We've got a contest challenge for all of you. If you've got an idea for a fantastic dessert pie, then suggest it on our Facebook page, including a band or song related name. Winner gets a large pie of his or her creation, plus a spot on our specials board. Can hardly wait to taste what you come up with.
This weekend starts off this Friday at 5pm with a kid from Austin Texas named Hogan Sullivan. This kid is great! Free.
Then at 7pm Friday night a local legendary band in the making, the Omnibuds, take the stage. Omnibuds is quite a name. The moniker is obviously derived from "Ombudsman", meaning an official appointed to investigate individuals' complaints against maladministration, esp. that of public authorities. but it is made much more evocative here. "Omni" means "all" and "buds" can mean friends, flowers, etc. Cool Americana music too. $5.
At 9:30pm we begin a new series at the D Note. This is for lovers of hard core latin dancing and music. It is called Noches Tropicalia and for our opening night we'll have a great band, Los Lunaticos. DJ Javi will spin before, between and after. $10 for men, $5 for ladies. Expect Reggaeton, Cumbia, Bachata and some hot dancing.
Saturday we have the big band jazz of Sentimental Sounds at 4pm. This is a benefit for a great local organization Jeffco Outdoor Lab Foundation. $10 suggested donation.
Saturday at 7pm we have a showcase for a local studio, Global Sounds, featuring some of their bands. Free.
Saturday at 9pm we have a CD release for Mike Murray. The CD is called "International" and it is pop, pops. $5
For more info check out www.dnote.us. And don't forget to dream up your dream dessert pie and enter it into our Facebook page.
Extra Credit: This poem by Dean Young showed up the other day from Poetry Daily. It is a funny puzzle garden of a poem.
Maybe we put too much faith in the heart
when any blockhead knows everything falls apart,
turn to mush the storied administrations of the brain,
there's no statue that won't eventually dissolve in rain,
the continents are in pieces, the empire a mess,
the fleece full of holes, the rivers distressed.
Not what we promised and swore, didn't and did,
not the terrible things that happened to us as kids
makes much diff. We're the types
who bring parasols to gunfights.
A dove backfires, a dump truck coos,
everything's out of whack since I lost you.
Worse than a job chicken-processing,
worse than a courtroom of the deaf addressing,
like trying on a shirt with the pins still in it,
listen to the heart you'll soon regret it.
The photos in their oval frames bestow blame and frown,
whatever you used all your might to heave into the air is due to
come crashing down.
Not the hatchet job you wanted but the one you took,
you stagger from the feast for a look
at a polluted brook, rather polluted yourself.
You feel like something fallen from its shelf,
a yo-yo with a busted string, chipped ceramic elf
because all you can think about is not there,
the eyes not there, not there's hair.
You still don't know what to say
and keep saying it, still trying to give your hiding place away
making a silly commotion with the leaves
of the tree you're falling from. But once that paper's creased,
there's no uncreasing. Once the numbers are deleted,
there's nothing to add up. So time for the tarry slumber
of so what who cares what's it matter,
what should be open closes, should be soft hardens
while the next set of fools scampers into the puzzle garden
detonating with laughter.