The Men's Club You can go to any club and get rejected by that sweaty college girl with the limp hair in her eyes. You know the routine: The drinks will make you broke and the DJ will play techno that was old last year. So why not try a club where no girl will reject you for a dance and there's also a killer late-night breakfast buffet? As for the techno, that will be replaced by even older and lamer Lynyrd Skynyrd, but if you're in a place like this and you're actually listening to the music, then maybe you're in the wrong joint. At The Men's Club, dances will cost you 20 bucks a pop, but the girl will be topless (and probably not in college) and your lap will get a workout. The Men's Club is the real deal: late hours (until 4 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays), cheap drinks, girls aplenty, rock and roll, sweat and boobs. Who could ask for anything more?

Sicardi Gallery María Inés Sicardi started her gallery ten years ago, focusing on Latin American artists. The always carefully curated space has a history of introducing intriguing contemporary work and thoughtfully presenting lesser-known works by 20th-century masters (such as the elegantly awkward late sculptures of the Venezuelan artist Gego). On the contemporary front, Oscar Muñoz's exhibition at Sicardi Gallery was the standout of FotoFest 2004. The artist delivered an aerial view of notoriously violent Cali, Colombia -- shown on the floor under fractured sheets of safety glass. Muñoz's video, in which he painted and repainted a rapidly disappearing self-portrait on concrete with a water-dipped brush, was, hands down, the best exploration of FotoFest's water theme. But the gallery is relaxed about straying from its Latin American specialization in order to show something unique like the (pre-Frank Stella) tape drawings of Houston artist Harvey Bott, which were made in the early 1950s, while he was still a teenager.

Sicardi Gallery María Inés Sicardi started her gallery ten years ago, focusing on Latin American artists. The always carefully curated space has a history of introducing intriguing contemporary work and thoughtfully presenting lesser-known works by 20th-century masters (such as the elegantly awkward late sculptures of the Venezuelan artist Gego). On the contemporary front, Oscar Muoz's exhibition at Sicardi Gallery was the standout of FotoFest 2004. The artist delivered an aerial view of notoriously violent Cali, Colombia -- shown on the floor under fractured sheets of safety glass. Muoz's video, in which he painted and repainted a rapidly disappearing self-portrait on concrete with a water-dipped brush, was, hands down, the best exploration of FotoFest's water theme. But the gallery is relaxed about straying from its Latin American specialization in order to show something unique like the (pre-Frank Stella) tape drawings of Houston artist Harvey Bott, which were made in the early 1950s, while he was still a teenager.

Late Nite Pie Complete with bulging veins and a ribbon tied around the shaft, the penis drawn on the wall of the women's restroom is accompanied by a message: "For those who pass through here this is a present for you." It shares the wall with the usual political fare, such as "George Bush is an asshole," and self-referential remarks like "Girls write stupid shit on bathroom walls." Next door in the men's restroom you've got the requisite messages from the Sugar Beats and the Dum Dum Boys, not to mention a few debates. "You might think yer cool, but Opie Hendrix fucked your girlfriend!" is countered with "Go home Opie. You're drunk!" And then, of course, everything on the wall is trumped with the classic "Why read the wall when the joke is in your hand?" It's enough to make you hang out in a public restroom far longer than you should. But don't forget to wash your hands, Opie.

Late Nite Pie Complete with bulging veins and a ribbon tied around the shaft, the penis drawn on the wall of the women's restroom is accompanied by a message: "For those who pass through here this is a present for you." It shares the wall with the usual political fare, such as "George Bush is an asshole," and self-referential remarks like "Girls write stupid shit on bathroom walls." Next door in the men's restroom you've got the requisite messages from the Sugar Beats and the Dum Dum Boys, not to mention a few debates. "You might think yer cool, but Opie Hendrix fucked your girlfriend!" is countered with "Go home Opie. You're drunk!" And then, of course, everything on the wall is trumped with the classic "Why read the wall when the joke is in your hand?" It's enough to make you hang out in a public restroom far longer than you should. But don't forget to wash your hands, Opie.

