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The Last Friday Night Open Mic

Friday, March 27, 2026 – Denver bar/nightclub The Pearl hosted the last Friday night poetry open mic at 2199 California Street. The open mic had been running for over thirty years, as Marilyn Megenity – the proprietor of the location’s former iteration, The Mercury Café – hosted the first one sometime in the ’90s. As the current hosts would often tell everyone when welcoming them each Friday, it was the longest-running poetry open mic in the country (and they were probably right). At that time, we thought all that was happening was that the open mics were just moving to Sundays — already a seismic shift. We were blissfully unaware of what was to come a few weeks later, on April 11th, when The Pearl announced it would be closing at the end of the month.
The night was already particularly significant, and I could sense a mix of emotions in the crowd, as well as myself. Sadness. Grief. Gratitude. Frustration. Maybe a little bit of anger or bitterness. Such are the feelings one can expect to feel when losing something that is a regular part of their life and holds great importance to them. While attendance seemed to fluctuate toward the lower end since The Mercury became The Pearl last March, around forty poets signed up to read, including a handful of first-timers. Taking into account that on a given Friday, if thirty people signed up, it was considered “a lot,” this was quite the statement. It was a testament to the fact that the Denver poetry community cares immensely about this event. I certainly do. I’ll fully admit that I was never really what I’d call a “regular” on Friday nights. I had been going off and on (emphasis on off in the last year) since late 2019 and had really only gotten to know all of the hosts about a year ago. But I’ve made some good friends and met some amazingly talented poets at this place, not to mention gotten the chance to read my work and figure out who I am as a poet, which still feels like a new descriptor for me.
The night was full of heartfelt tributes, both from the hosts and the poets. Marilyn got up to read early and received not one, but two standing ovations from the crowd. For my part, I read my ode to the open mic. I reflected back on the first time I came here, purely on a whim, and the dozens of times I returned since. The word that was most often used to describe the night as it was happening was “bittersweet.” I’m not sure that does it justice – “bittersweet?” It feels so insufficient a word for what is honestly a historic moment for this city. But I’ve tried to come up with another word, another way to describe it, and I can’t. This is the fate of us poets and writers, isn’t it? Always seeking the perfect word or arrangement of words to describe something and ultimately feeling like we’ve come up short. Here’s another set of words that feel trite and hollow, but are undeniably true: change is hard. Especially in a place where for a while, not much seemed to change at all.

It would be difficult to describe The Pearl/The “Merc” (the affectionate nickname used by many Mercury Café patrons) to someone who has never been there. One night in 2023, when I was waiting for the jazz crowd to dissipate from the Jungle Room so that I could go in and sign up for the open mic, I sat down with my notes app on my phone (admittedly a little stoned) and tried to free-write a description that would try to do it justice. Here’s what I wrote:

What the fuck is it about this place that feels like firing out of a fucking cannon and landing in the mouth of a whale? And there’s kitschy decorations and like stars and shit everywhere, star lamps, every wall and ceiling is painted red for no discernible reason. There’s a bathtub filled with fake plants sitting to the right when you walk through the front door. It’s as much a bar as it is a circus, like it doesn’t know what time it’s supposed to be in. Can relate. I think objectively speaking, you can say it’s a weird fucking bar. Damn, it really is, but you have to respect the hell out of it because it commits 1,000% to staying that way. Not in a way that makes it seem like it’s trying too hard, but not out of stubbornness either. It’s not contrarian to everything else in a punk way, but it’s not trying to rebel.
Yeah it’s like landing in the mouth of a whale that swallowed a pirate ship that was having a party, and also happened to kidnap people from every part of time. The liminal part of it is kind of freaky? If the piano guy didn’t play the exact same songs every single night, would it still feel that way? I think it might. That’s one reason, I think, why anytime someone leaves, it’s so noticeable because it’s always the same group of like twelve people every time.

