The new Comfort Dental Amphitheatre: As bad as a root canal?
Once upon a time there was a stadium called Mile High. At Mile High, a gang of orange-and-blue-clad men played a game that involved carrying an inflated hog-skin across a line while simultaneously beating the dog shit out of one another and their opponents. Those men were called the Denver Broncos. The people of Denver, they loved those men, and they flocked to Mile High Stadium in droves. They barbecued in front of the stadium for hours; they drank in sketchy bars on Federal behind the stadium for days. It was their everything, Mile High Stadium, their Sunday gathering place, their neighborhood bar, their church.
But as a direct result of Mile High’s popularity, it started to fall apart. The poor creaking cauldron of gridiron glory couldn’t handle the weekly load of 75,000 fervid fans, and so it protested loudly through quaking exit ramps that threatened to collapse after every home game, through steep, sketchy steps that crumbled apart, a dilapidated toilet that one time swallowed a ‘tween.
It was clear a new stadium was needed.
So the voters of Denver approved a tax increase to build a new stadium, because the owner of the team—a man fond of wearing fur coats on the sideline so as to resemble a pill-popping housewife—threatened to move the beloved squadron if they didn’t. And then once the stadium was constructed that man sold the naming rights to the stadium. People—predictably—freaked the fuck out, and once the dust settled, it was agreed that while global investment manager Invesco would have the exclusive pleasure of tacking their name onto the stadium, it would be called Invesco Field at Mile High. It was a peace offering to the zealous masses, an olive branch to the past. And it failed miserably.
No one ever called it Mile High Stadium again. Ever. The announcers on television referred to it as Invesco Field exclusively. If you were going to meet a buddy for the game, you would, “meet in front of Invesco.” Die-hards who swore never to utter the word “Invesco” through their methy, football fan lips all but forgot the words “Mile High.” And so Mile High disappeared down a corporate sinkhole, whereupon it joined the other whorish stalwarts of the local new stadium scene, the Pepsi Center and Coors Field.
And now, the latest beacon of capitalistic what-the-fuckery: The new Comfort Dental Amphitheatre!
Yes, Comfort Dental, those sensible purveyors of teeth-cleanings and hugs, picked up the naming rights to Fiddler’s Green last week, because nothing says sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll like awkward conversation with dental hygienists.
“Music is about feeling good,” explains Rob Medina, PR guy for Comfort Dental and self-described “designated rocker.” “Good dental health also makes you feel good. Ever had an impacted tooth? See the connection? The truth is, there is no connection—we just wanted the front row tickets.”
See? Even Rob knows it’s total bullshit! But what Rob also knows is that we live in an era where these things are inevitable—venues need money, companies need PR—so even though Comfort Dental and concerts seem about as analogous as Cap’n Crunch and the Wu-Tang Clan, Rob just rolls with the punches and has a sense of humor about it. It is what it is.
But what’s truly galling is that people seem so upset by the change. I agree, Comfort Dental Amphitheater is a particularly baffling example of this current trend of corporations acquiring naming rights, but so what? Does anyone really have pangs of nostalgia for Fiddler’s Green? I understand the outcry over Mile High Stadium; that place was a damned institution, a Denver landmark, a source of civic pride. But, Christ, Fiddler’s Green—ahem, Comfort Dental Amphitheatre—is in the middle of the Tech Center! It’s a bland, boring venue that doesn’t even have a view of the mountains. It used to, but then some new tech-related aberration went up and now the only vista available from inside the concert grounds is of office cubicles: Dilbert comic strips; sexy firefighter calendars; framed photographs of aspen trees and mountains; long halogen lamps; speckled, asbestos-masking ceiling panels. In a way, it looks exactly like a dentist’s office.
So don’t cry over spilt dentistry, I say. Get upset when this really matters. Like when it inevitably happens to Red Rocks.
