Like most AARP-eligible, Caucasian American males, I grew up under the sign of Davy Crockett Alamo, as interpreted by Walt Disney and Fess Parker. I wore a faux coonskin on my head, and once told an adult that everyone called me plain old David, but that my real name was Davy Crockett.

And because I grew up in South Texas, not far from San Antonio, the Alamo connection was particularly strong. When my mother went shopping at Joske’s, that Taj Mahal of San Antonio retail, I’d tag along, hoping to talk her into buying me a book and into letting me visit the Alamo just a few steps away.

All this was memorable enough for a small town boy, but when word came that John Wayne was going to make an Alamo movie, and play Davy Crockett himself, I suddenly felt a little closer to the center of the universe. The excitement that attended the movie’s world premiere in San Antonio made its way to my hometown. So couple of years later, when I was in seventh grade, I was reasonably excited to study Texas history, even if it was at the hands of a strange, and possibly emotionally disturbed former coach.

That’s when I first realized that the legacy of the Alamo defenders was more ambiguous and complicated than I’d realized. I distinctly remember the comic book about the Texas Revolution that we read in class. Its overt racism made me feel embarrassed for my “Mexican” classmates. I distinctly remember the panels in which Texian sharpshooters killed Mexican soldiers and celebrated by exclaiming “Got a taco bender!” and “Got a bean eater!”

That was my first inkling that the Alamo’s appeal might not be universal.

The older I got, and the larger Vietnam loomed in my life, the more ambiguous the lessons of the Alamo became. It didn’t help that LBJ was exhorting U.S. troops to “nail the coonskin to the wall” over there in Southeast Asia, where I had no intention of ever setting foot.

But the Alamo fire never completely went out for me, and part of the process of reconciling myself to being a life-long Texan, when at times I really wished I were somewhere else, was to re-embrace the Alamo, dark side and all. Yes, the epic battle was to some extent fought in defense of slavery. Jim Bowie himself was a big-time slave trader.

But still…the Alamo defenders may not have literally crossed a line drawn in the sand, but they were surely brave, just as were the Mexican soldiers who crashed the Alamo’s walls. I still can’t read Travis’ final letter — "I shall never surrender or retreat" — without getting an emotional jolt.

And the more I learned about Crockett (which isn’t a lot), the easier he was to cling to. He fell out with his extremely powerful patron, Andrew Jackson, because he opposed Jackson’s policy of Indian removal, which was the ethnic cleansing of that day. There’s a lot of mythology surrounding Crockett, of course, but he really was witty enough to say (after he lost a re-election to Congress bid) “You may all go to Hell, and I will go to Texas.”

Last Christmas, when my 12-year-old son, Gabriel, and my 10-year-old grandson, Cameron, and I made a trip to San Antonio, I took them to the Alamo and wondered how they would respond. They knew a little about the Alamo and Crockett, but they’d never experienced Fess Parker or John Wayne, and I wasn’t sure how this would all translate to their wired and digital generation.

But somehow the old shrine worked its magic, as they each left wearing coonskin caps, which they kept on as we explored the rest of the city. Gabriel even wore his to a Christmas party attended by boys his own age, and who responded predictably to the sight of the absurd headgear (which does, somehow, actually look pretty good on Gabriel). “Is that a condom on your head?” one kid asked.

I expected Gabriel to throw his cap away and foreswear Davy Crockett, but instead he got his back up. Davy Crockett was cool, whether his friends realized it or not.

Earlier this month, Cameron, Gabriel and I went back for the 175th anniversary of the Alamo’s fall. It was quite a time. The boys were very taken with all the re-enactors, and even volunteered to be get up at 5:30 for the commemoration of the battle’s bloody pre-dawn conclusion. Gabriel bought a copy of Crockett’s autobiography, which he’s promised to let me read when he’s through.

I also reconnected with Steve Hardin, whom I hadn’t seen in decades. As Stephen L. Hardin, my old friend and former fencing companion has become quite a writer and historian. He made a name for himself with his military history of the Texas Revolution, Texian Iliad. In Literary Houston, an anthology of writing about Houston that I recently published with TCU Press, I included two pieces by Hardin, who is simply one hell of a writer. One excerpt, from Iliad, vividly brings to life the Battle of San Jacinto and its revenge-and-blood-filled-conclusion; the other, from the unjustly neglected Texian Macabre, memorably describes Houston in the 1840s as “the worst place on earth.”

