Oil increases now upsetting you, in this wanton war with Iran? Trump just calls it “a little glitch.” Would $4 a gallon be so? Five dollars would be gargantuan. Except in California. Or maybe Texas, with a tank the size of one of their bigger cowboy hats.

What will $90 get you with today’s prices? A barrel of crude oil or better yet, one of candied maple syrup, I’ll bet? You betcha.* From right here in Wisconsin, which is unlikely to be bombed back by Iran, being in the middle of the country, (see below). So syrup keeps flowing in this state that because of the difference in cold winter (a bit) and hot summer (a lot) in this period, is seeing some of the highest production rates ever of syrup from our millions of maple trees. For once global warming is sweet. Also in most places to the overseas, and even same continent, as well, although you never know potentially/hypothetically what tariffs could do to costs gained or incurred or paid. As right back at ya, on Oh Canada’s imports too. So Candy O. Sugary syrup. Or syrupy sugar?

(*Actual price may vary and range widely; you know, volatility of the stock market, again. Downer of “Dow”-er. Light versions are up to $5 more. Oh wait, that’s less. Oil pan and pancakes extra.)

Maybe more likely to fall, (to evil forces, here or abroad), is Trump himself.

Way back, now year’s back, there was what was called “the first assassination attempt,” by a journalist. Implying there would be more coming.

This time it was Iran, Stan, with my apologies to Paul Simon for being glib. It had been domestic, Brad, Ben, Tom and Mick. OK that would be five. Am I ahead of myself? Or will I someday be guilty of having fallen behind.

Russia won’t join the ranks. It has vested interest for keeping Trump alive, so they can play him.

But you can’t shoot Barron. He won’t be in the armed forces anytime soon. He has an exemption for extra inches. Oh, that would be in height. He is 6-foot-7, and that’s too tall for many soldierly tasks. Especially if one is an extra inch. But surely there is something he can do?

They apparently thought his dad couldn’t, as he was sidelined too, for bone spurs. Oddly, despite the medical and army trouble, he never had surgery for them. Maybe Barron could donate an inch or two to fix the spurs of his father — albiet the danger of creating a Frankenstein’s monster more scary than a combo Trump and Vance — and shrink him at the same time. That on-grandad’s-dime doctor who gave Trump the exemption slip could give them such a referral, too, but wait, you forgot his name. Somewhere in Manhattan? But no organ donation.

The reason cited for not putting a 6-foot-7 man on the front lines is that they have to crouch in small spaces, and the taller you are the more inches you have to fit in. OK. But isn’t it literally being put into this kind of box a form of torture that we as a country subject both soldiers and civilians to if they are our enemies. So since this is seen as an acceptable practice, boo hoo Barron.

I will however, to draw another comparison, refer to the Biblical imperitive to bow out for anyone who does not feel they are mentally or physically able to conduct warfare and be relied upon by your fellow soldiers. But are other basketball-player-height people allowed to be exempt? Is any 19-year-old truly ready? But basically Barron, as Styx sings, “You’re not a child anymore.”

Where is it I want to be when the now inevitable nukes hit? On a chair-size harbor marker, but way off into the sea I’ll sit, just me and my cell phone to check what The Donald has done next. And who he has bombed. On my little island of sand? Far from any metro area and Moscow and let’s see if a drone can hit my one square meter. Hard and not high target. In a place that’s gotta be mid-Pacific. Where there are the pacifists. When the nuclear winter ends, can a prime golfer come fly me back home — on his private jet as air travel has been cut back to basically only the most needed — when not on the LIV tour. Just don’t take me to China, where the golfers rescued go. Saudi Arabia maybe.

Where else, if you still can travel and choose? If you had to embark for Chicago like my buddy at the ungodly time of 6:30 a.m. Monday? Didn’t the business forces that be know about that consideration Friday afternoon? Climbing onboard to go early to the weekend cabin? Hey, do not depart to Dubia. It’s like the last plane, train or automobile to Clarksville. Instead, go to Greenland and Iceland, and likely wanna be there before annexation. These countries are on a list of the 12 least likely to be bombed out by an atomic one, and also ranked in The Big 12 is a place of 11,000 people between Hawaii and the mainland portion of not the often referenced China, but the United States. This island nation has few people and even fewer minerals, so nobody wants them, least of all Trump. Not worth expending that other mineral, plutonium. Or is it now uranium.

While we’re at it, should we just declare the GOP a terrorist organization? Was that the question that truly wrankled Trump? Or was it can bees make honey or maple syrup in the rain? Or can the Grand Old Party protect us from getting bombed out if anywhere between Cylon in the heart of Wisconsin and Siberia in the heart of the Soviet Union, going laterally either direction?

It finally happened, amidst the hoopla. Enough foreplay.

War is hell enough, without her getting her expectations up.

Going in without condom.

(The time is at hand to officially forego The Peace Presidency, the Start Or Star Of No Wars, the Nobel and now not worthy Peace Prize and the Wall of putrid Peace, not signed onto by a country with more than say, a million people to oppress, or of less than that square miles of land.)

The great big erect penis that is the US — got that reference from a rock critic — has pounded the tiny vagina that is Iran, then is getting slutty with righteous and proper Israel and wanting to rape Iran’s bitchy friends with little titties and bigger desert land, but still promiscuous with their protelyzation despite or because of their pious Islam — the-letter-I-being-used-to-begin-many-words, such as intercourse. (Even though we’re embracing isolationism.) That’s what Washington secretly desires. Taking out a leader by using many of their own U.S. troop bodies. “I’ll (take or trade or transact) seven lives for one …”

Would you forget PizzaGate and UFOs, come the GOP heated hearing queries, thank you Hillary Clinton, and even subdue in your mind Epstein and its files and questions about the files, as fatigue over it sets in — how pray tell will Iran, being pummeled like nothing this side of Ukraine, be free through our might? Wielded by our stealth, and OK you can prompt that reference with the Iranian surprise-attack that even caught members of both parties of Congress off-guard, can we save Iran’s people by being sneaky? Now it’s cited as being right at freedom’s door, if not heaven’s, but forget the idealisms of Kashmir. The issue is if those in soon-to-be bombed-out bondage can dodge the inevitable wayward war drones, and live to see a new day of Eden, as the original is a short jaunt from the area.

— Fuck all this, let’s talk about music. Fresh off their scheduled Friday show with a fairly elaborate stage setting, is the group DSG (OK regionally but not the bigger-known national one) at BGBR (otherwise known at Big Guys) located toward Houlton, to be followed up two weeks later by the band known as DTG (nearly namesake initials), and then one more week afterward by Hellion (does The Priest come across-state from homebase Green Bay, Rob residence, to our town, via instrumental? That Hwy. 29 between the two is the perfect east-west, for a road in your trip — reference to Exciter and Heading Out Down The Highway.)

