Not Everything’s Big in Texas: Learning the 2 Step in Houston

With a lit cigarette affixed to the corner of his mouth, he perched on his stool, his legs barely reaching the top rung. He punched the keys on the register and I handed the little person my $5. Knowing what I know about geographical stereotypes, I wondered who let him into Texas.

I followed my cousins into Red River, a slice of authentic Texan nightlife. The twang of country music reverberated around the barn-like venue. A large pole or support beam was in the center of a circular dance floor. The DJ, a man contributing to this, was in a small room high above the two-steppin’ epicenter. A fair amount of people were doing the two step as my cousins sang along from our booth overlooking the floor. With my eyes locked-in on the couples’ feet, I tried to figure out the steps. Some couples spun around quickly, while others mixed in turns and variations. Why is it whenever you’re trying to learn a dance you never see anyone doing the basic?



“Look at that cowboy,” my cousin Emily admiringly remarked while pointing. A tall man with a hat was warming up by dancing around the floor by himself. My cousins also pointed out the other good dancers and I did my best to lift their steps. By this time the dance hall was full-up. I reckon a good 250-300, including some pretty young women that I didn’t ask to dance. It’s the Andrew way.

Emily touted the dirt cheap price of booze at the north Houston hot spot. With credit card in hand, I headed to one of the three bars with her boyfriend. When we returned with a club soda, rum and coke, Bud light and 7&7 (I’ll let you guess which was mine), she asked me the total. She seemed befuddled when I told her the total was $9.50. Coming from Chicago, where I recently spent more than that on one drink in Viagra Triangle—not my scene, I discovered—u was elated.

As our drinks were running low, a waitress walked by asking if we needed another round. Her work attire consisted of the following: jeans and a white button down shirt. She opted to only use two of the buttons near her navel. This exposed what most would deem an ample chest region. Her bright pink push-up bra distracted me from her face. Not sure if she had one. The consensus at the table was D’s. I applaud this girl for the truly creative part of her uniform. Like many of you, I often misplace my pen leaving me sans writing utensil and unable to take down a girl’s number at a club or strike up a game of Tic Tac Toe with strangers on the bus. This girl—I didn’t find a name tag—came up with a solution. Nestle the pen in between your boobs. Brilliant. I tried unsuccessfully when I returned home. I was curious if I paid by credit card where I’d have to swipe.

After she left and I was able to blink again, Emily took me on the floor for a quick lesson. The two step is a lie. It’s really five. Once I got past this, we were steppin’ our way to a cup on Dancing With the Stars. I avoided bumping into anyone for fear of being shot. We returned to our booth and I resumed playing the crowd-pleasing game of “Where’s that waitress?” Later I danced with my cousin Amanda before we all got on the floor for the Cupid Shuffle line dance. I didn’t get a chance to bid adieu to our cocktail waitress.

If I Wanted to Watch ESPN, I Would've Stayed Home

Circling the narrow slushy streets of Chicago, I eventually found a space to store my car for the evening. The relative ease with which I found a place to park, turned out to be a poor indicator of the future of the night.

Walking to the address I was given for the meeting place, I quickly hopped and power walked through the icy terrain toward the apartment. This evening out was intended to be a celebration of finally finding a job and, hopefully, meeting some new ladies.

With gloved hands, I dialed my friend to alert her that I was downstairs and ready to party. In a minute we were ascending the stairs. Upon opening the door to her friend's place, I was greeted with a collective glossy gaze and the pungent stank of weed. My inner Woody Allen started to kick-in:

"Great, I'm going to get baked off of residual smokage. Now my clothes are going to reek of drugs and people I meet at the bar will think I'm a stoner. Then my hair will soak up whatever the chemical is in weed that they check for in drug tests. Then I'll lose my job...and if I lose my job...no white picket fence...no 2.5 kids...end up in jail being some brutish man's wife..."

It was a regular trip down the winding street of Paranoia Boulevard. We eventually left the opium den for the bars of Wicker Park. I had solicited advice from some residents of the area on where to go and provided that info. The ringleader of the group had picked a place for us to go.

Bar #1 wasn't the type of place I would have picked. It was more of a hang-out with friends bar than a scrape drunk women off the floor bar. After hovering for a while like vultures over wildebeest shortly before their death, we got a couch. The setup of the bar was a bunch of couches and booths, plus a pool table, which isn't the most conducive for going up to the ladies, who are already in groups and in conversation. It could be argued that you can meet someone at any place. Or at least that's what the dating advice book (the title is something like How to meet anyone, anytime, anywhere) my mom gave me for my birthday advises.

After a round of drinks, the munchies started to kick in. I know this because some in the group started to be vehement about the need for pizza and potato skins. Following their drug-induced cravings, we headed off for another pub place where the focus is on your group, not on tackling drunk women. After an hour there, we went to bar #3 across the street. Pretty much the same as the first place, but smaller.

At this point, I figured it was time to call it a night. Traversing the icy sidewalks once again, I walked hastily toward where I parked my car. This is when the self-loathing thought process started; questioning why I even came out and what a waste of my time the evening turned out to be.

As I strode, I thought about giving it one more shot by going in to another bar by myself and salvage the night. I walked by this one place that had some heavy bass seeping through the door and two guys outside smoking. Sounded like the club atmosphere I was after. Considering entry, I was asked by one of the gentlemen if I were interested in crack or smack as I approached. I opted to walk on by, as Dionne Warwick advised.

This was one of the worst nights out I've had in a while. In the past, I tend to invite people to meet me someplace that has some promotion. Typically, my friends don't show and I end up talking to strangers attempting to make new friends who leave their houses.

The underlying issue is expectations. When I go out, I expect to have a good time. I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself for free. Why go out and pay for the same experience? I did look at the positives for the night: I made good time on the expressway, I found a place to park, my car wasn't stolen. I've tried the minimalist, Buddhist no expectations approach, but it just doesn't work for me. I will always have expectations and goals, which I don't think is a horrible thing.

Here's how the argument goes in my head:

• No expectations = never disappointed
• Expectations = likely to be disappointed, but if they are met you don't end up with a nagging rash
  

The gameplan for the next week is to join some more social groups and hope to meet people that way. This one is called AA. It sounds very supportive. Plus, I did see a date-and-dash event downtown for older women and younger men. They avoided calling it the "Cougar Edition," which I think was a misstep in terms of branding. Everyone needs some love, even geriatrics. Plus maybe she got all her smoking out of the way in the Sixties.

If/when I meet someone at one of these events, there is a strong possibility that if she plays her cards right, she could be spending Valentine's Day with me at Chipotle. At least I know what to expect there.