When news of Kinky Friedman’s passing reached me, I was struck by a mix of emotions—laughter and tears. The laughter stemmed from fond memories of his irreverent songs like “They Ain’t Makin’ Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” which playfully poked fun at everyone, Jews and non-Jews alike. His knack for blending humor with murder mysteries, where even murder could be cracked wise about, added to his unique charm.
But amidst the humor, there was sorrow. “Kinky,” as he was affectionately known, was only 79 when he passed, leaving behind a legacy of immense creativity. Born Richard Friedman, he never exhausted his talent for satire, especially targeting his beloved Lone Star State and other larger-than-life Texan figures.
My introduction to Kinky came unexpectedly in 1975, when Abbie Hoffman, then a fugitive, bought two dozen copies of his debut album and autographed them as “Kinky Friedman,” distributing them to strangers on Sunset Boulevard. It was a stunt Kinky surely appreciated; Hoffman, co-founder of the Yippies alongside Jerry Rubin, was an ardent promoter and fan. Their mutual admiration for Jewish comedians like Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, and Sid Caesar, known for their timeless humor, bonded them further.
In an era where political correctness often stifles satire, both Hoffman and Friedman fearlessly targeted sacred cows. Nothing was off-limits—the Democratic Party, cultural icons like John Wayne, or contentious issues such as drug testing. Yet, Kinky’s commitment extended beyond satire; he ran a summer camp for children and proudly referred to himself as the “bastard child of cowboys and Jews.”
Hoffman, behind his public persona, battled bipolar disorder and tragically took his own life. It was a stark reminder of the complexities behind his comedic façade. I had the privilege of seeing Kinky perform live in San Francisco during the 1990s, where he captivated the audience with his signature songs. Afterward, over cigars in a smoky bar, he extended an invitation to visit his Texas hill country home—an offer I regrettably didn’t accept.
Instead, I delved into his literary world through novels like “Kill Two Birds and Get Stoned” and “God Bless John Wayne,” featuring a detective character reminiscent of Kinky himself. Just as People magazine likened him to Frank Zappa in rock and roll, Kinky approached detective novels with a gleeful irreverence that unsettled purists—an attitude shared by Hoffman.
Less guarded than Hoffman about his public image, Kinky famously ran for governor of Texas, advocating for controversial policies like drug legalization and challenging societal norms. Hoffman’s Yippies once even ran a pig for president in 1968, highlighting their penchant for provocative political statements.
In his obituary, The New York Times observed the challenge of discerning when Friedman was joking versus serious—an ambiguity Hoffman also embodied. Their irreverent spirit, unapologetic humor, and bold activism make it clear: they were a breed apart, defying conventions both in America and beyond.
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