(To preview two more of this blog’s stories, check out the back pages of the current issue of the Hudson Star-Observer.)

So many deaths, in so little time, like a rock song that’s just a bit over two minutes. “Breaking the law,” coming in at 2:12, almost seems appropriate. (Are some just rugged or full-fledged rouges?)
A most recent one hit home locally, at Ziggy’s Hudson. The singer, Tim Sigler, a longtime country man front and center, and cowpoke poking hard on the guitar, also sang and strummed with poignancy and power, then gave a shoutout at the song’s end to the recently deceased Toby Keith, as he’d penned it in a like-minded way. Sorry to say, can Keith Richards, also on guitar, be far behind?!?

— With a few more newer people coming to many family holiday gatherings, I was a bit more eager about their (possibly changing up) warerobe choices — as in a kind of reversal? — than being stuck in a corner and thus trapped by an odd uncle with bad dad jokes, and OK that could be me. What I didn’t expect … Matron vs. possibly grand-matron vs. the brood, now young adults.
In my mind’s eye, I have long pictured a bright new Easter dress with great big colored polka-dots, worn by one of my model friends. But my niece, the night before, was noting the possible coming rain and weighing whether to be especially stylish, or more warm and safe and dry.
Not long before being on my way there, I saw medium-length from any nearby club, a mom and teenage daughter wearing all black, up and down, both in their dresses and clunky heals. Can you do that right before Easter? Would some fashion freaks take you to task for that ensemble, (or praise it)? I am left with this little fact, or opinion, that its truly hard to pull this off. Like white after Labor Day, like all this should matter, although one of the colors makes you super sweat if prompted by heat.
But then what was seen at Christmas and Easter: Some, and not always predictably, were dressed as traditionally fit for the upcoming Mother’s Day, others more bold in say the height of hem, as per New Year’s Eve.
That’s what was noted about others even at church, high rising at sunrise service, along with shoes that were stable and a staple, but still stunning. Simply put, skin was often put on display from just above the ankle — at times and also shown as brown mini-boots — to mid-thigh. Many more skinny and strappy shoes also were seen. And sometimes comfort and being demure and traditonal was in vogue, and the slipper-like shoes still fluffy and long pants thick, with the end result becoming degrees of, being noticeable, or blending in. Do you choose a buckle, or big bow (most of the time), or small or none at all? And how many layers of your clothing will you select? Most of them I spied, if there’s a trend here, showed long, unbroken stretches of similar one-toned fabric, which could be an earth tone, not always colorful or even pastel, like colored eggs are.
I just noticed that I have not said a thing about a blouse style. And I saw few hats, virtually no veils and no gloves.
But in summary, with people I was around, many wore what wasn’t what you’d think. At times the typically two this way and two that was flipped, how far was individually, from their normally featured, brave vs. more bland. —

The tabloids are raking on the alleged soon-to-be-demise of Bruce Willis. Again, not to rake, but a friend who used to pour coffee at a California shop he frequented in his Die Hard days, said that unlike most, he was a hey, look-at-me snob when not natilly attired. (If you visit that caffeine dispenser, maybe better site Serge instead, more of a friend.) Also we as such reference the long-ailing Phil Collins, who was in earlier and healthier days, known to have been, non-invited apparently, the jump-in drummer in an old Stairway To Heaven combo live-lineup, maybe for a last-Bruce-Willis-movie soundtrack? A driver friend says he is not up in the air about it, but has as the only rockin’ out song he can tolerate and indeed love, In The Air Tonight. Collins has said live he didn’t like to be pigeonholed by that tune — which always resonated with me when the big and booming bass drums finally came in — but don’t tell your limo purveyor that.
Then we go back to the turn of the year, and the death of one of the Smothers Bros. The mainstay behind the drug store counter, who has a somewhat retired brother himself, who is another Bruce by name, has had his own spin: Hey he’s not here anymore, but do I want to “smother” him? Hmm. Central is that one brother, more than the other, is as irreverant as you can get with his humor. I was going to ask him about the alleged evil act, with said brother, the last time I was in the drugstore — for my favorite soda, cherry red, with Mr. Jimmy, and wait that was across the river — but hey, I was told the Hudson Bruce was in the store yesterday. And will be tomorrow also, so rose from the dead?
On such themes, a new friend issues frequent citations for his killer band Amigo the Devil, with song after song of lyrics that are thusly as deliciously irreverant, on touchy topics, though a group small in number with its songwriters. God may not get you for (listening to) that, but Satan will. And speed your death (theme of this post) and take you to hell, their ultimate stage. And with an area concert acoming, we’ll both be there. Bluegrass-type stuff with extreme edge.
When I interviewed a very bright high school student up for honors, she also made a favorable reference, to the irreverent but acclaimed band the Dead Kennedys. But as a writer, censor yourself on that one, she requested. The elders might not get the rub.
George from Seinfeld is not dead, as one of my fave bartenders Chad noted when seeing my wallet burgeoning with old receipts, much more than money. Want to buy beer in a 30 pack? It looks like you have enough receipts for that many single sales?
Also, back to real death, O.J. has ran out of juice. Right after my mom saw a classic bumper sticker about him and his follow, chiming in with words that number two dozen. That’s more than half of those seen in that crazily slow Bronco chase at slow speed. A friend from Trinidad said that her World Cup soccer that was pre-empted would be far more interesting. But for quality entertainment, see his humorous bits in the Naked Gun movies. But, was he merely a foil for Leslie Nielsen or a feature in himself.
But to an earlier death I missed, (was it because of a deep fake?), deep as the waters that still house the Edmond Fitzgerald, a song that was a wreck that I’d long loved for its rich tones and touching but quaint folkish lyrics. This tale of many a dead seaman, laid to rest when Lightfoot died about a year ago, was especially popular with me because this disaster occurred basically in my backyard, the rough lakes above the Upper Peninsula, which was not firm enough as a land appendage to save. I used to sing along to the car radio, in a big old beater with astro-turf for seats, both front and back, but not in the shower, as this is like folk and not loud enough to be heard over running water. Lightfoot was a native Canadian, which maybe explained why he was nominated, merely, for five Grammies, but actually won 17 Juno awards, those given in the next country up. What, something other than heavy metal gets snubbed? This could be the story of Jethro Tull, falling in reverse. But sorry to end this tome on tunes, not afoot on a Lighter note.

