Quick in one to three words, shy, what do KISS, Gloria Gaynor, Sylvestor Sly Stallone, George Strait and Michael Crawford, (not also, exactly a household name), have in common, in acting or singing or playing, other than an easy lead, if over the magic word count of 30. Quicker to plaster these five stars with a five-point star on the flailing — or it should be — Wall Of Peace and just be done with it. If Sly looks like the peaceful type, and the KISS Army these-days is not as active as ICE, one Cube or T for two. Or essentially three when subject to tariff.

Back to my original question. Hint: Gloria Gaynor has by implication been around many a glitzy, sparkling disco-ball-at-$1M-per-in-a-ballroom. This not subject to tariff, even though its foreign dignitaries that we are led to believe will be catered to. (Hey, if these numbers still make you wanna donate, see the right side of the page).

The answer is: Behold, the advocacy of Trump, as his newest picks for Kennedy Center arts honors, now that he has taken it over, or at least put his stamp on it, like when bringing the WWF ring to the wing of the White House. Style if you can call it that, over substance. Meaningful, yes, but barely average as far as content. Do we see a trend here? Hey, it’s Trump.

But let’s start with Gloria, and not the one on the run or the rebound. Or maybe so. From a genre where instrumental does not got beyond mere basic, and it’s all about the vocals. The chorus to the obligatory anthem I Will Survive is catchy and the song has an upbeat groove and meaning, for many, but the lyrics aren’t what you’d call insightful. As for groove in disco, a bit of the dark prevailing fast rather than the inspirational, I’ll take Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees, with the infamous New York Times makin’ the man reference for a bit of cultural relevance. I’m sorry, they have more to say than Gaynor, a bit of the nitty gritty band’s experience of street survival, back at yah again.

And KISS. Rocks out in a light sort of way — the guitar can’t touch some of the other greats and the late Ace Frehley was not very well showcased via the material given — but very formulaic, relying on a killer stage show. They know what they do and they stick to it, which means there won’t be much substance. Interestingly, Gene Simmons does more than spit blood and fire, as his IQ is near genius level, but you would not know it from their lyrics. Maybe Simmons should have chimed in once in a while, taking the intellect from his by-some-acclaimed book on what else — the world history of prostitution.

I will give KISS more of a recommendation on Strutter, an ode to the NYC glam scene of the ’70s. For any of those who were tight with a real stunner, but knew it would never go beyond intense friendship. I will reference Jude, hey, back in college days, who was the hottest thing on the campus and a deejay at the coolest club to boot, and lucky me we were almost neighbors, only a block or two to separate. “I know a thing or two about her … She’ll let you walk the street beside you. But when she wants she’ll pass you by.” But it’s all OK. She said we were tight, in our own way.

Now we’ll jump to the movies. Full-frontal boxing at the box office. Again, good messages, but just not that … intellectual, and you know that’s something that catches my eye and ear. Sylvestor Stallone gets often unwarranted flack for his acting, and like Jackie Chan, (also loved by Trump), who is the master of finding a grab-the-nearest-prop-to-fight-with-while spinning and making it fast and fun, just isn’t a master also of message. (Although there is some there in their own styled way. It’s like watching softcore porn just for the nudity, and you get a bit more oomph, say, brought in the back door. I indeed have to opine with the in-the-industry actress Windy Rice the next time she stops into Dick’s Bar. And she does. Or at least used to. Maybe think Whiskey Woman with Windy. Still more wonderous than most waifs.)

George Strait is more, like Stallone, with whiskey. Straight-up Old School Country, before it grew up — say with Garth Brooks, who was among the first to also incorporate a killer stage show — and got beyond the twang. If you like that, you love it, but its a niche. But like nachos without major jalapenos. You could have honored others first, though Strait’s time may have come and beyond.

Last but not least (??) Michael Crawford. I had to look up whether he is an actor, singer, musician, or all, so ones with which I’m familiar are like Michael Landon/Peter Lawford … oh, the winner was in, Phantom of the Opera. (Sorry, up to four words.)  Hey, what am I with my content, just merely a reactionist??

Swiss and French

I’ll react briefly too, to two other topics recently in the news about celebs (or not or wishing?) and such …

Investigation continues into a fire killing 40 in a Switzerland bar when sparklers that were attached to champagne bottles, apparently were held too close to the ceiling, which had ignitable sound-proofing foam, back on New Year’s Eve. Where there’s no noise, just reverse smoke, there is fire. Nothing is here implied, but their ceiling height over an wide expanse that just seems to go on and on, reminds me of the Medina.

There are very many bars, in the area too, with various levels of being compliant with codes and rules and such, to be found in an older-than-old-school dive capacity.

Then, about not being fired by France, and thus drawing Trump’s wrath, George Clooney’s “distinguished service” in the movies and such, was cited and considered for its merit, as far as him being allowed citizenship. Trump and the US could take a lesson here from the French, when looking at the number of people actually officially brought into the fold each year, per their contribution to the society in question. Fluency in the language is one criteria, and it’s apparent for almost a half-decade now, Clooney has taken care. Hasn’t he had a movie role where he had to speak the part? Hey with that being said, ever check out Trump’s lack of vocabulary? And thus the status, immigration-wise, of his family?

There is an obscure island nation, which many centuries ago snapped up and occupied a small piece of land at the upper end of a big ocean, now wielding massive missiles on its beach borders, and recently the envy of Trump.

As a recourse, they will acquire/join the much bigger and pissed off Greenland and in-between Iceland, forming a bold triad alliance, the North Atlantic Defense League. Trump is furious, and readies his own missiles, and Denmark refuses to be listed as a reference. But emboldened, the new alliance seeks to replace NATO – on our global stage that rapidly shifts powers – and acquire also what is left of bombed out Ukraine and Gaza and even the Twin Cities of Minnesota. (Trump responds by mobalizing a kinder, gentlier version of the SS.) The now vast wasteland attracting the most attention of the newly dubbed prime minister — no one dares vocalize his name or that of this new land, just say IAM and NADL — is the former Minneapolis, as they can rebuild it, make it better, stronger, faster, by following their bible, dubbed Buy Cheap Properties In Great Volume For Eventual Sale Using The Art Of The Deal. (Trump sues for copyright infringment, but falls asleep before penning the whole of the BCP IGV FES UTA OTD.) The scattered distance between all the various acquired countries, done haphazardly in quick response to US aggression, troubles the PM not, as they are used to melting ice and turning it into raging sci-fi rivers on which to ride at light-speed, carrying their missiles. Trump’s can’t be repositioned for everywhere, they reason, so there is a perceived safety. 

But then all the bombs suddenly go off and all that is left is China. The new and only remaining power in a suddenly Mad Max world.

— One of the Pink Barbie Houses still has a big Xmas tree set in the back payload of its full-frontal glowing pickup truck, er, out front, as to front the main street but still on the lawn, with the fully decked-out house that used to be black, set in back. As in with a heavenly host of pink, plinky Christmas lights. Blocks away, a second such house by the same owner hawks another holiday with Valentine’s Day offers on its sign out front. Bringing tidings of comfort and joy to lodgers. And across town, at the old market, the remnants of trees that go beyond what’s put out with the trash now, a month post-holiday …

What, these Christmas trees, big and small, are not German, like the original makers used by my such-ethnicity family, but Dutch by name? Don’t they stop spiraling upward with the windmills, like those across-county in Baldwin?

