A Proustian Blog; Or Prlog; About Paris And Scenes And The Scenes Of Paris, Hey Hey
Ten points if you tell me who I was channeling there in my title. You know it. Come on.
So I’ve never gone to Paris on the Platte, in all my four years living here, because it always seemed too obvious. Like going to Urban Outfitters or something. It’s where the “cool people” go.
We only ended up there today because the sushi place KLF wanted to take me to happened to be closed at our slacker lunch hour (3 pm). So we came across Paris on the Platte, and when I stepped inside I had a tiny little violent panic attack inside. I couldn’t figure out why. After drinking coffee and blatantly eavesdropping on the group of people next to us, it all came back to me.
I was in this uneasy, hot cold nether world of the intensely familiar
and the foreign. Does anyone else feel this way about the highlands?
Like, that whole area across the pedestrian bridge. It feels hillier
and greyer, and a little bit breezier, like another city. Maybe like
Seattle. Maybe it’s cooler than the rest of Denver. Whenever I’m in
that area, I feel like a traveler. But at the same time, Paris brought
back a tremendous, Proustian whiff of a life I had completely forgotten
- my coffee shop kid life.
That’s right…the life before….bars…..
I, dear Denverites, went to a place called Paris on the POUDRE. Not on
the Platte. I’m completely convinced the two coffee shops are related.
Paris on the Poudre, known in Fort Collins as Paris, was the place to
go to smoke cigarettes, get drugs, and be goth-ey. I spent just about
every day of my teenage life there. You know the blizzards we get, when
you trek to the bars? During my only memorable blizzard from
adolescence I was trekking to Paris in vinyl pants.
There were musicians that hung out at Paris, and 14 year old punks.
Homeless people. There were rumors about people getting head under the
table. Doing lines in the restrooms. I even remember the bathroom
graffiti. One girl had written, in an attempt to be profound, “What
makes you real?” and a smart-ass, advantageous young fellow had
scrawled his name, “Jason &$@#^” as a sort of answer.
So anyways I kept accidentally eavesdropping on the hip kids next to me at Paris on the Platte. I
really think it’s becoming a problem, my voyeuristic tendencies. I kept
having to ask KLF to repeat what he was saying, because I was
absolutely eavesdropping on them. They were from New York. That’s the
thing lately, in Denver. Being from New York. I thought about my
immediate friends lately and…they’re all from New York City. Hm.
My best friend – you might know her as Jewster McHip – she says NYC was
exhausting, impossible to live in, and angry. And Denver is just chill.
Our new friends who just moved from New York, they said the bar scene
here is more laid back. People are actually trying to have a good time,
instead of working on a public image. Then I remember someone else
making a comment about Denver – they said, Denver is hip enough, but
small enough that everyone here thinks they’re famous.
Which is absolutely true. It’s not even a question for me. On any given
day, I am completely convinced that all of our friends are going down
in history. If we don’t, I won’t be the smallest bit disappointed.
Because at least we’ve lived famously. Plus, then we would be sellouts
Anyways. What was I saying?