As it turned out in our end of the planet, and over such the moon is just the sun at night, the solar eclipse during midday here was eclipsed by something else in the sky — and the evening’s bands also may have been thus eclipsed — with it coming and going and more one level than the other: Cloud cover(s). Nothing to sing about.
It was even more thick, than a brick, than usual, with a few rather brief interludes in-between where the sun started poking its rays through and then withdrew, and even then it was gray beyond partly cloudy and only shown in small and late-seen horizontal layers. The sun was not as one, only in spots, and is it a coincidence that pollen counts were through-the-roof high. But wait, that was a couple of days later, but maybe the “seeds” of the sun’s love were being sown, as soon as it reappeared.

— Spring tornados make a need for sirens, but to further the point, eclipses? Both could be seen as a warning …
There to keep us at bay, were today not one but two such sirens (they were loud but not the sultry kind) slated to go off, mere hours apart. What is this the day of the WWII air raids? At least, for now, there were not big bombers obscuring the view of the sun and moon and stars.
And take note, the day all this was blowing in the wind was an 11th. And as a weather-caster said, how loud the siren is depends on how far your home is from said siren. OK, I think we could have figured that out. But if you are too far away, you won’t hear it if you are inside. So just how much use are they? Or just stay outside most of the time. Grill not sit at the table with your family, as there’s the added benefit that you won’t be that close to them.
Say, within earshot? —

This type of eclipse only comes every few decades. So can’t the weather gods cut us some slack and take their clouds elsewhere for a day? In this April of spring, one that has likely seen more rain than any other annum in that time period.
Anyway, coverage of the sun, as we saw it here, was supposed to start at noon and go to either 3 or 4 p.m. That depended on who you wanted to talk to, as they began sucking it up if only slowly, and gathering in a local apartment building that serves elderly and disabled, just before the lunch hour.
They were said to have 75 percent sun coverage on my west end of Wisconsin, fading away further with each passing mile, and view at a full 100 percent via the really coolest cable. But some people said with exclamation point, do you really wanna watch it on a screen, rather then a sky?
So there were a few residents, co-mingling close together, asking each other their questions rather than googling them, about when and would even the crescent disappear. One was especially persistent, in part because I didn’t hear her right, (I just got back from Miracle Ear and I am borderline), and thought she was saying “fun” not “sun.” But she, and others, did swear that they thought it did get a bit shadowy for a few minutes.
Some conversations, too, were as shadowy as living in a cave: You finally heard of it when? I told you on the phone, when you were bored and called around brunch-time, Happy Solar Eclipse! And you didn’t think there was more to my comment then earlier, discussing multiple times with you, those damned sun spots. What, you didn’t know? I joked that there’s been so much attention given to the event by media, social and traditional, that the sun couldn’t field any more requests for interviews, didn’t handle the stress and took a vacation and/or mental health day.
Turns out that the old, way back song was right, “drove to Nova Scotia for a total eclipse of the sun.” I hope that most of those throngs in that area had sunshine, just before the eclipse started, and not cloudy or stormy weather.

