Thursday, August 16, 2007

Grab Your Partner Dosey-do

A few years ago I gained a new appreciation for “cowboys and cowgirls.”

Look. I’ve lived in Miami my entire life. I’m surrounded by bikinis, banana hammocks during tourist season, SUVs on flat terrain (guilty), short people who speak fast and of course, girls who say bro.

Never had I come across anyone wearing a cowboy hat, shit kickers and a large patriotic belt buckle. In fact, the only time I saw anyone in said garb was when I came across Mexicans walking to and from the job down in Homestead.

Until now…

Picture it, Spring 2003. One Saturday night, my friends and I made plans to party in Downtown Ft. Lauderdale. One of our friends, who lived in Broward, had a roommate who was dating a beer tub girl at some place called the Roundup, a country western bar in Davie. So, we planned to make a cameo appearance at the Roundup – much to my chagrin.

Side note: I had heard of this place and had no plans of ever visiting. So much so, that I wasn’t even dressed properly. I was wearing slacks and a silk shirt. Certainly, this was a far cry from the above mentioned costume (shit kickers, patriotic belt buckle, et al).

Just after midnight we walk up to the door. While waiting in line to get in, there was some banjo crap in the background and some guy on a microphone hootin’ and hollarin’ God know’s what. Instantly blood began coagulating in my eardrum.

So I get to the bouncer to show my ID. He proceeds to point toward the cashier so that I can pay my cover.

“Are you freggin’ kidding me?! I have to pay YOU to have a bad time? This is absurd!”

Of course, I didn’t verbalize any of those thoughts. The bouncer was easily 6’6 and coming in at a measly 300lbs. So I reluctantly handed them my money as I bit through my bottom lip.

Just as the tear was done subsiding down my right cheek like the Indian on the side of the highway, the skies opened up. I saw the crowd. The music was drowned out by the sight of tight jeans, cowgirls and beer tub girls who had their tig ole’ bitties on display for the world to see, admire and adore.

The room began to spin. All the women had teeth. No one was carrying a baby. No sign of Britney holding a can of Coors Light. This is surreal. Can it be? It’s like the girls of Petticoat Junction were in town for one night and one night only!

I turn to my left and there’s the dance floor. There’s easily 100 people dancing in unison to some song I’ve never heard of. I couldn’t believe the choreography. It’s like In Living Color the redneck edition.

Just as the song died down, a black cowboy grabs the mic and gets on the bar... I’ll write that part again… a black cowboy grabs the mic and gets on the bar. Honestly, I don’t know what to think at this point. Tight jeans, bitties, incredible choreography. It couldn’t get any better. Then, it did…

“For this song and this song only, we’ll call it $2 shots of Jose Cuervo.”

What did the black cowboy just say? Did he actually say $2 shots of Cuervo?

Bang! Some country song about Jose Cuervo comes on. The crowd goes bonkers.

“Yeeehaw!” “Wooo hooo!” I said as I ran to the bar and told the bartender, “Gimme 10! I want 10 shots of Cuervo! Line ‘em up!”

Fast forward to 4am. I’m now on the dance floor doing the 2-step with Colleen from Delray. By this time, I’m hammered beyond any recognition. I’ve learned how to Cotton Eye Joe. I’ve line danced to Missy Elliot and the 2-Live Crew (yes, they have line dances for those songs, as well). And what was a once-promising evening in Downtown Ft. Lauderdale has turned into the cultural awakening of my life. Who knew?!

So after that long background story - which I hope was as entertaining for you to read as it was for me to put into coherent thought - I'll tell you about last Saturday night.

Martinez returns to the Roundup.

The occasion: Our boy Dave is moving to North Carolina.
The culprits: Dave Dietz and Joey Wilson’s band of merry alcoholics (guilty).
The transportation: A Hummer Limo stocked with Jack, Kettle, Jello Shots, Buttery Nipple Shots, Beer and a busted A/C.
The mission: FUBAR. Regardless of what it takes.

To protect the innocent, we won’t discuss the limo ride to the Roundup because it was littered with drinking, under appreciation for country music and a pit stop a Burger King where everyone stuffed their faces with burgers and fries.

However, the arrival at the Roundup was something from another dimension.

Imagine, if you will, arriving at a Country Western Bar with seven drunk gringos, seven even more drunk and loud latinos and a black dude who has no regard for public decency (as exhibited by random mooning, sitting on someone’s car hood bare-assed and screaming like Michael Jackson when any song comes on). Needless to say, the valet guys were laughing their asses off.

Yup, this night has all the makings, folks.

Let’s just start with $15 all you can drink. That’s the toll, people. You pay $15, you drink all you want. Note for the people at roundup: this was the wrong group to tell that to.

Watching 14 drunk fools trying to country line dance is like having a front-row seat to roadside sobriety tests. People stepping left when they should’ve stepped right. One person’s doseying… the other one’s do-ing. They were all over the place. And it was beautiful.

The bad news was that there was no Colleen and no $2 shots of Jose Cuervo.

I’m telling you, the sight of one of our fallen drunk comrades hanging out the Hummer Limo’s window on the ride home because he was about to puke made it all worth while.

Ah, the Roundup. You have so much in store for me every time I come ‘round. With your beer tub girls and your black cowboy. The cultural stimulation you offer is amazing. The choreography you promote is legendary.

Who knows? Maybe after a few lessons, some black guy will write a blog about the Roundup having some Latino Cowboy with a mic that jumps on the bar and sells $2 shots of Cuervo. Of course, he’ll probably think I’m one of those Mexicans from Homestead.

Grab your partner dosey-do….

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