A highly charged worker, for now chilling out as snow hits and ebbs, told the tale that there was no in-stock CBD-infused juice, as a different kind of wind and rain storm was the rager. Rock you like a hurricane? Not on the shelf even on (or because of) an otherwise rockin’ and busy 4-20. Try back in May. But first, look at more seasons in Notes From The Beat.

The fun and funky 4-20 female knew all that a good clerk should. And she could even poke fun at her industry. Her store had sold out of CBD-infused drinks, as a hurricane had hit their supply center ceiling down south. And this was April 20, so she added that they’d been highly busy all day. No rest for the wicked.
She said this with an expression showing equal doses of exasperation and exhaustion.
So standing only hookah-length away, I made the first joke, between us, to avoid any interloping vape interludes. Maybe the workers were high enough to reach ceiling level and beyond. So they can fix it fast. (See this post’s last paragraph for the commonality). Or maybe not.
Then she threw it back my way: Maybe they didn’t even know that which was missing.
They might, or might not, if Colorado workers. Like my former neighbor who, one of two, took the pandemic as a chance to move there and work at, one of many … pot farms. But their book-keeping at times went up in smoke, so to speak. I’ll let you, dear reader, finish the joke. OK, I will. Were their problems stemming from quality control? Or was it done too often, stoners doing overtime.

— Is gray, as in Wolves, the new black as far as sports-bar jersey color? Or green yields to a bit orange or red? This crew, and not the Brew Crew, might leave you black and blue if you diss their metro team(s). Just where was this Wild vigil of many colors?  To get the answer, visit the department Where Did You See It. —

Another thing that required right timing, just today on cell phone, tell me my slightly stoner buddy where you are parked alongside the park, lakefront side, taking in the new, majorly flooded street scenes.
Stationed north, or south, up or down along the watermark? Not sure? His pix would tell.
Thus, I’ll take you back to a couple of decades ago, the last time the waters hit this level. Each year I’d check them as they rose, and contribute a couple of paragraphs to newspapers such as the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram, or even the Milwaukee Journal (that was the paper’s name back in the day before they merged with the Sentinel in the same city) as part of their coverage package. And when waiting for the water to rise even more, when the coming rain would soon make for a big finish, I hung with a college J student who was clerking at what was then going by the name More 4, as the waters lapped at its back docks and doors. The only grocery store in the downtown, it was open 24 hours.
I got a great photo of a women wearing a slim off-shoulder pink blouse taking her dog down to the rising edge of the river, now reaching to a level where the dike road was close to under-water, as some people in the background still wandered and gawked. And a park bench in the foreground had liquid lapping up to its top rail.
That photo never ran, space reasons. But it told the story in many forms. I still have an old print of the image, gotten at the local pharmacy chain, since that was back in a day before digital pix.
And I don’t have to paint you a picture, all the cool clubs in Stillwater’s waterfront are edging up to their barstools underwater. Keeps away the rowdy types, as this is indeed Minnesota side, that Stillwater has become known for?
And in Hudson, the fittingly named Pier 500 is no longer local, as it was dislodged by floodwaters from its perch a block from the St. Croix River and then was floated down to the Mississippi as far as a Des Moines lock and dam. (Just kidding).
Up a few blocks and bars, was a video was being taken (for recordkeeping, and/or insurance adjusting?) of one of the wind-and-rain-damaged lots and cars. (No power trucks). Or doing a selfie. As he soon was joined by another videographer. No wait, they’re just playing on their social media devices at length. Frogger, joined by mallards, in the wet-grass side lane? At least they no longer have to worry about slabs of slushy ice falling from eaves — sometimes from more than one spot in a doorway.
A sign along the way was describing what they could do for your cable. Install it? Fix it? As it is likely down recently. But the need for such repair work soon would fade, and that sign since went poof. Replaced by this one: Suns out, solar panels in! We now have sun-powered Flix Busses.

Share the Post:

Related Posts

My mom has told me not to be a potty mouth when I write, as she certainly would not appreciate hardly any of the standup humor on say, Comedy Central Radio. SNL maybe. But after 11:30 p.m. … But there comes a time where a man must make a stand. And for this jokester, it was now when he had to choose whether to pass on the opportunity that would otherwise bite him in the butt, for in front of and behind him is the Mother Lode. Or should I say load. Or “Mothers” of Invention. Heh heh, heh heh, Butthead, look...
So the wall is down. Of letters, that is. Not down by Mexico. Cemented into the concrete. Of the Kennedy Center. Where music has sat. (Near where a now defunct wrestling arena rusts in peace. Or a bloodied White House lawn. With leftover paper cups and plates, more likely bowls and small utensils, anyone?) Or more ornate than inside? A tarp the size of Pennsylvania, the predominant battle state, covers workers as they chip. So geez, how big are the letters? Four times 50 living workers high? But now none remain, or so we are told by flunkies. Or is...
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...
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...
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...
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...
Scroll to Top