Easter eggs? Here are the signs.
The word on the marquee at Agave Kitchen says it for the season, as in the message behind the metal lyrics of (fittingly) Dance of Death: There is more to life then is dreamt of in your philosophy. (Depending on what it is).
Agave as in past years, has provided a take for the secular world (not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that or in them doing that).
First, on Good Friday: “JC did it for you.” (Thought at first that was saying Happy Birthday, but that was a different season). Then two days later, and we know what that is: “He is Risen.” Still up on Easter Monday. Irrespective of where you lie, there is a (greater) truth here that plays out into so, so many other truths, on all sides. (Listening to Slayer — of Pilate? — while I write this. Good stuff, seriously.)
And then the sign that has appeared on the door, all are welcome here including all races, colors, creeds, genders, persuasions, orientations, ages, dogs (only on the patios?), frogs (maybe not the legs as says Ozzy?), and hogs (most likely not unless they’re bikers?)
Down the way, the sign Hoppy to See You, but closed on Easter, as was written for so many places you wouldn’t expect to be open anyway, but Dunn Brothers had open written on their door. And Mallard’s at a whole 9 a.m. for their brunch.
And then calendars: They all had Passover (although one added the word starts), and Easter of course, and Earth Day and even Eid al-Fitr (not sure what that is, but I expect the last two observances are linked). But not on my Alma Mater of Blugold, that being UW-Eau Claire that did have the Athletics Foundation Gift thingee to scan,, but listed on the Shiner Children’s Hospital version are Good Friday and Palm Sunday and even Orthodox Easter.

Has the Ragin’ Cajun returned? Strong drink fuels the desire to take in more tip-top dance routines.
The Cajun Club in Houlton has one of the longest tenures of any exotic dance club in the greater St. Croix County area. But just three words into this post, you can see why Twin Citians sometimes cross(ed) over from Stillwater to partake.
But any number of years back, there was a new trend. A couple of different couples, one duo then the other, took over the reins and both vowed to clean things up a bit. One of them lived in the area and doubled as a karaoke crew at places in their stomping grounds, and the latter of the two were from The Cities, and they did a full remodel of this club that had a (rather dark) decore and such, much like the old Dibbo’s rock club in Hudson.
But the club was in the news recently for liquor license violations, including alleged refilling of bottles of booze. The owners have said they had no knowledge of this, and that it was the doing of a manager that got them all legally stung after the running of a sting of sorts by the ATF, which for some reason seemed to put such an investigation high on their agenda.
I see some contributing factors. The Twin Citian owners were hardly ever onsite day to day, so you could see why they just might not have known, and why this was not as much as you’d think be right under their nose, and they were literally blindsided by the accusations. The venue has typically had managers who lasted longer than most at this post than is typical in the service industry, so a level of trust may have been built. And the bar area had remained fully separate from that where the dancing took place — as you had to walk by a room with pool tables and then through a big and plush curtain before you’d even know the other is there, so it was almost free-standing and possibly leaving room for mischief to be done and be unseen. But inside that huge room, literally a dance hall, added were a bar-rail and more prominent VIP rooms.
All this really hit after a hearing was held in front of the public, and complaints were aired, but in this rich and proper area, no matter how much bouncers managed activity, you’d probably have any number of residents eager to get things off their chest. And again going back years, this was not the first time for such a hearing, but that for another time.

The ears have it. Flying into this pre-Christmas season like now as maybe even a pre-adverted Advent. So we focus not on nosily flared noses, but those pointy things worn aside the head of both bad-haired bosses and Spocks and at times by our fighting materialism with sorta-labor-strike elves. In a place such as the Pole. Unless employed by Amazon.
Yes in downtown Hudson there were shrieks of joy not only from transfixed kids and adults with careful cameras, as they negotiated in their minds their peers posed mostly motionless in the small shopping room windows with only an occasional movement to make their ears and eyes perk up, but those with those lobes held in place as they swirled drinks at Ziggy’s. Yes two of the cocktail waitresses were dressed down to the toes like elves and also up to such flared ears, and in one case even a single sprig of mistletoe, as multiples would be scandalous. And even down to the piano player (more on those who trade off on the keys later) there were strings of multi-colored lights around their necks. This was the aftermath of Halloween with more such oblong ears, also seen on a vivid older woman dressed like a The Doors poster who added she’s only revisiting her childhood — as it was her sister who was the true Woodstock aspiree.
More on that this simple eve before Christmas? A simply named band, many more members than letters, is now doing doors at Dick’s Bar in Hudson, showing the (party) favor of the Lucky Dog and its beer, and also free samples of appetizers and also pudding concoctions.

