(For more such statute political commentary — it is indeed so, as was said in a comment under About — check out this web site throughout the coming month and hope that the ghoulies won’t get either you or Trump; they wouldn’t bother with Biden, too bland. The same could not be said about Eddie Van Halen, as he is eulogized in a manner that brings in Hudson, in the department Uncategorized).

I never thought I’d be writing this as soon as you see now, but this may be the day when we wrestle with some of the most important questions since the Cuban Missile Crisis, again stated as You’re Still Hard To Handle Now. Where were you and what were you doing when JKF was assassinated?
(My wife was at the forefront here, as she was watching her favorite Regional TV Cartoonish Show That Will Never Make It Big Because of Lack of Aptitude, But Is About a Man and a Train. Mommy, the question was asked, why is my fave dumb shit show being pre-empted? Oh, my God, JKF is shot and dead, came the response, and mom went running into the next room crying. I have heard the story many times, and it bears repeating).
The difference? At least JFK had something to offer the country/world. You now doubt have heard the thing, unless you are living in a cave in the Siberian outback/hacker enclave, that Trump has the very virus he failed to abort, focusing rather on babies yet to be born. And it was bantied about in the Sunday papers today, both of them in my metro area, that the next 48 hours will tell the tale. (So tune in to the 48 Hours TV-Mag Gone Stupid for the result, with the only slightly edited, repetitive references to the same staid topic over and over to cater to the, well, stupid, unlike when it was that I sat in a courtroom for a solid week for their rag’s local competition, when journalism actually was journalism. This even though the national TV correspondent seemed more interested in getting into the Leader-Telegrams reporter’s pants than actually reporting the news, with their annoyingly recurring twist).
But I digress, and maybe that is the point here. Trump is all about digressing. And not keeping his pants on. But to get back to it, I was sitting with a friend as she roamed the bastion of current news that is Facebook, with ugly dog photos tried to be made pretty, and oh yeah, that great post from a long-last friend who was now coming over and making her giddy, and saw a reference to Trump has a virus. Let’s face it, we all thought STDs rather than Covid for The Invincible one, and that’s what would finally get him. But then there was another reference, and another as midnight approached, and then someone was brave enough to post what everyone was thinking: Hey, the virus is finally good for something. Creating karma, one misdeed at a time.
<The philesophical good for the sake of salvation>
I now have to admit, when Bush, the younger one even moreso than the late Elderberry Bush, was spewing his screw-the-country-for-the-sake-of-oil decisions, some of us said amongst each other in private that it would be for the good of the country and the world that someone Would Take Him Out. Now it is time for me to put my money (mere coins Thanks To The One That Raped All But The Rich, and Maybe I Now Have To Add Only The Mega-Rich), where my mouth and failing computer are, and confront my previous Nightwish: Do I Really Want Donald Dead, to serve the common good? All this transpired while listening to not Death, the extreme metal band as that was later in the night, but Jailbreak from Thin Lizzy, and with Donald maybe they would amount to the same thing if he didn’t break out. But still — The Demise of the Donald? Seems extreme, not prudent. And this is moreso than the fact he makes writing about folly so easy for me. Deep in my soul, now re-thought, I do not want him to get what he deserves. These days, on many fronts, it is not easy to be an empath.
<So where from here?>
Maybe after all is said and done, Trump will gain a greater sense of humility, civility and compassion. OK that’s a tough one to believe, but maybe, just maybe …
A doctor Gupta was quoted as saying that Trump’s chances to beat this are very good. (I remember that name from living with and reporting about Tourette Syndrome). Whew? Cringe? But against him are age (only erectile at this moment), obesity (don’t look good in those whitey tighties anymore), and “underlying medical conditions,” (maybe prompting a recall, like had only been seen in the auto industry, amongst all those escorts in Russia) …
And in Russia, Hackers Anonymous better get tested, and their computers double-down disinfected, even if that puts them on an (Interpol?) database …
Lastly, as far as “tracking” the news that some Congressmen flew on a commercial airline after being closely associated with Trump, so maybe they need to get a waiver if they are indeed running for re-election, which gives them a blank check …

So the Great Debate has come and gone, and as I could have told you earlier that day, it was flagged by many members of the media as a crazy fest between two candidates grabbing for power via personal attacks as much as policy. Crazy Fest? That would have been how the Chicago Tribune travel section hawked via their headline when I put them even further up the charts via my 25-column-inch piece on the Hudson Hot Air Affair, and drew the ire of the locals a bit because it was portrayed that way so many times, at the start because of the way they billed it themselves.
