GOTTA LOVE COLFAX

Anyone who's spent more than ten minutes on Colfax has a story. The street is like a book in that respect. In every other respect, however, the street is like a street, and for an ex-suburbanite like me, that's enough.

The suburbs of Denver don't have streets. They don't even have avenues (and any downtown-dweller who's confused 17th Street with 17th Avenue is keenly aware of the difference). Colorado suburbs have drives, places, circles, highways, courts, and (in Highlands Ranch) trails. Call me crazy, but once a path is paved, it loses its right to be a trail. It especially loses the right to be called Ptarmigan Lake Trail. In fact, no self-respecting street should be called that.

That's part of the Colfax mystique. It doesn't really rhyme with 'sex' but it seems to. As Sean Weaver correctly points out in this issue's cover story, it carries a reputation. And as Alex Neth states in this issue's Bottoms Up!, it huffs and touches itself. No amount of renovating or remodeling will change that, nor should it.

When I was thirteen, I went to my second rock concert ever, at the venerable Ogden. (My first was Van Halen at Fiddler's Green, but don't hold it against me-- I was just there to see Alice In Chains perform stuff from Facelift). I honestly can't recall what band played that night. What stuck with me was Smiley's Laundromat: it slouches along the street relentlessly promoting itself with posters while the architecture tells the real story. The posters say, "I'm great!" The building says (to a 13-year-old suburban pussy), "I'll slit your throat, white boy!" Denver's most exciting landmark indeed.

I'm proud to be a part of the Suburban Flight movement. I'm proud to have left behind my childhood abode (turn left on Otero Circle, take an immediate left on Otero Place) for Colfax, a mixed-bag mistress that holds as many pleasant surprises as unpleasant ones. It's the only Denver street that simultaneously encourages and discourages foot traffic-- faster to walk than negotiate the every-fifteen-feet red lights; less cigarette bumming in the comfort of your Civic. Even the proverbial chicken wouldn't dare cross Broadway; 13th Avenue's charms are literally few and far between; the 16th Street Mall keeps selling a piece of its soul every year. (A Chili's? Kill me now.)

Colfax is the beating, bleeding, burning heart of Denver. It's the representative of every advance and setback the city's seen in the past decade. It's the breeding ground for artists, and bedding ground for alcoholic ex-artists. It's the one and only place where the public transportation actually works.

Finally, Colfax is finding respect, flaws and all. We salute it with this issue, dedicated tenderly to the pavement our pages are mostly likely to brush, flying in the tumbleweed breeze late at night, discarded.

THE FINGER OF DEATH

It's real easy to use your finger to piss people off. And I'm not talking about the finger you think I am. Your index finger is a powerful weapon, almost comically so.

This discovery came about, like most discoveries, accidentally. I happened to notice that nothing disturbs a stranger more than you aiming your finger at their body. Why does such a simple, harmless gesture incur such an immediate paranoid response? Is it the unwanted calling of attention? The accusatory nature of a pointed fist? The similarity to a gun barrel? In other words, why is it so damn impolite to point?

I'm reminded of the scene in Fight Club in which everyone's assignment is to pick a fight. It's a great sequence, mostly because each participant finds it's distressingly difficult to get someone to beat you up. Seems true ... but it's not. Want to make someone mad at you? Point at them for no reason. It riles them up worse than any words you can conjure, any act you can perform, any insult that springs to mind. Find the right person on the wrong day, and pointing at them can get you messed up good.

It's scary to point. We have a built-in mechanism that warns us against it. Since we're on the subject of Colfax this issue, try this little experiment next time you find yourself on the Street of Streets. Stand on the sidewalk and yell at people as they drive by. Mostly you'll be ignored; sometimes they'll yell back. Now, standing in the same spot, start pointing at people. Follow them with your finger. Make eye contact. You'll see road rage like never before.

You can ruin someone's day by pointing at them. Think about that. You have two very potent instruments on your body, instruments virtually made for lashing out at the world, letting society know you're sick of its shit. Life got you down? Want a nonviolent way to let off steam? Point.

Just make sure you've got good medical coverage first.

BYE BYE CHUCK

This is the last issue of Go-Go to carry News of the Weird. It's kind of strange-- Chuck Shepherd's nationally syndicated column of kooks has been parked next to Bizarre Bazaar since the prehistoric period of this magazine's life, one of the only features to make it through every incarnation we've thrown out there.

Fans need not despair-- you can read the same stuff for free on the Internet at www.newsoftheweird.com anyway. We're opening up the back page for an humor column, written locally, which means Go-Go's regular rotation of content is now 100 percent original and local.

CORRECTIONS, ETC.

In last issue's Bottoms Up! Alex stated that Fagan's has no jukebox. It does. It's just back in the pool room, and its music doesn't reach the majority of the bar. Alex apologized, saying, "I didn't see it because I always head straight for the bar, head down." Now you know why he's our bar reviewer.

In the awards section of the coverstory, we mentioned in the Yo Flaco! writeup for Horn Section of the Year that their musical style is "upbeat funky ska." The upbeat and funky may hold, but the band is adamant that they don't play ska. They're right ... it's more akin to acid jazz if one is forced to express their style in words. At any rate, we regret the misrepresentation.

Also in the awards, we named one of Twisted Sol's tattoo artists Jeff Cobb. His name is Jeff Kopp. We regret the error.

--Chris J. Magyar