Overheard recently at Lipgloss: "Hey, bro, you gotta get down here, fast! Guess who's on the dance floor right now? That hot chick!" Yes, that hot chick -- plus about 300 of her best friends -- are in attendance at La Rumba every Friday night. And the guys are just as dolled up as the gals, resulting in a veritable breeder feeding frenzy. Of course, resident DJs Michael Trundle and Tyler Jacobsen urge the whole orgy on with their patented mix of Brit pop, dance punk, garage rock, glam and soul. There's absolutely nothing gay-unfriendly about Lipgloss. Just be prepared: The hetero hookup factor is off the meter.

Capitol Hill's beautiful boys (and a few straights) all come down to JR's on Thursdays for High Energy Night, knowing that they'll get hooked up -- even if it's only with fifty-cent Buds and half-price cocktails. Bears, femmes and twinks all happily co-habitate here, which makes for excellent people-watching and a pretty good shot at scoring, no matter your type. Sure beats the Donald and Must-See TV.

In the restaurant world, you're considered a success if you still have a standing wait after being in business for a certain amount of time. That said, Lipgloss is the club equivalent of the French Laundry. Founded in 2001 by the Denver 3 (now the Denver 2 since Tim Cook has parted ways with Lipgloss co-founders Michael Trundle and Tyler Jacobson), the 'Gloss remains the hottest brand going. Five years in, there's still a line down the block leading to La Rumba, Lipgloss's home. Except now that line starts forming almost as soon as the doors open. Weekly listening parties and continually diverse playlists have made Lipgloss the choice destination for Denver's hipsters and rock's royalty; everyone from Franz Ferdinand to Peter Hook has stopped by. This kiss should be on your lips.

Somewhere along the line, hip-hop became all about style over substance. People forgot about music and the culture. Thankfully, conscious hip-hop has slowly forced its way to the forefront, courtesy of acts like the Roots, Common and Talib Kweli, among others -- artists you'd traditionally never hear in a club. Until Good Fridays, that is. The night does its best to subvert the status quo, as evidenced by its slogan: "No groupies. No bottle service. No bullshit." Overseen by resident Radio Bum DJ Style N. Fashion and his young proteges, DJ Sounds Supreme and Massiv, Fridays celebrates real hip-hop. Thank God it's Fridays.

To keep the momentum of monthly club night going, you have to have a strong identity, a tireless imagination and, of course, the love of the loyal. Rockstars Are Dead! is blessed with all three. But it's not by the grace of God that founder Peter Black (aka DJ Aztec of the legendary So What!) sustained RAD!'s infrequent schedule and high energy level for over a year. Instead, he's an indefatigable self-promoter who plays the industry game at least as well as he spins. And it's paid off: After a promising start at the Walnut Room, Black and his cohorts the Polarity Twins packed up their crates and moved to the more simpatico clime of the hi-dive. There they've been able to expand their multimedia palate, bringing aboard more live bands, guest DJs, art and fashion to supplement the main reason the faithful keep coming back -- to get their asses plastered to the dance floor.

Who is the man known as DJ Wesley Wayne? From practically out of nowhere, he's stormed Denver's indie club scene with guerrilla guest sets and oddball residencies like Sputnik's What We Do Is Secret. But none of that prepared anyone for Night of the Living Shred, a Thursday-night blowout at Bender's that Wayne helms alongside his Pirate Sound System partner, DJ Parris. Spinning everything from hair metal and vintage punk to electro and hip-hop -- plus a few surprises that will leave your jaw under the table -- the duo pulls off wired, schizophonic mixes that would make DJ Shadow proud. And maybe even a little scared.

Name any decade in recent memory, and it's been raped by a million retro-frenzied DJs. But James Sharp -- otherwise known as DJ Quid, host of the Skylark's Wednesday-night party, Babydoll -- has a knack for seeing culture in a non-linear fashion. Rather than stodgily rehashing pop's '50s and '60s golden age, he's tapped into its invisible corollary, one that extends from Buddy Holly to Morrissey, from the Ronettes to the Raveonettes. Most of this music, though, wasn't built to dance to; predictably, Babydoll is more of a chill-out than a boogie fever. But Sharp's picks are so infectious that, come midnight, there are always a few enraptured hipsters shakin' it to Nancy Sinatra or the Cramps. That's the mark of timeless music -- and a great DJ.

There are 6,000 songs in the QuickSand Karaoke catalogue, and every single one of them leads to trouble. Nowhere is this more apparent than on Thursday nights at Bender's, when the place transforms from a cool Capitol Hill music venue into a frantic den of karaoke insanity. Show up early if you want to sing, because by 10 p.m., the competition for stage time is fierce: Everyone in Cap Hill, it seems, has the same pressing need to sing -- badly, drunkenly, obsessively -- to scores of slushy strangers. QuickSand's catalogue is vast, covering everything from Willie Nelson to Paul Weller, which means there's something for every vocal range and pain threshold. Notice how the volume gets louder as the hour gets later; come closing time, you'll be begging the DJ for just one...more...song.

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? The Comedy Works may be celebrating its 25th birthday this year by bringing in one big name after another, but the club stays fresh by giving amateurs a chance, too. And there are no hours more amateur than Tuesday's New Talent Night, when comedy guru Deacon Gray shepherds about fifteen newbies through brief sets. Not only does New Talent Night give untried comics a chance to perform before a real audience and develop skills, but Gray gives each performer written feedback after the show. Why did the chicken comedian cross the road? To test his wings at the Comedy Club.

John Killup, aka Big John, is one scary motherfucker. He's big, very big, covered in tattoos and usually wearing a scowl that could freeze lava. Get a little out of control at Three Dogs Tavern, and he's going to keep law and order on your ass. But Killup has a softer side, too: The ladies' man models for Suavecito's, the local zoot-suit shop, and when he decides to let down, he has a killer smile. But don't tell anyone.