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Only a mosh pit could make a more sour note? There will be sequels to that pithy ice mound that struck a chord — forget today’s in-concert fashion faves — and made the slippery high heels a questionable choice. Tom Petty might have called it Free Falling. At least not sporting spikes. (But maybe open toed shoes accented by an accent on perhaps the year’s coldest night? See Picks Of The Week).

Ouch, coming from the ice and snow, she just did the ultimate full-frontal (must unequivitably and emphatically say non-nudity due to her winter attire, but she still wasn’t wearing boots) somewhat cheeky face plant!
While wearing a great big ol’ cool coat as it was very cold, climbing/jumping over the thing I’ve come to call Ye Ol’ Ice Boulder. Crossing over to the other side.
And you’ve got to blame another part of her garb, those high heels, although the fact that they’re very clunky but only moderate in height, at a couple of inches, might have helped. For that’s what she wearing as she stepped up, way up and forward, over the mountain but not traveling across the sky.
As then she fell down. Hard.
Yes with all the snowstorms there has been a two-foot high, ranging up to three, for your two feet, mound made by busy plows of snow that soon was ice, at the end of the walkway out to the street at my apartment. If negotiating such to go to a music offering downtown, if a midnight show, watch that step at night even more, as vision is only a couple of feet.
Ye Ol’ Ice Boulder has been there almost since the start of this year’s crazy volumes of snow, taken as a calendar year, so don’t give the shoveler too much of a pound over the head.

— More on the state of the state. As in the annual high school winner-take-all tournament in Madison. (We are though second fiddle to the Minnesota one). Seems I was forewarned, by the flashing sign on the Dick’s Market in New Richmond marque, spinning fast you have to ride it well and simply stating what turned out to be a mouthful, Go Tigers. They only announced at the very end of the message: State Champs. Mere hours after the win, the sports bars started filling up, slow but sure, depends if you have a lead foot to get back where you belong. Have seen Nootz and Oz busy, but not that crazily so. The guy I know only as The Main Local Cabbie, if you step aside from that Renegade variety, greeted me at the door, right by the dart boards where I’ve had an ad lib hookup with others I know from way back. And on my way back, there were spaces to park on the main drag, but only very here and there. So did the Tigers win it by roaring with the over-the-top-and-pushing-it physical, as in bygone days? That for another post, as to not rain on their parade … —

But to go back, should I help up the fallen one, or keep her on ice? But then she would think I was watching her, as she walked away from the front door. But hey, that’s where my windows (plural) are.
She was at the top of the boulder, with not just her legs, but the rest of her, higher than her thighs, laid flat on the edge of the street — where you maybe should see a sidewalk.
But she staggered up, brushed herself off, then got in her ride. To only later get out again, then renegotiate Ye Ol’ Boulder when back.

(As we travel through the ongoing travails of That Mound Of Ice, as there are very many sometimes overlapping seasons in that abyss, there may be occasional updates on this topic that spring forward. As space allows.
No wait, this is a blog not a newspaper, so just scroll down. Channeling myself from a former time, when newspapering was my day job.)

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