SNAKES ON A TRAIN: Denver Days: So Good, We Don't Even Need a Pun

Scott once laughed at Marissa for considering Denver "The Promised Land." But now they both agree that it is. Especially after Chicago, where every walk was uphill both ways in 3 feet of snow, Denver rocks. The transportation system is excellent, the people are friendly, there's a music venue across the street from a music venue, there are outdoor malls right in the middle of downtown, there is a chain of gas stations with brontosauruses as their logo...it's like everything NoVa lacks. And on top of it, there are always mountains and majestic nature, and even the Celestial Seasonings HQ just outside of town. The buses don’t go there though, so we’ll just have to take everyone’s word for it.

Full disclosure here: Our opinions are heavily skewed by the fact that it was sixtyfuckingfive degrees while we were there, which is damn near perfect weather, and compared to Chicago is basically like a sunny beach. According to our artsy and aloof 20-something hostel owner, Denver gets more sun than Florida, BUT WE COULD BE UNDER 3 FEET OF SNOW TOMORROW, THE WEATHER IS CRAZY LIKE THAT (emphasis in original). That’s ok. There’s something appealing about erratically extreme and unpredictable weather.

So before getting into the specifics, basically everything about Denver trumps Chicago, even the train ride. This train had OUTLETS. This train had FRIENDLY EMPLOYEES. This train had an adorable old couple, who drank wine, played rummy, and said “just think hunny, tomorrow we’re going to start our new lives!” We pulled into the station, which had a ridiculously cool, massive orange Union Station sign, that oh btw, lights up neon vegas style at night. We had to get to our hostel, a dreaded affair, given our transport experience from Chicago.

Oh hey, theres a FREE, hybrid bus system that goes up and down the downtown mall, with buses coming like EVERY GODDAMN MINUTE? Fantastic. Oh, there’s also a good bus system to take us basically anywhere, free transfers with ticket purchase, and uncannily friendly and helpful drivers that occasionally give you free rides? I DID NOT KNOW THAT ABOUT YOU DENVER, THAT’S PRETTY COOL. Getting around this place was exceedingly easy, and thanks to the gorgeous weather, walking around wasn’t a chore, but well worth doing, given the density of awesome stores check out. Seriously, this place was jampacked with shops.

Not just any shops. OUR kind of shops. Record stores, used bookstores, thrift stores, “recycled fashion” stores—seriously, we visited about 4 different varieties of each. We each got some new reading and new styles. Scott got a new pair of jeans that have a beer (or Mike’s Hard!) opener made of denim right on the pocket, and now goes by the alias of Catman MC, freelancer. Marissa pioneered a bold new look called Lacrhasta—a cheap, used Lacoste shirt combined with Jamaican-flag Pumas. Oh, how she rocks it. Fun fact about shopping in Denver: all sales clerks and employees are uncannily friendly, helpful, and nice.

FOOD was GOOD, and more importantly, EVERYWHERE. We could not walk down a street without spying at least 3 restaurants we wanted to try. Denver is apparently known for its Mexican food, so we went to a Mexican grill and bar, called Illegal Petes. The food was good, but seemingly inauthentic. This was remedied by trying some pork tacos from a little Mexican street vendor, that were swimming in spicy green grease. We begrudgingly agreed to pay the menu prices at a downtown crepe shop cleverly named Crepes ‘n’ Crepes, and what we got in return was AMAZEMENT. Scott, savory man that he is, ordered one filled with eggs, cheese, and an ASSLOAD of bacon. Marissa the sweetie-pie got some strawberry, cream cheese, and banana. They. Were. Bangin. Scott wants nothing more now than to work there. To be behind the counter, armed with ladles and spreaders and spatulas and three gorgeous, round, flat-iron skillets, serenely making delicious crepes; that is perfection in life. Then, last night, the duo scouted out yet another cleverly named eatery, Wok Uptown. They google maps-ed it and all, but as they wokked further and further uptown, they realized, hey, we’re in the sketch-ass ghetto, should we turn around? But amidst the sneakers hangin from telephone poles (rest in peace, Damionte) there was bamboo. Marissa was the lesser of the directionally challenged yet again. (Scott will argue this point, as Marissa has led them astray on more than one occasion.) Our server was somehow an overweight black man who was cutely nervous about getting our orders correct, and apprehensive about whether we enjoyed it. He had the build of Big Boi, and the soul of Radio (not retarded, just eager to please in an unsure way). Our food was delicious and plentiful. What sticks in our minds the most was the BADASS wasabi mustard they gave us that was clearly not fuckin around, and the sweet, sweet crab and cream cheese puffs. We finished the night at Gelazzi’s, a gelato joint with fun décor, sweet service, and delicious gelato. We savored it slowly, and left a gift in return before leaving. Marissa adjourned after finishing her Amaretto-coffee gelato to stop off at the restroom. Five minutes later, as Scott licks the last bit of smooth, berry ice from his paddle, he gets a distressed text from Marissa. It seems the toilet’s flushing capability cannot handle her poopoozao, and after 6 tries, it clearly refuses to go down. Like a brown canoe in the bowl it floats, too long and stiff to be forced. Upon Scott’s advice, we fled, leaving the gelato, and the lengthy log behind (for the super-sweet Disney Channel gelattoess to reckon with).

