Waltzing through the front door of the smoky, blue-collar bar in the roughest part of town, one frequented mainly by mill workers and truck drivers and retired professional wrestlers, came a slim, stylish metrosexual with a neatly trimmed beard, just looking to perhaps share a graceful slow dance and a White Claw with a similarly sensitive soul, but, disappointed that the bartender only had Pabst on tap and unable find anything to waltz to on the jukebox amid all that disgusting country music and classic rock, he quickly realized he was in the wrong place and waltzed right out the same door.