Thus began our David Bowie Craft Beer Night.

8:07 p.m.
Great Divide Tap Room
2201 Arapahoe St
Claymore Scotch Ale, $5

Great Divide was crowded. I think of the Tap Room as more of a stop-by-and-find-out-about-Great-Divide-type place, rather than a place to go out drinking on a Friday, but the place was packed. I guess more people think like me than I expect.

Fortunately, we started with just four people and halfway through our time there, the place cleared out. Either there was a bigger pub crawl than ours going on, or we missed something. Regardless, I got to sit down, so I was happy.

The Tap Room is exactly what you expect from a tasting room. It’s small, it feels industrial, with metal signs and huge windows looking into the brewhouse, reminding you that the beer was made only feet from where you’re standing.

Sticking to my attempted theme of beers I haven’t had before, I flipped through their seasonal beer menu and decided on Claymore Scotch Ale. Porphyry Kyle went for the Old Ruffian and I instructed the Semi-Native to order an Oak Aged Yeti (he’s new to Denver and I know his taste in beer. For the record, he really liked it.). Wyatt ordered the same.

The Claymore was wonderful; Great Divide really knows its darker beers. It tasted like a lighter Yeti, their signature stout, with a bite; a dark beer that I could drink in the summer time. (Random fact: A Claymore is a medieval Scottish sword. Great Divide says “…unlike its namesake, this beer only requires one hand, but it’ll still make you feel like nobility.”) Definitely the right way to start the night.

Around the time that Wyatt and I lost the Semi-Native and Kyle to an intense conversation about sports, the twins showed up. Our group split in two, like seventh graders at a middle school dance, until Porphyry Kyle finished his beer. We herded ourselves out the door to our mantra: “David Bowie cover band.”

9:20 p.m.
Celtic Tavern
1801 Blake St.
Pint of Bridgeport IPA, $5.25

I hate Irish pubs. I went to college in Ireland and spent two years drinking at Irish bars before I could legally drink in the States, so the novelty is lost on me. Plus, American Irish pubs represent the American idea of what is Irish: signs that say “Erin go bragh” (none of my Irish friends even know what that means), tons of four-leaf clovers (another inaccurate representation of Ireland) and the like. Irish cheese. These bars are about as authentically Irish as Tom Cruise’s accent in Far and Away. But we needed another bar on our list, and since the Celtic is only a block away from Falling Rock, and it was only for one drink, I figured “Why not?”

I hadn’t been to the Celtic Tavern since before I was 21, and I was pleased to see it was less obnoxious than I expected. The Celtic is huge, with the requisite amount of tacky Irish paraphernalia: Irish road signs, among other things. I have a terrible sense of direction, but I can almost guarantee that Donegal is not in the direction that the sign in the Celtic Tavern suggests.

But on to beer. The Bridgeport was remarkably wheaty for an IPA. The strong citrus flavors lead Porphyry Kyle and I to debate whether it tasted more like a wheaty IPA or a hoppy wheat (it was definitely a wheaty IPA). Regardless, I liked it and was pleased with myself for finding a memorable microbrew that wasn’t Coloradan.

I was instructed to mention that the Celtic Tavern has a smoking room. This affects me in no way, shape or form; but while I was taking my notes, one of my companions instructed that I write that down, insisting “It’s very important.” This also meant that three of my five friends spent most of their time at the Celtic taking advantage of smoking indoors. Smokers are a funny people.

While the others were enjoying the Havana Lounge, the twins and I were joined by the Italian and his friend. The five of us entertained ourselves by watching the band set up. Based solely on their appearance and the few chords they played as they warmed up, I determined that they were the kind of people that listened to Zeppelin and Cream when they were my age and never realized that music developed after that point. When they launched in to some pretty fun blues, I was pleasantly surprised. I guess they did realize that music moved on, they just followed the same musicians on to the next style of music.

In one of those “that’s the way it goes” moments, the second we put on our coats to leave, the band started into some song that had us all singing along. One of the twins protested, insisting that we should stay just for that song. But Porphyry Kyle pushed on, assuring us that the David Bowie cover band would make up for it. (For the record, Porphyry Kyle later attested that he finds those kind of cover bands depressing, which was part of his pushing us out the door.)

10:18 p.m.
Falling Rock
1919 Blake St.
Some brew by Lost Abbey, either $5 or $6.

As a beer lover, especially one that is always interested in trying new beers, I love Falling Rock. The problem is too many other people do, as well. The bar was the busiest we had seen since starting at Great Divide. And when the bar is that busy, it’s hard to make a good selection.

I couldn’t find a beer list of the 80 taps they have, so I went for something I could identify from across the bar. A Celtic cross with the words “Lost Abbey” was visible from where I stood. I ordered that and a Ranger IPA for Kyle (I’ve been very excited about this beer since New Belgium announced it and this was the first time I had seen it. Porphyry Kyle definitely ordered it just to humor me).

As for the Abbey, I didn’t like it.

I’m not a big fan of fruity beers to begin with, but I had a hard time determining what it was I didn’t like about this beer. Something about it just tasted awkward. Fortunately for me, the Italian wasn’t enjoying his beer either (He doesn’t like hops. Who doesn’t like hops?), so we swapped. My awkward fruity beer was exchanged for a lovely winter seasonal called Santa’s Little Helper. It was a smoky, dark beer with a slight fruity taste that reminded me of both a porter and a barley wine. Also it had an ABV 10.5%. (I say this mostly because after the next beer, I was officially drunk.)

While there, another two people joined us, bringing our group count up to 11. The fact that we managed to keep this group intact almost to the end of the night astonishes me. But more people means more time at each bar. We had a less than an hour until the David Bowie cover band started and two bars to hit before then.

11:12 p.m.
Breckenridge Brewery
2220 Blake St.
Mighty Brown, $4.75

The place was empty. Empty. But by that point there were enough of us that it didn’t matter. We had managed to keep track of all eleven people and picked up another two at the bar. Plus, most of us were teetering on drunk, which made the group seem even bigger.

I order from the first tap I’ve never seen before: a Mighty Brown. The flavor was much too intense for a brown, with a weird prune juice after taste. I took a sip of the Italian’s drink and swapped mine for his. There’s a fairly good chance I didn’t ask his permission to do so. (I may be developing a “when you’ve known someone 11 years, you don’t always need to ask their permission to swap beers with them” policy. Though this may only apply to the Italian.)

I’m sure he told me what he ordered, but I can’t for the life of me remember. All I know is it was much better than the Mighty Brown. (He later informed me it was the Oatmeal Stout.) The swap lead to conversations about different kinds of beer: the difference between porters and stouts, educating the Canadian about what good Belgium Whites she could find in Colorado and me rambling off about how much I dislike Coors.

By the time we had finished our drinks, the we guessed that the Bowie cover band should have already started.

11:58 p.m.
Blake Street Tavern
2401 Blake St.
Flying Dog Winter Ale, $3 dollars (Three dollars!)

I’m ashamed to say I had never been to Blake Street before. I don’t usually like sports bars, which is probably why I had never been there before, and again, I don’t go out downtown much. But this place is exactly what I would want from a sports bar.

After Flying Dog Brewery moved to Maryland, Blake Street Tavern remained their Denver hub. The connection is obvious when you walk into the bar – the walls are decorated with Ralph Steadman’s Flying Dog art. There are pool tables, darts, shuffle board and enough TVs to guarantee that I’d never have to miss a Nuggets game. The place is big enough that it can handle a weekend crowd, but maintains a cozy feel that prevents it from seeming awkward there when it’s empty. Oh and did I mention my beer cost three dollars? I’m still excited about that. Expect me to return here. Frequently.

At this point I was feeling the effects of the previous four beers. I was drunk. But the winter ale was good, and after having been disappointed by my last two selections, I was happy to have chosen wisely. I honestly couldn’t describe more about the beer, other than it was dark, I liked it and it cost three dollars.

My notes at this point are limited to basic information about drinks, a quick thought about the bar, a comment about the Nuggets losing and a drawing done by Nathan. That, in itself, was a sign that we needed to move on and finish up our night.

(Side note: Had I been more sober, I’m sure I would have taken a more artistic photo of the Flying Dog art on the walls. But I was drunk, angry that my team had lost and excited to see a bar that supported both the Nuggets and the Red Sox, which explains the photo of the ATM.)

12:30 a.m. (One hour after the David Bowie cover band was supposed to start)
Meadowlark Bar
2701 Larimer St.

Fat Tire, I don’t know the price, Porphyry Kyle bought it for me and I doubt he remembers, either.
They didn’t charge a cover when we walked in, a sure sign that our Bowie cover band had finished their set. At that point none of us cared, except maybe the Semi-Native, since he was sober. I don’t imagine him getting too excited about a Bowie cover band, anyway.

Porphyry Kyle bought me a Fat Tire. I had reached the point where I didn’t care enough to examine their beer selection. And judging from my notes, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had found a new beer to try – I wouldn’t have remembered anything about it.

I love the Meadowlark. I think it is all you could ever want from a small local venue (except maybe a better draft beer selection). This was my first visit in the wintertime and I was happy to see how well it adapted to the cold weather. While the bar lacks the craft beer theme, it was a great place to end the night.