The life of Christ, and all in it from birth to death/tomb/resurrection and everything in-between, is a pinnacle event with its prevalent impact in our human history, whether you are Christian or other religion or spirituality, or not religious at all, and hey even atheists have a spiritual component to their beliefs. But it is not the end-all of human history. There were important times before.
I don’t want to rain on your parade just after Easter if you’re a Christian, like me, but most of you in essence take into belief that all of history started only about 2,000 years ago. Again, so much before then.

— Have a bar? Need a table on which to dance? Not centuries old, but classic. A question involving a bar table, mid-range in price that was for sale, not like a curb-couch — but I did see a green one, just the other day — is in the Where Did You See It department. —

This was blasted home in my mind by a piece of what most would consider junk mail. Taking me back to 3,000 years before the time of Christ. Across the continents to China, specified as being before communism. Their bastardization of it.
The group of artists across mixed disciplines and heavy on flowery classical dancing, Shen Yun, is not allowed to perform in their native China — from which they escaped oppression, as the communist party there banned such performance of rich culture and heritage and history, and an even overused word in spirituality, from its thousands of years of existance — a prohibition now many decades old. But the Chinese totalitarian regime has still tried to eradicate, frequently, the theater company by threatening and intimidating theaters, pressuring local governments and spreading massive misinformation in traditional media and online.
Some things never change, especially for spiritual warriors, even those who do it peacefully. And why would we be afraid of that? Ever heard of the marketplace of ideas …

— As even as far as Islam, its greatest prophet had one of his most enlightening experiences in where … Jerusalem. So we basically all have heard the call and the yearning for expressing such spiritualness. But only some are allowed to make the pilgrimage. —

But Shen Yun and what they represent are said to be supurb. Makes fights talked about in overseas flights over TicTok seem less vital. Even Michael Jackson could be held in awe of that one dancer featured in the flyer, flowing along with feathers and flared cloth and at times, at the same time, having her knee stretched upward so it is alongside her ear. Even needs to make war, by generals, not often prized in art, are described via the piece as featuring “explosive athleticism.”
There have also been Babylon and many other ancient cities, even in the Americas, to appreciate. Egyptian pyramids rank up with Mayans.
I will soon digress to a couple of conversations with an atheist friend, starting a couple of months ago, between Christmas and Easter.
My own spirituality is a mixed bag, with virtually every philosophy I have encountered being incorporated into what I call my mongrel theology, that starts with Christ.
Even The Beatles of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, famous for their study with foreign gurus, have invoked Christian stances in some ways. Its Instant Karma. The Beatles still bear with them a great bearing on modern thought.
Lennon, not Lenin, was astute enough to realize, and lament, the situation where they’d become more popular than Christ. And McCarthy helped come up with a song about his mother: Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Anyone who can be said to say that, when spending time at the foot of her son’s cross, makes me listen.
The atheist man, with our joint love of quality karaoke, heard me sing something I’ve referenced many times, the tune Two Minutes to Midnight, about the still very real possibility of nuclear war and its effects on children as being the worst, citing comparisons made way back in the Bible. Is that about the Passover, he asked immediately, the original one?
Not bad religious knowledge for an atheist. Even after dozens of times hearing the song, I had not fully made that connection. So I thought I’d run this past him, as far as his take on the meaning, Twist Of Cain. As in Abel’s Biblical brother, and an alleged break in the succession line and the unavailability of any men to sustain it. So guess who stepped in, it is argued, to save the day?
The other night I got a chance to ask him about this song, after forging through it. He said that, in the midst of his game of pool, he’d try to give as much of a listen as possible to the lyrics. Shortly after that, he went on to plan his shots carefully and nearly run the table. Afterward I quizzed him …
He’d heard much, but not all. So I gave a synopsis. Then he reminded me, “you know I’m an atheist.” I replied that this background is why I, again, approached him, for a comment.
It then came, and for me lived up to the billing: “The Bible is an interesting piece of history.”
It was time to sink that 8 ball. I didn’t get to ask him what relevence he thought this had to the nature of humans, as a former Black Sabbath frontman sang, evil or divine. Or both.
Something that frames much of this are the music reactions to Sympathy For The Devil by The Rolling Stones, and its cover versions by many artists, which delves into Satan’s hanging-around role in literally earthshaking historical events. I recently stumbled onto several interesting interpretations. A concensus is that people are typically to blame, so don’t use the devil as a scacegoat. The chief among these would have to be this set of lines, “I was around when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain. Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed his fate.” After all, if Christ had survived the cross and had, hypothetically, furthered his mission and become a political king and taken down the Roman Empire, the world would have been torn apart as by maybe no other historical event. The varied even if only slightly vocal stylings given to this all-important passage, as compared the others in the song, would seem to speak volumes about its perceived weightiness. Much more on that in another post. But Mick Jagger can be seen in a prominent video getting on his hands and knees to strip off in a sultry way his shirt to show, what seems to be a tattoo of, of all people, Christ. And not the stereotypical cross you always see, but his head adorned with a crown of thorns … of the type Pilate placed on him.

