Denver Stranger Danger Tour

First thing we do in Denver? Starbucks. Because priorities. Nothing says vacation like paying nine bucks for hot bean water.

Then we Google breakfast. GPS takes us… to the airport. Yeah. Nothing like being starving and lost to make you laugh like hyenas. We finally eat, and I’m like, “Okay… not funny… but at least the omelet was good.”

More Specialty store shopping in Denver? Oh, it’s not thrift. It’s Rich People Runway. Brandy’s driving us, she goes the wrong way down a one-way street—then takes us OFF-ROAD. Over the sidewalk, between dumpsters, back onto the street like nothing happened. Rob hears about it later and says, “That’s because you’re a smooth criminal.” Even Michael Jackson would be proud.” Meanwhile, Betty’s praying, Brandy’s crying-laughing, and me? I’m yelling my big curse word: “CRAP!” Not the f-bomb. Just… “CRAP.” Somewhere out there, a nun is proud.

We’re still looking for this one ARC thrift store—can’t find it. We ask a clerk, she pulls up Google Maps, turns out Denver has 50 of them. Fifty! Forget Starbucks, Denver’s true addiction is discount everything. Brandy bought boots so high they should come with an oxygen mask. We called them Hooker boots. She looks like Pretty Woman but with better arch support.

Finally, time for the concert. Our Uber dropped us right at the venue like VIPs. Only hiccup—Betty’s phone refused to load the tickets. She’s standing there poking at it like she’s trying to unlock a stolen phone. Good thing she sent us a screenshot earlier. I held up my phone, and we sailed in like we owned the place.

We’re twelve rows from the stage—close enough to see the sweat, but not close enough to smell it. Perfect.

Wine in hand—because let’s be honest, no concert is complete without it. For $23 you’d think they’d hand over the whole bottle, maybe with a commemorative glass. Nope. Just a little plastic cup that vanished in about four sips. (I’ve had cough syrup that lasted longer.)

And of course, you can’t leave without a souvenir. Tee shirt or hoodie? What’s least likely to end up in the donation bin in six months? Hoodie wins. $75 later, Brandy and I are twinsies in matching hoodies. Betty goes rogue with a green tee… which she later declares is ugly. Nothing says “buyer’s remorse” like realizing you spent $40 to look like Kermit’s understudy.

First act comes out, trying to hype the crowd: “Say it with me—‘I’m not taking this sht!’”* And Denver goes… polite silence. Like, you could hear someone three rows back quietly opening a granola bar. Denver is polite, but not that polite.

Next up comes the winner of Idol—or maybe it was “America’s Got Talent” who knows. Either way, he actually entertaind us. He closes with, “Remember, God is always with you.” And the crowd absolutely LOSES IT—yelling, cheering, hands in the air like it’s a revival service.

So basically: profanity? Crickets. Jesus? Revival. Denver’s split personality in a nutshell. And I’m sitting there in my $75 hoodie thinking, yep, these are my people.

Finally—Keith Urban. Shredding guitar, new album… nobody knows the words. It’s like church when they introduce a new hymn—everyone just mouthing “watermelon watermelon.”

And Keith keeps dropping to his knees. First time I’m like, “Wow, he’s feeling it.” Second time I’m like, “Oh no, this man’s out of breath. Somebody get him an inhaler, not another guitar.”

But then—Johnny Cash! “I hear that train a-comin’...” The crowd erupts. Then John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. This is what I thought a concert would be likel.

Show ends, lights still up, Keith’s still on stage, Betty goes, “Let’s go.” I’m like, “Go?! Listen. I once sat through the credits of a BTS concert movie thinking Suga might come back out. We do not leave until Elvis has left the building.”

Ten thousand people spill into the streets, no Ubers, no Lyfts. Out of nowhere, some guy appears: “Private car, 25 bucks.”  Brandy is power walking (a little premenopausal?) way ahead of us. I shout, "Brandy we got a car!"

   She gets in and mumbles something about haven't you heard about Stranger Danger mom! " Yes, I taught it to you, get in!"  Three grown women climbing into a stranger's car like it’s Disneyland.

   I remind Brandy, there are three of us, you alone could overpower him. She didn't appreciate my humor.

Brandy’s Venmo app wouldn’t load, I was willing to part with $20, and Betty dug deep and came up with… $3. Between us, we were either going to pay the guy or insult him.  I handed over another $20—not as a tip, but for not murdering us.

He laughed, handed me his card, and said, “If you’re ever back in Denver and need a ride with a stranger, call me.”

Best Uber I never took