The bras hanging from the ceiling vibrated to the heartbeat of bass and the staccato cracks of the bartender's bullhorn. "Redneck Woman" blared from the speaker where I sat, drinking a rum and coke and watching the bachelorette party girls shimmy.

I was thinking I was probably the only person there who has ever really identified with Jeff Foxworthy's schtick. I mean, I do have an uncle with a pet raccoon. At one time, I was related (by marriage) to a grown man everyone called Rascal.

TBID was very uncomfortable. He pronounces "Barry" and "berry" differently, poor thing. There were no tables or chairs - just a dirty, crowded floor and splintery walls. He stood by like an outsider, ears nearly bleeding from the nasal twang. By the time "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" came on and the wannabe hicks tried to fake a Cotton-Eye Joe, TBID had reached his limit.

"How about 'Save a Metrocard (Ride a New York Jew)'?" he suggested.

It made me laugh. I said, "Alright. We can go."

We went somewhere with couches and chichi cocktails and a chocolate chip cookie cake. But I still couldn't get that song out of my head.