How is today’s warlike oppression different? Modern technology has given dictators so much more where-with-all to conduct their “conflicts.”
And even in Islam, Mohammad came well before Christ, so listen up, when thinking about the war between Israel and Hamas. If its who got there first …
We, or at least the vast majority of us, are all-in after the same thing.
There is more to the ongoing wars as far as religion features, felt jointly. Concerning Islam, its greatest prophet had one of his most enlightening experiences in where … Jerusalem. So we basically all have heard the call. But only some are allowed to make the pilgrimage.
What if we/they, as the whole world is intertwining these days, did this, at least metamorphically: Build a wall — yes a wall but read below — at that beloved and fought over mosque/temple in Jerusalem, so you can each have your own worship style and experience, and specifics and requirements. But also build a door that can be opened, by all, for further enlightenment and understanding, and make the door a big one, and the wall by comparison rather small. Can you all see through this hopefully wide door, you’all?

With the recent passage of a “public safety” referendum in our St. Croix County, with just over 54 percent voting “yes,” I was pleased to see that among the nine new positions created there were two “mental health co-respondents.”
That’s a good start. As is, to a maybe lesser degree as you will see, having two corrections deputies. And a recently elected district attorney who ran, in part, on a platform of keeping the mental health of all county citizens, and those whom they come into contact with, in mind.
Ours is a growing county with a newer and diverse, (and often rowdy or worse), influx of people, especially late-night, from surrounding areas, to deal with. But we also have other concerns with personnel position issues.

— Forteen precincts, so little time. As the polls would close in just minutes as 8 p.m. neared on April 2, and already tables were being torn down and chairs hauled off at this town site, to prep in advance of a quick-paced count of hundreds and hundreds of paper ballots.
There were more than two dozen voting booths, open at the back but facing a wall and having big wooden slats on the sides for voter privacy, about two booths for every precinct along all of the main side wall in this, the still growing township of Hudson, and more than a dozen other compartments set in a row ahead of them, of similar size, the first to be dismantled starting at 10 minutes prior to the hour.
About a dozen election officials were glancing quickly — some a bit faster than others — at the one-sheet paper ballots, with the race of the most concern being president, setting them in one of two stacks adjacent to each other.
A bin of very scant use was labeled as bad ballots, and one other that was not used and ushered away, was termed “dog licenses.” Most of the tallying was done in a bit over a halfhour.
I had been signed in, and ID verified, as an election observer and given chair No. 4, even though I was the only one who showed up in this capacity, and that hint at apathy is a little appalling. My employer for the night, the Associated Press, had me going to this second site in the county first, because of the gravity of the election. The main site weighed in at 56 precincts.
From my scant observance, it seemed likely the a ballot or two could on rare occasian be mis-filed, before the ultimate cavassing, but I highly doubt these would be anywhere near as high in number as Trump is often alleging. —