Of our time there, our exit was the most memorable. I’m not sure how long the giant animal head has resided by the bathrooms, but none of us had noticed it before — and Kyle visits the Meadowlark probably twice a week. But given our drunken state, this animal (we called it a water buffalo, it wasn’t a water buffalo) received a lot of our attention: photos, Iphone researching, Wyatt repeatedly trying to pet it. I think it made up for missing the David Bowie cover band.

These joints open in the early morn for the third-shifters, the transients, the widowed, the retired. They open so the beer trucks can make deliveries, so the beat cops have a place to piss, so the day laborers can cash their checks, and so the divorcee can sort out the rest of her life with the help of Patsy Cline and a bottle of Miller Lite.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Like Dionysos, Drew Bixby does this shit for a living. Get a load of his new book, Denver’s Best Dive Bars: Drinking and Diving in the Mile High City. This Friday, January 29th, at 7:30 p.m., Drew will read from and discuss the book at the Tattered Cover Colfax Avenue, with an after-party at the Satire Lounge around 9:00 p.m.)

ARRIVE: 7:06 a.m.
Phil’s Place
3463 Larimer Street
16oz Bud Light draft, $2.25

Phil’s Place page 116 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“That shit will chop your head right off!”

I feel like a failure by the time I walk the half mile from my house and into the warm lighting of Phil’s Place. I’d wanted to listen as the lock turned and watch as the door opened exactly at 7:00 a.m., but I couldn’t get my ass up. Rock – a scrawny Mexican guy with a sly grin and a fast tongue who’s begged me on previous visits to write a book about his illegal entry into the U.S. on his daddy’s back – is vacuuming and hauling trash cans. Waiting for him on the bar is a pitcher of red Bud Light and a salted glass. Between swipes of the vacuum, and without powering the thing down, he pours himself half-glasses and drops ’em in single gulps. Something tells me he’ll finish the pitcher before the last chair is pushed back underneath its table, though I’m not around to know for sure.

While his mother, Junie, stirs green chile and mashes pinto beans in the small back kitchen – six days a week, from 7:30 a.m. until it runs out, Junie’s Kitchen serves up mean Mexican fare in takeout containers only – Phil’s dad pours me a Bud Light draft because the Budweiser keg is kicked. As in almost every bar open at this hour, the televisions broadcast the morning news. I only pay attention when I hear Phil’s dad screaming. “Oooohhhh!” he bellows. “Daaaannnggg!” The footage on the screen is of a showboat surfer taking a huge wave and almost flipping into the propeller blades of the helicopter filming him. “That shit will chop your head right off!” dad concludes before sauntering back to the kitchen.

The sun has finally gotten its ass up by the time I walk out and toward the bus stop at Larimer and Downing. I squint and fish in my bag for sunglasses. The Budweiser truck has arrived and the driver’s loading barrels onto his dolly. Damn, I think. Ten more minutes and I could’ve had that Bud.

Fucking hate Bud Light.

DEPART: 7:25 a.m., ride the 44 to Broadway & Curtis, walk.

ARRIVE: 7:39 a.m.
Carioca Café (Bar Bar)
2060 Champa Street
CASH ONLY
Eye Opener – 10oz draw (Budweiser) and ¾ shot (Conquistador tequila), $2.50

Bar Bar page 54 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“You don’t get to pick your pour, son.”

By the time I round the corner from Broadway to Champa and slowly approach Carioca Café (Bar Bar), the same exact Budweiser truck is already parked out front. Had I known, I would have caught a ride with this guy instead of on the 44, but oh well.

Compared to Phil’s, where I was the only patron, Bar Bar is packed. Three crust punks my age or a bit older prattle on loudly by the Venus compact-disc jukebox before heading to the back room for reasons I won’t be detailing here; a Latino guy who may or may not be waiting to catch one of the Autobuses Americanos across the street sits alone at a booth and compulsively checks his watch; another guy at the bar reads a folded-over copy of the Denver Daily News. I belly up and ask the aging bartender for an Eye Opener with Bud and tequila. He catches me leaning over to scope the tub’s tequila selection and scolds, “You don’t get to pick your pour, son. You get the house tequila. Conquistador. It’ll kick your butt.”

It doesn’t, as he predicts, kick my butt, but it’s definitely gross. More like a missed kick to the neck, if such a half-assed assault were to exist. Most well tequila, the shit responsible for many a ruined night and epic hangover, isn’t even tequila – not produced in the right region of Mexico, not 100 percent agave – but at $2.50 for the beer and shot, I can’t afford to be a snob.

The bartender goes back to spooning cold rice soup from a plastic tub into his mouth and I head to the bathroom for a piss. I don’t realize my fly is down until I’m halfway to El Chapultepec.

DEPART: 7:59 a.m., walk to El Chapultepec

ARRIVE: 8:08 a.m.
El Chapultepec
1962 Market Street
Not open, though a 10oz Coors draw ($1.50) would have been delicious

El Chapultepec page 56 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“They give me free tacos, but don’t tell the owner that.”

On the way here, I stop off outside the post office to refill my coffee mug from the Thermos I’ve packed for the trip. I pass garbage guys dragging green Dumpsters from alleys to idling trucks, women in business formalwear who avert their eyes as they pass, plenty of working chumps in a hurry wearing ear buds and looks of professional dissatisfaction. When I arrive, the door is locked but the beer lights inside are on. I check the time on my phone and wonder what the fuck.

“They don’t open ’til 9,” a woman standing entirely too close to me says over my right shoulder. She’s wearing a black zip-up coat over a pink hooded sweatshirt over a grey hooded sweatshirt, hood up. “They give me free tacos, but don’t tell the owner that. Can you give me some change for breakfast? I’m just trying to get some change for breakfast.”

I dig in my pockets and wonder why she needs change for breakfast if the ’Pec gives her free tacos. As I walk away, she asks, “You comin’ back at 9? You should come back at 9. Maybe they’ll give you free tacos.” I tell her I’ll think about it.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

DEPART: 8:09 a.m., walk to 17th & Market, ride the 0 to 4th & Broadway

On the ride over, somewhere between Market Street Station and the 404, a guy wearing a jean jacket with green sleeves and oversized wraparound sunglasses boards the 0 and yells at the driver, “I don’t have no fare! You’re always unfair!” He laughs, sits, shoves an unlit cigar butt in his mouth, and scans a copy of the Wall Street Journal.

This guy will not even come close to being the weirdest I encounter while riding RTD.

ARRIVE: 8:38 a.m., 8:54 a.m.
Club 404
404 Broadway
16oz draft (Natural Light), $1.50

Club 404 page 28 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“This is someone else’s job.”

I’m not even angry when I roll up to Club 404 and find my second consecutive door locked. I can hear the sounds of sweeping and the shaking out of trash bags, which tells me it won’t be long. But I have to pee so badly that I consider dropping trow and doing so in the potted tree just outside the entrance. Fuck it, right? The Colonel said he’d pay for expenses, and I’m certainly not hitting any ceilings with these $2 beers. What’s a little public urination ticket? Right? Eh?

I knock twice and nothing happens, so I scurry across the street and down a block to the 7-Eleven, where I buy smokes and borrow the key to the bathroom and feel much, much better about everything.

The 404′s door is unlocked by the time I return, but no one’s around. Roy eventually emerges from the kitchen, yet when I ask him what’s cheap, he seems confused. “Uh,” he stammers while glancing around at various specials advertised on chalkboards and paper fliers, “how about a Natural Light for $1.50?” Yes, please.

I ask about food and Roy tells me not for another hour or so. “Grease is still heating up,” he mutters.

“That your job?” I ask him, meaning the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he responds. “This,” by which he means pouring drinks, “is someone else’s job.”

As I’m enjoying my Natty and watching (what else?) the morning news, Roy lays place mats and napkins and silverware on all the tables. Two Coors guys show up and carry full kegs like they’re pillows to the taproom. When I leave 10 minutes later, a Budweiser truck has replaced the Coors truck out front, and the same goddamn guy is loading a dolly.

It’s alarming, my urge to buy this dude a beer. Or at least ask where he’s heading next so I can avoid the fucking bus.

DEPART: 9:15 a.m., ride the 0 to Broadway & Bayaud

ARRIVE: 9:22 a.m.
Brown Barrel Tavern
76 South Broadway
CASH ONLY
12oz mugs (Budweiser), $2 for both

Brown Barrel Tavern page 21 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“You wanted me to leave it somewhere else?”

“I do everything a neighborhood bar does,” owner Bob Lyons tells me over my first mug of Bud, which he pays for. This includes cashing, for 50 cents and the purchase of a drink, the checks of the day laborers who come in after their shifts; taking phone calls from potential employers and collecting the mail of patrons without addresses of their own; and letting the beat cops come in the back door and use his can. As we’re talking, Benny – who’s been on this beat for longer than Bob can remember – does exactly this. On his way out, Bob yells, “Oh, sure, just leave your piss in my toilet without coming over to say hello!”

Benny retorts: “You wanted me to leave it somewhere else?”

In business for more than 25 years, Bob admits that his mentor and hero has always been Jerry Feld, who continues to operate the 404 despite the role dialysis now plays in his life. When other proprietors were watering down their liquor bottles to save a few bucks, Jerry advised him to never stoop to that level. When credit card vendors circled like vultures, whispering sweet nothings to every bar owner on Broadway, Jerry told Bob to think twice. (He did, deciding to purchase an ATM for $2,000 and keep 100 percent of the fees.)

