There's something to be said for being the only one. The outpost, colors snapping in the immaterial breeze, bastion of cool, temple of special. The Cherry Cricket was that, once-- long ago, in a galaxy remarkably similar to the one we inhabit. It was the Last Gasp.

For those unfamiliar with the terrain, Cherry Creek North wasn't always the pretty animal it is. There used to be houses, markets, a neighborhood. There were old folks who had lived there for 50 years who weren't going anywhere no matter what, goddamnit, and there sure as hell weren't any leather chaps or Russian massages. There were no townhomes, no corporate lawyers, no lawns, no electricity. The people lived in mud huts and worshipped Baal.

Then came the gentrification. Longtime homeowners sold out to the agents of The Future. Community gave way to the inexorable march of the predictable. The Mall was built. Devotees flocked from the hinterlands. Rents were raised. The little people got, as usual, their favorite part of the stick; some found themselves in Commerce City, the lucky ones bought chain mail and became RenFest regulars.

Through it all, The Cherry Cricket-- or, to the initiated, The Cricket-- shlepped the drinks that fueled the anger that gave way to hopelessness and killed the fight against progress. Thankfully-- after all, where else are desperate people to turn? To God? Or their families? Please. This bar should win a medal. It had to endure, its walls to absorb, the collective futility of a thousand dead hopes. The pathos is palpable. So is the smell of grilled meat.

Because The Cricket is not just a Chorten erected for the spirit of a vanished America. It is a living, breathing bar. The food is cheap, by Cherry Creek's standards, and the beers are honestly poured by honest-to-God bartender types. There are games that require quarters. The service is quick and friendly. There are darts. There is neon aplenty. And of course, a wicked long wait list.

That's just the way it is around here. You can't walk in here and just grab a table without being extremely lucky. The Cherry Cricket is always busy. Always. Again, it weren't necessarily so-- back when I was a mere skinny pup, mowing lawns in east Denver with my brother-in-law, I counted on The Cricket as one place where I could just walk in and grab a table, no fuss, no muss. Now, you'll be lucky to get seated with a pair of pliers and the help of the French Foreign Legion. Well-dressed mannequins prop up most of the booths these days. The beauty ratio has climbed up Up UP from when I was a lad; if I tried walking in looking like I did then, I'd be ground into Wednesday's dinner special. This is a castle that had to surrender its defense.

Just look at the area. Nothing about this now-snibby part of Denver says "Bar." The Cricket has been fighting an uphill battle for a decade (can we just say since the day Celebrity Sports Center gave up the ghost in Belcaro?) and one which they must by necessity never win. What would happen if all the money left? Would The Cricket be nearly so fun or appealing? Hardly. It would be indistinguishable from the Music Box Lounge or Teddy T's. The crux of The Cherry Cricket's appeal is that it is a typical bar, complete with drunks and smells, in the middle of a fashionable shopping district. It surrendered its original status as street-corner bar before most of us were born. We have to live, therefore, with The Cricket-- and Cherry Creek-- as it is.

Which, to my mind, is ridiculous. I don't like waiting for tables. I don't like bars that I thought were mine-- yeah, yeah-- being co-opted by the jackass squadron. I don't like having to put my name on a list to sit on a booth bench that's broken nearly in half. I don't like this, I don't like that. Waah.

Still, my minor carping aside, The Cricket soldiers on, bereft perhaps of its outsider status, but nonetheless a great place to eat a cheeseburger. The old Sears store's days are numbered with single digits, but a footsore mall crawler may still find refreshment at one of Denver's most poignant locations. There is, unfortunately for us all, no stopping the march of progress. Bars and restaurants and family members that we love will all eventually be crushed under bulldozers. The challenge is to work our way through it, try to understand, and, hopefully, minimize the bed-wetting. This bar may have gasped its last, but it is still alive. B

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THE LAST GASP@THE CHERRY CRICKET

THE LAST GASP
@
THE CHERRY CRICKET