Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Biker Boyz Moving Around the Scene

Today was good for the most part as I got to speak to all my lovely boys -- Nicky Bootz, Denny Garley, Jimmie Lee Coen, Johnny Chop and Trevelen Rabanal.

Trevelen cracks me up -- I asked him about space for his rig for the finale and he responds, "I don't need a space. We're just going to ride them and keep them dirrrrrrrty!" That's a true biker for you!

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I'm toying with the idea that I've had enough of north friggin Dallas. I moved to this area because it seemed like I was having more meetings here -- and at the time I was. But now I'm jonesing for the downtown area again. Though this time it may be Uptown -- which is still downtown. There are so many kewl places being built near the Crescent and everything between Highland Park & the city are just rocking.

I'm lonely here. It would be nice to just be able to walk out your door and be in ridiculously close proximity to McKinney Avenue. I like Lifetime Fitness but they seem to only be in suburbia so I'd have to go back to 24 Hour Fitness. But there is one right in the area where I would want to be.

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Now on to other things -- I found a lovely description of the types of people that are on the Dallas "scene" -- it makes for interesting reading:::::::

Dallas was treated to a number of high-profile, searchlight-lit openings, shrugged and went back to Primo’s. Tough crowd this.

Best parties: D Scene soirees at Candleroom, Obar and Medici made Mr. Dallas feel like a lecherous old troll. Good work. The Stephan Pyles opening was an old-school Dallas bacchanal. So was the christening of the new suites at Hotel ZaZa. Bring back the ’80s!

Amiable drinking companion: Kato Kaelin held forth at Absinthe.

Steady state: The VIP clubs Medici, Candleroom and Sense nursed their niches and motored along.

Proof of life: “Saturday Night in the City” parties at the Nasher Sculpture Center augured well for the Arts District.

Steady state: The VIP clubs Medici, Candleroom and Sense nursed their niches and motored along.

Proof of life: “Saturday Night in the City” parties at the Nasher Sculpture Center augured well for the Arts District.

Looking ahead: The W will change everything. Really. Mean it this time.


FASHION DIDS AND DIDN’TS: Sick of empire-waist nightie blouses and tailbone tattoos. (Is everybody a stripper now?) Digging designer half-boots and pinstriped jackets worn casually.


The Dallas nightlife scene is an ecosystem – as precariously balanced, awe-inspiringly complex, abundantly diverse as any old rain forest. Bars aren't called watering holes for nothing: The human animal beats a path to them for respite, restoration, to prey or be preyed upon, to mate, to consider the consequences of mating, to bemoan the impossibility of mating.

To the abstemious, a bar may seem just a confused, cacophonous lair of spirits, smoke, shallow posturing, loose talk, clumsy advances and rampant unwise life choices. That's about right; the abstemious have it nailed.

To the careful observer, who has patience, time and a gold card that hasn't maxed, an even fuller picture emerges. He begins to discriminate among the denizens of the watering hole, to know them by their movements, patterns and plumage. He learns to appreciate the vibrant panorama of the scene. He may even get lucky.

Through perseverance, the observer will develop a Jane Goodall-like empathy, even a kinship, with these inhabitants (all photos below are of genuine, authentic Dallasites):

Vintage Restorations

They've "had some work done." The sands of time slip inexorably away. As they do, some people, given sufficient resources and desperation, slam on the brakes with a bob here, a tuck there, a little addition, a little subtraction. The results can be scary – the Dallas equivalent of the witches in MacBeth stuffed into size-too-small peach Escada. As columnist Maureen Dowd says: We are Frankenstein and the monster is us. Keep in mind, though, that the hands never lie when it comes to age.

Common habitat: Nick & Sam's, Mansion Bar
Diet: Merlot, martini


The Fried Blonde

The last of the big-hair brigades that once roamed the veldt in the thousands, she is most susceptible to the Shirt Guy. Her hair has been exposed to more toxins than Chernobyl, turning a sickly yellow with a straw-like, fly-away look. An amiable demeanor and pleasing form, though, go a long way toward suspending judgment about the follicle disaster.

Common habitat: Sambuca Addison

Diet: Sea Breeze

The Shirt Guy

This common predator travels in packs. If his number grows too large he can desolate a watering hole, making it impossible for other creatures to subsist. The shirt is the be-all and end-all of his wardrobe – striped in either broad vertical (starched, collared variety) or horizontal (polo pull-over type) slashes of color. The shirt screams: The Shirt Guy works out. Those bold colors and sturdy patterns draw the eye to the torso, which has been pumped, buffed and ripped by many months at Bally's. The vertically challenged shirt guy may unduly compensate, creating a wide-as-he-is-tall effect.