This is the pairings of pairs, several times over. As Ziggy’s Hudson continues its transformation to Max’s, (now sign out front promoting their bands), there were two phone/internet service vehicles parked in front with just a space between them. Up the block, at the also new tattoo place, one could see in the window two golden lions flanking and facing each other — the kind you sometimes see at the end of driveways of moderate value homes — and they were flanked by a pair of sitting skeletons. Lastly on this theme, two Karjackers karaoke custom cars were spied parked outside of Cougar’s Bar and Grill, this time in adjoining spaces. No word on whether they were operating speakers, one side woofer for each vehicle, outside. —

Would advisor Race (or Steve, take your pick) Bannon — the new Mike Pence as a looker and also with a macho name and quest, and/or still hanging around politically with a podcast — have approved of this? Did he have a thing for Johnny Quest? Or hesitate to ask his young Indian friend out, for racist reasons.

The water-wanting citizens need to know, has Russia now entered into it with Venezuela as far as big, bad boat seizure, and why? Or is it concentrating on moving the Kremlin war room to Iran — you know, for efficiency sake. It’s been said here that the next World War — are we in it? — will be fought over water, and all they have to offer is hot sand …

Trump’s ballroom blitz is now being blitzed with more criticism, setbacks, and it seems construction has gone on forever. So will it still be in progress when the president reaches what, 90,000 years of age and still is in office? Methuselah and layers of his next of kin would be jealous.

But you can legally doobie your Mary Jane, via Trump’s wishes, and will this matter soon be weighty enough that it will merit an executive order, over even more Iran bombings? How is that situation so much different than that of Venezuela, and its harder drugs, in principle. When our bombs go off, after a while, it usually now gets buried by the bombardment of other news flooding TV channels, and is lost in the shuffle. All I hear about right now is the new war with Iran.

This was a telling scene outside of Hudson Physicians. Two deputies were leading a man who was Hispanic, go figure, to a waiting squad, and hey, at least they got him health care, which is not always a guarantee for even white people at a jail. He oddly seemed congenial to them, not looking like a hardened criminal, but he still was wearing just the proverbial orange jumpsuit. This is where I take issue: We are still in winter here in Wisconsin, and the jumpsuit was like a T-shirt, or maybe polo shirt, in short sleeves. And they were walking him all the way to the end of the parking lot. Brrr.

Another guy, seen downtown with brown colored skin, sported another T-shirt, this one extremely noteworthy. It said under his partially open coat, “self defense,” which could mean he’d be thought to be a lot of things: Proactive, scared, cautious or downright psychic. He had just walked through one of the busiest intersections in town, and if targeted by ICE, he could be easy pickings until he gets a few blocks away from here. One has to wonder if he worked at one of the nearby restaurants, in which case if on the job, could be grabbed with even more ease. He still was nice enough to bid me a good night, becoming even more visible and at-risk.

Gumbo bang chili nada gnarly band ditty squash pity. To my hearing, a song like this by Kid Rock and RFK Jr. makes for the rockingest duet together with twang that has such lyrics. Beyond sitting in a hot tub, which will get you named in conjunction with the Epstein files, maybe next to Clinton. But which is the lead tenor, and which singing background? Or how you just babble a bit, when a fed pushes your mouth below into the snowbank. Into bass becomes their shoven place. There was a contingent, who formed a makeshift metal band, and played loudly under an ICE window at a local motel, Living After Midnight, until the police shut-down their rally when it got close to 1 a.m. The cabbie who told me also said have no fear if in his business, as a rental car company has signed on to basically service all the travel for ICE.

Hey, a guy got shot for as much as the musical protests, while trying to force his way with gasoline into Mar-a-Lago. He’d rather burn that down, than the Renee Good Memorial? Give me fuel, give me fire, give me that which I desire. Mr. New Mar-a-Lago Man indeed was trying to accomplish much less dearth than was earlier attempted during the famous Jan. 6 crime incident at the nation’s capital. Hey, the earlier orchestration of madness was a crime against property, as Trump was not there, out jetting, so not an attempted massacre, regardless of the way you view the intent and extent of the envisioned violence against humans.

Why was there not an item — possibly positive about ICE — on the local news about ICE agents saving a drowning baby in a motel pool, a right-winger asks? Is this not what any Tom, Dick or Harry would do? Would it necessarily make the news if it was just done by an ordinary citizen, not a cop, who hopefully has such lifesaving training to boot? It would possibly go largely unnoticed in the news cycle, but there is always that perceived liberal agenda some people throw out there, as basically their only argument.

Hey, the reason they call them all issues, is that they are at issue, not being uniform, and thus raise more issues.

This did make the news, an item that dealt with almost one thousand turtles worth more than one million dollars? Frankly, I find reading about that bit more interesting. But here at state level will be shown roughly the same type of numbers, concerning other situations, such as Minnesota child care fraud. Those in the GOP have set the amount at between $3 million and $19 million, varying by the person and the day and if they can get their stories straight. I say that amount of money is small enough to be considered statistically insignificant chump change, when you figure the state’s overall budget — not spending — alone is almost $40 billion. So this is comparing the M word to the bigger B word, meaning that at my base income rate, admittedly lower because of being on social security, the entirety of the fraud would cost me less than a buck a month. If you make enough that it’s getting to be more like a Benjamin, you are earning too much to be whining.

While most open mic nights these days have to hope and pray, with their gospel brothers and sisters, they’ll get enough musicians to double the number in the house band, in Roberts at Bobtown Bar and Grill on Mondays of all evenings they almost always pack the place.

With a small crew of apt, basically non-amateur musicians serving as lead, this event passing karaoke and far beyond draws players and singers from most every genre of music, and things like poetry readers, too, take every seat in the house.

— Chompin at the Bit luncheon, followed by live rock and roll music from a popular area band, will be featured as the latest event at The Gaslite Bar and Grill near Ellsworth, taking place this Saturday from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.

This is a new event being promoted on this web site, an expo for horse and camping enthusiasts, with spring right around the corner.
For questions, or if an interested vendor, contact LA Cook at 651-347-5017 or lacook0929@gmail.com.
In a return engagement, live music by the Heartbreaker Band follows shortly afterward, starting at 7 p.m. Their website shows a trio of guitars and their players, getting cooler as you go down the line. Heartbreaker can also be seen playing frequent gigs at the Willow River Saloon in Burkhardt.

