Denver Do: Better with Age on Broadway

Overview: This edition of the Denver Do is all about the lesser-known sections of Broadway's wacky-and-weird. You can use any means of transportation to get there and can continue to explore the area to your desire and time limitations.
Expected Cost: $10 for food @ the bakery; optional vintage shopping
Solo Savvy?: Absolutely! But, the antique shop begs discussion.
Expected Time: 1.5 hours (unless you try clothes on)
Requirements: Some form of mechanical transportation because this section of Broadway is south past "SoBro." It's actually parallel to the South Pearl District, so it's a bit of a jaunt. I would recommend a bike, car, or "0" bus RTD bus.
The Do: This edition of the Do starts at Packrat Antiques, an antique store located on Broadway and Iowa. If you bike, take Logan Street. A lot of the those quieter neighborhood roads end at i25 (or just get funky) but Logan goes all the way through. Turn right (west) onto Iowa and it's a few more blocks to Broadway.
I have no idea how I first found Packrat Antiques, but I am ever-so-glad that I did! This place is one of the most eccentric antique shops in a section of Broadway full of eccentric antique shops. It's basically a museum of creepy old stuff run by an equally creepy old couple who I don't believe actually sell anything. The gnome/ owner in the back-right corner is well-camouflaged by his paper, beware. I have no idea what kind of antiques he's guarding because I refrain from going near, but you should grow a pair and go back there. It's probably good.
Treat this place like an art collection and be prepared to spend a solid amount of time there. You will encounter antiques from every type of American population including (and not limited to) medical devices, skeletons, weapons, pictures, metal-works, and more. Take your time to examine all sections. But use only your mind to explore; you may have your head chopped by a Civil War-era sword if you do so much as take a out your iPhone. The old couple acts as if you don't exist until you take a picture, at which point you will be summarily removed from the premise.
After you've developed a winter's-worth of goose bumps, use your feet or mechanical transport to travel four blocks further south to Regal Vintage. This is my absolute favorite vintage shop in Denver. While it can be a bit overpriced it's got a fantastic collection. The guys who run it are either lovers or brothers (TaTU, anyone?!). They may seem a bit stand-offish at first but start purring over their hand-chosen collection and they'll be your best friend. Make friends because they are often willing to negotiate on prices, especially if you buy more than one item.
Keep in mind as you explore this store: before it was Regal it was another, much weirder vintage place owned by a man obsessed with aliens. The front was actually "a front" because the back was filled with his wacky alien paraphernalia. If you shopped for longer than 15 minutes he and his homeless friend would tell you conspiracy theories. So, imagine that you have an aluminum hat from the movie Signs and you should be alright.
Feel free to keep exploring this unique area, but the final portion of this Do takes you back north for a stop by the Buffalo Doughboy Bakery. On your way there, take note of the Black Crown Lounge between Arkansas and Florida. I've heard rave reviews of this gay-friendly antique store/ bar/ music venue. Grab a schedule of the live music and invite me to join when you go!
The Buffalo Doughboy Bakery is owned by a very nice couple with a taste for all things pastry. They offer smoothies, paninis, salads and more, but their pastries are the crux of the place. Located on the corner of Louisiana, the building is instantly recognizable with it's yellow-and-purple exterior. Seating is limited but the place isn't usually full. It's a relaxing joint, so bring a book if you're solo. I'd recommend ordering one of the savory pastries (I ordered a divine spinach-something once) and a coffee. Be sure to check the hours, though, because this place is a typical bakery with awkward open/closing times.
Congrats: you've done another Do! Thanks for joining. As always, feel free to provide your feedback and suggestions! Next up: Abusing Your (Core)Power.