Bob pours me my second Bud, taking just $2 from my small stack of singles and refusing my tip. He delivers two juicy Clementine oranges with it, and I happily accept.

Sweet, sweet sustenance.

DEPART: 10:07 a.m., ride the 0 to Broadway & Evans

I’m smoking a cigarette and waiting for the 0 at the corner of Broadway and Bayaud when a twitchy white guy with pockmarked cheeks and darting eyes approaches with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat. “I feel like the poster child for alcoholism,” he says. Which is confusing, because I feel like the poster child for alcoholism right now. What’s this guy got on me?

Apparently, he’s been on a bender since shaking his parole number four days ago. “Congrats,” I say disinterestedly.

“Thanks. Got pinched for 3 pounds of meth. Could have been 27 years if the trafficking charge had stuck. Didn’t. Did do six years at CSP, though, and another three at Peer I.”

TMI, dude, I think. “Wow,” I respond while boarding the 0, which pulled up somewhere around the six years at CSP.

Minutes later I hear this same guy a few rows behind me tell his seatmate, “I’ll give ya 5 milligrams for $2. I got a whole pocketful.”

ARRIVE: 10:30 a.m.
Bushwacker’s Saloon
1967 South Broadway
CASH ONLY
12oz mug (Bushwacker’s Bock, the house beer), $2

Bushwacker’s Saloon page 135 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“So they don’t bite their fingers off.”

I was pretty meticulous in my planning of this trip – selecting bars I knew (or thought) would be open, scouting bus routes and stops and times, packing coffee and various pieces of technology for documentation purposes. Still, I figured something (like El Chapultepec) might go wrong, so I put a wild card, the Stadium Inn, in my bag of tricks. Turns out I didn’t need it.

By sheer luck, I’m gazing out the window, through the glaze that is now my vision, as the 0 cruises through Asbury Ave and toward Evans, when I notice that the front door of Bushwacker’s Saloon is propped open and the beer signs lit up. Reflexes I don’t expect to have at this point in the trip kick in and I tug the stop cord in time to get off and backtrack a quick block.

I’m greeted by the barking of a black-and-white border collie/lab mix named Macy. She’s perched on the small corner stage from which blues bands play almost five nights a week, her ears at attention, ready to rip my nut sack from between my loins if necessary. Macy turns out to be a total sweetheart, especially after I squat down and give her a good rub beneath the ears. I head straight for the men’s room and stare, somewhat incredulously, at an advertisement for Swedish Fish-tinis, “a refreshing drink that tastes a lot like Swedish Fish.” I ask the young bartendress whether Bushwacker’s serves this preposterous concoction and she laughs. “Uh, no. Though we used to have some of them candies around here once.”

I order the house beer, which tastes a lot like Amber Bock but only costs $2. In lieu of nonstop news, the television here shows the Food Network or something like it, some program about how Tootsie Rolls are made. This inspires the haggardly old gentleman with the salt-and-pepper beard seated to my immediate right to tell a terribly inappropriate joke.

“So,” he starts, already laughing, “why do black people wear white gloves when they eat Tootsie Rolls?”

DEPART: 10:51 a.m., walk to Broadway and Iliff

ARRIVE: 11:00 a.m.
Len & Bill’s Lounge
2301 South Broadway
CASH ONLY
10oz draws (Natural Light), $1.75 for both

Len & Bill’s page 144 from Denver’s Best Dive Bars.pdf

“Lucky you. You got another coming.”

The options for draft beer at Len & Bill’s, my final stop, are Natural Light or Natural Light. Though it’s a tick past 11 a.m., when morning happy hour ends, the bartender (Len? Bill? Definitely one of ’em) is feeling charitable. “Ya just made happy hour,” he lies. “Lucky you. You got another coming.” In some circles, I recognize, 20 ounces of Natty Light for $1.75 might seem more punishment than prize, but I’m tickled. I’m also drunk. Drunk enough, in fact, to inexplicably tear a $5 into two pieces while attempting to pay.

Len or Bill or Whoever mops the disintegrated floors almost the entire time I’m there. The lunch hour local news shows footage of an RTD bus rear-ending a car because the brakes went out, and I decide to walk the extra four blocks to the Evans Station and take the train home. An epically sad-looking woman across the bar from me pours her face into her hands at different angles and pulls from a bottle of Miller Lite. The jukebox – which was playing Patsy Cline when I arrived but which had been dormant for the past ten minutes – suddenly clicks back on with no human intervention and plays some really terrible Killers b-side.

With my freebie half empty, my stomach grumbling, and my eyes focusing on nothing in particular, I holler a “Thanks!” in the general direction of the still-moving mop and head north, feeling like (what else?) the poster child for alcoholism.

Feeling, some 4 1/2 hours later, like a total fucking winner.

DEPART: 11:28, walk to Evans Station, ride the 101 D line to 30th & Downing Station, walk home.

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.

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.

We have all drunk our way through Fort Collins many times before, but never with such a deliberate purpose. I set out with my accomplices: The Muscle, The Mom, and Pink Drink. We were to meet up with The Other Mom and The Bartender some time later in the evening.

7:45 p.m.
Drunken Monkey Cantina
151 S. College Ave.
Orange Blossom, $4

This bar is the reason I wanted to write a Fort Collins Six Shooter. The bar’s slogan is “Blow your Whistles!!! Tequila, making women lower their standards since 1942.” That slogan, combined with the fact that the Drunken Monkey features swings in lieu of bar stools, made this place our first stop of the night.

Now swings instead of bar stools may seem like a bad idea, and it is, but the concept is highly entertaining. This bar is definitely more popular with the late, late crowd who enjoys hip-hop and whistle-blowing tequila shots, so we arrived to find all the swings unoccupied. I think the Drunken Monkey serves Mexican food, but I’ve never actually seen anyone eating there.

We carefully perched ourselves on the swings and I ordered a Drunken Monkey. Turns out they don’t actually have a drink called Drunken Monkey, a situation that temporarily ruined my evening. The Muscle and The Mom ordered beers, Pink Drink ordered a Buttery Nipple on the rocks, while I made grumpy faces at the bartender who, mildly sympathetic to my state, suggested a bunch of tropical sounding drinks.

I settled on an Orange Blossom, which is basically gin, orange juice with a splash of triple sec. As it turns out, this drink tastes exactly like a child’s chewable vitamin C tablet. Exactly. We drank and swung, and reminisced about past experiences at this bar, many of which involve drunken comrades falling off the swings.

The swings are very slick and I kept slipping off the front of mine. Annoyed, I grabbed the rope to pull myself up for a tenth time and ripped my thumb open on the coarse rope.

Two out of our party of four got slivers from those damn ropes. My conclusion? Swings at a bar may seem delightful, but they are a goddamn liability.

8:30 p.m.
Elliot’s Martini Bar
234 Linden St.
The Classic, $4 (with 2 blue cheese stuffed olives at 50 cents each)

This place has a mind-boggling martini list, but personally, I don’t go for all that. A martini should be made from gin, relatively translucent, and just a little ruthless on your taste buds. Of course, I am one of very few people left with this opinion.

Elliot’s has been in Fort Collins since 1997, and it still doesn’t feel like a place you’d find in Fort Collins. It’s sort of classy. They play funky jazz. It’s the kind of establishment where girls like to go on girls’ night out and order pink drinks. Oddly, Pink Drink ordered a Velvet Tongue, not pink at all – it’s a vodka, coffee, hazelnut drink served up in a martini glass. It was, however, keeping in line with her sexually themed drinks.

The Mom, usually a beer drinker, also ordered a coffee style martini called Naked in the Woods. She chose that moment to declare, “I’m gonna let my hair down tonight!” After a long discussion with our waitress, who only had a smile for him, The Muscle ordered a fancy Belgian beer that turned out to be more expensive than my Classic Martini.

The place was crowded and very hot. I was attempting to dislodge myself from my coat when the dour waitress took our orders, so I forgot to specify a gin. I ended up with a house gin that burned up the lining of my esophagus. I’ve had much better martinis at this joint.

Due to the heat and trying to choke down my drink, I didn’t notice the huge flat-screen television until we were getting ready to leave. It was playing a Burt Reynolds movie with French subtitles – an attempt to be pretentious? If so, the pretense was spoiled by a group of guys I noticed sitting at one of the booths.

They stood out because they were guys in a bar full of chicks, and I because they were wearing Carhartts. Only in Fort Collins will you find Carhartts-wearing guys in a martini bar, under a television playing an American movie in French subtitles.

We walked on.

9:15 p.m.
The Town Pump
124 N. College Ave.
Atomic Cherries, $1 each
Jell-O Shots, $1 each

The Town Pump celebrated their 100th birthday on March 11, 2009. The bar holds the prestigious title of Fort Collins’ oldest bar, and it just might be the smallest. Being the oldest bar in Fort Collins is actually quite a feat considering prohibition in the town was only lifted in 1969. I’m not making this up. It’s a little fact I learned while on a ghost tour of the city this past October.

For my friends and I, this has long been a stop on an Old Town bar crawl, so we dutifully made this our third stop of the night. After having our IDs carefully inspected at the door, we were greeted by ’70s rock-n-roll and sideways glances from the regulars.

