Boulder's Cafes

--I realized, reading over this, that is sounds really bitter. I didnt intend for that. I see most of these things as just funny and amusing. Quirky enough to put into writing. Hope it didnt come off too bitter.--

Baxter's favorite Boulder cafe is the Cup. Danny likes the Tea Box. Helen goes to Espressoria. My former English teacher can always be found with a laptop and a stack of papers in a manila envelope at the Bookend Cafe. Seth and Daniel call me to come join them at the Trident.

The Trident is probably my favorite too. You can always expect to see the same people at the Trident. Some go there for the indy hipster atmosphere, some to study. Some for the chess boards and backgammon- one of whom is the terrifying Israeli-Romanian Alex, who makes persistent eye contact and speaks in a thick undistinquishable accent. He looks like the kind of person who you would see at one in the morning, drunk, brass knuckles in pocket, looking for a fight to pick or a girl to rob. Im telling you, he's scary looking. Bald, stocky, dismissively flaunting muscle tees, gold chains and rings. But he wouldn't hurt anyone. If he's ever wandering dark allys late at night, he's just looking for someone to discuss developmental phychology with and to beat in backgammon. And oh my god he will. He knows more strategy that I thought was possible in a game made of cork triangles and stone discs.

Samuel's another psychologist I met at the Trident. He hangs around, petting and adjusting his flowing sandy 80's rocker hair, pouting his lips, making skittish eye contact with girls, hoping they'll be impressed by his highlit copy of the DSM-IV and the pot of tea on his table that maybe makes him look sensitive and in touch with... you know, horoscopes, yoga, feelings, all that crap. But no. He just wants someone to watch him from across the room, to partake in his impossible, tempestuous, star-crossed romance. He's a 28 year old man but is in all ways a 16 year old girl. I know this because one day, I went over and talked to him. He was reading The Sun Also Rises, one of my favorite books, and I noticed the little skittish eyes he had been making at me. I was brain-numbed from studying and felt like bursting his little self-indulged bubble of unilateral romantic tension, so I leaned over my table and invited him for a game of boggle. He killed at boggle so naturally I was impressed. But those were the only points he earned in my book. Literally, everything he said was a turn off, from his humble recounting of elicit, dramatic sexual escapades, to his shitty poetry and the invitation for a day of meditation and rock-climbing with him. No way would I go out of city limits with someone who lives so much in their head, could convince themselves of whatever truths favored them, and who didnt mind being suggestive with a 17 year old girl.
"I guess it would be illegal for anything to happen between us, huh."
It must have given him chills saying that. The situation was perfectly unattainable and I'm sure the word "illegal" complemented my eyes and made him squirm and smirk.
"Yes sir it would. Anyway, I have to study so Im leaving bye."

And then there was Spencer, the English major who's impressive ability to whip out of his bag whatever author or poet was mentioned, increased my visitation of the Trident in hopes of bumping into him, until I realized he was a one-act show. I like my guys multi-faceted. Also he straight-up sucked at boggle. Beautiful, though. He looked like a Greek God. A chisled statue of bold features, dark hair and black eyes. I never found out where he was from. But his personality was a bit too much like the stoic, severe statue of his demeanor so I branched out from the Trident to see what else Boulder had to offer.

Now Im at the Laughing Goat. Same cozy space with makeshift furniture but with less Naropa graduates reminiscing over charity drives, meditation workshops, astrology and the power of Soy. Here, people are concious of their volume, showing an initiative other than impressing the table next to theirs', bolstering their failing egos based on disillusioned self-righteous supremacy.

Okay, there's one problem with the Laughing Goat. The only thing in their glass case that wouldn't exacerbate my annoyingly persistant sore throat was a wedge of quiche smaller than my fist. (I have fairly small hands too.)

This quiche is made of egg-flavored rubber. I should have just gotten an italian soda. It's hard to go wrong with an italian soda.