Ones and Zeros

I was raised to 'get along by going along,' though my younger siblings have excellent reasons, and the history to support them, to be dubious of that claim. 

It's more than how we pronounce tomato or potato; it's fundamental and integral with how some nearly eight billion of us here on the Ant Farm with cellphones and briefcases can co-exist with one another. 

Right up until we don't and someone claims the tomato is a deep state banana.  

I have a long-ago (almost fifty years) former colleague (I would have told you we got along very well, and if you've met me, you know how close to sainthood he most likely is) whose politics and mine are, for the most part, on two very different paths. 

At some point in our shared past on Facebook, I wound up in a group chat (I suspect) he created. He shares a variety of tidbits each of us encounters along the Internet, ranging from old Red Skelton clips, through Dean Martin Roast outtakes, to classic and nearly forgotten singers and songs, all of which I enjoy and appreciate.

Other stuff, not so much. It's not as in do you say 'partly cloudy,' or 'partly sunny?' Not when the other person says 'snowstorm' and it's ninety degrees. That's where my whole smile and nod coping mechanism, 'let's agree to disagree,' falls apart, and I'm faced with either staying silent or being perceived as unpleasant. 

The latter, contrary to common belief, is NOT my default, though I will concede the former is out of character. So when this was shared: 

Nope, and not even close.

The posting has a tangled and somewhat tortured pedigree. It came from the Kayleigh McEnany Fan Club Facebook Page (and the comments/reactions convinced me I would do well to steer clear of all involved, so I shall.).

Kayleigh, you might recall, was the veracity-impaired last Press Secretary of the FIRST Donald Trump presidency. Based on her FB postings, old habits are hard to break. But wait, there's more! 

What Kayleigh did (I'm guessing) was repost Representative Mike Collins' posting of an item from the Washington Free Beacon, which in terms of bias and reliability makes Der Stürmer look like The New York Times. 

I'm still trying to imagine how Gawd could hate the people of Georgia so much as to make Mike AND Marjorie Trailerpark Greed two of their congressional representatives. I think a rain of frogs would suffice (and their legs taste like chicken!).

We're not talking shades of grey here or a nuanced truth. Factually, the posting is garbage, but it's already been swept out into the ocean/cesspool that is our social media lives. You can only have a disagreement and/or, by extension, an agreement when you have a shared reference and reality, so in this case, the point is moot. 

I grew up/old in a nation where opinions were shaped by facts rather than facts shaped by opinions, and where truth is situational rather than a constant.
-bill kenny. 

Channeling Fulton J. Sheen

As a child, I hated Ash Wednesday, most especially all the mummery of it. The burning of the palm from Palm Sunday creates the ashes the priest places on your forehead in the sign of the cross with his thumb and forefinger, 'remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shall return.'
Thanks, Father. You have a nice day now, too.

As I grew into an adult (got older; maturation was never really a result) it was interesting to see who among us were Catholic based on the number of foreheads with ashes at work and beyond. All I can ever think of when marveling at those foreheads is Dr. Seuss and his Sneetches.

What I really remember is Gary J from beyond where we lived on Bloomfield Avenue, down Appleman near Castleton in Franklin Township, New Jersey. We were all kids playing ball out in the street, and he was (I think) just about the only kid with a clean forehead. I knew, instinctively, this meant he wasn't a Catholic.

In street baseball, you only need two outfielders (unless we ever got to play on the Turnpike at Exit Ten, where it's six lanes wide; that would be sweet!). Standing out there alongside me, he had (too many) questions about those ashes and our foreheads, and I certainly didn't have answers; what was I, the Pope?

Gary didn't understand the significance, the timing, or the whole idea behind Lent and its importance to the kids he hung out with after school. No more than ten myself, I reassured him as best I could and told him to not worry about any of it because it wasn't all that important.

What I didn't tell him was that since he wasn't a Catholic, he was going to Hell. Not that I'd want to see that shocked and scared look on his face again, but I wish I knew now how to find the certainty and reassurance I felt then. It doesn't need to last forever, just 40 days.
-bill kenny

(Nearly) Losing My Religion

When we were kids, tomorrow was a serious day, Ash Wednesday. Today was the final day before we had to give something up, Shrove Tuesday, though I'm not sure any of us understood what the word meant or even the origins of the term. 

There's an 'eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow it's all over' mentality that I find so Funky Western Civilization, which has little to nothing to do with pancakes, which is what today is always associated with. 

It's been decades since I gave something up for Lent (truth to tell, I failed my faith and gave up Lent but then kept on living) and I've rationalized my failure by telling myself that since I always went back to whatever I gave up (usually something to eat as opposed to a behavior change), I hadn't really changed at all, so surrender cost nothing because it was worth nothing.