Anyway, I’m going to let you in on one of the hidden ways the media works on deadline, based on those work-your-asses-off small dailies I slaved for at the start of my career. You wrote the sample headline and lead for the County Board meeting the night before they actually met, assuming you already knew how the key item’s vote would take place the next morning. And I doubt that the overworked reporter would have spoken to a large number of people to frame their advance prose, just take a guess from background seen in committee. So you would go to the gathering, which was typically a bunch of old available-in-the-morning-retired geezers, (and not Geezer Butler from Sabbath), voting on something like a bunch of new kids equipment at the local park. Yawn, and predictable, and not finished soon because of the obligatory break for lunch. So at that point, and maybe before, the local scribe would hustle on down to the office to finish and revise what had actually now been verified — and you’ve got 15 minutes to wrap up your story, with an editor occasionally standing behind you to push you even (recklessly?) faster. And let the copy editor fix the typos on the fly. County Boards even more than other local government forms are notoriously boring.
But what if they did something not foreseen like vetoing the two-laned slide for the kiddies? Only one lane needed, filibustered The Conservative Masters Of The Coin. Oh my God, and I thought my lead as was about the going against party lines, and the mayor’s twins going on the first ride down the slide in front of the cameras. Cripes, no photo opp, and how can I fix my story at beyond light speed? The Printer Master awaits!!
That’s what I first thought of about the headlines after Cage Match 1 the other night. It was basically the same headline I’ve seen since the invention of the typewriter, I surmised. But maybe more too this … After all Trump is as inflamatory as Attila the Hun, but the Democrats prize themselves on greater civility and tolerance. But aren’t those the things we weighed when dropping the Atom Bomb? Although it seems Trump was the epitome of the anger and the calls for greater debate decorum — keep the babbling overruns to 30 seconds and not 45.
God, until the County Board chimes in with something actually important, maybe we’re stuck with a cat fight over who gets to be First Lady.

Have you ever noticed how much trouble the GOP has in finding a truly bad photograph of Joe Biden to use against him in its mailings to dutiful U.S. taxpayers? Or for that matter, most any national Democratic candidate? And closer to home, that went double for my friend Liz Jones, who ran successfully for School Board and also took a stab at the state Legislature, being defeated by a Republican who had been in office since the time of the New Deal, I swear, but at least they have another former model, Melania.
And that brings us back to The Big Guy, as I’m sure he would like to be known. Unless this is really a matter of photo-shopping and selectivity, Trump just can’t seem to look good in a photo. In a TV promo for Monday night’s debate, Trump looks like one of my funny uncles in face and forehead, as well as girth and of course, hair. But Biden makes the cut as being OK. Be your own celebrity judge on a Stream Live on The Roku Channel, in the Shining Light of Election 2020, with the zeros kind of obliterated. And not on the twos that are left untouched? LikeTwins? The Twins? Like the Bushes twins. And would that play well in the Twin Cities, based on the Biden blitz on KQRS. Why that station?
So beat the Bushes during this campaign, in two different ways, part like hitting the booths to support like father like son? And Biden even looks more like the late elder Bush than an average Joe.
So I quote: “Coverage starts: 8PM ET | 5PM PT. Debate: 9PM ET | 6PM PT. Watch free. Election 2020 Schedule.”
One last thing? Is photo shop even a thing anymore?”

This might as well be considered a two-minute Pack Attack warning, even though as my wife always points out when her Vikings falter, that can take a lot in Real Time. So when the quarter turns, just check out the fridge, cupboard and even freezer …

How to get comfort food and of course the accompanying drink, and still keep your wallet comfortable. Here are some ways where having such at your party is not as financially burdensome as say, concert tickets, unless just maybe they’re old warhorses that are NOT touring in support of their latest release.
Better yet, to lead-off, yes it’s a baseball reference teamed with the football being played by the Packers minutes from now, and gives you a chance in a good way to raid the refrigerator, these two EBT-based offerings I’ll reference are next to freebies, as the alcohol end believe it or not is legit as far as paying by food stamps, even for the alcohol value.
— So you can have a rimless margarita, but take care to cut it off at a very small shot glass full, or half-full if you’re an optimist, unlike most drunks that are even among the most giddy. Marsala wine or also cooking wine are covered by EBT for free because they have a legitimate chef-like purpose (OK inflated metaphor), and the alcohol value if that’s what you’re after is primo. But a big proviso, dilute the following big time because it is so salty, and thus is telling the dangers of the salty sea with nothing actually to drink via both the Old School metal song and ancient poem, Rime of the Ancient Mariner. And this could be a glass half-empty, to follow my lead. Pour into a small glass a quarter of the wine, still potent but not like I would take advantage of that, and mix in the majority to near filling with water and Coke, then add a bit of rum (all to taste). Its You Better You Better You Bet, and there can even be the accompanying salted nut roll drink in a glass, as touted by a recent edition of a St. Croix Valley magazine. Note: If your guests have refined tastes, in other words are picky, definitely sample this yourself first before freely giving. Saving a bunch of dough isn’t worth an unhappy houseguest, take it from having my in-laws over. Maybe during a timeout for a commercial? An appraisal? Quality control? Maybe even keep it for yourself?