Atomic Cherries are maraschino cherries soaked in Everclear. They are nasty, and the ones we ordered on the evening of our Six Shooter were no exception. The Jell-O shots were equally disgusting, but it’s tradition, so I sucked down two.

It’s hard to find seating in The Town Pump, but we were early enough to get a couple of spots at the bar. At this time of night, there’s a crowd of regulars already tucked in for an evening of drinking – I quickly got the feeling we were taking up a couple of regulars’ barstools, so we moved on.

Not much to say about this joint, except avoid the bathroom. Most regular Fort Collins drinkers know this rule. I assume 100 years ago, The Town Pump’s bathroom was the alleyway; today they’ve got what has to be the world’s smallest, and perhaps most stinky, bathroom. While sitting on the throne, one’s knees literally hit the door.

9:30 p.m.
Surfside 7
150 N. College Ave.
New Belgium 2 Below beer, $3

If this bar were a person it would be Matthew McConaughey. It’s a place for the chilled out, low-key kinda party crowd, if you get my drift. There’s a couple couches near the front, surfboards on the walls, and I’m pretty sure Phish was on the jukebox when our group dropped in.

Still early for a Saturday night in a college town, we got three seats at the bar. Pink Drink had to leave after the Atomic cherries and Jell-O shots, so we were now waiting for The Bartender and The Other Mom who were to join us here.

Looking around I noticed a lot of stocking-capped heads and several dreadlock bags. If I had gone to college in Fort Collins, this totally would have been my bar. Totally.

We ordered a round of beers from another pissy bartender. I guess waiting on college kids all the time makes a person grouchy.

It was no surprise when my conversation with a random guy at the bar turned to… wait for it… marijuana. We discussed the ease with which he had gotten a medical marijuana prescription and now gets his pot legally from the guy who used to deal it to him illegally. Interesting.

The jukebox changed from groovy to something straight out of the 1950s, which was appropriate because there was a brood of retro-chicks complete with pompadours sitting at one of the tables. Surfside is definitely eclectic.

The Bartender and The Other Mom finally showed. We finished our beers and decided to hit yet another famous Fort Collins college hot spot.

10:45 p.m.
Trailhead Tavern
148 W. Mountain Ave.
Gin & Tonic, $3

As soon as we walked into the Trailhead, I remembered something I had forgotten – I don’t like the Trailhead. As it turns out, while my tolerance for alcohol has maintained, it appears my tolerance for drunken college kids seems to have gone way down over the years. As it also turns out, the Trailhead is not a place to hang out on a Saturday night if you have a low tolerance for drunken college students.

We ordered our drinks from another unhappy bartender, who was annoyed at my request for a receipt. We made our way to the only free parcel of bar real estate we could find, a patch of ground next to the bathrooms. We did have some amusing discussions, including The Bartender’s recommendations on odd gin drinks for me to try.

The Mom and The Other Mom, who have been friends since high school, were now drinking rum and coke. The Mom revealed her first concert was The Dead Milkmen at age 13. Her second concert was Nine Inch Nails. I briefly wondered if anyone in this bar, besides our group and maybe a bartender, would recognize the name “The Dead Milkmen.”

That’s pretty much all I have to say about the Trailhead. They do have pool tables and video games, including Big Game Hunter, which seemed to be a big hit with a group of guys who all looked as though they’d snuck in using fake IDs.

Lastly, the Trailhead has Jager on tap and serve cans of beans and franks. Oh yes, they really do.

11:30 p.m.
Steak-Out Saloon
152 W. Mountain Ave.
Bombay Sapphire Martini “undercover”, $6

As we departed the Trailhead and stumbled through the thick haze of smoke out front, a figure came running through the darkness. She threw her arms around The Muscle, who was entirely confused by the attack.

The attacker turned out to be an old friend we hadn’t seen for months. She was out with a group of friends and they’d apparently been drinking for quite awhile because she stated her husband was “around here somewhere.” We later learned he was actually at home watching their kids. They were headed to the Steak-Out Saloon, next door to the Trailhead, so we joined them.

There was a time, maybe six or so years ago, when I frequented this bar. The Steak-Out has 22 beers on tap, and darn good burgers. Despite the wide selection of beer, I was determined to order a martini. My companions disappeared to the back to play pool while I sidled up to the bar.

I asked the bartender if I could have a martini, but “please not in a martini glass.” I’m not even sure if the Steak-Out has martini glasses, but I didn’t feel like being jostled about holding a martini glass in my hand.

The guy next to me leaned over and said, “That’s what I call that an undercover martini.” The perfect way to end the night, I thought, an undercover martini in a beer bar. The bartender was friendly, and more than happy to indulge my request. Perhaps he was excited to be utilizing his bartending skills to do more than just pull a tap.

The bartender carefully mixed my drink, shaking it reverently before pouring it into a tumbler. He added olives and delivered the drink to me. “Tell me how you like it,” he said, waiting for my answer. I liked it. It was the best drink I’d had all night, and not at all because it was my last, but because it was made with a smile and it was “undercover.”

The Steak-Out is really cool. They have pool, air hockey, and shuffleboard in the basement. Yes, it was crowded and the music was loud, but the place has a good vibe.

My notes at the last two bars are sloppy, not entirely due to the alcohol, but mostly because I had to write them standing up. As a writer for a local newspaper, I should be better at this task than I actually am.

In conclusion: drinking in a college town will make you feel young and old. It made us feel young because we had our IDs checked at five out of six bars. It made us feel old because it seemed the music was too loud at every establishment, and most of our fellow drinkers didn’t look old enough to be drinking.

As the festival publications editor, I’ve long since fulfilled my duties by Opening Night, but as the fancy ladyfriend of the Artistic Director, aka the Director, I’m on social call 24/7—which means for nearly two weeks straight I slide between LoDo and the Starz FilmCenter, from theater to theater, reception to reception, lounge to lounge with a drink never not in my hand. Sounds like the premise for a Six Shooter.

2:30 p.m.

2 Bloody Marys, $5 each

With all the free popcorn, pizza, hors d’oeuvres, tacos, shawarma, and ginger snaps at every turn, I hadn’t seen a fresh green thing in days, so I wheedled Karla Sutra (pictured) and the Constant Watcher — the Director’s cohorts in the programming department — into ducking across Auraria to Brauns Bar and Grill for a late lunch between film intros.

Those of you who’ve been to Brauns might be waiting for the punchline now, but no—the sports bar does technically serve salads under whose heaps of meat and cheese bits of lettuce actually peek through. Whether there were more vitamins in our Bloody Marys is a fair question—but whether there was more ice than juice, never mind alcohol, was a more pressing one. We guessed “yes” and ordered a second round to make up for the first. Thus at the height of our temporary scurvy, sobriety, and stupidity, the conversation naturally turned to vegetables.

KS: “I love squash.”

CW: “Why don’t you marry it?”

KS: “Remember when Pee-wee married…”

CW: “Either Jello or a fruit cup.”

KS: “I remember my father telling me how Pee-wee wasn’t going to be on TV anymore because he touched his privates in public.”

CW: “I hate squash.”

Me: “Even eggplant?”

That there is the depth and breadth of coherence during the Starz Denver Film Festival.

4:30 p.m.

1 glass of house red wine, $4

If you’re a regular at Nallen’s, you probably know a big ol’ lovable bear called Paddy B., who’s been a fixture there for some 15 years. If you’re not a regular, you’d know him right away nonetheless (see pic). The Director and I, meanwhile, know him best as one of the veteran crackerjacks behind the bar at the aforementioned Late Night Lounge—and as a blast to drink with, not least because his mouth doesn’t fit in his body as he drops phrases into industry gossip like “superb publican” and “Table 8” (the VIP corner at Capital Grille where, apparently, certain NBA stars think it’s cute to leave signed headshots as tips) as though he were a silver-haired chap in Armani. Which made all the scary-funnier the moment I told him about writing for Denver Six Shooter and the Director added, “You’d be great at it!” Paddy suddenly narrowed his eyes and asked, “Are you takin’ a crack at me?”

But a brief bout of copious sweating it out ended with a plan for a blowout at Red Square. What do I win for scoring such a promising newbie?

1 free glass of red wine

Speaking of newbies: for a brief, shining moment, I got to shoot my third(ish) round in the close company of Denver’s own Ellie Caulkins. The scholar and gentlewoman wasn’t, granted, actually in on the scenario, but what if? You never know when a cause is going to inspire a philanthropist to act, and really, doesn’t “Colonel Hector Bravado and Ellie Caulkins’s Denver Six Shooter” have a bit of a ring? After all, since the Filmmaker’s Lounge, as the fourth and fifth floors of the Tivoli are called during the festival, is essentially a hospitality suite offering free booze and hot meals (rounded out, of course, by spontaneously growing and glowing piles of junk food, pictured), interview space and a media station to the directors, actors, producers, animators, et al. who gather between audience Q&As, deals—such as they are in the post-post-Slackers indie world—do get made here.