Some that have been on sale as Dutchman Trees could be a Dutch Treat, as in BOGO, (do the Dutch ever get tired of hearing this old reference?) I swear I saw some on my holiday bus trip to the down south, going past the Dutch Mills stop. —

OK, 99 percent or more that is BS, but that is allowed these days. Telling things factually has been discouraged since investigating the Death of the Good, or the Floyd, but you will see the world power sarcastic parallels.

But this is not Greenland …

Or even Iceland …

The feds obviously are not familiar with Minnesconsin, where throwing snowballs at someone almost constitutes a sign of love. After tossing snow at ICE as they got off at the Twin Cities (not international anymore) airport, (maybe on Trump’s jet), ICE responded to the (Minnesota Nice) welcoming with full-scale pepper ball firings — and this is well beyond what you get hit by at the blazin’ hot BWW or NH PepperFest. Now, quite a bit after that, the ICE presence has led to what have been called “wholesale” arrests. And deaths.

At this point, and it’s been at this point, everybody has an ICE story to tell. Like everyone used to have, as I write from close to the Twin Cities, a brush-with-Prince story, and shared them with each other back around the time of his death.

I Survived ICE, (usually), seen as a T-shirt, has fast become part of the (sometimes a bit urban myth) cultural ICE picture, or should I say winter landscape. Or detention center.

Tied in with that Prince reference, are those in nearby facilities who come to the aid of drug-addled people, with all the massive funding cuts for mental health service. Are they, too, victims of white-collar narcanist terrorists?

The killed woman – the first one done in – was married to another woman. So obviously she is going to be a target. And this isn’t even Russia, where it’s understood to be understood. I say one word to them and their marriage: Good.

Call it the Britney Griner syndrome, a cager put in a cage or worse, for political reasons, or for sexual preferences. And we hope Epstein has no more copycats.

But then, well past midnight  …

There I was, in the heat of it all. I stood up, face to face, spittin’ distance, with a nationalist ICE cold guy, and said to him about the child behind me, “you get to him through me.”

“But that was just a dream … just a dream.” REM song over ICE. Not nice. Call it a nightmare. Now mine.

At a favorite haunt, the oldest continuously running bar in Wisconsin, or so they say, I asked if there had been a raid yet. Yes, ICE agents had been in. Early in the month. But it sounded plural. Probably doing a walk-through, but with doing some lingering around, through the different rooms, to try to ascertain who was working in the kitchen?

After all, this is a dive bar in the truest and most favorable sense of the word, pure Americana. The black concrete floor gives it away. It doesn’t get much more American than at Dick’s Bar and Grill, but not even they are safe. Doesn’t ICE have other, better things to do, we discussed, as someone came up and said that they had been Jonesy’s Local too, which has long been owned by a bartender who got his stripes at Dick’s.

Across the alley, a sign: Doors must stay closed during all deliveries. (And to keep ICE out?) Despite the fact that it looks like there are some coolers setting outside.

Such as often seen downtown, big boots and bare belly, and legs and luscious lipstick, will it get you off? (Would this be the case with randy gung-ho-young-male-ICE-agents when in their “raids” they encounter strippers, ‘er models?) And no one gets shot, uhm, while there.

With all this said, Trump’s disaster relief response is often, literally, a day late and a dollar short. He just throws ICE at it.

Why is our country and world in such awful shape? The Charlie Kirk group has 20 times the number of followers as that for singer and lyricist Robert Plant. You’d think they were a killer band or something.

Certainly, there is a Republican somewhere who is not a mean asshole.

They’re just very hard to find. Or should I say “conservative.” That brings the hammer down and filters the question more, in the wrong direction.

But that’s what labels tend to do. And no one labels quite like a conservative.

Invoke Metallica, at the end of a song with many twists and turns in message. “I label you, you label me, so I dub thee unforgiven.” As part of a noteworthy trilogy that has gotten many comments — not all glowing.

But oh, our friend Oudi is safe from ICE because of Birthright. (Is that a pro-life term?) He was born here, well before accepting IT work, in Texas ming you. However, with the way things are going, don’t count your chickens before … you check to see if their eggs, by the dozen, were stolen. Oh wait. Just maybe that is yesterday’s news.

Today’s news, in the Hudson Star-Observer, details the tension at a River Falls trailer park when ICE showed up. But few people there would go on record and be quoted.

Separately, he was asked: Are you joking? Really? Or just hyperbole? His written post was brought into play, taking The Hunger Games and compared it to Epstein’s actions. As far as getting a group of just teenage girls and another of just teenage boys to fight to the death, in an arena. Or was it a bedroom …

It was a way of getting around to saying that the announcement of such an activity is so stupid, you wouldn’t believe it to be real under any normal circumstance.

A lot of that going around these days.

Will you eventually take for yourself those Mexican black beans, either canned or bagged, some with an accent? Or a pint of pinto or peas? Or powdered mashed potato buds, with ear buds telling you when to stop swirling? Use up that garlic clove, then smash the rest. If you are hungry enough?

So a conundrum. All over again …

Is it OK to cut out candy and soda, like was just done legislatively, in several mostly red states, from what you can buy with your SNAP dollar? It forms, what a waist … OK, I’m not hugely offended by that action, but there exists a dilemma that’s producing vast differences of opinion, stemming from a disparity in its diversity, from the halls of Congress to those in your home or soup kitchen: Should low-income people have to do without some or all luxuries just because they are poor and living on the dole, not Pineapple, as on someone else’s dime, or should all basic rights be given equally?

Meet in the middle, as you are not a rock star who wants to fill up every day, with quirky buffets beyond fillets. (You should hear what some of the national acts playing the old Dibbo’s used to request, making its runners scoot, watching what’s available in the oncoming blocks as they go. Believe me, it goes way beyond the Aerosmith 22-pound obligitory backstage turkey, and they do sing about social justice! ) All the (baking) ingredients that are needed for candy are still readily available under SNAP, so provided you have the time and are not working two or more jobs, consider giving your oven a workout and make your own. In the absence of a government that actually gives a fuck about you.

It shows that poor people are not a government priority, when your benefits access 800 number goes down a lot, or when your EBT card doesn’t work with a clerk, as an impatient line forms behind you.

But what you can do, either recipient or beneficiary, goes around, and comes around. It behooves all of us, on either end, not to waste food.

As what helps one, eventually helps all. Stay with me here. If you come close to zeroing out your food waste, (hey, you’re not a fancy restaurant or even a low-end diner), you use less food stamp money or food pantry goods, both of which mean there are more goods to be had by others, even if indirectly in the former case, as the less you waste on the government’s dime, there is not only more for someone else but less of a budget expenditure needed, which means those monies could, if you’re not a cynic, be diverted in a good way to the poor in other countries.

Especially tasty when it produces efficient and effective food usage. In many ways, helping others while you stretch your own budget.

So I make, when I donate, mental notes over time on what went when and why? Any takers?

And the chief “taker,” it turns out, also gives back, bringing food to the table for gathering at the building where I live. I met her, again, swapping just the other day, with the couple of cans that were in her hand just being dispensed by her, not taken. Giving back some bounty?

For this system to work, you have to quit being a foodie and be willing to be non-specific when it comes to the brand and the varieties of ingredients that go in your dishes. Too often, at least in my building, it’s only the beans that make it onto the donation shelf.