— And then this Bananarama for pennies, maybe what you see on the ground walking inside with mask — hopefully not obstructing your downward view — to pay for your gas (lets face it we all do this) to see coins on ground that can be scarfed up. The key to the mix is a scant bit of liquor that mixes in real fruit, and you can enhance that with a real banana, to go with the banana cream pie “lick,” my buddy’s favorite word of description. Then top it off with cream from dairy, after all this is Wisconsin, even though not East Enders. So how is this even more a near freebie? You can add vanilla extract, which has almost as much alcohol as the liquor itself, and stretches your budget as well as your taste buds (?!?), and in this way, like the above recipe, is free via ETB so mix it in for added flavor. And Kwik Trip, around most any corner, can trump this in two ways. There are bags of several pounds of, really, day-old bananas and not later, and they are only a mere dollar! They cut their losses and you get enough bananas for a chimp to live on for days or more. And if a chump, you can also buy them by the pound for a mere 39 cents, or less when on sale, if your party is small. (For other comfort food purposes, to supplement, that same price exists for potatoes and onions, everyday). But back to the evening of what is already in your fridge, as far as the food end, likely get on the street tacos theme that’s being embraced by virtually all of the late night clubs, cut such tostada-type-things into quarters and pour on all those Mexican faves, meat, cheese, salsa and hot sauce (just what is the difference?), peppers and other vegies, (sour cream and/or guacamole), even spritz of orange, that are sitting in there by the gallon behind the milk. You have a bunch there already, but just in case you need specific examples, I’ll follow up soon with all the crazy ideas you would expect from this site. Think of an offbeat form of garlic that really enhances, I was told, my make-shift garlic bread. Think dark.
— Then there are more crackers and slash other finger food. Bananas coins again, s’mores style with with heavy cream and other dessert style toppings such as syrup(s) and honey and even even peanut butter, all on top of graham crackers, and maybe include some cream cheese. Sprinklings to taste. And also cucumber flats on saltines, (some might like trimmed vegetable edges as well as peel the bananas, of course), on top of any kind of cheese, or more than one, and virtually all colors of spicy mustard or the like.
Seattle Grunge versus down home Wisconsin? At Starbucks, or possibly in your cupboard already, there is Caffe Verona, which may indeed be too sweet roast to be grungy, as in sweet with dark cocoa, and that may fuel your party with something more tasty than usual coffee, approaching the form of that killer dessert — come on, as a hostess, that you really want that to top things off. The brew started in Seattle decades ago, before grunge, then spread to the namesake variety out west, which also is the name of a town near Madison. (see below). The form of key ingredients at one point took the take of an 80/20 “blend” as that is the coffee industry term ordained down in Columbia, I think. It could also be referenced as having the beef that’s well seasoned for your nachos, (and sorry Wendy’s, because you have the ratio better), and thusly could be likened to 3.2 beer Over There. Yes, it calls itself very dark roasted as coffees go, but I have always been one to not fear the darkness, to a point, So Isn’t It All Dark? You get the Pink Floyd reference from Dark Side of the Moon.
That town near Madison From Above, is what you could do on your notorious Wisconsin Death Trip via the song, as it is based from where Ed Gein took people apart, and you don’t even have to go Milwaukee and Dahmer. (No, I am not suggesting cannibalism. That’s up to a select few heavy metal bands I will review later on, not as bad of bands as they might seem). So when you go to Verona, stop off where the Wisconsin River diverges westward, and is not too far north of V, and we’re not talking about the old TV series. That’s where much of the mint from the US is grown, as Wisconsin is indeed more than just dairy. Where do you think you get your ginseng? How to use this in recipes? So like money, this is still Being Minted, so tune in later. I do, although you might not see this, have a word limit; but wait, that was in newspaper days when the price of news-printable paper skyrocketed for decades, more then the federal debt. And you thought it was the Internet that keeps papers from being viable?

These boots were made for walking, past the main downtown party area, or especially as well for hoofing and negotiating late-night rehab work on the evening before, as is fitting, Labor Day weekend. (This is one of give or take a dozen stores that have changed hands in the last year in the immediate area, as a new tenant is giving it a go and trying to rehab the building with a fresh start, but more on that later). I first saw this kinda Midnight Rider of mop washing front windows, on my way over to Dick’s, before leaving on a vacation in the true spirit of (Anti?) Labor Day? He was then to be well seen, with future store lights fully blazing unlike those low range LEDs Hudson has installed to serve “street light people” badly. And away he went, scrubbing up the back area by a doorway on my way back from Walnut Street, as I am reporting now after being on holiday in the Bahamas, yeah believe that one? Maybe the mopper, in the true spirit of Mott the Hoople, is one of those musicians who is having trouble getting gigs these days … so whistle while you work? Unless that attracts groupies, because we’re told we’re not supposed to have such groupings these days, especially since a three-day-time-off has now proven via the virus to be the newest culprit To End Our Search For A New Summer Of Love. Or is it in the air, that the summer is out of reach? Empty beach? Empty Street?
And then there was later in the week, when the upside down, plastic party table with legs propped straight up like a hunted deer, had actually been put in place for use after being hauled onto the driveway, from its resting spot on the edge of the lawn, or would that be sand from their recent project?
