This is one of the strangest statues in town. The life-size angel itself isn't that odd. But if you walk a little closer, you'll see a plaque that says the limestone for the statue's pedestal was taken from room 301 of Brackenridge Hall, the now-demolished University of Texas dormitory where "The Eyes of Texas" was written. (Former cemetery owner Thomas C. Hall lived in room 301 with John Lang Sinclair, the student who wrote the song.) The lyrics about not being able to escape the eyes of Texas until Gabriel blows his horn are inscribed on the back of the pedestal. According to TexasExes.org, Hall was walking to class one day in 1902 when he saw prohibitionist Carrie Nation threatening to break the windows of a bar; he persuaded her to speak about temperance on campus instead. To quiet the crowd that had gathered, university president William Prather admonished: "Remember, young men, wherever you are, and wherever you may be, the eyes of Texas are upon you. You are expected to uphold her tradition and not act as hoodlums and cheer this poor deluded woman." The song was written. And years later, the statue of the angel Gabriel was erected.

Compaq Center (née the Summit) has been everything from the home of the Rockets to the host of rock and roll superstars like the Rolling Stones. But the place that once held a shimmying Mick Jagger and a slamming Hakeem Olajuwon will now house charismatic Lakewood Church preacher Joel Osteen (when you think about it, all three men are similar in that they've each earned huge followings). After several court fights and City Council debates, the "Oasis of Love" will take over the Compaq in November. The church's Web site promises a grand vision: a production studio, a health and wellness center and even a dining and retail plaza. But don't worry, the Compaq won't lose touch with its roots. The building's history "has been one of excellence, crowning champions in the world of sports," reads the church Web site. "And continuing in that great and awesome tradition, the Lakewood International Center will become a place that will crown 'Champions in Life.'" Can I get an amen?

Minister Aubrey Vaughan's literary diatribe against "sodomites," a response to his being quoted in The Insider advocating shipping gays to an island and leaving them there, appeared in the March 8 issue of the Houston Press. Vaughan took exception to the suggestion that he had been watching too many episodes of Survivor. "I have not watched one episode of Survivor," wrote the minister. "If it is true that the winner" -- corporate trainer Richard Hatch -- "was a sodomite, then I can offhandedly say the whole episode was set up by wealthy sodomites to manipulate the minds of the people into accepting and tolerating sodomites." Vaughan wants to make it clear to everyone he's not a bigot. "Sodomites are not a race," he explained. "A black man will not go to hell because he is black. But a sodomite will go to hell because he is a sodomite." Aubrey didn't explain where self-righteous ministers go when they die.

Okay, it's not really a room, per se, but the huge trophy case next to the front entrance of this old school holds bizarre and fascinating pieces of Houston memorabilia. Track-and-field trophies from the '20s sit alongside photographs of generations of local junior-highers with funny haircuts who brought home the brass for good ol' LMS. There are women's trophies from way back when, for archery, cheerleading, etc. What's most interesting is how the representations of winning athletes change over time, from clearly male and clearly female to genderless, then back again. It's an odd window into our ever-changing perception of athletes, both male and female.

Down but not out: Mecom Fountain, at the gateway to Hermann Park, is undergoing repairs but should be back up and spouting in time for the Super Bowl. This 40-year-old, three-bowled fountain has appeared in wedding pictures, travel spots and even the early-1980s flick My Best Friend Is a Vampire. Bob Hope noted the fountain and the tree-lined boulevards that lead up to it when he said the view from the penthouse at the Warwick Hotel was the most beautiful in the world. Thanks, Bob. RIP.

What with so many different local businesses from which to choose, we avoided the temptation to go with any guy holding up a wad of cash; a man wearing a bean bag chair; two dapper fellows who knock knuckles over clothing prices; a self-described "crazy" man with a double-billed baseball cap selling cars; a chef flailing his arms out of sync with classical music; any tough, smart lawyers; and the hand surgeon whose daughter is growing right before our eyes. No, we decided to go for an advertisement campaign featuring local chefs promoting the fresh produce at Fiesta Mart. The ads were practical in that they passed along cooking tips, with chefs from restaurants we know right here in the Bayou City. The commercials looked professional. The lighting and audio were good, unlike so many local commercials, and it didn't overuse character-generated text or fancy but unmotivated special wipe effects or loud, repetitious slogans. In other words, these commercials actually respected the viewer.

As the song goes, "Ain't nothin' like the real thing." If you're doing a dino-party, you really can't beat the ambience of celebrating amid actual dinosaurs. Consider the price regularly paid to set up moonwalks and hire magicians and hungover clowns. Then consider cleaning it all up off a suburban lawn. Think about it too long and you're likely to have an anxiety attack. Calm down. Take deep breaths. Rent out the Houston Museum of Natural Science paleontology hall instead. Comparatively, it's a reasonable expense. For $1,500, the birthday boy or girl and friends can enjoy cake and punch in the presence of ceratopsian (a.k.a. triceratops), a giant pterosaur and the infamous T. Rex. Guests are free to explore the exhibits on the first floor, but special parties do not include the perk of flaunting the "do not touch" rules. Want more structure? Space Mission parties in the Challenger Learning Center start at $200. Up to 20 children (with a couple of helpers per child) can enjoy a mission during museum hours.

The Nutcracker ballet matinee performance just before Christmas is kid central. Any fidgeting, screaming, crying or other nontraditional theater behavior by your offspring will disturb only the other, already harried, parents. Afterward, take them backstage to meet the dancers. All are welcome. A six-year-old we know got her ballet shoes signed, took them home, built an impromptu shrine to them and didn't stop talking about the encounter until after Valentine's Day.

This Museum District median was immortalized in the film Rushmore (Bill Murray and Olivia Williams stared at each other under its arch of live oaks), but the pretty street would make anyone feel like they're on the set of a movie. The sunlight slicing through the branches warms the quaint cobblestone path, and the live oaks seem to go on forever. Even better, this upper-crust neighborhood is a great place to pretend you're loaded. Just grab your dog or put on your running shoes and travel up the median nodding hello to all your wealthy neighbors. You'll be tempted to ask Jeeves to pull the car around front.

Sure, the Clutterless Recovery Group has its merits, and a good many more of us should be visiting Anger Management, but when it comes to mutual support, the Genesis Ballet is tops in our book. Interestingly enough, the dance company didn't start out that way. According to the troupe's founder, Marie Plauché-Gustin, it was chance that all their members happened to be suffering from either cancer, abuse, addiction or cult brainwashing. This nondenominational liturgical interpretation of creation simply allowed them to cope with their particular problems through the art of dance. Vive la différence.