A Loosie From an Arab

Alright blog fans, I went on a sweet date tonight, and usually I could publish in the morning but my editors say this story needs to be told at 3 AM Denver Standard Time. That is now.

After a drink and a great pizza compliments of Marco's Wood Fired Grill, we proceeded to a little place called the Giggling Grizzly on 20th St. Lower Downtown (LoDo), Denver is the scene just in case ya didn't know it. It evidenly was the winner of 6 awards last year in Best Of Denver: Best College Bar, Best Singles Bar, Best 3 Bartenders, and 3 other things, although now that I look on the WWW, I find no evidence to back up those claims. Anyway, the presence of an air hockey table attracted us to this place. I cleaned up in air hockey 2 out of 3, but what ensued what quite entertaining.

First, we were flanked by a group of young adults, possibly college students. There were about 8 guys and 3 girls including one female Oompa-Loompa (doompity-doom). All the guys except one seemed intent on taking home the non-affianced, non-Loompa girl; the remaining one really just wanted to do 180's and stare down my date in a very suspicious manner. (Hint, dudes, if you have to do a 180, you need to say something at least. Or pretend to look at something else.) They did have some sweet glow lights. But when Ms. Oompa stated to sing the song "Loompa Land," it was a cue for her to take off with her guy, who was dressed in matching brown shirt and blue jeans (not kidding).

Anyway, at some point during this time, the conversation turned to the music of Miley Cyrus (Kjell, I know you love this part.) Of course I felt the need to jukebox terrorize this college crowd with a little music not by Modest Mouse, A-Kon, or Kings of Leon; thus I promptly followed up some Phil with a song by Miley. Halfway through "See You Again" they stopped the music, got on the PA, and asked who played the Miley song. I kept my hand down, not wanting to be assaulted, but someone near me rose their hand, arrived at the PA system, and was rewarded with shots of Bacardi Limon.

But during this sweet song interlude, as I had guessed might happen, two lovebirds decided they needed to dance to Miley Cyrus. I don't know if they realize Miley Cyrus is only seventeen, and thus couldn't be talking about anything of a semisexual nature in her songs, but here is how they decided to dance:

It was pretty amazing, especially when she did a slow-dance pop-lock and drop it to a Miley Cyrus song.

About this time, the college students near us started to get a bit intoxicated and unruly. At one point, a dancing male asked my date if she knew where she was. Sensing she didn't, he threw out one of the sweeter pickup lines I've ever heard: "You're at the dirtiest bar in Denver." As she pointed out later after falling for this DU Don Juan, "It's true, the air ducts are horribly unclean."

Well alright, after she had her way with me in the final game of air hockey, I managed to grab some water at the bar. During this time, I was informed that there was a guy air-humping another guy while they played air hockey; a sight not to miss. I actually managed to get a picture of the air-humper in the frame with this fortune cookie message I had received two days earlier from an Indian resturant: "A chance meeting with a stranger will possibly change your life." POSSIBLY? Definitely, broski, my life is changed. It's not the same.

So anyway, all good things must come to an end. No, that doesn't mean that Soulja Boy is retiring. It means that the bar closed at closing time. But there was more fun to be had. People outside selling burritos for $1.50. Fights in the street (we were in close proximity to BASH, a downtown urban club; if ya don't know now ya know), police, cabs, drunks. I bought my first "loosie," or single cigarette (which I'm not even going to smoke). As Dave Chappelle stated, it was indeed bought at the store, "from an Arab."

PS-- I also tonight found out that a person I know did it with Redman in the back of his tour bus, along with dozens of other girls one crazy night.

A Night on the Town!

A wild night in Centennial, Wyoming, usually consists of shooting firearms out of a moving vehicle, ATV, or snowmobile if it's past September. But this Tuesday, the Costello family took to the town hell-bent on having a great time without poaching animals. As you can see on the left, the town is fairly small. The picture is from 1979, but looks very similar to Centennial today. There is gas, diesel, basic foodstuffs, lots of fishing tackle, two stores with "Western" memorobilia (mostly fake guns and homemade candles), a post office, three hotels, three bars, and two fake cop cars that sit empty to scare speeders. The sign on the right is real, but an informal census by a local hippie census-taker revealed around sixty full-time residents. One hundred was during a platinum boom which has since faded.

We started at the Beartree Restaurant and Tavern, which on Tuesday nights has some of the better chicken fried steak I've tasted outside a middle school cafeteria. You best call ahead, though, because there are only twenty-five available each week, and they sell out around six most of the time. It's also one of the biggest social events in town. After introductions to five different people, we sat down and had quite a meal. I did have to stand up and approach the bar in order to obtain a second beer. Zagat rating: 19, Michelin rating: half star.

After dinner, my sister Christy and I scored enough cash from Moms to pay for most of our drinks throughout the night: $11. Big! I did think it a little strange that the $11 consisted of a five, two twos, and two ones. We proceeded to the somewhat dilapidated Trading Post to continue our night out. The limo was late, so we walked across the street. Notice: if you're looking for a one-speed bicycle, this place has everything you're looking for. There are twenty gently use fixies parked out front, unlocked. Seeing that vandals have broken into the local one-room school and the post office, it's a wonder that these bad boys are still there.

At the Trading Post, we doubled the number of patrons. The bartendress was a bit chilly at first, but warmed up to us when she learned I was a doctor; the chiliness returned when I informed her I recently retired. We chatted up some locals and heard some jokes, none of them racist (score two for the locals, although someone did think I was an Arab due to my dark tan and flowing beard) but most of them pertaining to bestiality (score three for the locals). We earned a tee time at the local seven-hole golf course, complete with coffee can holes and deer on the greens. We downed a pitcher, we played a game of pool in which the white ball went in eight times, and I donned a hockey helmet resting on a peg in the corner, thank you lost and found.

After the Trading Post closed at ten (?), we stopped off at the hippie's house (the former town flea market, Valley's End) for a beer. We then headed across the street to our third and final bar; on the way, I had a particularly surreal and touching moment looking at the stars with the hippie. The Milky Way was clearly visible, and I created some metaphor for retirement and the stars and the galaxies far off. The long and short of it was, retirement is great, and Wyoming is a great starry place to spend it.

But enough starry-eyed talk; the Friendly Store beckoned. The place really lives up to the name, as over the years it has morphed from general store to general store/hotel/greasy spoon/bar without missing a beat. At this particular destination, we only increased occupancy by fifty percent. We commandeered the jukebox and played quite a bit of Fleetwood Mac, which is agreeable to everyone in Centennial. My sister danced with an elderly man who repeatedly told us that he was the newcomer and town and had never played pool, and after awhile I believed neither statement. One-Eyed Jack entered (I later found that he was nearly the victim of Centennial's only drive-by shooting) and left quickly; fortunately for him, the legal alcohol limit was waived by the sheriff in absentia!

Perhaps the most peculiar thing there, though, was the bartender's electronic cigarette; evidently, you provide it with cartridges of nicotine, inhale hard, and it provides you with the nicotine you so desperately crave! It sounded an awful lot like a cigarette to me; he said it's meant to wean people off cigarettes, but he smoked three in the hour that we were there, so I have a hunch it was simply a way for him to augment his nicotine intake. We ended the night watching a tribute to Nat King Cole, bless his soul, on mute.