Paul Mewis Law Office Houston is home to many beautifully painted murals, some by noted artists. The backside of Paul Mewis's small building isn't one of them -- but this crude hodgepodge depicting the horrors -- and humor -- of the justice system is precisely the kind of soulful native art that deserves attention. On the corner of Caroline, just across from the county's criminal courts building and jail, the painting depicts Whistler's Mother settled into the electric chair. "Fruit of the Vine" has liquor and beer bottles hanging off ivy -- look closely for the marijuana leaf. Inmate "Carrazco" (presumably Fred Gomez Carrasco, who led a fatal prison siege in 1974) fights off an execution needle while another naked inmate reaches through cell bars, grasping at the eagle of freedom flapping away. Meanwhile, the Mona Lisa has gone hooker, Ma and Pa in American Gothic are packin' heat, and a cop's got a suspect pinned down. Paul Mewis is even in there, on the $100 bill. Mewis, an attorney, commissioned the mural years ago when a client referred him to the "artists" at a northside bar. He chuckles recalling how they dragged the job out for three months and pestered him for more money to buy paint. Now Mewis isn't as jovial -- the county bought the entire block from a parking company to build a plaza in its place. Mewis will get nothing for his building. "I'm less than a year away from the wrecking ball," he says with a sigh. When that happens, another piece of Houston's heritage will be dust.

Paul Mewis Law Office Houston is home to many beautifully painted murals, some by noted artists. The backside of Paul Mewis's small building isn't one of them -- but this crude hodgepodge depicting the horrors -- and humor -- of the justice system is precisely the kind of soulful native art that deserves attention. On the corner of Caroline, just across from the county's criminal courts building and jail, the painting depicts Whistler's Mother settled into the electric chair. "Fruit of the Vine" has liquor and beer bottles hanging off ivy -- look closely for the marijuana leaf. Inmate "Carrazco" (presumably Fred Gomez Carrasco, who led a fatal prison siege in 1974) fights off an execution needle while another naked inmate reaches through cell bars, grasping at the eagle of freedom flapping away. Meanwhile, the Mona Lisa has gone hooker, Ma and Pa in American Gothic are packin' heat, and a cop's got a suspect pinned down. Paul Mewis is even in there, on the $100 bill. Mewis, an attorney, commissioned the mural years ago when a client referred him to the "artists" at a northside bar. He chuckles recalling how they dragged the job out for three months and pestered him for more money to buy paint. Now Mewis isn't as jovial -- the county bought the entire block from a parking company to build a plaza in its place. Mewis will get nothing for his building. "I'm less than a year away from the wrecking ball," he says with a sigh. When that happens, another piece of Houston's heritage will be dust.

Jim Rome "Pimp in the box, what is up? Thanks for the vine, Rome, Houston Press here -- first time, long time. Way back, in fact, from the early days on the Mighty 690 with Smacksaw Hamilton. 'Show us your lightning bolt!' Anyway, V-Smack, it's been an epic run of syndication, and your old saying remains true: The Jungle is like beer. You didn't get your first beer and go, 'Hey, that's great! Gimme ten more of those!' It's an acquired taste. So if you're new to tuning in, H-town, and you don't quite get it, give it two weeks. Hang around for an interview or two -- they're smooth, incisive, intimate and inimitable. Sit back for a riotous, acerbic rant. Fumble around in the smacktionary trying to keep up with Jungle gloss. And hell, be a clone, too -- send an Orenthal reset. But most of all -- and this is important -- make sure you have a take and make sure that take does not suck. War Cablinasian. War Astros. Rack us."

Jim Rome "Pimp in the box, what is up? Thanks for the vine, Rome, Houston Press here -- first time, long time. Way back, in fact, from the early days on the Mighty 690 with Smacksaw Hamilton. 'Show us your lightning bolt!' Anyway, V-Smack, it's been an epic run of syndication, and your old saying remains true: The Jungle is like beer. You didn't get your first beer and go, 'Hey, that's great! Gimme ten more of those!' It's an acquired taste. So if you're new to tuning in, H-town, and you don't quite get it, give it two weeks. Hang around for an interview or two -- they're smooth, incisive, intimate and inimitable. Sit back for a riotous, acerbic rant. Fumble around in the smacktionary trying to keep up with Jungle gloss. And hell, be a clone, too -- send an Orenthal reset. But most of all -- and this is important -- make sure you have a take and make sure that take does not suck. War Cablinasian. War Astros. Rack us."

James Black "What kinda fuckin' world is this?!" wailed the man on the stage, wearing only a shirt and underwear. From this opening line, we knew life wasn't easy for the folks in Stephen Adly Guigis's Our Lady of 121st Street. In the play, the pants-less character, Victor (James Belcher), was supposed to attend services for his dead friend, but that was before someone stole her corpse -- and Victor's pants -- right out of the viewing room. Belcher's rant against this "godless jungle" of a world is representative of the fine performances director James Black was able to extract from the entire lot of his actors. Best known for his mesmerizing performances in productions at the Alley over the past decade, Black lately has shown a clear passion and uncanny knack for directing. Using a local cast -- many of whom had rarely if ever performed at the Alley -- Black created a nuanced production, and he took chances more experienced directors might not have risked. One gets the feeling that Black has only begun to polish his directing skills, and the best is yet to come.