsbury and Peters, they’d be vying for the top spot.

Is there anything this woman can’t do? When she’s not producing, directing or designing some wild and woolly experimental thing for Kitchen Dog Theater, her home company down at McKinney Avenue Contemporary, this Texas native and SMU theater grad can take center stage and act up a storm. As “Sister Woman” in WaterTower Theatre’s spring production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she waddled around looking 14 months’ pregnant (thanks to heavy padding) and drenched her pit-viper dialogue with Southern Comfort, outright heisting the show from Maggie the Cat. In the summer’s Henry IV at Shakespeare in the Park, Parker bounded onstage in punk gear as Poins, a role traditionally cast as a man. Parker possesses that elusive element of stardom, the “It Factor.” Her eyes sparkle, her smile beckons. Her technique is awesome, too. Great voice, unbridled energy. She may never play the ingenue, but who cares? She’s a talent of consequence, best compared to fellow SMU alum Kathy Bates. Parker’s also just a real nice down-home gal. Witness her funny preshow speeches to the audiences at Kitchen Dog, where she greets the crowd with a hearty “Howdeeeee!” and then warns theatergoers to switch off their cell phones and pagers…and deactivate any house-arrest prison ankle bracelets.

You might as well give up on radio, because we can assure you, radio has given up on you. At least the people who run it have. It’s all about making the numbers instead of making the listeners happy. Not so at The Bone, where they give the people what they want. Which, as it turns out, is pretty much the same thing Q102 and The Zoo gave them 15, 20 years ago. Sure, there are some “new” tunes (Nirvana, Soundgarden, U2, Pearl Jam and such), but those are just side dishes. The meat on The Bone comes courtesy of Jimi and Journey, Led Zep and ZZ Top, Van Halen (both Dave and Sammy incarnations)–just about anything you’d find on a bumper sticker on the back of a sweet-ass Camaro. And the strategy has paid off, both for the station and the long-neglected Dallas rock-radio fan.

Every year, we make the three-hour trip to the, ahem, Live Music Capital of the World for SXSW, and what we find is a city that pales in comparison to our own (entertainment-wise, at any rate), a place that’s been coasting on its rep since before Willie Nelson got in trouble with the IRS. We know moving the yearly music fest north means someone will lose money for a few years. And you know what? We don’t care. It’s not our money. We just wanna sleep in our own beds after drinking from noon to 2 a.m. Is that too much to ask?

Yes, yes, we know Norah Jones used to play piano at an Italian restaurant in North Dallas before she moved to NYC and sold a million or so copies of her debut album, Come Away With Me. But you did not see her there. No, really, you didn’t.

Used to be there was one and only one: the venerable USA Film Festival, co-founded in 1970 by filmmaker L.M. Kit Carson. Now you can’t shake a reel of film without hitting someone putting together a lineup of films making the fest-circuit rounds–that is, movies without distribution, and only a few worthy of it (for instance, the brilliant Tribute, a Soderbergh-exec-produced doc that played the USA Film Fest and the Dallas Video Fest this year but can’t find a taker because of costly music licensing issues). Forthcoming in the days ahead are the Latino-centric Vistas Film Festival in October and the Deep Ellum Film Festival the next month; and in the mix are fests geared toward fans of gay and lesbian offerings and Asian imports.

To get Clintonian for a moment, what, exactly, is a “visual” artist? One can argue that this must mean movies or video or even performance, since the other folks–your painters and your sculptors and your bits-of-confetti-on-the-museum-floor types–work with physical materials and thus should be labeled plastic artists. But movies and video aren’t “art” forms at all, not 95 percent of the time, anyway. But where does that leave photography, which is a “visual” art? And what about actors, and dancers, and their art-world cousins, the “happenings” folks? You can argue that the poor lost souls who never got over Fluxus are the only true “visual” artists, again to the extent that they are artists at all. Don’t even get us started on the possible meanings of “best.” So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to define “best” to mean the critic’s favorite, and “visual” to mean “plastic” (also the critic’s favorite), and we’re going to read “contemporary Texas” into the specs. We’re not going to limit the candidates to folks who have had a show in the last year. And now that we’ve defined things just so, the choice is David Bates, the Dallas painter and sculptor who is far and away the best living Texas artist. Honorable mention goes to an up-and-comer, Longview’s delightfully off-plumb Celia Eberle.

