Cold Days from the Birdhouse

I've never understood how February ended up with the shortest number of days-lack of an aggressive agent perhaps or a moment away from the calendar creation at a critical point? Hard to say and custom becomes habit so quickly that if you were to put me on the spot and ask about a different calendar construction I would have no idea what it should or could look like. Maybe that's how the status quo becomes the status.

February, or what's left of it, has opportunities for involvement in local activities and actions starting this afternoon at 4:30 with a special meeting of the Housing Authority in their offices at 10 Westwood Park.

At five, in Room 210 of City Hall is a regular meeting of the Redevelopment Agency whose agenda wraps up an action on a brownfields reclamation that ties quite nicely back to the principals involved in last Wednesday's Vibrant Communities Initiative.    

Tuesday afternoon at five, in Room 219 of City Hall, it's a regular meeting of the Harbor Management Commission whose agenda leads me to believe they are about to have themselves a busy spring and summer. That should be good news for the rest of us who enjoy the Norwich Harbor.

At six, in the conference room of the Norwich Public Utilities at 16 Golden Street, it's a regular meeting of the Board of Commissioners and the Sewer Authority. You'll find their respective (special) meeting minutes of earlier this month here, and here.

Wednesday afternoon at five, in Room 210 of City Hall, is the next regular meeting of the Emancipation Proclamation Commemorative Committee. I find it interesting the meeting calendar is the sole mention of this committee anywhere on the municipal website but you can fascinate me for hours with the beam from a laser pointer. (Section 11, (a) of the revised public act makes it clear the posting of minutes are required, within  seven days no matter how bad the website is. And, yes, we heard enough about that last Friday).

At 5:30 in the Kelly Middle School Community Room, it's a special meeting of the Norwich Public Schools Board of Education. If you're intending on attending this meeting, make sure you understand the purpose of the meeting and what the meeting is not about-to include decisions about personnel changes. When you review the agenda you'll see there's no place for public comment; that's because we're expected to listen.

And on Thursday evening at seven, the first of March (already!) in the Planning Department's conference room in the basement of 23 Union Street, it's a regular meeting of the Inlands Wetlands, Water Courses and Conservation Commission. Here are the minutes of their February meeting so you have a frame of reference for what they're working on.

Saturday evening beginning at 7:30 in the Slater Museum on the campus of the Norwich Free Academy is a debate featuring the three candidates for the Democratic Party nomination of the US Senate. Tickets are free but must requested/reserved in advance.

There's enough to do for those who so choose and if you choose to shake your head in dismay and despair, that's fine as well, of course, and your choice. We each have as much voice in our destiny as we decide and choosing to NOT decide is also a decision. A very poor one, but it proves again sometimes our mistakes are the only thing we can call our own.
-bill kenny

Shadows and Foreshadows

This past September, we marked the tenth anniversary of the attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Towers which changed who we were and how we conducted ourselves in the world. No single drop of rain holds itself responsible for the flood that follows but the rainfall continues.

This weekend the news stories have been about the casual contempt in which the New York Police Department, seemingly with the knowledge and permission of their Mayor (who staunchly defended them after they were caught), violated the constitutionally guaranteed rights of Muslim men and women within and without the city's limits just in case 'they' were up to something, somewhere at sometime with someone.

I'm still enough of the wild-eyed boy of the Sixties to worry about 'The Man' and to have felt very frightened while outnumbered (or feeling like it) by Ray Kelly's Brown Shirts last October Occupying the Banks as part of OWS. We found ourselves at the safest place on earth, at least on Manhattan, as we were coerced by  cordons to stay on the sidewalk, surrounded by a thousand or more riot gear clad cops, shoulder to shoulder with a phalanx of police buses and vans ready to rush miscreants to Rikers if provoked.

Where do you draw the line and who does the math? When does reasonable concern for public safety turn into hob nail boots in the early morning hours? When does national security become wrapped in the newspeak of nacht und nebel become the language of the incarcerated and their jailers? How much is perception of persecution and how much is perceptible persecution?

And did we turn the calendar pages back far enough-not to this past September but to this date nineteen years ago and what was, at that time, considered unimaginable. It was, until just now, probably forgotten in the flood of events, minute by minute, that make up our lives and so often overwhelms us.
-bill kenny

Nothing to Say

I'm one of those people who not only knows everything, I know everything better. I'm never daunted by my lack of facts or information on any given topic-being a know nothing has never kept me from having an opinion, nor shall it ever, I suspect.

If it weren't for a finely honed sense of self-deprecation I would be one of the larger jackasses you have ever met, quite possibly visible from space. I come by it honestly and was helped immeasurably by my environment and studies with some of the more amazing, if now quaintly decrepit, specimens of the lost art of obnoxious boor.

