Some interesting changes are in the works at the D Note. We've already told you about our fantastic new happy hour menu. But we haven't told you that on Thursday nights after Trivia we are starting up SIN night (Service Industry Night), with $2 wells and a late night happy hour for all service industry people after 9pm. We'll have DJs playing great dance music too. No cover. So if you are in the industry come down, or if you know someone that is please pass along the news. We're also going to start giving secret special deals for those of you on this newsletter list. The first secret deal will be for this Friday night. Say the password "Dance Dance Revolution" at the door Friday night and get it for $3 instead of $5.
Stay tuned for other changes coming your way soon.
Here's the weekend lineup.
JD Cordle (free)
PJ Zahn (blues/dance) $5
Duke Street Kings (rock and roll covers/dance) $5
Music Lessons Of Westminster band recitals
Author Unknown (Pop/rock) $5 (featuring Mark Sundermeier)
Zeppephilia- Led Zeppelin Tribute Band. $5 HEY HEY MAMA SAY THE WAY YOU MOVE
Sunday morning we hope you will come down for yoga at 10pm sharp. Keith is doing a great job leading the class and Melissa Ivey and Adam DeGraff play meditation music during the class. $5-$10 suggested donation.
And now you are up to date,
Extra Credit: There are a few favorite poets that we know we will return to again and again throughout our lives. Frank O'hara is one of the few. We recently read a fantastic poem of his that we had somehow missed before from his classic book "Lunch Poems".
I watched an armory combing its bronze bricks
and in the sky there were glistening rails of milk.
Where had the swan gone, the one with the lame back?
Now mounting the steps
I enter my new home full
of grey radiators and glass
ashtrays full of wool.
Against the winter I must get a samovar
embroidered with basil leaves and Ukranian mottos
to the distant sound of wings, painfully anti-wind,
a little bit of the blue
summer air will come back
as the steam chuckles in
the monster’s steamy attack
and I’ll be happy here and happy there, full
of tea and tears. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get
to Italy, but I have the terrible tundra at least.
My new home will be full
of wood, roots and the like,
while I pace in a turtleneck
sweater, repairing my bike.
I watched the palisades shivering in the snow
of my face, which had grown preternaturally pure.
Once I destroyed a man’s idea of himself to have him.
If I’d had a samovar then
I’d have made him tea
and as hyacinths grow from
a pot he would love me
and my charming room of tea cosies full of dirt
which is why I must travel, to collect the leaves.
O my enormous piano, you are not like being outdoors
though it is cold and you
are made of fire and wood!
I lift your lid and the mountains
return, that I am good.
The stars blink like a hairnet that was dropped
on a seat and now it is lying in the alley behind
the theater where my play is echoed by dying voices.
I am really a woodcarver
and my words are love
which willfully parades in
its room, refusing to move.