Did anyone really think a decade ago that K104 would survive when “flyjock” Tom Joyner left? The station has not only survived but thrived, and the Morning Team, led by Skip Murphy, is the reason. He is the perfect complement to his team–Sam Putney, Chris Arnold, the Wig and the wonderful Nannette Lee. Each morning is at once an intimate hour before work and a freewheeling jazz-comedy session on the day’s news and events. And the music is, ah, off the hizzle, fo’ shizzle. Or something. But you already know this: The station is consistently No. 1 or 2 in the Arbitron ratings. Wow. We do something right, after all.

In some ways, this is the easiest pick. So many of the gallery shows we’ve reviewed were so weak that the images left our memory banks before the next week’s paper hit the streets. Indeed, looking back on the last year, there’s only one show from which we remember every single work: Modern Appalachia, Photographs Do Not Bend’s show of the photographs of Shelby Lee Adams. There are plenty of photography buffs who believe Adams’ work, which focuses on the mountain folk of Appalachia, is too predictable, even clichéd. And his lens does catch its share of 15-year-old mothers and dirty urchins. But Adams’ real fascination lies with the old folk, fossilized remnants of a centuries-old way of life. The results are spellbinding little pockets of 19th- and even 18th-century Americana that have survived to this day. The subjects themselves, though simple folk, display a startling range of awareness, appearing at once romantic and emotionally naked, playful and utterly serious, vulnerable and shrewd. Despite being taken in difficult circumstances–on tiny farms or shotgun houses or plots of land that ascend straight up the mountainside–the majority of photographs were beautifully composed and lit. This is explosive subject matter, potentially lurid, ethically loaded. Yet Adams didn’t go for the cheap or sensational, didn’t aim to shock. There were no Goldin-style portraits in the outhouse, no Sturges-style naked backwoods Lolitas, no Mapplethorpesque exploration of the more exotic customs of the “confirmed bachelors” who populate his photos, no suggestion the sheep are scared. But Adams didn’t exactly sanitize, either. There was poverty, buffoonery and ignorance aplenty in the resulting silver gelatin prints, along with dignity and tenderness. Adams’ photos are affectionate glimpses of human folly.

Besides being geographically miles away from the Dallas Art Dealers Association galleries along Cedar Springs, Fairmount and Routh, Forbidden Gallery and Emporium is miles away from them in its choice of art. Group and solo exhibits highlight artwork shown and collected on both coasts, but rarely seen anywhere else, including Tiki-themed art, Shag’s space-age and retro-stylin’ illustrations and works by avant-garde and young-buck artists Mark Ryden, Steven Cerio and Frank Kozik. Owner Jason Cohen, who once owned the gallery’s Expo Park neighbor Forbidden Books, has established connections in the two and a half years the gallery’s been in business and continues to bring in artists pop-culture fans have heard of, but few curators will take a chance on. At Forbidden Gallery and Emporium, “blue hairs” doesn’t mean the old lady art collectors seen uptown; there it means punks taking in art you won’t find anywhere else in Big D.

Every weekday from noon to 2 p.m., Mitchell entertains a variety of guests–anyone from, say, Alan Dershowitz to Kinky Friedman–and the resulting conversations (they’re more than mere interviews) never fail to entertain. Mitchell can hold his own no matter who’s on the other side of his microphone, and his show will keep you in your car for a few extra minutes, or maybe make you postpone lunch a half-hour so you won’t miss a word. That said, Mitchell wins (again) simply for Anything You Ever Wanted to Know, his every-Friday chance for listeners to find out, um, anything they ever wanted to know. And, no offense, but this is almost a forfeit: Apart from Mitchell and the fine fellas over at The Ticket, when it comes to talk radio in Dallas, you either get bad impersonations of Howard Stern (KYNG-FM, which also happens to have the real Stern) or very good impersonations of corpses (hello, KLIF).

