A little tomfoolery: Denver style

John Brooks losing his shit after the his game-winning goal

John Brooks losing his shit after the his game-winning goal

Denver is awesome, I am definitely a fan.  Only one evening and the experience was unforgettable.  I happen to be rolling with a few locals, so I was fortunate enough to get the full experience.  We started out downtown watching the US vs. Ghana is the World Cup.  Holy shit what a way to kick off the evening!  To celeberate the evening we ordered a round of Jameson shots (apparently it’s not just the Midwest where people drink that shit like water). 

After that we decided it was still a little early and some billiards were in order before going out.  We arrived at the pool hall via taxi driven by a crazy-British-lady-who-didn’t-know-Denver-AT-ALL.  After that ride we made a b-line straight to the bar.

“I’ll take Stoli and Red Bull.”

"We don’t have Red Bull, only Roaring Lion”

“What’s Roaring Lion?”

“It’s like Red Bull”

“If it’s like Red Bull, I’ll take it.”

I hadn’t taken 2 sips of that fucking drink, when I began the sneezing fit of a lifetime. I had sneezed 6 times by the time I had reached our table, then my sinus clogged up and I couldn’t breathe through my nose, 7. 8. 9. 10.   What the shit was going on here! 11. 12. FUCK!  There is only one culprit, the “it’s like Red Bull” bullshit, Roaring Lion.  I hastily make my way back to the bar. 13. 14. 15.   I patiently wait at the bar to get the bartender’s attention. 16. 17. 18. 

“Are you ok?”

“No. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to this cheap knock off Red Bull.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, let me get you something else.”


“Stoli and coke will be just fine.”

By the time I returned to my table I could breathe again and not another sneeze for the rest of the evening.  I had never experienced that type of an on-off switch reaction. Shit was crazy.  That damned bartender, we’d not seen the last of her.

As we shot pool we conversed about Denver and the style contrast to the Twin Cities.  They are very similar places: generally friendly people, enthusiasm for the outdoors, beautiful scenery, good music, tons of bars with good beer and whisky.  But there are many differences as well.  Twin Cities: hipster central, Denver: almost none.  Twin Cities: a few hippies, Denver: a whole other level of hippy I didn’t even know existed.  Twin Cities: Affliction/Tapout wearing D-bags, Denver: Chads and Ashleys.  This is where the conversation stopped.  What the fuck is a Chad and/or an Ashley?  It was explained to me that these are the LA equivalent of Bros (tan, trust funded, and enormously douche-y); the only exception is that there are girl versions in CO.  It was then explained that the term can be used as an adjective as well.

“How was the bar last night?”

“It was cool but it got a little Chaddy late night.”

I just about fell over laughing, I loved it.  Throughout the rest of the night I was constantly on the lookout for Chads and Ashleys.

After a few drinks and a number of games, it was time to move on.  We then discovered that the stupid bartender had given away Eric’s ID that he had given her in exchange for the rack of balls. 

“Well this other guy looked just like you and I called him Eric and he didn't say anything.”


“I’m really sorry.  Your tab is Twenty-six dollars by the way.”

Ok, let me get this straight, you give away my friend’s ID and then you’re going to charge us for allergic reactions?  I’m pretty sure the look on our faces said it all.  Eric left his name at the bar with the small glimmer of hope of seeing his ID again.  We paid and left.

Nom nom nom

Nom nom nom

A pit stop back at their place was needed, since Eric needed his passport to continue the evening.  On the way back we call in an order to Sexy Pizza. Yes, that is the real name, and, yes, it is really really good.  I contributed a bottle of Surly I brought with me from MN, and we enjoyed pizza and beer on the balcony overlooking downtown Denver.

Time to head out again; I told my hosts that I was in a dive bar kind of mood, they did not disappoint.  We went to Sancho’s Broken Arrow, a dive-bar lover’s paradise.  As we approach the door, Eric announces he forgot the passport we went home to get, and that he will be right back.  As Nate and I walk in, there is a $1 cover, I almost laughed in the enormous bouncers face (glad I didn’t, he was not a happy person).   We get our cans of PBR at the bar with a side of Jame-O and proceed to the pool tables.  As we make our through the tiny basement bar I noticed a group of guys standing around and for some reason people were giving them a wide berth.  Oh shit. That was the band!  There was zero stage so they just set up shop in the middle of the bar and started playing.  It was hilarious.   After drunkenly battling hippies at billiards for an hour, several shots of whisky, and a couple PBRs we waved the white flag.  We were way too whiskey drunk and it was time to go.  We walked back to the apartment and I belly flopped onto the couch and was out.

Denver, you’re awesome.  Good times.  I’ll be back for more.