Without getting too braggadocious, I don’t think that’s too bad. If you’ve been going to this place semi-regularly and would like to correct me on any of that, please fire away. This weird atmosphere is one of the things that drew me in initially. I fell in love with it. It truly felt like nowhere I’d ever been before, but it also felt like you were stepping into a historic landmark. You were, but before you were aware of that, it felt like you were, too.
The Jungle Room itself was iconic in its lack of pretense. When I first started going to the open mics, the Jungle Room (where the open mics were usually held) had animals and jungle scenes painted along all of the walls, and on most of the tables. The tables themselves were mismatched and wobbly, packed tightly together. The beat-up wooden stage held an old piano to one side, and a not-quite level podium cobbled together with a piano leg and a tiered stand, and of course, the mic. The sound system was an older one that worked most of the time, but would occasionally squeal with feedback or lose power. When this happened, one or two of the hosts would dutifully spring onto the stage to fiddle with it until it was working again. Behind this was a mismatched patchwork curtain that was made up of probably a dozen different fabrics and colors. Along the top of this curtain was a giant, stuffed, snake, almost like an anaconda. But my favorite part was the lights that hung from the ceiling over the audience — a sprawling web of tiny, orbed, string lights, that looked like a starry sky when you looked out over the crowd from the stage. While the sound system was upgraded significantly, a lot of these other elements were sadly removed when The Pearl took over.

One thing that is much more difficult to describe was the feeling you would get on these magical Friday nights. I don’t normally use the word “energy,” but again, it’s the only one that seems to fit, so it’s the one I will use. The energy of that building was something else entirely, and it seemed to drastically change at times. As I noted in that same freewriting session:

But there is an energy or electricity in this place that I legitimately can feel. It’s like a goddamn lightning rod. Like a haunted house but it’s not always scary. Taht sounds stupid as shit but I don’t know how else to describe it. Like it can be a good feeling but it’s intimidating, too. I have no idea why because I don’t think this place is famous outside of the Denver poetry (maybe music) scene so it doesn’t have that heaviness hanging over it. But there is still something here.
And some nights it’s better. It does feel off tonight. Maybe that is me, but I put myself in this situation. I always sat on the other side of the curtain and thought about just hanging out on the other side for a hot minute and listening to the piano. And I did it, I jumped off the diving board finally. So it’s alright, I guess.

I have so many memories in this room that will stick with me for the rest of my life. I remember going to my first open mic where I actually read, nervously approaching the host for that night — Dr. Ricardo Bogaert-Alvarez — tapping him on the shoulder, and saying, “Hey Ricardo. Are there any slots still available?” Ricardo blinked up at me and said “Senor…” gesturing to the sign-up sheet in front of him full of empty slots. I remember following another host, Emily Wiecec, who was reading Maya Angelou (so really I had to follow two legendary poets for my first reading). I don’t remember reading, since I was so nervous that I blacked out while onstage. I remember Ricardo graciously asking me to come back. And I did, many more times over the next seven years.

I remember the time that the ceiling near the back of the Jungle Room was leaking after a rainstorm, so much that they had to place a plastic trash can on top of a table under the leak to catch the drips. I remember Friday nights shared with bands/DJs performing shows in the space directly above us on the second floor, poets raising their voices a little to compete with the pounding bass and the muffled cheers of the crowd; I remember hearing this and wondering if the floor above was going to collapse on us. I remember one poet abandoning his set to launch into a hate-fueled lecture for the queer poets amongst the crowd, telling them all about how they were living their lives wrong, in his narrow-minded dogma. I remember never seeing him on that stage again after that. I remember seeing many electrifying nights where hosts or poets featured their work, getting extra time to dazzle us with their work. I remember one poet who featured who had one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard, who blended music and poetry in a way that was breathtaking and completely unexpected. I remember parking in spot number 21 in the parking lot, signing up for the 21st spot on the list, which felt invigorating, and like a sign, since 21 is my favorite number (this must’ve happened at least 10 times).

Things That Will Not Last

Me.

Everyone I know or have ever met.

Everything on the planet.

The solar system.

The sun, and the Earth, because when the sun dies, it will obliterate the Earth.
But the matter that makes up the Earth and everything on it won’t go away because
it can’t be destroyed. It will last as matter. But it won’t last as it currently exists.
Like this notebook won’t exist
and the pen writing these words won’t exist.
Words themselves won’t exist.
And one day, everything that I’ve ever written won’t exist. Because even if it’s all
backed up on a server somewhere, that server will be destroyed along with everything
else on Earth. Unless there’s a backup server somewhere in another solar system
with all my shit on it and there’s someone there to read it.