Photographs Do Not Bend offers rotating exhibits of both black-and-white and color photography, pulling from its stable of contemporary, still-producing artists and its extensive and varied archive and creating some of the best examples of the medium through themed or spontaneous exhibits. And, besides exhibiting some of the most intriguing modern and archive photography, PDNB also has a charm most galleries don’t. Instead of bare rooms with sterile walls, this gallery is in a little house tucked back on Routh Street with creaky hardwood floors and occasionally a house pet running around.

It sounds a bit oxymoronic, but there really is such a thing as a competent bureaucrat, and he comes in the form of Stan Tungate, who supervises the public access area to the civil and family court records of the district clerk’s office. Tungate is not only extremely knowledgeable but remarkably affable–a rare quality in civil servants these days. If a court file or record exists–some go back to 1939–he will find it for you, approaching the task with the determination of a private sleuth. Certainly it’s not easy dealing with people who have a limited understanding of what they want (those are just the lawyers), but Tungate handles himself admirably in all situations. Although he dabbled in politics, running unsuccessfully for district clerk a few election cycles ago, his presence as a line supervisor would have been sorely missed.

Don’t need much to be a great radio DJ, and Cindy Scull has the most important thing on the list: a voice that sounds like butter and whiskey, and the ability to use it. She’s naughty and nice and the only reason to tune in to KEGL; God knows it’s not the music. Give her the afternoon-drive slot at The Bone (sorry, Jeff K) and it gets no better.

They call it “The Joy of Learning After 55,” and there’s proof in the packaging. Seniors who never thought they would darken another classroom door are registering for lecture series on everything from “Opera for Dummies” to computer classes, “Shakespeare on Film” to pottery, photography and estate preservation. For fees that range from $10 to $20, there’s something for everyone. And for those 65 and over, the fees are waived. For up-to-date information on the program’s offerings, access www.rlc.dcccd.edu/emeritus.htm.

To be a truly innovative judge is a rare thing. It’s so much easier just to follow the law, to mete out punishment because it’s your job, to have a cuff-’em-and-stuff-’em mentality in order to get re-elected for life. But the drug addict cries out to be treated differently; he is destined to reoffend because he is an addict, sick, committing all manner of crimes to feed his habit. Most judges realize this; Judge John Creuzot was willing to do something about it. He organized what is known locally as DIVERT court, which attempts to deal with the problems of drug offenders through treatment rather than just punishment. Creuzot’s street-savvy demeanor made the program work, although he has now turned over the reins to Judge Janice Warder. But with the Legislature finally exploring drug treatment courts in major Texas cities, Judge Creuzot is still working behind the scenes to see this come to pass. Damn refreshing.

For their first theatrical production, an update of Rick Najera’s comic collection of sketches about Latino life, this group of young theater tyros had to hold opening night in a cramped conference room at the Ice House Cultural Center off Swiss Avenue. With only a tiny platform, minimal lighting and a sweaty audience sitting an arm’s length away, actors Otis Gray and Marco Rodriguez turned in firecracker performances, playing dozens of characters in a wild array of wigs and costumes. For the level of energy and skill they exhibited, they could just as well have been onstage at Carnegie Hall. It was the kind of show that left theatergoers looking at their programs going, “Who are these guys?” They are that good. Under executive producer Miranda Martinez, by day a worker bee in the corporate world, this company of talented Hispanic actors, designers and writers is looking ahead to ambitious theatrical events. Early next year they’ll mount the world premiere of a new Najera play, Buford Gomez: Tales of a Rightwing Border Patrol Officer. Watch for this creative bunch to make their mark on the Dallas theater scene in years to come.