Background to the Denver Do

Hello, all! I wanted to offer a brief explanation of my following post. I've spent many-a-year poor, curious and hyper in Denver. I've come to find out about all sorts of cheap outings in the city and explored many of them alone. Denver is growing so quickly that I feel like the majority of my friends are young transplants. In effort to help them get to know their city and aware of the economic burden of moving to a new city, I recommended different outings to anyone who seemed interested. A lot of them told me how much they appreciate my ideas, using them for dates or random free-time. After enough positive feedback, I've decided create a column that details these outings. It's called the Denver Do. // To qualify as a Do, there are a few requirements. First, it's got to be a 1-3 hour outing that involves some sort of activity and food/ drinks. Second, it must be appropriate for solo explorers or groups. Third, the whole thing has to cost less than $50. Finally, it's got to be within driving distance of the Denver-metro area. Each Do will have a short synopsis at the beginning that quickly details such variables; then, the description offers specifics and advice. // Please provide me with feedback on this series! If it takes off, I hope to publish it in local periodicals. Of course, let me know if you have any fodder for further Do, too!

The Denver Do: Wash in the Morning

Overview: In this edition of the Denver Do, I take you to brunch and a walk in the park! This is an especially cheap and solo-friendly "Do." // Expected Cost: $10-$15 for breakfast // Solo-Savvy?: Yes // Expected Time: 2 hours // Requirements: Walking shoes, reading materials (if solo), sunglasses // The Do: One of the most popular brunch spots in the city is called Devil's Food. It's on Old South Gaylord Street, which is just East of Washington Park. OSGS is a darling neighborhood spot and Devil's Food is one of it's most popular joints. You can expect to wait upwards of an hour for weekend brunch. Try to go sometime when you have time/ patience to wait. But (if you're like me) when you're hungry you get h-angry. So skip Devil's Food and continue south on Gaylord Street to Mississippi. Turn left and enter The Local, one of my favorite brunch spots in the city! // The Local is a diner with bar-stool seats and comfy booths. If you're alone, choose a spot at the bar and pull out your book. There is usually another solo-diner, though, and it's often a TRF (Totally Rad Female). Chat, if you'd like! If you require more than a single seat, keep in mind that most people in the joint are very friendly. Ask to share tables with others- the servers won't mind! // As soon as you've marked your grounds, hop right up to the self-service coffee station at the far end of the bar. If you're into home-made breakfast breads, check out today's options in the display at front. // You won't have to wait long for service, but even if you do, the coffee should hold you over. If you're starving, definitely go for the breakfast burrito: it's massive, you can choose your chili. I've personally watched two TRFs devour the whole thing. I would also suggest the vegetarian breakfast sandwich, which is on the lighter side and refreshing. Finally, the breakfast tacos are a delicious take on an old-faithful, but be sure to request that they be wrapped in two corn tortillas or ask for flour torts. A single corn tortilla disintegrates. Try both red and green salsa, made by The Local and delicious. // After brunch, wander back up OSGS. Turn left whenever you'd like and make your way to Wash Park. Once you get there, the next hour or so is yours. I would recommend walking into the paved inside track. This is just under 2 miles around and takes you past the old buildings, lakes, ducks, and other sportsters. If you want a quiet, relaxing stroll, I wouldn't recommend going during the weekend in summer: it will be packed with beer-guzzling volley-ball playing young people. Do go during summer weekends if you want to people watch and meet hot young Denver-ites, though! Still, there are always open, friendly and interesting people at Wash. Ask to pet dogs, stop to chat with the tennis players on the South end or chase the hotties running by. // Stop by the boathouse at the top of the Northern lake. This is the headquarters for the Volunteers of Outdoor Colorado (VOC). They host all sorts of fun outdoor volunteer opportunities. Grab a schedule or sign up for their next event! // You may have worked up an appetite in all of your strolling, especially if you stopped to talk to any of the other sexy/ colorful characters there. For a final treat, I'd recommend stopping by Devil's Food and ordering a cinnamon bun/ muffin at their cafe portion of the restaurant. Ask them to heat the bun for you and eat on a bench outside. It's the perfect outwardly-crusty, inwardly-gooey mid-afternoon snack. Don't worry: it's organic so it's "healthy." // That finalizes this edition ("Wash in the Morning") of the Denver Do! Next: Chillin' with the gnomies on OSG."

