Photo by astorg via Flickr

For those of you who may have missed the New Yorker article that shined a respected national spotlight on it. Or the coverage of the political shenanigans spawned by its faults. Or any of the articles about the increasing mess it seems to be making for current Texas Governor Rick Perry and his bid for a third term.

Okay: So, for those of you who have placed yourselves on something of a domestic U.S. news embargo over the past few weeks, NPR offered a nice summation of the Cameron Todd Willingham case this past Wednesday. Willingham, as most of you will remember, is the guy who was put to death in the nation’s busiest death chamber after years of innocence claims and despite some actual proof, which some argue was of the variety that might have lead to an eventual exoneration. In the wake of all of this, death penalty opponents find themselves in the morbidly awkward sort of position usually reserved for the beatifiers of assassinated heads of state and their subsequently idolized ilk: Robbed of a chance to see the full-realization of their subject’s potential (in Willingham’s case, his theoretical exoneration), they are forced to salvage what they can from death. For anti-death-penalty crusaders, Willingham’s execution might (despite Dahlia Lithwick’s Slate-published assertion that the Constitution offers no comfort for properly convicted innocent death row inmates) be just the sort of test case that they’ve been waiting for — something that could be pointed to in court as evidence that innocent people fall victim to the U.S. death penalty. When they find that case — and if it results in a second nationwide ban on capital punishment — things could get ugly in Texas.

NPR’s John Burnett, the reporter who authored that summation of the Willingham case mentioned above, was spot-on when he called the death penalty “sacrosanct” in the mind of Texans. Here, as Burnett pointed out, “upwards of 70 percent of the population support[s] it” and “[n]o serious candidate from either party runs against it.” There are, of course, the color-coded-state explanations of this fact — that Texas is a state with a decidedly conservative bent, and that in such states, support for the death penalty is stronger than it is elsewhere. But there seems to be further reason that Burnett used a synonym for inviolable when describing this state’s attraction (addiction?) to execution, and these have something more to do with identity than any sort of ideology.

As any politically aware citizen of the United States — and, on two occasions, the world — can tell you, Texans like their elected officials to be of the folksy variety: Lyndon Johnson gave visiting dignitaries tours of his ranch from the backseat of his Lincoln Continental convertible, Ann Richards rode her Harley around Austin, Dubya’s entire public persona was based on what was presented as a simple, black-and-white worldview. Almost every public official sports some kind of cowboy gear, no matter the amount of time that they spend behind a desk. These are all acts of homage — a very public kow-towing to the Gus McCrea/Woodrow Call character-ideal that lives inside of so many Texans — and, in return for them, Great Staters (and, on two occasions, game U.S. citizens) offer-up a whole variety of public offices.

The trouble here is that, as part of their cultivated cowboy image, latter-day Austin-bound Virginians can’t part with the folksy judicial elegance offered by capital punishment. With it, a guilty party is dispatched — granted, not as quickly as some cowboys might otherwise have liked, but dispatched, nonetheless — in ideal fashion; justice wears the white hat we’d like it to, and the bad guy is forced to submit to its will. It’s a simple treatment for the plague of extreme crime, one not adequately addressed by the here-relative complexities of the prison system. It’s not quite kill ‘em all, but it’s close. And as long as the cowboy remains the figure most ideally suited for public office in Texas, it’ll stay that way.

Which is why Willingham — and any future would-be exoner-ite — never had a chance. And it’s why secession is more likely to find its way into the state of Texas’ agenda than a moratorium on (let alone, the outlawing of) executions.

T-Mac: Once the source of all my joy, now the cause of all my pain

When I first moved to Austin from the East Coast six years ago, Texas and I had an understanding: I would ignore the fact that my new home state prided itself on Tom DeLay, pickup trucks, evangelical Christianity, honky-tonk music, the death penalty, football, Karl Rove, size, heat, lethargy, and a sex-education curriculum built around the belief that the best way to prevent unwanted pregnancies and STDs is to advocate “getting plenty of rest”; and, in return, Texas would grant me close proximity to three of the best basketball teams in the world – the San Antonio Spurs, the Houston Rockets, and the Dallas Mavericks. So long as these three teams kept playing top-tier ball, I agreed not to run screaming from this godforsaken land that time and culture and decency have forgotten – a land, by the way, where it has been at least 100 degrees for 17 months straight.

For a while our agreement worked beautifully. The Spurs won two championships – one in 2003, the other in 2005; the Mavericks reached the finals in 2006, and their star player, Dirk Nowitzki, became the first German with a goatee to win the MVP award; and the Rockets, my sentimental favorite, managed to get to the playoffs every year despite the fact that their two star players, Yao Ming and Tracy McGrady (delicate geniuses who, like Marcel Proust and John Keats before them, were born just a little too sensitive for this world), played together for a total of three and half games in five seasons.

