ALL hALLOWS alert: For more on what to do in this last full weekend before Halloween, starting with THURSDAY, and One Drop at the Refillery, see the lead post shown in the latest dispatches heaDING below. —– Strolling the streets of not Soho in the sunshine, bothering beauties at streetlights, a-chipping heads off rattlesnakes and lighting up eels orbs in the direction of their land holes … All in a hot day’s, cool night’s work — could be Kid Rock — with mild-sauce, hot-pink-dress dreaming, and circling toward Mars and an art night with that drumming Replacement.

To all you true blue followers, hope you enjoy the following run-on expanse as humorous and very warped and a little redneck. It is all true, except for the dream part, which was dreamt. Welcome to Halloween early!

Drank a couple of energy drinks, no Monster, and pulled an all-nighter typing somewhat late-dropped-into-my-lap advertorials and carried on my sleeplessness into the next morning and afternoon, all the while walking around the downtown and delivering draft copies and even picked up another assignment, one that could go boo in the night, say what is so. Was at the light by Agave and for some reason there was my bartender friend Sara in a different setting standing behind me, looking stunningly Asian (is that racist?) in her black hair and shades and blue jeans and boots and I didn’t even recognize her right away, then shared pleasantries while crossing the sidewalk and she said she was going two blocks further to the “pink” place or house or set of apartments presumably for a job interview with one of the three officially proclaimed wildest spots in our town, and I told her to have fun and we agreed it’s a given, and then on my way back home I dropped by the Hudson art gallery to say hello to my gallery-manager-ladyfriend but they were closed and she was not in, damn the luck, and I made one more stop at the drug store to pick up a prescription, they have the good stuff behind the counter if you say the right safe word(s), as in doctor authorized, and then took one of those Xanax (actually only a half) and crashed at 5 p.m. for a long time running like a train.

The dreams followed, oh you long-lost followers.

Up again at midnight, gathered in some 5 alarm chili (with four bell peppers and some hot ones too, both the big and tiny, plump and curved and wrinkled-up kinds) then crashed until the next morn, during which time I had a dream about playing a few holes, not 18, of golf in my transformed childhood playground of a backyard going along the back way or nine, chipping rattlesnakes like any Diamond Lake course toward inches from the holes and also for some reason lighting two worms shaped like eels on fire by their heads (ouch!), ending and lingering with the long last hole, not 18th, all along the west side/wing of the ranch house that started amongst a whole collection of various sizes of shrubby, scrubby bushes approaching tree-height, and ended by a couple last ones.

Maybe this entered in because of the tale that was told to me of my (hair in a bun) niece having at her newly bought old house the Halloween before, a holiday party where my long tall nephew showed up dressed as a hot dog. Not a brat like the Brew Crew in the World Series through like the rest of the month. With a whole lotta mustard? Golden. Not brown. Relish optional. Onions ain’t.

So I did now want to give a plug to Brook Fleetwood and her wildest house (even trim and siding) ever and its wildest parties ever (locally), and it says so twice more on its (road) sign along with other ornate language and a variety of pink of course decore and railings and such, since by the way, the holiday of Halloween is coming sooner than the veil between here and there is thinning. And also a show at The Phipps Center For The Arts near my apartment, in gallery two and gallery three with an overlook of the gallery and of the riverview gallery, like an arena overhang, by Chris Mars, who also had a career well across the Mississippi River with the rock band The Replacements, a retrospective in oil painting, pencil, pastel, scratchboard, acrylic and film and maybe even skins. Some look a little like a retrospective of life such as it is touring with your group on the road, if it consists of say seven or eight ghostly-looking members, and a ghoulish possible groupie, in an Evening with Chris Mars, a screening of his award-winning short films followed by a Q and A with the artist is Saturday, Oct. 24 from 7-8:30 p.m. Mars was The Replacements drummer, percussionist and co-founder, and played on all seven of the band’s studio albums during their run, from their 1981 debut Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash (grunge?) through All Shook Down (more rock) in 1990. He left the band that year due to growing tensions and frustration with frontman Paul Westerberg’s increasing control over the band’s creative direction. He pursued a solo music career and transitioned into a full-time, acclaimed career as a visual artist and painter.

The Hudson art gallery manager turned me on to the Mars show at the alternative gallery. And I blame the rest on the energy drinks and their caffeine that so addled my dreams, not the chili with one too many peppers and the, prescription mind you, Xanax.

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