Denizens of the watering hole

A field guide to creatures of the night

(featuring illustrations by Jeff Goertzen)

The 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:

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
Mate: Old Spice Guy, provisionally

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
Mate: The Shirt Guy

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: 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: Knox-Henderson area
Diet: Anything red
Mate: Torso Boy, Prada People

Torso Boy
Think of him as the über 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

Mr. Dallas thanks Anthony Scerbo, author of the landmark study "Migratory Patterns of the North American Exotic Dancer," and Vivian Host for their input.

Mr. Dallas and "Nightlife denizens" are exclusive to GuideLive. © 2004 The Dallas Morning News