I thee wed with a strong Bond: Even if your big hat gets in the way and we crash that cool sports car while racing off into the night without a care to our honeymoon resort. At least you’ll all be so glowing, physically and wardrobe-wise, that the rescue people can locate you quickly:
— The wedding of the royalty, (of Oregon?) A few of my relatives of about my age from there attended a same-day event as that of the new Brit prince and princess, calling it the Wedding of the Other Side of the Pond, quipped one attendee Mariah, my sister-in-law. But they looked more like the queen than the new bride, with their bright-colored, full dresses and big hats of the type where if you are in the USA you might not see, at least as far as size, north of Texas. And along with that, the royal couple got in a fancy sports car that’s Bond-like for their Honeymoon, complete with that bare-shoulder, Bond girl gown being sported. But first there was a late-night reception, complete with the piano rendition provided by guest Elton John when it was said that things needed pepping up. (One wonders what love song he sung?) But back at the Oregon version there was a much similar vintage auto, based on a classic Corvette, that the happy couple took off in. As all was sunny in both the usually rainy, grunge-area locale, and in England. But hey, with that kind of horsepower, if either marriage doesn’t last, at least they can bolt really fast.
— When watching the late night news, I saw not only hours of wedding coverage — and not only on PBS — but an update to that awful lava-spewing, hot spot that’s been in the headlines. I could of swore I heard the anchor say that it was from the “Killer Whale Volcano,” although actually it was named from a obscure twist of the native tongue. But, if you open your mind, you could see a resemblance in colors between the black and orange lava, and back and white whale.
— Stars and Stripes Forever. Or at least until September. That’s when Lisa will probably have her birthday party, likely again at The Village Inn. But this late night, one of the first spent on the St. Croix enjoying a balmy soon-summer, she was in her bathing suit — not her birthday suit, although she’s considered posing — and had on an oversize T-shirt that was all flags and fireworks exploding. And this even before The Fourth arrived. What brought up the birthday bit was that last time she really liked the card I gave. Gee that was easy. (Or is that a bad term).
— The bartender at Buffalo Wild Wings told a patron that if the currently being finalized legislation goes through, which would expand the types of gambling allowed for sporting events, most noteworthy pro hockey and the new Vegas franchise, which is defying great odds to possibly win the Stanley Cup, it could bankrupt most betting venues on the Strip. And we thought we had already coronated the King of Bankruptcies. But wait a minute, the Vegas businesses would have to go through that legal process four times to get on the verge of trumping Trump. In a related manner, a guy at ‘Wings told the server he was not even “vaguely” interested in pro hockey. Apparently too Wild. But at least he won’t lose any money.
— When I made my way up the stairs at Pudge’s, the crowd was singing the raunchy refrain to an Adam Sandler song. As I rounded the corner, a friend of mine sang a couple of ad-libbed lines, starting with “there’s Joe Winter!,” in perfect time to the music. I congratulated him for even much more on cue then those other guys shooting pool.
— At the lift bridge in Duluth, a strong gale blew a sail boat into the framework and damaged it. See, there really was a compelling reason to build the St. Croix Crossing. With summer here, could the same thing happen in Stillwater? That’s where the lift part comes in (unless some dumb drunk severs the cord with bad driving). But even that mechanical portion wouldn’t keep the failing span from falling into the river if too many big semis rolled across it at once, and everybody seemed to think that would be the most likely cause of its demise.
— Another summer story follows. One of those big companies that invade the area calls its air conditioning repair workers “comfort specialists.” If I want to have one of those, I go see my friendly neighborhood bartender, and the name of such person is — what I have to pick just one “comfort specialist?”
— OK, we at this time have to go with Chad at Dick’s. I told him the previous night that he for the moment could be my therapist, ala the liquid kind. But if that condition prevailed, wouldn’t he be just a puddle of liquid on the mat below his feet? Not necessarily, said the sage server, since the body is made up of about 98 percent water — or to be completely correct, pick a number just less than 100, and don’t be falsely guided by the degrees of body temperature when selecting. But why the need for therapy in the first place? Bad humor, I pondered, then tested whether he was worth his rates (cheap as they are) with this one: A bald biker said he loves the feeling of the wind through his hair. But then his anti-psychotic medication kicked in.
— And she’s not even with the band. An even thinner version of Courtney Cox, if that is possible, was seen in River Falls taking in the gig of someone who has somewhat of the same fab frame (but not overdone) that being the singer, Chaunte Shayne.
— Despite an apparent increase in incidents where people end up dead, the Minneapolis cops say that in recent years, their use of significant force has actually declined by a full 48 percent. Huh? The only explanation I can find is that they are, inadvertently, just getting more bang for their buck, so to speak, not as much the low level stuff like just kicking the shit out of somebody, rather actually shooting some of them in sometimes misguided attempts to keep order. Maybe send some of those gung-ho metro Blue Bloods over here to get a handle on the people who come from their state, get too drunk and cause problems for the of course totally law-abiding and blameless Cheeseheads. Uhm, rethink that, maybe there are a few more difficulties here then what you might think at first blush.
— Signs on businesses became potentially wierd lately if there was even a single typo. Two that come to mind: “Wheat is hip,” although not all diet fans, such as the Keto people at Agave Kitchen and other places, would think so. Or wait, that actually read “What is hip.” And even more timely, “Threat, mom … on Sunday.” But again, actually it was “Treat mom.” (OK, we did need to throw in a comma to make the joke work, we think.) But back to the Keto people; a friend of mine refers to all the Beautiful People from there, who go about after their shifts end, as the Agave People. And lastly, earlier in the month, on behalf of one of the birthday people, Kozy Korner erected a sign that said on his day, Let the Fourth Be With You. Looks like The Third was taken.