I rehearse all this because Hardin is so good at bringing history back to life, and to making you understand that the fighters on both sides were human beings, subject to the same emotions as us. Hardin led us on a tour of the greater Alamo battleground, which extends far beyond today’s Alamo grounds. When he came to the story of Susanna Dickinson’s exit from San Antonio, he became quite moved. This despite the fact that he’s told it, and contemplated it, many times before.

We were standing at the very spot where Santa Anna had the naked bodies of the Alamo defenders piled up and burned. Shortly thereafter, when the Alamo-survivor Dickinson left town, en route to Gonzales, she would’ve had to pass right by the smoldering ashes and blackened bones of her dead husband. As Hardin imagined the pain she must’ve felt, he was briefly brought to tears. He apologized, saying, “It’s just such a human moment.”

Despite the fact that the Alamo is surrounded by a impressively tacky atmosphere, complete with a Ripley’s Believe It or Not, these human moments still shine through, and you feel them whether the gray on your head comes from your own hair, or from your coonskin cap.

Grits have come a long way since being the butt of jokes on The Beverly Hillbillies. After all, when Britney Spears' dad was filmed making her a bowl of cheese grits for breakfast, the only snarky commentary was about his use of Kraft singles.

Which is as it should be. The traditional Southern dish of ground corn and creamy goodness may have humble origins, but with the rising tide of respect for Southern cuisine, grits have earned their due as a food that's both simple and delicious. (And no, they aren't just for breakfast anymore.) For the best versions in town, look no further than these restaurants

Zelko Bistro

Many do shrimp and grits well, but Jamie Zelko's version of the Gulf coast classic earned her a Rising Star award from StarChefs.com. The white cheddar polenta itself verges on the edge of too sweet, but the addition of sweet soy agave nectar at the edges of the grits strikes us as simply sublime.

Ouisie's Table

The version of sprimp and grits by Elouise Adams Jones has been the Houston standard for a decade, incorporating bacon, mushrooms, scallions, and just a hint of spice.

Haven

The locally-sourced cresenza cheese grits at Haven are simply not optional for me — luckily, even if I'm not ordering shrimp, I can add them on as a side.

The Breakfast Klub

No one fries up Southern favorites quite like The Breakfast Klub, it's true. Though the wings and waffles combo gets more ink, the 'katfish' and grits dish is just as popular and maybe even more revered. Add eggs and a biscuit for the ultimate down-home Southern breakfast.

Catalan

The version of shrimp and grits by Chris Shepherd gets a bit of a kick from roasted piquillo pepper butter, as well as a tangy goat cheese and bacon. In a word: yum.

Jasper's

Grits in the morning or at night? At Jasper's, in The Woodlands, you don't have to choose. The prosciutto-wrapped shrimp and grits with lemon-thyme butter sauce comes on both the brunch and dinner menus.

Brennan's of Houston

The granddaddy of all the Southern flavors making waves all over town, Brennan's still serves some great shrimp and grits, adding marinated sweet peppers, mirlitons, baby arugula, roasted garlic and oven dried tomatoes for some ladies-who-brunch flair.

La Vista

Taking shrimp and grits to the limit: the bacon is wrapped in prosciutto, the polenta is extra cheesy, and did we mention La Vista adds a little Grand Marnier?

Beaver's

Most grits recipes call for ground corn, but Beaver's takes the slightly more indie approach by using hominy. We dig it.

Editors Note: The opening of PBR recalls the heyday of Gilley's and the Urban Cowboy craze, so we're re-posting this story than ran March 30, 2010.

We’d like you to stop for a minute and consider Houston and its culture, then answer the following question. A perfect score will guarantee you a deep-fried sense of pride.

What is the date and location of the most important event in Houston’s history? Describe the event’s historical ramifications.