But don’t toss your (Christmas) cookies, like someone here did. Just into the trash, from hand, mind you.

But cookies and cake and chocolate can be your new candy, even under recent EBT restrictions. I doubt they are going to take away your SNAP sugar and molasses, flour and vanilla and such.

And as such, candy will come up, in various places and (kitchen counter) spaces, throughout this piece. Because then your baby wants candy … Tell her, or yourself, to bake??

But cut nutrition education services too, as announced? Take away their buffer zone and also slash new ways for those to work, in its absence.

So here I go now. HudsonWiNightlife tries to fill another gap.

Starting with Candy O? Flavorful two ways.

Add some nutmeg for flavor. Anise can be used to make licorice. You can test both first for taste, pinching it on up to your lips. Candy is full of nuts, so if your child is not allergic, throw some of them in, also. Or choose your nut, hopefully do less damage. Honey can round it out, while being nutritional. 

Thus, maybe, pick all those older, massively fading veggie heads apart, from the good stuff still left, from your lettuces to your onions, to your broccoli and even cauliflower, (stems too?), and pretty soon you’ve got a full salad. And beef prices are the highest ever, so eat green, oh beefeater (capital or lower case B), who used to be able to afford it?

And the dressing on lettuce to go with it? Pull out what’s been lurking in the back of the fridge, and even stuff like the Italian will surprise you with how long it can last. Far past the pepperoni.

Coffee and tea are described as staples in government info, so use them and juice too, but not soda. Mix it up with all those scores of flavors you may have not known existed. More kinds of them than colas.

Or have your cake and eat it too, to double up and bring it back around again. If you dive in, with your candy, and make it like one of those bars. So again, a way around it, if SNAP starts to exclude Reeses and Pieces, as a way to “mix” and “blend” it in.

And use that healthy gut. To the greater advantage of all. The one that can stuff down stuff that’s substantially past the due date, and still have a stomach that will not bat an eyelash, or form tears.

Like Mr. Urban’s tuna, (mine too), having sat in an opened can for several days. OK, an extreme example. Discretion is the better part of valor? So take this with a grain of salt. Literally, as sauces and such flavorings, when used on overkill, can kill off too funky a taste.

When maybe that’s all you have to eat …

We were gathered in an impromptu way at the door, four of us, and we started talking about such things. The man leading the way heard us saying that in Hudson, there are so many food giveaway options, there is no need for anyone to go hungry.

But still some do. And this man, having lived in multiple places, said that not everywhere is like here. Not to rip again on California, but out there dude, in San Diego for example, few food pantries exist to help out those in need, and the churches that do try to fill the void are literally overtaxed. Even though this is considered a bastion of liberalism. Fish and its dish, here vs. there, are running lowkey in the dishes that detail for cheap. Here we can offer smelt.

All the more reason to spread around the wealth, and the means, and the resources, and your best girl’s rest of frugal recipe, and your gametime gonzo veggie grillin’.

So, the following is not gastronomical gaslighting: Such as the earlier described don’t-waste, gut bomb, use-it-up dishes may be quite delicious, but you definitely have to be in the right mindset and hungry for something just like that one. When you’re not craving, they simply won’t appeal to you. Everyone has a favorite that they will like at any time, (shrimp cocktail?), but this is not that. With that said, such dishes, in a gut-bomb sort of way, can be indulge-worthy, with just that particular bit of taste and ingredient or spice you added. An again, gut-bomb appeal, just ignore the aftertaste. Catch the early- or mid-taste zap!

And do good at the same time …

These two “D-side” songs from early rock still speak today to the heart and soul, and grasp with their fingers your head and hand: Don’t talk to strangers, by Dio, and Don’t get fooled again, by Daltry and The Who.

They can be in the political way.

The former is metaphorically about the potential benefits of taking a chance, and (maybe being a savior?) when involving people in your life that are not your usual sort. “Don’t hide in doorways/they may hold the key that opens up your soul. Don’t smell the flowers/they’re an evil drug to make you lose your mind.”

— Over-indulge on New Year’s Eve and are now looking for a resolution, at this mid-month later point, to make up for it? We have an answer while the iron is still hot to strike. As all January is being celebrated by many as a dry month, like Lent, though some drinkers are going more whole hog then ever, again like Lent, at least at its bookends. The former are getting their drinks without any alcohol, and in some establishments on the east end of The Hill, you’ll get a whole heavenly host of them flavored with a variety of ingredients that include NA ginger beer for zip. At Hudson Tap, there is an even larger list of NA specials, about a dozen across three drink categories, that also have a bit of a kick provided by various main ingredients. If you are listening to the hell-bending being on the other shoulder, who is hawking drinks with several main sources of flavor or buzz, you can go to Buffalo Wild Wings and a number of other spots selling things like Salted Carmel (not caramel) Expresso Martinis. And if you join their rewards club, offered is a free big burger for new members who make a $15 purchase. This from the folks who have been supplying you with six free buffalo wings following Minnesota Gopher victories. Badger fans will pass, something the Gophers have often had difficulty doing. —

The second is not being swayed by evil powers (in government?) that may try to take you down the wrong path, and exploring the dangers of doing such. “Let the men who spurred us on/sit in judgment of our wrong … I tip my hat to the new constitution/take a bow for the new revolution …” The first line was sung sincerely, the second with major sarcasm, and emphasis is put on protecting your family. “Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss … The parting on the left, is now the parting on the right.”

So, as ICE has also now been seen in Stillwater and River Falls and reports of arrests here come from multiple sources — so don’t tailgate that SUV in front of you — but open your homes to Somalis, or others wrongly sought? These are things now being done. It’s far past a trigger point, one woman said on an online community bulletin board, so my home is yours if you aren’t safe, bringing a mixture of responses that included that she was putting herself at risk. In an interesting dichotomy right-wingers would both love and hate, she said, I have no fear, I have a gun. (I will not travel.)

A white friend of mine who also has Somali friends, found themself in the uncomfortable position of having to choose whether to help them or not, when they were about to essentially go underground for protection. Bring back the Underground Railroad? Or the Diary of Anne Frank? Or a combination of the two?

Or like I said to the Somali, I think, driver the other day upon leaving his taxi, “You be careful out there.” Perhaps I should have tipped him very big so he could have stayed home from work where there might be ICE waiting — a practical way for people to help — like even that is a safe haven. Meanwhile over in the Twin Cities, ICE has gotten more rough and tough by the day, and a second shooting occurred, and the agent was attacked by three people after engaging in a pursuit. Hey, he had the ability early in the full-fledged attack to simply walk away and ditch the arrest, but ….

Whatever thus, the sheet of ICE will soon come crashing down. Like tariffs were. ICE and inciting riots, insurrections without resurrection and protestations without resolutions: This will be Trump’s legacy. And lately, under his watch if not under his command, chemical irritants and tear gas have been deployed. Might as well be Agent Orange. When you are going to lengths like sitting on someone’s head with the benefit of full riot gear, and even then you don’t let up — as hey buddy, he’s out of the fight. 