But as what-ifs go, full confession: if I’d embarked on my crawl 24 hours earlier, there’s no question in my mind that ‘fest guest George Hardy would have jumped aboard. You heard me: Alabama dentist George Hardy—onetime star of Troll 2 (“You can’t piss on hospitality!”), and thus sudden, accidental star of the new doc examining its now phenomenal cult status, Best Worst Movie. This is a guy who literally never stops grinning and who asks his young patients by way of conversation whether they’d rather be seven or eight. Can you imagine the drinking games we’d have played? My big bad, readers. I owe you one.

6:30 p.m.

1 glass of Cabernet, $6

Day in and day out, the world flings its soul-crushing, colon-flushing shit in your face, and then you go to a movie theater that serves alcohol at the concession stand. Fucked as we are overall, in small ways we are blessed. And if ever there were a film to underscore that verity, to deepen the mood that sets in when you’re curled up with a glass (OK, plastic cupful) of wine in the charged darkness of a cinema —for me one of the ultimate come-what-may places where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life to get the feel of life—it’s Trimpin: The Sound of Invention.

If the name doesn’t ring a bell, it will henceforth, almost literally: Trimpin is a composer/ inventor/sculptor who finds the music in everything he touches, turning typewriters into tiny pianos, wooden clogs into percussive mobiles (pictured), and the Kronos Quartet into a merry band of toy guitarists. He’s built marimbas that convert seismic data into symphonies and written scores for slide projectors. It’s not a stretch to say that watching and listening to him think and create over the course of this documentary is not unlike soaking up the color of a classic cocktail bar: your senses are at every moment heightened, broadened, filled. Go on: pour yourself your own drink, check out a trailer or two here, and see if I wax exaggerated.

8:30 p.m.

1 glass of Meritage, $8

Given the choice of seeing stars or, you know, seeing stars, most festival staffers go for the latter, growing so jaded and/or addled over the course of a few days that no amount of celebrity schmoozing can compare to quality drinking time with the little people we are. Due to its proximity to dear Ellie’s own opera house, the site of every red carpet film, The Corner Office becomes our annual escape headquarters, despite or because of the cheeky 9-to-5 theme—which, after all, privileges hooky-playing and other forms of workplace indiscretion, what with its racy drone-on-secretary murals, clocks set permanently to happy hour, and bathroom graffiti on Post-Its reading, for instance, “Five words to live by: “Hey, can I have that?”

The Corner Office is hip in the classically oxymoronic sense of the word—annoying yet charming in its youth-driven conflation of sophistication with irony. I’m old enough to be annoyed by the PYT who doesn’t know her Rotari Brut from her Champagne—but old enough too to be charmed by the lad who actually blushes when I tell him he can’t be serious after he tries to card me. I’m too old, in short, for this place—and yet I’m not so mature that I can get over the Bong vodka, whose bottle Jason the bartender (pictured with our man Travis) told us can indeed be retrofitted once empty for alternative use.

Unlimited Free Wine

There are a lot of things I can’t tell you about the LNL: where it is, when it’s open, which almost famous (and, occasionally, totally famous) folks have engaged in shenanigans there. Even if I could tell you, I couldn’t tell you—see “unlimited free wine.” (The open bar also dispenses beer, spirits, and the occasional cocktail—e.g., this year’s Yellow Snow—improvised by a guy known to drink Bloody Marys out of a vase.)

But dreamy details do float up: phrases from Don Hertzfeldt shorts screening on the walls (“My spoon is too big!” “I am a banana!”), Thriller-backed flash mobs, the time Karla Sutra swore she was staying for just one drink only to wake up on a couch the next morning surrounded by empty bottles of wine and some furniture movers from Butler Rents. Rising, she found Betsy Tallfold sitting straight up against the wall with a full glass of wine in her hand, fast asleep. Apparently there are pictures. Karla nudged her awake—which is, of course, when the wine finally ended up in her lap where it belonged.

Any filmmakers out there? You should make a doc short about D6S and submit it to the festival! Then you can join me next year.

* Some of the girls name themselves after cocktails. And they had a gang of drinks. Stay with us.

6:00 p.m.
Gaetano’s (Vintage)
3760 Tejon St

Drink: Sidecar
Drinker: Cuba Libre
Comments: “Truly respectable.” “Fresh lemon juice.”

Drink: Old-Fashioned
Drinkers: Vamp & Pomeranian
Comments: “I miss the orange.” “It’s different with a lemon.”

Drink: Moscow Mule
Drinker: Moscow Mule
Comment: “No copper mug, but the drink’s OK.”

Drink: Harvey Wallbanger
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl
Comments: “Delish! My new favorite cocktail!”

Drink: Limon Rickey
Drinker: Italian Stinger
Comments: “Absolutely delicious!”

Drink: Sazerac Cocktail
Drinker: Tom Collins
Comments: “Very nice! The absinthe is a touch stronger than expected.”

Drink: Limoncello
Drinker: Bee’s Knees
Comments: “Homemade in the basement; drink it straight!”

Formerly owned by Denver’s mafia family, the Smaldones, Gaetano’s is old-school charm at its finest. The bar is dark, cozy and you can practically still smell the cologne of the wiseguys who used to frequent the place. GM Kurt introduced the ladies to our fresh-faced, mustachioed bartender Ian, informing us that he’s a bit new, but capable. Kurt knew we’d be good for his education. We picked a few favorites from the stellar menu and started running Ian through his paces. The Moscow Mule had decided to try her namesake at every stop; she was disappointed by the lack of a copper mug, and wasn’t satisfied with the drink, either.

When the Pomeranian and I received our Old-Fashioneds, we’d forgotten that they’re traditionalists at Gaetano’s and go with the original recipe ,while we prefer the sweeter, post-prohibition version with an orange. However, the rest of the cocktails were spot-on delicious and Cuba Libre commented that she really enjoyed being served by a bartender with a good mustache. All in all, a good start, and a point for Vintage Bars.

7:30 p.m.
LoHi SteakBar (New)
3200 Tejon Street
Price range per drink: $5-$8

Drink: Ginger Gimlet
Drinker: The Vamp, Italian Stinger, Bee’s Knees
Comments: “Smooth and tasty.” “Surprisingly drinkable.”

Drink: Moscow Mule
Drinker: Moscow Mule
Comment: “Yay! Copper mug! Gold star!”

Drink: Banana Daquiri
Drinker: Cuba Libre, Zombie
Comments: “Nice to have real banana instead of a liqueur.” “Hint: squeeze the lime.”

Drink: Southern Spice
Drinker: Pomeranian
Comments: “Tastes like Christmas!! Well made!”

Drink: Infused Manhattan
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl
Comments: “Quite the punch. Nice for a winter’s night.”

Went to LoHi thinking they had a more traditional cocktail menu, but instead they had some new spins on the classics, so we embraced it. What we did not embrace was our prickly waitress, Alisa. Yes, a dozen LUPEC ladies hitting you when the bar is already packed can be overwhelming, but honey, I’ve been there, and while you can think nastymean thoughts about your customers, it should never show in the way you treat them, or in your face. Especially not your face.

We tried to look past Alisa’s bad attitude and placed our order. Ordering duplicates of each other’s drinks let us test the consistency of the bar- the Ginger Gimlets were spot on, but the two banana daiquiris couldn’t have been more different in taste and texture. Everyone loved the cushy stools, the good design and warm space, but it was hard to concentrate. There were easily as many people in Gaetano’s as LoHi, but apparently they knew how to buffer noise better in the old days, because LoHi was LOUD. We finished up as quickly as possible both to get away from the sound and Alisa’s stink eye. Not a good start for the “new classic” bars.

8:15 p.m.
My Brother’s Bar
2376 15th St
Cocktail price range: $5-$7

Drink: Stranahan’s Old-Fashioned
Drinker: Bee’s Knees, Cuba Libre
Comment: “Stranahan’s should be served straight up or on the rocks.”

Drink: Maker’s Mark Old-Fashioned
Drinkers: The Vamp, Pomeranian
Comment: “A perfect Old-Fashioned.”

Drink: Vodka Collins
Drinkers: Italian Stinger
Comment: “Reliably solid and drinkable.”

Drink: Harvey Wallbanger
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl
Comment: “Pleasant, but not comparable to Gaetano’s.”

For those of us who had only quaffed pints at Brother’s, the big questions was: does Brother’s do classic cocktails? Cuba Libre called ahead: “If a group of ladies come in and order classic cocktails, can you handle it?” They said, essentially, “Bring it on.” So we did.

The Moscow Mule was horrified when our friendly and fabulous server, Allison, told her they didn’t have her signature drink, so she just sulkily dug in to a burger. Paddy’s Girl learned the important lesson that not all Harvey Wallbangers are created equal (or as good as Gaetano’s).

At my corner of the table, Cuba Libre, Pomeranian, Bee’s Knees and I created our own showdown-within-a-showdown: Stranahan’s vs. Maker’s Mark in an Old-Fashioned-off. Brother’s sticks with the post-prohibition recipe, and the cocktails were the same in every way (except the whiskey) but the Maker’s cocktail was the clear winner. As Cuba Libre said, “It’s not the bartender’s fault. Stranahan’s is not an Old-Fashioned whiskey.” True. Stranahan’s does well in a Manhattan or any other mostly whiskey drink, but in an Old-Fashioned, the subtle taste gets lost in the mix. Frankly, the stuff is really best on ice or neat. And as the girls who bottled Stranahan’s batch number 42, we would know.