But back to the main piece, and first the backstory: A few years back, when suffering through time with a violent and abusive and mentally ill and deadbeat renter who was an in-law, and the various fallout that went with that experience, (such things are always a two-way street, although in this one the lanes were quite clearly defined), I got to see briefly these inner workings at the jail. I could say much more, but for now will stay on-topic.
(And there were some positive moments or more than just moments, from the occasional compassionate or helpful or even fun deputy, to that judge who took some extra time out of a busy court calendar to talk to a group of observing students, for again, more than a moment or two. But that should be expected, not extraordinary.)
The most glaring need I saw was for a 24/7 nurse. As it is, or was, if you are ushered into the jail on a Friday night, despite their repeated protestations to the contrary, you will almost certainly be without any of your medication, even if prescribed, until Monday morning, and in practice that might mean closer to noon.
The nurse has to approve all dispensing of medication, when she comes in after the weekend, or weekday evening. What do they do with someone who has a serious need for insulin, for example? If nothing else, the prospect of liability concerns should scare the lawyer out of you. And people have died in the care of the county jail.
I myself was repeatedly denied meds for my Tourette Syndrome, which can have very serious consequences.
Jail staff may have concluded that my massive symptoms, which were plainly shown, were from some other illegal factor and not a lack of prescriptions, but they are not doctors and aren’t qualified to make this call.
As it was, a mental health nurse, even if the medical matter is not mentally oriented, often brought in to make assessments of alleged offender wellbeing, actually said to me: Tourette’s, that’s just a bunch of muscle jerks and bad words, right.
Many first year medical students know its much broader then that. She did not and would not be corrected. I told her there are five steps that will now play out with me, with the last being cardiac arrest. As it was, I was rushed to the hospital, but only upon my release from custody, and the ER doctor made the diagnosis of “significant cardiac incident of unknown origin.” But I know. And knew.
During my time there, I saw many people with tics, some severe. I saw two people who were relatively new arrivals quickly from stress develop severe coprolalia, the involuntary utterance of obscenities that effects an estimated 40 percent of Touretter’s — and you could imagine how well that played with deputies. In a bizarre twist, I shouted instructions over a loudspeaker from my cell to deputies on how to give the effected people meds. One deputy even thanked me for my service. The national Tourette Syndrome Association says, regretably, that many of its tens of thousands of members end up in squabbles with often ill-informed officers.
Obvious, if just for liability concerns, the jail also could use a this time, part-time consultant on neurological issues and also its sometimes flagrant violations — I have more I could tell — of (quite minor) sexual harrasment and (major) the Americans With Disalities Act. What, you can’t hold onto a phone because you are ticking so badly and can’t maintain “control” of it. No one phone call for you. What a liberal judge would do with such cases!
And frankly, from what I saw at the jail, deputies weren’t that terribly busy. (So they could just use a bit of added training, or cross-training. More on that in a future post.)
But it doesn’t stop there. Nor do I. Ever see at the parking lot of the local cop shop, a bunch of those many new squad cars just … sitting there. Always, you can see at least one, usually more, while at least at some times as an explanation, the officers are inside with other duties. Obviously, scheduling the use of those cars to keep them all in actual service more frequently would be a VERY big, though apparently needed job. A part-time scheduling person might even save taxpayer money. (It should be said that now with new deputies, at least for that department, there may be more feet on the floor to patrol with them.) And one driver who acts as a partial observer points out that there is a need to have some of these squads sitting in the lot as a backup, if only at times when other units are being serviced for repairs. So need newer news that aren’t in the shop much?
And we’ve all seen those squads who just didn’t seem that busy, even when there is a big county to cover. Case in point, one seen driving through Second Street in Hudson, then diverting slowly east for a block, then go around in little rush the whole block, and minutes later back north again on the main drag. Who knows, maybe needed to be on the phone about … something? There will be such things in law enforcement.
I will back off from an earlier position I have taken, where I’ve advocated that agencies stick to their juristictions and not “roam.” This could be especially true with the State Patrol, and maybe they should stick to Interstate 94, known to be a large drug corridor, not drift through a few close-by neighborhoods and than back to the freeway. In particular, I in an earlier year saw one drive past a few people leaving the then-Pudge’s Bar and walking slowly across the street to their car. The squad drove a couple of blocks down and then back again, and questioned the bunch, without incident. And again, going out of its way to follow, turn by turn through town, a car with hippie-like decals on its sides. I don’t know, maybe that was reason enough to suspect something.
Anyway, with so many greater patrolling needs, maybe its now time for such agencies to help each other out as needed, not make sure they stick to a spot. But if there is such mutual aid, should it be officially run past oversight groups like the Hudson City Council?
And to the officer who I saw come to a full stop on Second Street, then say to a small group of young men, apparently going to their car in the middle of a big block, “don’t you jaywalk in our town …” Buddy, even though there has been some even violent behavior to combat, do you really have to be that confrontational? Don’t be like their neighboring Minneapolis. Not exactly spreading good will.
So then, a reason to write columns like this.

Where’s the beef? It is here. My sister-in-law went far beyond the usual ham for a meaty holiday dinner.
But no ham? Or even turkey? But one then two then three meals, so wait … As its now been 40 days. But this would not be vegan.
Over the course of The Most Recent Major Holiday Gathering, and it is not Valentine’s or St. Patrick’s Day, there was every kind of fish or other fowl, filleted, big-bodied or small, or cow- or pig-based meat you could imagine, from all parts of the animal(s), and I think even hind-quarters and butt-steak are great. Ham was in hock. You just had to wait patiently, like a child putting their hyperness on hold while waiting for presents, which just might need to include Adderal, a 90-day supply from the pharmacist so to last until an early Easter, barely, depending on how you weigh New Year’s, with possibly more sugar-based candy. Like was abundant on all fronts, even by the TV stand, not standing alone.

(But what does stand alone, sorta but related as you will see, for food as we speak and you may need some added tips after or if you went to a Seder meal, these days appropriate, is Easter does a take with lefse and hummus, and brings in Tex-Mex. See the Picks Of The Week department.)

