Congresswoman Kay Granger discusses her career, from teaching to representing Texas' 12th District. She reflects on local growth, health care's future, and even cutting horses. This article first appeared in the October 2009 issue of Parker County Today.
Having lived in both Florida and Texas, I've noticed surprising similarities beneath their distinct landscapes and cultures. From Florida's sunny coasts to Texas' stark horizons, a shared American spirit unites fiercely individual characters shaped by history and destiny.
Jacksonville boasts a rich, understated musical history with artists like Ray Charles and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Strategically branding this asset, including a downtown music corridor and promotion, offers substantial economic potential and fosters civic pride.
Fort Worth doesn’t have much of a national profile. It is the FW in DFW and has always taken a backseat to Dallas – its more urbane sibling located just 30 miles east. I almost called Dallas more sophisticated, but doing that would not be true. I think Fort Worth is the more sophisticated city, even if it is quieter and more regional.
In its first full month of operation, total liquor sales topped $600,000, and, for nearly all of 1981, the club hosted three, four and occasionally five top musical acts every week. "It was as if nothing could go wrong," said one of Billy Bob's most loyal customers, the late Richard Fox. "Everyone wanted to be a cowboy, and the club really sold itself."
A childhood diagnosis of pectus excavatum was just the first chapter. Years later, a broken surgical strut plunged me into a battle with anxiety and a deeper understanding of my body's fragility. This isn't just a medical story; it's about the unexpected scars, the weight of otherness, and the enduring quest to define "normal" when your own story takes a sharp, unforeseen turn.
From the humid airwaves of Florida, where country twanged and talk radio crackled with local scandal, to the transformative static of a Texas college station, the radio etched its rhythm onto my youth. This is a memoir in sound, a testament to the fleeting magic of voices and music carried on the air, a soundtrack to a life lived alongside the dial.
That "Fortunate Son" video gets me every time – just everyday Americans doing their thing. This piece isn't about '60s nostalgia or protest anthems, but about the defiant spirit woven into the fabric of American music, from Creedence to Chuck Berry and beyond. Our truest identity lies not in politics, but in the rhythms and raw truths echoing from our garages, porches, and souls.
Much has been made of the “Disneyfication” of America, and there is much to be said and discussed about this. Dreaming your dreams is not easy. Things aren’t always getting exponentially better. There is an element to Disney and the Disney idea that is, well, oversimplified and rosy. Quite frankly, there’s a lot of bullshit to it. But there’s no reason to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Just over half a mile connects two Parker County churches, but for Pauline Thomas, it's a weekly journey of musical devotion. Every Sunday around 10:45 a.m., after her own Sunday school at New Hope Baptist, she travels to Prince Memorial CME. There, she shares her gift, playing piano and leading the choir. This article first appeared in the July 2009 issue of Parker County Today.
Among this dire setting my friend Philip and I decided to start a band, mostly because we enjoyed listening to music and buying records and we wanted to do something creative and fun. We eventually recruited Philip’s co-worker and friend, Pauly, to play drums. Philip played bass. I played guitar and sang. Later we added a keyboard player, Ryan. Our big hope was to meet some fellow music nerds and make friends.
I look back now and I think about my two phone calls with Bob Johnston — a man who made Dylan sound his best, and who recorded some of the most timeless American music ever put to tape – and I think about how effortless the conversations were. He was completely charming and likable. This article appeared Aug. 12, 2012, on darrenwhitecreative.com.
Carlin said in an interview he was inspired to write about R.E.M. because of their political significance — what they stood for in the “Don’t Stop” ‘90s — and that’s what he’s done here. He’s written a book about the idea of R.E.M., which, of course, is what R.E.M. has always been selling.
Curtis found a whole new sound in 1954 on East Belknap Street in Fort Worth while visiting an uncle, at a little store called Melody Shop Record Store, run by Lena Mae Ball. The store sold used 78s from jukeboxes in the back of the store for 10 cents. It was there Curtis heard music like he'd never known before. This article first appeared in the June 2009 issue of Parker County Today.
The Orlando etched in my soul isn't a modern metropolis; it's pure '90s nostalgia. It's the electric cobalt of wraparound Oakley sunglasses with those distinct orange lenses. It's the defiant swagger of a No Fear tee. It's the raw energy of bands like the Nature Kids alongside the rise of Matchbox 20. It's the iconic Lil' Penny commercials and Shaq's earth-shattering dunks. That's the Orlando that lives within me.
Every few years it seems like someone picks up the banner for John Anderson as one of our country’s truly great artists, and, inevitably, the people who have been here the whole time are appreciative, but it fails to really generate the kind of renewed interest the faithful think he deserves. It’s fun and then John settles back into his routine – playing shows in beloved haunts and occasionally appearing on RFD-TV.
When I was in journalism school the New York Times reporter Adam Clymer visited our class. Someone asked him for advice for a young journalist and he said we should get out and see America before it becomes completely homogenized. From his perspective, this was still a weird and wonderful land. He was right, too. Yes, people are glued to their phones and Walmarts abound, but the geography rules.
Beneath all the highways, sub developments and strip malls, there is a lost kingdom. A once-real, now-mythic place called Florida. The name literally means The Land of Flowers. It is a place of vulgar abundance, a place of underground springs, plentiful fish, wildflowers, panthers, bears, alligators and pumpkins. There is no place else on Earth — and probably in the universe — that looks like it.
It was very, very hot and the entire session was recorded in one afternoon and released as an EP called Moejadkatebarry. The label address on the record was 5721 S.E. Laguna Ave. Stuart, Fla. How did Moe Tucker and Jad Fair end up in this little town? This article originally appeared on July 3, 2012, on darrenwhitecreative.com.
After a hiatus, I returned to blogging last year, drawn to sharing the rich tapestry of my life: family tales, the art and music that moves me, and the transformative power of travel. My aim is to delve deeper into these passions and explore new horizons through writing. My personal journey has been a path to self-discovery, and I'm eager to share those insights and experiences here.