The matter came to a (sub)head over family dinner recently, with a group of mostly Republicans. Without taking sides or picking aides (it apparently wasn’t good enough) a reference was made to ICE agents hiding behind HIPPA regulations when they’ve said to have gotten an owie. The predictable silence ensued but did not linger long. Perhaps they should have talked. At the family dinner table where different factions are forced to come together, and letting it play out over a scandalous feast, is perhaps where our problems as a country and world citizens begin to be solved.

Here are some other tips: If you have to deport, just slow the fuck down and do it in a non-violent and legal way. These people have been around for years and maybe decades, in a system that wasn’t perfect but worked, so a few more months to do it right would do just fine. Get officers proper training and education, do not practically go around and dig them up off the street to “serve” by quickly hiring thousands of new agents. Have the majority of the training be in crisis management and de-escalation, negotiation, journalism for writing more accurate and balanced reports, and even law. And if an agent gets all hyped up on scene, get him outta there and have him cool off with a desk job until he’s shown to have changed his ways. 

For it is a quagmire that constitutes the different kinds of legal, and not, for immigration warrants and warranted activities, (like the various agents actually understand the differences), so it’s plural, which are only the start of regulating (or justifying in the absence of court authorization, or followup for the alleged criminality) of who is allowed to do just what.

So training: It becomes the final bugaboo. Simplify the above legal scenario, and make it come from just one kind of judge, to provide consistency, and here’s the rest of the solution.

Put agents behind a desk and not patrolling first for six months, especially if doctors, not fellow cops, see even a blip instead of an ink spot on the soon-to-become-mandatory-if-not-already psych test. Test for various types of ego control and rage disorders before you give them a badge. And also evaluate for any more such conditions.

In short. Test the cops more than the criminals.

In all these cases I’ve seen in my writing, there appears to be at least one common denominator: The police said they were attempted to be run over with a vehicle and were “dragged.” Believe such reports? Yes I also believe in Santa Claus, but Rudolph can’t be charged … because he’s not a human.

On the videos I don’t see any dragging, or even front tire direction showing any danger to any agents, by going under any vehicle, unless you gotta wonder if they’d purposefully (and premeditatively?) throw themselves under the bus. Munchausen Syndrome by proxy? Or psychosis/bipolar? Or anti-social personality? Seriously, from what I’ve seen, early on, all we’ve got here that’s more than getting your foot run over by one tire, is a serious lack of coordination, as an agent stumbles on snow around the corner of a vehicle and gets successfully to the driver’s side and THEN opens fatal fire. Flag you for a desk job or an easygoing patrol?

People often have been shown following agents orders and still being shot, if they did not comply instantly. Give it a rest for a minute, dumb-ass! You are now supposed to have “internal bleeding” despite the fact that video shows little contact with the car and the agent was photographed shortly afterward standing upright and appearing OK. Also, realize the people you are dealing with may or may not be receptive to the presence of you or any other police officer. And past disorderly conduct citations can simply mean you yelled at the wrong person too loudly. Put such a person face-to-face with a major adrenaline junkie with a gun? Does this sound like it’s going to have a good outcome? And yes, some especially minor offenders are just that, but let’s have the punishment fit the crime, and all you Bible thumpers should be aware of what the Good Book calls for, and in addition what it does not.

Because of social media, news now travels in real time, but also is playing out in video, which amends a past video, like the one before it. So there’s no body-cam “evidence” to hide behind. Just HIPPA rules making it difficult for news outlets to verify what agent injury has actually occurred, if any.

Back to the front of that dinner table, or was it followup conversation? Traffic violation histories were aired, and should provide a cautionary tale …

In the two other-than-routine traffic stops, if they would be guilty by skin color more than violation, don’t those saying pass-the-roast-beef realize that today such actions constitute an automatic one-way ticket to incarceration — or worse. This could happen to YOUR kids!

A (quirky) day in the life.

And a stroll through it, as themes repeat. Count ’em. While Goin’ Downtown …

First stop these days is always the drug store. No not for that, or verily those, reasons. As in the new year it’s back a few years to the future, since we have always been dealing with chronic shipping and supply shortages of even (sorta basic?) things like obscure vitamins. So get 37 or 23 tablets of your 60-pill prescription, then try back a few days later for the rest.

The wait had been much more than a minute, as the main filler of pills — he jokingly calls himself a pillar of society — worked away with his blade-like counting device in front of the four aisles that constitute the Command Center, shelves stacked high up to the ceiling. Hence I, this astronaut, said he’d quit gaping at the encapsulated garlic and other funky herbs, and the funny sign from the complaint department that shows a hand grenade and says take a number, and get in line, on its pull-pin, better to walk on down the way for my OJ, then double back.

There was no one manning the local art gallery, Picasso took another day off — he’s never there when you need him and Van Gogh after rethinking it is always looking for that other piece of his ear — and no shoppers were taking at the cannabis dispensary, despite a wordy sign that hawked among other things, products that were some combination of the terms flower and ear, wax and bud. Maybe Van Gogh should try there.

As Ziggy’s slowly becomes the new Max’s music venue, its newly purchased Hop N Barrel location just up the street was cleaned-out empty, save lots of stools stacked by the windows and the conversion status of a barren electrical panel. The middle of the main building, amidst dinner diners and their salads, showed bare tacked-up plywood decking out a window view.

At the intersection with Wisconsin Street, four people in dark suits and color otherwise shirts walked three paces apart in Abbey Road style, legs displayed astride, with various sizes of dogs leading them. Earlier, I had spied in an intersection back at the other section of town, a John Lennon look-alike carring a guitar case along with his Yoko Ono-resembling girlfriend.

Then with a single OJ in hand — purchased at a reasonable price of just under $6, although the wallet would not open promptly and release its credit cards, too many — I headed back up the street to the pharmacy. The front counter was again being clerked by no one, and back at the back one, I was tempted to make like James Dean and take a rebel chug of my jug.

Back home, in the life.

I checked the mailbox and saw a card from my Milwaukee-area niece. Odd I thought, a thank you note sent for my Christmas-present cheap red stocking hat? Uhm no, this was a save-the-date wedding invite. A friend motioned to me and said what, no gloves being worn in this cold, and I responded I had to quick trek back to retrieve my wallet I’d forgotten at the pharmacy, like my head on Mars, where some courteous Martians had prompted me, while adding on the sly that, while leaning away from the doorway, I should tell no one, as I would not be believed.

I retold the joke to the clerk and botched it, adding that for those like me, there was some extra good stuff behind the Command Center. She looked puzzled, then smiled gingerly, unlike the friend who laughed hard.

Again, a day in the life. And not in the record store.

I will now follow with New Year’s ridiculous predictions, brought to you on its sixth day to see if any have a hint of coming true. On the seventh day I rest. Then descend.

— But first … This is what happens in a walk down main street, where occasionally shows are advertised with flyers pasted to business glass windows, or the backs of stop signs, (even if they are only there in support of actual stop-and-go, red and green street lights.) The latest one seen, put up in a few small waves in downtown Hudson since last fall, constitutes the last call about the Yam Haus performance on Saturday at First Avenue.

As I strolled down the main applicable block in the downtown, I saw a handful of people inside a closed business, in what looked like a photo shoot. One immediately recognized me, a mainstay of the iconic Dibbo’s rock venue before it closed several years ago. Another, who I thought was also a veteran of the club, waved twice. The first, who said they were actually buying carpet, came out to the street and walked with me past another business or two, then we set eyes on what used to be Dibbo’s. I told her it had been the site of several restaurants, the latest of which, Bennett’s steakhouse, closed a few months ago, and the site was now up for sale, possibly in a turn-key fashion. I took a few notes from the Yam Haus flyer that we both gazed at, then we walked back, for another peak at carpet.

