Messin' with Texas

On Friday night, I decided to go out and check out the town. I drove down to Crockett Street, which is supposed to be the entertainment district in the area. Oh how dissapointed I was. The pictures I had seen showed a nice facade with a brightly lit sign. Each building was a different restaurant or bar. It looked like a nice pedestrian street that was brightly lit. Even if it was only one block long, it would still be cool.

It was one block long, but only on half of the street. The other side of the street was a parking lot, and the place was dead. Granted because of my early work schedule I went out early, but it was really dead. So I inquired with the doormen of one place where to go. They both said Whiskey River was the place to go. They were so sure of themselves in this assertion that my spirits were lifted.

After a bit of driving I found the place, but was un-prepared for what was inside. I paid the seven dollar cover (pretty steep for these parts) and entered. What I saw was a bar, with a giant… I am going to say coral because that’s what it looked like. It was a slightly raised platform with a wooden fence around it that looked like the fence you would see on a cattle ranch. This coral took up most of the bar. In the coral, were about 20 people line dancing to some country western song. It was immediately apparent to me that I was in the minority of men in that I was not wearing a cowboy hat. Some of these cowboys had gone the extra mile and worn their fancy black dress cowboy hats, which I found entertaining.

A few passes around the coral brought a few other details to light. First off, I was one of a few people not wearing cowboy boots. Most of these guys had nice, cowboy boots on that even a yankee like myself would have liked. The most amazing thing in my opinion was that I was the ONLY person not wearing jeans. I did a circle around the bar just to check and make sure my observation was correct. I was the only one. Now if you are from Texas and reading this please don’t take offense. In general when I go out, you just don’t wear jeans. We also don’t wear tee-shirts, although i didn’t see much of that.

Of course the icing on the cake was a big picture of Clint Eastwood holding too six shooters from some cowboy movie. I would say I spent a good 10 minutes laughing to myself. Each new song (and the dance that went with it) only amused me more. In fitting form I ordered a shot of Knob Creek (a kentucky bourbon), and hung around for a bit people watching and left. It was too Texas for me.

Oh, and here is the picture they had blown up on the wall (might not be exactly the same one, but you get the idea):

Next I will have to find a place with a mechanical bull to ride.