1.26.10»SIX BEER JOINTS NEAR FIVE POINTS
Author: David Pennington
Photography: Allen Klosowski
Violence & Entertainment: Rick Ramos
Our evening, more or less, happens in the Five Points warehouse district; a place that trades its daytime blue collar workers for the nighttime wannabe blue collars and the apathetic. It’s charming and concrete-laden.
At its very essence, alcohol is a brutal and disgusting beast. This is why it is frequently blended with fruits and grains and processed flavors, served over ice, or blended with sugar. As a result, hangovers are more or less an ultra-dehydrating sugar crash. This is why I drink cheap. No frills means less pills.
I’m awful with alcohol. I don’t treat it with any form of class or sophistication. I was raised in a weird time between never learning to have patience and never being prescribed Ritalin. I’m bored easily, yet I don’t have the patience to experiment. So, yes, whiskey straight up, please.
8:20 p.m.
The Walnut Room
3131 Walnut Street
2 PBRs, Pitcher of Fat Tire – $5 w/ student I.D.
By the time Allen and Rick arrive, I’m through my first two PBRs. The duo had spent their day in Fort Collins, sampling the delights of the New Belgium and Odell’s breweries. Allen claims it is really important to have a theme for the evening. I decide our theme should be “drinking.” Easier to remember that way.
The Walnut Room, like most places, is fairly empty for a Thursday night. A band sets up in the back room with the stage, but it doesn’t look like a lot of people have turned out to see them. Again, it’s a Thursday night. Getting anyone to venture out on a Thursday is like pulling teeth in this town. Frankly, this is no wonder, between the menace of cops, surly bar wenches, and the threat of joblessness in the bad economy.
However the three of us are freelancers, entrepreneurs, and self employed (all synonymous with “underemployed”). Our work days do not start at 9, we rarely negotiate rush hour traffic, and leaving the house counts as a business expenditure because you never know who you will run into (read: “network with”).
“It’s a week night” should never be a reason to stay in.
8:50 p.m.
Casselman’s
2620 Walnut Street
3 Gin and Tonics, 1 Bud light
A relatively new establishment along Walnut Street, Casselman’s is big, expensive looking, and completely fucking empty.
The back room is host to a live acoustic band. They play at the far end of an otherwise enormous and empty room. A girl sits politely in front of them while sipping on a tonic water. In another corner, a portly looking fellow’s face is illuminated by a laptop. The bartender tells us he is in charge of booking and promotions for Casselman’s. For such a large and expensive-looking investment, I’m a little disappointed to see this place not even a little bit towards capacity.
9:20ish
Larimer Lounge
2721 Larimer Street
3 Beers. Maybe PBR? Whatever it is, it comes to us served in a plastic cup.
I don’t understand rap music. While I may not be the first guy to admit this, there is nothing about it that seems appealing to me. Most of the recordings I hear are uninspired. Seeing rap and hip hop performers live is wholly uninteresting. One guy has his laptop open so he can “lay down the beat” while the other guy spits all over his microphone. I don’t see much difference between this and karaoke.
Initially, we can’t decide whether to go to the Larimer Lounge or the Meadowlark. Larimer has an $8 dollar cover, the Meadowlark’s is $6. In the end, we decide to go to both because it seemed unholy to drink in this end of town without setting up shop in these camps.
We ask the door guy at Larimer who is playing. He rattles off a disjointed list of words as he takes the money and stamps our hands.
My previous encounter with a “hip hop” night was in Longmont at the Dicken’s Opera House about a year before. The evening went out of control, gang colors clashed, and three people were laid out in the street. In fucking LONGMONT, no less. The Larimer Lounge tells a completely different story. The MC on the stage has the wannabe-rapper gait that you thought everyone dropped by the time they left high school. Perfect for a Thursday night.
10:00 p.m.
Meadowlark Bar
2701 Larimer Street
2 Bourbon and Waters and some fancy looking beer that Allen ordered
The Meadowlark is underground, crowded, and really humid. It is like a highly social cedar closet. We arrive in the middle of a band setting up. The bass player has to be at least 50. The guitar player, a young 20 something swizzle, is wearing sunglasses inside even though this room probably hasn’t seen sunlight in at least a decade.
I order a whiskey, neat. What I am served is essentially a sno-cone with whiskey flavoring. I refuse to award a tip for what is clearly a disgrace to any sort of whiskey. Furthermore, the bartender refused to print a receipt of our cash-transaction. Shifty?
For as crowded as this place is, no one seems to want to talk to anyone else. Everyone is huddled over in groups of two or three, faces lit by cellular screens. There is no sway of drunkenness anywhere. The evening’s relaxation stops at two drinks.
I suppose this could also be the theme of the evening: not being drunk. It is understandable, especially in this town. The cops are overly stringent, the drinks are usually overpriced, and the public transit system leaves much to be desired. While I don’t condone drinking and driving, the absolute terror in the faces hanging over these drinks is ridiculous. Being piled into a room filled to the rafters with alcohol and nobody can even find it in them to relax.
10:45 p.m.
Scruffy Murphy’s
2030 Larimer Street
3 shots of Kilbeggan’s whiskey, 3 tall orders of something light and very filtered. Maybe Miller LIght?
Rick demands whiskey and chasers from the bartender before we have even loosened our ties. After the sno-cone at Meadowlark, I welcome the pleasant burn of halfway quality liquor. Rick, on the other hand, vomits the contents of his stomach into his mouth. He manages to hold most of it in, some whiskey laced bile spilling through his fingers.
Rick doesn’t just redecorate the men’s room, he destroys it. He returns several minutes later and rinses his mouth with even more alcohol.
We take care of our appetites with a quick stopover at Marquis Pizza. Across the counter we see a band hauling their gear out of an otherwise empty venue. The pizza-slinger tells us it’s been a very quiet night. It’s a tale I know all too well – bands who sweat blood for a chance at success, only to play to a crowd of people they happen to know through Facebook.
11:45 p.m
Carioca Café (Bar Bar)
2060 Champa St.
3 More whiskeys, 3 more beers. And cigarettes.
It’s getting really hazy. I feel a bruise developing on my back from where Rick tackled me onto Larimer Street. I start to feel the kind of lethargy whose only remedy is either more whiskey or a lap dance. Considering our location, I choose the former.
Everyone knows this place as Bar Bar, so why not just call it that? For several minutes Allen attempts to check in on Foursquare only to discover that Bar Bar isn’t the official designation of this place, which is Carioca Cafe. This isn’t a cafe – coffee isn’t served. And if food is cooked in this place, I don’t want any part of it.
I am approached by a disheveled looking man who flat out asks me to buy him a drink. Far more efficient than buying booze with the change I would have given him earlier that day as he was sitting on a street corner. This is a man I can like. No martini for him. He’s content with well whiskey chased by Mad Dog.