It’s funny in an ethnic-derived way, that I, last name Winter, am writing about a band called Yam Haus, which to continue the metaphor will be opened for tonight by a band called Laamar, (which you might think ICE would be interested in.) If the show is still going on in Minneapolis, amid the protests, but the main ones are many blocks away, doors are at 7 p.m. and music at 8. Tickets are $27, the flyer said, and its 18-plus, although OK with legal guardian. That’s also ironic, as the band is formed by Hudsonites who are not that much older and formed a fan base by playing festivals around the area.

This is their third time at the main room of First Avenue, (my counterpart said she was last there when 19), and they are playing in support of their single One Bullet Left, which shows footage shot from a pickup truck of rural roadsides in the area. —

This rest of this is satire, banned in every country of the world except Thailand, where few can read anyway, in any language. On Mars it’s Top 40 material. But in Venus passe, (she has no arms and could not type), except for other political pun pundits. They then descend too.

— Rob Reiner and Charlie Kirk will both weigh in on a posthumous death-match bout, with Trump’s White House sponsoring the card, also featuring Dethklok and other death metal, to control the actual world, and Oprah and Dr. Phil both hit the pads also to make it a weird cage match too. Kirk wins as most total letters flip it, like a ring round girl. A rematch, a ballroom blitz, is slated for the new dance hall under construction. The loser also descends.

— When all seemed lost, for a chance at Middle East peace, three wise men doth again show up in the middle of Bethlehem, bearing gold and frankincense and myrrh, but will carry mostly gold, and they are not Trump, Netanyahu and Putin, who are three peas in a pod. But definitely not the Holy Trinity. Rather, like a take on the unholy trinity, so dubbed, of Led Zeppelin, (see below), Deep Purple and Black Sabbath. So anyway, the Jewish state will be restored as the religious center of the world, by one of these three groups of three, thus bringing fulfillment of what the rabbis wanted, but then they still want more …

— All three-lettered news will be taken over by, and acquired by, and bought by, and dictated by, FOX News. There will be no more CNN or ABC or NBC or CBS or NPR, although they may leave alone CSPAN, as it is longer in both name and coverage, since few people watch it anyway, although they should.

— Trump will begin his new moonlighting career — as a porn star! But it turns out he is merely an apprentice, despite tutoring from Stormy Daniels. So he dropped the rug and pushed the limits, developing a new specialty for him — BDSM! We will in turn push the limits once more with lettering, labeling him as thus — BORING. Or to be more consistent in lettering form — BLAH. To be more puriently interesting, Trump’s name would have to be more than Holmes or Jeremy, but more like Zelenskyy, or say ZRGVEEYUKOHYF.

— Before giving more rock music criticism, Page will tell Trump to buy a six-string, although he’s probably never been at a Five and Dime, and his guitar would have to have like 16 necks sticking every which way and looking like a big weird bottom feeder fish to touch what Page does in the extended version of Stairway to Heaven. Trump grabs the wrong end of the mic, thinks it’s a wind instrument. Plant turns it off, tells both of them to shut up, then blasts out Kashmir. Trump is jealous again, and smashes the castanets until his hands bleed, which is actually quite easy to accomplish. It ends up being called one of the top Prog Rock songs of all time.

— Putin will search until the 364th day of the year to find the only building left standing in Ukraine, then is very angry that it’s a block out of reach of his drones. So he blows up a refinery instead. Oil splatters his hands. Hamas drools then goes to work building a tunnel all the way to it. Syria wants to block the drill, but doesn’t know what it is. Weird Israeli trick? Disguising new donated American technology?

— Putin will reveal in a rare podcast just what he has over on Trump. He’ll try to bring on the 700-pound Siamese twins from Russia who Trump in his earlier years managed to allegedly do at once, but they won’t fit on Putin’s Russian quality TV screen. With Trump added in, Bad Boy reputation enhanced and doing an encore, Putin would need two more wide screens and not for Trump’s unit. Putin then finds mere audio won’t convey the aura. And his technology will not allow for virtual sniffing. Biden could help. Obama abstains. Musk and crew could help with pixel quality.

— The world’s longest strip mall will be built, extending from Ohio, oddly, across the ocean and sea to cross Greece, but stops directly at a north-south line connecting the two warringest countries in the world. Couldn’t fully insure extending the mall. Harder than Goin’ to California and its wildfires. But destruction is destruction, unless you’re an adjuster.

— China will try to heighten its plummeting birth rate by taxing condoms and contraceptives, (like a method a Democrat might do), so they can take over the world before the Muslims make their full bid. Go ask Europe. I have an idea. Reintroduce Christianity and its mantra of Be Fruitful and Multiply. Natural Family Planning could fit into the picture.

Wait, that last tax, (introductory reference to the last graph), has already been applied, just the other day! Go Karmac the Great!

(They’re here!) ICE, ICE baby, will you have my baby? Please do stop me, or constrain me! Since you’re here in town anyway, oh ye ever-watching feds. You know how it plays … Like the pilot who has one in every city. (Like Zeppelin lyrics, “Pilot of the storm.” But does he “leave a trace?”) It’s topical nowadays. (And they’re in these parts for you!) To protect you?  

Now beyond mere wordplay: ICE has been seen in western Wisconsin this winter, moreso than usual, and we’re not talking just about the bad weather.

It’s probably coming soon to a (neighboring) county near you, and not just if you have a North Pole zip code. (Would that read out as 00000-0000?) As jagged ICE goes postal. Forming an great big ICEland? Travel vouchers for them? As a federal budgetary expense?

Anyway, ICE SUVs were initially seen by one of my correspondents following that long and lonely road (locally now) that is Hudson’s First Street, OK only the part that will lead you to the cop shop, where they parked. The obvious joke is that they were driving directly along Lakefront Park, which is directly along the St. Croix River, which they probably thought was a lake and were on “thin ice.” (You know, where savvy and swimming-hardy Mexicans might be hiding out.) The SUVs had that insidious supreme lettering ICE along the sides where the doors to alleged-freedom-bringing are, saying “protecting the homeland.” (One where they don’t give a damn about needing to order-out for pizza.)

— Here is quite the new idea for insidious ICE, many of them are Hispanic, preying on other Hispanics to make a career, according to a news report, and is that kind of opportunism kind of like cannabalism? Or envy the Duke boys as in training they spin a car around, squad or otherwise? So the other night, those three darker skin guys hanging out outside Northland Liquors just after closing, or those coming in out of the kitchen to have a drink at the Wild Badger, they’d better watch it. Or my nephew’s engineer friend, who is foreign, or another’s workmate who reversed the trend seen in telemarketing and came here from India to be employed …

And yes, now a confirmation of sorts, as people started in with their reports of ICE presence over a week ago: ICE in recent days did a raid of at least one area Azul Tequila restaurant and another Mexican place also, possibly resulting in at least a temporary closure, and reportedly made some arrests, according to the restaurant Facebook site. News on the matter has now been active on social media, and I found the most interesting comment is that people who demand low price Mexican food, or you also could add are willing to offer or even work for cheap wages, “incentivizing” the whole situation ICE is weaponizing and making war against. —

So, we knew that in this police state that (now and has been) the good ol’ USA, we’d be seeing their bright shiny and decidedly albino faces (still in a majority of cases) eventually, but we didn’t think it was this soon that they’d be having brew at the local coffee shop — and not at the kind that serves the brew that made Wisconsin (and even its farmers) famous, as ICE is ever on duty protecting the public, and never sleeps, so would need to be in a state where they could jump behind the wheel at any time, not like any fellow officer would ever pull one of them over, and such consumption is except for if they’d show up under cover at a bar to make an arrest. Whew. Gotta do less Adderall. Can I take Narcan for that? Will any of this get ME arrested? (Hey, I’m sure that at this point ICE is used to such blatant criticism, even if it is jokingly drug-addled.)

