We speak from experience, and we know others who can, too. Open the tattered, straining door and enter a world of music...and romance? Yep. To be honest, we don't have enough digits to count the many couples that have met browsing the racks of CD World. Maybe it's the small space that urges one to take notice of a hottie picking up a mutual favorite. Maybe it's the fine selection that automatically validates the taste of anyone who dares enter the land of the music snob. But as music snobs ourselves, we require our significant others to share our musical snobbery, and we value a place that limits the Ronstadt and somehow incites romance. We're serious. It's a hot spot for the young and musical; we just counted 15 CD World-born couples, and we haven't even finished.

A few months ago we ran a story outlining the hypocrisy and puritan reasoning behind sex toys being illegal in Texas (you can sell them as cake toppers but not as sexual accessories). From the same department of idiocy comes the law behind purchasing nitrous gas. When you inhale nitrous (commonly found in whipped cream canisters or in balloons at concerts), you get very, very high. Or so we've heard. You can buy containers of 24 nitrous canisters for about $20. It's legal to sell them; it's legal to buy them. You can also buy extra-thick balloons (needed to transfer the extremely cold gas from the canister to your lungs without first freezing your lips) for about $1 a pop. It's legal to sell those, too; also legal to buy them. But here's where the craziness comes in: If you ask for a box of nitrous canisters and a few balloons, then the store can't sell you either because now you've demonstrated "intent to inhale." Right. As if the 24 whippet canisters were meant for a whole lot of cakes. Anyway, you've been warned, laughing boy.

Though Gypsy Tea Room books many of the same acts, Sons has one big advantage: room enough to dance. That, and it reminds us of the dance halls we grew up in, sneaking a sip from a can of Lone Star when our grandpa wasn't looking, dodging the two-stepping couples scooting their boots on the hardwood floor. It's a comfortable piece of home, even more comfortable after, oh, a dozen longnecks. You know, to get into the spirit of things.

It's not as though Dallas is much to look at, really, no majestic mountains to awe the mind or emerald oceans to stir the emotions, no cozy walk along the Trinity River with freeway traffic zooming by. Not yet anyway. So we romantics have to content ourselves with things more man-made. And the thing that moves our hearts and opens our wallets is a weekend getaway at the Four Seasons Resort at Las Colinas. Without even leaving the county, you and that significant someone can while away a sizzling summer day at the hotel's lagoon-style swimming pool, which is built for intimate conversation. A pampering waitstaff keeps the iced towels, ice water and frozen margaritas flowing. For as little as $175 a night, you will also have access to the hotel's well-rigged health club. Massages, golf and other amenities are likely to raise the price, though packages are available. But we are talking about one night, leaving the city without leaving the city, a quiet 24 to 36 hours so you can rediscover why you fell in love in the first place. And for God's sake, don't be foolish enough to take the kids. They'll be fine.

Ash, Super Furry Animals, Spoon, Dieselboy, Deepsky, The Weakerthans, ALL, Pinback, Guided by Voices, Superdrag, South, James Hall, Supersuckers, Remy Zero, Chomsky, Clinic, The Apples in Stereo, The Vines, The Breeders, X-Ecutioners, The Coup, Blackalicious, Beulah, Sparta, Cranes, The Promise Ring, The Deathray Davies, My Morning Jacket, Nashville Pussy, Hank III, Dixie Witch, Bowling for Soup, Speedealer, The White Stripes, Trans Am, AK1200, DJ Dara, Bare Jr., Old 97's, Pleasant Grove, Bushwick Bill, Tomahawk, North Mississippi All-Stars, Reverend Horton Heat, Baboon. That's just naming a few, and that's just in the past year. Think that speaks for itself.

Go ahead, head to Half Price on a Sunday night. Go to the art/photography section. Peruse the shelves and pick up a book. Flip through it, gaze at the pictures. Ten bucks says that unless the store is inexplicably empty, you'll get hit on. Not into art? Fine. Just head to mystery, true crime or philosophy. The plan is the same; the people and interests have just changed a bit. The accuracy of the description of this phenomenon given to us by an employee truly astounded us. We didn't believe a word, even chalked it up to retail boredom-related hallucinations. Then we went. We stood. We perused and picked up. We flipped and gazed and then...tap, tap. "Hmm, are you a fan of Man Ray, too? I'm Rob."

We fondly remember "members only" as the makers of a whup-ass jacket we sported circa 1983. Now it's a designation for hot spots about town, such as Tristan Simon's swank club around the corner from its slightly more grown-up sibling, Sense. On our two visits to Candle Room this year, the BPDF (Beautiful People Density Factor) was 4.3 and 5.1--well above the 3.2 BPDF needed to be designated as a "furricane" by the National Pleasure Center. As such, the swirling wind generated by the sea of rump-shakers takes out most everything in its path. Post-midnight attempts to wade into the subsequent cleavage storms are dangerous and often end disastrously. Consider yourselves warned.

XPO Lounge's Thursday-night sing-along, hosted by DJ Mr. Rid, is the gold standard for karaoke, bringing in local musicians and locals who just think they are to play human jukebox. DJ Mr. Rid brings an impeccable lineup of songs from which to choose, from karaoke classics (Frank Sinatra, Cheap Trick and such) to rare finds such as Pulp's "This is Hardcore" (which was lovingly laid down by The Falkon's Wanz Dover on a disc capturing the Scaraoke magic, XPO Gold). The songs get better as the night goes on and the liquor goes down. Or maybe we just think they do.

Yeah, we've given it to these guys before, but hey, this isn't your son's Little League team. We don't have to make sure everyone gets some playing time. If you suck, you ride the bench. Simple as that. So until someone comes along and does it better, we ain't changing the starting lineup. Look, we know there are plenty of other fine places to see live music--Muddy Waters, Trees, Liquid Lounge, Club Clearview, Barley House, Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios, Bar of Soap, even Curtain Club, Galaxy Club or Club Indigo if you catch 'em on the right nights--but none of them is as consistent as the Tea Room. You could never even go to another club in Deep Ellum or anywhere else and see the best in hip-hop (Jurassic 5, Common), rock (Wilco, Doves), soul (Erykah Badu, Musiq), country (Eleven Hundred Springs) or whatever (Earl Harvin Trio). We could go on, but I think you get the point. We'll just finish our thoughts next year at this time.

Is it unprofessional to admit that, on occasion, we've attended press screenings with triple Maker's Marks in hands that should have been holding notebooks and pens? It is? Then we're not admitting anything, only suggesting that if every theater had a well-stocked bar like the Magnolia's, then maybe Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star and Cold Creek Manor might seem a little more tolerable; if everything's good on weed, then everything's at least OK on hooch. Hey, you can see Matchstick Men anywhere, but nowhere else in town can you see it all drinky, and nowhere else can you take a bathroom and smoke break without having to leave the building. (At Cityplace, we go in the parking lot.) We love the Magnolia for the movies, but we stay for the drinks. Because we have to sober up.