september twenty third, two thousand ten

D spectacled,

"Bowling for dollars has always been a treat." This is a quote from a recent interview of Robert Plant on NPR. We found it recounted in the New Yorker and, improbably, relay it here for you. We don't know what it means, exactly, but we like the sound of it. It is a treat.

Speaking of treats, Friday night we start off with our free Friday Afternoon Concert featuring J.T. Nolan at 5pm. Nolan is a song and dance man who has been entertaining us with his brilliance for awhile. We are really glad to have him back.

At 7pm Friday we have with a fundraiser to perpetuate culture through a Polynesian organization called FiaFia (Samoan for happiness). Several Hawaiin musicians will sweep in some aloha spirit, like a trade wind. $10 suggested donation.

At 9pm Friday we have a couple very cool indie rock bands, Pez and SuperSeed. $5.

Saturday we have our annual benefit for the Denver Family Institute. Silent Auction. Live Music. Auction opens at 4pm. There will be entertainment for the kids early and then Clusterfunk takes the stage at 8pm. $10-$20 suggested donation.

A reminder that we have plenty of opportunities for all of you performers. We have open stage hosted by Jay Ryan on Monday nights, and if you lean toward the blues, then The Clamdaddys would love to have you sit in on their jam on Wednesday nights.

Ever,

D minus

Extra Credit: Here's a fro of a poem by Allison Joseph.


Thirty Lines About the Fro

The fro is homage, shrubbery, and revolt—all at once.
The fro and pick have a co-dependent relationship, so
many strands, snags, such snap and sizzle between
the two. The fro wants to sleep on a silk pillowcase,
abhorring the historical atrocity of cotton.
The fro guffaws at relaxers—how could any other style
claim relaxation when the fro has a gangsta lean,
diamond-in-the-back, sun-roof top kinda attitude,
growing slowly from scalp into sky, launching pad
for brilliance and bravery, for ideas uncontained by
barbershops and their maniacal clippers, monotony
of the fade and buzzcut. The fro has much respect
for dreads, but won't go through life that twisted,
that coiled. Still, much love lives between
the two: secret handshakes, funk-bottomed struts.
The fro doesn't hate you because you're beautiful.
Or ugly. Or out-of-work or working for the Man.
Because who knows who the Man is anymore?
Is the president the Man? He used to have a fro
the size of Toledo, but now it's trimmed down
to respectability, more gray sneaking in each day,
and you've got to wonder if he misses his pick,
for he must have had one of those black power ones
with a fist on the end. After all, the fro is a fist,
all curled power, rebellious shake, impervious
and improper. Water does not scare the fro,
because water cannot change that which is
immutable—that soul-sonic force, that sly
stone-tastic, natural mystic, roots-and-rhythm
crown for the ages, blessed by God and gratitude.