But what do I do now?

Now that things aren’t quite so pretty anymore?

Now that the Mavericks have become a league laughingstock, a shell of their once-proud selves, yearly proof that all the talent in the world can’t make up for a lack of heart, a team that can give away a two-and-three-quarter-game lead in the NBA finals to a team made up of one superstar (Dwayne Wade) and a ragged assortment of middle-aged also-rans, that can enter the playoffs as the No.1 seed with the league’s MVP and get clobbered by a No. 8 seed that before then was best known for the fact that its star player looked like the bass player in a 70s funk band, a team that threw its most successful coach (Avery Johnson) overboard for no reason and replaced him with a perpetual mediocrity with a haircut only an insurance adjustor could love, that traded away its point guard of the future (Devin Harris)  for some other team’s point guard of the past (Jason Kidd), that somehow always manages to find a reason to let Erick Dampier play, and that – in a league full of colorful personalities and street-hardened tough guys – only manages to stir up controversy when one of its players calls out Francis Scott Key?

Now that the Spurs are aged and broken, a shell of their once-proud selves, constantly one twisted ankle away from total catastrophe, a team that can beat any other team in the league except for the Dallas Mavericks (the one team they always seem to meet in the playoffs), that gave away the 2006 Western Conference semifinals with a ridiculous “and-1″ foul that still stands as one of the league’s most stunning examples of basketball incompetence ever, that will collapse as soon as Tim Duncan does, that is collapsing as Tim Duncan does, that is more famous for being Eva Longoria’s favorite team than it is for being a four-time champion, and that calls the land of the River Walk home?

Now that the Rockets are officially and at last a big pile of bones; a shell of their once-proud selves; a team that went from being a championship contender with two perpetual all-stars (Yao and McGrady), a legendary shot-blocking, finger-wagging center (Dikembe Mutombo), and a volatile swing-man who changed his number to 37 in honor of the number of weeks Michael Jackson’s Thriller spent at No. 1 on the Billboard charts (Ron Artest) to a lottery grubber with none of those things (not even a copy of Thriller on cassette) in approximately 37 minutes; that is heading into next season with a roster consisting of Shane Battier, Luis Scola, two junior high school guidance counselors, six paperback copies of Faust, and a velvet sack filled with margarine; that will never win a championship so long as the Chinese government continues to treat Yao Ming like the subject of a science experiment seeking to understand the effects of exhaustion on a 7-inch-6-foot body and a 3-inch flat-top?

For chrissakes, I bought a house here! I have a mortgage and a band and a brand-new air conditioner I haven’t paid for (and don’t plan on paying for). I have responsibilities. If I had known Texas was going to welsh so egregiously on our agreement I would have left here years ago to pursue my dream of becoming the first Jewish chairman of Focus on the Family. Now it’s too late.

I’ve been hoodwinked; I’ve been had; I’ve been bamboozled; I’ve been sandbagged and shanghied, baited and switched.

Six years ago, Texas offered me eternal basketball happiness in return for my soul, and, being a great lover of the NBA who was convinced his soul wasn’t worth the bother anyway, I took it. And now Texas basketball is no longer the envy of the league. The Spurs, Mavs, and Rockets are middling teams at best, historical tragedies at worst. A new generation of teams has risen to take their place, like the Cleveland Cavaliers, the Orlando Magic, and the Denver Nuggets, leaving me in the unenviable position of having to choose between Cleveland, Orlando, and Denver as my next home.

Places like that could almost make a man like me sad to leave a place like Texas.

Almost.

30 June, 2009.

Have decided to keep track of my first year of Texas living. Found that the most appropriate title for this adventure has already been taken. Resolve to appreciate the pun and not co-opt the work of a colleague. Moving forward with appropriate synonymage.

Arrived Austin 29 December, ‘08. Stepped from behind the wheel of my Saturn and removed my hoody. Decided that Texas weather is fucking brilliant. Closed door and set about setting up house. Established myself with my better half in a detached duplex located to the north and east of downtown, in a neighborhood of trees and at least one Prius. Reminded that backyard is larger than mother’s Brooklyn apartment.

Spent the next month waking up to hot coffee and backyard setting (noted differences between sitting and setting). Discovered that a January garden doesn’t fail so completely in Texas as it does in New England. Wonder about the possible metaphors that could be associated with this revelation.

Secured part-time employment February ‘09. Working for a software firm, running the PR department. Realize that one can live in Texas on roughly half of what they were making back east. Eden allegories start running amok: Resolve to buy Stetson, fancy cowboy boots. Maybe a house.

March ‘09. A/C goes on. Notice that I sweat even at 70 degrees. Still convinced that summer will be a breeze.

