Kinky Friedman passed away over the weekend at age 79, and he was one of those individuals who there just isn’t going to be anyone else like.

Kinky was a humorist. A musician. An author. He was a great representative of the weird independence that is my home state of Texas. He was born in Chicago, but his family made the Hill Country his home since he was a young boy. My sister-in-law’s family were neighbors of his in the Media community he loved.

One of his pals was Ruth Buzzi, who has also been a Texas gal for some time:

Politically, he was…interesting. He has affiliated himself with different parties over the years. Much of his take on life and issues, I agreed with and much I didn’t. Yet, Kinky had a politically incorrect equal opportunity offender view that was genuine. He formed his opinions, good and bad, on his life experiences, not on what some politician or bigger celebrity told them. That I respect.

He was a gubernatorial candidate in 2006, running as an Independent, and while I was working in New Mexico at the time, my parents happily supported his campaign. First time they didn’t vote for a major party. The last time I met Kinky, he and his right hand man and fellow musician Little Jewford  (another razor sharp wit) were in El Paso promoting Kinky’s latest book and running their campaign. Kinky was never married, and said if he won the election, Little Jewford would serve as his “First Lady.”

He was a well known cigar and dog lover, and always referred to his pet dogs as The Friedmans.

He wrote several books from nonfiction commentary to mysteries featuring a sort of detective alter ego of himself, and released several outlaw/progressive country style albums. His column was the only reason I picked up Texas Monthly magazine. He was way too complicated to cover in this post, but down-to-earth enough he wasn’t intimidating.

A good way to sum up his vibe is him telling a story about Nelson Mandela being his fan while in prison, and playing his song “Ride ‘em Jewboy.”

Here’s to you, Kinky. I hope you’re hanging with Will Rogers and Mark Twain somewhere in Heaven where they are letting you smoke those Bolivars.