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.