(a) August, 1836, confluence of White Oak and Buffalo bayous

(b) July 21, 1969, landing site of the Apollo 11 moon mission

(c) Sept. 8, 1863, Sabine Pass

(d) June 6, 1980, Pasadena

Correct answer (d.) On June 6, 1980, our long-neglected city and its refinery-studded sister to the south, Pasadena, finally got some street cred in the age of Dallas upon the release of the romantic drama Urban Cowboy, a gripping tale of the love triangle between country boy Bud (John Travolta), cowgirl Sissy (Debra Winger) and a mechanical bull (the center of entertainment in a sprawling Pasadena honky-tonk named Gilley’s).

Historical ramifications: For the first time in history, Houston found itself in vogue. The music and the close-ups of young John Travolta and Debra Winger stirring up trouble and sawdust at Gilley’s nightclub generated overnight interest in the Houston scene and the aforementioned bar. America wanted in.

City girls finally had an excuse to run out and buy a cute pair of cowboy boots. Guys no longer had to go to a Western dress store to get shirts with pointy-pocket flaps and pearl snap buttons. They could be found at JC Penney. Once proud city slickers started shrink-wrapping themselves into pairs of freshly pressed Levis before heading out to dance classes.

Wait a minute – dance classes?

Yes, indeedy. After all Travolta’s choreographed boot-scootin’ across Gilley’s dance floor — with a Lone Star jammed firmly into his back jean pocket — the country two-step, the waltz and, of course, the Cotton-Eyed Joe high-tailed it into the cool category of mainstream dance culture. It even spawned a new industry: Country western dance classes, led by retired small-town hairdressers, barmaids and anyone else whose mascara was heavy enough.

These were guys who previously wouldn’t be caught dead on a dance floor, but all of a sudden chicks were swooning over any rugged cowboy-type who could cut a rug. Since Marlboro Men were in distinctly short supply within the city limits, these inner-city interlopers two-stepped in to fill the void.

Western wannabes from all over the country actually booked trips to Houston as tourists to get a taste of the real (real urban, that is) country lifestyle. But more than that, the exalted honky-tonk and new cowboy-chic spread from smelly old Pasadena to points across the country faster than a new strain of swine flu. People were decking out in western duds and flocking to Urban Cowboy outposts from Washington, D.C. to Seattle – and sales of Lone Star Beer spiked across the country due to the brew’s prominent appearances in the movie.

Urban Cowboy did for Lone Star what E.T. did for Reese’s Pieces. And country record producers never had it so good.

No slap at HTown

But why, exactly, did this cinematic romance make such an impact? The only feature that sets this romance apart from so many others was, indeed, Mickey Gilley’s ball-busting play-toy, the mechanical bull. It was just another way for guys to measure their guyness. But when Sissy steps in and excels in rubbing her Wranglers around on it and not falling, well, Bud just couldn’t stand it and, in an ensuing argument, smacks Sissy across the face.

It was definitely a movie of its time. Several such incidents of what we now refer to domestic abuse are portrayed in Urban Cowboy as a way for the man to get his way or to emphasize his point, just another pitfall of a relationship gone sour.

As the movie opens, Bud is leaving his hometown of Spur to go to the big city to find work. His ma warns him that his breakfast is getting cold, but he’s in too much of a hurry and gives hasty hugs all around in a scene that seems straight out of Little House on the Prairie – not too strange a notion since the long-running series was in its sixth of nine seasons at that time.

Although Bud’s the hero, his tantrums early on (throwing his hamburger at the waitress because it’s too rare) are genuinely despicable, even more so than the bank robber parolee who gets a job at Gilley’s, courts Sissy and lives in a trailer in back. Said parolee has to really, really misbehave by hitting Sissy hard enough to mess up her face and by robbing the old lady/Gilley’s employee of the rodeo’s earnings at Gilley’s to get the louder boo’s and hisses toward the end.

Fortunately, Hollywood steps in with a subtle script to make everything right as the movie moves into its crescendo. Bud sees Sissy’s bruised face and hunts down Parolee Guy at the nightclub to avenge Sissy’s injuries.

He attacks him, causing Parolee Guy’s jacket (where he’s stuffed the money he just robbed) to come open, revealing his bad deeds, and all the rest of the cowboys jump on him.

Now, Sissy realizes that Bud really loves her and they ride off together into the sunset. Oops, no, wrong movie. They turn down friends’ offers to buy them beers and head off together to the house trailer, departing inexplicably from reality in the final scene.