My saving grace may be (I hope) that I do not take myself seriously. I had some help with that as well, a little less intentional, perhaps, than some of the other life lessons I picked up. But a deal's a deal.

For instance, I'm smiling sitting here right now typing this  because I know how often I've made my living with my words and how, for one of the few times in my life, I've reached back and there's nothing but air and random punctuation. I don't know what's worse: knowing it could happen again tomorrow or knowing it won't.

Thanks for stopping by and if there's more here tomorrow than there is here today, I just hope you'll be a good sport about your luck running out.
-bill kenny  

You Do the Driving

I am very happy today is Friday even though it means next Monday is already that much closer. I have a nice routine for my work week and all the resources to accomplish my job I could ever need (or imagine that I could ever need), but probably like you the grind of it creates its own pink noise and I tend to come up with tricks to help me get away without getting lost.

As my replacement knees have aged, the grace purportedly coming with maturity has proven itself to be in short supply. I spend about three hours trying to get the screaming in both knees and the barking and cramps in the hamstrings to stop after power walking (running is simply no longer an option). It fills up the day and makes the time go fast. I eat bananas to replenish the potassium, whose absence, I’m told, causes the cramps that run the length of my legs. For the record, I don’t like bananas except in Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow.

I shifted to treadmills some time ago, thinking they were a better idea in terms of wear and tear on the lower joints only to discover I needed a much better idea than that. I sort of have one now. Except for the almost killing myself everyday part of it. I’ve taken up with a crosstrainer now that I’ve figured out how to stay on it (no mean feat considering my coordination and balance) and the people at the gym are thrilled I’ve stopped punching holes in their floor with my emergency landings.

I actually enjoy a sense of achievement though I shouldn’t because I don’t have much achievement to show for it so far. I hang on and in there for a half an hour, I’m working my way up in terms of total time and got really close to doing over three miles in distance (but without actually doing it). My new theory is though my legs will still hurt when I get past three miles, they won’t hurt as much or as long. Or they may just fall off. I hope to find out real soon which part of my theory proves out.

The most pointless part of the machine to my mind is the display on the control panel. The only selection missing (and the only one I ever look for) is the ‘would you find someone else to use the device for you?’ selector. There’s minutes and seconds in use and time left (for the math buffs I guess), various levels of awfulness (1-30, I think), speed (I got up to 7 point something miles per hour the other day and yet felt not thrilled at all) and a running total of calories burned.

I think I’d feel cheated if the display didn’t tell me all of that even if I have no appreciation for some or most of it. My right to know overwhelms my need to care and my ability to comprehend. Ah, America! I face the big TVs on the wall at just the right distance from where I’m at, because I remove my glasses to keep the sweat off my eyewear, and then the talking heads are even fuzzier and I can’t read the captioning. All I can figure out is someone is angry. It’s Fox; of course someone on camera is angry. Actually everyone on camera is angry that's their target emographic. I tend to think of them as a Flat Earth News Service and I’m not missing much visually by not really seeing them, I know.

Yesterday was a repeat, I believe, of an earlier in the day Bill O’Reilly episode (?) while I listened to Judas Priest in my headphones (I used to watch Mets’ games with Lenny Bruce records playing; I highly recommend it). Sometimes one seemed to be complementing the other and I crack up when that happens. Everybody breaks down, sooner of later. You get nothing for nothing but only for a limited time. More limited than any of us may know.
-bill kenny

ISWYDT

Someone sent me a note yesterday afternoon with “FYSA” at the top. I had no idea what than meant and come from a family where there are always yellow raincoats in the hall closet and monkeys who don’t know their uncles from other relatives out in the backyard, so, of course,  I asked.

You probably knew this-it means For Your Situational Awareness (I was told in a pedantic tone of voice). I made the mistake of wondering what the difference between it and FYI, “for your information” might be. I was told no one uses FYI anymore. Well, except me. I was tempted to respond with GFYS, but that type of behavior is considered less than adult (but FYSA is just peachy) and I have enough problems around here.

Anyway. The new wizard word that’s not a word at all but an a$$hole acronym is ISWYDT which is short for “I see what you did there.” For the record, I don’t; and I’m wearing glasses and I still don’t. I’m starting to think there’s a cottage industry, somewhere, so emboldened by the success of WYSIWYG, they’ve decided to reduce all language to acronyms.

I don’t think Bradbury, Huxley or Orwell ever foresaw this happening. They feared, instead, language being neutered and refined to distill all communicational value so that words took on common meaning that was the exact opposite of their intent-Firemen being my personal favorite even after all those decades. Who hasn’t heard some pinhead offer a dismissive “as if” and realize you have no idea what the moron is talking about (and neither do they). This is where you say “ISWYDT”. Getting it?