Unfortunate, but not Unloved

I'll never forget one of the first times that I acknowledged my mother's unexpected pregnancy. Casually, I mentioned the fact that my mom didn't expect me and that she chose a tough life when she kept me. When I said so, she looked me in the eye, smiling, "Emily, you may have been unplanned, but you weren't unwanted." // This blog post is actually about my friend, Adrienne, who took her own life a few months ago. She had been struggling with her eating disorder, alcoholism and depression for years. Eventually, she left us. As I sat down to write this post, I struggled to name it...how could I adequately frame her story, and my perspective on it? // If you've been following this blog, you're probably aware of the last time Adrienne was in Denver. She visited me to attend my "Totally Rad Females Idea Party" and proceeded to have a devastating alcoholic relapse. We met when we were in treatment for our eating disorders and were instant friends. But I never knew about the depths of her alcohol addiction. In the end, I had to put her in a hotel room. Her mom flew out to pick her up. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Eventually, her mom sent my mom and I a couple of department-store gift cards and an apology letter. // The whole experience felt surreal to me. I remember looking at the creature with the same blond hair and beautiful, big eyes, and knowing that somewhere in there was my friend Adrienne. The week that I spent trying to get her healthy and home will be etched into my brain forever. Watching someone put themselves through Hell, literally throwing their entire physical and emotional self into a bed of filth, is one of the most humbling experiences that I have ever had. That's really how I felt the whole time: I wasn't angry, I wasn't scared, and I wasn't depressed. I was totally and completely humbled. The ability for the human mind to so pollute a beautiful life...it blew me away. All I wanted was for Adrienne to jump back out of that person and giggle again. // My mom found out about Adrienne first. As I mentioned before, Adrienne's mom was highly involved in getting her out of Denver. I called her early on in the relapse to let her know what was happening, and after that got my own mom involved. The only thing that truly angered me throughout the ordeal was the fact that Adrienne's mom consistently deferred to my mom, instead of talking to me directly. It hurt that while I mopped Adrienne's vomit her mom treated me like I might break at any time, too. So when Adrienne's mom told us, she emailed my mom first. In the email, she had a request: // She asked us to remember Adrienne the way she was "healthy," not the way she was when she came to visit. // And I wondered, how else could I remember her? // Adrienne was not that entity crawling around a hotel room with raw alcohol. Adrienne was the person that I fell head-over-heels in love with in the Einstein's parking lot, where we were allowed to stand outside 3 times a day for "fresh air." People, you listen to me: Adrienne was the epitome of a TOTALLY RAD FEMALE, and she had every right to be at that party. // Adrienne was one of the most unapologetic, genuine people I ever met, and she was also (thankfully) one of the most fun, gracious, and kind. She walked around this world wearing pink/ animal print/ heels/ gold, like every sidewalk crack was a shell on the shores of South Beach. She laughed all the time, at herself and you and that tree and at herself for laughing at all of that. She flit through this life like a butterfly, delighted, so apt to see the positive in any situation. Her bright, glittery makeup perfectly complemented her personality. Even if you were a Gothic Satan-worshipper you would be hard-pressed to admit that Adrienne wasn't the most charming 90's starlet on this side of the equator. The best thing? She didn't even know it. // Adrienne...Adrienne did Sodoku every night. She put on her pajamas and turned on some silly television show. She knew how to have fun. She knew how to relax. In fact, Adrienne coined the oft-used term, "mindlessness," that became our way of saying, "I am going to veg out and not feel guilty for it and IN FACT I'm going to enjoy every minute of it JUSTTRYANDSTOPME!" She had wit, that girl, and she used it with humility.// I was going through my phone today. Her name floated across my screen. I deleted it. Is that it, then? That's all? Can't she just come to one more party, do one more Sodoku, get kicked out of the dining hall for dipping her Oreos in her milk with me, just once more? // When I was young, I realized that a wrinkle existed in the fabric of my life. My mom told me just how important that wrinkle was: "unplanned, but not unwanted." My mom helped me through the wrinkle-- no, the rip-- that was Adrienne's last visit. Adrienne's mom requested that we remember the beauty in her. I can't help but do that. However, her life will always be creased by the fact that it ended so tragically. // Adrienne, you may have been unfortunate. But you were not unloved. // God bless you.

Hope!

