I've officially been in Denver, Colorado for 24 hours now. I'm trapped in an industrial park in Englewood, though my room at the Marriott overlooking nothing is nice.
I've been nailed with a fate so heinous, it's tough to describe: I can't stop farting stinky farts. Alright, maybe it's simpler to explain. Apparently, the higher altitude causes the gas to expand, and that somehow makes whatever room you're in smell like Elizabeth, New Jersey. I'm afraid to light a match for fear of nuclear meltdown.
You apparently need to drink plenty of water here, too. It's apparently silly easy here to dehydrate. One of beer's ingredients is water. I'll try that.
Tonight marked our first foray into the greater Denver metropolitan area that didn't involve the words "airport" or "liquor store." We ate at a steakhouse called the Buckhorn Exchange, which prides itself on 500 animals stuffed and stapled to walls while hiding out between the slums and the railyard. I couldn't determine if I should be attempting to score some crack or throwing my belongings in a sack and leap in a boxcar. I ate a Buffalo Prime Rib. Tender. Dissolved in your mouth, so tender. Like eating a baby, but with more guilt.
Time to go down the hall and drink myself blind. Maybe you'll get a drunken Denver post in 3 hours.
Dare to dream, kiddies. Dare to dream.
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1 comment:
Don't feel guilty about eating buffalo. They are raised as livestock and thus buying more buffalo actually means more buffalo raised, in a vicious circle until next thing you know, you're at McD's ordering a McBuffalo to go with Ostridge McNuggets. Eating Buffalo wings in Denver, however, would be a crime and you should feel unbelievably guilty about it.
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