I’ll let you in on a secret: beneath my cool, collected, unflappable exterior lays a man capable of being shaken, haunted, and indeed enslaved by an all-consuming, soul-rattling fear. A fear shared by many of my brethren of African-American descent. I’m talking, of course, about Twangaphobia – a fear of country music and establishments hopelessly tainted by the evil influence of country music.

On those thankfully rare occasions when we twangaphobes find ourselves surrounded by the lamentable wailings of folks named Clint, Buck, Lurleene, and Hank Jr., the message sent to the brain is: I may soon be lynched.

What better way to courageously face my fear of all things denim and buckskin related than to get my stroll on to the neighborhood C&W watering spot. In this case that means moseying down to Shorty and Wags – an oasis of twang in a desert of nipple-pierced, spike-haired hipness known as the corner of Lake and Lyndale.

So, like a rhinestone homeboy, I bravely hop into the CB&G, fighting back the impulse to two-step my black behind straight outta’ said bumpkin bar faster than a corn dog in – and right back out of the digestive tract of Calista Flockhart.

The smoke-filled air inside seemed promisingly alive with the threat of an over-the-top barroom brawl worthy of any late 70’s Clint Eastwood flick. The patrons were predictably rowdy; the décor seemed inspired by the blood-curdling nightmares of an animal rights activist; and most frighteningly, the jukebox was cold-bumping in strict cowpoke mode. Entering under these hideous circumstances, a twangaphobic brother like myself couldn’t help but feel like the final ingredient to the recipe for a hate crime.

Then the mood shifted. The jukebox’s standard issue ode to somebody’s sleepin’ single-drinkin double-achy-breakey-weepin’-cheatin’ heart gave way to the slightly less annoying and considerably less redneck-friendly strains of Whitesnake. More perplexingly yet, the comparatively dulcet tones of “Still of the Night” would soon surrender to the defiantly twang-free likes of Kid Rock and Stevie Wonder.

It then occurred to me that in the midst of my ten gallon panic I hadn’t

realized how cordial everyone had been to me: the patrons, for all their alcohol-induced knuckleheadedness, hadn’t threatened to set me ablaze; the waitress managed a friendly grin through her suspiciously slurred demeanor; and I noted the absence of Mr. C&W Stereotype. You know the cat: truck-and-tractor-pull enthusiast, married to his step-sister-in-law, started smoking when he was eight, red state white trash blue ribbon drinker in a sleeveless t-shirt and a rusted pickup truck with a saran-wrapped driver-side window.

It was as if Minnesota Nice had collided with confederate hayseed hickdom and the bewildering result was a kinder, gentler, curiously urban-friendly southern-fried charm. It was peaceful, respectful, remarkably tolerant. In other words it didn’t feel… well, country.

Still, however hollow my victory; I relished the freedom from my shackles of fear. Indeed, while bidding happy trails to CB&G, I was almost tempted to declare – in the words of that fresh-faced quasi-countrified chanteuse of my youth, Marie Osmand – “I’m a little bit country…” Almost.

So what have we learned from this happily uneventful hoedown/throwdown? We learned that a country bar in the Lyn-Lake area is likely to be brimming with an air of open-minded, diversity-trained, all-inclusiveness. In other words, it won’t feel… well, country.

We also learned to resist the ugly urge to apply broad-based cultural pimpslaps to those who seek to get their pick and/or grin on. In fact, from this day forth, I’ll try not to invoke the image of Mr. C&W stereotype when my ears are savagely invaded by country music. Instead, I’ll think of Shania Twain. In a pair of Daisy Duke-like cut-off jeans and a midriff bearing, see-through, confederate flag-adorned top.

Now that’s country.