By Lori Midson
By Cafe Society
By Cafe Society
By Lori Midson
By Mark Antonation
By Nathalia Velez
By Jonathan Shikes
By Alex Brown
I'd always thought it took three miracles to become a saint, but recent research determined that had I been martyred -- say, by an Institute of Drinking Studies member for letting the Denver community at large in on his immature yet hilarious antics -- I would need only one. And if you're not martyred, it turns out that a sainthood application requires only two miracles. Which means it's high time that the Archbishop of Denver forwarded a transumptum detailing my life to the Congregation for the Cause of the Saints in Rome. I have no doubt it will sail through the scrutiny of the general promoter of the faith -- despite all attempts by this devil's advocate to find flaws in my otherwise virtuous life as a Catholic drinker -- because I now have the requisite two miracles under my belt.
First, it was nothing short of a miracle that I didn't get us kicked out of the local folk-dancing club where we went for my bachelor party (Drunk of the Week, June 1). The second miracle came just days later in the Diesel store at Cherry Creek Shopping Center (3000 East First Avenue). As part of the preliminary emasculization phase that any guy goes through when he agrees to get married, I'd begged the Oriental Representative to help me shop for appropriate attire for a very laid-back mountain wedding. (I trust her implicitly, since she helped me buy the only clothes my future wife doesn't laugh at.) After several stops where we were "helped" by snotty "customer service" personnel, we finally made it to Diesel. By this point, the only things sustaining me were the multiple trips past the windows of Victoria's Secret, the soft-porn posters adorning the Guess store, and the knowledge that we were only a few mall halls away from beer.
But help was even closer at hand. I was trying on my fourth pair of jeans -- at $200, they seemed awfully pricey for pants made of fabric that looked like it had spent a couple of months as a bar rag -- when the Oriental Representative yelled over the door, "They're bringing beers in!" In disbelief, I sprinted out the dressing-room door, still wrestling with the button fly (the primary cause of drunken-guy incontinence, by the way). Sure enough, Diesel employees were carrying in several tubs of assorted beers on ice. And behind them were a couple of guys carrying a whole mess of sushi.
Although it was hard to hear over the ethereal, angelic (one might even say beatific) music that was sounding in my ears and even harder to see through the blinding light shining from the heavens, I managed to get the message to the Oriental rep that she needed to shag me a Guinness ASAP, which she did. I figured it was the least she could do after I'd performed this astonishing variation of the loaves-and-fishes miracle. (My official name will probably be something like St. Imbibus.)
With three or four beers on board, shopping for expensive clothes became a fun experience. While the belly full of good sushi made it tough to button pants, it made it easy to spill comments like "No, she and I aren't getting married, we're just sleeping together" to salespeople who didn't know what to think but didn't care, either, because they knew they were really close to finalizing a deal.
Turns out Diesel does promos like this because it doesn't advertise much locally. But just the possibility of free beer would be enough to get most guys in, especially when Victoria's Secret is so close by. Other stores should follow Diesel's lead: Just think how much money electronics stores, Brookstone and the Sharper Image could make if they got guys drunk in-store. I've gotta tell you, it worked in my case. By the end of the evening, I had no qualms about blowing a lot of money on jeans that my wife will love but I'll never wear if she isn't around. That, my friends, is a true miracle. And here I only needed two.