What we love about the bathrooms at the Backroom at The Mink is that upon our last count, there were about four of them. One for men, one for women, one for "whatever" and another mystery head with no designation. It's fun because when you encounter these signs, depending on your level of inebriation, you may have an existential meltdown. In the meantime, be careful not to end up pissing your poor self and become the laughingstock of the indie-rock kids.

For freedom-loving Americans, the day the fascists on Houston's City Council passed the smoking ban in bars was a shot to the heart. Sure, sometimes stale nicotine-filled air can be a bummer, but what's even more of a bummer is when you have a crappy day and just want to go knock back some liquid poison and chase it with smoky poison. Or when you and your friends get into a deep philosophical conversation about why John Bonham was vastly superior to Neil Peart – you don't want to have to interrupt a key point by stepping outside to smoke. It's a real big pain in the ass. Fortunately, the Marquis resides in West University, outside of the totalitarian regime's reach, so you can sit there in the orange 1970s garage-sale chairs and drink and smoke to your heart's content, while listening to tunes on the stellar jukebox. We're pretty sure this is what heaven's like.

No static CD could ever match the intensity of one of Little Joe Washington's live shows, which are one part gospel revival and one part juke-joint boogaloo breakdown, but Texas Fire Line sure comes close. Recorded live in the studio (that sure helps), Fire Line is a frenzied tour de force from one of Houston's biggest musical treasures and free-spirited local icons. Full of Washington's Gulf Coast guitar-slinging and suffused with Memphis soul (trumpeter Al Gomez and saxman Mark Kazanoff shine on every song), Fire Line climaxes on the blustery, bitter blues of "Ike," which proves even a mighty hurricane is no match for Little Joe's singular guitar alchemy.

Eli Sebastian Brumbaugh seems like the go-to guy for illustrating Houston's burgeoning "H-pop" scene. The twentysomething artist and graphic designer, who has also done posters for News on the March and Free Press Houston's Summerfest, puts the same sort of vivid, vibrant oddness in his artwork as bands like Young Mammals and Wild Moccasins do in their music. His cover for the Moccasins' Microscopic Metronomes EP is as contrast-heavy and color-saturated as the band's eclectic, effervescent songs, and the cute but bizarre animals adorning the Young Mammals' Carrots effectively capture the almost childlike whimsy of the music contained within. Whenever Houston's rising crop of talented young bands needs an album cover, flyer or any other artwork, it's nice to know Brumbaugh has them in capable, creative hands.

Downing Street was a little slice of paradise for both cigar aficionados and part-time stogie-smokers even before the fascists on City Council banned smoking in bars; but after that anti-Texan, anti-American chokehold went into effect, Downing Street became even more important. It's great to have a place like Downing Street, where a grown-up can unwind at the end of a long day with a single-malt and a Davidoff. Or if that's not your style, just check out the exquisite selection in the pub's 400-square-foot humidor, where a knowledgeable and courteous assistant will offer suggestions and a light. Then you can retire to one of the cozy booths or plush leather chairs or couches and thank the stars that, at least for now, such an elegant, classy refuge hasn't been forced out of business by the compassionate nanny-politicians who think they know what's best for you. In fact, let's have a Chivas and Fuente in their honor.

Whether it's Tweeting its fool head off or hosting a "Geek Gathering," Coffee Groundz is one damn fine coffeehouse. Ridiculously great coffee, free whiplash Wi-Fi and a wide selection of beer — all CG really needs is a bank of showers and a few cots to fully cover all the needs of the modern man. Its location in the heart of the ever-evolving Midtown district also makes it an ideal date spot, if only to separate the wheat from the proverbial chaff.

They say write what you know, and John Gard is a dork from Houston, so he jokes about Star Wars and the ever-present thick Texas accent of his hecklers. His unique perspective allows him to find an inappropriate angle for any situation, such as why it's not the best idea to engage in sexual role-play with a trained method actor, and he never shies away from his material. It's outsider comedy from an outsider, and usually winds up being very, very funny. We aren't the only ones who have noticed, either — Gard was also named Houston's Funniest Person 2009 at the annual Laff Stop competition.

If they even offer food at all, most Houston music venues couldn't care less about how that food actually tastes. And true, most people who need something to snack on while watching a band are more interested in soaking up all that booze than in any kind of fine-dining experience. But anyone who's sampled the fare at Adam and Lena Fisher's barbecue stand in the Continental Club knows the two need not be mutually exclusive. Always on weekends, and usually during the Continental's bigger weekday shows, the Fishers' array of tender brisket, spicy links, rib-sticking red beans and rice and scrumptious hot dogs has headed off many a hangover, and deliciously so, for not much more than the price of a drink. Since the Continental opened its Pachinko Room patio bar this spring, the Fishers have also been serving it up every Saturday afternoon.

Photo by Katya Horner

Out-of-towners from northern metropolises like Chicago and New York like to scoff at the idea of Houston as a "real city." Their claim — which is sadly not without some justification — is that ours is a city of endless concrete, infinite strip mall-sprawl, insipid suburbs, and choked freeways. They claim we lack the public spaces that make great cities great. Those people have not been to Discovery Green, especially not on a Thursday night in the summertime. There, while seated on a blanket in the very shadow of the skyscrapers — some of them still being built, a testimony to Houston's global recession-defying dynamism — you can take in some of the city's and the region's most sizzling sounds. As you take in the indigenous H-Town sounds — often blues, country and zydeco — you'll feel strongly in the presence of the very soul of a city that is alleged by some not to have one at all.

The people at this gay dance hall like line dancing so much, they'll teach you for free. Lessons on the spacious wood dance floor (with disco ball overhead) are on the house from 8 until 10:30 every Thursday night, and on the second and fourth Fridays of the month. The instructors try to bring it back to basics for the newbies, and they've been reintroducing classic dances like Chase the Matador, Earthquake and maybe even Hanky Panky in the near future. The real show comes on weekends, when you can test your skill with the regulars. (For group dances like Wild Wild West, amateurs are wise to stick to the middle and let the pros lead the way.) The place has as classic a country feel as can be had in Midtown, with a big bar (lined with cutouts of studly cowboys in their underwear) near the dance floor, two pool tables and video poker. Bring your boots.

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