10 Weird Things about Bar Rescue's Rocky Point Cantina Episode
You didn't have to spend a lot of time at beleaguered metal bar Rocky Point Cantina to be interested in the way it went under. Thankfully, you don't have to be a regular viewer of SpikeTV's Bar Rescue, either.
Benjamin Leatherman Odd Future's afterparty at Rocky Point Cantina back in 2012.
After looking set to fall off the schedule, Bar Rescue's trip to Tempe finally aired Sunday night at 10. We watched it, so that you wouldn't have to; here, roughly, are the 10 weirdest things about it that we noticed. We'll spot you the big one: Far from being rescued, the bar no longer exists.
1. The story the opening tells about Rocky Point Cantina might be accurate, but if it is it's an incredibly bizarre one. First, manager Scott Massimiano's parents decide to invest their retirement nest egg into a bar, which seems like an obviously risky (and inherently bad) idea. Next, it suggests that Massimiano's pitch to attract college students is bringing in heavy metal bands, which--whatever your opinion of metal--seems like a weird anachronism, whether it's the venue's or the TV show's.
2. It's really jarring how obviously stagey so much of the show is--all the Command Center banter in the SUV, the worst-case scenario scene they staged for the first night, the timer in the corner of the screen. It's like a bad police procedural, only much cheaper and dependent on the humiliation (and then redemption) of actual people.
3. Actual people who might deserve it, sure. If the story the show tells is true, they needed something drastic, and they probably would have closed anyway. (Although it was only thanks to Bar Rescue's own negligence that we learned they were operating against City of Tempe regulations already.)
4. This show is a master class in Unnecessary Deep-Voice Narration: "Without cash registers, no transactions can take place."
5. Their "Expert Mixologist" is a fantastic argument against expert mixologists--it has nothing to do with him in particular, just the skills of his trade, which consistently force him to resemble a Vegas-musician-turned-pick-up-artist-turned-guy-who-lives-inside-that-Tom-Cruise-movie. I will give Anthony, the show's Bad Bartender, an uncut sheet of crisp $2 bills if he promises never to spin glasses around on his shoulders like a Harlem Globetrotter or breathe fire.
An expert mixologist's moves are by nature weirdly abbreviated-looking on TV, probably because he isn't able to end them by telling a 17-year-old girl with a fake ID about how many famous people he knows.