Cocaine Cowboy Dance

The Concrete Cowboy Protocol

Ten minutes before walking into my final EMT exam, a doctor handed me a bipolar diagnosis. I didn't want another broken part to fix. I wanted the volume turned off.

So I failed the test—my first academic failure ever—and told sobriety to go fuck itself.

I walked straight around the corner to the Concrete Cowboy bar and got adopted by a bachelorette party. Names were casualties of the night, but two survivors, Brenda and Stacey, kept the timeline intact. We were popping Adderall left and right and hitting the ski slopes hard, hosting a dance off where my only thought was how remarkably good their coke was.

Somewhere between the strobe lights and the chemical haze, a bystander asked what I did. Allegedly, I looked them dead in the eye and announced I was a professional choreographer, trained by Derek Hough.

You’ll have to read the book for the full origin story. But the legend didn't die at last call.

Months later, watching Lady Gaga promote her Dead Dance online, a spark of the old madness flared up. Brilliant marketing. If a pop icon could launch a movement, so could a guy who once lied to a bachelorette party about his ballroom dancing credentials.

To help promote the book, the Cocaine Cowboy dance was born. It’s mercifully easy to learn. Just three moves:

1. Numb the gums.
2. Stripper hips.
3. Zero fucks.