This just in from my database, admittedly provided by the Russians.
We all have seen are mailboxes getting more and more full of political pointers of the same size and glossiness.
And I am assuming that all you HudsonWiNightlife readers are astute enough to be familiar with the out-of-control-monster even days after Halloween that are “franking” privileges, and we are not talking Frankenstein and his ilk, even though he’s been standing taller and looming larger by the day. Rather, this is about the frankly invasive to our mailboxes stuffing of ads where politicos are offered free mailing rights to tell their constituents via the post office how they are battling such Russians and doing other wonderful things for our populace, with no questions asked like would be the case with an actual press-monitored debate. And there are fewer of these, it seems, and my Associated Press contact way out in California told me that in my neck of the woods there are many cases where their stringer reporters are not being allowed access to polling places!
But there is no free lunch, unless with a lobbyist. Someone has to eventually pay for the extra white cube trucks needed to provide feet on the floor for franking.
So, that stat I promised. It turns out that a full 13 percent or so of the mounting national debt is because of franking privilege abuse. Or so say my sources, and I think they are in the Kremlin. Not sure. But they do add that of that tally, 87 percent is part and parcel of The Obstructionist Party (TOP not GOP), even though they are the ones most likely to say they have the Divine — and they often invoke God — Plan to kick debt to the curb.
More on such God Awful Government (GAG) in the coming days.

Here and thereafter, are the two Saving Graces of those who as far as lack of getting the word out, still gain some ungainly Halloween game.
The Smilin’ Moose in Hudson has a total prize value on Saturday — this holiday-time around on one night only — in quadruple digits. Even the understated has an attraction here, like the white-chalk-rubbed feet/hands (not sure which) and heads on the windows looking out into the night.
And understated as an understatement at The Wild Badger in New Richmond, is the banner that flanks around over the size of three booths, and says/promises this — also a Saturday — will be a Night To Dismember. So take that, with your costume choice. They have a take on it unlike others, where there is a battle of the dueling deejays. Do they both play Thriller?

The Iron What? That was the ending chant, before encores (plural).
So here we go with official Geek Out II to my now back-in-concert Maiden.
And you think there is not prophecy in music? Or just accidental genius?
Back in the day, think 1970s, there was this cool tidbit, or more, that now comes around again.
Recently, the Russians, notate that, got in a spot with their warlike move into Crimea. As in defeated. Because in large part of very Bad Intelligence.
How so, decades ago?
Then there was Maiden and their most popular song, one of their earliest, called The Trooper. It was about a crucially bad move into — Crimea — made by their fellow Brits where they got slaughtered in a long past war with yes, Russia, based on in their end faulty CIA type stuff.
What goes round comes around? History repeats itself?
And if we don’t learn from it … A Maiden sequel over what has been, with their music, a call to prevent having no more music, as in as Morrison said, The End.

Hey, does not Ziggy’s have a place in Stillwater also?
But it the Hudson version where I found that — gasp! — I had forgotten that this weekend was Lumberjack Days in Stillwater. I’d recollected that it was actually in August and had wanted to hit them up for an ad, as they might bite the bullet as this fine website is getting to have more and more traffic. Like Stillwater. And not the Old School band by that name. So give me back my bullets.
But there is a backstory. As always. So back up. And not traffic.
A cool dude and his significant other were sitting at the bar, putting bread in the jar of bartender, since the piano man would not start for another two hours. So minds wandered …
What is the killer Hudson rock fest that is in August. After the proverbial Booster Days and the art and music in the park event in September. We kept on ruminating on that, coming back to it again and again and querying each other like Quora. There was this aspect that we had seen and that, but what was the object in question? We joked — OK I did — that we would remember in our sleep at 3 a.m. and call each other.
I added that as the Twin Cities presence in Hudson nightlife becomes more and more marketable, smaller fests are being added, although they are not promoted as actively and stay under the radar. I thought there was another artsier one coming up next month, but I was told I had another thing coming. Then it all hit us like a divine revelation from above — big overstatement — that this weekend was the killer summer fest that is Lumberjack Days. So we googled. It had not been held, Covid constraints, since 2019 and again, had been off our collective radar.
So all these reasons may have been to blame for our lack of recall. But hey, Stillwater is kind of buttoned up, although PBS plays well there, so here is a thought as to why. In verse.
Apologies if I slightly misquote Chapman and the chaps from Monty Python:
“I’m a lumberjack I’m OK, I work all night and I sleep all day. I like to pick up sailors, dress in women’s clothing and hang out in (Stillwater?) bars.”
Not exactly the Chamber of Commerce fight song. They might fight that.