The wonder of acronyms and vocabulary shorthand, to a cynic such as I, is how the distraction from the intent is built into the process from the moment of use. You no longer need to listen to what I say in search of meaning and/or understanding, but, rather, at the surface in search of bright and shiny words. The day of the idea is passing and we’re well on the way to rendering ourselves mute in expressing how that should make us feel.

We’ve become inchoate imbeciles and either don’t know or don’t care. We use fewer words in our daily lives than we did a generation ago, not because we have other means of communication, but because we have less to say. Instead of living together, we tend to live along side of one another in parallel lives. What separates us has become greater than what we share. Words, long but more often shortened, are the foundations of walls instead of bridges. If you can’t be pithy, pith off. Aha! I see what you did there.
-bill kenny

Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow

As a young adult I used to travel regularly through Princeton, New Jersey, which even in the early 70's had  a dress code of sorts for how its streets and buildings needed to look in terms of appearance, frontage and signage. With a critical role in the American Revolutionary War, Princeton didn't talk too much about historical tourism as an economic development engine (mainly because the term didn't exist at the time) but certainly knew how which side its bread was buttered on and who was footing the bill at the bakery and dairy.

Fast forward forty years and travel for a couple of hours up the interstate and welcome to New England where the places George Washington didn't sleep, or even take a nap, (Happy Birthday, George!) are in the minority and neighbors vie with one another for the most historical history, sometimes to the point of hysteria.

Here in Norwich we have Revolutionary War through Industrial Revolution history by the bushel and the buildings to prove it. Some of us believe if you talk about the past as a fulcrum to leverage tourism long enough, somehow it all just happens. At least that's the hope of a lot of hoarse people.

The problem is hope is not a plan-it's important and it's vital but it's not a plan with a goal, a path, a means of measurement for how far along in the journey we are or a guiding star to help us stay on track. A lot of work goes into anything worthwhile, to include an economic development and community enhancement strategy that has historic tourism as a desired outcome-but without a plan, how do we know where we're going.

Make no mistake, when you don't know where you're going any road can get you there. The trick is getting to where you need to be. We get some help along the way again tonight with the second installment. if you will., of the Vital Communities Initiative, which begins at five o'clock with a reception and opportunity to visit the newly opened atrium of the Slater Museum on the campus of the Norwich Free Academy. Stick around for the main event-this could be quite the show.

If you were a part of the conversation in late December at the first meeting, you know about the $50,000 grant from the Connecticut Trust for Historic Preservation and the collaboration with planners and architects of The Cecil Group and local preservation champions, city leaders (of course) but also with those of us who live and work here to better determine what all of us regard as the most valued and valuable aspects of downtown Norwich and how to reinvigorate them.

Let's face it, we've watched neighbors attempt the 'let's bulldoze it all down and start again' and we've tried the 'single building' theory, as well as the 'unknown developer on the grassy knoll.' All we've gotten for a lot of money and a lot of effort is pockets and patches of  brick and mortar, filled with promise, most of which is never fulfilled.      

Tonight, having sifted through marketing surveys and analyzed the inventory of downtown building stock, there will be presentation with possible projects designed for specific properties. The glittering generalities we've couched our discussions in for years will be no more. Tonight words get married to deeds. You can sit with the bride or the groom-the important thing is to be here. Where we go next is up to each of us.
-bill kenny 
    

White Noise and Love Will Be My Only Drug

The party's almost over-it's nearly time to call it a day. It turns out God doesn't care how many beads you collected or whether you danced with Pam Anderson or yelled helau at the top of your lungs. Today is Shrove Tuesday so enjoy those pancakes, my pretty, while you can, because it gets pretty grim around here starting tomorrow.

I still think IHOP missed the cross-promotional tie-in of the Millenia, even if so doing would have resulted in its stockholders spending eternity in a lake of fire. Besides, who doesn't like melted butter or dreamed of  hearing "I'm Beezeleboul and I'll be your syrup steward." Break out those camera phones, and smile!

As a child, I hated Ash Wednesday-all the mummery of it. The burning of the palm from Palm Sunday to create 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 became an adult (got older; maturation was never really a result) it was interesting to see who among us were Catholic (I suspect the Episcopalians do Ash Wednesday as well and don't forget the C of  E congregants) just 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 star-bellied and plain-bellied sneetches.

Actually, what I really remember is Gary J from beyond where we lived on Bloomfield Avenue, down Appleman near Castleton. We were all kids playing ball out in the street near his house on Ash Wednesday 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 up at Exit Ten where it's six lanes wide; that would be sweet!). Standing out there alongside of 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 all the kids he hung out with after school (but never saw during school; Gary wasn't the sharpest spoon in the drawer). 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.

And besides, 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 how to find the certainty and reassurance I felt then now. It doesn't need to last forever, just 40 days.
-bill kenny