This was the model of local Cinco de Mayo days past. A Modelo a full weekend late. One for a ‘lone ranger’ next to me with a plan and quite a few bucks on that Sunday night. So 30 minutes less of a window then the past two. (And going back, how far depends on Badger vs. Gopher, we must factor in the fishing opener).

Here follows yet another requisite, relentlessly rambling, retro-ish Cinco de Mayo, and then Rodgers redo.

Wholly holstered as an NFL Aaron in TD mode QB metaphor.
What, none of the Modelo that a (non-native Wisconsin?) man ordered? No problemo?
Only Corona to give. Not Coors. Could he get? That’s a different field.
There was, per signage still shown at Dick’s Bar come later on that Sunday night, its max of a weekly Mex entree. Minus Tex? Riding next to me? But only on Thursday.
Cinco was on a Friday. So if you got there in time for the cook on Thursday eve … There was still 2.5 hours after midnight — hey this is a weekend you dummy so you got until 2:30 — not two minutes before. But by that time, all you could get was a frozen pizza, and that’s only if its unusually slow as it has been at times, as the kitchen has closed for the night.
But did he not speak the language, as it seemed and was said by the server, in true Yoda speak?
This solitary Mexican man had sipped, walked around back to the darts area, sipped then walked around again, then quitely quietly left. But the two bills tip was cool.
This branched off into a discussion of the AI, used for both letters and language, that the server said will kill off all writing such as this. (More of that breakdown in a later post).
So yet another one bites the dust, this time at our end of the state. Thus again, all here and there really look like Rodgers, with his deftly trimmed and tinted and Aaron’s-not-going Amish, State Farm and not-a-long-string beard. Who kinda, to back up here, looks like Jesus. Or Queen? Various members.
An all-in appeal?
Pitino was, it turns out. As another in a string, he’d accepted a college coaching gig at St. John’s University, introduced by a good father with a collar and telling the padre he was all-in with what the institution offered. I guess that will include every Sunday Mass.
But to a bit more recent draft and its asterisks. Such as the one alluding to “secondary compensation.” And the next time referenced, stretched out to a full seven words of description. Seventh inning stretch? For a futbal-to-celebrate-Cinco owner who it was read “would be out for a few weeks.” Do we even have to give that bit of info for the team’s owner too? Even if its of the St. Paul United Team that’s ranked as the 41st-highest-valued soccer squad in the world?
And to care for and nurture such fields? They are bigger in soccer. Even if its the money of US Bank and its proprietary field with their tallies … $48 million over the next year and $280 million over the next decade, Strib-stated. Too many concerts tearing up the grass? Or not enough to raise the dough for more grass seed and more? Need reunion tours?
Or even enough to just buy fluffy muffs for everyone’s ears, before their buds are aflower? That’s what was worn at Hudson Tap when there still was somewhat of cold, by a couple of women shooting pool, along with fingerless gloves. And more to the point, showing lots of bare midriff.
Fickle flaunted fluff?
But now such looks are everywhere. As at NFL in NY training camp gunslinger sightings, on the groupie-ish green-grass sidelines? Therefore, reference another almost omnipresent sports guru, productive traveling talker Scott Van Pelt as he may again hit the pop-up stadiums in virtually every state.
Then we spin off to other recent styles, still with weather permitting, but curiously only after Winter started ebbing. Set the stage with the Agave sign on May Day: Last chance for April specials.
The women at the mid-town corner qualified. They trended by wearing comfie boots that were sturdy and stout and also flashy, and one praised the other’s newfound functionality while she stepped over the street-curb on Main.
That was south of the Mason Jar shop, where it was mentioned, one woman to another, “there is no beer anymore.” Was there ever that kind of frothy stuff put into their jars?
Alas, to take this piece full-circle, but before Cinco, a salsa queen as her red sash proclaimed, sashayed this way in the very early afternoon. With killer also-brown boots-flats, but these had what looked like dozens of laces dripping down. Boot to the head for the functional.

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