I started writing professionally about bars in Texas sixteen years ago, concentrating on my favorite category of eateries, dive bars, mainly because they can be divisive. That’s why I also wrote Texas Diving: Rugged Neighborhood Bars in the Lone Star State with Austin photographer Kirk Weddle after meeting people who own, work in, and frequent bars. I’ll save you $35 right now and reveal the book’s main lesson: no one is ever dissatisfied with diving.

After the release of the book last year, I was asked: “How to become a regular customer?” I answered with a joke. Back in 2012, after finding the Triple Crown — a cinder block building in San Marcos that used to be a brothel and was always dark as a cave inside — I kept showing up, maybe six or seven times in a couple of weeks. I was good at tipping bartenders, never got drunk, and generally kept my cool, until that day Big Pete, who was sitting in the corner of the bar with a few other patrons, nodded at me to join the group: my time had come.

Whenever I think about that morning, I hear “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” by Fifth Dimension playing from the Crown’s jukebox. I grabbed my glass, walked past the bar stools in slow motion, and squatted gracefully next to Big Pete, giving him a very firm handshake that went unnoticed because Big Pete has hands the size of a frying pan. Apparently, Big Pete and the other regulars were secretly meeting to validate my probationary “regular” status.

“You were sitting alone and we invited you to play. The price is right on TV . . . because you were sitting alone,” recalled “Big” Pete Sanchez in October last year, remembering this event a little differently than I do. Okay, Pete. I will keep the credibility of the cabal.

Also, I want to say that I just assimilated to the rhythms and patterns of the bar, and after a while I felt like I belonged here. (Unfortunately Triple Crown has since closed.)

Texas dive bars exist in a conspicuous way. They don’t have the same people, but they always have the same mob, which almost never turns out to be a bloated confederation of renegades and apostates portrayed to the point of disgust in movies, juicy novels, and everywhere through lazy writing (with the exception of my book). Clients are hardworking, third shifts, freelancers are ordinary people like me who want to sit in a comfortable place, have a couple of drinks and let the outside world spin on its own for a few hours.

Do you want to be a regular dive bar visitor? Remember that the main function of a dive center is to open for business every day and serve its customers. Understand that good behavior comes from a collaborative effort between staff and visitors. As in other social clubs, knowing some rules allows you to adapt with minimal difficulty.

The advantage of following a utilitarian dive bar ethic is that, if adopted universally, it will make it much easier to navigate outside the dive sector, into less-mannered sectors of society like IKEA.

Read in the room (he reads you right back)

If you get a card, which happens to new faces, deciding to make a tiresome comment about your advanced age will automatically disqualify you. “Oddly enough, it’s mostly people in their 20s and 20s that cause any kind of stink,” says Adam Testa, owner of Goat in Dallas. “They act like, ‘Harramf! I am twenty four. God! ”

No matter what your reaction is when you get carded, all eyes in the establishment will turn to you out of human instinct. You will be judged like everywhere else because to the regulars you are either undercover or looking for a peaceful coexistence. They will help with the second case.

Do not bulge the eyes of visitors, but study the walls to see if it is possible to cheer for the Cowboys. Flip through the jukeboxes, but think carefully before you play whatever you want. Recognize friendly gestures. Sip your drink thoughtfully. As I leave, I recommend waving “I’ll be back someday” at the bartender.

“That would be great” is a reassuring answer.

“Don’t worry” means you shouldn’t have played that song.

Keep coming back and you’ll soon have a profile based on shared data from both sides of the panel (and the meta, of course).

No ghosting

The golden rule of dive bars: the regulars come. Whether that means the bar can set its clock to your 5:47pm weekday weekday or remember your trade route takes you through town on Tuesdays, visits are expected. I try to check in with my diving friends, probably more than most of my family members.

“Subsequence.” This is what regular visitor Clint Boardman told me a couple of years ago when we were enjoying cocktails at A Great Notion in Fort Worth. “If you’re away for a while and we don’t remember too much about you when you come back, you’re not a regular at that moment. You are fickle.”

You are not as funny as you think

“No one should feel they have to entertain anyone,” explains Brooke Travers, bartender at Austin’s Donn’s Depot. In truth, some extremely unfunny people fill dive bars, so if you can only make others laugh politely, find alternative ways to talk. Try this: “Who is the most famous person that walks into this bar?” (The bartenders should answer “You” and then get a tip.) Or ask someone to settle a dispute you have with a friend (which doesn’t have to exist). The smartphone cannot answer the “bet”. Think abstractly, for example: “What is the greatest artistic achievement: Kris Kristofferson who wrote Me and Bobby McGee, or Janis Joplin who performed Me and Bobby McGee?”

Keep it simple and tip honestly

It’s absolutely cool when the bartender prepares a drink even before you fall on a stool. But that won’t happen if your “regular” drink is served mixed in a hurricane glass with a candied rim and garnished with sprigs of freshly cut basil. Yes, today’s bartenders (or mixologists, if you will) have amazing skills, make their own bitters, and have an encyclopedic knowledge of pre-prohibition cocktails. But they usually do not work in eateries, so, for mercy’s sake, order simply – beer and shot, martinis, bourbon and a branch.

Leave a tip that reflects your honest financial standing. I’m the kind of guy who drinks a dollar, but don’t overpay on your first visit if you can’t handle it. Leave room to climb when needed.

Don’t fool the bartenders

Civilians should not assume that buying drinks entitles them to all the bartender’s attention. “Yes, they think so. And you know what? I’m fine with that,” says Michelle Lapinsky, a bartender at Hunter’s Riley’s Tavern, despite my best efforts to get her to say otherwise. “But yes, there are some who if I’m not with them one hundred percent of the time – because I’m busy with other clients – it hurts their feelings.”

This is also important: in a dive, time does not stand still. The outside world is invading, but chauvinists, bigots, and crooks who fall in love with bartenders should drink elsewhere. “Riley was founded in 1933, but that doesn’t mean it’s still 1933 behind those doors,” says Lapinski, who has stories of male behavior that confuse me down to my Y chromosome.

Practice controlled but purposeful drinking

A common mistake made by regular trainees is to drink to impress, which inevitably leads to stupidity followed by regret. At the Saddle Bronc in San Angelo, where owner Ila Johnson is notorious for charging a financial penalty (usually 25 cents) for any use of the f-word, don’t try to drink so much that you lose your sanity.

“Regular customers kind of know what they should be doing. New ones get a little—I didn’t drink that much!‘“And all that,” says Johnson. “But we tell them that it’s not just that you’re all in trouble. Problems arise both for bartenders and at the bar.”

Don’t be afraid of the silence

Diving allows visitors to drink in peace in solitude because talking doesn’t always solve problems. At the same time, think of gossip about a bullion as a currency that grows in value the more you hold it in your pocket. It can become so priceless that you feel better never to part with it. After all, they are your friends from the dive bar. Show class.