When drinking with Brits, don’t try to spell Hendrix, Skynyrd, or Saving Starz:
— The Brit-fest mentioned in Picks of the Week is not the only UK sighting there has been of late. Four women from England were anything but stoic when they recently visited Dick’s. They sang along with each jukebox song all the way through, for hours until they closed up the joint, and if there was a time they didn’t know a line, became indignant. They were having so much fun, it was hard to be dismayed by them, the bartenders said. One of the staffers, Brando, noted that when addressing them, he used the word “leisure” in the most appropriate British way, making it sound like “treasure.” I told Brando that it sounded like “ledger,” and that’s a word you don’t normally hear in bar conversations.
— What’s in an (odd) name, especially when it’s misspelled? It can be quite a bit. A local charity booked the trio Saving Starz and spelled the last letter of its name with the traditional ‘s’ not a ‘z’ on its flyers. That reminds me of one of my first entertainment columns for the Hudson Star-Observer back in the 1990s, when I, the novice, referred to the guitar legend as Jimmy Hendricks. Ouch! Around that same time, it was noted in an obituary, (written by another staffer, not me), that the favorite band of someone who had passed on was spelled as Leonard Skinnard.
— Another name, to be called. When taking in the St. Paul show of a jazz band called the Usual Suspects, (or is it Usual Suspect, singular, and you’ll see the reason that is important in a moment), the singer noted there has been some confusion about who’s who. There is another band with the same name, give or take the “s” went the lament. I told the guy that I thought I’d seen that band name in a flyer for a show in River Falls. Must have been the other guys.
— Word was traveling around Guv’s Place in Houlton about antics at Rock Fest in Cadott. Something about visiting multiple campgrounds while one of them was carting another around in a borrowed wheelchair. Hmmm.
— Jeff Loven now has even more groupies, as do I (?!?!). The ultimate one-man-band guy recently noted from the stage that a crew of people who hail from Oregon were present at Dick’s, taking in the show a second time after having seen him the day before at Meister’s just a bit northeast of here. They included some heavy metal fans, including the patriarch — “He’s into death metal. He’s from Sweden,” I was told. When it finally was time for me to take the stage, a large group of bridesmaids, (in number, not dress size), came in and started dancing and shouting so loud, I felt like one of the Beatles! One even got so into it she played air guitar with her friend’s uplifted leg. I couldn’t even hear myself sing.
— Two more holiday items have reared their heads, after the fact. A regular at Woody’s in Bayport with a gray beard the length of a Iranian terrorist (sorry about that reference), had it colored in a much more patriotic fashion, red, white and blue. And this from a guy just across the bar: “On Father’s Day, I always take my phone off the hook.”
— It’s a small world. A bartender at Woody’s said that she saw a bad fire while at home in St. Paul a couple of dozen miles away, and the next day one of her regulars, a firefighter for that department, came in and said he was one of those who battled it. A few days later a young boy came in with a parent, and said that while playing at Safety Camp in a nearby park, he had torn a tendon in his arm, which was heavily wrapped. His parent scoffed, saying it was just a strain, which made people in the place quip that the rescue people there should know which it is. After all, this was Safety Camp.
— Lastly, in what I’m sure will be the social event of the season (yeah, right), Saturday, Aug. 17 is my birthday! Fifty-two has come so fast, but that hasn’t prevented some people in the past from tweeting that I made the rounds celebrating. Last year, a friend of mine met up with me by chance at Guv’s Place in Houlton on the day before and said that since I’m such a special person (yeah, right), we should concoct a new shot in my honor. For obvious reasons, I’m a bit fuzzy on the details, but it came down something like this: So, Joe, you’re 100 percent German, so I think we can work on a theme here. It’s got to be something with Kaiser in the name, and as part of this theme, Jagermeister, the quasi-official drink of St. Croix County, just has to be involved. At that point, the comely bartender, Mabel happened by, and the theme quickly shifted and the three of us through bleary eyes agreed that the drink should be named after her, not me.