11.07.09»THE NORTH DENVER BAR TOURIST

Tonight, as my wife Erin and I hit spots around our North Denver neighborhood, my messy note taking seems to reveal more than just my surroundings.

6:30 p.m.
Billy’s Inn
4403 Lowell Blvd.
Bottle of Sol, $4

Billy’s has been here since the 1930s, originally a classic block of a building adorned by a brilliant font of a logo; it was the kind of bar where just a few darkened windows gave a suggestion of life inside or life outside, depending on where you sat, of course. It was the kind of spot frequented by neighborhood regulars (some of whose photos still line the walls) and the occasional dive-spotting hipster.

Recently purchased by the Larimer Group and done over for safe yuppie consumption, now it has the feel of the perfectly successful mutant child of that once-classic bar and a contemporary casual eatery. But the food’s good, the service is good, they’ve got a great selection of beers and booze, and a hell of a list of tequilas (over 80), so we like it.

We’re greeted at the door by Billy’s manager, who takes us to a spot in the back. We crowd the tiny table for two. The front of Billy’s boasts the bar and the younger crowd drinking the night away. In back, and along the covered patio, young families and young parents shout across the tables to their kids who stare, drooling over the backs of their chairs, at us. “Honey, do you want chicken nuggets?”

It is dinnertime, so Erin and I decide to grab food along with our drinks to give us a solid base for the night ahead. The waitress can’t hear my order for a bottle of Sol over the din of middle-of-the-road alternative rock beats and the happy chatter of nearby patrons. After three attempts, we finally seem to be speaking the same language. Erin has less trouble ordering the $7.50 Silver Coin Margarita.

We’re served quickly and with the kind of friendly indifference you’d expect at a casual, family-friendly eatery. The fish tacos are damn good and the Sol goes down well with them. Ditto Erin’s Marg; she gives me a taste and it’s delicious. We agree this is a good place to start.

I look up from my plate and am distracted from our conversation as I take in the surroundings. A low, yellow light reflects off tan walls to create a beige haze throughout. The only thing to be seen clearly is college football broadcasting out in HD from a couple flat screen TVs. At the crowded bar, one or two young guys drinking solo appear to be watching the game, but their glances often break and slide down and away from the screen to search the room, occasionally fixing on an attractive waitress.

The indistinguishable run-on sentence of rumbling of alterna-music is punctuated by The Pixies’ “Debaser.” At a table next to the bar, for just a moment, two young couples each stare away from one another in silence. Closer to us, a new father stares over the shoulder of his wife and baby at the unencumbered clusters of twenty-somethings who laugh and show one another their mobile phones.

I feel stuck in-between. And the cacophony of thoughts now inside my head and around my tinnitus-damaged ears is overwhelming. The sound of Santana’s “Smooth” breaks the spell. I look at Erin and smile: we hate this song. It’s our cue to leave.

7:30-ish
El Chapultepec Too
3930 W. 38th Ave.
Jack Daniels shot, $5

Erin’s been to Chapultepec Too, before, but I haven’t. I like the original, so I’m anxious to see what awaits. We enter and are immediately hit by the oppressive blue lighting and the somewhat jarring sight or more kids running around. Family night continues. We make a beeline to the bar in the middle of the room.

Everything has an unfinished look to it. A few beer posters and signs hang along some of the dirty walls and on top of the bar sits an empty fish tank, bubbles slowly rising in the lifeless water. There’s a jukebox spinning “We Are Family,” a couple of vending machines, a Frogger game, and a few TVs as well as a giant movie-sized screen — all of which show basketball. It has the hastened feel of a garage-turned playden for drinking buddies, and the fact that everyone here seems to know one another lends to that feeling.

Glassy-eyed regulars hunched over the corners of the bar stare at us. Behind them a few couples tend to quiet conversations, lost in each other at tall tables for two. A couple of hard-looking dudes in baggy pants hover around the pool table. In the back corner, a band of balding, graying musicians set up behind a tip jar and their singer: a tall, striking woman with long, red hair sporting a tasseled black leather vest and matching bolero hat. The disco call of “Ring My Bell” fades from the jukebox as she leans into the microphone to announce: “Greetings parents of Centennial School, don’t worry, we’ll keep it low for the kids.”

