I finally tracked down the Broken Spoke (the previous difficulty arising from the fact that I am so accustomed to committing navigational missteps that I have developed the unfortunate habit of preemptively correcting navigational errors BEFORE THEY OCCUR, whereas if I had just stayed the course I would have ended up at my destination), and boy am I glad I did because it turns out that Texas is just like in the movies (Cowboy hats! Cowboy boots! Men are Men and Women are Women, and the house band sports pompadours and plays the upright bass against a backdrop of blurred neon!), at least at the Broken Spoke on a Saturday night when the dashing and talented Dale Watson is playing. Having finally managed to see Dale Watson, I will now need to find another Texan white whale, and I'm sure I will. Or maybe I will just follow him all over town.
About Dale Watson: when I am a middle-aged gentleman, I want to be him. You know when you encounter someone who is born to be the exact age they are when you encounter them (if not, pretend you do)? Someone who inhabits their life stage with such style and panache that you think, they were born to be in the exact incarnation they are in in the right-now? That is Dale Watson. All right, enough rhapsodizing. Suffice it to say he is a real cool cat.
Several kindly souls braved the dance floor with me in an attempt to teach me how to waltz and two-step and do all the things people who actually know how to dance can do, and everyone was an excellent sport, no matter how many times I stepped on their feet (turns out it’s possible to have more than two left feet!), just as the neighboring couples were excellent sports, no matter how many times I bumped into them. Put a mosh pit in there and I'd be fine, but I'm afraid this Learning to Actually Dance business is going to be an uphill battle. Unless there is an interpretive dance night at the Broken Spoke. I even found a Venezuelan country music aficionado with whom to practice my Spanish! And my car didn't get towed, the dubious legality of my parking space notwithstanding.
When I got home, I felt strange, and I started to freak out until I realized what it was: I felt good. What with the yoga earlier in the day (shut up), and the thoroughly delightful evening, I felt preternaturally good. Like, scary-good. Truth be told, I'm a little apprehensive to ever return to the Broken Spoke, for fear it would be a doomed endeavor to recreate one of those perfect days/nights that occasionally seem to drop spontaneously down from the heavens and that can never be replicated, but merely fondly remembered.
And here is photographic evidence!
In the ladies’ room! “These are the most patriotic stall doors I have ever seen,” I explained to the woman who entered as I was taking this picture, by way of attempting to explain that I was not a pervert, but merely impressed with the décor. Apparently I wasn’t convincing, since she turned around and left.
And finally, speaking of real cool cats, here is the Sunday edition of Meep in a Box TM:
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