(That beach is not, though, out of reach for Captain Crunch even come fall snacking now that football has resurrects, and I know this ‘cuz it says it on the box, and you know all advertising is the truth?!? Word has it that he is holed up now, upon retirement, with Jimmy Buffett and showing him even more munchies. But HudsonWiNightlife will give you even cheaper and more nutritious advice sooon in yet another such round-up, so stay tuned).
But also a member of The Labor Party, on a different front, but still such handiwork to be seen, is the extensive sidewalk reconditioning (euphanism) being done in front of the little pink houses largely, as opposed to the big business buildings, on the west side of Second Street. To start, there is the five-foot-long small sand and not sidewalk demarcation in the form of sawhorses front and back, on the far north end of the work zone, that were actually setting partway in the midst where concrete should be. At two places further down, there was an actual pit the size of a trio of motorcycles where the sawhorses were in a level place but not fully to the curb, connected by police line tape, BUT NOTHING THAT COULD PREPARE YOU WELL FOR A FIRM DROP, such as drop-C guitar. To be fair there has been some piling of sand in them by workers since then. But maybe this is a hope for hoidy toidy Hudson, the two unabated parking spaces in front of Nor-Lake has signage that read only 15 minute parking, at least at some peak times. OK, that won’t be time enough for last call on the recent three-day weekend …
But to the south, at Art Doyle’s Spokes and Pedals, there was hope for the people who don’t make enough money to drive BMWs, they would be closed all through the three days, with a kudo for Saturdays off with pay for their workers. But that doesn’t help the whole newly burgeoning and moving in bicycle crowd they could be serving, but not until Tuesday. In another form of transportation that could be viewed as emergency, and at least for some in the crowd that laments the lack of public transportation in Hudson, as I guess we don’t have enough college students living and working here and attending at UW-RF, there were more astute climes in St. Paul. I saw them (over by Alary’s?) where their were pay-per-ride scooters, much taller than wide, but some of these were toppled over onto the sidewalk beneath. Is there a point to be made that maybe their sidewalk needs concrete attention? Or maybe as visual as musical, that you’ve had too many and are in need of focus, that could be offered by a performance by Concrete Blond. That’s Old School for all those New School trekkers between RF and Hudson.
But being Labor Day, back to the bastion of ways that it was thought your business might be non-essential, so defined back in March in a quick fell swoop, then later adjusted:
<<So taking it to the Capitol if not the streets>>
And what, in what now seems long ago, regarding those stores that were left in limbo by the reversal of the governor’s decree to cease and desist most possibly dangerous commerce, if not essential? It was soon redacted and not a death threat to these adapting businesses:
— What about places like the YMCA in Hudson, which did not say they were forced to cease operations, but were for the most part voluntarily electing to devote their resources to more pressing concerns than bench pressing. That was early on, around the time the complete stay at home edict was announced. But is a fitness club that, importantly, rides largely on religious and spiritual themes, truly an essential service, as there initially was allowance for such rejuvenation? The signs on the door announced this temporary new direction, but day care and preschool continued to be a go. There was in front of the front door, two long tables with care bags ready to be taken. Each consisted of about five staple food items that were by no means brand names, but hey, these days food is food.
— On the other hand, RJ’s Meats is always a veritable bounty of awards, but that does not stop the virus with messing with larger places not too unlike it in Minnesota. Food processing plants there had at one point become havens for the virus as it moved out-state. Not to suggest in any way that the Hudson shop has any lapse in its obviously outstanding food quality, bolstered by frequency of newer items way beyond venison such as swiss and mushroom brat, but there can be a question posed: When does a butcher shop, for purposes of what businesses were being very carefully weighed for essential services or not, become large enough with their success and thus volume whereby they can be likened to a small processing plant? And in fairness to RJ’s, are grocery stores that serve a vast variety of foods that included a meat shop and deli, (with seating?), be viewed as different from a shop like RJ’s that also has basic groceries in a small scale, but sells much more their staple quality meats? And how do convenience stores, even smaller in scope in all such ways, fit into the picture? With some in the public being very fickle about their food, RJ’s may have an answer, as shown on its big sign, that being a buildup of all sorts of their meats that may not be easy to come by. (And of course being a stanch Catholic at the local church, RJ’s is not open on Sundays, again as their sign makes known). On such a note, as I discussed way back at the start of virus closings, with a Wal-Mart manager as a comparison drawn with Target, when does a “grocery store” become simply a store that “sells groceries?”
— And when it comes to back rooms, some of the initially ordered-to-close “hookah shops,” as not an essential service, might have had an ace in the hole because the order was about sales of legal products to be consumed off-site. A place I know, as being a longtime store in western Wisconsin, was able to have lights on that first night for an hour or two, but said they soon made it sure that the few seats they had at the back of their one large room was not open for any lingering. That was perhaps bucking what could be a trend, of Minnesota businesses knuckling under, but Wisconsin stores looking for loopholes.