Then, of course, the Clarity tour was in Denver. It was pretty sweet, the voice quality was amazing but sadly obscured by the douchebags to our right and left insisting on singing with all their might. We ask you, do you go to a concert to hear the band sing, or yourself? We are obviously in disagreement with these gentlemen. Reuben’s Accomplice, a band from Phoenix with a kind of lame name opened for them. They were okay but seemed to have an identity crisis. When one of the guitarists was singing, the music sounded ambient and chill. When another sang, it sounded dangerously close to a RHCP knock-off band. There can only be one man who twangs the word California like CAHL ee PHONE ya. Sorry. So Clarity was good and seamless-sounding as it always is. It wasn’t good for the dumbass bitch behind us chanting right between tracks 6 and 7 “PLAY SWEETNESS! PLAY SWEETNESS! I LOVE THAT SONG!!!!” Someone did not get the memo on the whole “Clarity Tour” thing. Goodbye Sky Harbor rocked pretty hard except for an initial mic malfunction in the harmony part that was quickly rectified. Marissa nearly shat her pants at this point. But other than that, xylophones and all, it was met with the enthusiasm that one would hope. After Clarity was finished, they played a couple of lesser-known tracks (still, much to the dismay of Sweetness girl). It was cool because it seemed like they were playing whatever the fuck they wanted and people were loving it. That’s what it means to be a fucking legend. Or Conor Oberst, you take your pick.

Oh we met Michael Cera too

Scott became heartily annoyed with a girl in front of him who looked as if she heartily enjoyed too many a Double Whopper Meal. Her flesh bulged and brimmed at the seams of her too-small dress, as she spasmed in front of him, pausing only to kiss her equally ugly boyfriend, who was clearly disinterested with the proceedings. She started slow. A rocking of the head, side-to-side. Then she picked up, jumping and gyrating in no sensible manner, stopping to point fiercely in the air, sometimes at appropriate points in the music, and sometimes for discernable reason. She bucked and brayed, tossing her head back into Scott’s face, demanding him to duck and weave, to dodge this behemoth’s onslaught. It did not make sense, people. The dancing…it followed no rhyme nor reason, no order. It was chaos theory personified. Between this bitch, the overly zealous and loud jackass to his right, the little brunette girl behind him who decided it would be a good idea to grab his ass and then stare at him uncomfortably, and the jerk who simultaneously kicked him in the leg and punched Marissa in the back of the head in an ill-advised attempt to jump cheer the band, Scott feels safe in saying that the crowd was less than ideal.

So there you have it. Denver, the promised land. Culture and food spring forth from its bosom like mana, pouring out into the mountains and desert until they swell with its splendor, and angelic choirs serenade it while the sun’s(or lens flare’s) rays shine upon its majesty(yes, I am aware that my mixed metaphors in that sentence do not add up. If you don’t like it, then you can shove it. But you don’t like it, you love it.) But, like every Utopia, there are cracks in the glossy veneer of this paradise. However, even these flaws are endearing, lending it character rather than rotting away at its core. This is a big city. Make no mistake, there are hobos. But these hobos are of a different breed than Chicago’s natives. They’re polite, they’re friendly, one toothless woman even held Scott’s hand with unmistakably genuine sympathy when he told her he had nothing to offer her, on account of his missing wallet. There’s a large Hispanic population, and along with that goes the typical mexigang style and culture, but even the most delinquent of them here seemed to speak perfect English, and be generally non-threatening. There are surprisingly few Asians, but after living in NoVa, that’s almost a welcome respite. There’s an overabundance of white punks, and white-trashy, borderline-retarded youths with slipknot shirts and busted teeth. No silver lining there, sorry. And the streetbound, black criminal element is of course present, but generally nonthreatening in any way. As we waited for the bus, a fat Hispanic woman and her black thugs were hard at work, sellin that chronic. A man refuses. She says, “that’s ok, there’s nothing wrong with being drug-free.” Another man partakes. The drug deal takes place within two feet of Scott, so close and so in front of his eyes, he could reach out and snatch money and herb alike. But there are no threatening looks passed his way, only nods, and a friendly “how are you doing.” Even the thugs are chill.