Saturday also marks the appearance, to close out the month, by The Dukes of Hudson, (hazard a guess at what they might play), at Big Guys Roadhouse BBQ. Is it any coincidence that with March right around the corner, the Duke men’s basketball team recently was promoted to No. 1 in the country? —

You might not think quite small Roberts as the most likely village for this kind of action, but being less than ten minutes up the freeway from Hudson, it offers one of the hottest scenes in the area, at least on this night. On it, only one or two tables set around the rather big main room had an empty chair, and what room there is has disappeared as the night goes on for the past year and more. There were seats for players along the full length of one wall, and a second row too.

A few of those stepping up to the mic might be rough around the edges, but there are also many varied instrumentalists, and not just in the house band, who have tenure in actual giggings around the St. Croix Valley. People like Dave Greenwood, who lives in Roberts, can step in and perform both guitar and vocals to cover bands such as The Foo Fighters, and other groups both much like and much unlike that grunge/alt genre.

Other acts you are likely to see amongst the dozens of musicians who fill the main room on most Mondays up until about 9:30 or 10 p.m. are a man who was on the keys for the Commodores in area shows for many a year, and someone performing, “Leaving on a jet plane,” to cite early performances. This can be followed up on some nights by Tequila Sunrise, and several mixing and matching in a Gospel-like outfit that always draws lots of applause with favorites like, Old Rugged Cross. A Johnnie Cash soundalike or two at times often comes early, as does a Nat King Cole and an ode to the Interstate 94 that brought you here, Route 66.

A bass soloist, twice, drew lots of clapping when I was last there, strumming and sitting by the window. Haystack Jackson was in the house, and polkas also rocked it. Lots of grunge followed.

Then there was a real treat, as a woman who was new to the scene, from just across the river in Minnesota, bonged away while using a capo-like-thing on her foot, to make full use of a hole on an obscure percussion instrument, being an original at an original while seated in a chair.

Rocky mountain music followed with a jangle, and I’d never had for them “a meal last so long.” Maybe you can while you are Playing With The Queen of Hearts, on the Seven Bridges Road, Eagles style.

A total of six guitars teamed for a lengthy ending note, and after that there was plenty of conversing about what had been heard, for the better part of an hour. The chief discussion to which people listened in was about the finer points of playing fast enough, Highway Star by Deep Purple, when you hadn’t tried it for a while.

If you want to give it your own shot, singing or playing or reading, it’s best to come early, although if you’re not on the spot of 7 p.m. they’ll try to squeeze you in. For my part, with a little luck I was able to find a couple of guitarists capable of teaming for lead on the key-changing Gimme Three Steps by Lynyrd Skynyrd, long ago my introduction to open mic. My voice was just the right shade of yellow.

This running joke is now barely a jog. With a walker. Wobbling along the white stripes of the black sidewalk.

But this is also a fillibuster on how we flirt at The Home. Teach the young uns how to do it.

And how frequently do we, jokingly, gather by the door and debate endlessly and pointlessly how often the big, tall senior center van is coming this week? Same times as the previous week. And the week before that. OK, it’s really not that often. As I’d joke in more ways than one, and even bring youthfulness in.

— In the beginning, in fall, there were honor-the-harvest corn feeds in every other parking lot. Then came the holidays, each hawking their own kind of wholesome food. And now on us is Lenten fish, for a full 40 days, to culminate — is that the correct term, oh ye theology police? — with Easter ham, and then we soon start over again.

And begotten in the middle, before church Ordinary Time — again right lingo? — there were chili tastings, having started already and running hot the full course of February, ending symbolically with Mardi Gras. As once we get to March, such chilization marches on.

But based on what I’ve seen at those chili-chows-kept-light, already offered by virtually every veritable bar and grill, or grill and bar, if you choose — and the following is a benchmark for you still seeking to indulge — if you are paying a dollar-amount kept in single digits, you are faring fairly well, whether to taste or to enter the fray for the fare. As these are typically full-fledged contests, and the requested fee is generally different between those hosting and those of us scarfing down, as in the AYCE fish for all, even ELCA not Catholic, and I have been both. But take heed, another rule of thumb for chili samplers, I’d guess, is don’t ask for a second spoonful-not-cupful unless asked by the proprietor-for-the-day. (This like extra fish pieces, hopefully cut quite generously, is at about a buck apiece, as money needs to be raised to feed about 5,000 more, loaves of bread extra, as I cite the Ukraine where the wheat comes from tariff factor.) But oh with chili, your shrimp pairs so well with that bit of lemon pepper, heavy on the pepper, ma’s family recipe, but I’m not sure if the taste is hearty enough, so could I try a bit more? Heavy on the divinely de-veined? Well OK, if you put it that way. —

Like when shown on the news on one of those phone video screens, an iPhone was to be sent into space, as just announced by NASA.

Taking advantage, I moaned loudly, “Phones in space,” and laughed heartily at my ode to the old classic joke.

She stared a bit blankly at me.

You know, “pigs in space?” While In a blanket? The comedy standard of a generation?

Her lip just twitched a bit.

“OK, just call me on my Android.”

Lip twitch dropped.

As I conversed with that one neighbor, another happened by, bearing fluffed up laundry as she approached.

She set down the basket, and then left for a tasket. Then she returned.

“Your sheets were very cozy,” I interjected, trying to make small talk.

Then I caught my gaffe.

Kidding, I am, I said to both of them.

“Rather I should say, your comforter.”

Gaffe number two. With a forehead smash, with forehand.

Neighbor number one tried to save the day.

She revealed that frequently her dad would announce to the family, while warming up the car, (or oven), “I’m pulling out in a few minutes.”

The way, yeah or nay, that the kids would respond, would determine how many siblings they end up having. And does stamina count for something?

Rim shot, by the snotty nosed, waxy eared kid with the broken glasses who just can’t keep his cymbals clean. We will not talk about his drum sticks.

Unlike the pristine delivery guy, who followed, and did not go postal. He listened to all my bad jokes, which follow, and took it all with a smile, but had many, many other deliveries and was likely more than happy to leave. And would have been in any case.

As a sign had been placed by management just inches from the door, stop and do not permit anyone to enter who you do not personally know. As too many drunks had tried to enter. Sixty percent of them are named Joe. But seriously folks, then the pizza guy came calling. I don’t know this guy. Wasn’t he the one who’s always trying to pass off fake pepperoni for the real kind? And we won’t even talk about sausage. Or hey, I do know this guy. Drinks beer with me all the time at the bar. Smilin’ Moose I think it is. Yeah, that’s the one. Then when his wife calls, he’s gotta run. Says he’s gotta quaff his Moose Juice fast, as he’s suddenly got two more pizza calls to make. Just another working stiff. Buddy, just watch your antlers on the way out.

But as far as going postal, she did, the new one, sorta, when I mentioned having some of her stuff. Just packed away in storage, stupid. The good stuff … Nevermind.

