Path: bloom-picayune.mit.edu!snorkelwacker.mit.edu!americast.com!americast.com!americast-post Newsgroups: americast.twt.news From: americast-post@AmeriCast.Com Organization: American Cybercasting Approved: americast-post@AmeriCast.com Subject: No talking heads, nary a discouraging word Date: Sat, 7 Nov 92 19:23:58 EST Message-ID: \SE A;METROPOLITAN;THE RAMBLER \HD No talking heads, nary a discouraging word \BY John McKelway \CR THE WASHINGTON TIMES A few days before the election I found myself having lunch outside the Beltway. I was in the suburbs of Welfare, Texas, just about 40 miles north of San Antonio. I had ordered grilled chicken breast with mashed potatoes and I was sipping a cold non-alcoholic beer that I was astonished to find in that somewhat forgotten piece of Texas. Sometimes, inside the Beltway, they'll look at you like maybe, man, you're crazy or something when you ask for non-alcoholic beer. I think it is catching on. Next, maybe, there will be a good tasting non-alcoholic bourbon and the world will be a gentler place and there will be fewer traffic accidents and less domestic difficulty that young policemen are unfortunately expected to settle. I had wanted to see what it was like outside the Beltway a few days before the election. The press, some say, too often acts and smells like a pack of wolves running in circles inside the Beltway, feeding on tidbits of rancid, spoiled gossip. I did not want to be a part of that. The restaurant selected was the Po-Po. It was the only one around. As far as I could tell from the back seat of a car, it was the only building for miles around, and it just might be the only noticeable structure in Welfare. Going through Welfare, all I saw was a sign by the side of the road saying it was Welfare. No front yards or shacks or American Legion halls. Just dry, dry land. Gulches and stunted, thirsty oak trees. Now and then, a dead deer. I was seated next to a woman who said she was going to vote for Ross Perot. She said she was sick of the gridlock in Washington. I told her I could not see how Ross Perot could possibly break the impasse, giving her the impression, I'm sure, I knew what I was talking about. Furthermore, I added, Mr. Perot often acted as if he was entirely too suspicious of everyone. "Maybe that," she said, "is how he got to be a billionaire." I did not like the way the conversation had turned and, instead, directed my attention to the 1,000 commemorative dinner plates that line the walls of the Po-Po. These are the sort of plates you will be able to buy in Washington shops during the coming inauguration. Also on the wall was a battered license plate that read, "LB NO J." The Po-Po is in the Hill Country of Texas, or the land of Lyndon B. Johnson. Some people did not like Mr. Johnson in Texas or, for that matter, inside the Beltway. The Po-Po, incidentally, was built as a dance hall in 1929 and gradually turned into a restaurant for ranchers and dairymen and wandering city slickers from San Antonio. Over the front door of the stone building there is the big sign, "EATS." At one time it was owned by a man named Ned Houston, a rancher. It is said he sold cattle and mules and horses to the bandit Pancho Villa in Mexico and the dictators Batista in Cuba, Trujillo in the Dominican Republic and Somoza in Nicaragua. He had nothing to do with the commemorative dinner plates. They appeared on the walls starting in the 1950s, under another owner. Across the checkered table cloth from the Perot disciple was her father, in his 80s. He ordered chicken livers and gizzards. This sparked an argument over whether it was the gizzard that collects grains of sand real chickens peck up when they are not headed for the supermarket but allowed to range. The Perot voter said it was the craw, another sort of stomach the chicken uses for undisclosed reasons. I said she was all wrong about the craw. It was the gizzard that collects sand. So it went, back and forth. But it was refreshing to discover what really concerns people far from the Beltway and the maddening talking heads. I was out there where the grass roots grow, where the deer and the antelope play, and where they collect commemorative plates. This article is copyright 1992 The Washington Times. Redistribution to other sites is not permitted except by arrangement with American Cybercasting Corporation. For more information, send-email to usa@AmeriCast.COM