"There's no basement in the Alamo." - Tina, Pee Wee's Big Adventure

 

The Alamo. Despite my preconceptions, there were very few musket-wielding Texicans fighting off Santa Ana inside.

We made it finally to San Antonio. The biggest, most important thing there? A hotel where Pugsley hadn’t flushed The Mrs. deodorant down the toilet. I’m thinking we can blame someone else, like feral Greek leprechauns, if we have to. Oh, sure, there are no Greek leprechauns, but that just makes the story more believable.

One of my main goals was so see The Alamo – having seen it on Davy, Davy Crockett® way back in the day when Fess Parker was thought of as bigger than, say, Obama®, The Alamo had a special place in my heart.

San Antonio has a bus system that connects most major hotels with downtown, and costs approximately nothing to ride. The driver picked us up, asked us where we were going, and dropped us off a block from The Alamo.

Despite rumors to the contrary, I could find no basement at The Alamo. I did, however, walk through and see one of Davy Crockett’s rifles, some of Jim Bowie’s knives, and some of Sam Houston’s missing REO Speedwagon albums.

At the opening to the main area (after you cross the line that Travis drew in the dirt, memorialized in bronze) a sign requests that men remove their hats. In truth, I was honored and humbled to be on the grounds where men flocked from all over the United States and Europe to fight and die boldly for freedom. I’m not at all sure that they were sold on the whole “die” part, but they did manage to stare down Santa Ana for seventeen years (my history might be a bit off here) while he and his 10,000,000 men tried to take one monastery filled with six guys and some squirt guns. Okay, that’s a big exaggeration, but the Texicans fought and died for freedom there – knowing when they didn’t cross the line that it was likely that they’d die. I’ll gladly take my hat off for that.

As The Mrs. read from a brochure, “Santa Ana was a man born to greatness, who rose to greatness, and who had greatness thrust upon him and managed to screw it all up.” Needless to say, Santa Ana is as popular in Mexico as Nixon, Carter, or Paris Hilton. He was the winner at The Alamo, if you would call Mike Tyson taking on the Chinese Gymnastics Team in a boxing match and knocking them out after twelve rounds a win.

Directly across from the museum is the Guinness Book of World Records® exhibit. Why? To snare gullible tourists. Like me. Hint: DON’T DO IT. It made me feel cheap and used, though Pugsley did manage to get in some exhibit meant to entice you into (I’m not kidding here) spinning basketballs. Because the rest of the exhibit sucked so much. Really. Eisenhower still had the record for most sex in the Oval Office, and, well, we know that Jimmy Carter probably beat him by a whole bunch.

Next we went off to Madame Tussad’s House of Wax™. When I was a kid, my folks took my brother (John Jingleheimer Wilder) and I off to Disneyland©. They gave me the choice of going to the Queen Mary or Madame Tussad’s. I chose the Queen Mary. Dang, how right was I? Perhaps the only redeeming feature of Madame Tussad’s was their wax statue of Evil Abraham Lincoln:

 

Evil Abraham Lincoln didn’t want to defeat the South, he wanted to eat the South. Bad, bad, Abraham.

We got back on the bus after hearty steaks at the Hard Rock Café San Antonio®.

Next day? Sea World® and home.