It’s kind of interesting that as line dancers… we kind of get territorial. We love new people joining our ranks and learning our dances, but sometimes the turf wars begin.
Those who have hung out with us probably know what we’re talking about. You have your regulars that go to any country bar. They know their dance floor, their dances and their people. If you’re not being a total toolbox, and they’re in good moods, the regulars will teach you what they know. [Remember: The key is "not being a total toolbox." If you are sloppy drunk wanting to learn steps, you might get pointed a few directions but mostly you're going to become an unwelcome annoyance. It's not just us. I've watched this elsewhere.]
The night is fine and then ‘uh oh.’ A song gets requested. It’s not just any song. It’s a song that has been phased out, nobody likes, or is just one that nobody knows a dance to. Then it happens. Out of the corner of the regulars’ eye, a new set of boots step onto the dance floor. And not only are they on your turf… they know the dance. And it’s not a dance the regulars know. It might be a good dance. It might be a perfectly alright fabulously fun one, but somebody else is doing it… and it’s somebody that they don’t know. Under their breath, there are snide remarks (most of which are a bit out of insecurity, jealousy, or just being territorial).
You half expect folks to pop their collars, slick back their hair, snap their fingers in time, and start singing and dancing in strange unison to a musical that involved a girl named Maria. (Okay, so the dancing in unison happens… but just not with the words “Jets” and “Sharks” involved.) It’s kind of like high school again. Everybody thinks they are the best and everybody else be damned: you gotta earn your way into the ranks. If you’re not a toolbox, they’ll let you in. [Again: Don't be a tool.]
And this goes the opposite direction as well. I went to another Saddleridge this past weekend. The bar, in itself, was pretty nice. It’s newer so the place didn’t look beat up and run down. The bouncers and security folk made sure drinks spilled were cleaned. Everything didn’t look sticky, and hell, even the mechanical bull didn’t look like you’d get twenty five diseases by just breathing the air around it. The first thought that crossed my mind: our dance floor in Pittsburgh is better. No, not better by quality since ours needs refinished pronto. Better in size… and, in my mind, better in quality. And then I realized (laughing at myself), that I’m mentally part of the turf wars even if I just joined the turf six months ago. Do I think our (my and Kalli’s) cowboys at Saddleridge dance better? Hell to the yes. I think they’d eat those cowboys alive any day of the week. Do I kind of think that mental need to have a turf war is silly? Absolutely. But I couldn’t help it.
Bottom line, though, is that the more people who line dance the better. The “other” Saddleridge fell into the same problem ours does. It becomes a crapfest of hip-hop, club wear, drunk flailing, and insanity. There was only a handful of maybe ten people (ours has more than that usually) that were holding up the good name of country western line dancing while getting smothered on a super tiny dance floor by the girls in skirts that were way too short for their body types and enough sequins to blind Helen Keller.
Bottom line: there is none. The whole analogy is silly even if it is true… and all in all, no matter what the turf is, just dance. [And keep the drunk party girls and hip-hop boys out of our way.]
