Good civil judges tend to stay under the radar until they get a headline-making case. During that low-profile time, however, they can make life awful for an awful lot of people. Sometimes they do it through rulings that are either baffling or tend to favor one side (usually, since this is Houston, big bidness) over the other. More often, they do it in pettier ways: by being a prima donna with staff or the public; taking weeks to issue simple rulings that would move a case along; or keeping bankers' hours and showing up unprepared. Tracy Christopher of the 295th District Court is at the other end of the spectrum. Members of the Houston Bar Association consistently rank her among the top jurists -- 70 percent of the attorneys polled rated her "outstanding" in the most recent survey -- and it's because she knows how to run a tight courtroom that gives a respectful hearing to both sides. Even if it is under the radar most of the time.
If the word "bureaucrat" refers to paper-pushers, then Charles Bacarisse -- who deals with all the paper generated by judges and lawyers working in 74 courts -- is a bureaucrat of the first rank. But he's trying hard to change that. Bacarisse is leading the effort to make the district court system as paperless as possible, gently nudging the sometimes hidebound members of the legal world into accepting the wonders of the Computer Age. He's also opened up many of his office's public services to the Web; it now takes only a few clicks to reschedule your jury duty. And anyone who can take even some of the pain out of jury duty definitely deserves recognition.
For someone who has 3.6 million constituents, County Judge Robert Eckels has kept somewhat of a low profile -- which, considering the colorful, if not entirely legal, activities of some county court predecessors (like, ummm, his father), is a good thing. All that changed in 2005, when Eckels teamed with Mayor Bill White to handle the wave of evacuees from Hurricane Katrina. While FEMA flopped helplessly around, Eckels opened up the county's Astrodome and other facilities and slashed through calcified layers of bureaucracy to get relief efforts in gear. Esquire magazine named him "Citizen of the Year" and said Harris County was "an island of competence in the face of catastrophe." (That sound you hear could be White gnashing his teeth and asking "What about me?!") Eckels, a UH graduate who was first elected to the state legislature at 24, is only 49, and we're guessing that the Harris County judgeship won't be his ultimate political destination.
Bill White had some flubs in his first two and a half years as Houston's mayor: the fight against capping the city's ability to generate tax revenue, the enthusiastic push for a light rail referendum that's grown only more controversial since its passage, and the growing crime rate. But he is also remembered -- and will be for a long, long time -- for his quick, decisive, no-BS response to the wave of Katrina evacuees. Somehow he's gotten less of the spotlight than Harris County Judge Robert Eckels (probably because the Astrodome, forever linked with the hurricane response, is a county facility), but White's efforts and abilities were utterly crucial. He has always been willing to work with Republicans, sometimes to the chagrin of the city's hard-core Democrats, and as of right now, it looks like he'll cruise to a final re-election before term limits put him out of a job in 2009. Hmm -- that's just about when demographic trends have Texas becoming much more Democratic. Is Austin -- or the Senate -- calling?
Glenwood Cemetery is a treat for amateur genealogists who go to trace their family's history back to the Civil War. Headstones dating to the 19th century are scattered throughout Glenwood's woodsy 84 acres, which house the remains of three Texas governors, more than 20 Houston mayors and a bevy of lesser-known architects, clergy, educators, lawmakers, judges and philanthropists. The 130-year-old graveyard, located just northwest of downtown, offers an idyllic setting in which to reflect upon these monumental contributors to our fair city.
Veterans know that if they're going to the 9 a.m. or 11 a.m. mass on Sundays at St. Vincent de Paul, they'd better get there early: Good seats go fast. Why? A welcoming, friendly atmosphere, engaging sermons and a dedication to helping the greater community. Parishioners were at the forefront of offering shelter, food and clothing to Katrina evacuees, an effort that was merely an extension of what they do throughout the year. The thriving church has its share of high-income members -- it's located near West U on Holcombe -- but it's by no means one of the Our Lady of Cadillacs-type Catholic churches found in other affluent enclaves around the country.
The Bolivar Ferry has been entertaining kids for more than 70 years. Shuttling back and forth between Galveston and the Bolivar Peninsula, the boats often attract frolicking dolphins as escorts. You can head to the back with some bread or chips and feed the seagulls by hand as they politely hover near you. You'll pass the sunken remains of an experimental World War I concrete ship (how did that idea never catch on?), cruise past giant container ships heading for the Ship Channel, feel the wind and sun on your face and smell the saltwater (and, unfortunately, the Ship Channel). Each crossing lasts a kid-friendly 20 minutes, long enough to entertain without getting boring. And it's free! Best tip: Leave your car and just walk on, thereby avoiding the sometimes lengthy waits vehicles endure.
No night in the Theater District is complete without a stroll over to the Magic Button, a big red disc hidden in a tower on the Preston Street bridge. Push it, and you'll hear the sound of water being released into Buffalo Bayou. Now, we could make some phone calls and ask what the deal is, and then somebody or other could tell us that it was included by the architect to give the area a sense of whimsy, but where's the fun in that? Instead, impress your date with a story about the wizard who lives beneath the water or the ancient sewage treatment plant built by a long-forgotten race. Anything's better than the truth.
At Pig Stand No. 7, the popular greasy spoon on Washington, the window display cases are filled with ceramics, dolls and figurines of all things pig. There's a pig nativity scene and a pig beach scene. Pigs kissing and pigs eloping. Pigs pumping iron and pigs pumping gas. Pigs chomping cigars and pigs slinging hash. Pigs firing guns and pigs holding pitchforks. Pigs strumming guitars and pigs blowing French horns. Be careful: All this inspired silliness can inspire guilt. After all, the window display is virtually shouting "Pig!" as you plunge your fork into a plate thick with turkey, stuffing and yams. Worse, if you've ordered the signature barbecue pork sandwich, the display forces you to stare into the eyes of your lunch. But, then, we regulars aren't too troubled by it all. We're too busy pigging out.
Meeting chicks, especially hot single chicks, is a challenge for guys in this town. SM ISO HSF (single men in search of hot single females), we suggest you pay a visit to Midtown's Bond Lounge, a one-stop shop for fit, busty blonds and brunettes. Of course, the easiest way to lure the hotties is by reserving a table for bottle service -- no one ever turns down a free drink -- and dressing in your freshest designer duds. The typical Thursday-evening ladies' night at Bond is called "Red Light District," and it brings out the kind of women who like wearing revealing clothing and the attention it brings (read: single). No need to place an ad in the paper when you have a credit card that's begging to get maxed out.

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