But those officers, sorry right wingers, are not SuperHeroes, although they may be masked men, and they do need to sleep sometime, or indeed sometimes. Maybe aided by a government-provided sleep-apnea unit, or some of that really good stuff (RGS) not available to the American public. As some protesters found out their whereabouts at a local motel and made clanking noises under their windows all night long. But hey, pots and pans are no match for (potentially mind you) guns firing rubber bullets. Kitchen scrubbing soap cannot combat chemical irritants.

And anyway, we should not be this surprised (appalled?) that apparently, the snidely whiplash of a Somali crackdown has spilled over onto us by geographic association, and that the feds are again leaving the Twin Cities for a bit (unless they truly are SuperHeroes and have ability to be in more than one place at a time) to again pursue (a) Dillinger and Capone, or then (b) meth makers at the other end of our county. After all, weren’t they said to be patsies for the Mexican drug cartels? Can the PDs claim such investigative mileage on their taxes? It’s that time of year.

I should point out that there is the slim chance that the severity of “ICE being here” could be overblown by the fact they are conducting training exercises via a very sweet deal with the local rod and gun club, stationed just north of Hudson. But why would people like ICE based there be traveling in the downtown miles to the south, and not just using the pass-through street? And even if decidedly taking the back route in, that raises questions …

My doubts were cured later in the day I am typing this. Over at Green Mill, someone suggested out of the blue sitting at the center of the bar, “maybe now they’ll speak English in the kitchen.” There were some awkward chuckles, followed by silence, even at this rather conservative bar. In the next five minutes, ICE was referenced in the tavern talk at least three times, by different people.

Then a young woman, or girl, who had darker skin, came out of the kitchen area and grabbed something underneath the bar counter, in a moment of irony. In another, I then recalled there was a sign on the (front) door that said: Sorry but there temporarily is only pizza and wings available (and only) at the bar. It passingly made reference to unfortunate circumstances, and it appeared there was a shortage of kitchen help.

The ride home

A conversation ensued with a local person who knows some people, also local, who have such darker skin tone, and they are running scared by staying home from work, (and not paying more withholding into the federal tax system, we assume), even though they are legal and documented, and this has been verified by their restaurant employer, possibly because they are big companies and want to collect all possible taxation revenue. This is how they first heard that ICE was in town, as many people suddenly now are having a possible deportation issue and are watching such matters closely.

A family member works in rural Minnesota at a large Amazon shipping warehouse, which they say checks all its potential workers to ensure documentation. Still, ICE has raided the facility multiple times.

Wouldn’t you think they’d know they were wasting their time in a fruitless effort? Do they do their homework before invading? Or is this just racist harassment?  

Back at the first siting site, along First Street, that same night there were no squad cars seen, in two different checks, parked outside of the police station, when their few spaces normally are filled or close to filled, like they suddenly had reason to be more active. And why was an ICE patrol vehicle driving down First Street in the first place? What is there, or nearby? Restaurants with busy kitchens.

This probably all started with another blogger (let’s not call him a journalist) who did the sensational reporting on the alleged great Somali child care fraud and coverup. One question for him, as has been noted: When you recorded yourself trying to enter these child care centers and said you found them locked, you did not offer a time and date of said entry. Daylight hours? Apparently. Or a weekend? Should we just trust you?

Tonight is New Year’s and we are facing a wintry mix, at best, ICE patrols on top of generally icy and cold and windy conditions, and the idea that some venues are backing off of a big celebration and other folks are staying at home to avoid driving after drinking a couple, or more, and having to watch out for the other guy as well. Just watch him at house parties, which have for the past few years become a bigger thing, or looking into his eyes at a small, intimate gathering, maybe just the two of you. As Mother Nature, not to suggest that your lady is that matronly, has not been that kind to us on many of the last New Year’s Eves. Tonight, just the temps not abundant wind chill, will dip right down to near zero.

— My elderly mother went to bed well before midnight on New Year’s Eve, with her slumber hopefully being the type where sugarplums dance in your head. It was interrupted, however, by someone shooting off fireworks to celebrate. In her housing community, where everyone is old? I guess there is still some kick in them, like the 100-year-old she cited who still regularly does water aerobics, as a different way to celebrate the fact you still have some youthfulness in you. Unless those rockets skyrocketed so strongly, and longely, that they had the distance and incorrect aim and arc to come from another community. —

Will we be Saved By Zero? A power couple I know in their late 30s who are regulars on the downtown Hudson nightlife scene — after being away from it, where they were both workers and patrons, for several years — were out having a drink or two on Oct. 30 at Hudson Tap around 10 p.m., but said they weren’t going out on New Year’s Eve. But veteran bartender Sarah over at Dick’s Bar and Grill, and also a frequent patron there, said that she would be working from 3-10 p.m., incorporating their usual buy one get a token-for-a-free-drink-next-time special held each Wednesday in the late afternoon, which usually attracts a good crowd, but after she gets off her shift, who knows, she might hang there for quite some time. Sometimes exotic looking, her hair was up when I talked to her on Tuesday evening, but she’ll likely be letting it down tonight. With a dress that’s hiked up. Both with darker tones.

So there are still options for your New Year’s Eve, and here are some thoughts …

Kitchens are typically closing earlier than usual these days, especially on holidays — and ICE is roaming as we speak, so cooks and such might not be readily available — moreso when these holidays are major rather than somewhat minor, and hours in general are more limited at taverns. So on New Year’s Eve, most venues will be choosing either a fairly typical 8 or 10 p.m. shutdown time for their kitchens (few opt for in the middle with 9 p.m.) Up until midnight or later for food is typical at places like the Agave Kitchen and upstairs Bullpen Cantina. They will almost certainly be very busy serving tonight, if later just drinks, as even with considerations mentioned in the lead of this post, it’s almost a guarantee that downtown Hudson will still push through patrons by the hundreds and hundreds, mostly young people coming from the Twin Cities, as many of the locals are, again, staying home. (I did get a call from a new friend from Minneapolis midday, and he was getting the itch to come over.) The Citians come dressed to kill, and tend to come late and stay late. But a good number of people, many being couples, came out earlier who were probably in their 40s, (think pearl necklaces), mostly for the fine dining such as is available.

Thereby is another new nuance. Partying all night into the next day is no more, as the very typical closing time on this eve for venues that extend it, is only 3 a.m. But one thing that has been coming back, to a degree, is the midnight ball drop complete with countdown and other such things that go beyond party favors. But there may be confetti and even karaoke, early, and places may be all decked out with all kinds of colors. (Think boatloads of balloons.) Shot specials too, although a typical price even if on special is up to $5, maybe served by a cute shot girl at the larger venues in bigger cities in the county, largely when roaming north. The toast with champagne at that ringing-in time has become less common, since places need to cut their costs as they are going up, and you don’t hear too much noise about that formerly popular offering.