What with this being the ebb after Good Friday, and still a bit before Easter, I feel compelled to draw in and quarter some — again — heavy metal songs that although timeless about war and the deaths that always follow, in this day and weeks are especially poignant about the ones that always seem to suffer the most, namely the children. This point was made all the more in recent online analysis.
To wit. The Ukraine. And not long before that Afghanistan. Everyone including mere babes fleeing their countries for their very lives. And full war, not just the gloss-over term conflict. That is what goes on in our minds as we struggle with the (war on) humanity of it all. And as you read the next few paragraphs, take into account the boot-to-the-head presence, now relevant again, of the aspect as lyrically named of “atomic fear.”
Did some karaoke at the Wild Badger in New Richmond. The metal on the play list was sparse, but they did have a diamond in the rough. Out of the three songs that are always present, there was the obligatory Run to the Hills — wrongly among other things, “enslaving the young” — but but the other two usually seen standards were for naught. But there was as a real saving grace Two Minutes to Midnight. You could write a whole treatise about this song, but considering the point I’m making, lets cut to the chase (for peace).
“The killer’s breed are the demon seed. The clamor. The fortune. The Pain. Go to war again, blood is freedom’s stain, don’t you pray for my soul anymore. Two minutes to midnight, the hands threaten doom. Two minutes to midnight. To kill the unborn in the womb.” Use of that last term? I’ve thought it would have mixed reception by the prolife crowd — it is obviously not about advocacy of such slaughter — and indeed may have been thrown in there to appeal to the large segment of their audience that is profoundly religious. Or the flip-side, a position taken by some online that is described in the lead of this post. .
So to close out, we refer to the self-proclaimed Masters of Reality in the form of being anti-war, Black Sabbath, and their cutting-to-the-chase classic Children of the Grave. “Will they (not yet old enough to vote and may not ever get there) win the fight for peace or will they disappear?”
Then skip to another standard by the band that’s not actually advocating darkness, but obviously is again even more relevant: “Children of the future, watching empires fall. Free from the final judging, the destruction of all.”
But in the minutes (more than two as I am not that speedy) taken to write this post, (and I will bring more and much deeper analysis in coming times and not the end times), we’ve come nearer to the Easter celebration that we as one pray can bring joy to those of all persuasions, so sorely needed, so let’s end with that part of Children of the Grave that “is a song of hope.”
We as children must hope that love is still alive and must be brave …
Amen. Enjoy your holiday, regardless of what’s its name. Joe.