Say less. Or then say more.

A confession followed. “I’m a hoarder,” she said.

Not really. She just has a lot of nice things, she added, from a lot of nice people, and this nice gentleman — that’s me — said he would take a few of them off my hands and store them at his place, as he has an empty closet, and then one partially full, until I unclutter, you know.

She motioned to me and chided, you’re not supposed to say anything about that to other people.

I was just gonna say I had two of her shoe boxes …

The gang of four, as in bandmates, among us.

At first take, a call out to your neighbors for compassion and camaraderie. It seems when there is thus, spirituality will always enter in. So essentially will a call out to your God — and later a desire to minister to others — or to Allah, or as a band frontman said, whatever god you bow down to, or none at all.

In this case, it was a musician looking for others to talk to, and sing with, that was the driving force for seeking out a group of people for spiritual conversation. His all-call started out slow, but quickly built.

At the meetings that started it all with the four of us, the horsemen you could say, with topics weaving here and there, it was not to sound corny, but the love of God and each other, and other spiritualism on the fly. And in that, with our soon lingering longer-and-longer before the closing moment, we planned going to summer out on-the-lawn concerts and having frequent movie nights. To get together more than once or even twice a week, which is rare. Some in the group didn’t want these nights to end, saying these bonding experiences should indeed be “eternal.” So we culled through the nearby cabinets, finding them bare, for a place to set up a TV screen, for screening future movies.

— So just what happens when your doors have been shuttered by ICE? Take Azul Tequila, for example. 

The front door had over a week ago positioned right next to it what was described as a lawful notice, full page with single spaced lettering, to all government agents and officials, that they would have to have a legal warrant to enter. It noted that guests and customers were welcome.

A sign on the door said at that time that they’d be temporarily closed, until further notice, and sorry for that inconvenience. The multi-business sign on the corner of this strip mall still listed the name of this restaurant.

A ticket was seen plopped on the parking lot surface a few feet away, from the Bowman appraisal company, saying they were commissioned by the municipality. —

That’s what forming a small group of people and getting together and bonding and consoling, much like a church setting or a communion of saints or even souls looking to cross over, will do for you.

However, this effort was still progressing, to move on to the next day and with it other chances, and with them bring in others in the building, and thus serve — and further involve — even more people in our powwow.

The conversations with our core of four regulars quickly turned into a greater opportunity, stemming from convalescing about the rigors of life, then moving its way through many more topics, using song and our 90 minutes together, and growing, for a third time around now, in sessions that were devoted to sharing deepest thoughts and feelings. With heavy doses of compassion, some of it spinning off the way we harmonized on tunes, or just played the bongos. (The last of us brought a percussion instrument also, the last time.) That’s where it started with the main musician, God fearing to a fault more or less, but with questions, as we would share scores of supportive texts back and forth for many a day.

And it all centered around God, for three of the four of us, (one is a spiritualist), and to a lesser degree music — whether a player, singer or listener — and how to find Him in those chords. We thus even did a recording of Hotel California, becoming our own Eagles, in one take and the tune was considered good enough that the main musician immediately shared it with his mom, who immediately texted me, with a mostly warm critique.

The main man’s tunes strummed on a guitar always brought us back to a focal point — returning when I’d go spinning off too much on what I think are the evils of detaining immigrants, and how it’s being done — to keep our discussions topical but not political.

Our off-the-cuff sharing in the halls about the exasperation of life, had taken the form of getting together in this formal setting, the central gathering area of the building where we reside, and its cushy seats that are circled around, making this the perfect place to kick around ideas. And mostly dare to look each other square in the eye. But always be respectful and understanding. Usually.

The players …

Those sorting it out, and a higher power’s place among it, were myself, and a group of three other ones I’ll call the guitarist-leader, the existential searcher and the holistic helper. These chats ended up being followed by next day discussion, getting to involve two others, to be dubbed here as the advocate and the scooter man.

But the first night’s session was about reading signs from God, a topic decided on by the guitarist-leader who felt he’d gotten a few, and had been debating — along with a Buddhist monk over the phone — when they are overt enough to be from Him. (The spiritualist chimed in with her own story of a different faith, and how she’d come to be where she is at.)

The second night was about, again, sharing, and squaring it around a commitment to go to that major summer pop concert together, the farewell reunion of one of the main musician’s favorite groups, The Black Crowes, as a carload, over in Minnesota and expand the spiritual experience. Don’t necessarily need the Boundary Waters.

The searcher among us had the most profound and deep thoughts, although he appeared to be in existential crisis. He had found God in many places and sessions, but it seemed that presence soon would drop off, or evolve and switch gears, when circumstances in his life changed. His soul just seems to cry out, There has to be something more?

He knew many people from St. Patrick’s Catholic Church and is in a men’s group that meets weekly. He mentioned some first names, together with their occupations, and I straight up knew who they were, from worshipping together. The searcher is also active in a movie-based Bible study there. His influences ranged from spiritual leaders to atheists, when he was as young as a nine-year-old.

The guitarist-leader was the organizer and along with myself, the asker of added questions. He played the lower two strings on his guitar with precision, and seemed to inspire thoughts, from various people like myself. I was mostly trying to give helpful insight, and lead people in a new direction, especially about their relationships, and how to find God in them.

That was a facet where the holistic helper chimed in and seemed to also ask things the most astutely, and give advice that would take aim and sort of be like leading a horse to water. She’d had her own this-way-and-that spiritual struggles before coming around to higher powers. So make your statement, politely, and then curl back up into your blanket.

Not much later, we all departed for the night. This was around our middle session, before we got back, after a few days, to the point — via in a separate way a room closer to the front door — where this mini-ministry spread.

So the conversation would pick up again, not much later, with another resident, on the same floor, and the advocate, a volunteer for all who are disabled and working to fight through red-tape rules and negotiate life.

She is a staunch believer in The Bible, and it goes all the way through with one exception — she has an issue with Paul because of his past history as Saul and his persecution of Christians, which obviously goes against Christ, her main issue with the apostle. But there’s no problem at all with his mother.

The conversation went on much more than an hour longer than that. Several residents came and went through the front door, inspiring momentary humorous interludes, but then there was that very serious one. A man who needed to use a scooter, and had to struggle many times before succeeding to get over the edge to enter the main room, and was trying at the same time to gather his groceries. We agreed to help, and carry them downstairs to his apartment — even though he was a bit hesitant to request aid. The edge-factor inspired the active part of the advocate to come out.

But he soon was more eager to tell of his fighting in wars. Two of them. Then the scooter man sat by quietly and respectfully while the advocate took the conversation to the next level, as far as how to stop fighting such wars. Soon she wound up asking the scooter man if he would consider speaking at the 250th anniversary of our country — as he tells his tale wherever he goes — to be held in summer in a nearby park.