There are bands playing at some venues, although again, many places were it was once automatic are cutting back, and dancing to DJ music is much more likely, especially for those places running until 3 a.m. An Ellsworth venue, and one in the Township of Hudson, that were known for their bands every New Year’s, in the first case with running traditions, have opted out this time around. The former, though, will likely offer New Year’s Day breakfast, a trend that is dying out as places that open well before noon are less and less. For standard bar and grills, 11 a.m. seems the most common on New Years Day. (And a few venues, very noteworthy the former Pudge’s, which is now Ziggy’s with their most-nights live music, prided themselves as being open 365.) But such after-partying breakfast and bloodies can still be found at some venues across St. Croix County, and not necessarily in the biggest city or cities. The popular Main Plate breakfast and lunch cafe in downtown Hudson, the only one like it within a couple of miles, which normally unlocks its doors bright and early, will not be open New Year’s Day. A better choice thereby becomes Dunn Brothers, up a couple of doors, which opens at 7 a.m.

With all the new distilleries, and makers of a whole number of other libations, that have opened in the area in recent years, hours of operation and offerings vary, especially on any major holiday. A general rule of thumb is to try the bigger ones.

With all that said, an option you might consider on New Year’s Eve is the Village of North Hudson, with a few cool places scattered over about a mile of roadway. The Village Inn is the place where you might have best luck pushing it back past 3 a.m., but no warranties expressed or implied. Your best bet for a band that is past the run-of-the-mill might be that little ol’ place a couple of miles north, (actually pretty big, and they have added on), the proverbial Big Guys BBQ Roadhouse. A patron coming out of Ziggy’s at 9 p.m. said that there was a big wedding reception in the upstairs band venue, throwing the possibility of live music for the public up there on New Year’s Eve into question. (It could be held later on that night, but unlikely.) Some places do host private RSVP parties on this eve, if the price is right. There was a smaller quite boisterous one that started early above St. Croix Provisions, and almost a dozen people toasting with wine glasses could be seen nearby on the main drag, at a photography studio with a big ambiance section that mostly sits empty. An early big party bus was parked, where it could find space, across the street, and soon shifted to three blocks away, and was certain to end — along with all the taxis that were out — across the street from The Smilin’ Moose. And a spacious spot where most people get started, Hudson Tap, was packed to the brim.

And a thought about that welcoming-in New Year’s kiss, even if with that person who was a stranger until a few minutes ago: Value her for who she is and for her soul — and get to know her over the next three hours — and not for just being a set of lips.

There were four trends, although not at maximum, that told the tale while tailing near 3 p.m. Three men outside of the Smilin’ Moose early had Three Amigos sombreros complete with lighted hats, (and it was not clear whether they were getting off a party bus parked right up front, or were manning that door as bouncers), and an early-on couple had more full Christmas lights dangling from their necks, Old School style. Glitz ruled the night, and one woman getting off said party bus had an entire sleeveless top that was all big, glittery sequins. The off-shoulder look was in, taking in or out both shoulders, and inside places one BFF could be seen hiking down to airpit level (sorry if that reference stinks) the sweater of the other. Hope she was wearing great antipersperant/deoderant. Lastly, near night’s end, a couple of guys were spotted smoking on the mostly barren upper deck (no chance for the lower to be open) in T-shirts. One of them was talking to a moderately dressed guy, and the other flanking him to two women in moderately long dresses, with a guy talking to no in particular one caught in the middle in-between.

As I approached home, midstream up the sidewalk, a young girl in shirtsleeves said, I think, Happy New Year Amigo! I wore a tight-to-the-ears hat, so the mistake was understandable. I said back, “put on a coat, it’s cold.” Right before I had left from the last Hudson haunt, two Citians, I think, started trying to mess with me, saying about the woman in front of me, who I think I knew but had not interacted with, “hey do you like her?” Her blonde-for-the-night friend, who is also a friend of mine from New Richmond, turned and saved me, giving me three high fives, two of which missed actual clapping.

On the subject of fashion, on Christmas Eve at church, really short dresses were the thing, and people had reimagined the idea of the little black dress, like on NYE too. They were meant to show off big and clunky and decidedly non-strappy shoes and boots, (very practical and functional with the wintery mix on and off that night), and one woman illustrated the style this way, with a twist: Open toes that highlighted nails that were bright red and almost glowing (like Rudolph’s nose?) and had all ankle, etc. hidden by large and thick segments of leatherish fabric.

Why do we need to have Congress snap to it and fund more SNAP? Here are some stories from the corn crib, or crypt, as it were. People living on their own, and can get by with a bit of help, but still are food addled.

A middle-aged woman I know lost her son and then had to start raising – and thus feeding – on the weekends his two young daughters, who are of mixed ethnic heritage, and therefore follow dietary restrictions where very American staple foods, like sugary cereal, are off limits. On top of this, the woman befriends and thus cooks for a man who is homebound. So to simply say her availability of food is limited is a massive understatement. I’ve helped her, as she sincerely needs it, but honestly she can be picky about certain things, like freshness. However, she will make use of other things, like obscure veggies, that is beyond the scope of most peoples’ cooking. She donates what she can’t use. She always volunteers to bring a dish if she is asked somewhere.

Another middle-aged woman is, I’m quite sure, autism spectrum, and gets about swimmingly with the aid of a walker to the point that shopping is ruled out, and has ineffective usage of her hands. I’d guess that cooking is a challenge, if doable at all, as with her fingers even opening a box might be hard, and she’d have trouble keeping her balance while doing so. A hidden need for her, with these limitations, is that many inexpensive foods are literally and figuratively, just out of her reach.

What would such people do without some types of food assistance that is almost catastrophic? I fear they would fall between the cracks of the food safety net.

This reminds me of the irony of this song overheard on the music played at a local food shelf, Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog, with the “striking” opener of a stanza, “I don’t mind stealin’ bread from the mouths of decadents/But I can’t feed on the powerless when my cup’s already overfilled.” The meaning has been said to be, despite the opening line, take what you need from the excessively rich, but only what you need. I will reflect further: It could be that in the truest emulation of Bob Dylan and much of metal, the song is switching narrators, back to those who have all that they require.

Recently, I have seen that some people have reached out on social media and asked for help, and while some folks are willing to lend a hand, others show pushback. Those needing assistance seem to wait until the last minute before breaking down and asking for it, showing their sincerity in wanted to make it on their own. Unfortunately, most of them delete their posts before someone like myself can answer back. With others, you make contact, but at some point they stop working with the process and quite literally disappear from site. This leaves their potential donors wondering, did they just stop following through? Did something bad happen to them? Did they become embarrassed? Was it a scam? With one young mother, I offered a homecooked meal and thinking there would be no or few gifts for her kids this Christmas, some trinkets for stocking stuffers and admittedly, slightly dated but still wrapped candy canes among the snacks. I thought this would be better then nothing and presented it as such to her in a phone message. She did not call me back.

