By Jamie Swinnerton
By Mark Antonation
By Lori Midson
By Jonathan Shikes
By Amber Taufen
By Cafe Society
By Juliet Wittman
By Jonathan Shikes
So I'm driving down the road the other day, flashing dirty looks and giving the finger to all the morons with cell phones stuck in their ears, when I notice this whistling sound coming from my sunroof. Perplexed, I look up to see that my ski racks are bent down and interfering with the aerodynamics. I search the dark recesses of my brain, trying to figure out what happened, when the sudden vision of an idiot with blond highlights straddling my roof brings the answer: My car was a victim of the pursuit of happiness.
Guys are always searching for perpetual contentment. For the past few weeks, most of us have been happier than usual, because the Star Wars trilogy has finally been released on DVD. Every guy who's old enough can remember seeing those movies for the first time. We all had thousands of dollars' worth of Kenner Star Wars toys that would make us all bazillionaires today, if only our moms hadn't thrown them out. We all worked desperately at perfecting the awesome vocal talent of James Earl Jones while trying to breathe like Darth Vader -- alas, the end result was more like Kermit with severe asthma. And we all entered manhood -- in my case, on May 25, 1983 -- when the final movie in the trilogy showed Princess Leia in her slave outfit, which we still wish like hell someone at Fascinations or Victoria's Secret would put out on the market.
So as several members of the Institute of Drinking Studies headed downtown the other night, we were happier than usual. Little did we know just how happy we could get at the Whiskey Bar (2203 Larimer Street).
Fact is, I was going here with some trepidation, because the bar was started by several Colorado State University alumni about a year ago, and I knew I would find it difficult, if not impossible, to refrain from mentioning how my Minnesota Gophers would crush the Rams. But if there's one great equalizer in this world, it's booze. And the Whiskey Bar has plenty of it.
It also has an atmosphere that lends itself to a good drunk, with its concrete walls, free pool and foosball, an Internet jukebox and killer drinks. Despite the bar's name and its touted Whiskey Tour, which features more good and bad booze than you can imagine, we decided to go with Cuba Libres. After our first round spontaneously combusted due to high alcohol content, we realized that we'd need to add some ballast to our bellies. Fortunately, the Whiskey Bar is next door to Buenos Aires Pizzeria, which served up one of the best pies we'd ever tasted. Our pizza had enough garlic to kill a mere mortal -- but also enough grease to keep our morning-after misery to just a few hours.
Thus fueled, we continued our merrymaking. Rachael, our waitress, either had the patience of a nun or simply wanted to be able to tell her friends that she'd just served the three most childish guys in Denver. The night is kind of a blur. I know we took advantage of the foosball table for a full-contact tournament and downloaded several songs from the jukebox that we belted out at full volume in an effort to let everyone at the bar know that we are just as hot as Jon Bon Jovi. The Head of Drinking Regrets and I spent at least an hour sitting on a very comfortable couch perfecting our elephant call, exploring an elephant in heat, as well as panicked and elated -- but all the calls ended up sounding like an elephant that had just been shot with a tranquilizer. We also engaged in philosophical discourse on whether a thong should ride above a woman's jeans; we almost came to blows, but agreed to disagree. (Call me old-fashioned, but I think a guy should have to earn the right to see a woman's underthings.) We agreed, however, that chaps are a wardrobe essential for whoever gets saddled with dating us. Finally, the Head of Drinking Regrets vehemently opposed a determination made by myself and the Head of Sleeper Drunks -- so named because you often don't realize he's there until he poleaxes you with a hysterical comment -- that guys should never get highlights, no matter what their hairdressers say. For that matter, real guys shouldn't even go to a hairdresser; they should go to a barber.
Throughout all this, Rachael, possibly hoping to avert a full-out riot, kept bringing us fantastic drinks; I hope her health insurance will cover a consult with a therapist.
We capped off the night with the Head of Drinking Regrets plastered against the windshield of my car, screaming, "I'm Spider-Man!" Apparently, Spidey isn't immune to the windshield-wiper fluid that my girlfriend, who's also in intensive psychotherapy now, doused him with.
All in all, I think our impromptu activities made for a great, if unofficial, Whiskey Bar tour. I can recommend this joint to anyone, especially misguided CSU fans.