And so the ministry, and all it entails, goes on, and on and on.

As we see the parade of faces, some redacted or made into black boxes or blurred, throughout the Epstein files, there is the occasional rock star, and their approach to being there is much different due to their defiant and devilish non-dismissal.

Yes, they are shown there, but through the lens of their lyrics would say, some alleged related actions are not a good thing, but it is what it is. So let the world see us as we really are. Let the fans and pundits decide their and our merits, if any.

We are talking firstly and most prominently, Mick Jagger. The Rolling Stones lead singer would probably give his famous shrug about his presence in the photos, as if to say, what did you expect? He’s answered the questions that are sure to come, in advance, through his astonishingly good lyrics, where he aptly admonishes himself and acknowledges his admittedly unfortunate predilections for rather young black women. Just I would say a bit of a womanizer.

Take songs like Paint it Black and Brown Sugar, (about a real life black lover.) Jagger knows what he likes and somewhat reluctantly takes it, although he “sees the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes. I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.” And adds that in his view, she dances like a (young or black) girl should, (although one predisposes that any of his lovers were actually of age, even if they looked younger. And none of the public figures named in this piece, except Epstein and Maxwell have been charged with a crime.)

“Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts. It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black.” But then Jagger changes colors, quite brilliantly, into a romantic: “I could not foresee this thing happening to you.

“If I look hard enough (and it takes a gaze) into the setting sun. My love will laugh with me before the morning comes.”

Not colors just in flashy cars, and doorways. Brilliantly, and unfortunately, real. Delve lyrically into red just briefly, then go uninhibitedly black, for a moment, if only just a moment. This is unfettered dark realism. In Brown Sugar, Jagger even delves into a story that’s part about whipping black slave women. Jagger as historian? Well, maybe.

In a recent single, Angry, Mick and the boys although aging, still have this lust (for rocking or womanizing) going after six decades, as he sings prior to a couple of lines about not having made love, that it’s been so long he can’t see straight.

But for in-concert, take a gander at how Jagger, while his voice shakes with rage, treats his female co-lead-singers in the anti-war classic Gimme Shelter, among a couple hundred named as a fave.  He is nothing but a gentleman to Lisa Fischer, who plays with his hair, although they are at least once shown coyly placing their arms around each other after she sings provocactively about soldiers’ alleged rape and murder, enough to shake your soul and make you cry, and then even backs off, backpeddling from her as if in a way to restore her power. (He said he loved the way the voice of the other main co-singer Merry Clayton cracked at times on the high note.) This is much different than his approach when it was taken by Lady Gaga, and femmy powerful Jagger simply charged at her with manly fury. As has been at times deemed acceptable. Hello Robert Plant.

It also is recognized as so by a few apparently oft-photographed in the files noteworthy non-musical figures, such as former president Bill Clinton, who however by the way plays a seductive sax.

It is very dingy and not natural, but when you look at human nature, is a bit unfortunately understandable. Thus it of course goes all the way back to classic literature with the novel Lolita. (Now such is forgotten.)

Jagger’s presemed response to all this? Yes it is down to real earth and gritty and is that way and I hate it, but I love it too. And to a fault, can’t get enough of it.

Jagger’s lyrics work in Brown Sugar has been called by a music-based, evangelical Christian commentator as the best example of brilliant self-criticism he’s seen. So there.

And if that is not straight-up in-your-face reality, consider the promotional billboards that got so much flack way back in the day when, that said about an apparently fictitious woman, “I’m black and blue over the Rolling Stones and I love it.” A first musical recognition that there exists what even works its way up to, for better or worse, good or bad, especially in London, an established underground BDSM scene. Metaphor? Hard rock recognizes reality.  

So now enter lyricist Steve Harris of Iron Maiden, with his first song, Prowler. It is about in my mind, someone who is creepy but is “just trying to find my way.” This guy exposes himself, peers in windows, hides in bushes and just goes walking around, but is simply doing his best to get along in a society where women are allowed to very physically “flash their legs and lashes.” But he is not.

And Clinton. He said to the press, release the Epstein files, period. Let them show what they may, and the public think what they may. If for example, I happen to graze my hand over someone’s decidedly bare navel and nothing more, then I grazed my hand over someone’s navel! Clinton is betting on the side that the files will be released, en masse with him in them, to the public at large and they will respond with a great big dismissive yawn, and not care one bit. Like with the woman who laughts a bit at your off-color joke, then suddenly is silent. Clinton, again good or bad, does not live his evocative life in a world of fear of what someone might think. (And although not present in his creepy corner at all, and remember that, all you feminists — as I am one — have to recognize the conflicted reality that in many of the file’s photos, Ms. Maxwell and others are shown wearing barely anything above their low-slung waist. As in nothing covering that navel. Is she somehow wavering in her unyieldingness? The devil may care?) And the public, too. As for I, there’s no bad wishes, or assumptions, here for anyone but Epstein.

This tug of war, like the Vikes on fourth and goal vs. the Pack, but with third string quarterbacks, puts our faithful on opposite ends of a rope, or hanging from it if they are not careful, as the knotty segments now inch across the frozen St. Croix River each winter in mortal combat.

By contrast, just two days ago, people in Hudson were tethering a different way, in an effort to get hot air balloons off the ground, and the result was as checkered as the decorated side of a big balloon, in the biggest such winter event in the country. No danger of ballots being miscounted, as this isn’t Smoosh Boarding and all of its nefarious antics, the proverbial hankie can be clearly seen to be crossing a line.

— The reach of ICE goes almost to the North Pole. More on that geography, going beyond Greenland, below. And coming soon, a multi-band heavy metal analysis. Think Holy Wars. But until then …

More restaurants are closing. The Hudson Star-Observer, famous for repackaging area news as local, had on its front page three ICE pieces, as the Continental Divide grows greater.

In particular, the reach of the Twin Cities ICE surge, reaches further into the rural hinterlands toward Eau Claire, as a Baldwin Mexican restaurant, a full hour away from The Cities, has now been closed. This could be called, by name, plum loco, as all they can muster to serve is plum pudding. Wait, since they are closed, even that plum is out of reach.

Back to the 52-week annual protests — weather permitting like in ballooning — in Hudson. They even had a polar bear, plastic version, shown demanding justice, as we have polar opposites that reach to the poles. Hey, even where there are not people, there are people protesting …

Has ICE shown up to monitor? Not really, one woman said, but then there was that time over in, again, The Cities … And since she lives just north of North Hudson, where ICE is training, she’s seen them trolling by. —

After (also?) Minnesota transportation officials blew the whistle for a renewed request to use the Stillwater Lift Bridge, (not the beer by the same name), the tug of war site this year was moved — on the extended shoreline area of the river in of all places Hudson and its own road that goes back in history. Taking their leap like Lambeau, into the territory of late dominated by the Super Bowl. And yay, no halftime show or slick TV commercials to interrupt the proceedings.

