Each June since 1978, Houston's gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered community has officially celebrated being proud of who they are with the snazzy, spectacular Pride Parade. Because of Houston's sweltering summer heat, in 1997 planners started holding the event after sundown, giving the parade the exuberant charge of a nightclub in full swing -- and starting a trend of nighttime pride parades throughout the country. Since the dancers, activists and flag-bearers make their way through the Montrose area as opposed to downtown, there's a groovy local flavor to the event (although there's talk that the parade is outgrowing its space). What started as a small affair is now a must-attend event even for local government officials and businesses like JP Morgan Chase. Gay police officers and firefighters also participate, and this year's silver anniversary of the parade drew in the biggest crowd ever (nearly 150,000), with revelers crowding under a 1,000-pound chandelier that hung above the intersection of Westheimer and Montrose.

This project has been written off for dead so many times it earned the reputation as the Freddy Krueger of downtown Houston development. In the midst of a fierce City Council contest for the hotel contract in 1995, the FBI used it as the bait in a bribery sting. That led to the famous "Hotel Six" series of trials, resulting in the convictions of former councilman Ben Reyes and port commissioner Betti Maldonado. Then a deal with Crescent Development to build the hotel fell apart, leaving the city to pick up the pieces with its own financing plan. When the Hilton Americas opens this December, it will likely go down in history as the hotel too tough to kill. Houston Convention and Visitors Bureau chief Jordy Tollett says the moral of the tale is "if you just keep trying, trying and trying, you just may succeed."

Soudavar flew back from a visit with her Iranian relatives to find a greeting party of HPD robbery detectives at Bush Intercontinental Airport awaiting her arrival. A friend, Christina Girard, had ratted Soudavar out to the police for allegedly stealing some pricey earrings and a watch from her home and peddling the baubles at a posh Galleria resale shop. Soudavar wound up spending several days in Harris County's five-star jail while authorities investigated her immigration status. She fared better in Judge Jim Wallace's court, pleading guilty to misdemeanor theft in exchange for a year's probation and 80 hours of community service -- all to be served in Paris, France. Quelle horreur!

Four mammoth branches dangle to the ground like elephant trunks. They snake along the grass like knee-bound penitents scraping to a pilgrimage's end, only to rise again to the height of small trees to drink in the sun. The live oak at Elizabeth Baldwin Park is one twisted granddaddy of a tree. Despite relatively weak ordinances to protect local flora, Houston has a splendid mix of sycamores, maples, magnolias and countless others. But it is the stately live oak that defines the region. Some, like the venerable giant at Glenwood Cemetery and the strapping specimen that is Baytown's emblem, are woven into the fabric of local lore. Entire lanes around Rice University and elsewhere are graced with gnarled canopies. For its grand dimensions and gravity-defying posture, the live oak at Elizabeth Baldwin Park is truly unique. It stands amid a cluster of hoary, green old-timers whose delicious shade invites squirrels, blue jays and people looking for reprieve. The park dates back to 1909. Chances are the tree was there long before that. It remains an august presence amid new construction on Chenevert, Crawford and other surrounding streets.

Unless you're crazy about Lysol and Tilex, we can almost guarantee that the bathrooms at Jenni's Noodle House are cleaner than yours. You could eat a plate of Jenni's famous disco dumplings right off the floor (not that Jenni would appreciate that). But it's not just the shiny surfaces and sweet smell of these lavatories that make them our pick for best johns. It's their sense of hospitality. A table holds tiny plastic cups and a bottle of Scope, in case you need to freshen your breath after a plate of Buddha soba or Art Car curry. There's a bottle of hand cream in there, too. And a friendly sign suggests that diners wipe down the sink for the benefit of future patrons. While most of us would be tempted to laugh off that request in other restaurants, there's something about Jenni's sense of decorum that makes us want to chip in and help -- or at the very least, not forget to flush.