We get our booze and offer to pay up, only to find out too late that it’s cash only. “There’s an ATM over there,” our bartender points out. Standing next to it is another out-of-place yuppie-ish couple, also without cash. The guy looks at me and nervously half-laughs, “It’s broken!”

After three failed attempts to enter my PIN into the ATM, Erin leaves to go get cash at nearby gas station and I take my seat back at the bar.

After giving me the eye, two regulars sit down next to me and order up a couple of Budweisers. I grab another shot of Jack. The bartender smiles and gives me a little extra on the pour for my troubles. He seems friendly, helpful and available to talk, but right now I’m too far inside my head. Besides, it’s hard to hear over the serviceable boogie blues coming from the back corner. Next to me the regulars laugh and seem to be having a grand conversation. I look over for a moment to see if I can make eye contact, but don’t, and to be honest, I’m relieved.

I tend to the second shot of Jack and pick up the joint’s menu to notice the name of the kitchen is “Phat Blackies.” Not the most appetizing of handles. Most of crowd is now fixed on the band; some nod their heads along with the beat. After the tune ends they get a pretty hearty and admittedly deserved applause.

Erin comes back in, we hurry to pay our tab and leave as the band begins playing “Happy Birthday” to one of the kids.

8:20 p.m.
Ziggies Saloon
4923 W. 38th Ave.
Rageous Rum Runner, $6

We enter to more blue light encircling us in an empty room. Still, the sounds of the 1950s rock and roll on the jukebox are welcoming, so we take a seat at the bar; but it’s the silence between the songs that really stands out.

A brushed metallic bar-top reflects the colored light back up to us. Erin points out the colors as they change from blue to green to red. We are greeted by a burly, tattooed bartender in a tight black T-shirt. I overhear that his name is Michael. He points us to a xeroxed green sheet of paper with the specials of the evening. It’s a dubious collection of concoctions. Neither one of us can pass up the “Rageous Rum Runner,” as it appeals to our Tiki Bar-fanatic sensibilities.

For the second time this evening, we watch a band set up: long-time rockabilly scenesters Brethren Fast are loading in their equipment for a 9 p.m. show. I recognize the empty, lonely feeling you get being in a band, setting up for no one: the hollow clump of the sound of a heavy amplifier being set down on a low wooden stage in the corner of the room; the quick looks between band members as they pass one another entering and exiting the doorway to grab more drums and more guitars. There is the palpable feeling of both anxiousness and disappointment. I hope for their sake that the place fills up a little later.

Erin and I get our drinks, toast one another and throw them back. It’s really sweet – orange juice mixed with four different rums – and it tastes like trouble. I try and convince Erin to take a photo of Michael the bartender when he’s not paying attention, but she balks. So I point out the “Bucket O’ Beer” sign to her and offer to treat if she’ll do it. Still no.

A quick look around reveals one other couple in the bar. He’s an old biker with a fuzzy grey beard, dark tie-dyed shirt and a bandanna, but I can’t see the woman sitting across from him. I hear them laugh and create a mental image of his unseen motorcycle mama. I bet they look good together.

Somehow the ’50s rock and roll turns into 10,000 Maniacs. I scrunch up my face at Erin and point upwards to the ether, where surely the music must reside. Erin goes out for a smoke. Down at the corner of the bar, a lone blond woman in red stares at me from above a video console. I feel self-conscious. Have I insulted her taste? Is this some sort of weird come-on? Sometimes I just can’t read people. Particularly women. So I look back at my drink and finish it before heading to the men’s room. I piss and stare blankly at the 50-cent French Tickler vending machine above the urinal as the muffled sound of a martini shaker quietly carries in from the bar.

Taking my place back at the bar, we notice that people are starting to trickle in. A woman asks us if we’re going to stay for the band because we’ll have to pay cover. Guiltily, I turn her down and tell her we’ll be leaving before then.

Somehow, Santana’s “Smooth” plays again. And I’m beginning to feel a little buzzed.

