I drive down 66 just as the lights come on, past Will Rogers Park, past the Texas Plains Trail sign. Route 66 is all of this and more. Just as I am waxing eloquent, I pass a corner on Amarillo Boulevard with Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Arby’s, and Burger King. This is Route 66, too. Up ahead is a gas station without employees--credit only. Try to explain that to the shopkeepers of Route 66, fifty years ago.

Tonight in Amarillo I am trying to make up for this burst of curmudgeonship. We are stepping into the door of the Cattleman Cafe. I spy a sign on the door: All Shirts Must Be Tucked Into Pants. I wonder what that’s all about--but not for long.

The interior is thick with Christmas decorations, crosses and stars above the stage where the musicians are idling. All the men wear hats--cowboy hats the most common, followed by baseball caps. The men and women wear jeans, with a few broomstick skirts. A few couples sashay slowly on the floor.

"Excuse me, mister. You can’t come in here like that." She has the voice of a professional bouncer, reciting the rules.

I look down at my clothes and don’t see anything unusual. I am wearing a brown leather jacket with a bulky down vest over my pants.

"You can’t come in here like that. Shirt in your pants."

This is the first time since college I have failed a dress code, and I am ready to walk; except that Franny gives me a look I’ve seen on third grade teachers talking to their charges. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see country and western dancing is on her mind.

I excuse myself and walk back to the car. With some serious tugging, I can just fit the down vest inside of my jeans, though I feel like a sausage being stuffed. Back inside, the lady bouncer smiles at me, and Franny and I order margaritas--which arrive so blue I know we are not in Hispanic 66. We dance some, but the ten inches of height separating us--and my self-consciousness--make dancing ungainly. Anyway, a night on the town; and Franny leaves with a smile.