You’re taking your early-morning jog with your pet dog Old Blue and desperately searching your headset for some music to run by. Frustrated, you are willing to settle for anything other than the mindless prattle of two self-absorbed DJs who laugh at their own canned jokes as if they were entertaining someone other than themselves. You stumble onto WRR, the sole classical music station in town, and listen to Road Rage Remedy or the March of the Day and suddenly believe there is a God. Even the news becomes more tolerable, particularly as the cool, smooth voice of Valerie Moore hits the airwaves, her news stylings taking on a peculiarly sexy quality. It’s just the news, you remind yourself, but with Valerie it’s so much more. She knows just when to pause before she anoints the last word of a sentence, when to drop her voice an octave for just the right amount of primal ooziness before going to a commercial break. She seduces you to keep listening, just so you can hear her deliver the weather and traffic…”next.”

OK, we’ve got bronzed cattle-drive re-creations, statues of hard-throwing Nolan Ryan, Texas Rangers, mustangs, et al. around town, but if it’s real art by master craftsmen you want to see, the Oakland Cemetery, established in 1891, will blow you away. Elaborate memorial sculptures in granite and marble, some done as far away as Florence, Italy, are shipped here to stand guard over Dallas’ Who’s Who of yesteryear. The cemetery is open until sundown daily and offers not only a magnificent art exhibit but a fascinating visit to the city’s history. Don’t forget to take a camera.

With Dallas being home to more than 200 ethnic communities, Dallas International sees its mission as attempting to harness their cultural diversity by providing a forum to express the richness of their heritage and thereby create a better understanding of each group to the rest of the city. We think. Each year (generally in June) the organization produces the Dallas International Festival, spearheaded by Anne Marie Weiss-Armush. Regrettably, the festival had to make do this year as funding cuts forced it out of its digs at Fair Park and cramped it into the Majestic Theatre, where Dallas’ finest global arts groups performed. The festival’s International Bazaar has been rescheduled for November and relocated to the St. Mark’s School of Texas at 10600 Preston Road. The food court alone will be worth the price of admission, which is free. Honorable mention: the martinis at Terilli’s. Drink three of these and everyone will be your friend.

Too bad we don’t have a category for Best-looking City Council Member so she could win twice. Dr. Elba, a dentist, wins this one because we have a very simple criterion: Does the council member do more or less what her constituents want? Garcia attacks her job obsessively as if every single constituent complaint were a dental cavity. She parked on the desk of the director of animal control until he agreed to go catch more dogs. Then she rode in the vans with the dog catchers to make sure they got it done. The Oak Cliff Chamber of Commerce loves her because she fixed the huge mess with the Texas Theatre restoration. She got all the city’s myriad Cinco de Mayo and Diez y Seis parades combined into one. And when the council shot down her idea of having the new Latino Cultural Center named for a brand of tequila (bad idea), she got funding instead from a dairy (good idea). So if she’s so smart, what’s she doing on the city council? District 1 just lucked out, we guess.

Just as the stand-up comedy boom of the 1980s was fizzling out, comedian Rob Becker began his research into the oddities of human behavior. Do women carry a shopping gene? Do men have a territorial imperative when it comes to the remote? Becker took what he learned and wrote Defending the Caveman, an insightful, enlightening and hilarious two-hour monologue explaining the anthropological reasons for the quirks that occur in the male-female dynamic. He tried out the show on the road in the early ’90s, including a long stint at the Addison Improv, and ended up taking Caveman to Broadway. He’s now performed it for more than 2 million people in the United States and Canada, and there are offshoot productions on the boards in Iceland and South Africa. Clearly, he’s on to something with a universal message. With every syllable polished, Becker’s show returned to Dallas this spring for a double run at the Majestic, where it played to sold-out houses of couples (mostly) who laughed till they cried and repeatedly jabbed each other in the rib cage, whispering, “He’s talking about yewwwww!”

Besides the free parking and free admission, the African American Museum in Fair Park contains some really cool stuff about African American history in Dallas that you are unlikely to find elsewhere. One of the current displays contains artifacts from Freedman’s Town, a black enclave in old Dallas that was buried under a freeway until some local black-history buffs banded together to keep the memory and the history alive. Artifacts include parts of caskets and children’s toys. Besides that exhibit, which is ongoing, the nearly 30-year-old museum claims to have “one of the largest African-American folk art collections in the United States.” The Fair Park building has four galleries, a research library and a theater.

