It’s been a long time since my last trip to Denver! 30,000 feet up I can’t help but to reminisce about my last trip to visit a college girlfriend there. Not just any girl, a college dropout turn stripper. At the time, she was working at downtown Denver’s Shotgun Willies, a place that is still there after all these years. I’m not really in to strip clubs, but I thought, what the hell, boobs are great. “Ever had a lap dance?” she asked. “Never, well, not by a pro.” She waved a friend over and whispered in her ear.

Within seconds I was grabbed by the collar and shoved onto a black pleather armless sofa.  “I hope you like it rough, college boy” she said while grinding my lap like a bear itching its back on a tree.  Her four inch black stiletto heels dug into my knees as she waved her shoulder-length jet black hair across my face like a pom pom. I fogged up her thick black-rimmed glasses as Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasted. Her librarian/dominatrix sort of vibe was working until she stuck her tongue in my ear and moaned, “ever get fucked in the ass with a strap-on?” I choked on my spit and laughed so hard that I was completely silent and shaking. The combination of driving two days straight while being strung out on truck-stop coffee had finally paid its toll. The thought of being ass-pegged by a stripper spun me into a crazed delirium. “You think you’re a big shot with a stripper friend, but YOU AIN’T SHIT!” she yelled as I snort-laughed while staring at her bald beefwhistle.

Denver, I’m sorry this is the only story that I associate with you. I hope to change all that this weekend.

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Touching down in Denver, I shoot out of the jetbridge like a late 80’s John Elway running out of the locker-room tunnel to play in the Super Bowl. Instead of riotous applause, the terminal is morbidly quiet with phone zombies floating about in their private bubbles. I could shit on the floor and nobody would notice. I’m here with a GABF media badge, in Denver, to write about Craft.Fucking.Beer. I pound my chest, take a leak, and look for the Super Shuttle.

Do it yourself, assholes!

Next stop: La Quinta Inn: A quality three star highway-side shithole with no pool and do-it-yourself waffle bar.  I am all about the fucking waffle bar! By the end of this trip I will master that damn thing like I’m Gordon Ramsay with a bullwhip. On the shuttle, every poor son of a bitch is in a crappy mood. I sit by lady dressed in a velour track suit sprinkled generously with cat fur and yellowy cigarette tar. “Is that one of those smart phones?” she asks. “I still use an old fashioned cellular” digging through her ‘hoarder on a go’ purse. I notice she’s got a dozen prescription bottles. “Good God woman, got anything good in there? She digs further, pulling out a bottle big enough to hold a roll of quarters. “Here’s a few Risoprodol with Vicodin. What a few?” I’m liking Denver already.

My name is Любовь Ансимова. Want to see my burning bush?

The Kitchen Community is a bright and airy gastropub sitting on a nice corner spot within the 16th Street Mall downtown. Menu options are everything from fresh seafood (Oysters, Muscles, Caviar) to a nice Lamb Burger. As the whole point of this stop is to try a Burning Bush, I have a can cracked and sent my way. Initially the aroma has slight smoke aroma balanced well with some hops. The fuzzy tan head is substantial, capping off a dimly glowing orange beer. I can easily equate the beer to dating a Russian model: First impression, not that smoky, little bit of booze and sexy as all hell. As the night wears on, all those cigarettes she smokes start to intensify. As you make out with her, you think to yourself, “this is the best smoked IPA I’ve ever had.” As the beer warms, the smoke really cranks up a notch. With rauch malt only 2% of the grist, I really need to dial my recipe back! Check it out if you see it!