But even then, when that solar system’s star dies, that’ll be destroyed, too, so there
would need to be another backup server in another, preferably younger solar system that has
a longer amount of time before their star dies, or maybe they’ve invented the technology
to prevent their star from dying, but I don’t know.
That sounds like the definition of hubris, besides
there are probably a million ways for a server to get destroyed or critically malfunction
if things go badly enough.

So maybe it doesn’t matter how many servers my writing is backed up on,
or even all writing that’s ever been written, or all art that’s ever been made,
or music that’s ever been played, all record of human existence and non-human existence
is destined to exist in memory only
and then not at all.

Because all things cease to be.

And stars die.

But in my dreams, I think maybe… a million years from now,
at the end of the chain of countless servers, maybe there will be
the equivalent of a person in a solar system where they figure out
how to keep stars from dying going up to another equivalent of a person
in the equivalent of a coffee shop or a bar, and they say to them,

“Hey. Have you heard of this poet?”

Today Was a Good Day

Today I had one of those Izze sodas, the strawberry flavor.
You ever have one of those? Man, they’re fucking good!
Oh, also, O.J. Simpson died.
Solid day.

Some Theories about Time (Whatever the Fuck That Is)

Steve Miller wrote,
“Time keeps on slippin’
slippin’
slippin’
into the future.”
Even though I feel like time is an utter mystery to me, that line has always rung true to me.

If I know one thing about time, it’s just that — it’s always slipping away, right through our temporal fingers. The beginning of every exciting thing is paled by sadness because I know it’s one step closer to the end of that thing.

What made me realize in my late twenties that I had Inattentive ADHD (f.k.a. ADD) was my bosses kept saying to me, “Nick, you really seem to struggle with time management.”
And I thought, “Fair… but how can I manage something I’ve never been able to see or feel?”

If I had one superpower, I’d just want the ability to see time. Not control it. Not manipulate it. Just be able to see it and be able to see how it works. Isn’t that something we all want, deep down? We’re taught from an early age that it’s wrong to stare at the clock, yet the personal clock you carry on your wrist is called a “watch.” Time dictates the majority of our actions. Time is how we measure our reality, what we use to reference one event against the next.

My favorite line from Rust Cohle’s character in True Detective is when he says that “time is a flat circle.” I always thought it was a cool idea. It never made sense to me until recently, but now I think I get it. We think of the past as being behind us and the future stretching so far ahead of us, we can’t see it. Any increment of time is a flat circle. But all of time is a spiral, circling over itself
again,
and again,
and again,
never eating its tail but passing over it
endlessly,
and endlessly,
and endlessly
upwards.

And that is how things come back around while still moving forward.

So if you’re reading this blog, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for spending some of that almighty demon magic known as time reading my words. I’ll try to make it worth it.

The Time I Saw Billy Bob Thornton’s Dad Band (live)

“Hey, Alex wants to know if we want free tickets to go see Billy Bob Thornton’s band on Friday,” my wife said to me one night last summer, her thumbs poised over her phone.
“Billy Bob Thornton has a band?” I asked, incredulously.
“Apparently. What should I say?”
“Tell her, ‘sure’.”
What the hell, I thought. In the years since COVID, we hadn’t really been out much. I’d also been wanting to check out Cervantes, the venue where our neighbor-friend Alex bartended. And — at the very least — they were free tickets and we’d get to see Billy Bob Thornton in person. Who turns down the opportunity to see an Oscar winner in the flesh?

Of course I had no idea Billy Bob Thornton had a band. Did you?

At first, I was a little surprised, but that quickly wore off. Lots of actors dabble in rock music. Johnny Depp, Zooey Deschanel, Jeremy Renner, Juliette Lewis, and Jeff Bridges are just a few examples. It probably helps if your first name starts with “J,” I guess. But I was surprised to learn later after skimming Thornton’s IMDB page that he was a musician even before he was in movies.

The name of his band did strike me as odd, though —

The Boxmasters.

What in God’s name is a “boxmaster”? I wondered. If your mind is as much in the gutter as mine and you figure what that word might be slang for, you’re actually right on the money. This seemed to square with all the sleazy, bad-boy characters I watched Thornton play when I was growing up, from Bad Santa to Bad News Bears. I know actors aren’t the same people as their roles, but it’s hard not to associate them as such when you don’t know them in any capacity outside of that. So that’s how I saw Billy Bob Thornton — some guy who crushed six packs while working on old cars, cussed fluently, and was way tougher, cooler, and more badass than I could ever dream to be. That illusion was about to be shattered.

