Wednesday, March 28, 2012

weekend update 3/28/12

D regulars,

This is coming to you a little early so we can let you know that the legendary promoter Barry Fey is going to be speaking at the D Note tonight at 6:30p. This event is sponsored by the Jeffco Library. This means no dance lesson tonight, but Lark will continue her swing lessons next Wednesday. After Fey will be the beloved Clamdaddys.

Tomorrow night after trivia we have Colorado Grassroots Hip Hop w/ Breakfast Club, Audible, and No Frequency. $5.

Friday night we have some great indie rock w/ The Ghostowners (7pm) Idlewhile (8:30pm) and Bimarinal (10pm) $7

Saturday at 1pm we have a Jam Jam Presented by Ben, Rick, Darryl & Dan. Bring your axe. Free. Then at 6pm Julio Perez, Rachel Frances, Josh Abeyta, Gracie Sprague. $5 and finally at 9:30pm we have Dikki Du and The Zydeco Crew (from New Orleans) $10.

That's the weekend in a virtual nutshell.

Pleased to please you,

D cup

Extra Credit: Our friend Darin Stevenson just posted a very interesting story on FaceBook which we reproduce for your pleasure here.

The Gunfight
The tavern perched like a misshapen pile of vulture carcasses fallen on the fatal road of some unseen stranger’s misplaced history. I blew in from nowhere anyone could guess, on the back of a horse what assembled himself from livid fruit blossoms and hummingbird bones. Dismounting, I made for the twin gate of the entrance.

As I pressed and passed the creaking panels, some joker at the counter turned to face me — vortal clouds of colored dust rising in prismatic waves from the blurry structure of his intangible topside. In a flash I recognized this amphibian desperado: The Technicolor Kid. We’d been hunting each other since before the sun blew plasma on the void. We both drew instinctively while bystanders ducked and soiled themselves; the screams of their terror seeming to add a lightness to my trusty weapon, which fairly leapt into my hand like the woman I was born to marry.

Time slowed down to a crawling insect with only a single remaining leg. The bartender jumped for cover, and I saw tables flipping over in slow-mo as the T-Kid’s weapon left its soggy holster. Our mouths began to name each other, but after the initial wavelets of sound failed to assemble in molasses-time, all that emerged were warping garbles punctuated by flurries of ghost-moths.

Our weapons rose like dumb stars on the horizon, like the ache of long-dead ancestors for a vengeance they’d forgotten the whole history of, like frozen bees slowly gaining temperature in a dawn that refused to break. Finally, after dead eternities without number, we leveled off and pulled.

A single silver hornet burst forth from my barrel, crashing through the wall of stillness all around us. A shining black beetle sang forward from his, and I sensed the outcome long before the rotund woman at the piano began to spout opera like sonic blood from some fatal aural gash. The beetle missed me, lodging in shattering wood just a pinch of distance from my left ocular orbit. My hornet found its home in his right cheekbone, and his face blew apart, revealing mushrooms and gels of colors unheard of, flowers from prehistoric flora, and other substances bold and unmentionable.

His jaw relaxed and dangled for a moment, exposing teeth from some author’s phantasms turned intolerably into the white and silent witnesses of stillborn splendors. As his gun arm buckled, drooping, his weapon tilted forward from his failing grasp toward the Earth, and I took the step I’d previously intended into perfect time... into the bar... and toward the shock of color and vegetation now spilling anxiously from the remnants of my ancient adversary. The atmosphere itself seemed to exhale a breath long held in tension as the bystanders began to recover themselves to whatever degree they were able.

The Technicolor Kid was unbegotten. Our little love affair had come, at last, to an appropriate and satisfactory end. I moved to holster my weapon, which was moist in my grasp and threatened to become some kind of bird. As I pressed it gingerly into the sheath at my hip, I felt a shiver from the heart of the the thing... a giddy tension that it released into my hand... my arm... and on into the deepest waters of my oceans. And then it relented, and I sank it in the leather pocket where its weight is so familiar.

I was going to drink now. Long and deep. Maybe I’d think about that woman I was born to marry. About her mind, whereabouts and condition. About our chances. About whether or not she’d recognize me. And then, when suitably intoxicated, I’d take water, find a bed upstairs, and let myself to sleep.

A colorless sleep, born of starspeech and trail-dust. A sleep perfected in the secret silences of caverns of the deepest Earth.

A sleep immortal, and divine.

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