9:00 p.m.
The Cruise Room (Vintage)
1600 17th St
Cocktail Price Range: $10-$13

Drink: Mandelicious
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl, Cuba Libre
Comments: “Interesting.” “Sweet and full; thought it would be lighter.”

Drink: Dirty Vodka Martini
Drinker: Bee’s Knees, Moscow Mule
Comments: “Yum.”

Drink: Dirty Vodka Martini w/hand stuffed blue cheese olives
Drinker: Italian Stinger, The Vamp
Comment: “Stinky cheese and vodka is kinda my new favorite thing.”

The Cruise Room would have pushed the vintage bars closer to the win regardless, but the fact that their extraordinary bartender, Lisa, was holding court really added on the extra points. Not only was she nice enough to split our checks and our cocktails without asking or blinking an eye (the Cruise cocktails come with the shaker, and there’s plenty for two) the Pomeranian observed her, “…eyeballing amounts instead of using a jigger. Amazing to watch!”

The Cruise Room truly puts the class in classic! Lisa chatted us up about our plans for the night, intrigued by the versus idea, mentioning that The Cruise and our next stop, Stueben’s, had a friendly rivalry, and (a little smugly) dropped the fact that one of Steuben’s bartenders had been in just the night before, sampling The Cruise’s goods. The Cruise also makes high marks for not only perfecting the classics, but reinventing them. Their specialty cocktail menu lists a mix of old and new, and they’re all worth trying. The Mandelicious features Canton Ginger Liqueur, the same cognac-based liqueur the LoHi used in their Ginger Gimlet, and after sampling both, we all started plotting how to add one of those gorgeous bottles to our home bars.

10:00 p.m.
Steuben’s (new)
523 E 17th Ave.
Cocktail Price Range: $6-$10

Drink: Dark & Stormy
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl
Comment: “Yummy. A dark cousin of the Moscow Mule.”

Drink: Moscow Mule
Drinker: Moscow Mule
Comment: “Best in Show!”

Drink: Sidecar
Drinker: Cuba Libre
Comment: “Well balanced”

Drink: Brown Sugar Apple Manhattan
Drinker: The Vamp
Comment: “Lovely and fall-ish.”

Drink: Bee’s Knees
Drinker: Bee’s Knees & Italian Stinger
Comment: “This is my favorite drink in town.”

By this point, those of us not DDing were getting drunk, as evidenced by the reviews of both the gals drinking Bee’s Knees: “Tastes like a bee’s pair of knees if you ate a bee and it didn’t sting you, for real, seriously.” And: “I need my allergy meds, but it’s so delicious.”

We were also all a little over-delighted to find out that our bartender, Courtney, is not only the girlfriend of Ian, the mustachioed gin-slinger at Gaetano’s, but is also the bartender who was hanging at The Cruise with Lisa the night before. “Everything’s connected.” we said, like a bunch of drunken hippies. It was probably the state we’d arrived at, but this seemed like the best time of any of the bars. The Moscow Mule was so good it drew applause, Courtney fascinated us with her magical ability to stencil designs on egg white froth with bitters, the light seemed prettier than any other bar and we all seemed to be smiling more. Alcohol really is good for a good time.

Courtney made an extra Sidecar (my favorite drink) to practice her stenciling and Cuba Libre and I were extremely impressed that although she made it about 20 minutes after the first, the two Sidecars were completely consistent. That’s great bartending.

11:30 p.m.
Jonesy’s Eatbar
400 E 20th Ave
Cocktail Price Range: $6-$8

Drink: Hot Buttered Pumpkin Rum
Drinker: The Vamp, Bee’s Knees
Comment: “This is everything I love about fall! Encore!”

Drink: Hot Chai Tea
Drinker: Paddy’s Girl
Comment: “Cool, yummy holiday drink.”

Drink: Gingerbread Spiced Martini
Drinker: Moscow Mule
Comment: “Good for the holidays!”

Drink: Autumn Apple Cooler
Drinker: Italian Stinger
“Refreshing and crisp.”

Drink: Maker’s Old-Fashioned
Drinker: Cuba Libre
Comment: “Brother’s is better”

Also sampled: House-made Cherry Brandy and Old-Chub aged in Stranahan’s barrels.

I think our DDs were over carting us around, but we had to finish this thing, so we ignored them and forged on, taking over a booth in the back room and diving into Jonesy’s fall menu, sort of forgetting about our mission as we were lured in by cocktails with names that sounded like candle scents (but tasted much better). I personally love all the flavors of fall, and after my Roasted Apple Manhattan at Steuben’s, I couldn’t resist the Hot Buttered Pumpkin Rum, which tasted like a glass of warm pumpkin pie. I know I was fairly blasted by this point, because while I remember the taste of everything I sampled that night, I only know my drink tasted like pumpkin pie because that’s what I wrote down.

Cuba Libre was better than us all and stuck to the path, ordering a Maker’s Manhattan, which she found lacking (sucker- should have indulged with the rest of us!). To the Moscow Mule’s credit, she tried, but there was no ginger beer to be found in the place. To top it all off, the lovely Anne, our server, brought us samples of incredible house-made cherry brandy and a hefty glass of Old-Chub aged in Stranahan’s barrels: thick, delicious stuff. Our mission complete, we climbed into the Minivan of Awesomeness and floated home on the waves of all we had consumed.

When the fog and my brown bottle flu cleared late the next day, I weighed the points, and the vintage bars won, mostly because The Cruise Room was top-heavy with drink and service points (thanks to Lisa) and LoHi was scraping the bottom owing to their atmosphere and service.

Lessons learned about my fellow LUPEC ladies on this voyage:
• Purse hangers get extra points
• Well-priced drinks get extra points (none of the drinks were over $10, except at The Cruise Room, but those were twice as big)
• We get louder and funnier the more we drink (and feel free to talk about anything from bartering blowjobs with husbands to whether or not we want kids)
• We’ve no boundaries and are willing to share germs in the name of drink tasting (I think everyone tasted everyone else’s drink at every stop)
• We know a lot about cocktails; we’re honest and opinionated; and we’re really, really lovely girls.

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.

So, armed with my recipe, and with my heart awash in the Milk of Human Kindness, I embarked on a six-bar, six-martini ramble along Colfax.

6:20 p.m.
The Satellite Bar
308 E. Colfax Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $8.50

Sweet weeping Jesus…Trio on the juke. “Da, Da, Da.” Pop minimalism run amok. Repetitive to a degree that would make Philip Glass beg for just five fucking minutes of Mozart.

Come to rest on a stool at the less crowded end of the bar. There are eight, maybe ten, people in the place. Five of ‘em in a group at the other end; regulars, I’m guessing. Bartender saunters down my way. I nod hello, ask for a martini like the one described above, and for perhaps three full seconds he does a praiseworthy imitation of an unplugged clock. And when a discernable emotion finally bivouacs on his face it’s one of grim, resigned, irritation, which momentarily hints at his firm belief that the world is, just as he’s always maintained, chock-full of douchebags just like me. Then, to my inner amusement, he drops a fat punctuation mark on his delicate pantomime with: “Don’t have any martini glasses.”

“No worries,” I say. “You can serve it in a bunch a Dixie cups for all I care.”

And off he goes, back toward his oasis of regulars, where he starts groping about for martini fixins and grumbling at his pals. It quickly becomes evident that he’s bitching about me, the discomfiture brought on by my hemorrhoidal presence, causing his cronies to toss sideways stink-eyes my way.

More time than seems reasonable ticks by. I’ve made plenty of martinis over the years and the process isn’t exactly solving differential equations. My drink eventually docks at my elbow. It’s in a pint glass. On the rocks. Bartender answers my “thanks, man” with an atavistic little grunt and bee-lines it back to his people.

The martini is…well…OK, if we ignore the sullying ice cubes, it’s pretty much perfectly average. Everything I asked that it contain is there, more or less in their correct proportions. But the truth of the matter is this: it lacks panache. It’s the libationary equivalent of masturbating with a tea cozy. You get the job done, but it’s not exactly the Adrenaline Thrill-Ride of the Summer.

I knock it back in about four swallows and ask the guy to settle me out.

“Just one?” he asks, though why he’d want me to order a second is unclear.

I explain my night’s mission and—should’ve seen it coming—he gets friendly in a hurry. Writing an article, huh? Cool. You do that for a living? Cool. That martini tasted right? Cool. Sure you wouldn’t like another? Cool. Wanna fuck my sister?

My brows knit when I eyeball the total on the handwritten bill. $8.50. After tip, I’m about to part company with eleven bucks for that single little Eeyore of a cocktail.

Back out on Colfax I tell myself not to fret over this inauspicious start.

6:51 p.m.
Pete’s Satire Lounge
1962 E. Colfax Ave.
Tanqueray martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $6

I know at once that I’m in good hands when, upon claiming an empty stool, I am greeted by a bartender who isn’t half my age—a rarity in this part of town. She has that classic barkeep demeanor that informs patrons right up front that she is not in the business of suffering fools and that you will be treated in a manner consistent with how you treat her. I offer her a quick “Howdy,” and rattle off my drink request. Completely unfazed (she has, after all, probably mixed about ten gazillion of the things), all she wants to know is my gin preference (“Tanqueray is dandy, thanks.”), and she’s off.