After all, everyone knows the real Bud and the real Sissy in real life would stay at the juke joint. No cowboy, even an Urban Cowboy, would ever turn down a free beer.

If we didn't know better, we'd swear it's Urban Cowboy all over again.

In a scene reminiscent of the classic 1980 John Travolta movie set in Houston and at Gilley's nightclub in Pasadena, a duo of sultry twenty-something cowgirls were riding dirty atop the mechanical bull on a recent night at the soft opening of Bayou Place's newest nightlife installation, PBR. That's short for "Professional Bull Riders" for those uninitiated to the much-anticipated conglomeration of bars moving into the second level of the Theater District's one-stop entertainment complex.

Part honky tonk, part skyline hotspot, PBR is poised to become the next go-to watering hole for accessible down-home nightlife.

A lengthy bar flanks the entire west side of the 18,000-square-foot space, serviced by red hot pants and chaps-clad bartenders, who occasionally take five to dance on the bar à la Coyote Ugly. Above, a trio of flat screens broadcasts the latest sports news and games. The bar service isn't so much about breadth of elaborate cocktails as it is about speedy, inexpensive service. On tap you'll find Coors, Miller Light and Blue Moon, as well as a simple array of liquors.

The generously-sized dance floor lends itself equally to raucous line dancing and intimate bumping and grinding, while a cash icebox bar allows easy access to longnecks. A third bar on the eastern edge ingeniously opens onto the indoors and an outdoor balcony populated with rows of high tables. While the veranda crowd enjoys views of downtown's Aquarium, Fish Plaza and Wortham Theater Center, the interior offers peeks into a smoky, double mirror-walled bathroom.

Of course, the main draw is a mean mechanical bull. Ready to mount that mighty stead? Not so fast — you'll have to sign a long waiver first. But once you're on that electric animal (san shoes and shot glass), you'll feel yourself immediately transported to the open prairies of the Wild West. For a brief moment, you are a Professional Bull Rider.

Rounding out the riding experience is a Jesus fish branded onto the machine's backside. The flair doesn't stop on the bull's derrière, though. On Wednesday evening, a cache of yet-to-be-hung tchotchkes rested in a corner — think steel lone stars and decorated NASCAR shirts.

Kitschy? Perhaps. But it's a far cry from the desolate "For Lease" space that has riddled the upper story of Bayou Place. Above all, the vibe is laid back. Comparisons to Rebels Honky Tonk are inevitable, but PBR promises to host none of the nonsense of the Washington Avenue scene.

When PBR opens Friday night, visitors can spy the next stages of the bar concepts that will be opening in the weeks ahead as part of the development dubbed Live at Bayou Place. Up next is Shark Bar, a venue boasting an '80s and '90s soundtrack. Developer Drew Coleman lists N*Sync and Backstreet Boys as expected dance floor mainstays.

Read more about the future of Bayou Place here.

For most horses a broken leg can be equivalent to a death sentence. So for a miniature horse named Midnight, born without part of his right rear leg, the prognosis for survival wasn't good until he got a new leg and a new lease on life.

Four-year-old Midnight was recovered by authorities from a neglectful owner and brought to Ranch Hand Rescue, an animal sanctuary in the North Texas town of Argyle.

According to the Associated Press, Ranch Hand Rescue owner Bob Williams thought euthanasia might be the only option for the little colt — until he had an unorthodox idea. Williams approached Prosthetic Care in Fort Worth, which makes prosthetic limbs for people, about producing an artificial leg for Midnight. Horse artificial limbs have occasionally been tried before on horses with broken legs, but without much success.

Williams says he had only hoped a limb would allow Midnight to walk, but to everyone's surprise the colt starting running around just moments after his second prosthetic fitting.

"The first time we saw him run it made us cry, we all cried," Williams told the AP. "It's amazing that now Midnight has the opportunity to just be a horse."

Midnight is now on his third prosthetic leg, valued at $14,000, attached with velcro and worn only during the day. Williams says he hopes the miniature horse can live a long and full life.

As far as miniature horses go, he's even cuter than Lil' Sebastian.

Check out Midnight in action: