Goodbye Girl

A Saturday: Parked at the bar at the Winedale Tavern, the 15-year-old Lower Greenville watering hole invisible to douchebags and the women who love them. Evening's "musical entertainment" (term used tentatively) is a guy singing more Beatles covers but knows the words to "Mother Nature's Son."

Name-drops: Do these people have names? They are but whiskey fairies that disappear under the bar at daybreak, and the Winedale is but a dream, as is any hope I have of finishing the crossword left near my drink.

1:10 a.m. "Are you the fucking walrus?" screeches a demure young lady from behind me. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all hammered.

1:44 a.m. The fog of drink is rolling in like...a fog rolling in.

1:50 a.m. Some Guy (not to be confused with Some Dude) walks straight in with his own six-pack and cracks one open.

2:07 a.m. Disheveled Guy in formerly tightly tied tie gets his drunk dial on at the end of the bar. "I'm sitting at the Winedale. I won $80 and I'm drunk." Then: "Oh? Well then, you could be busy for a while." Famous last words.

A Wednesday: Decide I need perspective, head to Dallas' original bottle-serving, celebrity-catering ultra lounge, the Candleroom.

11 p.m. Pull up, pay valet $5 to park my car 40 feet away.

Name-drops: Some tall dudes who may be basketball players, some girl's bare ass every time she bends over during her sexy dance.

11:05 p.m. Can't hear a thing but can see a girl grinding up on a fat man whose bald spot is older than she is. Wish I had a few hundred bucks and, therefore, a booth, a bottle and somewhere to sit down.

11:26 p.m. Finish whiskey and Coke, finish Candleroom. Get tab.

11:30 p.m. Handsome bartender asks, "Why are you leaving so early?"

Because a little perspective goes a long way, dear Big D. The sugar daddies, the bottle service, the valets—they make the best parts of you even better. Stay douchey, Dallas.

Let's get drunk and hook up the next time I'm in town,

Andrea