Volume 4, Issue 8
April 18 - May 1, 2002
by Rob Williams
I saw the flyer on a table at an art show last Friday. It read, "Is this flyer boring? --be the solution-- become the media." This new media company is looking for "content pushers, media assassins, truth seekers, art designers, ragpublishers, freespeechers, etc. . . ." I thought "hold on, I work in the alternative media--perhaps I can lend a hand, offer some advice or at least meet some dames."
Nothing could have been further from the truth. I should have known the instant I walked into the Breakdown Book Collective at 1644 Platte Street the following Sunday. The place was full of subversive literature --Earth First manifestoes, Canadian workers rights rants, radical Serbian revisionist history-a lesbian perspective etc.-- and not ONE copy of Go-Go Magazine .
The group gathered in the back around --get this-- a table of orange juice, Oreo cookies and miniature carrots (organic, of course). When the pita bread and olives arrived I broke down and donated a few bucks to the cause for some warm OJ. These people couldn't possibly be journalists--where was the booze?
My concerns were soon reinforced as the gathering of 50-odd subversives started introducing themselves. I realized I had walked into a meeting of leftist radical protesters creating their own media company, rockymountainindymedia.org. Yeah, as if I wasn't on the Denver PD Watch list already for helping out the ACLU and the Tyranny Response Team. My "known associates" sheet now reads like Oswald's. I'm screwed.
Looking around the room I saw maybe 3 people who have ever made a Molotov Cocktail or field-stripped an AK. Of course, that didn't stop them from colorful slogan shouting like "Burn down media, it all sucks." This from a blonde kid (who I refer to as Trotsky) in a Purdue sweatshirt who works at Kinko's. Nice to see Maoism isn't dead after all. The next girl in line goes off on a rant about how "more poor people died in the WTC than rich people and they aren't getting enough press." How quaint. After that, the radical hemp rhetoric seemed almost refreshing. (You realize there are three protests going down on the April 20, from Zapatistas to hemp to workers rights--who knew?)
I won't use real names, but the local color was spectacular. There was Guzman, the heavy-set radical fresh in from Toronto with tear gas-scarred lungs; Javier the dashing agitprop poster boy of migrant worker rights, Talya, whose rancor and dark eyes had my full attention --if only she hadn't been wearing Birkenstocks. A more motley crew of scum and villainy hasn . t been seen this side of Balkinour.
You could see my dilemma. The atmosphere, while amusing, lacked a certain panache . Where was the vodka, the snapping red flag of freedom, the casual sex among fellow revolutionaries?
It was time to escape. I made a hasty phone call to Tamra, a sassy ex-army nurse with amazing shoes for a downright Imperial feast at the Palomino Bar and Grill.
It's the kind of place where one feels the ambiance of cold hard cash meeting Tuscan red columns and cold marble tabletops and honest-to-god leather chairs. The bar is a veritable altar to alcohol. . . shelf after shelf of well-lit bottles. It's nice to dress up a bit here; not suit and tie, but open collar or a little black dress is not out of the question.
Settling in we ordered drinks, myself a Bookers' Manhattan ($8.95) and Tamra a Joseph Drouhin Laforet Pinot Noir ($6.95). Both were infinitely more satisfying than Trotsky's orange juice.
We motioned for the waiter as our bourgeois sensibilities were aroused by the promise of edible delights. I'm talking about sashimi grade ahi seared with capers in a lemon wine sauce over linguini ($16.95) and the ultimate capitalist dish, a filet mignon with toasted gorgonzola ravioli ($28.95). The ahi was gloriously red in the center, as was my steak. If only the food was this good on the long march. I refrained from lighting my cigar with a fifty as I ordered a Hennessey XO ($20.95) and we discussed feminist theory from a globalist perspective. After all, who can really get a true revolutionary zeal over a couple of carrot sticks? We finished off the meal with a rum-soaked tiramisu ($6.95) that melted on the tongue and drove our taste buds over the brink. This stuff would make Rodchenko convert to a free market economy.
Tamra and I spent about four hours wining, dining, flirting and cheering the death of the Queen Mother. (Hey, I might not be a good socialist, but I'm definitely not a royalist.) We toasted another nail in the coffin of monarchy and ordered a couple of cappucinos ($3.50). The staff was attentive like we were a couple of high rollers, rather than a hack politico-entertainment writer and his gun moll living up the good life for a night. The menu even features updated listings of things to do after you finish your oppressor's feast.
They don't rush you at the Palomino and the atmosphere in the bar (the restaurant is non- smoking) is conducive to good chat. It's just loud enough to mask your conversation from the next table. It's a great place for a post-revolutionary liaison. After all, it's the last place the authorities would look for a commie.
The tab was hefty, but I didn't even bother to validate my parking. Take that, Trotsky.
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