— Academies optimistically stated they are celebrating their young athletes promise and pluck by taking it to the virtual realm, continuing to forge forward to teach them using a very active form of online dancing. So they love teaching and supporting their dancers, as for now, home-grown via the magic of a computer. To wit: “Proud to be dancing at home together.” And as a sign seen around and about supports, anyone over age three is welcome at one academy or another …
— Lastly, in another hard to understand initial prohibition, disc golf was a no-no. I doubt that it sat well with a local couple who have won international tournaments on that subject, back in the days they were “playing.” Maybe have to have only wide open par fives? And in a similar up-in-the-air-higher-than-a-golf-ball initial bias as far as stay at home, were noses thumbed at traditional golf courses and as mentioned earlier that you could “nanny” and do day care, but not be an average ank-and-file babysitter. So saved is Mrs. Doubtfire. Campgrounds and fishing and hunting were treated better, in place for their main seasons. And as far as high school sports that force you to be more than six feet away, what about sprinting vs. distance running if someone can break away from the pack, and singles vs. doubles in tennis?

<<There are many kinds of labor. Of these, on Saturday, there will be a car show for charity at The Village Inn lot in North Hudson, their first excursion into this kind of  event, which has occurred at long length in the grassy area directly across the street. Coincidentally, at the historic Octagon House a mere two miles to the south, there is running concurrently a vintage style yard sale. Are they, in this day of conserving money and raising money at all costs, even though this is a fashionable cause for donations, taking the route of a high-end pawn shop? Anyway, both events wrap up at 4 p.m., so it’s unlikely you could do the Halloween costume thing of going place to place in a way that’s staggered by the times of judging contests. Unless you’re willing to hit the road running and try to beat the masses, with high speed needed. And a far as Halloween and my upcoming coverage, you haven’t seen anything yet, as in comparison to past years of haunt.>>

(Sorry if the leprechaun got into my line spacing tool, as he is such a tool and just will not quit messing with me and my computer, although in fairness, I mess with him as well — but the Irish League To Establish No More Reason To Diss Us is on his small back).

As I’ve written, there comes a day when its halfway back to when St. Patrick’s Day occurred and halfway forward to when it comes around again. This continuation of a celebration dubbed the Half-St. Patrick’s Day has been recognized each year at
Paddy Ryan’s Irish Pub until this March when the virus marched in, sending forth a range of actions that resulted in the holiday not being given its usual name six-months in, but the same great by all accounts food and drink can still be obtained as
such if you, again, can keep your Irish down enough to wait until Monday. No such restriction at Dick’s Bar and Grill, which historically has offered a monthly special on certain Irish drinks on the Seventeenth, and hey the Irish have waited so long, just
like certain recent Notre Dame sports teams, so what is a day or two beyond the three-day-weekend they have concocted with their ire since … March and they still have had long to wait, until now. While the prices on the Dick’s special, which always
seemed to fall on a Tuesday, are not specifically seen this year, the chance to savor those drinks still is, meaning there just might be leprechauns on both ends of town, and I swear I saw a real one ambling up Locust Street, and defined by his bright
green attire and stature. And there were some boots to bantie about with going the other direction, their darker shade making for the look of a banshee, and big-extended toe shoes for those with a bit of a fetish. Add to it cleavage and leggy maximizers,
since skin now has been in during this shortened season, as well as the cool thingees (is that an Irish word?) that is stuffed into their possibly colored and curled hair, and topped off by the pixie-like rubber band some used to straighten locks on either
side of the upper head.
Which maybe why we, on the north end, still have an Irish greeting sign of a string of three shamrocks, (most have a full four pedals, not three, in what has been an aberation worth noting while guzzling a Guinness). And further north at the new Kwik
Trip, there were not only sprinkles and spurts of tiny foil that could serve as part of a St. Patrick’s Day present, but those beastie-fueled-jokes that continued well into summer were about the legendary little men and what could be thought of as a green
mafia.Why did I always forget my rewards card? Well my, it was that hostile leprechaun who pried it out of my hands while at the pump, trickling in earth friendly gasoline. But there was hope, I said to a burst of laugher, as the Leprechaun Oversight
Committee on Monetary Affairs put the little man on extended probation. But on appeal, he blamed it on other little green men and was left go, meaning he’d continue to peal away the edges of my card until it looked like that two-pound sauerkraut
special at County Market and could pass it off as such to make that purchase. And licensure? He found that anything over $3.99 and/or 32 ounce size would require notarization from the man at the end of the Pot Of Gold, ‘cuz how do you think he
accumulated all that, and thusly had just enough moxie to be a grand marshal of sorts at an area parade. Oh, I met him across the bar at the Shamrock Club in New Richmond on the night right before the Day the parades were struck down like a
subpeona for a president, and even their equivalent in England. What is and what should never be, the man was optomistic but guarded, even with stories of yore, saying to check with the morning bartender. That ended up being too late.

