For some of us, it doesn't get better.

 I was 18. Freshman year of college.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was walking down the sidewalk somewhere on campus. It was brisk fall day.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt this overwhelming compulsion to cry.

Nothing was wrong. In fact, the sun was out, pretty girls were walking everywhere wearing their pretty smiles, and I had every reason to be enjoying every single breath I was taking.

But instead of relishing in the beauty of my surroundings, a sinking sadness pulled me off that sidewalk and dropped me under a tree a few dozen feet away.

Within about 30 seconds, I became incapacitated by a choking wave of despair that any attempt to describe would only serve as an insult.

I had no choice. I was overcome.

And so, I positioned myself to be out of sight from anyone, and under that tree in Georgia, I wept.

This wasn't some limp-wristed, half-assed kind of cry, either. This was an abruptly violent, tears-and-mucous bawl that spewed forth, powered by every muscle my torso could recruit.

I distinctly remember, as my face contorted and my body pulsed in agony, wondering what the exact hell was happening.

For as I said, nothing was wrong.

My dog hadn't died.

I didn't fail an exam.

I mean, I was even wearing sandals, so my shoes couldn't have even been on too tight.

The point is I had zero reason to be any kind of sad at all, and yet, there I was under that tree, enduring an S-tier existential ache that manifested as the ugliest, vilest, and most consuming cry I had had since my mother passed years prior.

About 20 minutes in, sheer exhaustion took over. After all, one can only heave, secrete, and writhe for so long before the body taps out. And that's exactly what happened.

My abdominal and neck muscles were swollen with lactic acid. The tears and snot had begun drying into a stiff patina on my face, and I had just enough sense about me to attempt a standing position, which then turned into a slow, somber walk to my dorm room.

Keeping my head down, I made it to privacy, where I dropped on my bed and tried to understand what just happened.

Little did I know that what I had experienced was the first of what would be thousands of acute depressive episodes that would rip from me any kind of peace or contentment I could hope to enjoy for longer than a few days at a time.

That first episode was in 1998.

Some loose math will inform you that I'm in my mid-40's now. 50 is a stone's throw away, and by now, I have an ironclad grasp on the affliction that has been the albatross around my neck for the majority of my adult life.

Depression. More specifically, Major Depressive Disorder, or MDD.

Nearly 30 years of the stuff.

Jesus...reading that just now, man...it should make me feel like a warrior.

'30 years'.

Instead, it makes me feel embarrassed.

Oh I've tried it all. I know people say that and many of them are being hyperbolic, but in my case, it's everything and the kitchen sink:

Medications (more than 15 different ones)

Therapy (group and individual)

Inpatient/Outpatient treatment

ECT (that was a wild ride)

TMS (a recent and costly foray)

Psychedelic therapy (interesting, but altogether inconsequential)

Prayer (a last ditch effort)

Meditation/Mindfulness (a great tool but far from a true salve)

...and I won't bore you with the continued list. I think you get the point.

Speaking of points...what is the point in writing all of this out?

I used to talk about my depression in hopes of some kind of cathartic release, which does happen sometimes if I'm lucky.

But really, I think my point in writing all this up is to speak to the few of you who may feel completely alone in your struggle even after numerous decades of doing everything you're told to do in an effort to feel better.

Because, if you're like me, things just haven't gotten better for you.

Despite the well-meaning platitudes lobbed our way from friends, family and doctors, for some of us, it just doesn't get better.

Sure, there might be fits and spurts of hope...maybe an entire week or two might go by without a single suicidal thought or enervating bout of self-flagellation.

But, again, if you're like me, you eventually return to the default state.

The tired, melancholic, and yet still brutally honest state, where nothing is purer than the gravity that pulls your very soul down into the pit of your bowels with every passing moment.

This weight...this heft...no one can experience but you. It's 100% unique to your being, and in a way, it's sort of something to be proud of.

It's like, "There are many who may have sadness, but there are none who have MINE."

It's a small pride, but it's a pride nonetheless.

---

They say that when we die, we endure a life review during which we're shown all the consequences of every important decision we ever made.

For me, I've had to make a conscious, perpetual decision to simply stay alive.

To stay alive, despite the callous yank of death and the siren-like call of nonexistence

To stay alive, despite the instinctual urge to fold into the assured peace of non-being

To stay alive, despite the now-certainty that there's much more to fear in this life than there is to celebrate.

And so, when that life review happens, I hope I see first-hand the benefits of having made this decision.

Because I surely cannot see them now.

Thanks for reading.

Why Breaking Rules Is OK If You're Casa Bonita

If you live a block away from Casa Bonita like I do (a fact I'm never more than two minutes away from telling anyone I meet for the first time), you pay attention to the hullabaloo surrounding this gawdy, Pepto Bismol-ensconsed, culturally textured, kinda-Mexican-but-also-kinda-clowncar-esque steepled palace of mystery and memories. 