A really good soup inevitably leads to soul-sharing, I swear it's true. After a particularly warming Ramen yesterday afternoon, I found myself listening to the love tales of a new friend. The guy had had a rough couple of years, to say the least; too young and too smitten, he had rushed into a marriage only to divorce a few years later. He retreated and bachelor-dom for several months until he eventually fell in love with a beautiful friend. Of course, the divine machine had other plans. He was offered a job in Denver. Alas, his love stayed back in Michigan, a mitten none too warm...The thing that hurt the most, we decided, was not the forced distance. No, it was the fact that he had just gotten a little taste, a tiny morsel, of hope. Real hope, exciting hope, the type of hope that doesn't just say, "things will work out in the end." It's the type of hope where you jump out of bed, feel surges of creativity, and want to act, want to move, want to sip that hope through a candy straw in a 1950's diner. He could love and be loved again.// Yesterday, we both recognized the power of this kind of hope. And today, a little spiritualism taught me why. // One of my favorite religious rituals involves going to the Sacred Retreat Jesuit services in Sedalia. I meet my grandparents there, eat donuts, then go back to their house to spend a good portion of the afternoon discussing the sermon and enjoying their company. I love the Jesuits because they bring a modern mentality to such...dated...stories. Every once in a while they deliver a sermon that tells me exactly what I need to know, perfectly illuminating whatever ideas were stewing in the dark corners of my conscience. Today, they talked about hope.// According to the man in the nice purple dress (it's the second week of Advent, folks), hope is made up of three main ingredients: desire, imagination and mutuality. // Desire is the ability to describe what it is that we want. He challenged the group to wonder, "Do I truly desire to walk in the path of Christ?" He explained that we have the ability to pave the way for Christ. It felt like the Hindu teaching of "attraction," wherein we put into the world what we want to get out of it. Or like when, at my job, we "prime the tubing," which means preparing our medical device tubing by running water through it before the actual medicine. You know, stretching before a big game. // Then comes imagination. So many self-help books evoke the idea of "visualization," instructing us to imagine our desires achieved. Really, isn't that just a lot like prayer? One good idea, said our priest, was to imagine yourself walking in the path of Christ with someone else. Maybe even someone that you don't particularly like. Imagine being with them in that blessed state, without any addendum to your relationship ("I could walk with them if they just..."). A little good hopeful empathy.// Finally, there is mutuality. Mutuality is "excitement," the stimulus to act that is inspired by our relationships with others. Mutuality, said the priest, is where the spirit is.// All this talk about hope walked straight up to the front door of my heart and entered without knocking. You see, I could (and will) apply this hope-help to all the aspects of my life that I value: my spirituality, my career, my personal motivations, my friendships. But in that moment all I could think about was my open, aching heart.// Because it was hard to listen to my friend talk about the electric hope of a new love, since I felt that same hope-- about him. Yes, ye loyal readers, my newest love interest was telling me all about his love interest. I was completely blind-sided. In fact, I felt like I had been led-on. The point was that it hurt. Like mistaking Wasabi for guacamole. // Today I pulled my aching heart out of bed and into the hands of a gray-haired older couple and a man in a white and purple dress. And they told me about hope. My Grandma gave me a hug. The sun poured through the stained glass windows. The pine trees smelled like Christmas. And I felt love, love, hope and love. I sat in church desiring to love and be loved, to form the type of hope that would persist despite Amandas and Evans. I imagined myself finally writing again, putting all of this creative inspiration into the form of words, something I truly love. And then I saw my Aunt and my Grandma, their husbands, and our mutual bond.// Hope. Full.