As spring has sprung, officially, we are now releasing tales from the deep freeze, and a holiday that falls just days before winter fades away, and approaching May Day.
There was that night where temps were below zero, and it was met with a flurry of freeze-prompted signs on bar doorways — not put up in a hurry as there was time — about closing up at least some parts of their business early. Servers could go home before the Fahrenheit drops even more, but judging from the garb, they weren’t too distressed.
Ziggy’s was shut down, for all purposes, before midnight, as the last man not cut was taking out the last of the days garbage over to the dumpster across a small parking lot. Yeah, the weather, he muttered on more than one front.
At Hudson Tap, they approached the situation in the same way that has been seen before, limiting service to just at the bar rail, not tableside in the other three-fourths of the venue. Would like to know what time of day they made the transition. (And in reverse, for the start of March Madness, the place opened hours earlier than usual, at 11 a.m. One of those days was even a weekday.)
At Dick’s Bar there still was one bartender grinning and baring it, with shorts coming thigh-high. (Like a guy I used to know who wore shorts while out and about, even late then the temps are the most outrageous, 12 months out of the year. Did he ever make an exception?)
But also, it was announced, the kitchen was not heating, catching the eye of one of three venues in such straits. And going into the Hudson Public Library, back door only since weather damage that was done even before the snows started flying, the internet was down for a time, and all my friends could not be there too.
But now, we have St. Patrick’s Day and the full houses all around, with the exception of the early dance floor at the Smilin’ Moose. I even got some green beads, one string only, from a young Minnesotan! And at Dick’s there were games offered galore, like at The Tap, including a bar take on piling up wooded blocks like a house of cards, going a full five feet in the air. A woman stumbled by — look out and don’t breath! — to go to a couple of tables set aside for beer pong. She barely made the right angle, to avoid what could have been a disaster of a fall.
We must on the day of the Irish, actually on the Friday that was after, mention New Richmond. One place had a full house for food, especially, but it broke fairly early, although the servers were still on hand. They even ended up, again early, running out of Guinness! At the Wild Badger, the band played on and the place was totally full, and there were many new takes of the typical Irish green and such garb, even a merger of that and red with one woman’s lipstick. Things died down a bit on Saturday, two days after the start of your hangover.

It was the Big Game followed to the day between the first of many Big Date(s).
Yes the Super Bowl was on a Sunday night (with hours of earlier pregame) and on Monday was Valentine’s Day (with we hope nearly that much foreplay).
But this meant you had two holidays, with the grub and all the fixings and also then that special gift for that special someone, to prep and gift for.
And this dichotomy means you might have to do it all in one fell swoop not long before the coin toss. And various stores seemed to pick out just one to highlight in their ad flyers, at the expense of the others as it all started late in the weekend, when the weekly advertisements turn over.
Come the time when the sun was setting on the NFL season with one big bash, some WOMEN were shopping in pairs for V-Day especially. Three such duos were seen an aisle apart, hitting everything from cards and candy to flowers to even necklaces, all part of what was being targeted at Target. Oddly, at that time there was not much festive food to be seen offered as specials, even at the must pass by corners. But that times-two factor was in part why this ended up being a great merchandising event.
Jump to the next day Jonesey’s Local, were there was one, just one couple, celebrating and giving life to the sparseness there. Low-key but then started to swinging around in dance like a waltz with groove and feeling. So much so they even brought in via big smiles a couple of others at the bar, and that made up about 50 percent. Inspiration! Ambled over to Jonesy himself and said what I had been pondering to him, be my Valentine? Nope, dance cards already full.

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It might be fitting that when the Jan. 6 debacle took place, I had to glean what info I could by watching the one TV screen in the ER. I viewed this emergency while in the emergency room with one of my occasional Tourette’s emergencies. I stumbled, literally, onto CNN and Anderson Cooper — who pulled no punches in his analysis — in part because I had no easy-to-use remote to switch to other stations. So enlightened I will be. And after a year, plus a few days I needed to use when it all came back to the fore again, I have stepped back to reflect. But first, on that day of days in Washington …
I called a friend who was concerned about me, and after a quick check-in she said, can you call back later, I’m in the middle of watching the D.C. riots. That was at about suppertime and before Cooper came on, into my room with a gurney and not too much more, so I thought what, there was a rowdy gathering of a few dozen people and someone swung a baseball bat at a cop?
So much more we can now agree. Gee, can I have those meds now?
An image I saw repeated again and again during TV coverage a few days ago, was of a man being crushed in a doorway, that door closing in on his rib cage. Amid the carnage of that footage, I could not tell if he was friend (another rioter) or foe (a cop). Regardless, a question begs, and again beckons for further knowledge: Is there an element of trust, and even that sounds absurd to contemplate, among the rioters to protect their own, or is this just an excuse to act up with potent weapons and reek havoc.
The answer may again come down to the lessons voiced and wielded in music, as there’s is a way that is much more acceptable (at least in some circles, and one size does not fit all here) to get out your pent up aggression.
We now enter the mosh pit. Even in slam dancing the many flying-around participants bash bodies but also look out for one another and try not to take it too far, although when the adrenaline fully kick in … And if the band is too extreme it heads more into the realm of war not love, at least as it is traditionally seen.
The key here is an unspoken yet understood, and held as sacred bond of trust. When body surfing, you do not drop the guy or girl who bashed into your gut too hard a mere guitar solo before. If the singer stage dives, you catch him, even if he hit a foul note in the stanza before. And their politics and philosophies and theologies might not match yours at all, or that of someone else’s fave metal band, but there is an understanding not to diss the other person’s lyrical ideas (instrumental might be another thing). Not always a total camaraderie, but unless they are really at opposite poles, mutual respect. Few people bring mace to a metal concert, even the decked-out-in-black ladies. And there is a very real security presence in case some intervention is needed, but the worst of that is usually silliness gone wild, and only faux violence.
Lastly, I attended as a reporter and listener, at the hallowed halls of the old Dibbo’s, a four-band death metal concert right here in Hudson, as the St. Croix Valley for a number of years running had a scene of that genre that was hard to beat. There is a lot to be said about that night, but for purposes here, note that when slam dancing, participants had a choice and if they stood back a couple of steps it was a signal that they did not want to fully participate, although someone might swing by and try to coax another in what amounts to asking them to dance, non-verbally. Might try a second time but then their wishes were almost always respected. The dance floor, just big enough to accommodate most cover bands, tipped its hat to social distancing, when someone would back up and take a short running start. So there can be injuries — although none that night — to the people who freely choose to be in the pit, not the innocent bystander or listener, like myself, who are left unscathed, and that is how this is different. No officer would have chosen what was to happen to them that night.

