Colorado
Last week Greg, Eddie, and I went to Colorado Springs for a radar training course. We went out a few days before the course to give us time to sample the nightlife in Denver, do some skiing, and see a few sights. I learned a lot at the course, but I think everyone would rather read about the fun stuff and see some of our pictures from the trip. So, I’ll save the technical musings for later.
Nightlife in Denver
As Greg drove us towards Denver I was struck by how pitch black the night was. We were driving west and would have been able to see the mountains during the day. But the night had drawn a dark curtain and all we could see was a black plain, defined by a river of lights spread out before us. It was impossible to tell where Denver was in that river of lights; the featureless river yielded no clues. Even as we drove closer, the river of lights seemed amorphous: promoting a slight sense of vertigo in two dimensions. One couldn’t help but wonder what lay hidden and feel privileged for the chance to explore and discover.
We had dinner at a Cracker Barrel near our hotel. The waitress was new to the area, having moved there less than a week ago. So, she had no response to our queries on the Denver nightlife. But she was able to have one of the other employees give us directions. “Just drive down Spear,” he said. “It’s right off 25, there are a ton of bars and it’ll be packed with people.” His favorite place was a club called Church, but we were looking to chill with a couple of beers at a bar so he recommended Tarantula.
Later that night, and despite my earlier leanings toward exploration, I was more inclined to get some sleep for an early start towards Breckenridge and its ski slopes. But Eddie and Greg easily dissuaded me of the necessity for sleep and we set out for Denver. I’m glad we did.
None of the promised clubs, bars, or people were evident on our drive down Speer Blvd. Sure there were some interesting sculptures and a ritzy mall, with a Saks Fifth Avenue, but nothing resembling the oasis we desired. Either the waiter we thought so highly of a few minutes before had given us poor directions, or we hadn’t done said directions justice. We decided to give Speer Blvd one more try, this time, in the opposite direction.
Perhaps we sensed the futility of such a drive. At the next light we pulled up next to a dark coupe. Inside were two girls dressed for the clubs and a guy in the back seat—we decided to ask for directions.
Greg rolled down his window, stuck his shaved head out and yelled, “Hey! Question!”
In the car to our left, frightened, uncertain eyes skittered between the red light, road ahead, and Greg. I, embarrassed, cowered in the passenger seat.
“Hey! Have a Question!”
“Usually, you say excuse me first,” said Eddie.
Greg, unperturbed, continued to bellow our ignorance and his intent to resolve it.
The girls eventually decided that his good looks were worth the risk a lowered window would bring. A quick exchange relieved their remaining fears as Greg indicated we were from out of town, looking for a place to hang out, maybe The Church. They brightened even more at this familiar name and said that it was on Broadway, up and to the right.
The light had changed during the final words of this conversation and the revving engines made conversation difficult. So thank yous were indicated and windows closed. At the next light, the dark coupe did something slightly strange, accelerating to pass us, cutting in ahead and then making a right turn down Lincoln, a one way street to the right.
I called out “Broadway!” and gestured towards the sign as we neared the next street. Before the word had died on my lips, Greg made a quick turn to the right. A mass of oncoming headlights stunned us all to momentary silence. “Wrong way,” I yelled. “What do I do?” said Greg, a slight edge of panic in his voice.
Thankfully, the oncoming traffic was able to avoid us while we recovered our wits. “Backup,” I suggested.
A couple minutes and turns later and we were back on Broadway. This time driving in the legal direction, but away from The Church. While muttering excitedly about poor driving, awful navigation, and our first time facing traffic down a one way street, we passed a few bars and decided to stop for those beers.
After we parked the car we walked back down Broadway, towards downtown. We passed several bars and discarded them for being too biker, old, dead, etc. Finally, we came to one that had looked inviting on the drive by, with big windows and red and blue mood lighting.
Inside we were greeted by a diverse crowd of people in their mid-twenties to early thirties, and hot waitresses in leather and tattoos. After we all, in turn, presented the bartender with our ids, he was rather surprised to see three guys from Virginia and asked how we manged to walk into this bar. We chatted with him for a bit telling him we were from DC. Greg carried most of the conversation. Then, when a drunk literally blew too much hot air at us in a farcical impression of conversation, we moved down the bar.
After Eddie and I finished our IPA specials, which were fair, the bartender gave us directions to a better place.
“I’m gonna send you down to LODO’s,” he said in a raspy voice. “Yeah, we think we’re cool. LODO is lower downtown. This town is so lame.” Like we, being from DC, were cool or something. I have to say, all the people we ran into in Colorado were damn cool. And very helpful to us easterners who couldn’t seem to find a hot club with a friggin’ escort. But still, the other bartender had come down to silently regard us foreigners and he smiled and nodded his concurrence that Denver was indeed a lame town.