This annual Border Battle event started in the early-2020s, with proceeds going to first responders and such on both sides of the river. The first year drew around 150 to 160 participants and about 600 spectators, organizers said. Currently, there was no formal toll for this event, held on a different bridge, but charities still did benefit (see below) …

Money the first time around was raised for the Saint Joseph Township Fire Department, the North Hudson Police Association and Lakeview EMS, according to the Hudson Star-Observer, hitting all around the north ends of the St. Croix Valley, with any population. But the city with perhaps the biggest population, it turns out, has won the most recent hosting by default.

Lakeview EMS reportedly received half of the money in that initial bid because the ambulance service covers both eastern Minnesota and western Wisconsin along the St. Croix, organizers said. So if you toot on that long, curved horn too hard, to signal a charge, and blow out your lungs, you’ve got a ride.

In 2025, organizers applied for a permit to hold the second Border Battle on the Stillwater Lift Bridge, but the Minnesota Department of Transportation denied that request, a grinch ahead of time. Green but not like Packer fans bleed, they opted for a foreseen need to protect the structure, even though they have reportedly allowed an occasional party or event in the past. Don’t want anybody taking a drop in the drink.

So off to the old toll bridge in downtown Hudson, near Pier 500 and Dick’s Bar, earlier this winter. Just like the events that’ve been on the docket for that extended block in the winter of 2026, a running of the llamas and a flying of the hot air balloons, the latter seeing a recent torchlight parade trekking up to the point where the ice starts. Although its not really about winning or losing, Wisconsin burrowed in like badgers and were the victors again this winter, a source at Dick’s Bar said.

The format remains the same, sing the same song with trenchs not a mosh pit. Vikings fans line up on one side of the rope. Packers fans pull from the other. With times as they are these days, Real IDs were needed, and no inter-mixing of loyalties, (just kidding). The winning side typically receives a larger share of the money raised, with it usually being nip and tuck most of the way.

Organizers might come back to Hudson, or back to Stillwater. Packers fans won the first time — in what has been a trend — so they gained bragging and hosting rights, as the Vikings did not live up to their ruthless name, but they were competitive though friendly. But there were a few good-natured boos and taunts — and stumbles, as ice in not always smooth, if there is any. This as the internet blared a headline about the differences in ice for figure skating, hockey and curling.

Organizers were expecting to run trolleys and buses to run from Stillwater to Hudson on the morning of the event, like the transport methods during other winter events, the Hudson Hot Air Affair and earlier Tour of Homes. Just no tug boats for tug of war ships.

For those about to (yet again) rock, we salute you … Fire.

For the Sky Walkers, they Return To Rock … For what seems like the 40th time around. No. 40 represents a time of perseverance in trial, and nothing says that like launching a Jedi fleet, to do battle. And even here in Hudson, you might see an actual Wookie or Storm Trooper walkin’ around. 

The first line is from the stellar hard rock group AC/DC, and features the cannons firing, over and over, much like hot air balloon burners going off. Interestingly, I rediscovered that old gem of a song late last year, which ties this all together, shortly before reading the subject line of the 2026 Hudson Hot Air Affair, (37th time actually from Feb. 6-8), and then rock and rolled by rippin’ through it in karaoke with my mates. Goin’ high. With voice and balloon.

— In my home berg of Hudson, not exactly a primary urban area, a local chef who was detained by ICE was released just in time to be, presumably, back on duty for Super Bowl serving. If dropped back off where he was apparently apprehended, at a Prescott gas station, he coulda not only gassed up, but stocked up, on supplies for making super supreme nachos while enroute back to Hudson.

He had been “housed” at the Whipple building in the St. Paul area, where a law enforcement officer was getting hugs and shrugs for having been struck in the face. Hey, with worse being done to bonafide U.S. citizens who are not criminals, except for maybe a couple of traffic tickets — at that gas station? — the pity party peters out. At another federal building, an ICE sculpture, literally, made up of only anti-agency frozen letters, was massively vandalized. Since this is not exactly Picasso, I’m not too upset. Just don’t mess with those truly cool ice sculptures in Stillwater.

But back to the Super Bowl, butter braised rabbit in Bad Bunny was attemptedly fried out by a since petered out alternative bonanza, we will not say glam. But word has it that — announced at halftime? — the Swedish Chef has kept his job and citizenship, remaining under contract for another year, until the next Super Bowl. —

And as I am writing this, I am watching on video the epic sci fi album Heavy Metal, like Star Wars a legend in its genre. (Is there another such movie out, again?) As these balloons stride through those very heavens, even if getting started via a burner from the fires of hell. That’s the way Sky Walkin’ gets going. And with the big caricatures on the sides of their balloons befitting ol’ Luke and his own Sky Walkin’ that’s very long to survive, like recently honored Gloria Gaynor. For that disco ball is higher than you can normally reach. You need ascension.

So, we go back to the tune’s start … “Stand up and be counted, for what you are about to receive … We give you everything we need.” Sounds very Biblical, doesn’t it? Turns out, that’s because the song and its era, its intro at least, was inspired by a Roman gladiator who salutes Cesar and praises him for the right to battle before his eyes, prior to his death in the arena, (a location much like a balloon launch field?) Stand up and be counted … For what you are about to receive. Glorious. Like Sky Walkers.

Also, on Friday between 5-8 p.m., the Hudson Art Gallery celebrates its new arrival onto the downtown scene with an exhibit by three artists — Kim Gordon, Emily Schollett and Gwen Partin — a great place to go and see before, during and after the torchlight parade. There all weekend is the eat, shop and play at Hudson area businesses and its unique shops and fun places option, with its special promotions and winter sales, at Abigail Page Antiques, Applebees Hudson, BackRoom Vintage, Barker’s Bar and Grill, Beloved Makers and Company, Black Rooster Bistro, Brick’s Neapolitan Pizza, Chapter 2 Books, Cream of the Crop Artists, Grand Fete, Hudson Flower Shop, Hudson United Methodist Church, Jonesy’s Local Bar and Grill, Knoke’s Chocolate and Nuts, Kudos, Mainstream Boutique, Post American Eatery, Rose and Lavender, San Pedro Cafe, SEASONS Gallery, The 715, The Bees Knees and The Purple Tree.

