In the end, we will all be quick to generalize this town. For example: Going to Lodo will get you stabbed. Or intoxicated. Or, at the very least, feeling robbed – of your wallet, your well being, your soul. Maybe all three.
A recent Westword cover story featured a particular parking lot in LoDo that seemed to be nothing short of a death wish. On the weekends, in the wee hours, whenever – it is a wasteland of chaos. Alan Predergast tells several tales, based from police reports and interveiws, of people being harrassed, mugged, stabbed and hospitalized in that particular parking lot on the corner of 18th and Market. All things considered, Lodo is a rather exceptional end of town. As well known as it is, LoDo doesn’t seem to have any defined boundaries. Yet, it’s unmistakable when you approach it. The sun eclipses, your skin crawls (or itches), and all of the dogs stop howling.
Lodo is the destination for the Denver-Metro bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Even though our slice of geography lends to no exceptional bridges and absolutely no tunnels to speak of, much of the chaos and debauchery that rains upon this town during the baseball games and weekends can be chalked up to the rails ending at Union Station. A long standing pillar of Denver tourism and commerce, Union Station is a portal for the glamor-eyed suburbanite who only need to wander a few blocks before finding themselves in the neighborhood that advertises “the best clubs” in the west. Places with monosylabic names, doormen who are dressed to the nines who will gladly take your money and bouncers who tower behind them that will be happy to rob you of your pride. A place we all have come to know as LoDo.
During the day, Lodo is home to many innovative business looking to set up shop in one of the most historic parts of Denver. Deisgn companies, modern massage therapy clinics, outer-wear retailers, booksellers – all who want to appeal to the tourist and the resident while looking sharp within the red-brick labyrinth. IN the dawning age of Denver, Market street – mostly unable to make their buck from slinging drink and shaves – was host to dozens of brothels, cribs and bordellos. It was our own charming little red-light district, teeming with vernerial disease, robberies, and men thrown to the streets without their trousers.
Understand now how I see little irony in how much of a meat market Market street becomes once the sun sets on this town. The only modern difference is that men trade liquor for favors, instead of cash.
I’ve had several forays, some of them reluctant, into the Lodo area. The first two were to a place called Martini Ranch (now closed, probably because it sucked) with my friend Wilson several years ago. Once for an open mic night that featured a parade of singer/songwriters who all had the same copy of Tom Petty’s tableture. The second while I was aimlessly, and fruitlessly, chasing a cute skirt who had modeled for Ann Taylor even though I would never know that because what the fuck would I be doing looking through an Ann Taylor catalog?
Cocaine’ll do that to ya.
Ann Taylor and her friend, a girl who didn’t seem capable of NOT talking about her boyfriend, met up with us just in time for us to stand in a line outside the Martini Ranch for the better part of a half hour. In that time we saw no fewer than four gentlemen – spiked hair, popped collars, busted noses and all, be wrestled form the club by men who probably had day jobs which required them to do nothing more than lift really heavy things. They were tossed out of the club’s jurisdiction and into the street where they were then harassed by the Denver Police.
After $15 cover, Wilson and I were let in. As expected, our female counterparts paid nothing. This began an awkward two hours of not having any idea of what the hell I was doing. While our first visit to the place was low key and actually involved the consumption of martini’s, we were now surrounded by bodies that were sweating to the bass filled air. The music was nothing short of beyond me. Incomprehensible hip-hop, rap, mixed together with the occasional riff from a Def Leppard song – which everyone went nuts over. Although, judging this crowd, the only sugar they were interested in wasn’t the kind being poured upon, but the powdery such being applied to nostrils in the bathroom. At this rate, after her stint in rehab and years of over-eating fueled by irresolvable depression, Miss-Cover-of-Ann-Taylor would eventually have to retire her career to the back pages of the Lane Bryant catalog. Not saying that’s a bad thing, just a different market.
D.A.R.E. be damned, peer pressure never ends – it just becomes internalized. The substance is lovely looking and probably the only way Lodo is tolerated by anyone. To refuse is to become the shit-headed bummer that brings everyone else down even though no one cares and has probably subscribed to the “more for me” way o fthinking. One way or another the only way you end up surviving the night is if you’re severely fucked up – something to either dull or divert your senses: a ton of booze (resulting in a lot of misplaced dollars), a face full of blow, the thrill of a woman’s hand (or head) down your pants. So you partake and you learn all sorts of things about the people around you which you will never meet again, you find a thing or two out about yourself, and in the morning you feel like an overweight anus after a bowl of five-alarm chili.
Years later, after learning that associating with women I have to chase into Lodo is generally a bad idea, I’ve settled down with a girl who knew which direction her head was supposed to sit on her shoulders. Well, mostly, until she accepted a birthday-recognition invitation that was to take place, of all places, at The Tavern. My guess? The birthday girl was turning 21. Naturally, all of this had to happen on a Friday night.
