Years ago I had a club date at the Commerce Casino lounge. It was a classy joint (like all casino lounges), and the crowd was predictably intoxicated, both by the booze and by our tender renditions of delightful numbers like "Baby Got Back." (I practiced guitar twelve hours a day for this?)
One gentleman, though, was conspicuously vocal in his appreciation of the band, and in particular of the female lead singer, Tina. As I bantered with him between songs, I detected a densely Texan drawl, heavily modulated by drunkenness. Needless to say, he made an amusing foil through the end of the set.
Afterward, I was outside the lounge taking a break with Tina and the bass player Jay (both of whom were black) when our friendly Texan (who was not) approached. Immediately, he began putting the moves on Tina.
"Man!" he exhaled, licking his lips, shaking his head incredulously, looking Tina up and down. "You are so hot."
His martini-in-hand drifted off up to the right, terminating in a lilt centered at toast-level, as he continued shaking his head and looking her up and down. "I mean, damn, you are hot."
Then he looked away , squinting thoughtfully, then looked back at Tina. Then, raising his eyebrows with all his might--not wanting to be misunderstood--he continued: "Now, I don't hate ni**ers..."