How to survive a Honkey Tonk.

If you live below the Mason-Dixon but still have all your teeth, chances are: you've been to a honkey tonk and felt Slightly out of place.  I had such an experience just the other evening.  I was headed two towns over to meet up with some girlfriends. I was looking forward to traipsing around the downtown and West End districts-popping in and out of posh little night spots, cozy bars, playing darts, chatting up fun professional adults, sipping imported beer, and shooting expensive tequila. Instead...somehow a vote was taken, and I wound up in Honkey Tonk hell at a place called the Blind Horse Saloon somewhere west of Nowhere. 

I approached the bar with caution. It is located near the quaint local airstrip because apparently all the big trucks that park there need the lights from the tarmac in order to pull their Insanely huge tanks into a general chaotic formation that more or less passes for a parking system of sorts. Now I am arriving at about 10:ish and the locals have been on the scene for a while-hence I park in east BFE and curse everyone inside this place as I begin to trip over the copenhagen-spittled-broken-beer-bottle infested gravel lots about a mile from said honkey tonk destination. And did I mention it is dark? And next to a near deserted airstrip. And very dark.  My terror somewhat abated when three rather large decent looking fellows got out of an Explorer that parked close to me. I shadowed them the whole way in-so as not to get grabbed before I'd even had a chance to see who was falling off the mechanical bull.

[Now just a side note here: I am already prejudiced against this place. Seven years prior to this night's potential debacle, I was set up on a blind date. Not by a friend-I assure you. A mutual acquaintance with obviously NO experience in the dating realm-not the one on this planet anyway...But this acquaintance figured out he had a "cute friend" (that'd be me) and a "pretty good lookin' buddy" (ladies-if 'pretty', 'good', and 'lookin'' are combined with 'buddy' RUN. you can thank me later). In short I found myself on a blind date with a redneck jock. He took me to the afore mentioned honkey tonk where he proceeded to spend an hour moaning off key to bad country music with two bud light bottles, spitting in one, drinking out of both, and hitting on me in a most unsavory manner. After he left me sitting at a table with three other "redneck wonders" for a half hour while he went and hit on something blonde with big hair and too much eyeliner over in the mechanical bull line, I had reached maximum redneck tolerance levels, and found my mace trigger finger gettin' itchy.  Needless to say: first opportunity that arose-I took his keys, calmly walked myself out to the M1126 Stryker he called "m'truck", drove myself home, threw his keys in the fountain in front of the apartment complex, opened a champagne split, and took a long hot shower so the night wasn't a total waste.  He called the next day, complaining about his back hair, bragging about the amount of canned tuna he'd eaten already that day (and it was only Noon!) AND...wanting to know if we could go out the next weekend. Like I said ladies RUN. RUN FAST and don't look back.--so after this story (if the general atmosphere of the bar in and of itself did not strike fear into the soles of your Pradas) you can understand why I was not looking forward to slinking back through the swinging saloon doors of this place.]

So with that in mind-My black silk BCBG's struggled to keep pace behind my 3 hulking self- appointed escorts into redneckville.  I daintily skirted the two police cruisers parked at the entrance, heaved myself through the massive wooden doors, and peered through the smoke gently set on fire by the haze of neon lights.  How in the hell would I find my friend before being snatched up by Bubba and the gang? Seriously-my friend is a precious and gorgeous 5'2". This was going to be hard. I ducked in the side hall and dialed her-"Jess...where the hell are you?" "Just come straight up to the first bar dear-you can't miss me...I'm the one with class." 

And so the evening began.  I squared my shoulders, took the lame neon green wristband from the tattoo covered, trucker hat wearin', belt buckle totin', midget cowboy bouncer and pushed into the sea of belt buckles, teased hair, big hats, and bigger 'necks.  I managed to find Jess by the Atm on the way to the first bar.  The bar was slammed and we agreed on a frontal assault and to resort to cleavage only if 5 minutes passed and alcohol was still not in site.  Deep breath-here we go.

