Denver narrowly missed a cataclysmic disaster last week. "I almost walked out of my place without my pants," JP confessed as he clambered into the cab. We were headed toward LoDo and Above the Dove (1949 Market Street), the rooftop bar above the Soiled Dove that overlooks Coors Field. In addition to the view, this bar boasts many events that seem to gather all of the town's morally questionable women in one place. On this beautiful late-summer night, we hoped that an impromptu meeting of said women might be convened -- and we weren't disappointed. In a rare departure for the norm in Denver, the Best City for Single People Who Don't Live Here, there were more women than guys at the bar.
Before attempting to introduce ourselves to any of them, we felt it imperative to pre-lubricate, to ensure that we were witty, charming and funny in our own tiny minds. In typical fashion, once we bellied up we didn't leave the bar until we were carted away by potential Institute members. JP made a valiant attempt to pick up two out-of-place high school principals by asking them which superheroes they would like to be. This question stemmed from our working thesis that while many people are not religious, everyone believes in superheroes. Dating themselves, these women answered something like Errol Flynn and Roy Rogers. But clearly, the correct answers are Batman (because of the toys), Superman (for his ability both to fly and to remove himself from female entanglements by retreating to the Fortress of Solitude) and Wonder Woman (for her major-league yabos and her residence on an island entirely inhabited by women).
With eight rum-and-Cokes on board, surrounded by a high concentration of attractive females wearing a grand total of one square yard of fabric, we began waxing poetic on the nuances of male-female relationships and, in particular, the best time to have sex. Of course the correct answer is always "Now," but since we live in a repressed society dominated by Christian conservatives and "public decency laws," we have to pick and choose our times. So the Institute has officially determined that the best time for people to have sex is in the morning, and we are contacting all of our congresspeople and lobbying for legislation mandating a morning siesta of up to five minutes so that guys can start the day off right. After all, once this critical activity has been knocked off, guys have accomplished 90 percent of what they set out to do each day, and as a result have much more time to complete the other 10 percent by sitting in the bathroom and reading the sports section.
This was our last coherent discussion of the evening. We spent the remainder of the night propped against the bar, admiring the twinkling lights, the starry sky and the miles of skin on the rooftop. Finally, an Institute extraction team pulled us out and plopped us down at Pete's Kitchen, where we ate and JP managed to keep his pants on.
Summer's officially over, but during these early fall evenings and Indian summer (if the NCAA hasn't banned that term), there should be many more nights where you can go to Above the Dove and check out the local scenery while knocking back powerful drinks. If you see Batman and Superman slumped over the bar, please send us home.
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