I encountered a person today with whom I have a nodding acquaintance, as literal as it is figurative, who was pretty 'stoked to be back', and wondered if I'd missed him. Not since I had the scope repaired, I replied, as I always do just to see the blank look of zero comprehension in his eyes, knowing he doesn't get the joke but won't ask me to explain.
And then it was my turn to look blank as he shared with me, unbidden, that he'd been at Comic-Con 2009 in classy San Diego (thanks to 'Glory Hole Productions' because this could have been so much worse if you hadn't helped? Does the video war crimes tribunal have your address?). There have been forty of these annual get togethers (ka-ching!)-he may have mentioned that as he went on about a lot of stuff I can remember feeling odd about, since I thought all this time he was a grown-up. A little strange as a grown-up, but a big person in a big person's body, if you know what I mean. I didn't realize I actually knew one of these parodies of a person, with the dark and greasy hair, the small, nervous eyes and the sweaty palms who lives on a couch in his Mom's basement because to my knowledge, none of that is true in his case and yet.....
I dug around a bit on line, of course, and learned distressingly I think, per google, after typing in "comic con 2009", there were 40,900,000 entries located in 0.08 seconds while there 61,700,000 entrees for President Obama's health care plan located in 0.20 seconds. Two thirds as many entries, at three times the speed of thought for so many. The President doesn't have a cape, but we do live in a universe with a yellow sun. Jor-el would be so proud, I guess, though he really is the generation BEFORE mine and two before the President.
I enjoyed comics, when I was a kid. I am far more often childish now than childlike but sifting through the websites trying to understand the difference between graphic novels and comics and the thousands of shades of meaning between them, I was overwhelmed with the sound of commerce, as in big business, I was tempted to lie down. That was when I realized that was the purpose for the couch in the basement.
Thanks, Mom, for gathering up the Archie and Jughead comic books all those years ago and getting rid of them. Was Archie hooking up with BOTH Betty and Veronica? What was the deal with Reggie? And what the heck was that thing on Jughead's noggin? Here at Life's Rich Pageant, it's always worthwhile to pack an extra napkin and use it for the spot next to your mouth. On trash day, I'll drag the couch down to the curb and help load it onto the truck. Should be a hoot.
-bill kenny
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Whose Ox Is Being Gored or Bored
How we react and respond to broadcast and published news reports has a lot to do with us, and not necessarily with what the story is about or how it's presented (that said, you can see HUGE differences in the treatment of the same story when channel dropping between CNN and Fox). And while your mileage may vary, your perception of 'honest and fair' often has a lot more to do with you rather than with the writer or reporter.
On the national stage, the current health care debate (which seems to be more of a shouting match than a debate, or is that just me?) is driven in no small part by how much health insurance each of us has, or doesn't have. The impetus for 'reform' isn't motivated, necessarily, by a desire to make health care more affordable and/or accessible for people who already have it, but for people who do not.
If you are one of the (about) forty-seven million with no coverage, your interest and desires are in all likelihood very different from someone who has health insurance who, in turn, may feel very differently both from you and from someone who is unhappy at the cost or coverage he/she currently has.
Another example, this time at the state level. In Connecticut, the Governor (a Republican) and the State Legislature (Democratic super-majority in both houses) are still poles apart on a budget for a fiscal year that began a month ago. Each side has reached the inevitable conclusion that the other side is awful, uncaring and quite possibly eats bugs. Eventually they will come to a meeting of the minds somewhere between the Governor's 'principled' position and the 'citizen-driven concerns' of the Democrats. This happens all the time--doesn't make it a lot of fun just because it's routine, and there is something about familiarity that does breed contempt, I guess.
At the inter-personal relationship level, the song remains the same. If your significant other, business partner, golf buddy or employer were only as reasonable as you and I, they would do what we want, because when we say 'be reasonable' we mean 'do it my way.' In theory the purpose of language is to better define differences and distinctions but everyday and every way we get better and better at using language to obscure and diffuse. Sometimes less words can equal more meaning, ask Alice.
-bill kenny
On the national stage, the current health care debate (which seems to be more of a shouting match than a debate, or is that just me?) is driven in no small part by how much health insurance each of us has, or doesn't have. The impetus for 'reform' isn't motivated, necessarily, by a desire to make health care more affordable and/or accessible for people who already have it, but for people who do not.
If you are one of the (about) forty-seven million with no coverage, your interest and desires are in all likelihood very different from someone who has health insurance who, in turn, may feel very differently both from you and from someone who is unhappy at the cost or coverage he/she currently has.