9:10 p.m.
Patrick Carroll’s Irish Pub
3961 Tennyson St.
Shot of Laphroaig, $8.50

We’ve been to Patrick Carroll’s before — one of the countless new run-of-the-mill Irish pubs in town — and it’s in the neighborhood, so we decide to head back. It’s comprised of two long, thin rooms with all of the familiar trappings. To our surprise it’s not overly crowded for a Saturday night. This is a safe place where attractive young bartenders serve an attractive young crowd.

We take a seat at the bar. Erin points across the polished wood on which we rest our elbows to the group of bottles lined up in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back at me. She’s telling me they have one of my favorites, Laphroaig, a peaty Islay scotch, always well worth the price tag. I grab a shot and take in the burnt, mossy smell of the peat before taking a slow sip. It’s exactly what I want when I want a drink.

Behind us, tight-knit groups huddle in booths and linger at tables. And towards the back of long room, couples play darts, shuffleboard, and pool. Above us a TV shows Ultimate Fighting as “Born in the U.S.A.” plays in the background.

Erin and I grab a set of Trivial Pursuit cards resting on the bar and begin quizzing one another. On the pumped in satellite radio, ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” turns into Waylon & Willie’s “Luckenbach Texas” and in between tunes the peppy DJ chatters and I swear I hear him announce the station as “Debauched Radio.” We give up on the trivia to start making fun of the messy, sweaty, homoerotic flailing of the Ultimate Fighters.

Next to us, a quiet young guy dressed in a laundered, gray button-down shirt, sporting a silver ring on his left thumb and another on his right ring finger, sits alone, takes everything in, and orders a plate of chips. He arches his back and sits up a little straighter as an attractive blonde sits down next to him. The two sit facing forward in silence, he sneaks a look at her in the mirror. A few minutes later her date comes in and sits down next to her. She turns her back towards the quiet guy.

I’m drunk now. Space is growing thick and time is slowing down. I begin to feel older, agitated and as I scan the scene I only catch only glimpses, clicking channel-changes of the images around me. It feels like Erin and I are on an island drifting further away from the rest of the crowd.

I complain loudly to her about the Ultimate Fighting, that it’s not a real sport, it’s a travesty, and nowhere near the gentlemanly art of boxing. It’s a pathetic attempt to be heard by more than just her. “Whatever, tough guy,” she responds, and no one else seems to care.

10:30 p.m.
Music Bar
4586 Tennyson St.
Gin & Tonic (well gin) $4.50

For the past four years, we’ve driven by the Music Bar and its promise of karaoke every night on the way home from work. It’s time to finally step inside.

This box-like has a house-party vibe. The place is packed with riders from a charter bus in the parking lot, creating a surreal mix of leery-eyed local regulars and sharply dressed suburbanites taking full advantage of the cheap drinks and karaoke bar.

The bar is lined with a crush of people, like they’re pushing to the front-row railing of a general admission concert. And the rock stars are the bartenders, Mark and Crystal, ably keeping up with the demands of the three-deep crowd at the bar. Despite the giant crowd, this is a place to feel comfortable, relaxed. It’s your friend’s dad’s basement bar, walls covered in ’70s wood paneling. Above your head, black-mirrored ceilings.

Erin and I make our way to the far end of the bar, where a young couple in front of us is passionately making out. Another young couple of regulars greets us and the wife chats up Erin for a bit. This is obviously a local’s bar that has risen to the challenge of greeting new visitors with graciousness and aplomb. We all turn to watch the drunken antics on the dance floor and karaoke stage with a bemused detachment.

I excuse myself and make my way to the restroom. The stall has shit sprayed everywhere: along the back of the toilet, the wall, and floor. The smell is overpowering. I place my arm over my nose and mouth and can barely stand to finish my business at the urinal trough.

I take a deep breath of beer-soaked air as I re-enter the bar. Now even the bartenders are throwing back shots. Erin heads up to put in a request to sing at the karaoke bar and runs into an old friend. I watch the two of them talk in the distance, visible over the tops of a sea of bobbing heads and awkward movement across the dance floor.

I order another gin and tonic and follow it with a Guinness. Up on the stage, Erin sings Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round (Like A Record).” She’s got a great voice and the crowd responds well to her.

