“The governor has arrived!” Friedman booms. And with that, the best-selling mystery writer and former lead singer of the Texas Jewboys digs into his vest pocket, which is stuffed with Cuban cigars–fat Montecristo No. 2’s, the same kind Fidel used to smoke. “It’s gonna be a long day, so I came prepared,” Friedman declares and lights up, oblivious to the barrage of no smoking signs plastered on the nearby fuel tanks.
In a state known for its cast of larger-than-life political personalities, Kinky Friedman may be the most eccentric Texan ever to throw his Stetson into the political ring. At the very least, he’s the first Jewish cowboy to seek the governor’s mansion and probably the only gubernatorial candidate in the country who boasts about never having held a real job. His campaign slogans: “Why the Hell Not?” and “How Hard Can It Be?” Wherever he goes, he spouts corny, populist one-liners that can make him seem like a thawed relic from another era–which, truth be told, he kind of is. “I’m for the little fellers,” he exclaims, “not the Rockefellers!”
The other candidates put down his campaign as a novelty act, when they acknowledge he exists at all. “What can he offer besides comic relief?” mocks Texas Democratic Party chair Boyd Richie. But there’s one thing his opponents can’t ignore: much to their dismay, he’s suddenly a serious contender. A Survey USA poll of likely Texas voters conducted last month put Friedman’s support at 21 percent, running second to Gov. Rick Perry, the Re-publican incumbent, who clocked in with only 35 percent. Friedman has climbed to a paper-thin lead over his two other opponents–Democrat Chris Bell, who polled at 20 percent, and Carole Keeton Strayhorn, a Republican turned independent, who checked in at 19 percent.
It’s been an ugly year in Texas politics. Voters are tiring of Perry, who has gotten a rep as a do-nothing governor, and anti-politician hostilities are high, especially after Tom DeLay’s troubles. But Friedman has another thing going for him: his campaign strategists are Bill Hillsman and Dean Barkley, the brains who turned pro wrestler Jesse Ventura into Minnesota’s surprise governor. They know how to make voters take a stranger-than-fiction candidate seriously. “I don’t go to work for people who I don’t think have a real chance of winning,” Hillsman says. “Kinky can win.”
Friedman claims he’s in the race because he needs the closet space, but the idea to run came after a near-death experience in Cabo San Lucas a few summers ago. Swept to sea by a wave, Kinky ended up stranded on a jagged cliff for more than 24 hours with nothing but a soggy cigar. His friends thought he had faked his own death, but Friedman had an epiphany. “I had achieved a lot of my dreams,” he says in a serious tone. “And I decided that I wanted to see younger Texans have the chance to achieve their dreams, just like I did.”
It’s a story Hillsman and Barkley believe will resonate with voters. Only 29 percent turned out in the last election, and the campaign is looking to attract other disaffected types who could put it over the top. It’s vintage Ventura–but Texas isn’t Minnesota. Friedman won’t benefit from same-day voter registration, which gave Ventura his biggest boost. And he can’t beat his rivals in the fund-raising game. He’s counting on lots of free publicity and help from his celebrity friends, like Ventura, who will join the campaign next month for a college tour. Willie Nelson and Jimmy Buffett are planning benefit concerts in the fall.
As for Friedman, he’ll stick to what he does best: being Kinky. At Carl’s Corner, he shakes every hand that comes his way, poses for every picture and signs every autograph. “I feel it!” he says, firing up another stogie. “People are breaking our way!” Reaching into his pocket, he grabs a bandanna and dabs his sweaty brow. “The governor is hot,” he says.