And then I look around me, and see where we are and where I am in the midst of all of that and realize I didn't run backwards or stop running at all to be here (nor did any of us) but rather, just ran a step slower, a step less resolute, perhaps a shorter footfall until the distance grew inexorably between where we wanted to be (and knew we had to go) and where we were to end up, so far behind we could no longer see those up ahead.

And when the distance between us was too great to ever fill, we stopped and have forgotten how to start again. This makes tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, more important as a beginning than today can ever be as an end.  

-bill kenny

Thought Ernest Had a Second E....

Helau! (I'll explain below.) Bis dann, abwarten und tee trinken, klar? 

I offered this a long time ago, though 'not long enough,' some might say. 

Pshaw!  At the time, I called it:

Jetzt Wird Es Ernst

Reading some notes from around the world online over the weekend, I realized in Mainz, Germany (and elsewhere) today is Rosenmontag followed by Fastnacht Dienstag. Meanwhile, on this side of the pond, it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans. 

Rosenmontag in Dusseldorf, 2025

There are many variations of an 'eat, drink and be merry' mentality as we rush towards Ash Wednesday. Tradition has it, that the ash placed on your forehead by the priest who reminds you to 'remember man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return' is actually made from burning the palm that remained from the previous year's Palm Sunday (the day that starts Holy Week and marks the triumphant arrival of Jesus into Jerusalem). 

As a loyal son of the Holy Mother Church, I know all the rituals and the words that accompany them. My memory isn't the problem; my heart is, but that's not my point today. 

As kids, and even as adults, we sometimes lose sight of where we might best concentrate on the calendar in terms of whatever you might wish to call spirituality. It's easy to celebrate Christmas and to believe in its importance, and of course, the Birth of the Saviour should more often than not pass the "huh?" test. 

But I think the defining points that made me a Catholic and a Christian (or the other way around, I'm never sure which is a subset of what) are the death of Christ and His Resurrection. 

I'm not sure how we in The West (capitalization? Why Not?) have managed to balance the passion of the Christ, His Crucifixion, Burial, and His Resurrection with pieces of chocolate and the Easter Bunny. I'm not even sure this entry will get reposted in the Cadbury Factory newsletter or be read aloud on Easter Monday in Hershey, Pennsylvania, but that's how I see the world. 

I'm neither Cotton nor Increase Mather, early colonial ministers one of whom purportedly said 'the purpose of life is to prepare us to be dead for a long time.' Talk about harshing your buzz. Maybe that's why you never saw a Pilgrim smile. 
-bill kenny

Lots of Heat...

Suspect you couldn't have missed Friday's Fracas in Dodge City. 

Volodymyr Oleksandrovych Zelenskyy (The 'extra Y' does not, as Donald Trump believes, stand for "Why Don't You Surrender?"), whose nation, Ukraine, was invaded by Putin's Russia a skosh over three years ago, dared to complain while being extorted by that well-known tag-team of Lower-Egg-Price-Lovers elected last November to the offices of President and Vice-President of the United States. 

What a cur! He had the temerity to show up in the clothes he had been wearing for most of every second of every minute of the last three years while his nation has been fighting for its life against the Russian Bear. 

No one in the history of our country, as the Elegiac Hillbilly found so amusing, has ever disrespected the Oval Office's dress code. Well, maybe not.

What is it that's posted in nearly every store across our great nation? "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Obsequiousness, No Media Opportunity!" Now, I guess we're supposed to add suit to that list.

What I watched (but who can believe their eyes these days?) was a mugging in broad daylight. And shame on those of us who averted our eyes, worked overtime to create alibis masquerading as excuses, and by our silence, consented. 

The people of Ukraine deserve to live in peace in their own country, their entire country, not a rump state, dismembered and being stripped for parts by a rapacious pair of grifters allied with a murderer. 

-bill kenny

  

But Here Comes the Sun

We've had some warmer-than-usual temperatures in my neck of the woods after about a month (or what felt like it) of bone-chilling cold with some snow sprinkled in for good measure. 

The last couple of days have been delightful and I would hope a preview of the Spring-to-Come, but I'm not making book on that by any means.

If, however, the temps dip and the clouds darken, I already have my culprit in my Search for the Guilty picked out. Strolling across the parking of our local Stop & Shop yesterday afternoon as the sun was heading home and the warmth of the day was following it, I, bundled in a not-quite-winter-weight-jacket, passed a woman in shorts and a tank top.

Did I mention we've had some warmish days? Thought so.
There was is/was no reason to taunt Mother Nature by dressing for the weather you want instead of the weather you have. All of us will suffer from your hubris, madame. 

Remember, you read it here first.
-bill kenny

Already?

They say time flies when you're having fun. I don't know about you, but I'm still waiting for the fun to arrive.

Tomorrow starts the THIRD month of this year, and it feels like it's been a decade since we had New Year's Eve.  

So, are we having fun yet?
-bill kenny