Think back to one of the initial forays a few months into social distancing and the new crowd(s) it would attract. As was seen at a sorta bar reopening and mostly just the motley crew from Minnesota. But what goes around comes around, and let me tell you why. Things aren’t that much different now, after a brief loosening of fear in past weeks, but in just the past few days things are worsening up again concerning the virus grip. So That Crowd Remains The Same, somewhat.
The following was a night at Dick’s Bar last fall, as the (brave?) few from The Cities took a chance before they might fall, and get and spread the virus, and parallels to today might be seen.
The entire length of the bar-rail found every seat taken, with a noticeable commonality among all the new customers — and lily white Hudson and its townies is one of few places where this would be even remotely significant, but hey, every good business owner needs to know the base of their clientele. The gist? All were Black.
At the far end of the bar-rail, there were a couple of people Hispanic — another ethnic group you hardly every see in the night scene in Hudson. And shooting darts with a couple of guys who were dressed like they could be from the hood, were two token while females with booty. The back room where people dance was virtually empty.
What’s the difference here, in you are a patron? I for one didn’t feel in any way uncomfortable among the newer crowd, even though many in Hudson have been fearful of any newfound rowdiness. Got into a couple of cool conversations with a couple of cool young guys, and another one middle-aged and from China, but when the subject of music came up, it wasn’t classic rock or country. And the songs played on the jukebox were also far from that vein. So diversity in ethnic heritage also brings diversity in conversation and its topics.

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Dear reader on the topic in the post that’s below on my home page. Here is an answer to your secondary question about where to go where you can milk your drink or two during a Packer game, and not order more, without being frowned upon. If you get to know a favorite bartender well — they usually keep the same game day shifts — and this might mean going to the same place most of the time to the grid contests, they are more than happy to flow with you. Yes, they love their big tippers, but they are even more appreciative of someone who is friendly and courteous, not driven by drink to get rowdy. So they will cut you some slack, and if you simply order a soda — refills are free — they may even comp it once they get to know you and your demeanor. Various bartenders have told me the house makes more money on alcoholic beverages because of the margin, even though soda is basically just sugar water and the cost of the ingredients is almost nothing. But the bartender is mostly concerned about the tips they make, they have no vested interest in alcohol vs. soda except that the refills might have them coming back more frequently. So squeeze in your quick and funny joke when they come around, and they may laugh and shoot another one back your way. A suggestion I have heard from a DUI lawyer: If you stay for the doubleheader game also, or even Sunday evening football, pass a five-spot their way as a tip, and covering all else, and have them refresh your soda for the duration. (And no, the refreshing of drink does not suggest they follow that strip club approach where the drinks are expensive and mandatory). Some people even take this to another level, where they will throw out a very high tip to the server as seed money to get that next drink or two comped. The success of that approach has diminished during these tough economic times, for the bar as well as you.

