SAVING GRACE @ PETE'S KITCHEN The convoy of various freak mobiles thumped and bumped along Colfax, led by my tribal emblazoned yuppie bus boasting the words "Colorado Associated Artists" along both sides. We were all packed up and heading across town for Denver Tattoo dot com's second annual tattoo convention at the Holiday Inn. I was talking with one of the other vehicles in our parade de macabre via cell phone regarding our destination when I was hit by a wave of panic! The last time I was forced to belly up to a hotel feeding trough, it was about 20 bucks for a dried out piece of chicken cadaver covered in some indefinable quivering gelatinous mass. And although I'm always up for writing a scathing review about a horrible dining experience, I don't get paid enough to intentionally poison myself to do so. I figured we had better stop for sustenance before we were trapped in over-priced overcooked dining hell. I had to think quickly: what kind of a place would we be able to get decent food without frightening the local environs out of their wits? Then there it was, the preferred eatery of tattoo artists and musicians everywhere, Pete's Kitchen! I made a hard left that almost caused the entire group to collide with one another but after honking of horns and screeching of brakes we managed to park and head inside. Although words cannot truly explain the motley nature of this crew I will try to convey the shadow of darkness that fell over the establishment as we entered. I held the door open as lovely little Aimee, our resident dark angel, sauntered in stopping the hearts of the majority of the restaurant patrons. Some hearts stopped due to the vampirophobic fear of being bitten, but most aortal fluttering, I'm sure, was caused by the hopes of a biting as opposed to the fear of one. Needless to say, corseted and layered in vinyl, she was as always a sight to behold. Just after her, Dave sort of lurked through the door. I'm not sure if it's an actual lurk or if its just kind of a tired gait due to the 12-pound logging chain attached to his wallet. Nonetheless, he tends to get a few looks since he is as pierced as you can get without interfering with radio signals--although from time to time you can catch bits and pieces of KBPI broadcasts when he passes out with his mouth open. Jeff Benson made his entrance offering a surreal dichotomy in rock-and-roll nostalgia. The necessary ingredients in this DNA stew would include equal parts Ozzy Osborne and Wolfman Jack, zest of Rob Zombie with a little Texas Toad Lickers to taste. Boil it all over an open flame until it screams like Henry Rollins then give it a tattoo gun and unleash it on the unsuspecting public. Behind Jeff, strolling in with his usual "no autographs please" vibe was Chad a.k.a. Smokin' Mad Chad (don't ask) who aside from being one of our more talented artists is also an aspiring rock star. Gel seems more of a lifestyle than a hair care product for him. Luckily, we were able to talk him out of wearing the striped spandex pants and glitter boots on this trip. Otherwise people might have thought we were weird. Finally, Porno Jim made it through the door wearing his usual deeply concerned look. It's this "I can't find my wallet with the winning lottery ticket in it" vibe and it always makes me panic a little every time I see it. Porno didn't pick up his handle from being a perv (although he is kinda quiet, and you know what they say about the quiet ones). He got the name from a much less exotic fact; his former gig was working in a smut hut. All this said you can imagine how this group entering a middle American dining establishment could leave the patrons in a mass of huddled hysteria. But at Pete's we were welcomed with open arms. We found a large booth and ordered our drinks. I decided on a cup of Pete's hair-raising coffee, with plenty of sugar so as to be sure to incite hallucinations while driving. When it came time to ordering our food I opted for my usual, a double breakfast special with two extra eggs. What this actually entails is about a half of a pound of fried potatoes, eight strips of bacon, half a dozen eggs and four slices of toast. Everything was awesome just like always. Someone ordered gyros and I heard similar rave reviews. We ponnied up the tab and headed back out on our tattoo pilgrimage. Once we arrived at the Holiday Inn we encountered a new level of the strange and unusual. Lots of very conservative business suit, decorative pin-wearing types. It turns out that the tattooed, decorative facial jewelry wearing types were sharing the hotel with a miniature doll convention of some sort, now that's entertainment! We filed down the long hallways being passed by various forms of the cleaver family for what seemed like hours. Then at long last the tiny tributary of normality emptied out into a vast lake of freakdom. Freaks, Geeks and Tweaks as far as the eye could see. The rest of the crew headed for our booth, but since I wasn't there to work I just started milling around in my usual mindless manner, shaking hands here, hob-knobbing there. There was a very good turn out considering that most Americans were glued to their TVs in horror all week. It was easy to tell that no one here had forgotten what was going on outside our little tattoo haven, as there were plenty of American flags waving grim reminders at every turn. I entered the portrait of myself that Jeff did on my inner bicep in the competition. Partly because of the tattoo but mostly so I could have a legitimate excuse to flex onstage in front of a crowd. Jeff didn't win with my piece (some people just don't recognize greatness when they see it) but he was among the winners with a couple other pieces he did, as were a couple more of our C.A.A. crew: Scottie Deville and the aforementioned Porno Jim. So all in it was a great event for all involved, especially us, and all fueled by mass calories courtesy of the cholesterol wizardry of Pete's. All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go-Go Media, LLC