We managed to come away clean with an assortment of two drinks and three shots. The bartender made them stiff-but hey-drunk girls make better bar top dancers. That came later-something about the song "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and the movie Coyote Ugly-if you've seen it you know what I'm talking about. We retreated to a small corner of the balcony in front of the bar.  There I met the four other girls that were forming that evening's entourage.  We had prime seats for people watchin' and oh...oh was it fun.  There were dresses that should have been shirts, shorts that should have been panties, and girls that should've just stayed home.  There were jeans that looked like he had to jump off the roof of his garage-or at least his tailgate-to get in, mullets (that's right-I said mullet...and not sexy British pop mullets either...just Muuuullets) and belt buckles bigger than my ass--Everywhere.  On the dance floor little couples spun and shimmied while the rhinestones on their black denim flashed in the lights from the band on the stage.  Over in the mechanical bull line it was pretty much just as I remembered it...some girls looked like the bull would eat them, some looked like they'd already eaten the bull.  Just a friendly word of advice girls: just because it has spandex, rhinestones, and they make it in your size-does Not mean it will be a good costume for mechanical bull riding.

So we began to scan the crowd. Now, my ex gave me good advice earlier in the evening when I called him to let him know where to find my body should the south rise again-he said "Sweetie, just remember to find the biggest guy in there. Go stand next to him and strike up one of those conversations you're always abusing people with-even if you leave the bar as just friends-no one will mess with you the whole night-but remember-he's got to be the biggest Single dude...i'm not sure you can take a honkey tonk girl--even with your mace."

So let the scanning commence.  Hmm...nope nope nope nope...Ugh...god was that a human....nope nope...Ah ha! Turns out...one of my self-appointed guardian escorts in from the parking lot from hell was definitely the tallest guy in the room.  I gauged him to be in the neighborhood of six-five from where I was standing.  We watched him for awhile.  One of his friends was busy chatting it up with a couple of girls that had bangs bigger than his head so he was a lost cause outright. But the tall guy and his shorter side kick just chilled by themselves to the side of the dance floor with cold brews watching the disco ball shoot out random patterns on multi-faceted cellulite canvases.  

Wait a minute...they were laughing at no-no bad rhinestone/spandex girl struggling to maintain her hold on both the mechanical bull and her dignity. Hmm...well they appeared to be at least sane.  So far not a single platinum blonde-teased haired-eyeliner drenched honey had swaggered up to them... then the short side kick wandered off somewhere leaving tall guy alone. Like an island in a storm of faux suede and bad country music.  He actually looked scared. I turned to the entourage and announced (much braver than I felt) "I am going to talk to the tall one".  Because I am all that is woman....or something like that. Took a big swig of the crown and sprite-squared the shoulders-licked the lips-got the butt approval from the gang-and stepped off the balcony. 

He didn't see me coming, but didn't look surprised when I appeared at his elbow moments later....in fact he almost looked relieved.  He smiled and leaned down to introduce himself.  He shook my hand and said he was glad I had wandered over. I assured him it was in the interest of personal safety and that I did not find him attractive at all.  I am a bad liar. He smiled again. And I began to abuse him with conversation.

The rest-well, I won't bore you with the details-but as it turned out-he had been drug there against his will due to another mythical and highly unethical vote. And would have much rather been stumbling around the quaintly cobble-stoned alleys of the West End that night.

But by the evening's close was glad he'd been talked into the honkey tonk.

So ladies: it's not a fool proof plan but it does make good sense-If you find yourself in a bar where mace might only make it worse-find the biggest guy. Go stand next to him, offer up some chatter, if it turns out he has a soul and seems decent around the edges-let him buy the next round. Can't hurt. And no body messed with yours truly the entire night.  I was escorted back out to my car at one by my now consciously eager guardians. (All three turned out to be precious gentlemen.)  And I have a date Wednesday night with the tall one. Don't think we'll be going to the honkey tonk though. 

This is me reminding you that sometimes the best defense is aligning yourself with the dude that can exert the best offense in your honor. Keep it real and keep it out of the honkey tonk.