She goes about her business with confidence and, better yet, unhurried speed, and is back with my martini in less than three minutes. I give it a solid B. It’s almost an A, but there’s a jot too much olive juice in it. Still, a B ain’t bad. Gonna take my time with this one. Maybe dab a little behind each ear. You know, for a goof.

Someone, bless his or her melody-starved heart, feeds some green to the juke and the resulting tune takes me a little by surprise. That high, cool trumpet can only be Miles Davis. How cool is this? It’s not any bar (especially on Colfax) you luck into some classic jazz. And if there is a better aural compliment to a martini, I can’t imagine what it might be.

Before I know it the last of the drink is on its way south. Like all true professionals, the bartender arrives just as I’m returning the empty glass to the oak, asks if I’m ready for another. I decline, quickly sketch out the reason why, and am pleased to see that she couldn’t possibly give less of a shit. “Six dollars,” she says.

I hand over twelve and hit the bricks.

Interlude #1
Colfax is crawling with clowns. I mean clowns. Face paint, fake noses, the whole shebang, except they’re dressed in black. What is this? Fellini in town?

Like most normal healthy folks, I fucking hate clowns. Not only are they six different kinds of annoying, they give me the screaming willies. Some comedian, I forget who, said that the reason clowns perform in hospitals is because the kids can’t run away.

Ah. OK. Now I see. God, how stupid am I? Insane Clown Posse is at the Fillmore tonight. The people done up as clowns aren’t really clowns at all, but fans of insane clowns. And call me uninformed, but I didn’t think there were this many mouth-breathers in all of Denver.

Reminds me of a joke, though. These two cannibals are eating a clown, and one says to the other: “Hey, does this taste funny to you?”

But anyway…

7:28 p.m.
Streets of London Pub
1502 E. Colfax Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, price unknown

I’ve been ass-warming a stool at Streets off and on for the last seven or eight years (except for a six-month hiatus during which I was 86ed for reasons best not detailed in a public forum), so I’m pretty sure what I’m going to get before my tuchus even gets cozy with the stool. Place isn’t very crowded (Capitol Hill is still getting corn-holed by the Bush economy), and there is only one other guy at the bar. He’s a squirrelly little dude, hunkered low over a pint of Guinness, eyes fixed on the tan foam, like the beer is talking to him. My brain barks “Danger! Danger!” and I turn away from the guy’s hoppy meditations, thinking that he looks exactly like the sort of twitchy doofus who will, sooner or later, sit down beside me and begin babbling about aliens, and how the moon landing was faked, and wanna show me fuzzy pictures of the Bigfoot that canoodled him in Oregon.

Turns out one of my favorite bartenders is staffing the opposite side. I give her the short version of my evening’s six sojourns, order the drink, then sit back and watch her go to town on it. Like her counterpart at Pete’s, she works with an economy of motion and a self-assured élan.

Holy Hannah…This martini is as close to perfect as I could possibly want. Chilled glass, stirred, not shaken (James Bond is a snooty twat who ordered a watery drink—pay him no heed), and the gin, vermouth and juice amuse my taste buds each according to its precise measure. It goes down like ice water, hits my stomach and blossoms into a warm liquid flower. Wow.

Third part of the mission accomplished—with juniper-tinged gusto.

8:07 p.m.
The Irish Snug
1201 E. Colfax. Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $7

Ah, yes. Yet another Colfax drinkery that has, in the past, seen fit to un-request the pleasure of my company. Again, we need not discuss the particulars, except to say that while I was asked never to return, the event itself unfolded some time ago and I don’t think anyone will remember me. Probably. We’ll hope. They were a tad miffed.

Of the bars I’ve called on so far this evening, this one is by far the jumpinest. Loud music from the sound system (Talking Heads); louder voices from the customers (more talking heads). Most of the tables are at capacity and there’s only one empty stool at the bar. The snugs themselves appear to be, well, in full snuggle.

I plant myself on the available stool, and receive almost immediate attention from one of what appears to be an entire squadron of bartenders, easily identified by their matching outfits—a lamentable fact of Snug Life, I guess. It takes the lass a few minutes to knock the thing together, but the weeds are pretty deep, so it ain’t no thang. She coasters the brim-full funnel of Dutch goodness in front of me, asks if I need anything else or if I want to look at a menu. I require neither, but she’s cute as a frisky kitten and I want her to hang for a few, so I ask her name and tell her about my martini quest. She’s interested enough to ask a couple of questions (and make sure I spell her name right), but not nearly interested enough to, oh, say, drag me by the ankles into a snug.

But I have to say, the martini is pretty darn good. Not Streets quality, but near enough to be enjoyable. Chick did a good job. I’d like to thank her personally but I either scared her off or she’s on break and some other bartender takes my ten bucks; seven for the cocktail and a gratuity of three.

8:22 p.m.
Kinga’s Lounge
1509 Marion St.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $8

I’m feeling the effects of four martinis as I sidle through Kinga’s front entrance. My retinas momentarily recoil in pain and shock, and try to leap out the back of my skull as they take both barrels of the bar’s aggressively ivory and pomegranate color palette. I don’t mean to imply that it’s ugly. Not at all. I find it quite lovely. It’s just that when you transition from the relative darkness of the street into this astonishingly well-lit interior your senses require a few deep calming breaths before they are able to resume their regular programming.

Some of the problem, however, I know is due to the alcohol currently using my body for a mosh pit. Four martinis is nothing, but two other factors are at work here. First, the martinis represent only a portion of the booze I’ve tossed back today. Truth be told, I came staggering out a the blocks about three o’clock this afternoon with a pitcher of tasty Bloody Marys, followed by a couple of pints of PBR and three shots of chilled Maker’s. Then, just before setting out on my night’s quest, I decanted a bottle of Malbec into my circulatory system, just cuz I was feeling daffy. And the Second important feature of my current state is that martinis get you drunk faster. It’s true. Actual scientists have conducted actual scientific studies into how fast and how grossly hooch effects us, and the data hints tantalizingly that drinking martinis, for a number of as-yet-unconfirmed reasons, is the mixed-drink equivalent of bass fishing with Semtex.

So, yeah, I’m feeling a bit like a Weeble right now.

I figure it’s time for some stabilizing eats, and Kinga’s is a splendid place to strap on the old nosebag.

Another stool at another bar, this one as far to one end as can be. Bartenders (there are three) seem to ignore me for a while, but that might be because I’m lurking in the shadows. When one finally shows, I order the drink and a plate of sausages and potatoes. The martini is a long time coming, but appears to be a fairly standard example of the species, a notion quickly dispelled by my first healthy swig. Sure, all the ingredients are there, but she was way too heavy-handed with both the vermouth and the olive sap.

My food surfaces after a time, and it’s at least three totally separate kinds of yummy. When it’s gone I motion for my check. The whole plate of food: eight dollars. The martini: eight dollars. The better deal: the food.

Interlude #2
I’m out on the street letting my eyes switch from Kinga’sLand to ColfaxLand. Phone rings. It’s an old friend from Texas. She’s been out and about and has had more than her fair share of vino, it would appear. We’re both blithering on about our various misdeeds when, from behind me, comes a short, sharp squeal of tires, a sort of complicated whump and the sound of metal scraping asphalt.

I turn around to find a small white Honda hatchback parked sideways in the middle of Marion on top of a bicycle, and a man, sitting on his ass a foot or two away, trying to get to his feet.

“Gotta go!” I shout into the phone. “Car vs. bike!”

Kneel down beside the guy, looking for blood. Doesn’t seem to be any about. Then I remember how on like every episode of E.R. anything from a gunshot wound to a hangnail came with a side order of internal bleeding, and I tell the dude to take it easy. He says he’s okalie-dokalie and starts again for a vertical look at life. Then he burps, releasing a 100-proof cloud of pure Kentucky bourbon. No wonder he’s pretty much damage-free. Dude’s drunker than a boiled owl.

Driver’s side door of the Honda opens and dispenses a dirty blond in her middle twenties. She’s pale and clutches at her throat with one hand. “Is he OK?”

“I think he’s fine.”

“I am fine. No problems. Square as a fucking nail.”

Don’t have a clue what that means, but I help the guy to his feet anyway, and we wrestle his bike free of the Honda’s undercarriage. He tried to get in the saddle, but his equilibrium is all sideways and he topples onto the hood of the car.

“Let’s just get out of the street,” I advise, pulling the guy toward the curb in front of Kinga’s. He comes compliantly, wheeling his ride alongside. The driver is still lingering by her car. I give her a shrug. I have the guy look at me (right, like I can differentiate between sour mash and concussion), but his death doesn’t appear imminent or anything, and I ask quietly if he wants me to call an ambulance—just in case—or maybe the cops—which I fervently hope he declines to do.

“Dude, I’m great. Fucking awesome. Right as a railroad.” He waves at the girl. “No worries, eh, Babe? No harm no…whatever.”

“I am SO sorry,” she says, or enthuses, more like.

“Accidents,” the guy asserts, “are like rain. They just come down.”

This fellow is a regular font of misremembered lore. Like a badly translated fortune cookie.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” the girl asks.

“One hundred and three point five percent.” He throws a thumbs-up her way, then pauses. “Damn, you’re pretty good lookin’,” he says. “What’s your name?”