P[ublic] R[elations] As you are well aware, I love writing in my blog. It became for me this multi-faceted connector of life's elements, from my relationship with my own prides and neuroses to my relationships with my family and strangers. I loved being able to sit down, spout my thoughts on the screen, and then watch the public river sweep them over the pebbles until they resembled something I never even imagined they could be. A couple months ago something changed. My posts had been sputtering due to a lack of time and restlessness (we all know how assumptive the "unhappy artist" scenario can become). The last time I posted was April 4. My dedicated readers (thanks, Grammy) kept asking why I stopped writing. And I didn't really have an answer. Yes, when I started my new job in March I really needed the time to get established there, move into my new place, and reconfigure my life. However, I had been successful in this new scene for nearly 2 months now and still possessed no desire to funnel my words into the world. I blamed it on obsessive reading, which is true: I can't seem to gobble up enough books right now. But there was something going on a little deeper. After some consideration, I think it might be an issue of poor PR. While waiting for my computer to a bath courtesy of the Computer Geeks, I ran across an article in "Psychology Today" discussing the power of dialogue in overcoming or overwhelming a situation. The article stated that simply talking about a negative situation in one's life is helpful in making it seem less intense. The act of voicing one's worries revokes some of their overwhelming significance. Talking about something that you're unhappy about ("venting," if you will) is a great means for recognizing, validating, and then moving past it. Ask anyone who's spoken with a counselor, at a 12-step meeting, or over a mimosa at brunch, and they will probably concur. That's where the article took a turn. It stated that while talking about negatives mitigates their power, verbalizing exciting and positive elements of one's life can have the opposite effect. Talking about the newest accomplishment dis-empowers it in the same manner, meaning that it can seem less special and important. Apparently, keeping it quiet is like planning that surprise party for your friend where almost all of the excitement is in the build-up. Once the news finally springs, then it's out there, no longer warming in the oven of your soul. This fascinated me. I had spent the last year of my life telling everyone everything. I tried to tell anyone who would listen about how busy I was in attempt to assert my successes despite my faltering ego. Then, I told anyone who would listen about my eating disorder, "I feel" statements dotting my vocal canvas like clocks on a Dali painting. Every single time I told someone about my struggles I empowered myself to move past them. And every time I told someone about my successes, I felt a tinge of guilt, like I was trying to hide behind them. So blogging was an excellent function in the recovery process. No secrets, no hidden agendas. Just me and what I felt. Actually, me and the world and what I felt, if they would listen. Until I began to notice some corresponding implications in my PR activities. Like, when I made things really awkward (case in point: I told an entire crew of volunteers that I couldn't drink coffee because I have an anxiety disorder and it made me wacko. I swear I felt this collective thought cross their minds: "I saw you slugging the free coffee like Michael Phelps on Gatorade not even one hour ago...O, god"). Or when I told people what I felt and it happened to end with something like, "And that's why I don't like you right now." It all came to a hilt when I applied to the Peace Corps. A brief disclaimer: Yes, I am now going to tell you why I regret disclosing my Peace Corps application status, that I really wish I had kept it secret, and I am going to do so in a blog that will surely dismantle any secrecy that I still had on the topic. This is venting, it's getting out one of those negative things so that it will seem less important. Goodness forbid there be no method to my hypocrisy. Right now there's probably a 50/50 chance that I will make it through this next round of application approvals. I was accepted through the first application and interview with flying colors. I disclosed my eating disorder and time at ERC from the get-go. I, like my recruiter, felt like it was actually a differentiating factor that could help my candidacy (I'm obviously a driven person who cares). They asked me for a special medical review, where my former treatment team was required to describe my treatment and sign-off in support of my attendance. That's currently under review. It is likely that I won't be accepted. The problem was that when I very first started the process I forgot to set boundaries about who I wanted to know. All the sudden my grandparents were telling the neighbors that I WAS IN and they were congratulating me and asking WHEN I WAS GOING. In reality, I knew that I might have to come back to them four months later and say, "Oh, yah, I didn't actually get in because I went to the skinny/loony-bin a few months back...." That's not a conversation that I wanted to have and definitely not one a seasoned PR professional would ever place themselves in the position to take. So I drew back. I didn't want to keep divulging my innermost thoughts and then suffering the public consequences. I wanted to turn inside for a while, put a happy little calzone full of self-care and pride in my wood-fired oven and let it roast for a good, long time. And I didn't want to mop-up after my own PR disasters. It was like when all those little Disney stars finally get the memo to stop sending nudie pics, no matter how tight their new little boobies are. But I miss writing. I miss sitting in front of my computer and quietly funneling my thoughts into nearly-identifiable statements. I miss looking at the incidents in my life through a creative lens. And sometimes, I really miss being able to vent, because I can say things here that I could never say in the open air. The open page is just a little more conducive to rationality. And loonies like me benefit from some logic now and again. So, I'm back. I'm going to try to focus this blog on finding the best means to dissect my negatives and carefully convey my positives. I'm also going to try to bring less "me" and more "it" into it by illustrating low-brow ideas rather than focusing (wholly) on my own interpretations of them. This is a PR project, people. You're the P! Can you Relate?