Perhaps this foray wouldn’t be as unfortunate as the last. Maybe if I weren’t going to Lodo to chase tail I would somehow see it as a different level of opportunity. It seemed like sound, logical thinking – the kind that would lead one to have a good evening no matter what the situation. However, this was not the case
Looking to make the best of what could only be a train wreck of an evening, we stopped over at an underground sushi place where we were seated next to the personifications of me loosing my appetite. The table to our left was surrounded with a half dozen guys and gals, all “pre gaming” for their evening out where they would “get fucking shitty, yo” and if only to accrue a Coach handbag of regrets and an expensive hangover.
There was very little about these people that I could see myself liking. The girls were heavily made up, wearing more skin than clothing, carrying on conversations that sounded like something a post-modern Stepford Wife cribbage circle would have.
The blonde was “in a mood” because her “fucking stylist nearly torched my hair” and as a result “you can bet that bitch didn’t get a tip. Fuck.” Where as the brunette regaled the group of her afternoon out at the pool where “Jenny tried to make a big deal of it, but you know what? When I’m laying out the last thing in the world I”m worried about are the zits on my ass.”
And the gentlemen in the group, oh, poor brothers in arms. Quiet, no where near drunk enough to handle their dates, along for the ride, for their platinum charge cards and to hold high heels and purses long after they’ve been broken and emptied out.
I could see it in my head, a quick trailer sandwiched between advertisements on E! or MTV for the “Brides of the Platte” or “Chic Cherry Creek.” The ratings would be huge, Denver girls would be known world-round for their ass pimples.
Arriving at the Tavern made evident that I would have to break two more rules that I had created and religiously adhered to after visiting the Martini Ranch so many years ago. 1) I will not stand in a line to get into a bar or club and 2) I will not pay a cover to get inside either. Not only did Tavern break these two rules, but they also insisted I remove my hat – a standard accessory of mine since the 5th grade – before entering. Clearly, the brand-less, solid color baseball cap I wore would send up a flag of what gang I was affiliated with. What a shame, and me without my usual assortment of gats and shivs.
The booze was overpriced and the bachelorette parties (as in more than one, or five) were out en force. A few of the parties even brought along their own strippers to tastefully dance upon people as the night raged on. The rest of the patrons managed to “get all crazy” when Lady Gaga played over the P.A. as her videos were projected upon the wall in what can only be described as a multi-sensory conniption. Then I remembered that there is a war going on and people are loosing their jobs left and right – so let us find salvation in the Gaga.
Yet, they loved it. Every last second. I? Bewildered. I wanted to hold conversation with all of these people to find out why, yet I wanted to know nothing at all. I can only assume many of them were running a low grade fever. Then again, the feeling must have been mutual. Plus, who the hell would try to converse over this decibel?
Crowds, Coors and Garage Doors - an Afternoon in Lodo
While nightlife in LoDo may bring about a special brand of collective insanity, daytime hours in the area are just as questionable. Weeks after The Tavern I find myself in the area yet again, and only again because I was invited to take part in a pub crawl which had charitable intentions. So charitable, all those who participated made it a point to get as intoxicated as possible. After all, in order for one to do good, one has to feel good. Or, at the very least, dizzy.
For fifty dollars I was given a poorly fitted t-shirt and was told I had to drink the better part of a pitcher of Coors Light at five different LoDo bars. The fifty I paid would go to cancer research. Medical discoveries would be made, pharmaceutical companies would make insane profits, and the lives of those who could afford treatments would be saved. Yet, by the end, I would have gladly paid another fifty if it was promised that I would never have to taste or smell Coors Light ever again.
It wasn’t horrible, just drunk. It gave me more opportunity to gander inside bars and clubs I would never otherwise have any business being inside. I rubbed elbows with the population of Colorado who could very well be convinced that Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” is the new national anthem. All I can say for sure is that Denver is the drain of the nation’s pop culture sink. It all flows here, from every decade, generation, and fad – and we can only be fortunate enough someone’s hair hasn’t left a clog, we can only pray the backup will be brief, and something not-so-sewery will come along. .
What is LoDo? LoDo will be whatever it is you see on television. It’s the scene from the movie where the drug deal goes down, where the bachelor party starts, where the chump looser goes out with his wing man friends and miraculously finds himself in the company of a gorgeous woman. Then again, that will be the death of this city – dozens of different fads and trends and people who follow them to form what essentially become cliques. To each group, a neighborhood. There will always be places we can be “regulars” at while there will be places to experiment in and remind ourselves why we like certain places so much. LoDo isn’t Denver, Lodo is everything else. It’s whatever it is we project with our minds. It will be what we think it should be, but never what it actually needs to be.
- D.T. Pennington has spent a great many years with several screws loose. His last venture was buying immigrant orphans, teaching them magic tricks, and selling them to David Blaine. He currently lives in Denver, rarely leaves his house, and composes stories for a great many people. He would gladly cook you breakfast, but, c’mon, you know what this really was, right? Maybe you should just go. He’ll call you.
You can follow D.T. Pennington on Twitter. @Courier_New
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