She starts to answer, stops, closes her mouth, and an already weird situation is now both weird and awkward. Dude points at Kinga’s. “I’m going in for a drink. Come with me.” The girl glances into her car, where, I notice for the first time, a second girl is riding shotgun, then, inexplicably, she looks at me, as if I’m somehow the mediator here.

“Come on,” the guy says again, closer to a demand this time.

“I’m supposed to meet—” she begins.

“Come ON.” The guy practically shouting. “You almost killed me, bitch. Let me buy you a fucking drink!”

I face the girl, who is edging backward toward her car. “Drive away,” I say, calmly, and she nods and slides behind the wheel, slamming the door. The motor comes to life, and a moment later she has vanished up Marion. The guy watches her go.

“Huh,” he mutters, and looks at me. “What a bitch, right?”

“Uh, yeah, brother,” I answer. “Full-bore.”

He grunts something under his breath, mounts his bike, and weaves off down Colfax, on the sidewalk, heading east.

9:09 p.m.
Tooey’s Off Colfax
1512 Marion St.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $7

It takes all of thirty seconds to get from Kinga’s to Tooey’s, as their doors are separated by perhaps one hundred feet. Tooey’s has been open almost exactly a year, and has already carved a niche for itself as a neighborhood joint worthy of the Dean’s List.

For a whole slew of reasons, many new bar owners are fucked from the get-go. Or, more accurately, they fuck themselves from the get-go. The folks who opened Tooey’s, however, seem to be largely unfucked and unfuckable. In other words, they have a clue. They know what they want their place to be, but aren’t so rigid they plug their ears to the desires of their clientele. My only real beef with the place is that there aren’t nearly enough places to sit, but have been informed by others that my opinion is stupid and I should just shut the hell up about it already.

Lady Luck is with me, and my usual stool is vacant. I nod to a few of the regulars, get my butt nice and situated. There’s a DJ going full-tilt-boogie, scratchin’ and beatin’ his way around some classic soul tunes, and a handful of folks are showing off their best tipsy moves in the open space in front of his turntables. Lots of people around the bar, either waiting for drinks or just shootin’ the ever-popular shit with their pals.

Lady Luck is not with me, it seems, vis-à-vis mixologists. She has gone off to blow, as the song says, on some other guy’s dice. Most of the Tooey’s bartenders are seasoned pros, but there is one who always gives me a bit of a pause, as I’m never certain what I’m going to get if I reach too far past a pint and a shot. She’s a great girl, and usually performs excellently, but doubt still niggles at the back of my mind. But I go ahead and order my martini, niggler be damned, and cast a curious eye on its preparation.

Well, what do you know? Lady Luck may have gone off to blow on some other guy, but she’s a multi-tasker and has kept an eye (or, her breath, I guess) on little ol’ me.

The martini is absolutely outstanding. Best of the evening, hands down. Grinning a satisfied grin, I dive into the thing like a homing gopher. And when it’s done, I ask for another just like it. And when that one’s gone, I get another. And then a fourth. And then…

And then. Things get a little blurry. But even so, I am infused with the feeling of a job well done.

My credit card receipt indicates that those fine martinis cost seven bucks apiece. Oh, the humanity.

Cheers.

4:48 p.m.
The Corner Office
1401 Curtis St.
Paper Shredder, $5

My choices as I step off the train under the Colorado Convention Center (14th & Stout) are Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., La Boheme, or the Corner Office. Not really a choice at all – there’s only one place a guy without an expense account would go.

The Corner Office is retro, slick, and just a little homey, under the right circumstances. For some reason, this particular visit finds me not in the mood to chat with the tattooed hipster bartenders or the vaguely distracted waitresses. The drink is refreshing though, consisting of Jim Beam, ginger ale, and fresh grated ginger. I’ve definitely had fun here before, in larger groups, so maybe I’m just feeling antisocial after a day of staring at the computer screen.

Back at the light rail platform, I notice for the first time an interactive art piece that encourages viewers to attempt dance moves in front of a giant reflective screen. Some artist’s subtle way of ridiculing tourists. The big blue bear stares longingly through the convention center windows like an underage drinker denied his first chance to use a fake ID. Poor sad, sober bear.

5:30 p.m.
Kazmos
1381 Kalamath
Beam with a PBR chaser, $7

I’ve seen this place when driving south on Kalamath, so I know it’s the closest place to the Auraria stop (Colfax & Kalamath). It’s either this or the nearby Hoffbrau Bar & Grill, but I’ve heard really bad things about that place, so Kazmos it is. It’s pretty much empty when I walk in; just a couple of patrons, bartender Gene, off-duty bartender Doug, and the owner, who is busy attempting to be polite to a couple of energy drink sales reps. Kazmos is a dance club at heart and Gene tells me the place is usually packed after dark. They also have an early liquor license, so they open at 7 am every Sunday and keep the music pumping for the crowd that just can’t go home, even after the other clubs close and the after-hours joints call it quits. I didn’t even know Denver had zombie culture.

The guys who run the place are fun, though, so I stay and chat, mostly about their various music nights, but also about the lack of a bar scene on this end of town. Funny, since it’s only one stop away from the heart of downtown.

6:22 p.m.
Buckhorn Exchange
1000 Osage
Ft. Collins Brewing Retro Red, $5

The Buckhorn is an oasis in a sea of low-rent apartments. It’s like the Devil’s Tower standing solo on a buffalo-grass prairie. It’s the only place within miles for a lonely drifter to get a cold beer and a platter of bull testicles.

The Buckhorn was old when the décor that inspired the interior of the Corner Office was cutting edge, but somehow I feel completely at home here amidst the mounted animal heads, the rifle displays, and the sepia-tint photos. I could spend a long night here downing whiskey and listening to the autoharp player, who looks like he could be Sam Elliot’s grandfather.

I talk to an older couple who are visiting Denver for the first time. Part of me wants to apologize for the Old West theme, but I realize that this is not really a theme. It’s just the way the place evolved. It’s not corny, gimmicky, or crass. It’s just a comfortable old bar that happens to fit a stereotype of Denver as cowtown. At least they are here instead of some corporate-owned soulless version of a Western steakhouse.

I stuff about a bushel of breaded testicles in my mouth, wash it down with my beer and head out into the dusk.

7:10 p.m.
Blue Bonnet Cafe
457 S. Broadway
House margarita, up, $7

Walking off the Alameda St. platform, I run into the overpowering stench of a welding warehouse that occupies the back side of this township-sized strip mall. It’s a dizzying blend of animal urine and rust, as if the warehouse is a secret barn for robot cows made from the scraps of metal left over from the light rail construction project. I quickly cross a vast parking lot that is remarkably suburban in nature, despite the Broadway location. Beyond the K-Mart, the Albertson’s, and the Pep Boys, I see the neon beacon of the Blue Bonnet, one of Denver’s most undeserving icons of Mexican food. It’s muggy and close inside as I squeeze onto a bar stool next to a couple of off-duty cops and a guy with enough gold on his fingers to supply a small branch of the Cosa Nostra with all its pinky-ring needs.

I chat with the bartender about the Rockies and the regulars here. He says that almost everyone in his field of view comes here several times a week. Platters of indistinguishable red glop hover past on the trays of waitresses who probably make more in a night than most of the customers see in a week. It’s a busy joint, but I drink my margarita quickly and head out the door. The dry night air and the feral smell of arc welding return me to the reality of the corridor of warehouses that make up the light rail zone.

7:30 p.m.
The Atrium
555 S. Broadway
Jameson’s, $5

What potable joys await a weary commuter near the Broadway stop? What solace can a midnight cowboy find at this dark hour of the night? Ah, young and naïve pilgrim, do not look south to the desolate wreck of the Gates factory. Look north to a rainbow-tinted oasis called the Atrium. And then keep walking, unless you don’t mind being the only straight guy at a gay club. The only clueless straight guy. The only guy who just doesn’t get it, even after being chatted up, until the other patrons actually have to explain that it’s a gay club. The regulars get a good laugh and I get a Jameson’s, which tastes just as good regardless of the sexual preferences of the folks you’re sharing a bar with.

8:05 p.m.
South Broadway Grill
2200 S. Broadway
New Belgium 1554 Black Ale, $4.50

The last stop, technically on Delaware St., is the only one that makes me feel like a commuter. Flying over the rooftops between Santa Fe and Broadway, the warehouses give way to rows of cottages, which give way to more warehouses, which in turn settle down into more houses. It’s really only a few minutes from the last stop, but it’s the edge of Denver and the borders of suburbs with different names are only a stone’s throw away. The South Broadway Grill is only a few blocks from the train stop, but it’s good to get back on Broadway, which carries Denver’s aura deep into Englewood.

It’s poker night at the South Broadway Grill and everyone seems to know each other. Between the card players and the group of girls out for a bachelorette crawl, I feel like I’ve stumbled into a private party. I sip my beer in peace until the bartender passes a round of free shots to everyone. We all toast like relatives at a wedding and then I return to pretending to watch the baseball game.

From here to the Corner Office is only about ten minutes on the train, but it feels like it’s been a long journey, if only because I got onto a full train car and got off an empty one. Inside any bar is really not so different from the last. There’s a different song playing, and the person staring at you in the reflection of the bar mirror may or may not have a beard and a biker jacket, but they are mostly there for the same thing. The commute is just about going home, but stopping at the bar is about finding one.