<<The parade cancelizations, blow by blow>>

Come the Friday before the Irish At All Costs Day, I was still in contact with the publisher at the Irish Gazette out of the Twin Cities, as axing parades was at hand, possibly. Western Wisconsin club owners were taking their lead from the places WAY
across the river, but then that ax fell and it was not pretty. On the morning of the parade demise, quite early, the hammer dropped. Right before that, I was talking to another applicable bar owner/manager/pourer while of all things waiting for my wife to
be treated at Regions at the ER for the Anti-Irish-Observance Illness — OK that’s not why she was in — and the guy was grumpy and a bit frazzled, and said to call him back in 20 minutes, as he wanted the phone open for possible bad news. Meanwhile,
Nurse Ratched was in toe all the while, saying to take that and any other calls that day in the lobby. Of course I was obstructed in my walk to get there by some other nurses of the same cloth, so I ended up in the smallest waiting room I had ever seen
several doors away from my wife, waiting for the clock to tick tock to that position, and actually saying to the one woman who managed to squeeze in late in that wait, good luck with your emergency, Irish related or not. Needed to walk a bit here and
frow, but then the call went through for the second time. Within the half-hour, parades that were scheduled in New Richmond and River Falls were scuttled, and once the noon hour passed, with it went the last gasp for a last parade in our extension of
The Cities, the man in Roberts said while trying to make a last call, to consult with others in what forms a triangle in St. Croix County. Maybe it was said, the bagpipe players and their ilk would still be roaming the sidewalks in New Richmond, but it was
unclear if it fell through too. There was the Irish band at the Shamrock club that was stifled after a few flurries of notes, and would have been the last music act to go forward that day. The only trace was in ads, shown conspicuously in green, where
everything from soda (Sprite and Dew), home and lawn improvement (damn good grass everywhere for early season), and every imagineable way to insert (lame?) lime colors in the background, even if limes were the special being hawked. And among
the obligatory posting of cloverleafs, there were even farm implements such as — you guessed it — John Deere being discounted at a jolly good price. One more thing that made it into publication, as the schedule for the printing industry cannot be
betwixted for more than a bite of corned beef cabbage, were some ads in the local shopper, think a quarter page, advertising the parades that never were as if they were still going on. .
And the costumed singing witch/leprachaun named Conant — not the first time such accused — did indeed make her way into the free clinic in River Falls despite virus blackouts, and was allowed to perform a one-and-out with no encore of her Irish
ditties — despite that for virtually everyone else there was a lockdown and lockout. But oh, I dallied, as there was one more couple inside that got a front row seat by default, as unfortunately they were (both?) in the process of seeing a doctor for
alleged symptoms or likely would not have been let in.

<<The three wordwise ditties that were supposed to go in the Irish Gazette, but the virus pre-empted them with Stop The Presses>>

The whole New Richmond population explosion, making it one of the fastest growing places in the country because of the new Stillwater bridge, has put on the stamp the expansion of St. Patrick’s Day options here, cancellations from virus rather than
no virus. Now, in addition to what has been one of the biggest noonish holiday parades of this type in Wisconsin, and indeed is billed as among biggest and best anywhere and that befits the Irish and others who can be a bit over the top when their
enthusiasm is engaged, there is a backup and newer bridge-driven lead role via the much bigger than before party at the Wild Badger Bar, with multiple choices that include bands all weekend, (more on that entertainment option elsewhere on these
pages). Also on that Main Street parade route, there are new nightclubs that have opened up, not to mention the existing Irish pubs that have long been the driving force for the St. Patrick’s Day party done in many forms. No Big Box stores have arrived
here though, yet, so to get their mega-cut specials on things like corned beef you’ll have to wait until next year or possibly a bit later, as the arrival of the virus has slowed things that even include such development whether big or small.
HudsonWiNightlife has developed too, as you can surely see, so be jolly (wrong holiday?) and do an Irish jig because you can get the scoop on where to find all these type of food options and exactly what they are and the cheap prices that you can
find right now without having to wait at all, as this is one of those times HudsonWiNightlife is virtually in real time so since this is not typical of our magazine-type format and its necessity to find that killer second day angle so savor like you would that
mostly once-a-year shepherds pie, (note that for once I did not invoke CBC), whether eating in or out, also on these pages so be the consumate and clever consumer in what you consume and check out my community calendar before you shop or dine,
and elsewhere on its many holiday posts find more such sometimes seemingly endless strings of “clever,” as I just used that word, capitalization-or-no/alliteration comedy .