This may be the last chance for recreational gas, as it was described in a flyer at one of the local convenience stores, as Labor Day is here and you know what that marks the end of …
And as far as that fuel — get your mind out of the gutter and put it in your gas tank — it could mean anything from gassing up your grill, putting propane in the heater for that next season that is coming, to bumping up the stuff that makes that cool boat run. And the size of that boat could depend on just what Midwest country the gas originated from.
But there is more labor to be pumped on this weekend. It stems from what I’ll call the non-Dirty Dozen. I saw two teenage girls in shorts and T-shirts — you’ll see why I mention that in a moment — carrying signs that had in big red letters a word beginning in C. (I immediately thought Covid, but I could be wrong). I was soon, on a back trip via his highway, to see what it indeed was hawking. Car wash! On one of those last warm days when the dozen or so young ladies who gathered on a different corner and were wearing even a bit less made their bid, it all came clear. For charity. And upon turning on the tube at home, there was a movie by the same name, sort of … The Dirty Dozen! Stars all-around laboring in a different way as Labor Day approached. Save the country, and their lives.
But on Labor Day itself, check out a band that I think just might emulate the late Scottie Danger, blues legend locally. Back in the day, the slap bassist and his new band needed a photog to snap a picture of them looking a bit “danger”-ous for an album cover, so I obliged in a downtown Hudson back alley. Why is this important today, as so many players labor for you, the listener, not to mention hack photographers? A near namesake and likely music-sake and also longtime player, Scottie Miller, brings his act to Muddy Waters in Prescott on Labor Day from 3-7 p.m.

The aforementioned reader, on The Front Page, also chimed in about the fact that my (at times cumbersome to some people?) writing style could use a few more bullet points to break up the reams of copy, and shorter sentences and paragraphs. After all, this is the Twitter generation, and they don’t really care for my “online magazine” treatment. Guilty as charged. But wait a minute, wait a minute!
— I have over time adopted a style of prose that I think is very Hunter Thompson-esqe, the proverbial stream of consciousness, like a double lead guitar that careens back and forth in a creative but out-there way, then pulls it back together before It Stops Making Sense. This was not by design, but I segued into it.
— My long-suffering wife has noted that I will say, Honey I’ll be right up for dinner in a couple of minutes, but then get a few more inspirations to segue into (there’s that word again, so get the picture?) as I write along and it becomes a quarter-hour. This had led to that Ramble On at times, run-ons just described, or just call me a blabbermouth (I think that name has been taken by someone else on-line). And add to the analogy the fact that I indeed do most of the cooking, but I was trying to abbreviate the scenario for a change.
— That whole, here’s another idea, is one reason the stories and sentences and paragraphs spin out into longer form. So bullet points are very useful, except for the fact that One Thing Leads To Another and there is not an obvious break in the thought pattern. I used to use them more, and I’m glad this was pointed out as something of which I need to do more, and it had been on my radar, so kick my butt and I don’t want it to get smacked again. And have you noticed the three bullet points in this discourse? And the ones in another recent post? See I not only write, but kinda, sorta, once in a while read things too!