At this point I’ve lost any chance at maintaining my wits. To my right sits an elderly man in a cowboy hat, dressed all in turquoise blue. He introduces himself as Rex. He’s 80 years old. He introduces me to his friend, Angel, sitting next to him. She is a cute young girl with a baby face; her tanned skin is framed by long, jet-black hair.

Rex is reserved but happy to talk. I know I’m drunk, so I try not to say too much and just listen as he tells me about his time in France during WWII. I feel like a tourist in his history. From the karaoke stage, a clearly tone-deaf woman bleats out “Hurts So Good.”

When Erin returns, Angel asks her to help Rex to the stage, because it’s time for him to sing his signature tune, Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” He’s introduced to the crowd as “Sexy Rexy”; aided by Erin and Angel, he takes a seat at the edge of the stage. Erin makes a move to get out of the way, but Angel informs her to stay up there with her. “Rex likes to be surrounded by women when he sings,” she tells her.

And so, in a shaky, quiet voice, Rex sings the tune. The sound of cracking pool balls recedes and the crowd quiets down to listen, some hoot and holler in approval. It’s a moment of messy perfection, the kind you’re happy to hold on to for five minutes, and that can only happen in a bar.

When you make your way through social circles as an introvert, a liquid entryway affords the easiest passage. And as I grow older, I’ve noticed my capacity for drink has weakened. It used to be around the 6th or 7th drink that I would cross the fuzzy lines from sobriety to functionally buzzed comedian or philosopher to stumbling idiot or worse, angry jackass. Now it’s around the 3rd or 4th. I find myself wanting to cross those lines less and less, because more frequently it’s harder to come back.

12:25 a.m.
El Paraiso
4690 Harlan St.
House Margarita, price unknown

Admittedly, El Paraiso wasn’t our first choice for our last stop. We were going to hit the tiny Squeeze Inn on Harlan St., but it’s closed. So, we agree to drive up the road and hit El Paraiso, largely because of the allure of late-night Mexican food and the myth of heavy food soaking up the booze and cushioning the blow of the inevitable hangover.

Erin and I stumble inside to find one of Denver’s Finest giving us the once-over in the entryway. We sheepishly make our way past him and into the restaurant. It is deserted, but still serving. “We’ll just sit at the bar,” I slur to the host.

The covered rotunda bar is tucked in the corner of one of the establishment’s several dining rooms. It is manned by a handsome young kid, who is more than pleasant in dealing with a couple drunken gringos. At the far end, two men in cowboy hats and Western wear kept quietly to themselves.

We order some food and some house margaritas. The fare is standard Mexican grub and the margs are really sweet. Tejano music blasts from the oversized PA speakers hanging in the corners of the room. It dawns on us that the music being played is oppressively loud. “Maybe they’re trying to close,” I say to Erin. She complains that it’s hurting her ears, so I stumble up to the host and ask him to turn it down. He gives me a sideways look then complies.

As I plop back down on my stool, one of the cowboys saunters over to us. “You don’t like the music?” he asks.

“Music was fine,” I say. “But really loud,” I add with a smile. “Didn’t you notice it distorting from the speaker?” I ask.

“Didn’t notice it,” he says and turns back to join his friend.

Feeling a bit embarrassed and now drunk enough to butt into their conversation, I follow him over and apologize, thinking my request had upset them. He nods and says its no problem. I ask where he’s from and he tells me Chihuahua, near Juarez. My parents live in El Paso, which I use as a base to start a conversation about all of the troubles along the border right now. His friend doesn’t say a word.

Only marginally coherent, I’m in over my head and we both know it. But he seems to be somewhat amused with my attempts at social commentary and chats along. Erin informs me that it’s time to go home. We close out our tab and say goodnight to the cowboys, bartender and wait staff.

During the short trek to our house, we get into an argument — the kind of minor disagreement that is amplified by flammable, booze-soaked minds and explodes into a swirling, fiery ball. It ends with her slamming the bedroom door in my face. I quietly head down to the basement den, grab a can of Bud Light from the fridge in our wet bar. The can makes a satisfying crack as I open it. I put in a DVD of High Plains Drifter take a sip of the cold beer and lay back on the couch. A few of the night’s memories spin through my head. My eyes shut and I quickly fall asleep to the sound of horseshoes falling on a desert road.