For the past two years or so, I've watched as new HVAC equipment was installed. A fresh coat of paint was slathered on. Two dudes known for their churlish, fart humor-fueled cartoon creation invested in it. Media speculation ran wild with tantalizing ideas of what the 'new' Casa Bonita might be like. 

Would there be cliff divers? (We now know that there will be)

Is the food going to still suck? (Probably not)

Will there be South Park characters? (One can only hope)

All this has been good fun to observe from afar, but as the time draws nearer and nearer to the pink pearly gates being swung open and the starving, rampaging masses of Coloradoans are allowed ingress into Casa Bonita, I'm sitting here wondering one thing: 

What's their tagline going to be?

Well, dear friends, yesterday, the marketing department at Casa Bonita, in between feverous sopaipilla binges and fielding customer demands for information related to the opening, dropped the tagline on us, in the form of this massive billboard.

Now, the first thing you'll notice is that you can't read the tagline. It's in white, against a light background.

Their creative team might have been easily forgiven for this graphic design faux pas were it not for the downright atrocity that is the tagline itself. 

Are you sitting down for this? 

Casa Bonita's new tagline is:

The Greatest Restaurant in the World

I'll give you a few seconds to let that sink in. 

. 

.

. 

Still not done yet?

Here's a few more.

.

.

.

Ok. Let's discuss. 

First of all, on the face of it, this tagline is horrifically broken. It's not about the customers or the experience of visiting Casa Bonita itself, nor is it at all unique. It's not imperative. And it attempts to depict Casa Bonita as an actual contender in the comparison of the world's ultimate dining destinations, including:

• Geranium in Copenhagen, ranked the #1 restaurant in the world, where a 3-hour tasting course will set you back a cool $600 a person. 
• Maido in Lima, where you can score an authentic Peruvian dining experience and wine pairing for about $1,250. 
• Quintonil in Mexico City, where $400 hardly buys you a seat at the table. 

The point is this: even a cursory evaluation of the world's greatest restaurants would lead even a gastronomic neophyte to the obvious conclusion that there is no way in hell Casa Bonita could ever be considered the greatest restaurant in the world. The mere assertion is laughable, which makes Casa Bonita's new tagline comically flat, absurdly arrogant, and an absolute embarrassment for those of us who write copy for a living. 

...or is it?

Here's the thing. If Casa Bonita was any other company in the world, this tagline would have been scrapped during the first round of cuts, and the person who came up with it would have been promptly and justly fired with extreme prejudice. 

But, this is Casa Bonita. It's a self-evidently ridiculous place. Its history is ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. Its very brand essence is steeped in a kind of unabashedly self-aggrandizing proclamation of kitsch and camp, which, upon further and deeper consideration, makes this tagline...

absolutely...

perfect. 

...because we all know Casa Bonita isn't actually the greatest restaurant in the world. It's not the greatest anything in the world. But, the very gall it takes to stand up and trumpet such a farce of a claim is exactly the kind of thing that a Casa Bonita mascot would do (I, for one, vote for Cartman). 

And you know what? It works, which is why breaking all the rules is 100% A-OK, so long as you're Casa Bonita and not anyone else. 

• BD

Bret Dallas and The Brothers of Brass: Epilogue

 After nearly five years of constantly being at each other's throats, I'm proud (and relieved) to say that our beef is over.

This story is a long and twisting one, but it bears a moral that I think has import for anyone who has ever held a grudge...especially one lasting for almost half a decade.

____________________

I'm Bret Dallas.

I play guitar on the 16th Street Mall. I've been at it for something like 12 years. Honestly, I've lost count.

I'm loud; I get it. But, there are more people who enjoy the music I make than there are who dislike it. At least, it has always seemed that way.

Back in 2017, my go-to performance spot was at 16th and Champa, right in front of what was then the Rialto Cafe (RIP). This is a highly trafficked area of the Mall, which makes it prime real estate for street performers. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when a brass band began playing their music on the corner next to the Chili's restaurant.

Now...I don't know if you've ever experienced the sonic throttling that a 6- or 7-piece brass band can produce. It's *impressively* loud. But, you know, when the music is actually good, it kind of doesn't matter how loud it is, does it?

Well, it does if you're vying for the same performance space like I was.

When the Brothers of Brass first hit the scene in Denver about five years ago, they pissed me right the fuck off. And, I got pretty damn vocal about it. There was a Westword write-up on the situation, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't fan the flames on Reddit more than a few times.

In the throes of all this rifting, I began to get downright exhausted. I takes a lot of energy to keep hating all the time, and when COVID hit last year and the crowds along the mall began to thin out, I found myself wondering why the hell I kept allowing this nonsense to eat away at me.

Fast forward to a few months ago. The COVID hullaballoo had started to abate, and I found myself enjoying an open mic jazz show at the Mercury Cafe with some friends when who should take the stage but the venerable Armando Lopez himself—one of the frontmen for the Brothers of Brass.