Chido Nwangwu decries mainstream news coverage of Africa that depicts "a continent of natives who are sentenced and cursed to face bestial cycles of ethnic wars, genocidal slaughters and more wars." The eloquent Nigeria native specializes in debunking stereotypes. From an office off the Southwest Freeway, USAfrica crusades against government corruption in Africa and touts economic development, while dutifully covering the weddings and other celebrations of the roughly 100,000 Nigerians in Harris County. The paper has reporters in Houston, Washington, D.C., Nigeria and beyond. Founded as a magazine in August 1992, USAfrica has since evolved into its present form of a biweekly newspaper, which also appears on-line. The Web site receives thousands of hits each day, which prompted Nwangwu to launch two new on-line publications: Nigeria Central and The Black Business Journal.

Bo is his real name, Pumbaa his stage name. Our zoo was able to acquire the five-year-old critter from a Denver zoo with a little help from Disney. The corporation felt, not unreasonably, that the Lion King franchise would benefit if thousands of parents dragged their offspring past his pen and said, "Look, it's Pumbaa." An actual warthog, however, offers more lessons than the flatulent fictional beast. Warthogs take no guff from anyone. Not on the savanna -- in their natural habitat warthogs use their impressive tusks to drive cheetahs away from fresh kills. Not in the zoo -- he interacts well with his keepers, but Bo is sometimes shirty with his pygmy hippo neighbors. Though slimmer and leggier than your average pig, the warthog is no beauty and entirely unconcerned about appearance. Most mornings, Bo can be seen trotting around his pen with his puny tail -- in characteristic warthog style -- straight up in the air. Despite his double-ugly name, a warthog is happy as long as he has mud for wallowing and plenty of grasses and tubers for nibbling.

Drag. Some have attempted to explain the source of the word as Shakespearean. Bard Willie would often leave the costume directions "dressed as girl" in his scripts. Others say it's a reference to cross-dressing actors' long frocks dragging across the stage. The roots of the word (bleached, highlighted, tinted or otherwise) we may never know, but quite a few fellas have a grand old time in the spangled, feather boa'd world of transvestism. But when should a tranny be a tranny, and when should a tranny don a wardrobe of masculine plain-olds? That's the question our fave dragster faced this year. Rusty Mueller, and his elegant, extravagant alter ego, Crystal Rae Lee Love, were crowned male grand marshal for Houston's Pride Parade. "This is the first time a drag artist who has been chosen grand marshal has been given the option to be either persona in the parade. Before, they had to go as a man. It was gender-specific," explains Mueller in the June issue of OutSmart Magazine. At the parade, we were a tad disappointed to learn that Crystal chose to bow out gracefully and defer to Rusty. Not that there's anything wrong with Rusty, that tall drink of water. His drag persona is just such so lovely and elegant. She looks like a film star from the glamorous '30s or '40s, so it's difficult to believe there's a soft-spoken, flat-topped gentleman who works in the insurance industry beneath the wig and makeup. Never judge a book by its cover. Don't get the wrong idea from Mueller's choice. Crystal Rae Lee Love has not retired. As she puts it, "I am the empress who won't step down."

We don't know who he (or she) is, but he's earned the moniker "Mad Faxer" around the Houston Press offices. Over the last two years, he has sent the editorial staff hand-drawn cartoons (a fish eating hippopotamus turds), possible tips ("Ask Ron J. Where is the cave?"), poems riddled with four-letter words and dictionary definitions of "heterosexual." The sly one sends us these tidbits from various Kinko's fax machines so we can't track him down. We keep the faxes because they are sometimes good for a laugh and -- who knows? -- they might become evidence someday. Here is an example from the Mad Faxer's oeuvre:

Bro-mo-Bibbit is at it again

(slaw too)

Dear Mrs. Bibbit

Your double-talk is not God

Disconnect hidden power source

and remote control thermostat

I am an island

My rights are absolute

XX3825XX

XX4-04-64XX

The Sunday-night Etta's experience never fails to leave a lasting impression on visitors. It isn't simply the soul music or the burgers or the buckets of Budweiser (or the guilty pleasure of partying into the working week). The atmosphere here is spiritual. This is night church. The older, sharply dressed African-American crowd sips Canadian whiskey at the front end of the room, while the casual, college-age mob congregates toward the back. They meet on the dance floor thanks to the music of Grady Gaines and the Texas Upsetters. Young and old do the Harlem shuffle unfazed by the gawky first-timers fighting for rhythm against the waves of veteran shufflers crashing around them. You only learn by doing, child.