I am fresh off a one-year stint of unemployment. Within the last two weeks, however, I suffered from an abnormal bout of ambition. I’ve embarked on a full-time education and a part-time job, in addition to these bi-weekly reviews. I tell you all of this because after five days of sleep deprivation and a particularly interesting argument with an underground parking lot attendant, I was eager for some drunken debauchery. It took the mere mention of the words “mechanical bull” for me to strap on my cowboy boots and saunter into The Red Rock Saloon (1227 N. Water St.).
I consider myself to be somewhat of a country bar aficionado having tried a little two-stepping at Ropers in Corpus Christi, frequenting Wild Bills in Atlanta and having one particularly wild evening at Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar in Las Vegas, so I was pleasantly surprised with the “makeunder” that this space (formerly Sullivan’s) faced. Unfinished wood adorns nearly every surface, and a copper moonshine still and old aging barrels provide a new take on decorations. The lighting came from era-specific steel wagon-wheel chandeliers, and it was no surprise to see an abundance of the name Jack Daniel’s and that infamous “No. 7.” All that’s missing is a belligerent outlaw donning a handlebar mustache and a pair of six-shooters.
The venue seems to be banking on $5 mechanical bull rides because I was shot down when I requested a drink menu and asked if there were any specials. In their defense, they’ve only recently opened, but I hope it’s not too long before I can order a tall glass of something named “Cactus Cooler” and have an incentive to stop in for happy hour. Facing disappointment, I ordered a couple of tap microbrews at $4.50 a piece (domestics $3.50) from a bartender clad in flannel. Red Rock lists their dress code as casual, but I suggest you play the part and clothe yourself in heavy amounts of retro western wear. Daisy dukes are optional.
I’m not us
ually the timid type, but I am faced with great hesitation when it comes to combining alcohol and the signing of a liability waiver, especially since I am without health insurance and am ridiculously prone to drunken injuries. But the slight pang of responsibility I sometimes feel goes the way of the wind following beer No. 3, after which I found myself kicking off my shoes and mounting the mechanical bull with a partner in crime. You see, I attempted to haggle the operator for a free ride but was denied. (What is with Red Rock saying no to me?) Don’t fret though because I found a loophole with what I call the buy-one-get-one. If you ride the bull with a partner, the fee remains the same, and they allow you to switch positions providing another opportunity to master this bucking bronco and a free ride. This may only appeal to our female readers, but I thought it worth mentioning. Take heed future bull-riders because this isn’t smooth sailing. I highly suggest you follow Zombieland’s rule No. 18 and “Limber Up” because I was left in a state of soreness for several days.
If you can relate to the more sober Rebecca and prefer to remain a member of the audience, there are plenty of places for viewing, including makeshift stadium seating and pub tables. Unfortunately, I couldn’t figure out where I was supposed to kick up my heels and bust out those line dances I’ve been harboring in my memory since the seventh grade. Watching people trip and fall never gets old, but apparently watching people get thrown off an automated (albeit enraged) bull grows tiresome. I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s next?”
