When the Long Way Is the Right Way: A Winter Walk Through Denver’s Creative Underground
“When faced with two choices in life, choose the one that makes for a better story.”
Earlier this year, while listening to one of my favorite podcasts, a guest said something that stuck with me. Paraphrased, of course: “When faced with two choices in life, choose the one that makes for a better story.” It’s a simple philosophy, but one that has a way of transforming the ordinary into something memorable.
That advice echoed in my head as I stood on a snow-dusted Denver sidewalk, debating between a three-minute Uber ride or a nearly two-mile walk through the city’s frozen streets in -3 degree weather. Logic said, “Take the Uber.” But stories aren’t made in the backseat of a car.
I chose the walk.
Denver in the dead of winter is a study in contrasts. The city carries an industrial edge softened by snow-covered rooftops and the hum of creatives finding inspiration in unexpected places. I was here working on a project—a commercial shoot for a major brand—but as is often the case in my line of work, it wasn’t the project itself that would leave the biggest impression. It was the people.
Over dinner at Super Mega Bien, I found myself seated across from Sam and Dan of Primary Color Music, two immensely talented creatives whose work had become the invisible heartbeat behind many campaigns I admired. The choice of restaurant—Sam’s idea—felt intentional. Located in Denver’s thriving River North Art District (RiNo), it’s a far cry from the typical franchise fare. The menu is tapas-style, meant for sharing, and the dishes arrive layered with bold Latin American flavors.
We passed plates of ropa vieja, a hearty stew of slow-cooked beef in a sofrito base, served with sweet plantains and rice, and toasted over Mezcal Old Fashioneds that struck just the right balance of smoky and sweet. It’s moments like these—surrounded by people who love what they do, sharing stories over food—that reinforce my belief in the connective power of a good meal.
There’s something universal about the way food travels through cultures. Sitting there, with the heat of the dish cutting through the winter cold outside, I thought about how often we draw lines between cuisines, when in reality, they share more common roots than differences.
As dinner wrapped up, Sam asked, “Want to see the studio?”
It was a casual offer, the kind that can easily go either way. The quickest route was a five-minute Uber. But there was that quote again, bouncing around in my head. The better story? The walk.
We made a quick pit stop to drop off camera gear and, in classic fashion, took a “pre-cold-walk” shot of whiskey to brace ourselves. And then we set out—six of us moving through the icy streets of Denver, bundled up, breaths visible in the air, the city quiet in that way only winter nights can manage.
There’s a certain honesty that surfaces during a long, cold walk. Maybe it’s the absence of distractions, or maybe it’s just the mutual understanding that if we’re all choosing to freeze together, we might as well talk. Along the way, I found myself in conversation with Trevor, someone I’ve worked with on multiple projects over the years. He’s the kind of creative who makes you step up your own game—thoughtful, intentional, and quietly brilliant.
We talked about the industry, about the balance between authenticity and commercial success. In the world of food media—especially the “celebrity chef” bubble—authenticity can sometimes feel like a rare commodity. Trevor’s compliment that I’d managed to hold onto mine meant more than I let on. But the conversation drifted deeper, into the territory most creatives eventually land in: purpose.
We both acknowledged the reality—our work pays the bills, builds the brand, keeps the lights on—but there’s always that underlying hunger to make something that matters. Something that sparks change or, at the very least, leaves a lasting impact. That’s the creative paradox: finding satisfaction in the work while always reaching for something more.
The walk took longer than expected. We passed a row of vintage cars parked along an empty street, headlights reflecting off the ice like little beacons in the dark. Finally, we arrived at Primary Color Music—an unassuming building you’d easily overlook if you weren’t looking for it. But inside? A different story entirely.
The studio was a perfect reflection of its creators—functional, but filled with the kind of playful, layered details that signal serious creativity. Classic cartoon sketches hung on the walls, an old-school Nintendo 64 sat in the corner (ready for spontaneous Mario Kart tournaments, no doubt), and instruments lined the space like tools in a master craftsman’s shop.
It felt less like an office and more like a clubhouse for grown-ups who never stopped chasing their imaginations. And honestly? That’s the dream.
Places like this stick with you. So do people like Sam and Dan—creatives who have built something that feels authentic, collaborative, and just a little bit magical.
As we left the studio later that night, the cold no longer biting quite as hard, I couldn’t help but smile.
Sometimes the better story isn’t the easy one. It’s the one where you freeze your fingers off walking through the streets of Denver, but leave with a new perspective, a new connection, and maybe, if you’re lucky, a little more inspiration for whatever’s next.
And that, to me, is worth every frozen step.