I think I've turned going to Denver into some sort of hobby. Really, I'm a bit confused. Because, truth be told, I don't like Denver much at all. But, I sure do seem to go there a lot. And I have fun every time I go. Does that mean I like Denver?
No.
We, being Kyle, Tom, Marky, Alexis and myself went to D-Town to see Flogging Molly and the Aggrolites at the Fillmore, which might be my favorite venue in the world (there's a lot of them I have yet to see). We left last Monday, stayed the night in Colorado Springs, went to the show on Tuesday and drove back on New Years Eve.
We stayed with Tom's uncle in Springs. And since his uncle's a Maloof AND the head golf coach at the Air Force Academy, his neighborhood looked like this. Or, the sort of neighborhood crazy people snatch up little blonde girls, as I so poetically deemed it. Tom's uncle had a giant and fantastic chocolate lab named Maverick. Best dog in dog world. Most dogs think they're people. Some dogs even think they're cats. But Maverick knew he was a dog. He liked it and he was good at it.
We had some time to kill in Denver before the show, so we went to Casa Bonita. Trust me, it's just as awesome and horrible as you can imagine.
Cliff Divers.
This is Tom, sort of excited about gordita. And Alexis, not excited about beef taco. And Mark, really excited about tequila.
And this is the Jonderpool Holiday Photo, 2008.
After Bonita, we decided we needed beer. And we needed to take Tom on his family spirit quest (walkabout!) to the Coors Brewery in Golden. After driving allllll the way out there, we find out they're closed on Tuesdays. Now, Tom will never know who he truly is.
So, we went to the Denver Art Museum instead.
This giant sculpture had a plaque with it, describing what was and was not okay to do to the broom and dust pan, that said things like: Taking your picture with the broom is okay. Chatting with the broom about cleaning products is okay. Blaming the broom for the degradation of contemporary morals is okay. Caressing the broom is not okay. No, really.
About the time we finished looking at art (and completely ignoring the Native American sections, because really, can Denver teach me anything about Native American art that I can't learn at home? No. The answer is no.) it was time to head for the Fillmore. This is about the time I start to get super paranoid. Because this is about the time in my last trip to see Flogging Molly at the Fillmore that everything went horribly wrong. Between myself and Marky, I think we analyzed every, single thing that could possibly go wrong. I was checking out hotels in the area. I even asked Tom how good the insurance policy on his car was.
Luckily, after a few plastic cups of High Life on an empty stomach, I was pretty content with things. The show was almost exactly what I expected. For the most part, no one understood Rev. Peyton's Big Damn Band or the Aggrolites, but our little group danced away, regardless. See, Denver's got a lot of bro's. Like, BRO'S. BRAHS, even. And brahs think Flogging Molly's the shit. So, I went in expecting that no one would get the openers. And that everyone would be insane for F-Molly. And they were. If any band in the world deserves a crazy crowd, it's Flogging Molly. They put on one hell of a show. But, even though it goes against the fundamental basics of punk rock, there are certain, universal rules of etiquette at punk rock shows. And Rule #1 is, when someone falls down you pick them up. And when this rule isn't followed, things get dangerous pretty quick. So, after having about 7 white hats pile on top of me, and no one help me up, I decided that the bar was a great place to watch the show. Maybe I'm old. But, I still had fun.
We stayed the night with Bill, the former bass player of Half-Stache and one of my favorite people in the world. But that also meant we had to be up and on the road by 7:30. We barely made it. We stopped for gas at the Denver Tech Center and searched down breakfast. I think we were all dreading the thoughts of McDonalds or some sort of fast food, thanks to Casa Bonita's fine cuisine from the previous day. But, we located a blessed Einsteins.
Really?
Ride home was uneventful. I rode shotgun or drove for most of it, which made me iPod master, a role I very much enjoy. We got home in enough time for me to nap before heading out for New Years Eve.
But, the moral of the blog is, CURSE BROKEN, BITCHES. The worst thing that happened on the trip was sleep deprivation. So, do I like Denver now? Now that the curse is off?
No.
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