In the battle of the beverage and bites enjoy the chance to win a $50 gift certificate, by going to Barker’s Bar and Grill, Big Guys BBQ Roadhouse, Black Rooster Bistro, Jonesy’s Local Bar and Grill, Key’s Cafe Bakery and Bar, Lucky Guys Distillery, Max’s Social House, Pedro’s Pizza Lounge, Post American Eatery, and St. Croix National Golf and The Grounds Restaurant.

And so our balloons will hopefully go up, in this formerly cold winter of 2025-26, at the Hudson Hot Air Affair from Feb. 6-8. With such a hope, we return to rock in hopes of … rising. With a better result, and higher calling, than the old band Rainbow’s Stargazer and its wizard of such attempt. The launches are at or around dawn on Saturday and also Sunday, and 3 p.m. the first day. There can be a single burner ignited, or a series of them within a short span of distance and time, flaring at once, with one long strap of tarp quickly having its color invigorated, or enough inflated that they come relatively close to bumping as they go into the air.

At 6:15 p.m. Saturday, and going on for about an hour, thousands will watch a similar flame-throw, with either a field of fire with spurts of single spires shooting upward into the night sky, or if the wind is right a full moonglow with as many as five envelopes next to each other suddenly turning bright and colorful at once. This is sponsored by Festival Foods, in their initial foray into Hot Air Affair sponsorship. Another local grocer, Jerry’s Foods, which used to be named County Market, is holding a Count Down Event all-day Jan. 31 to celebrate their store’s transition, and in addition has a coupon in the event’s flyer for a free can of Celsius energy drink, to juice up for the weekend’s events and beyond.

(See more added info and new ways to enjoy this premier hot air ballooning event beneath.)

Friday’s torchlight parade will show more of the same, but with more than the flames shooting and their balloon burners traveling between two-or-more-story brick buildings in blocks through the downtown. There will also be all other sorts of goings on, such as marching bands that may be centered around that legendary instrument that will get the crowd going — the killer kazoo, dozens and dozens or more of them.

Dick’s Bar and Grill is how you start early at the Hot Air Affair, before the often infamous torchlight parade, that ends at its pearly gates, but that part begins on Friday at about 7 p.m. It’s also how you close it down, with fireworks afterwards, as locals will tell you this is their main spot of choice to also, later, get last call.

At Dick’s on Friday, there is a late afternoon happy hour, with a buck off their already low-priced drinks, some of the best buys in town. The timing coincides with the bar’s pre-parade, which runs until 6 p.m. and for a different kind of mug, as a part of that you can stand up and be smilin’ and be photographed making faces while inside the basket of the bar’s own dedicated balloon.

Friday is also some of the lowest price fish fry, all you can (my edit) be convinced to eat of two different versions, in Hudson. It comes with at least two sides, picking from two different categories. What you get, two outta three ain’t bad. (Just no Meatloaf. He passed on.)

Back to Dick’s. Saturday night is the traveler’s steak special, for those wanting to stay light on their feet for dancing later. It’s topped with bleu cheese butter, sauteed onions and mushrooms. Three outta three ain’t bad either.

As far as deejay music, Dick’s is some of the most creative, with a very urban sound interspersed with other styles, that as mentioned elsewhere on this site has a rockier edge, late on both Friday and Saturday nights. (If trying to be hip, this is your most likely place in town to encounter someone looking like Snoop Dogg.) Among the other main choices, the Smilin’ Moose tends to feature straight up deejay dance music both nights, in what they describe as their cozy lodge atmosphere, with plenty of big thick wood logs to compliment the smaller ones stuck between, as well as their dance floor.

As for hearing some AC/DC, one of the oldest hard rock bands, there are options aplenty, but your best bet right in town, even if a deejay remix, is Dick’s, the oldest bar in Wisconsin. For those with the will to drive, there is Big (and now bigger) Guys BBQ Roadhouse when heading a few miles north and they have a longtime shuttle bus into the city too, and the Empourium, when heading to the east, with our featured music that was slated much earlier. The band name is also all caps like in a DJ, but inverted, going as “IV Play.” Could be Roman Numerals? (Best to call ahead on both of those, as well as others listed, as there might be a late cancellation.)

There are several other places, between downtown Hudson and also in the surrounding townships, that feature either dancing or other live music. Longtime rockers The Chub’s play at Willow River Saloon in Burkhardt on Friday, starting quite early at 8 p.m., and how about the idea of getting some of the groovy pizza at the adjoining Carbone’s and going say a block away to enjoy it at Willow River State Park, cool even when it’s cold — not the pizza that is.

There is some of the longest-years running karaoke in the area at the Plaza Lounge/Hudson Bowling Center on both Friday and Saturday nights, where they can even hear your voice in the back, and it is known for running it late, so you can still possibly rip through that last tune you saw around last call on the song list.

Also known for serving late is Ziggy’s Hudson, now the new Max’s Social House, and the new owners say they’re still rocking. Ziggy’s, now Max’s, typically has upstairs live bands, just weave up past the patios, but in recent months you’ve been less likely to have full eats (try in the upstairs) since through it all, the good news is, the lower floor especially is being remodeled, noteworthy the middle section. So there’ll be a new version of the club, which just reopened fully, and has planned a new menu and cocktail list but same old music and friendliness, among other things, under a different name, waiting for you. Especially, as remodeling phases are being completed by the day, should you return for next year’s ballooning event, when its all complete.

JenniferK

@jenniferkohl822

Somerset, WI

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Our country has not been this divided since, possibly, the slavery issue, and forget Watergate for fully bothering your conscience. And today, maybe, for seeing even moreso seething tensions, resulting at times in death. When you look at all the stories coming forward.

And my metropolitan area continues to be ground zero with, I gotta say, the conservatives squatting another lemon and Bruce Springsteen penning an anti-ICE song just for our pleasure, and its performance here. So as The Boss has said, there will be such protests written, by scribes like me, “when the times call for it.” Tom Morello of Rage Against The Machine is joining the gig on guitar, protesting the force used by police like in his earlier critically acclaimed work, for the Pretti/Good of all of us. Ironically, one called “Killin’ in the name of …” God?!?

Hey, putting a gun in a young and untrained, hyped-up ICE agent’s hands is about as good an idea as asking the Hell Angels to do security at a Rolling Stones concert. (Yes their management asked them to do that way back in the day, and the result was a near riot.)

Today, ICE dominates the political and cultural (rougher than Rockies terrain) landscape. Like never been seen since the glacier ages. Lots of crags.

They are ripping the likes of journalist Don Lemon apart, by charging him with “obstructing” people trying to leave a St. Paul church, by stopping them and subjecting them to facts about the immigration crisis — and it is that, not a conflict — after their pastor was accused of being an ICE director.