— The last storm, possibly, in its second part, of the seasonal slideoff of bar traffic left Minnesconsinites stranded — at home. On Sunday night, the north end in particular was a no-show, as Mallory’s said on its door, “closed due to the #@*&%$#& weather,” and the newly falling from favor Moose had its doors shut before 11:30 p.m. It was almost as much of a ghost town to the south, but at least Hudson Tap had one person playing pinball, two people at the bar-rail, three playing darts and a gang of four came in around midnight.
At Dick’s there about that many total people in attendance, but at least a few cars on the side-street, and before 1 a.m. a kinder-gentler mosh pit broke out via a new arrival to the dire darts diving area. The previous night, at the height of the snowstorm, only Dick’s and The Tap were open for business, their bartenders said. —

Back on the main topic, at least one beef and/or pork dish was even topped with bacon, so another pig offered its life, using a name brand — in what was an accompaniment and not just in The Eve church services, as she freely offered meat topping and the like over other meat — so cutting full strips and not just bits, and not just on the side. Double your pleasure. Meat that was manly, along the lines of prime rib, or at least prime pork, was included beneath it that I’m sure was braised, or you could also say marinated. But herring showed, her signature, if not salmon. Garnishes too, and maybe a few slices/nuggets of fruit and not just apples and oranges on it? And there were at least three types of it, “plain,” offered with each meal maybe with carmel topping, if again apples, as the holidays wore on.
(A black buddy of mine was just getting off his retail store shift, working for The Man until 5 p.m. He was calling home to the missus, when I approached his counter, saying that he was just yearning for her trademark scalloped potatoes with her trademark thick-cut bacon added, (he motioned with his fingers). But she was at church, doing the choir rehearsal thing for the upcoming Easter and its full religious season. So it would have to be Wendy’s and whatever mash-up of such type of grub they had. He seemed OK with it. But the upshot of this tangent? My sister-in-law offered all of the above, if I remember right, but woulda been minus Wendy’s and there beef, at her main meal of many, over the last (full) holiday of 2023.)
So on Christmas Eve, the first day, served up was the first dish from a four-legged animal, probably locally raised in our state known for such in its farming, and including beef. It was again, not the usual holiday grub. More creative in its ingredients. And thank God no lefse (that’s for another post) or lutefisk. I think we went tenderloin over sirloin.
But there was also a “snack” later that night, and it went beyond Christmas cookies and related candy, gotta love chocolate covered cherries, although there was that too. More meat, although the individual chunks were closer to bite-size. (See below as such a possibility.) I recall that some of it was even served on a stick. Sauced small party weenies? Coulda been half a hot dog.
And on Christmas Day, when back again for a third trip, and not needing a buffet line, there was more killer calories protein. This completed, so to speak, the whole enchilada. But not too spicy, or with the roast beast too rare, for the oldsters. And now, at last, ham even showed up, aplenty! I’d been wondering if that would, eventually, come along, from the get-go. All that was vetoed was veal.
From the start of the two-day-or-more celebration, everything you could possibly expect was there, except maybe there was veggie offering in absense, so not to pay total homage to that one of the many main food groups. For some reason I was fully assuming I would see green beans and silver almond slivers, or can of corn, Old School farm term with varied meanings. But there was a reason, as the 25th wound down, to keep the same number uniform …
More meat. And room for it on the dining room table, or countertop that was the abyss between the main eating or cooking areas. And that staple can of corn, and other veggies, reigned king.
And now a meatball joke, and not from the movie. My brother in high school got really sick after a holiday-time night of … you know. But he blamed it on consuming way too many of mom’s heavy-on-sauce-and-brown-sugar-cinammon BBQ meatballs. We still don’t know if mom ever figured it out, or maybe just played it coy — for years. Buy now I guess I’m outing him.

What is in a name? And what follows may be like this exercise, a bit longer than more four-letter words, but maybe just as “foul” …
I “went” on a “walk” through a lot of cars in park last year, when I saw the (pink as per an employee and her decked out car) sign on an auto bumper sticker, Cast Your Ballot For Vivek, now outed by vote.
I didn’t know who he was at the time, or Nikki Haley, a fire-brand as in the comet, to pick a more prominent one, but I immediately thought that hey, we’ve had other five-letter names as schmuck for our president. I’ll take some of the recent ones in reverse order, Biden, Trump, Obama and Bushs, (I made up that last one, to fit the theme, in part because there were two of them, so twice.) Double your digit folly. And Nixon beforehand. Vivek’s second name is too “wordy.”