Another example, this time at the state level. In Connecticut, the Governor (a Republican) and the State Legislature (Democratic super-majority in both houses) are still poles apart on a budget for a fiscal year that began a month ago. Each side has reached the inevitable conclusion that the other side is awful, uncaring and quite possibly eats bugs. Eventually they will come to a meeting of the minds somewhere between the Governor's 'principled' position and the 'citizen-driven concerns' of the Democrats. This happens all the time--doesn't make it a lot of fun just because it's routine, and there is something about familiarity that does breed contempt, I guess.
At the inter-personal relationship level, the song remains the same. If your significant other, business partner, golf buddy or employer were only as reasonable as you and I, they would do what we want, because when we say 'be reasonable' we mean 'do it my way.' In theory the purpose of language is to better define differences and distinctions but everyday and every way we get better and better at using language to obscure and diffuse. Sometimes less words can equal more meaning, ask Alice.
-bill kenny
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
G(l)ory Days
I wasn't ready for it when it showed up in the mail earlier this week. Yes, the mug of the slug in the mirror every morning that I shave, unless I let my face grow long, hasn't been smooth and youthful in many a decade, but since the aging has been incremental I've never been sentimental about it happening. I'm getting better, not older, I keep telling myself. If I live to be three hundred and forty-two I should be close to middling by then.
And then, YIPES!, there he was on the cover of the AARP Magazine, BRUCE!!!! Talk about Glory Days. I'm still not comfortable with having an AARP card in my wallet, and keep it under my auto club card, like maybe the tow truck operator would quibble about a senior discount (I should live so long). AARP is more than just a very organized lobbying group for the over-fifty is nifty set, based on the membership roles (almost sixty million people) it's a middle sized country unto itself.
Springsteen turns sixty in September-I do not recall growing old and I started to see him perform when he'd show up at the Rutgers College commuter Lounge, The Ledge, in my sophomore year, so that would make it 1971, so we're talking....a really long time. I feel it every day but I can't hear it in a single note he sings or the E-Street band plays and as I read the article in the magazine (and, yes, I entered the sweepstakes for tickets to his October show in East Rutherford and you needn't bother because I already used your email address, too) the emotions chased one another, competing with a lot of memories.
As much of the soundtrack of my growing-up years as the Beatles and Every One After made, and make up, the exclamation mark is Springsteen. Even now as an apprentice doddering buffoon, I can never imagine myself hanging with (Sir) Paul McCartney but can see cruising down Route 34 outside of Toms River's Richard's Cafe casing The Promised Land with a guy I once thought of as 'a Newark' (a greaser).
Strange Times in Germany story (and I have the poster from his first tour hanging up in my office). Sigrid and I went to see him in the Frankfurt Festhalle. I think we had third or sixth row seats-but more importantly the Be-Bop Ghost Dancer, BBGD, had a seat directly behind us-technically, directly behind Sigrid. I think I was standing up from the moment I got dressed to go to the show that morning, but BBGD only started dancing as the show began.
He was transported by the music, head nodding, feet shuffling, arms and hands doing a little boogaloo down Broadway weave. Good energy, lousy luck. He semi-smacked Sigrid on the top of the head, grazing her, and she turned around and looked up at him and made her displeasure quite clear. BBGD seemed to get her point and danced alone for a while but then, the music overcame him again and he popped her, again. Sigrid, whose appreciation of The Boss approaches her enthusiasm for a root canal, slowly stood up and made sure the sleeves on her blouse were pushed towards her elbows as she spoke slow and low to BBGD who was, by this point in his own world.
Like lightning, the love of my love thrust her arms straight-forward at a velocity I cannot describe and struck BBGD's shoulder blades with the heels of her hands with such force she knocked him heels over head, backwards, into the row BEHIND where he had been standing. He landed on his feet, on the beat, still dancing. From the look of rapture on his face, I suspect he still thinks Bruce had something to do with his levitation.
And maybe he did. He's been moving me for close to four decades and to underscore how we are twin sons of different mothers, the same week he made the cover of Time and Newsweek, I bought BOTH magazines. Coincidence? Didja hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie for telling fortunes better than they do? Just summer gossip, don't believe a word of it.
-bill kenny
And then, YIPES!, there he was on the cover of the AARP Magazine, BRUCE!!!! Talk about Glory Days. I'm still not comfortable with having an AARP card in my wallet, and keep it under my auto club card, like maybe the tow truck operator would quibble about a senior discount (I should live so long). AARP is more than just a very organized lobbying group for the over-fifty is nifty set, based on the membership roles (almost sixty million people) it's a middle sized country unto itself.
Springsteen turns sixty in September-I do not recall growing old and I started to see him perform when he'd show up at the Rutgers College commuter Lounge, The Ledge, in my sophomore year, so that would make it 1971, so we're talking....a really long time. I feel it every day but I can't hear it in a single note he sings or the E-Street band plays and as I read the article in the magazine (and, yes, I entered the sweepstakes for tickets to his October show in East Rutherford and you needn't bother because I already used your email address, too) the emotions chased one another, competing with a lot of memories.