“Where are you parked?” We indicated that we were parked just down Broadway.
“Aright. I’m gonna send you to LODO. You go and take and left, and then another to get on Lincoln heading back the other direction.” As he spoke he sketched us a map. “You just follow Lincoln all the way down, and it’s gonna bend to the left and turn into 20th Street. You keep going until you get to Market. LODO’s is right down Market on the left. It’s the best place for you. I used to work there. Great place.”
So, we left, armed with directions both verbal and pictorial. Thanks guys, we didn’t end up quite where you intended, but I certainly had a great time.
The directions were stellar. After passing LODO’s we found parking a couple streets down. On our drive by we had passed another place with shamrocks in large windows displaying a happy crowd, and now, we were walking along it as we headed to LODO’s.
“This looks like a good place. Looks Irish. Bound to be some Sox fans here,” says Greg, ever the Red Sox and Patriots fan.
“I dunno,” says I. But after a moment’s hesitation and some badgering, I agreed to at least check the place out.
I’m not sure what caused my sudden turn for the picky. But I just didn’t like the place. When I go out I sometimes want to talk to a lot of people. Interesting people, and interesting girls especially. I sometimes end up chatting with a dozen or so different people.
I guess it’s sort of like taking dance lessons. To practice, you keep switching partners. You’re not really looking for anything, just trying to get better at dancing. But in the back of your mind you’re always wondering, “What if I meet someone and our dancing is like we each know what the other is thinking.” That’s kind of a crappy simile. Hell, she might trod all over my feet but blow me away with witty conversation. There aren’t really any preconceived notions, I just plunge in with but the vaguest of conceptions and see what will tickle that feeling of wonder.
It doesn’t get tickled often. At least not beyond, “Hi, I’m Francis, how are you tonight.” And, “What do you do?” That doesn’t normally bother me. Yet tonight, no one satisfied me enough to even begin.
Greg, irritated with my attitude, said, “Well why don’t we at least walk around.”
“Fine.”
After our short tour, Greg was pleased to have run into another guy who shaved his head—that’s always a good conversation point. But my opinion of the prospects hadn’t improved much. So when I said, “Fine...we can stay here,” my voice indicated that I don’t think anything in this place could satisfy me. My mood wasn’t improved much by Greg’s drunk twin flirting with anyone and anything.
Drinks in hand, we wandered through a doorway, above which large letters proclaimed the “Udder Place.”
Sometimes I think I’m good at reading body language—divining a person’s character in a glace. And tonight I read quickly and discarded faster. I discarded all opportunity for conversation—for the shallowest of reasons. That girl with the model face had a tummy. Another smoked. Perhaps they wore a gray tee-shirt, or looked out of shape, bitchy, dumb, attached, too involved, angry, etc. Maybe they cast an admiring gaze in our direction, but my return glance was not so appreciative, more like overly critical. As I said, I was in a picky mood.
Skiing at Breckenridge
Coming soon: a brilliant account of three men stumbling out of bed after two hours of sleep, driving a hour to a ski mountain while consuming bagels and Gatorade, finding parking, renting skis—the stiffest the had for me, ’cause I used to race damnit, skiing, finding out how Greg and Eddie ski, getting sick of flat trails, stopping for lunch eating next to a guy and his wife, calling my father to gloat, looking for steeper terrain, randomly meeting up with guy from lunch, skiing the rest of the day, and driving home. Whew. And pictures. More pictures too.
Garden of the Gods
Sunday morning I found myself with little sleep to show for the second night in a row. Thankfully, I managed more sleep than the night before. Also, we didn’t have to leave as early as the day before. So we took advantage of our free breakfast coupons. Let’s just say that a Denver omelet after a great night out in Denver is just about the perfect way to start your day.
While Greg drove and Eddie navigated I caught an extra hour’s worth of sleep in the backseat. Eddie must have done a better job of navigating than I did on Friday night—I awoke when we exited the highway in Colorado Springs.
While we checked into the hotel, Eddie grabbed some pamphlets on local attractions. So, after unpacking a few things in our rooms, we set off to tour the Garden of the Gods.
As you might imagine, it gets rather boring when other people are busying themselves taking pictures and you’re the only dolt who didn’t pack a camera. I rather dislike being bored, so I started to offer my suggestions for photographs. I really only made a couple of suggestions. But, as you can see from the picture at left, some of my suggestions weren’t very subtle.
Superbowl at Hooters
Superbowl Sunday and Hooters: Greg the Pats fan, halftime competition, Eddie getting numbers
Passing out Sunday while Greg and Eddie go out on the town with guys from Hooters and the Hooters waitress
Moday morning workout and Northeast haters
King Chef, Pikes Peak, and Fat Tuesday
Ash Wednesday, last day of class, Air Force Academy, Eat at Joe’s!
Flying home on Thursday