— With this last blizzard, that didn’t really show, go figure — and more play with numbers follows — we were supposed to have 13 inches, I was told, and we got about half a foot, so six or seven inches if you’re counting, give or take a half-inch. More flurries could follow, we’ll have to see, to save meteorologicalician’s ass. Mom in Milwaukee said the same, first decreeing like Pontius Pilate as one season ends and another begins, that there would be much more, then really dwindling it off. Few people said five (inches), like the above.
It has been a winter of guys at times sporting flip-flops and arm-less T-shirts as temps hit fifties, yielding on a few days to parkas and we have needed windbreakers, partying women who got used to the warm climes and lack of glaze and forgot how to walk fast in heels, fewer cases of big boots with killer clunky ankle areas, parties of Minnesotans who still could not find their cars or clubs or party buses, and despite having lack of such to occupy their minds didn’t know which state they were in, but still coming up with quips on being in a quandary about lost locations and lack of snow … here it’s just the state of things. And before the supposed killer storm, by all accounts, I saw a mom in boots and a younger teen daughter (trying to extend her youth?) wearing bunny slippers.
Signs were still found above bathroom stalls and such about icy yard plowing and snow removal and spring muck cleaning before spring came — a bad winter for such business until, maybe in short form, now. Another basically bad, was after St. Patrick’s Day a bunch of vomit was on a doorstep and into the sidewalk downtown, looking the same pink color as the new and I guess cheaper way to combat ice with salt on streets, that got cleaned up in stages, like a snow plow crew going at it more then multiple days, like this snowstorm was to be. First was sand-piled on top a measure that covered the much of it, then shoveling came about and took most of the rest, leaving a space next to the rise of the first step, but then snow covered every last lingering bit that was there. The cleaners must have followed the forecast(s). —

Clinton was by most any name an exception, a red-letter day, although you might name him Billy, and have Trump go by Donny, or you could call him Barak, but then but for a one-digit departure, we have had Reagan and Carter, (Jimmy), and even two by the way of George. Ah more of the convenience of typos, and I could say Ronnie (Ronny?) before Reagan. I will milk more typos later. But God, we might need five different main parties, not just ass of “horse” and “phant.” And independent would make it six.
God, invoke his name again for the point of politics and you could use the term Jesus or Allah, or Christ or Yahweh, or even Buddah or getting close Ghandi, but as more of an exception to the theme — Kennedy is close — you have to go back as far as Eisenhower or Roosevelt. Red-letter Satan and/or the Devil though, is not on the ballot, losing out to The Lord in the squared-rings of the primaries. “Hades” is his one precinct. And what about, again going red, Lenin or Stalin. Even I as Joseph Winter could fit the letter of the bill, to be on the ballot as a write-in, as these days who wins the race for president is subjective, even when by vote and its chads, to get the number exact. The Buena Vista building — which found pols giving out leaflets, or just say hanging them on doorknobs on Saturday morning — could become my White House, four uses of five-letter words, as I write my campaign flyer.
And since this is the Badger State I write from, we also have to tab Gov. Evers too. But his first name as Tony cannot by misconstrued to fit with fives.
To bring in local elections, going north, we have Kerry again this non-national time around as a first name, last name Ries. And Kruze, noteworthy as not Cruz. And if we make Kate into Katie, as in Garza, more fits, exactly, the lettered bill. And for local “board” of more than one type, there is Maria Rudie, again double your fun if you are a politics/language junkie sort, Gavin and David and Bobby (not Bobbie) and Randy and Molly …
And for New Richmond mayor, Horne, with a first name of Fred or Freddy, and I suppose I could spell it Fredy.
A sign posted next to his said for sale or to-be-bred cows, as in “polled” Herefords, so get those sheep out to vote to the polls. Like David Mustaine sang, “go ask the sheep about their beliefs.” And don’t let a muzzle be put upon you. Although if you are of this belief, you could indeed “censor” me.
Going back to flips of fours and sixes — all five letters — a last sign said as its start Sora, to get out the Spanish-speaking vote, (hire more interpreters), which I think would resonate with my niece Hannah. She worked at a club or pub for a summer job, twice, and like in many cases, the cook was Hispanic, and had a crush or shine on her. Orders yet again needed to be called out in Spanish, I assume, and have witnessed in other bar and grill venues, and even Burger King. Since she spoke Spanish, she was The Queen, especially for the drama of complicated orders, like all those people who will die it they get any MSG or gluten, or peanuts, or XYZ.
Just don’t fill out the order ticket of a guest, in English.

