Beers, Steers and Leers
A month or so ago (it's hard to say because I was still on my first quarter wagon, traveling the Oregon Trail of "I'll just have a water, thanks" throughout Austin) a new bar opened up on West 6th Street called "The Ranch." This bar was opened by one of Austin's own business tycoons Bob Woody - incidentally he is also a business partner of the dude who got his face shot up by Dick Cheney.
The Ranch looks like the sort of place Lil' Bush and Lil' Cheney would go if they were still in their 20s -- oh and, you know, not waging a continual war on oil. It's more or less al fresco, perched high above J. Black's (also known as J.Blackouts, a phrase coined by my good friend, Class).
You walk in to green walls ensconced with giant stuffed moose heads and elk antlers peering down at you, their glassy-eyes mirroring the look in that dazed guy's eyes across the bar. Perhaps they're former trophies from Cheney's more successful hunting trips.
Nevertheless, the last few weeks have seen us fleeing our usual haunts (i.e. The Marq) for the wilds of The Ranch. It has become the place I love to hate. Chad Womack asked me "Where do you go when you go to West 6th...if you don't mind my asking?" I shamefully had to say "The Ranch," feeling like I was cheating on my favorite Bachelor and non-Bachelor. I'm sorry, boys. But I've fallen victim to The Ranch's wide, open spaces. You can take the girl out of The Marq but you can't take The Ranch out of the girl.
With that being said, here are five things about The Ranch that I love to hate:
1. Everyone -- and I do mean everyone -- goes there. That guy who rode your bus route in high school? Reader #8 from your blog? Jerry Jones's bug-eyed son who rolls up in the Cowboys' tour bus? If they are out drinking, they're probably there. The Ranch is not the place to go if you want to remain lo-pro (which for a minor celebrity like myself can be difficult, not to mention that ruddy-eyed DJ Bobby Bones).
2. The difference between the way girls dress and the way guys dress. The girls who go to The Ranch stop nothing short of what I refer to as "slutty riche." This means $200 worth of the tiniest pieces of fabric that you can stitch together. The guys all dress like they are headed to the Jimmy Buffet concert afterwards and carry around two Miller Lites in each hand, staring at each other like "Dude, it's called The Ranch." It's a strange dichotomy that never ceases to entertain.
3. I'm pretty sure the owner is a Republican, which is why I try to not spend my own money there.
4. It makes me wish I wasn't single. Or female. Or for that matter, a citizen of humanity. Please refer to this short video I produced, filmed on-location at The Ranch last weekend. Is this really what's left out there?
(Ed. Note: These are strangers from California whom I happened to film and then of course promote my blog.)
5. You have to walk up stairs to get to it. This is usually a deal-breaker for me and bars. A simple equation, if you will:
The Ranch looks like the sort of place Lil' Bush and Lil' Cheney would go if they were still in their 20s -- oh and, you know, not waging a continual war on oil. It's more or less al fresco, perched high above J. Black's (also known as J.Blackouts, a phrase coined by my good friend, Class).
You walk in to green walls ensconced with giant stuffed moose heads and elk antlers peering down at you, their glassy-eyes mirroring the look in that dazed guy's eyes across the bar. Perhaps they're former trophies from Cheney's more successful hunting trips.
Nevertheless, the last few weeks have seen us fleeing our usual haunts (i.e. The Marq) for the wilds of The Ranch. It has become the place I love to hate. Chad Womack asked me "Where do you go when you go to West 6th...if you don't mind my asking?" I shamefully had to say "The Ranch," feeling like I was cheating on my favorite Bachelor and non-Bachelor. I'm sorry, boys. But I've fallen victim to The Ranch's wide, open spaces. You can take the girl out of The Marq but you can't take The Ranch out of the girl.
With that being said, here are five things about The Ranch that I love to hate:
1. Everyone -- and I do mean everyone -- goes there. That guy who rode your bus route in high school? Reader #8 from your blog? Jerry Jones's bug-eyed son who rolls up in the Cowboys' tour bus? If they are out drinking, they're probably there. The Ranch is not the place to go if you want to remain lo-pro (which for a minor celebrity like myself can be difficult, not to mention that ruddy-eyed DJ Bobby Bones).
2. The difference between the way girls dress and the way guys dress. The girls who go to The Ranch stop nothing short of what I refer to as "slutty riche." This means $200 worth of the tiniest pieces of fabric that you can stitch together. The guys all dress like they are headed to the Jimmy Buffet concert afterwards and carry around two Miller Lites in each hand, staring at each other like "Dude, it's called The Ranch." It's a strange dichotomy that never ceases to entertain.
3. I'm pretty sure the owner is a Republican, which is why I try to not spend my own money there.
4. It makes me wish I wasn't single. Or female. Or for that matter, a citizen of humanity. Please refer to this short video I produced, filmed on-location at The Ranch last weekend. Is this really what's left out there?
(Ed. Note: These are strangers from California whom I happened to film and then of course promote my blog.)
5. You have to walk up stairs to get to it. This is usually a deal-breaker for me and bars. A simple equation, if you will:
Stairs + Mean Rachel x 2 vodka sodas / 3.5" heels = MRI.
Labels:
drinking,
The Marq,
The Ranch
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The "Ambassador of Fun" Mandy is a bartender there and she is indeed very fun!
I thought the Ranch was cool but I'm not certain anymore. This guy might have single-handedly suck every ounce of cool the bar had. I'm guessing the Ranch will be closed in a few months after seeing this.
Crossing Ranch off list of places to check out right after I mop up coffee spilt when I snorted it thru nose watching this at 7am. I'm pretty sure I would never used the term SEG in front of you. Must have picked it up from some gutter-mouthed friend.
6. Same song list played nightly. Similar to Strama/Obama/Will Wynn, "I fell in love with Mark Breslow" sung to the tune of La Isla Bonita was only funny once. Now picture the thumbs down dance to the tune of La Isla Bonita and it makes a whole lot more sense...
I like THE RANCH. Its my new favorite bar.. Rock en roll... He doesn't count bc he is not from here!!
$2: She also seems to know a lot of people with boats...
anon: I think you could be right.
kiwi: oh come on! who else would say that?!
shiriously: shiriously. also I think point #1 was made today by the fact that you realized that you had met #4 in VEGAS only after the fact!
marc: I'm glad this post inspired you to leave your first ever comment. Impressive. I see what's important to you!
Damn that's funny. That guy left there telling his buddies, "Dude, the hot chick with the camera thought I was cool."
Eh, don't let Republican owners stop you. Remember, Cooper's BBQ in Llano has a Dubya bumper sticker on the front door. Even though it makes me throw up in my mouth a little, the BBQ still tastes good once you get inside.
However, using that video only as a guide, I'm mystified as to what you find alluring about the place. Do you also enjoy looking at car wrecks?
lee: the funniest part is that in the email correspondence that his friend forwarded me, he claims he was "overserved." I like that new euphemism for "drunk."
You're right. Cooper's is worth the drive and certainly worth ignoring the photos of G-W on the wall. Blackberry cobbler never tasted so corrupt.
Love to hate, Lee. Love to hate. And the fact that it's completely open air is different.
True story: I was returning home from a trip to San Angelo (around 2003 or so, back when the war fervor was making everyone stupid) and so of course I had to swing into Cooper's. And while I'm waiting in line, this older woman keeps looking over at me as if she knows me, and it's freaking me out. And then I realize she is looking at my "Texas Observer" T-shirt. That's when I recognized her: Molly Ivins. She was probably excited to know there was at least one other liberal in Llano at that moment.