With myself, having a neurological disability, an unusual form of Tourette Syndrome, I suffer from severe pain and crippling anxiety. I am thankful that there are some foodstuffs that are very good for knocking this pain level down, but they are more expensive than say your average can of vegetables and push a normal food budget to the limit. Chia over corn, is way more costly. Atypical? Certainly. But another situation where you are subject to different living conditions in what you buy from the store.

I have even wondered about scammers and hackers, plying their trade in far flung places. Do some of them have a hungry mouth or two to feed, if say stationed in Siberia? It is like the ridiculous extreme of an actual Third World dungeon master who was asked why he tortures people for a living, and responded that he has a family to support.

On the theme of the cost of living (and dying), a figure was cited by the current administration that they want to get rid of, when all is said and done, almost 13 million immigrants. Is that all the troublemakers in that category there are? That would not seem to be that many. Not much more than the population of New York City.

Another figure cited about how rich the richest are getting, this being the second-highest ever Powerball win: It quoted $1.8B. That almost reads like $1.88, rather than $1,800,000,000.00.

Some think it would save a lot of money to cut the SNAP budget by, say, $1,000,000. When spread over the sheer number of recipients, that would perhaps be around an ounce of corn, or maybe as low as several kernels. Food for thought, but good or bad, I do not know. Just what percentage of the population is on SNAP, anyway?

And if you look at that populace, if you did what is proposed by some and cut out soda and candy, how much of a difference would it make? Take away from every one of them both a Snickers bar and a can of Coke, each one, and you’d be saving much less than a buck overall, per U.S. citizen.

At church for Christmas Eve, candles were lighted but not extinguished until the very end of services, as the sermon was a lot about Joseph and he was a carpenter, not a fire fighter, until maybe he burned out, with his firewood.

Then my niece turned back to us and said, I guess you can’t take it with you. Out of church, that is. (Her actual words, though, were that maybe we would, the hundreds of us all as one, soon set sprinklers off in the building.) I responded that there was no need to call firefighters, as the church would be mostly cleared and the flames that were only flickering to start with long blown out, before they would get here. Her boyfriend snickered. Then I doubled down, as that seems what you do these days. “Don’t have to call the department, we’ve got this one,” God’s children acting in his behalf, by snuffing. The boyfriend laughed more heartily.

— And then there were those parking-lot-entry traffic watchers and organizers and weighers. They were seen at the start of the service we went to, one of several that day, and were also there after we left, as there was no room for more cars at the motor lodge, so to speak. There are that many Chreasters who attend at this Lutheran Church. (We were at a middle service. One might assume they got a break around sermon time.)

The assembled were given starting instructions before the service started, to only exit right not left, as so ye will be directed. If not ICE might get you — though few Hispanics attend this church and it’s all white folk although not Evangelical — if The Grinch doesn’t first.

Those waiting past Advent with their vests of orange and yellow, or both, were seen unlike the eager Salvation Army bell ringers, looking tired and cold and flat-out bored. Around the middle as they sat when they could, around the midsection looking a lot like Santa. —

As he’s gotten to know, in this family we joke. The rest of the evening was filled with more gags, about six of us whiffing also at ping pong, (some more than others), eight traffic aides directing (this will be tomorrow’s sidebar) and just who of the nine would win at cards. Spoiler alert, we doubled down again, damn that bro of mine, (dare I say that at Christmas?)

But first, the ultimate candle joke, from a previous year, when it literally was burned at both ends, or tried to. My bro, again, attempted to pass the candle flame to me and it just wouldn’t light, time after time. Finally he looked at the hooded cup that was wider but not longer then the candle itself, and said, “you’ve got it upside-down.” As in no wick there. I said this was burning candles for dummies. He then invoked the sermon of the night.

But won’t time travel, like The (magic) Magi, so back to present day. I had hoped to get away without table tennis being tossed at my tush. But drawn in I was. I couldn’t even win as a child, and these days, the swing and miss is virtually all that I know. But maybe this year would be different, If I’d really bear down and concentrate …

After all, my other niece was in heels and long dress and would have to be running around the table in a game we’d invented, or at least long made use of, called naturally, Runaround. Just don’t rip the dress on the corner of the table. The first few volleys found me only drawing one miss, and at least it wasn’t a full flub, but not long later it was up to five – including two total whiffs as my cruel family volleyed long on the table and hard at me – and I went out with an attempted backhand on a high bounce in the corner where I barely drew iron, er, wood, er, plastic. These were not the crude strictly wooden paddles with sandpaper of my boyhood, though still familiar to me, that were too hard and made shots go long, but those gourmet kind with just the right rubber finesse for a twist obtained by my bro.

I remember a previous year when the guy directly across from me, who travels on business, was accused of such a high and long, lobbed Space Ball that’s typically Olympics style from Far Eastern Europe, and I was tempted to ask if he’d just learned the technique from Elon Musk on a covert trip to Russia. Big buildup for a bad joke on how best to beat even Bond.

But this was only preseason, I laughed. Maybe I’d play like many a ponderous sports team, hmm, in Minnesconsin, who suck big and then finally show up to play only as a wild card in the postseason. My bro chuckled, even guffawed, saying it’s best to try to make at least a late pre-playoff run. But I was being sarcastic, and it got me in the end. I had set myself up to be slammed. Just like when I was a kid. Always ended up playing defense ‘cos I had no game. The backhand and forehand always hit the same side of the paddle, that being to edge, and the careening ball would get lost in the corner. Sniffy nosed, whiny, broken glasses … Like the little brat on A Christmas Story.

But alas, now it is retirement age, and there is only one last joke to tell. How to do know when it’s time to retire, from ping pong? If you have to stretch out for ten minutes before you play. Bro was kind enough to laugh. Pity laugh. I’ll get him at the next game. Not on a table, per se, but on a board.

This is one of the two new parlor games introduced, I swear, at every Christmas on record. It is called Flip 7. A card game. Like Sheepshead, also called Schopfscoff, which I also get creamed at from the hands of my German relatives. Mom drew first blood, and I drew second. The game shuffled along, and both of us were confused about the Freeze and Action cards. Am I in good company? And also the Flip 3 variety. Once when dealt the first, single card of a hand, I tried to play it, as a Flip 7, and was promptly told I had it turned backwards, dummy. Like when it was my turn to deal and someone said “hit me,” and I hadn’t heard, so I just looked at them. The game goes with Joe, but kinda slow. I did get the biggest laugh, however, when I said one of the players, when casting a card, made a “mental whiff.”

But the last would (almost) be first, as comebacks were made. My bro remained near the back of the pack. Hah, I got him! But as it turned out, he was waiting in the wings, wading with wet-only-waders in the swamp, biding his time, lingering to make his move.

Then, back to the wall, he was dealt near the maximum number of cards you could safely be allowed before busting. Two of the same kind and you’re toast. One by one they fell, with no damage done, although gasps grew longer and louder. Finally, the last possible card and … safety! But he was still several points short of the winning number of 200. There was only one hope left, like in Blackjack, hoping for that ace when holding a queen and a king. Hush as the final card was turned.

A DOUBLE YOUR POINTS! He had won, like at ping pong and it would turn out, later at Scrabble. The red Wisconsin Badger hat he had been given at gift giveaway was held higher than his 6-foot-4 frame, and waved around, to nods of approval. What, was he going to take a victory lap around the oval kitchen table, that he had complained at first shuffle had his chair backed in a corner?