He ripped it proper as is his MO. Dude is a beast on clarinet and sax, though it's taken me this long to admit that without doing so through clenched teeth.

After he stepped off the stage, I decided it was time to place my hat firmly in my hands gulp down my pride, and offer up an olive branch.

"Armando. What's up, man," I said.

"Bret Dallas. How are you?" he replied.

"I'm alright. Look, man. What would you think about all this fighting becoming water under the bridge?" I said, extending my hand.

"Man, we've always wanted that," he said, shaking my hand.

...and that was pretty much it.

To give even more credence to the character of these guys, the sousaphone player I had an especially hard time with went out of his way just a few days ago to approach me and offer an apology of his own. I was shocked. So shocked, in fact, that I didn't get the chance to respond with an apology of my own.

So, Khalil, if you're reading this, I'm sorry, too. I did and said some shit that was way out of line, and I apologize for it.

...which brings us to today.

Love it or hate it, the 16th Street Mall is a staple of the Downtown Denver experience. As it continues to evolve (hopefully for the better), I hope the musicians who bring their magic continue to do so alongside each other instead of as adversaries.

I know I've learned a lot about myself and my craft these past few years. And, I'm now genuinely happy to see the BoB enjoying their hard-won success.

Keep it funky, my dudes.

Thanks for reading.

Replacing Coffee with Vali's Caffeine+L-Theanine Stack; +Kratom Giveaway...

Aniracetam! Overview, dosages, cost, etc...

Interview with an Ex-Heroin Addict, Pt. 2: Cody's Story

Poem

Sanguine light leaps from torches burning in the settled eve

A caravan of outcasts marches, bound as thieves

All of them save one dishonest to the core

But The One plays the role as if he'd lived it before

Journeying further and further into a jade green mystery

One thief perishes in a fall, having stepped carelessly

The promise of a king's fortune pushes them forth

Always, always, always and hastily to the North

The nascent pink of dawn glows at the horizon

It cooks the dying night, a relief from lightless boredom

The men welcome the day with renewed energy

Until a scattering of glowing eyes appears in the leaves

They aren't alone and The One is first to see them

Are they fairies? Goblins? Perhaps mischievous mermen?

The thieves slow their pace and ready their swords

When the leader of the Watchers steps slowly forward

As if of the shadows themselves the creature appears

A caustic, dark stare bewitches and fears

The thieves are confused yet The One steadies them

Before confronting the beast, he whispers: "Be ready, men."

"Pronounce yourself, wight. We are armed!" The One says

The Watcher obliges and reveals a purplish, contorted head

"Hsssshhhhhhh..." It hisses in disapproval in startling chorus

With the army of other wights spread out through the forest

"You come to our land in search of treasure, do you not?"

As black steam rises around it, It's voice cackles and pops

"How foolish of you to presume it unguarded...such folly."

"Figured you'd just pillage this place and dance off jolly?"

The sinister laughter of the demons resounds in the morn

It is devilish and confident, piercing and scorned

"We have come for gold and jewels, but not more than we need"

"For long and healthy lives for us and our families."

The beast recoils in disgust as the men band closer

The One feels ready to fight, but his men aren't so sure.

Who knows the number of demons that lay anxiously in wait

Surely watching with keen eyes for the end of this debate

"Fools, all of you!" the wight screams out, "The stupidity and gall..."

"...you have to venture here, and to expect anything at all.

We'll rend then flesh from your bones and drain you of all life

Until your corpses stack so high that they block the moonlight!"

A muffled cry rings out from the rear of the mens ranks

As the first of them falls to an attack on their flank

The One draws his rapier and stands ready for battle

But the men are surprised; even the best of them scatter

Suddenly a rallying cry from The One resounds forth

"This is our time, men! Bring them down with your swords!"

A flash of blackness darts quickly, almost too fast to mark

But a skillful parry from The One ends the threat in the dark

Looking across the skirmish, The One sees his men 

One by one being killed, their lives each being ended

But losing hope was never an option for him

So The One redoubles his efforts and fights for the win

Black blood from a wight splashes across The One's face

It burns as it soaks and has an awful, foul taste

A demonic howl indicating that a wight had been killed

Gives rise to confidence on the men's battlefield

"They're breaking!" he says, giving heart to his party

"Strike hard at their throats and let's end this Dark Army!"

And still on they fight, with unmatched fervor and skill

Until finally, one by one, the wights are all killed. 

A hush falls over the scene and the darkness seems lifted

The One then hopes the morale of his men shifted

"There may be more left, so mind your surroundings"

The One yells out with force, his hope for a win mounting

But there are no ears to hear him, and his men are all dead. 

The only sign of life comes from a twitching corpse with no head

The One stands alone in a scene of crimson black

The blood of his men soak the ground, life never to get back

"Thieves you all were, and you died just as such.

Your valor was strong, though your honor not so much

But I shan't for a moment let this minor setback

Keep me from the riches that I vowed to get back."