Popination Perforation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: British Bulldog.
Also, more tattoos from the Little Black Church.
Who knew there were so many British pubs in Denver? I sure didn’t. But here I am, only a few days after the Wild Corgi with Friend Melissa, and I’ve discovered the British Bulldog. My purpose in going out that day was ostensibly about getting another tattoo, and so I looked around on my Denver map for interesting pubs near the tattoo shop. And I hadn’t heard of the British Bulldog, though my fiancé had. Turns out it’s a mere 4 minute walk from the pub to the studio, and I’m certainly going to remember that next time I need another bit of art to fill up the blank spaces on my left arm.
Bri’ish Buwdog, innit
The neighborhood around the British Bulldog pub (and the tattoo shop) is very near the ersatz arts district of Denver proper, called RiNo. It is still rather a patchwork of gentrified artsy murals and gastropubs and galleries, with homeless resource centers, homeless people themselves, and crunchy lots or condemned shells of buildings. So walking around, even just the short distance from the pub to the Little Black Church, requires one’s head on a swivel. But that’s okay; I don’t mind that once in a while.
Inside, it was very cozy: full of worn old wood and ancient neon signs along with a row of leather bound booths against one wall. I would have stayed for a longer time (and maybe a snack) if I hadn’t had a tattoo appointment set so soon.
Every Time We Drink We’re Involved in Violence* (or at least, art)
It’s said that drinking alcohol before a tattoo is not a good idea, but I happen to feel like it eases my pain and stress quite a bit. As long as I don’t overdo it, of course. Same as with performing. I’ve talked about this a few times before, especially in my Popination to Well80, and the vocab word Discipline. Oh, and I described The Last Tap of my RenFaire days in my Popination to Brooks Place Tavern, too. That run to the RenFaire pub was nearly as much a part of the whole performance process there as the fight scenes themselves, which makes sense if you think about it. Pub culture and Popinating for me is intermingled with my artistic practices, which feels venerable to me. I mean, as long as I’m not going full Hemingway (or, fill-in-your-favorite-actor’s name-here) on myself. But then too much or too little of many things is bad. What’s the term I’ve heard used in connection to dieting? Moderation, not deprivation. Which for me is a good balance. I am fully aware and do honor the fact that, for some, going full sober is the only healthy choice. That’s totally fair, and I’ve been happy to see that even in little places like my ‘local’ across the street, there are more and more quite tasty N/A options that aren’t just soda or O’Doul’s.
From Well80’s Popination:
I’m certainly not the first excellent actor to “think while I drink.” It’s all in the balance, though—too little and I’m too tightly wound, my voice shallow, my breath not up to the snuff of one of Shakespeare’s greatest Fools. Too much, and the opposite happens: I’m too sloppy in the brain to conquer the complex language, and my singing voice goes flat.
From ‘Discipline’:
The fact that I began my drinking habits in college ain’t no coincidence, either. See, this good prof and the others showed us how to find that dark pool inside our psyche and jump in. But what they didn’t teach us was how to swim, get out, and dry off. Many of us stewed in our own juices too much and couldn’t cope. Some of us drowned. Most of us took to drink. I was an odd one—also a writer, I found writing to help in that drying-off process as well as the drink.
It is, as you can see, all about reasonable moderation; health as well as comfort. Moderation, not deprivation (or starvation). This is why I’ve found myself engaged in several conversations with different people this year about how Dry January has felt restrictive and punishing (and classist and unnecessary) this time around. I think part of the DJ dissatisfaction has to do with the change in U.S. administration this January, driving many of us to drink in an attempt to ease the fear and stress, but for me it’s more about the fact that January is like, the worst choice of month to do such an exercise in abstinence. It’s a new year, partner’s job is at its height of stressful activity, various family members come visit or vice-versa, and one of the stepgoblins has a birthday. It’s bad timing for teetotaling, is what it is. I’ve heard it suggested to do Dry February instead since it’s such a short month, but this is my birthday month (as well as Stout Month), so I’m not having that.
*My partner and I adore this song, as it’s full of joy and is …well we both love our various martial arts practices, and also our pub time together. We had half-joked in our past that this song would be our ‘first dance’ song at our wedding, and we’d spar instead of dance. Now that we’re actually planning our wedding, though… I dunno, this idea makes me tired out just thinking about it. Cute thought, though, right?
I’ve written before about the Little Black Church tattoo parlor, and how cool and gothy a place it is, but I think I’ve only written about it on my socials, not here. It’s a dark goth church theme to all the decor, sort of like The Crypt, but more elegant than bloody. More like beloved Incantation Brewery (who I’ve heard are closing down, heartbreakingly). The LBC’s got communion wafers in silver trays at the front desk, an ink-splattered Christ crucified on the central pillar, and a huge baptismal font decorating the center of the open area behind, flanked by artists’ tattooing beds and equipment. Last time I was here, I got a beautiful rose in black and white and greyscale, rendered in gorgeously fine detail on my left hand, by one Adam (nicknamed Duder). His fine line work looks impossible for tattooing, and so I’ve come back for more: a dagger to fill up the space between that rose and the armband on my forearm. It’s itching me now as I type, and healing beautifully.
Suffice to say, that was a wonderful Wednesday: the British Bulldog, a piece of new body art, and then an extraordinary old fashioned at Terminal Bar to conclude. That’s a good day, right there.
I’ll do Moist March instead. That’ll be way better.