Would you get a load of that latest sermon? (What there’s been one since?) Hell and brimstone? St. Peter would say forget it man, and press that trap door with a chute beneath, and no clouds as a buffer for where you will land. No purgatory. The constraining doctrine of this church does not allow for that.

OK, I was not there, but I know how the most overtly rigid churches and conservatives are, and they see things in absolutes. I also know professionally and personally how bad some cops are in writing accurate reports. Something like “obstructing” at a church is as vague as “dragging” behind a vehicle, which is likely why a first proposed criminal complaint against Lemon was dropped much more quickly then courts usually move, as have been all charges, to the time this was written. How many inches do you have to lean toward an individual to “obstruct” them? Just how long are you allowed to linger there until being like a pastor saying, nice to see you again, and hope I’ll have the pleasure again soon, and get a last donation before you’re deported. Sorry, I couldn’t resist, and yes I lean liberal, unlike the Bible-fearing-in-a-literal-interpretation-way church where the incident took place. They claim to follow Jesus, scrupulously, but the backing rhetoric is very vague. And to be members, people are required to sign-off to following a set of rules that resemble canon law.

“So squeeze my lemon, until the juice runs down my leg,” sarcastically sayeth Led Zeppelin. But this is serious folks.

Also, a Q and A

Next question, again getting around to money: What happens to assets and property held by people seized and deported by ICE. Are these merely just taken by the US government? Are they allowed to gather their belongings before they are cordoned away? And what happens to them then? Will they ever see the daylight again in the future, for even a court hearing? Or do these people just disappear? I don’t see much written court mention of actual convictions and sentencings and such.

And even if they are documented and carrying a green card, how do they scrounge by if they become disabled? Die on the street? We know how Trump views those with legs less able than his own privileged wobbly ones.

I watched a locally-shot doorbell video of a seemingly normal everyday American (note that word) family scrambling to quickly get inside with their six-month-old as ICE agents closed in. They did so slowly, they weren’t even very good at it. These guys and gals basically look like they could use some fitness training. They are often, I’ll say it, obese, at least along the lines of many a general! We today live in an age where overt ICE thugs, though many times if-not-for-a-big-vested-suit overweight enough that this’ll be the only way they could emulate the ancient SS, still holding sway with their intimidation and fear, is being led by a president grasping to hold onto sanity and gone mad with power, as everyone stands, or cowers, afraid to challenge him. You think Putin is out of control? At least he is savvy. But he’s losing it too. Seems to be a lot of that going around.

But hey I gotta say, the first man still has it, as far as getting certain things done. That’s what a frequent power dose of aspirin, and a little golf will do yah. And Trump, through going do-se-do back and forth, does show a knack for the art of the deal. But you must ask, does he ever (give it a) rest? (Like ICE, Trump’s always on the case, it seems, never rusts.) Except of course, during cabinet meetings. Get in a quick power nap. Noem is boring though brutal.

Unlike those ICE agents, who are rumbling and tumbling not only through back bar kitchens, but the neighborhoods at night. I ask like Neil Young, does peeping ICE ever sleep? No, those new Hispanic hires, since there are a lot of them — so drawing plenty of criticism — are too busy turning on their own. And maybe turning them in.

Have you seen just what these new ICE agents make? Much more than as a fry cook. Almost makes you adhere to why they become cold as ICE, having sold their soul for a hefty and quick paycheck and also pension. Oh you conservatives who finagle over every penny, who do you think is paying for all their salaries? Think about the cause, and impact, and implications, of all of the above.

The targeted population themselves constitutes what, the population of Minnesconsin, with maybe Iowa thrown in, spread out over all 50 states. ICE is running roughshod all over the (urban and at times beyond) countryside to gather up this relatively few people. 

Don’t be mean to Trump and ICE, you say. OK, a point to be made. Nobody likes to be spit on, as alleged, although except for spreading disease through a visor, a little water never hurt anyone.

However, if there ever were to be two groups, or people, who could be defined as despicable, these are they. And they are real, Snidely Whiplash was just a cartoon character.

This has been written, at great length, what (little) an ICE agent has to endure …

Hey, a snowball is thrown at you. When you’re in riot gear? Hey, I’ve been hit by one many times, even an icy kind. Didn’t really hurt, shrugged it off and went on my way. Maybe in a light fall jacket even, not full parka. 

A nice little ol’ snowball fight used to be how we, unfortunately just mostly as kids, had fun. This makes me think of Minnesota National Guard members, and how they’d hand out hot sandwiches and coffee or hot chocolate — the latter are likely to be warmer than the former — to protesters. Hand half of yours to an ICE agent, as a sign of good will? Or, should we, would we, or could we, invite ICE officers to a good-natured snowball fight? Just to pass the time. After all, at the core, they are people too. (Check out the music video Christmas Truce by soft-metal band Sabaton, for a history and true-story Xmas lesson that’s inspiring, if you take it through to the end. Of how the Nazis — the older not current kind — took a challenge and broke bread with the Allied lines a stone or grenade’s throw away, and called a truce on Christmas Eve and even played soccer together, before going at it again once Xmas passed. I’m not sure what they did the day of …)

So an answer. And it’s from The Boss: Just don’t shoot anyone, for any reason other than what a civilian would normally have. Use nominal alternative means.

And what are such means?

His music. The new song, the gritty in a lighter than it could have been way, Streets of Minneapolis, speaks for itself, as does the look of anger and frustration on Springsteen’s face. I will point out a few things in the video’s footage. The street scenes show a lot of people, mostly ICE agents, pushing and shoving, but no one being, say, hit by a billy club. One ICE agent even points at a specific area before tossing his chemical irritant, subject to interpretation and maybe he’s singling someout out for abuse, but it almost looks like he’s giving people a last chance to clear out. However, another vignette, or two, shows an agent not only tackling someone, but using the force of his body to drive them into the ground.

So Fox …

But hey, this is their answer to everything, the GOP and especially MAGA that is: It’s fake news. Is everything fake news? And music? And quicksand? You look at all the different new outlets out there, and except for FOX News, (which is a very incredulous credenza of non-credibility), and maybe one other one a source of mine found, and they mostly agree that Trump is the biggest political embarrassment in, probably, the history of the country! Can all the news be wrong? Especially pertinent since the monied MAGA moguls have bought out all the outlets. Like to be that editor? The only worse job is being Trump’s press secretary.

Maybe instead use your writing skills in this way.

Another song lyric, as maybe it’s time to turn the tables:

If Chris Cornell were alive today

No telling what he’d say

Or write as a song lyric

Lord knows, I’d wanna hear it

As Miller and Noem’s subjective lies

Should be subjected to the booted cries.

Hmm … Maybe that’s more like from Frampton Comes Alive. Do you feel like we do?

That’s true.