In River Falls, which also has what’s typically huge parade and myriad other St. Patrick’s Day options such as the partially comedic bed races down the main drag, rushing away from the virus and back to the hospital where donated beds are from, as
the holiday is even bigger there than the others that have festivals all during the year, which are numerous locally and like this one not only during the summer, and in what is becoming trend the River Falls Area Chamber of Commerce has pulled out its
longtime sponsorship and substantial funding. It cited the fact that for multiple straight years it has occurred toward the middle of the week over any of its three middle days and the need especially these days to maximize economic benefit to all
businesses, not just bars and restaurants, as people flood in from the Twin Cities, so with this and so many other party-ish festivals you don’t have to (typo before proof-reading as I meant too) be clever like the typo gag to know tourism has become a
lucrative big business in RF even though to many it is as big a best-kept secret as just where that medallion is. This leaves it to just to just those bars, which responded by adding a pub crawl, led by a new sponsor, Shooter’s Bar, a block off the main
drag where the Irish floats go. Right on Main Street is Johnnie’s Bar, which again brings in a Saturday night country band and also adding actual Irish music in a type of act you don’t always see booked elsewhere, although billing itself as the only true
Irish tavern in the area (Paddy Ryan’s is a bit less than a half-hour to the north, just east of Hudson, and are just the right distance away that they might differ). But back to Shooters, the owner by that name is a wee bit gruff in a charming way, and
would make a good Irishman. As pointed out quickly by a bartender at Broz on the other end of the downtown, things really get going earlier, with some Sunday parties that are smaller in scale than things such as the parade, two days before St. Patrick’s
Day.
In Hammond a wee bit down the way in St. Croix County, Schuggy”s, which has two bands every weekend trek in from the Twin Cities, (as even they note is the best kept secret here in this berg with only four bars and this is Wisconsin, mind you), has
by far the biggest live music attendance in western Wisconsin, even though they are a very small town, (they love to point it out that fan base in their photos). They’re at it again in this way in mid-March, but with nothing on St. Patrick’s Day itself
except in-house poker. Not that unusual, but to do it up big on Saturday and Sunday nights with partiers on all sides of the large circular bar rail, far from the stage, and not at all Tuesday, is noteworthy. (I guess the good Irish, typically, can’t wait). The
band is a two-fer, making for two long trips in two days for them but they think it’s worth the now-low gas cost, as longtime local favorite rockers FogPilot takes the stage both nights, as they are there often and are virtually the house band for the bar. It
should be noted that the owner, Trent Schug, who opened up this club a couple of years ago in addition to his nearby and also spacious bar and grill, The Barnboard — good name for a Wisconsin-style, small-town pub — but really closer in to The
Cities as opposed to Hammond, and with his name and its Northern Irish connections, although also of significant historic German significance, he’s close to being all-out-Erin-ethnicity.

They might not be rock ‘n’ rollers, but they were the rock solid type of people who served as The Rock for their families and all those who loved them. Those people always came first over themselves for a pair of northeners, as in long-time stalwarts in North Hudson, who typically put aside their own needs to the point of running ragged with tiredness while selflessly being of service — on the job or in all other facets of their lives.
The Kozy Korner big sign said it best, or maybe worst, about these people who were larger than live for those who depended on them: JoEllen Rest in Peace. “Rest” is not a way you would look at those two dynamic duos, even as especially in one case, they kept pushing themselves into their bigtime numbers of upper years. And then aside from Kozy, which closed for a day for one of the first times you will see because of a passing, there was that sign on Agave Kitchen’s marquee — Never Forget. Such sentiments are not just for the military and those THEY serve.
Without further ado, we are talking about JoEllen Steele, who remained in the work force until I saw her at KwikTrip, doing her thing, just a couple of days before her recent death, and Dorothy Cardarelli, who made it to 88 and still was more concerned about my wellbeing, and making sure I had an overflow amount to eat, than her own.
And not long before I sat down to finish this writing, there was a third obviously loved soul with those binding, (in a good way), North Hudson ties, who passed on, named Mike Smith. I can’t say I knew him, but I’m sure I would recognize his face.
But the two women in that trio I knew well, in maybe a more intimate friendship way then most others. I met JoEllen when she was in her several-year stint with Mudd’s and Sudd’s as the (only) day bartender, and yes for that very workhorse of a server it was almost every day. We both had our life-defining stories and shared with each other freely, as I had been dismissed from a job I for the most part loved, and the people too despite it being the local and now failing Right Wing Republican Rag, let’s call it was it is, as 16 years of busting my ass at all odd hours was rewarded with an (absolutely no fanfare even though that was typical and somewhat variable depending on your politics) dismissal by downsizing with about ten others when their ilk killed the national economy. Every free moment felt unusual, as I strived to rebuild my business that included regular publication with the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram and Milwaukee Journal and then its after-merger follower in the land of mega-corps like Forum Publications out of the Dakotas (don’t matter South versus North, same shit) as it then became the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel. So no fire in the morning hours somewhere around town, I had again spare time as I forged my post Forum emergency work plan — pre-virus day version — and JoEllen was a mainstay who kept me on the straight and narrow with that. I’d appear at some point in the afternoon if the powers that be were too busy golfing to get back to me until the next day, and we’d share how both of our day’s were going, as it would be 5 p.m. somewhere, but it really didn’t matter as editors weren’t quite yet putting in those insane work hours that would be the case soon — as in arrive late and leave early — but that’s not in the Newspaper Grunt Worker mode. So for now, the NoDoz Infused Days were just not there, but JoEllen and her attentiveness were along with some great movies on TV of sentimental value, for a good 45 minutes or more, and before Call Waiting rose matters to the top …
So is this sour grapes? Maybe, but the truth reins true. And that is the point here. JoEllen’s death is underscored as a tremendous loss by words such as these, that do not do it justice, but showed her compassion and siding for sentiment, if not a lack of tolerence for all the usual BS — unless it came from a joke by me that would make us both laugh. And she would listen and listen. Her responses were short and might not even involve her own need of that particular day. Then there is Joe, who has a gift or it could be called otherwise, and has been, of running off at the mouth.