Common habitat: The Ginger Man

Diet: Beer on tap. Knows about all those tedious stouts, ales and wheats.

Mate: Wants: The Scissor Girl. Gets: Medium Gals


Medium Gals

These tend to herd. They know they look better in clumps. It's an amplification effect – four, five, six at a table, sensible hair, fanny-packs, not long of limb, dressed to match (What are you wearing? Khaki skirt, white silk blouse and strappies. Really? So am I!).

Common habitat: Addison, Lower Greenville

Diet: Margaritas, Mudslides

Mate: The Shirt Guy


The Investment Biker

The weekend Harley rider makes of Lower Greenville a noisy performance-art piece involving middle-aged fantasy and feelings of entitlement. The more he tries to make it real, the more you know he missed it.

Common habitat: Blue Goose

Diet: Beer in bottles.

Mate: The Scissor Girl, if he's lucky


The Scissor Girl

The distaff inverse of the Shirt Guy, she is vacuum-packed into her jeans. She is exceptionally long-shanked, a lean tower from heel to tailbone with barely a swell of hip. The Scissor Girl spends as much time in step class as the shirt guy does with free weights. Show no fear in making your approach — she despises weakness.

Common habitat: Cool River, Palomino, Terilli's

Diet: Cosmopolitan

Mate: Variable


The Old Spice Guy

The inveterately clueless businessman, he figures if he can sell X million dollars of Y to Z, he can pitch himself to a 22-year-old. The sale begins when the customer says no, right? Well, maybe. More likely the hotty gives him the same sideways glance and pained smile she reserves for panhandlers before returning to deep contemplation of the mirror behind the bar.

Common habitat: Sipango, Palomino

Diet: Scotch and water, bourbon and Coke

Mate: Wants: animate female beings.

Gets: Zip


Prada People

The uppermost percentile of the nightlife class – or so they'd like to think. Thou shalt know them by their labels, which are discreet but recognizable. Sleek lines, lots of black, big watches and pretty darn substantial shoes – a combination of artsy and moneyed is the look. The male version will hunt among a younger demographic, but with more success than the Old Spice Guy. When gathered in large numbers, Prada People create a black hole of attitude from which not even light can escape.

Common habitat: Samba Room, art gallery receptions

Diet: Martini, bellini

Mate: Balloon Smuggler, Scissor Girl, Torso Boy


Rip Van Winkles

Individuals, whether age 30 or 60, who obviously haven't been out for a long time. They're coming up for air after a broken marriage. Or maybe the kids are headed off to college. Or they've been circumnavigating the globe in a skiff. In any case, just like ol' Rip of lore, they have awakened with a puzzled, poleaxed expression that says: "Five dollars for a beer?"

Common habitat: Capital Grille

Diet: White wine, rum and Coke

Mate: Old Spice Guy or equivalent


No Nothings

Pinched-faced individuals who really would be better off staying home. While the Rip Van Winkles have been out of circulation because of circumstances, the No Nothings wave the flag of abstention proudly. Through tireless negation, they have whittled themselves down to a collection of things they don't do anymore: smoke, drink, eat meat, go to bars, meet people at bars – though, as they'll reminisce at length, they used to. They just, you know, GREW UP, got TIRED OF IT or MOVED ON.

Common habitat: Uncle Calvin's Coffee House

Diet: Blu Botol

Mate: That neither


Balloon Smugglers

S.J. Perelman's immortal descriptive speaks for itself; in fact, it never shuts up around here. We're talking the balcony-you-could- play-Shakespeare-off-of, in-case-of-water-landing use-as-flotation-device anatomy. It's said that while California leads the nation in augmentation numbers, Texas is tops in cup-size change. Add to that the fact that Dallas vies with Houston as the gentleman's club capital of the world, and the result is a very forward-thinking environment.

Common habitat: Seven, Knox-Henderson area

Diet: Anything red

Mate: Torso Boy, Prada People

Torso Boy

Think of him as the ├╝ber Shirt Guy or the male Balloon Smuggler. He's in the appearance business, whether as a personal trainer, Toni & Guy hair stylist or gentleman's club bouncer. His ratio of library time to gym time heavily favors the gym. The scent of watermelon mousse lingers in the air as he plows forward toward the object of his affection, whether it's in a bottle or a bodice.

Common habitat: Lower Greenville, Deep Ellum

Diet: Beer, shots

Mate: Scissor Girl, Balloon Smuggler