Growing Pains

This post was inspired by the book, "The Social Animal," by David Brooks. He looks at the human psychology, including birth, love, careers, macro-level political structures, and aging, by taking the reader through the life-story of his two main characters. The ironic thing about this entry is that it's all about how we mature throughout our lives, but the book that I've turned to since completing "The Social Animal" is "The Hunger Games." I swear, it's only so I can discuss it with my sisters...

One of the most interesting parts of "The Social Animal" is the fact that the author spent much more time exploring the lives of his main characters in the years after they turned 30. I figured that he'd focus on those "coming-of-age" moments during the vibrant, active, exploratory younger years. After all, isn't the best time of people's lives their 20's?

In fact, when asked, many people say that the age they'd least like to return to is that period between high-school and "middle-age" (which we tend to think of as beginning around 30). David Brooks presents this time as a big messy journey; a day-to-day, cutthroat, stressful period that's really just a psychic mess. It's like a purgatory between the operational growth of the younger years and the meaningful journeying of those years past 30.

I couldn't agree with him more. In our society we purport this belief that once you hit a certain age, usually between 30 and 50, you've basically become "who you are" and can't expect to change much. After that there's some years of smooth sailing, when you live with your partner, have kids, maybe move a couple of times, enjoy a stable job or two, and begin planning for your retirement. Then you retire and either spend your time being silly and useless, taking care of grandchildren, or fighting off your doom. There's a common understanding that as you get older you become less able to "learn:" you function more slowly and are less likely to undertake in the sorts of activities that educate you, unless it's a lecture that you may be able to dose during and still retain some information about.

In fact, all sorts of statistics show that this idea is unfounded. As David Brooks justifies, when placed in stressful work environments those employees over the age of 55 respond just as rapidly and also more logically than their younger counterparts. Moreover, when asked to learn tasks and recall memorized facts the older generation does it just as well and often with more accurately. Given the increasing longevity of our lives, our retirees may live 40-50 years without the stress of a job, partaking in the sorts of exra- and intra- exploration that we assume is only for the young. Plus, they have the time and wisdom to really dive into their topics, allowing them to create the sort of cognitive linkages that create true knowledge. There's nothing silly or useless about getting old.

The other day I was thinking about my parents and recalling again how difficult it must be to raise children. I sometimes wonder if one of the reasons I don't want to have kids is because it will force me to question every idea I have come to cherish, force me to doubt the means and morals that guide my life. I think having kids must be like venturing to a foreign country: you look at your map and apply for your passport but truly have no idea what to expect. When you get there you're observant and reactionary, waiting for the next new event to pop up and hoping you've got just enough knowledge not to get yourself into trouble. We expect, even demand, that our parents have it together, that they be some sort of stoic pond of wisdom. But I've watched my parents grow with me every step of the way. It's that growth, the ability to admit wrongs, learn from mistakes, and apply new messages to their lives that makes them good parents.

When I think about the guidance that my parents and grandparents provide I think about how they feel like a strong wall, right up against my back, ready to offer a steadying presence. By connotation, this sort of presence seems opposite to the chaotic and confusing fluctuations of "growth." But, the ability to be strong and wise while undertake self and world-exploration are not mutually exclusive. The difference lies in the rate at which one explores and the way they navigate such a relationship. My grandparents and parents are calmer in their growth; they evaluate things with a certain understanding that it may change. They see the world as being parts of a puzzle and take each piece as it comes. They portray a sense of careful, calm willingness. They don't freak out.

That's what growing means. It doesn't mean going through puberty and slamming on the breaks. It means learning how to mature and committing to that process, forever. It means growing in conjunction with those around you. It means that this is not the only time I have to establish "who I am" and "figure it all out." I've got, like, 80 more years.

Sarah Casewit Photography