We got to the show a little after doors. Alex was bartending that night, so we got our drinks from her and hung out for a little bit and talked. The show itself was in Cervantes Other Side. This was a smaller venue located off to the side of Cervantes’ main room. I liked the venue itself — I’m a sucker for small room shows, especially when they’re a little divey. They remind me of the venues I went to growing up.

The opener for The Boxmasters was a local band out of Boulder called Mountain Rose, a solid rock band with a country-bluesish sound and a lead singer with a killer voice (if you have the chance to look them up, please do). Alright, not a bad start, I thought. But the anticipation kept building toward the moment we’d see just what kind of musical chops Mr. Thornton and his fellow masters of the box actually had.

At one point, I saw an older, skinny, tall man way up by the stage who bore a passing resemblance to Billy Bob. I pointed him out to my wife.
“Oh holy shit, there’s Billy Bob Thornton!”
“That’s not him.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s him!”
“No, it isn’t.”
I annoyed her with this for a good five minutes while taking copious hits off my vape pen. The thing is, I don’t usually get intoxicated for shows or concerts — especially if it’s one of my favorite acts. I don’t like anything getting between me and the music, man. But if it’s a free show for a band I don’t particularly care about, all bets are off. I ended up being very thankful I brought my pen along.

Finally, the moment arrived and The Boxmasters took the stage. The crowd cheered, and we joined in. Though we were mostly cheering for Thornton. I got that momentary “wow” feeling any time I get when I see a celebrity in real life. Billy Bob said his little intro, not trying to disguise his Arkansas accent at all. The crowd cheered more, and The Boxmasters started their set. One thing that struck me right away was that there were no other “famous” band members. None as recognizably famous as Thornton, anyway. His star status definitely outshone his bandmates. Maybe that was ok since he’s the lead singer, but I got the impression immediately that this wasn’t helping any of the other musicians stand out.

I’ll say this — they weren’t bad. Their first few songs were actually pretty decent and got the crowd going. As far as basic musician stuff goes (staying in tune, keeping time, staying together, etc.) they were fine. Nothing that blew the doors off, but then I wasn’t really expecting that. I also wasn’t expecting Thornton to have some mind-blowing, virtuoso singing voice, and he certainly didn’t. Thornton yells more than he sings, but not as well as, say, a Brian Johnson or Lemmy Kilmister might. Apparently, he doesn’t have a virtuoso yelling voice, either.

The Boxmasters’ particular brand of rock is a sort of throwback, by-the-numbers, safe, early-1960s rock. I don’t really know how to describe it. Picture something you’d hear in a diner or on a family made-for-TV road trip movie and you’re pretty much there. I don’t know who the market is for this kind of music, but there must be one somewhere. As the set went on, their music just sounded more and more mediocre. Each band member seemed very self-assured of just how cool he was (oh yeah, if I didn’t mention it before, the whole band was comprised of dudes) and not in a way that seemed self-referential or ironic in any way. At no point did they make fun of themselves, though they had every right to. I became increasingly aware of a bad taste in my mouth, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Then, my wife turned to me and said:
“They’re just like a bunch of middle-aged dads who get together in their garage to play in their little rock band.”

Ho. Ly. Shit.

That was exactly it — The Boxmasters were nothing more than Dad Rock. I can’t even say “glorified Dad Rock,” because there was nothing glorified about them. They weren’t even the kind of Dad Rock you could begrudgingly find a little cool. I felt a twinge of dismay as this sank in. Suddenly Billy Bob Thornton was no longer the cool badass I’d assumed he was since adolescence. He wasn’t the guy crushing six packs while working on cars; he was that guy’s nerdy, annoying neighbor.

Then, just as quickly, with the aid of the vape pen, I found this very amusing. After all, it’s not like Thornton was my idol or anything. Just some celebrity who I assumed was cool. Actually, I probably do that for most celebrities. Realizing he was just another Boomer trying to remember the halcyon days of his youth was pretty damn funny to me, and it definitely humanized him a little.

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