One would think that the Rock ‘n’ Rodeo would be a great place. There’s plenty of room, and it’s always full of girls, but for some reason it rubs me in all the wrong ways.
I think I figured out why.
I like to think of “the Hodeo” as Taylor’s on steroids. Sure, it seems like bigger would be better, but there are side effects. The weak drinks are analogous to shrunken testicles, while the meathead brawl fests are clearly some sort of bar version of ‘roid rage.
The long lines are nothing to write home about, either. What is this, Disneyland? The lines don’t end at the front door. Getting a drink involves converging into the sweaty mob surrounding the bars for a watery concoction fit for a middle-school rager. I swear, if it was possible to dilute ice, the Hodeo would.
A friend of mine spent 20 minutes waiting for service before he finally gave up and had a girl friend of ours go get it for him. I guess they take this ladies’ night thing pretty seriously. The same girl friend got a lemon drop, which tasted like old tap water with a splash of lemon juice in it. It wasn’t even served in a big, goofy girlie-drink glass, and it definitely did not have sugar on the rim. Who do they think they’re fooling?
They’re fooling lot of people apparently, as the bar regularly reaches its maximum capacity. The obvious way around the weak mixed drinks would be to stick with shots and beer, but after my $5 water with a hint of coke and rum flavoring, I could not bring myself to spend another penny there.
With a nickname like “Hodeo,” however, the drinks are obviously not the big draw, and the pictures featured on the official Web site would lead you to believe that the bar is full of boobs and legs with cowboy hats posing seductively on pool tables.
There are two Rock ‘n’ Rodeo groups on Facebook.com. The “I Rock the Hodeo!!!” group proudly states: “If you find yourself standing in line Thursday after Thursday, knowing the bouncers by name, sporting cowboy boots, and knowing at least 5 different line dances. . .you are one of the chosen who put the HOE in HODEO!!”
First of all, there isn’t even a “hoe” in Hodeo. What I think the administrator was going for was “ho,” which is a prostitute, not “hoe,” which is a garden tool. I could be wrong, though. And while I feel like kind of a grammatical asshole for even pointing that out, I feel it properly illustrates the kind of mentality that pervades this establishment. I have had several female friends complain about how much of a skeezy meat market it is, and a coworker of mine was even propositioned with a tailgate threesome in the parking lot with a cowboy hat on top. Surprisingly, she turned the curvaceous cowpokes down.
The bar has also become a drain on municipal resources. A police officer I once rode along with complained about how often they are called there, and he was convinced that the Hodeo would soon be finished. An acquaintance of mine was busted outside the Hodeo after officers in an unmarked car spotted him assaulting someone who owed him money.
I guess if people are happy to flock to the Hodeo and line dance to Top 40 hip hop and country, then I am in no position to judge. After all, I don’t own a bar that’s packed with “hoes” night in and night out. I don’t own a bar that seems to require constant police surveillance. And I especially don’t own a bar that has spawned two Facebook groups with a staggering joint membership of 52.