Experience first South by Southwest. Amazed at lack of cynicism re: invading hordes of neon-wearing douchebags. Walk the streets to admire humanity. Feel very social. Have great time. Still completely floored at the hospitality of Texas weather. Enjoy many varieties of sausage. Laugh at the idea of wearing short pants.

Find myself nicely settled by April ‘09. Start to feel possessive about new locale. Decide that not even 100 degree heat could make me hate on Austin. Resolve to try to turn off A/C. Fail. Enjoy better half’s birthday with moon bounce and pinata. Plant summer garden. Learn that April is summer in Texas.

May ‘09: Make way to Snow’s BBQ in Lexington. Resolve to not believe Calvin Trillin about anything ever again. Also resolve to figure out a way to work Snow’s brisket into every meal. Feeling like a true Texan. Make puke-y noises at Yankee cuisine. Wonder how puritans made it through winter without brisket. Wonder how they can call themselves puritans without the presence of BBQ. Resolve to not travel above Mason-Dixon line again. Make a pair of cut-offs.

Jun ‘09: Buy house. Floored at Texas prices. Floored at agent’s ability. Floored at own inability to decide on paint colors. Floored at the cost of flooring.

Floored at first site of a all-100-degree seven day forecast. Begin to wonder about this summer thing.

Develop biking habit. Lose first battle with curb. Work to be able to drink and ride at the same time. Fail. Repeatedly. Head north to Pflugerville pfor some pfun. Ride 24-mile circuit. Enjoy some serious pastoral pornography. Realize that there are zebras in Texas. Run across free-range pig grazing underneath an Oak tree. Notice that it isn’t sweating. Notice the contrast between myself and the pig. Wonder about some sort of cosmic meaning. Fall off bike trying to drink water.

A Lot on Its Plate: The State of Texas Offers up a Feast for Drivers' Eyes.

On June 2nd, the Texas Department of Transportation (TDOT) unveiled what the Dallas Morning News called “a cool new license plate.” Studded at the bottom with a very real-looking view of the sun-baked Davis Mountains, which stares out at drivers from beneath an expanse of what could well be a … warm afternoon sky, the thing doesn’t exactly warrant that particular adjective. But reporter Kevin Krause’s point is still valid: The sucker looks pretty awesome.

Come to think of it, the tag that it’s replacing – despite its comparatively plain (and over-collaged, thanks to the likes of an absurdly rendered floating spaceship) appearance — was also something of a winner. Centered on a cowboy riding on a plain shrunk by an expanse of Western sky, that former plate accomplished what so many of its peers don’t: It managed to encapsulate both the romance posed by the western United States and the romance carried along the American road. And in so doing, it made for a perfectly succinct statement about both the state and the purpose that it represents. Put simply, the State of Texas seems to do this sort of thing better than most other jurisdictions.

Look: You may not think so, but this shit is important. A license plate is a marker — yes, of proper ownership, and paid taxes and fees — but also of heritage, of origin. Of from whence your ass came. Your tag doesn’t just tell other people about whether or not you forked over the dough for vanity plates (or some kind of cause-backing special-edition bumper-statement); it tells them about deeper realms of your identity. A Texan is, thanks to TDOT, a frontiersman both at home and wherever he or she brings his or her Chevy. A Georgian? For all other drivers know, they probably live with James inside his giant peach.

Of course, the fact that Texas has more in terms of a claim on romantic imagery than, say, Delaware — whose drivers are forced to sport the sort of monochromatics that go a long way toward reinforcing the idea that the place is a Mecca for accountants — might have something to do with all of this. Still, having easy pickins for source material doesn’t automatically spell iconic when it comes to tag design (ahem, New York; what the fuck happened to those Lady Liberty plates?), nor does having to dig for mythology mean that a State should resign itself to two-color representation (check out this fine Nebraskan example).

Those states that still insist on printing up simply utilitarian tags should probably consider the repercussions in terms of potential income: Let’s say you’re Vermont. You press stacks and stacks of plain green tags, and when your drivers get stuck in traffic while trying to negotiate the infuriating roads of Boston, all those would-be Masshole tourists get the message that your state is…

totally fucking boring. So you can flush those Burberry-clad tourist millions down the toilet.

Sure, it’s just a license plate. The thing probably gets banged together by folks whose only relevant skill-set is the ability to do two-to-five well enough that they get the privilege of a work detail. And, after it leaves the prison factory, it’s probably going to get more facetime with fenders than it will with any prospective tourists. But c’mon: Have a little pride, Vermont, New York, and Georgia. And New Jersey and Maryland and Florida. Make me care about your state; make me want to come visit. I know that there’s more to you than you’re letting on. I mean, if Texas — which, in the process, managed to stay away from some of the images that most of the world would first associate with the place — can dig deep and use some of the most inhospitable geography on the face of the planet to evoke positive, touristy visions, chances are that you can do better.