It doesn’t matter where you are, Sekt has been there. Street corners, drains, rain gutters and brick walls. Our very own building has been graced with the tag of the elusive being. We have to wonder, is that a name, a statement, some sort of slang or just a favorite word-cum-identity? We counted 100 “Sekts” in a quarter-mile walk to lunch and back. When does the tagging happen? Late nights we endured here and no sign of a person, yet in the morning new tags appear. One person we mentioned the urban phenomenon to saw a tag on an overpass coming from Fort Worth–now that’s dedication, not to mention spare time. Dallas begs to know who is behind Sekt, group or person, fish or fowl. For the love of Mike, who the hell are you?! Even if we never know, we acknowledge Sekt for the stamina and misspelling that drove the short tag to conversation status.

Talk about commitment to one’s art. For the title role in Barbette, a new biographical play by Bill Lengfelder and David Goodwin performed at Kitchen Dog Theater in June, Joey Steakley spent nearly a year learning the art of the trapeze and perfecting the moves of the “Spanish web,” a balletic circus act on a rope 30 feet in the air. His performance as the Texas-born transvestite circus star involved not just perfecting aerial stunts but delicately depicting the young “Barbette” (real name Vander Clyde) as a dreamy farm boy in Round Rock, Texas, and his subsequent journey to musical hall stardom in drag and his stormy affair with a great poet in Paris in the 1920s. Steakley’s fine, subtle acting in the physically demanding role–he did that rope ballet wearing little more than satin shorts, pasties and a blond wig–made the stuntwork even more breathtaking and affecting. For a young actor (he earned his degree in drama in May), fearlessness is as important as talent. Steakley has more of both than most actors of any age.

Owen and Luke Wilson, this year’s Hollywood It-Boys, make it back home to Dallas pretty often, and when they do, they inevitably drop in (with their handsome ‘rents) at this pricey but delish Park Cities Mexican spot. The country-club crowd this restaurant attracts (need the valet parkers for the Rollses, doncha know) generally ignores the Wilson clan and lets them eat their Barra de Navidad and Filete Cantinflas (two Javier’s specialties) in peace. Some of us just enjoy feasting on the sight of the Wilsons in the flesh.

Unlike its crosstown cousin, not much of Dallas resembles the days of cattle drives or cowboys, and maybe that was the idea behind this popular public sculpture. The large herd of longhorns and cowboys, which promoters say is the “biggest outdoor sculpture of longhorns and cowboys in the world,” is a most impressive sight. Plopped down in the middle of a bustling city near the convention center, the longhorns are gaudy and cool, like the city they represent.

Let’s admit something to each other. For the most part, they’re all the same. Sure, there’s a difference in the personnel, in the tone, of each station. Channel 8 has a bunch of vets and an air of superiority, which works if you don’t watch ’em every night. Channel 5 HAS THIS LATE-BREAKING NEWS DA DA DA DAAAAA. Channel 4 tries hard and actually does a better job than most think with limited resources. And WB33 has Friends reruns following it, which is nice. But, you know, try what we do some nights and flip between all five at 10 p.m. For the most part, on most nights, they’re all doing the same stuff, often in the same order. Which means it comes down to a question of which tone you prefer. We like Channel 11. They keep the happy talk to a minimum, which is no small thing. They put the big stories first–national news, international news, then local everyday stuff. They have Kristine Kahanek delivering the weather forecast, which is nice for obvious reasons. And Babe Laufenberg has grown into a fun-to-watch sportscaster. All in all, as solid as TV news can be.

It’s no secret why KERA called Punch Drunk Comedy one of Dallas’ best-kept secrets. The quartet of comedians serves up funny and unpredictable shows every Thursday for four to six weeks at the Home Bar off of Greenville Avenue. It also takes the revues–often centering around a theme and involving costumes, music and more–one step beyond during the final week of the show, when the members try to sabotage one another by improvising and changing their lines during “The Stunt Show.” But even during a normal–we use the term loosely–show when they’re relying on scripts, the audience never knows what will happen next.

It is hard to miss the eye-catching work of famed sculptor Hans Van de Bovenkamp as you make the walk through the pedestrian tunnel connecting the transit center and the light-rail station. The 8-foot red aluminum free-form structure in the shape of an “O” appears to be alive, undulating, seeming to change shapes as the sun hits it from different angles during the day. The sculpture is a variation on a theme called “Gateway” that was erected in Oklahoma City’s Myriad Gardens in 1993. Just because it is in the hellhole that is Oklahoma City, don’t hold that against ol’ Hans.

Much to the joy of most Dallas-area media, the former Dallas city councilman took off the electronic shackles 27 months into his 41-month sentence of house arrest (watching television). Just about everybody seemed downright giddy at the announcement that an appeals court overturned his sentence, not because Lipscomb was wrongly convicted but because of a legal technicality. Dallas Morning News columnist James Ragland gleefully fawned over Lipscomb and defended him, actually going so far as to say, “He was charming and charismatic. He was circumspect. More important, he was contrite, acknowledging that he erred by not reporting he was taking money from a cab company owner doing business with the city.” Guess Ragland could overlook the fact that Lipscomb started pushing the cab company’s agenda after monthly cash payments started. Maybe the voters could forget it, too. Welcome back, Al!

TV news is suddenly crowded with 20-something models who stumble on words with more than three syllables and are never quite sure if famine in Bangladesh is happy news or sad. Tracy Rowlett reassures precisely because the years have bequested him with the opposite set of traits–some wrinkles, some schnozz, a bit of jowl and a dead-on news sense. When Rowlett relates a major story, we can tell that he himself knows what the story is about. We trust him never to announce with an engaging smile that Washington is under attack.

With most theaters jobbing in actors (Dallas Theater Center gets ’em from New Yawk City, no less), a good old-fashioned repertory company is getting hard to find ’round these parts. Now in its second decade, the Kitchen Dog Theater’s resident acting company still is composed mostly of SMU acting and directing grads (and professors) who created this theater for themselves 12 years ago (and named it after a reference in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot). In two acting spaces at McKinney Avenue Contemporary, artistic director Dan Day and his small band of gifted thespians–Tina Parker, Christopher Carlos, Tim Johnson, Bill Lengfelder–continue to create remarkably edgy and ambitious work in a nearly year-round schedule of full-length plays and cabaret shows. Always looking to shake up theatergoers’ expectations, KDT has lined up a bold new season that includes Beckett’s Happy Days (now playing), King Lear, George F. Walker’s Heaven, the controversial prison play In the Belly of the Beast by Jack Henry Abbott and the Fifth Annual New Works Festival, including one main-stage production and seven staged readings.

If you’re a fan of independent cinema–movies that don’t suck, usually–here’s the best deal in town, in the country…OK, in the world, whatever. Pay a small fee, and every other Sunday or so you can wake up a little early and be greeted by a sneak preview of a would-be art-house hit. Now, you won’t know the name of the movie until you arrive at the theater, but the odds are good in this game of Reel Russian Roulette: Among the movies that have been part of Harlan Jacobson’s Talk Cinema series are Gods and Monsters, Gosford Park, Sunshine State, No Man’s Land, Pulp Fiction, L.A. Confidential and Breaking the Waves. The only downside is after the screening you have to listen to some local film critic, including on occasion some schmuck from the Dallas Observer, pontificate on the movie’s meaning and the filmmaker’s intentions before opening up the room for discussion. But, hey, that’s the small price of being so danged special. For more information about Talk Cinema, which begins its new series September 29, go to www.talkcinema.com.

Published this year by the Botanical Research Institute of Texas, quite pricey at $89.95, this book is it, the authority, the comprehensive catalog of anything and everything that grows in this part of Texas. Years in the making, one of a series of books that will one day cover the entire state, this book is written so that lay people can understand it. But it is also a serious scientific resource, replete with beautiful illustrations. If you own this book, you are the ultimate authority, until somebody else you know gets it. The editors are George M. Diggs Jr., Barney L. Lipscomb and Robert J. O’Kennon. You can order it from Yonie Hudson, Publications Assistant, Botanical Research Institute of Texas, 509 Pecan St., yhudson@brit.org.

This theater space, like a good actor, never does it the same way twice. For every play, the 32,000-square-foot interior of this glass and concrete space is reconfigured. Sometimes it’s arena-style, sometimes thrust. For Book of Days, the Lanford Wilson drama performed this summer, actors trod a long runway that ran nearly the full length of the theater. For Always…Patsy Cline, the 200 seats and stage were shifted into an intimate, clublike setting. But aside from the aesthetic aspects of the space itself, what WaterTower offers is a remarkably high-quality approach to its productions. Artistic director Terry L. Martin mixes it up with the choices of plays each season, with even the tried-and-true titles getting a fresh twist. This year offered theatergoers the classic Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but with a new emphasis on the men in the play instead of the bitchy gal in the slip. Wilson’s serious Book of Days was a modern, dour take on Our Town, followed by the unapologetically sentimental twang of Always… Patsy Cline. Their 2002-’03 season begins in October with the old standard You Can’t Take It With You, followed in January by the area premiere of The Laramie Project, Moises Kaufman’s portrait of America inspired by the murder of Matthew Shepard. And forget the Dickens-style Christmas show. Out in Addison, you’ll get David Sedaris’ bitterly funny account of life in Macy’s elf hell in The Santaland Diaries again this year. With other local theaters struggling to stay afloat, WaterTower has seen attendance increase more than 50 percent over the 2001 season. Good actors, good directing, good plays, good time. Simple as that. Oh, and let’s not forget the cushy new theater seats they’ve recently installed. Audience appreciation is always appreciated.

We’re going to take credit for her success, so deal; we’ve been singing this gal’s praises for years and years…a couple, at least. We’ll just say this: Erykah Badu’s longtime backup singer should never have to stand in the shadows again. N’Dambi’s second album, last year’s Tunin Up & Cosignin, contains two dozen of the groovinest and moovinest tracks ever cut by someone from the 214; she’s Nina by way of Dinah, Aretha by way of Dusty, whoever by way of whatever. That she ain’t yet a star may have less to do with ambition and talent, however, than our town’s nasty habit of letting its best and brightest burn out or move out; hell, it took a Florida station to make stars of the Toadies, and look what happened there. Word is she’s contemplating a move up north, where they appreciate ladies of soul. So, Dallas, have a heart: Make yours N’Dambi. Damb it.

Arthur Eisenberg took a lot of crap, literally, from some of his neighbors when he built this house in 2000, but it is an excellent example of tasteful contemporary design. The home, built on a stout but eloquent stucco and steel frame, consists of two “cottages” that are separate and accessible by their own stairwells. On the outside, the house steps back onto the lot so it doesn’t overpower its neighbors. On the inside, the design has the opposite effect: The main living area, built around a massive exposed fireplace, offers 30 feet of head room and is overlooked by two indoor balconies–one for each of the cottages. In order to bring warmth to the home’s otherwise steel feel, Eisenberg and local artist Otis Jones collaborated on a soothing color scheme of muted greens and a blue accent. “This is the house I’ll probably die in,” Eisenberg says. “So I didn’t do a lot of compromising.”

Since we have trashed most of The Dallas Morning News columnists at some time or another during the year, it would be damn inconsistent, if not bordering on hypocritical, to celebrate them now. But what the heck. Crow is an acquired taste and one that we don’t mind indulging, particularly when we see talent within the otherwise banal and gutless op-ed pages of the News. Unlike many of his colleagues, columnist Ruben Navarrette is not afraid to take on the establishment, be it business or political. He chastises the Bush Administration for using the war as an excuse to deprive individuals of their civil rights. He chastises Republican senatorial candidate John Cornyn for playing politics by demanding a too-little-too-late investigation into the Tulia, Texas, mass drug arrests. He chastises the school board for denying Hispanics representation consistent with their demographics. Yet make no mistake: His politics are often conservative, though witnessed through the refreshing lens of cultural diversity. His voice is clear, his opinions clearer, and unlike many at the DMN, you don’t come away from his writing questioning where he is coming from and which interest group he is trying not to offend.