Volume 5, Issue 1
January 9 - January 22, 2003
by Rob Williams
After hours. I hate after hours. After hours in this town means plastic pants and glow sticks with a crowd that was too young to be drinking with me for the previous six hours or so. Whatever happened to the Speakeasy? You know, that out of the way alley entrance place you have to know someone to get into kinda place you see in old gangster movies where the liquor flows and the entertainment is as rich as the decorations on the flapper girls at the Moulin Rouge.
Is it too much to ask of this town to offer me more to do after 2 am than jam my cheeks full of hash browns at the local 24-hour greasy spoon?
Oh sure, if you've hooked up you could be on your way to Ms. or Mr. Right's (well, right now anyway) place. But let's assume for the sake of argument that Ms. Right is already on your arm, coiffed and painted and still ready to rumble when the barkeep hollers out his mournful closing cry.
Hey, you heard your pal Dave (meaning some guy you met at a bar 6 months ago and really didn't like that much) is having a party. It never fails. you and your entourage arrive fashionably late, say, -- 2:15 am -- to find three passed out frat boys and half a can of Schaefer, offered by someone who has never heard of "Dave" but seems to be the owner of the place. This guy will invite you in -- only, you realize, to hit on your date and ask you if you have any drugs.
Now let's face it. You are dressed up to be out and the night is young. Don't you wish just once, you could take your gal round the way -- whisper something cryptic like "the phoenix rises at dawn" and suddenly you are hooked up like James Bond on the company dime?
Ok, I'm not saying it needs to be that good. But I for one have been looking for something a little sly, a little on the side, a little bit later in the evening. Lucky for me I ran into the Hogbutler crew. These guys throw one hell of a late night party. If you are finished before the rooster crows, these are the kind of guys that will call you a wuss and dare you to do a shot of warm tequila over the shrine of Bukowski. (No, really -- there is a candle dripping shrine in the front room, where wax-encrusted fallen soldiers surround a black-framed portrait of drinking's greatest fallen hero.)
But I digress. Let's start from the beginning when a cute burlesque girl named Dawn with raven-dark hair and a crinkly smile asked me if I felt like attending such a party. Hmmm -- Cute dame -- Lots of booze -- Four bands -- What's not to like? Still, I made her twist my arm.
Now, let me warn you. People dress for these parties but NOT in ways you might imagine. Oh sure, there are a few jacket and tie types at these gatherings, but let's just say this after hours crowd is a little wilder. Alien abductees, naughty elves, half naked women wearing body paint and a smile. Men in garish cabaret make-up, bikers with barbies, even saw a guy that resembled Hunter Thompson. He didn't really look like him but he was mumbling incoherently into a tape recorder while doing shots of vodka. Never caught his name. There is always a theme of some sort at these happenings.
Luckily though, I saw plenty of old friends. Alice, the Southern French-Viet charmer was holding court over a couple in too-tight Santa costumes while some seriously sweaty rock stars jammed our ears full of Hendrix riffs. Nightlife party veteran Cara was busy behind the bar, pour- ing mad cups full of whatever I wanted. Rock-tots, artistés, the cream of the crop of the creative melange that makes up Denver's counter culture was kicking it there.
Not exactly a speakeasy that Bogart would approve of. More like a carnival sideshow jettisoned into an AA meeting where everyone said "screw it" and started using their coins to play quarters with a snake dancer from upstate. Maybe it was more like a Roman orgy with punk guitars, only there wasn't any food and no one was watching gladiatorial games. Nope. They were far too busy people watching, sprawled on a lumpy couch bathed in the blue light of a porn tape playing endless loops of close-ups and money shots.
And that was just one room. You can get lost in this place. And Dawn and I did just that. Get lost. In the course of 6-7 hours I was there we spent time in each little nook and cranny leaving no stone unturned. Of course you have to be in the mood to cavort in a smoke-filled den of sin (didn't see a no-smoking section, thank the gods). You may get into a deep discussion of foreign policy with a go-go girl, or find yourself dancing with a guy on stilts. It's really that wide open. You'll also end up smelling like smoke and cleaning glitter out of your undershorts. Partying going on in every room -- your face immortalized on Polaroids nailed to the Wall of Shame -- liquor flowing like the Nile at flood, and lots of people having a seriously good time -- this is why we defeated communism!
So if you need a late night distraction, a serious party with a few hundred of your favorite night owls, keep an eye out for a Hogbutler Presents flyer. These parties don't happen every night, but even once is worth it. I suggest you check it out. Dawn kissed me goodnight well after the sun was up, but I'm never going to forget that night out.
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