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I would be grateful for any memories of 1970s Houston. Places, buildings, life. I was young then, and Houston was good. We went to Harry's for breakfast when it was a trucker's diner and George cooked. There was an amazing gay club straight out of Tennessee Williams in an antebellum home in Montrose. It looked derelict by day, and by night, the balconies swung with revelers. The top hairdresser in Houston was Lyndon Johnson, who regaled us with stories of being mistaken for the President: "Of course, I'm the one with flaxen hair!" We all went to the Opera and afterwards to an all-night Mexican dive, Las Cazuelas. We danced on tables at sailors' bars in the Ship Channel and in the wee hours, escaped with our lives. You paid your check to Ninfa, who sat at the cash register. A gay bartender who worked at Birraporetti's was murdered brutally with an American flag. The case was never solved. Howell, a Pan-like man with gold curls, would only cut your hair if he liked you, and if your hair had never been treated with chemicals. You waited months for an appointment in his Heights home, in a beauty temple he created. Paul Goldberger wrote his famous piece on Houston architecture, and we thought Pennzoil was the most beautiful building in the world. We spoke of Miss Ima as if she were our aunt. And the Warwick Hotel served french toast that was 6 inches tall and deep-friend. What was the hotdog place downtown where all the lawyers ate? Or the place where we ate boiled crabs and watched tankers inch through the Channel. . .