Local sports bar owners weren’t daft when planning draft parties, as the subsequent verbal jousting shows:
— The annual draft day parties, featuring long periods of commentator small talk interrupted by the excitement of an actual pick, and promoted by some local sports bars seem to have made a return on their investment. And the ultimate example might be the guy in the Katzenmoyer jersey.
A guy sporting that somewhat obscure New England Patriot jersey, No. 59, was verbally jousting with a bunch of Viking backers on the night after they made their much celebrated wide receiver pick. The action at that point, seen at Buffalo Wild Wings, was more along the bar rail than it was on any playing field or draft podium. Then one of the Viking fans made reference to a supermodel while looking toward No. 59. I really doubt it, but he could have been referring to a certain famous quarterback’s supermodel squeeze. Around that same time on sports news TV was the announcement that there’d be special coverage of the eternal saga that is Deflategate, “Appeal of the Appeal of the Appeal. The Tom Brady Story, a Football Life.” Just kidding.
But seriously, the draft viewership at most sports bars was heavy during that first round, and some servers — mostly female — said that they couldn’t relate to all the hype, which became a topic in itself, but that they appreciated the business. Attendance peaked during the first couple of rounds, depending on if your favorite team was Minnesota or Green Bay, and what the selection meant to your squad — and there were plenty of commentators telling you what you should think.
The Katzenmoyer Syndrome also played out early on draft day among people looking for an escape from what seemed to be the drudgery of their everyday work lives. A convenience store clerk, who I don’t recall ever having met, asking me with interest what I’d be doing for the “main event,” before even taking my money. He made small talk at length, and didn’t let it go very easily, about my venue of choice to watch it (didn’t have a particular one) and what I thought might be the result (didn’t have an opinion).
— More from my local vault on Prince: The flower girl at the recently deceased superstar’s wedding was a close relative of a local woman, who says she got the little girl ready downstairs but was unable to then take in the blissful proceedings up above.
At draft day party, fan of Pat’s linebacker Katzenmoyer backs up his lines to Vikes faithful
Share the Post:
Related Posts
- Stressed out as a caregiver? She’s back at yah. This is a rare case of a husband and wife being joint caregivers — for each other — aided and abbetted by the fact that they have a lot of the same disabling conditions. So she shovels snow using a walker/scooter, while he cooks gingerly using a microwave and offers her a plate when she sits down, in an easy chair, in a reversal and new take on traditional roles. Whatever it takes. Necessity is the mother of invention.
A few years back, I wrote an article about Hudson Deacon Tom Kroll and how he did so many extra dutiful tasks, his living out the Gospels tirelessly, when his wife was ill, in addition to his regular job. I was inspired at the time to pen this, about my own lovely, disabled wife — we were separated briefly but now back together with our 40th anniversary this month, as wholehearted caregiving has many strains — and how an atypical view of standard roles, out of necessity, made things work, as far as our approach to work and home that’s...
- He says, and goes fishing with the boys. She says, then goes to the middle of Texas, inviting her mates to a ranch/villa built for the ages. The bachelor and bachelorette parties were on the same night, but though very different, they had some things in common … like the snakes, at least three kinds, to avoid. (None with exotic dancer.) But while away, they did not avoid each other, completely. He made a phone call. —– Just added, last call included a Carolina cowpoke.
What do fishing, maybe in the dark, thus a Texas ranch, snakes of various types and do they come or stay out after dusk, eating either and only fine food or snacks, and a game of cards — likely just one each — have in common. And no strippers or Chippendales. And an only half or quarter, not full Monty. (Who is Monty anyway?) Or cowboy or cowgirl hats. Although there was some dress-up. More Barbie than boots on, I think. It’s an easy answer, connected and conflicting, but not in all or dirty ways, bachelor and bachelorette parties. One of each...
- Full metal jacket? Hey, I wasn’t exactly to the point of going Rob Halford. But tastes aside, there must be some reason why after 26 years I was shunned, like going Bob Daisley by Ozzy at his reunion? OK, I know, my style may not have fit with the packed crowd. And the last couple of times for this, I tried to do too much with ad-libbing. So yeah, I get that this time around, I was the somewhat unusual choice to be the one left off the set list, with singers clamoring to get up there. But seriously, just being analytical of strengths and weaknesses as a singer here, no hard feelings. I’m not Dio. (Or Traveling Wilburys, a when jumping inside, inside joke.)
It was clear to me at the most recent Jeff Loven music show in Hudson, for Memorial Day weekend, that there has been a changing of the guard. The sword has been passed. New blood, like Yungblud, has been brought in. And, I must say, loyalty — amongst the devotees who travel frequently and all across the two-state area to virtually all of Jeff’s shows — has been rewarded. They are the royalty, in what just makes good business sense that I can appreciate. In a significant but not unprecedented altering of course, I was not one of those asked...
- Songs by Napalm Death? A fire swept down my very street today, where the babies were burned. (But alas, a new A/C unit is on its way up the freeway.) The Stones did not leave these themes unturned, either, or should I say unrolled. Oh wait, this all was my cooker of an apartment, and we are not talking the kitchen. But all these matters will become more pressing, a pressure point, as the new normal especially in southern climes is temp well into the triple digits. It is these people, the third world, and their heat stroke not mine, that most concern me. (Another example of hellfire temps just added. Sin after Sin.)
Trial by fire. My broiling heart in my efficiency flat still beats a bit, in concern over those boiling over in worse apartments in a Chicago tenancy, or on an ocean island instantly-burn-your-feet beach or dessert, or forced to endure ice baths just to keep cool — or simply be offered no way to maintain an ice-dripping body other than also read a non-cookbook at the library, or select not a big steak you can’t afford but a 73/27 burger from a freezer and slap it on your forehead. Just not too hard. All these things are ones where you especially today either burn or...
- I had a dream … And out of it (re)sprouted an ancient spring fertility rite to save the world, or at least my apartment building, or at least my second story window, from a giant lizard peering in, out at T-Rex days of yore. This ritual requires copious amounts of consumption and goes from there to hobbits and lords who are not yet a-leaping, for reasons to be retold in this fanciful, twisted tale (of fiction?) Just watch the use of Why! The letter, that is. And try to catch on to the inside jokes. (Psst. Another tale inside. Or two.)
This is a truly awfuI, twisted tale of villains and heroes, powerful ale if used carefully, giant beasties and smaller hobbyts, but also renewal and redemption. I will ascrybe to an ancient rytual, back to when the tyme gyant lyzyrds peered into second story wyndows of apartment byldings and no amount of walls could keep them out of such urban non-placated places, save this practice that annually, about this tyme of three-day holiday, would save humanity for another year. So in this spryng fertility ryte, go consume copious quantities of hunhy grhym cr’krz and jinjer biyr, deprived of its alcohol as worshippers need to be sober-headed...
- And musings moreover —– A full list of the trios of triumph. The power of threes. A full dozen of these triads, oh make that 13 as we linger, that you will see listed as shopping promptings in three long blocks of store windows of downtown Hudson. Three’s company? Get it? Third time’s the charm. And this is a truism, the words, some of them three letters, chosen to depict their offerings show the diversity of, dare I say it, a Super WalMart.
Here goes the ultimate list of lingo, even if it languishes, in no particular long order, as we go at length into the different kinds of businesses you will find in this locale, starting the list and at its last, two of the many art galleries in our downtown: — Feminist power, love and generosity, and to double your fun, framing, art tchotchkes and earrings, all at the biggest little art and collectables gallery you will see mid-block. — Community, commerce and tourism, touted at the Hudson Area Chamber of Commerce and Tourism Bureau, in a blatant suck up to...