I had a dream. No, I DED, I DED! Or maybe it was my dad’s dream. You let me know what you think.
In MY such playout of vision, my father stepped into the dreamscape and made a bold playoff prediction on it.
The Tall and Cool and Greek Guy with the (Headdress of Hair?) had scored a final of 40 or more points in two straight NBA Finals games. But he — or someone, or maybe more than one someone — would up the ante, it was dreamed, and toss in 50 points … or maybe a bit more. But wait, it wasn’t necessarily a man. It could have been a woman in the dream, and not that kind of dream, such as in the WNBA All-Star Game that’s on Wednesday night, possibly from my stellar squad of the Minnesota Lynx, even though my father is a great big Bucks fan. (The other M word). And to add more mystery, maybe not even being a pro — are you listening in, my friend Corrin Von Wald of Hudson and that great title run you made with the Minnesota Gophers. (And psst. Hey Buddy. Corrin has occasionally appeared, quite briefly, in one of my dreams too! OK, only very rarely). The shooting guard-turned engineer had averaged about one third-of-the-way to those 50 points, but had her bursts.
But wait, there’s more! Shift to upstate Wisconsin, if I can use that term, away from the Deer District and the Phoenix-based snipers that were dreamed to be in action, poised in surrounding office buildings, to take out deer like they do in fall in upstate Wisconsin (part of this embellishment is such animal payback?) Anyway, I was taken by the dream just south of my hometown Merrill, veering off into a bike lane that went on for miles, teetering this way and that, through thickets and alongside swamps, all the while on slim grass, not dirt path.
Back in the car, it was south to Wausau and a trek to the south end of town for a brand new music club, playing stuff you can’t usually find and that’s not to even touch upon their music videos! Lastly, it is back to the Hudson area, and the snaking of a tributary into the St. Croix, this one down to the bare bones of summer heat and the resulting slimness of any streams of water to be found — down close to actual dirt. This directed me to the two main grocery stores left in town for some actual bottled water. More on that, in real time and reality period, later in these pages.
And also more will come, at some point, on how dreams like this (all joking aside) have a way of deeper and even guiding types of meaning for the souls who can fight through their rampant and complex symbolism — and not aided by Floyd or any fancy stuff. But these themes do come through, intelligently and in great detail, in the lyrics of bands like Deep Purple and Rainbow and Dio, back in the day, to name just three.

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This last May weekend is the killer garage sale times two, (see below), and the local Lions Club sponsors in their doubling-up, and building on the theme, what could make them out as White Lions, as this sale has been around almost as long as that aforementioned Old School band, with the club gaining expertise for selling White Elephants and more that are much beyond cliches. And reaching all along the top and bottom of western St. Croix County with their resume of dozens of stops that go beyond Hudson proper, and one even needed more than a dozen words to list all the clothing they are selling. To the point that all of this requires more than one map as a guide. And as they say, music is a universal language that connects all things, including garage sales. Prominent last night in one of the few musical ironic offerings that can found, for now, Match-Box 20 was featured, and that is exactly the number of years this sale has been going on and garnering experience, for other things too, that include the Lions big September music fest.
As far as my involvement, it only started with the c0ming of the annual April sale referenced above, at Cherry Circle N, but then there also are the even longer-term experts who are Lions who have been around since before some “21 and over” concert-goers had been born, maybe predating the heyday of grunge, and some neighbors who are also rockers. They became known for such singing with Match-Box 20 covers, and have hit this years-going time angle on both sales. (And the Lions sponsored fall music fest that will lead us to the renewal of concerts offerings). So we all know how to make such big-event offerings work. To wit: The Hudson Lions Club has for 20-plus years run their primo event of the year, that being their May 21-22 garage sale (the dates this year). And as far as us, and the fact that we even have a free dry goods offering and recipe hints, at 637 Cherry Circle N, as All My Friends Are Going To Be There Too. And some of what you can find are one-man-band trivia prizes, the Old School Matchbox Car varieties that are referenced above, much like those given a build up in the post below this one, covering Coverdale and Kitaen. To hone this all, through the years of music and the sales all this brings, we might need Mr. Peabody and his stellar machine that spans decades or more. As do the literally thousands of books that can be perused at our place, on almost any topic you can imagine.
And after that, more In The Evening:
They are a couple of young dudes who carry the news and blues, too, when they come on board at Guv’s Place over a still-in-spring cold beer on Friday nights when they are asked, and until then waiting in the wings, like that fiddle player in the (other) band who looks much like Curt Cobain. There was the main man, and his friend Joe, who met up with this Joe on a walk to and from Kwik Trip in North Hudson, and even offered me a beer from his box as we passed in the night/day. Their main love, like so many seek, is the metal, but they are open to other styles, obviously, playing at a noise level that is duet conversation friendly. Check them out, but like Axl Rose, there is no firm guarantee that any of the above will be on stage on any given Friday, having instead to make major moves on this mecca of the “dart floor.”
Then there are the three styles of loaded burgers at Buffalo Wild Wings, (as they are not all about the wing-nut), that take 10-plus words in total beyond the beef to describe their mongo main ingredients, and we are way beyond counting things like pickles. They are stacked much higher than a mound of law-school-students-required-reading-books (and this also includes the recommended chapters nobody ever picks up to give the time of day), and this reference is fitting because so many of their servers are in these studies as their day job.