There was little after-party, as it was early on St. Patrick’s Day that revelers in downtown Hudson got bombed, literally. Come noon you had to hump it to New Richmond or River Falls, or nowhere in the western part of St. Croix County — or run with your tail between your legs, sorta, to St. Paul. But even by mid-day, as the big parade was yesterday’s news, you could tell in role-reversal that about every third car parked on the main street had Minnesota plates, if any at all, at least in front. In a stroll after midnight, a lone squad was about the only car in sight, rushing to chase down someone and going fast enough for two drivers. Behind not far, a car made a questionable U-turn, then sliced toward a side-street to find an open bar. Note all the bad bombed-out car gags. Holy Wars and the punishment due to drivers from out-of-state making poor choices.

— With the coming of spring, a string of spaced red shoe-shaped strips (but not ruby slippers) could have signaled foot traffic as they spread throughout the sidewalks of the business district, up and down most of the blocks, around corners and meandering closer to shops and then nearer to the street, block after block after block — as our Minnesconsin (who has a greater claim to this non-fame?) transportation repair season, the second of two, begins anew. These were guides for construction crews to find stuff below the pavement, a few also written in yellow actual numbers or letters. But the stripe spaces were like those made by a Genesis-type or sci-fi giant, judging by the distance between the left and right. The average length between them, measured on foot, was three or four strides.
First sign, leading to others, on the frequent wind of this spring, as it begins to unwind.
The most applicable sign of an effected business, it must be made of cardboard, like one of those that wouldn’t stand the test of time — when you punch a hole beneath a pair of those hanging hooks with the end of your scissors — first the right end fell down off the top pole, and then dangled, then the left, then both dropped. So the sign was laid out by the swirling wind on a small patch of lawn, then pulled completely away, and put away.
The written chalk outline, its that season again for children to play outside and draw since there’s not snow, outside another shop looked like, and bore the etching markings of, a bad cartoon character on a beer bottle, from either the craft brewery across the street or Oliphant or its ilk, from neighboring Somerset.
The signs in, and of, spring are blowing in the wind. —

So as the Irish approached, check out the gig where it’s always the after-party venue of choice in the downtown, going right to their later-than-on-most-weekdays (Sunday included now that Jeff Loven only plays there in summer) last call — Dick’s Bar and Grill. It’s more the bar portion at this time of night, and is the last pit-stop before calling it an evening in a several-block area, and a spot where local bartenders give it their all, minutes after a long-last shutdown of their own establishments until nextday. Traffic has always tended to move northward in town to catch that last drink at last call.
On this night it looks like you will not see much if any after-bar outtings, but here is what I saw at Dick’s for the grand finale, such as it was. (As this being just an hour into the essentially fourth day running of St. Pat’s, and as late Sunday yielded to Monday’s early morning, there was more about fitting-this-all-in to be told, especially by all of those few regular revelers who were pushing the limit Sunday night, and the brave who can go that long.)
But at Dick’s come 1 a.m. there were only four people, all bar workers, half still on the job and the other half lingering frontside after being cut from duty, and surviving. Dick’s had a few Irish ditties being played on the jukebox and/or music TV stations, if you consider the likes of Oasis to be Irish.
It had been that way since before midnight, and not much better in most of the earlier hours, they said. But in the a.m. there were a lot more people, who forsook the usual Bloody Mary’s and got loaded with Irish Car Bombs and corned beef hash.
But not long before THEIR last call, one of them loaded the jukebox one last time. Would there be more Irish music? He seemed quite ambivalent, but then a bit receptive. Meanwhile, the others conversed about their varied ratios of Irish blood, with one saying he was unsure and another that there existed a name back in his lineage that after exiting Ireland was green to the core. Kilt-like clothing was congured. I countered that I am 100 percent German. Ouch! (I a bit later saw a guy I knew, and asked him if his Packer jacket was meant to be GREEN and Gold, not shamrock green, but again uncertainty. He then claimed Irishness based on his last name, but first said he is largely German. Another one? For what reason was he unsure.)
You don’t really want to go home, but no reason to stay here. But as I exited a couple came in who looked Hispanic. And out on the side-street, there were more cars parked, all in a row, then the sprinkling I’d seen earlier, and two guys from Minnesota, I’m assuming, crossed said street. One had a skip in his step, and the other sported funny ear things on springs, meant to be Irish-looking not earrings, as they were higher placed on the pate. At least they were green. A fifth man came running by, and they all had Dick’s in their sights.
And that was that …
So I guess New Richmond was the place to be. My source, checking out his first parade there, said that the weather was cold enough to chase more than just snakes away, but was still fairly well attended. “It was cute,” he said, adding the parade was mostly for the wee little ones, who gathered candy thrown like it was Easter, but also had all the same usual trappings of things flow past you. After 20 minutes, he and crew were off to Mallard’s for a drink or two. They noted the difference in the two places, although both lie in St. Croix County, if near its edges.
So despite its last call patronage in just one spot, there was likely no after-bar in Hudson. But an after-parade in New Richmond.