3.17.09»MAX AND HECTOR’S MAN DATE
It was supposed to be a “man date” in honor of this week’s Six Shooter sponsor, the flick I Love You, Man. But Colonel Bravado moved to the ‘burbs, and our dates with debauchery have gone the way of the sub-prime mortgage. We started seeing other people; the Colonel sticking to Boulder and vicinity, and me wreaking havoc with EJ, who knows even more bartenders than Hector and me put together.
So this was a chance to relive some of the old glory; to behave badly. To drink too much. To squeeze the last vestiges of the weekend out of a Sunday night. To have an interlude in our otherwise fractured lives.
7:40 p.m.
Lucky Strike Lanes
500 16th St.
Max – Vodka Red Bull, $8.00
Colonel – Jaeger Bomb, $8.50
Just a few hours earlier, I’d been here celebrating my little girl’s ninth birthday. It was a gaggle of kids, plus her mom, the husband, and the new baby. What could have been nightmarish was actually pretty fun. The Blue Moon had softened the edges, and the girl’s happy face didn’t hurt at all.
So the plan is to juxtapose my dichotomous life—single dad vs. cocktail-swilling scumbag— by starting here. The place is awfully quiet, compared to the afternoon’s zoo-like atmosphere. Hector sits at the bar, looking careworn, over it already.
We talk about the last time we’d sat at this very bar, years ago, when he was assaulted by “that one dirtbag who was blotto.” I remember that she was cute, and I remember that the Colonel had been dealing with a recent heartbreak.
And that’s when I realize this is the first time I can remember that we’ve been out on the prowl and neither of us is suffering from recent, acute, my-life-is-so-fucked-up heartache.
We make our way out of Pavilions, past the teenagers and mooks camped out by the escalators.
8:10 p.m.
Earl’s
1600 Glenarm Pl
Max – Jaeger Bomb $6.50 + tax
Colonel – Shot o’ Jaeger $6.50 + tax
We are definitely on the wrong end of the 16th St. Mall. Earl’s is like a suburban bar dropped into downtown. It’s soulless, with Wonder Bread music blasting from the cavernous ceiling. The place is filled with slightly better-dressed variety of mook than the kind we encountered across the street. The Colonel says, “Take $20 off the price tags of everybody’s clothes in here, and this place is the Westminster Mall.”
Hector and I talk about our latest assignations, mostly in relation to the way we used to run in the old days. Hector notes with amazement that he thinks the student has long since surpassed the teacher. We wonder if his cocktailing and tail-chasing coaching right after my divorce rescued me or ruined me. Am I permanently damaged?
We’re not going to find any answers here.
8:40 p.m.
Peaks Lounge
650 15th St.
Max – Stoli and tonic, $6
Colonel – Stoli and tonic with a splash of cran, $6
There’s some sort of girls high school volleyball tournament in town, and riding up the elevator, it’s obvious that there’s potential felony on every floor, if we were so inclined.
The bar, which overlooks downtown Denver, is replete with the coaches themselves, all wide of thigh and broad-shouldered, looking to hook up.
I tell the Colonel about the time I came here with the Bombshell, and we both laugh at my folly. Still, this is a kick-ass place for a date. Not a man date; a real date with an actual woman whom I actually like—one where we sit at the window, sipping at our drinks, pointing out landmarks, laughing over something.
9:13 p.m.
Corner Office
1401 Curtis St.
Max – Secretary Martini – raspberry vodka + cran + sweet & sour + grape Kool-Aid rim (free)
EJ – Paper Shredder Martini – Beam, ginger ale, shredded ginger (free)
Colonel – Ketel, up, $8
“I’ll show you what ‘sugar rim’ really means,” says the Colonel, making fun of my drink choice. I don’t care. Corner Office has good desserts, but their crazy-ass martinis are worth taking some shit over.
And that’s when EJ blows into the room, and the man date concept heads off the rails. Is it a ménage à trois, now? The confluence of old and new…the ex meeting the current…uh… The good news is that EJ has brought coupons that mean my drink’s free.
We discuss the “unyielding, uncomplicated platonic love” of male friendship, and the questions soon follow: Does that include hand jobs? What about when you sleep with your buddy’s mom? Did you really order that pink martini?
Oceanaire is closed, Hotel Teatro is dead. We’re wandering 14th, in search of stop #5.
10:08 p.m.
Red Square Euro Bistro
1512 Larimer St.
Carafe of Dill-infused Siberian vodka, $30
The magnificent array of infused vodkas here makes me giddy, but the Colonel and EJ settle on dill, which is served up with slices of pickles. Snack! As we belly up, a tribe of blowhards on a man date of their own offer to share their vodka with us, pouring shots of pineapple as our own carafe arrives (which they decline to try).
One of the gents lays into me about the fallacy of social media outreach. He starts dissing blogs, Facebook, LinkedIn, and, finally, Twitter. Them’s fighting words. But instead, I roll out the spiel. Shit, I’ve been talking about this stuff for years. By the end, he says, “I still think it’s all bullshit, but we’ll probably call you in a couple weeks for help.”
By the time we empty our carafe, we’ve had four shots in one spot. The question of where the Colonel will sleep comes up, but no one ventures an answer. It occurs to me that the Colonel is noticeably less tired-looking than when he started. He looks a little younger, too, as if shot after shot of vodka is rejuvenating him. It’s a Sunday night miracle.
EJ insists that Shag Lounge will be hopping. It’s “industry night,” after all. Music is pumping out of external speakers as we drift over.
“See?” says EJ.
11:41 p.m.
Shag Lounge
830 15th St.
Max – Stoli tonic
Colonel – Jaeger shot
EJ – Crown, rocks
Total: $17.06
But loud music does not equal “happening.”
In fact, the sparse, sausage-heavy crew here is just a little bit depressing. Luckily, I’m with the two gents who are more like brothers to me than pals. And, somehow, the Colonel and I have managed to rekindle the spark of truly offensive and reprehensible banter that can only lead to dirty, frightened looks from the other clientele. I actually chortle.
The Colonel chases a tall, drunk, possibly hot blonde out the door for a smoke while her friend titillates the meatheads in the room by slinking around the bar’s stripper pole. EJ sits by me, talking about his latest heartbreak. I order a big glass of water and realize I’m not scrolling through my phone’s contacts looking for a late-night assignation. The benches are clear, and I’m content with brotherly love for the time being. It’s the one thing I can always count on.