But then other Jo, that being JoEllen, would have her lowkey way of dealing with trials, of which she had plenty, and it hardly was long enough for even a J School lead to one of the many stories I would tell. I will thus describe her quips as this: Sly, wry and dry. But the main manner for JoEllen’s notoriety — everyone in the village quickly knew of her demise — was a caregiving spirit for her family and especially her children and grandchildren, without ever caring that it be returned in kind. Yes, she might have taken it, but what drove her is that everyone got what they needed, and a bit extra. As through what was seen at her newer job at Kwik Trip, in a couple of instances even wearing a chicken hat that covered most of her features while hawking legs and wings as the pandemic made sales a suddenly far more vital thing, as viewed by management and JoEllen dutifully stepped up to the plate, although maybe somewhat embarrassed but never to the point of being squeamish. And she probably would in short form worthy of one of my copy editors take me to task about what I said about the occasionally quasi-dirtbag management at the Star-Observer. Not that it was not true or not prudent, but maybe a tad bit unkind. That was not JoEllen, as she and her charitable efforts even benefitting her family and as simple as a ride to a school activity, were driven by her faith in God and how it was practiced as a Catholic parishioner, whenever there was a need for her to have strength. And for full disclosure, although well past a time when most would have retired, JoEllen was known for keeping a great figure, although pointing out she was still beautiful did make her embarrassed.
That strength drawn from God goes double for Dorothy, who I first met in an effort to do a massive cleanup of a fall, leafful series of acres at her resort that she still was managing at Trego. Dorothy again, didn’t really like the idea that she could no longer do the full task herself, but had the business sense to accept help, paid for by the fact there was a cool summer night stay involved at the perfectly spaced cabins and the great grub kept flowing to myself and a handful of others. And on this and a few other occasions, we all made our way to the local Catholic church a few blocks south of the Namekagen River resort when possible shortly before heading back to Hudson, where Dorothy continued to live. The cleanup was written up in the Catholic Herald and I also published quite widely a story about how myself and a Catholic youngster had our canoe dumped even before the first set of rapids after Dorothy carted us a few miles further into Wisconsin, on what wasn’t exactly a death trip, but had a degree of peril. Message: Respect how God shows himself in a desert if not wilderness experience and give homage to his Word and creation by our own example, in a way that is proclaimed in a 13-minute-plus song by my favorite metal group Iron Maiden in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I myself have chosen to provide this example by ripping through the song in a band I sing with, and although this is not Dorothy’s inherent Italian and polka cup of tea, she would listen to comparisons I would make and find subtle smile value in them. Same for JoEllen.
On the other end of things, Dorothy would typically trek to St. Patrick’s in Hudson for a weekly produce distribution, then take it upon herself to leave a couple of bags that same Tuesday morning with each house around the old neighborhood. Ever-cheerful, she seemed to thrive on the bits of conversation at each place. But at least for me, that is not where it ended. Even when Dorothy started having to live in an apartment for elderly residents, she alway was someone I could count on to borrow a few bucks from if I needed to travel to, say, the other end of the county and cover a big story, and didn’t quite have the gas funds. And I’d throw her way some dessert when I had it; her favorite was bagels of virtually any type, although she kind of drew the line, meekly, if they were too onion covered. She knew she would get it back, with a couple of extra bucks for her trouble, but that did not concern her, and if even a five-spot, she would surrend it without too much thought of what her own need might be just then. The song and dance that typically evolved was along the lines of gee, are you sure you can spare that, and here friend, just take it. I was a Packer fan, and she a Viking, but that didn’t matter as much as even the passing comment that qualified as humor and made her laugh for just a moment, again just like JoEllen, but the latter made sure she would groan a bit, too, while smiling. These were All The Small Things that I hoped, as did others, that could replace to some degree Dorothy’s loss of her husband Vincent, literally decades ago, but no one could replace her one true love.
And then the last time I tried to see Dorothy and did not succeed, was the day a big part of the planet might as well have died. Called a couple of times to the nursing home, and upon answering Dorothy said that something had come up, basically along the lines of watching a movie in the gathering area with a few others, and she would not be able to meet with me at all, much less come to the front door. I did come there with bagels in hand and a bit of fear in my heart. Dorothy had for the first time been seen, by me, as somewhat depressed earlier in the week, due I presumed because she was not living on her own or with family that always was front and center, her gorgeous grandchildren and gorgeous pet animals. Few more calls, Dorothy not picking up. You know the rest of the story. The virus had changed the rules of interaction and NO ONE could step foot inside the facility that had for a bit been her home. And Dorothy knew too, but couldn’t bring herself to tell me that last might-as-well be fatal time.
Dorothy died and I never was able to say goodbye.