As much of the soundtrack of my growing-up years as the Beatles and Every One After made, and make up, the exclamation mark is Springsteen. Even now as an apprentice doddering buffoon, I can never imagine myself hanging with (Sir) Paul McCartney but can see cruising down Route 34 outside of Toms River's Richard's Cafe casing The Promised Land with a guy I once thought of as 'a Newark' (a greaser).
Strange Times in Germany story (and I have the poster from his first tour hanging up in my office). Sigrid and I went to see him in the Frankfurt Festhalle. I think we had third or sixth row seats-but more importantly the Be-Bop Ghost Dancer, BBGD, had a seat directly behind us-technically, directly behind Sigrid. I think I was standing up from the moment I got dressed to go to the show that morning, but BBGD only started dancing as the show began.
He was transported by the music, head nodding, feet shuffling, arms and hands doing a little boogaloo down Broadway weave. Good energy, lousy luck. He semi-smacked Sigrid on the top of the head, grazing her, and she turned around and looked up at him and made her displeasure quite clear. BBGD seemed to get her point and danced alone for a while but then, the music overcame him again and he popped her, again. Sigrid, whose appreciation of The Boss approaches her enthusiasm for a root canal, slowly stood up and made sure the sleeves on her blouse were pushed towards her elbows as she spoke slow and low to BBGD who was, by this point in his own world.
Like lightning, the love of my love thrust her arms straight-forward at a velocity I cannot describe and struck BBGD's shoulder blades with the heels of her hands with such force she knocked him heels over head, backwards, into the row BEHIND where he had been standing. He landed on his feet, on the beat, still dancing. From the look of rapture on his face, I suspect he still thinks Bruce had something to do with his levitation.
And maybe he did. He's been moving me for close to four decades and to underscore how we are twin sons of different mothers, the same week he made the cover of Time and Newsweek, I bought BOTH magazines. Coincidence? Didja hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie for telling fortunes better than they do? Just summer gossip, don't believe a word of it.
-bill kenny
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Perhaps there's valet parking in Harvard Yard
Tonight in downtown Norwich, or as much of downtown as there is, at 6:30 in the Wauregan Hotel's ballroom is a forum that has the potential to be a poster-child for "things government can and should do" that aren't earth shaking and/or void where taxed or prohibited by law.
If the planners have their way, a cross section of the 'process owners' (bigspeak for people in charge of stuff) will sit with (to be hoped) an equal or greater number of shareholders (folks upon whom change is often inflicted) and try to sort out a consensus path of progress on the 'downtown business' challenges which many have over-simplified into 'Houston, we have a parking problem.'
I confess to not having a dog in that hunt or even being able to catch the scent. If I had a nickel for every time in the nearly eighteen years I've lived here that I had a problem finding a place to park, I wouldn't have enough to buy one of those gob-stoppers from a bubble gum machine. But from everything I've heard for years, parking in Norwich is like the weather, except people more often than not use even more colorful language to describe it.
In recent days, the amount of interest in talking about solutions has increased though whether that translates to fixing the problem depends on a lot of people putting aside personal and petty agenda to create a larger, more global means of incorporating seemingly small stuff like 'where should delivery trucks for downtown merchants be allowed to park when loading and unloading' into perspectives that may require addressing issues such as why are there one-way signs every which way all across Chelsea, to whom should a business go when they have a question on customer parking and where should everyone not named Kenny be able to park when they go to a restaurant, a pub or one of the other shops in downtown?
The forum is the result of a lot of folks, but a great deal of the heavy lifting was done by Bob Zarnetske, an alderman and a member of the Public Parking Commission who is also one of (at least) four people seeking to be elected Mayor this November. He has some curious beliefs on holistic (=systemic) solutions-and by 'curious' I mean beliefs not shared by others wishing to become the mayor. Head-shaking, hand-wringing and finger-pointing are the staples in the catalog of responses that many who've lived here for a long time use for issues that perplex others who aren't native to here.
I think it's funny that the one candidate, Mr. NFH (not from here), who gets tarred with the "He's an outsider" brush is the best hope for all the insiders to heal a self-inflicted wound with a long history. Of course, the danger then becomes that people prefer problems that are familiar to solutions that are not. Come early and see if some of us can help the rest of us. I'm told there'll be plenty of free parking-proving the Lord does have a sense of humor, though His timing may need a little work.
-bill kenny
If the planners have their way, a cross section of the 'process owners' (bigspeak for people in charge of stuff) will sit with (to be hoped) an equal or greater number of shareholders (folks upon whom change is often inflicted) and try to sort out a consensus path of progress on the 'downtown business' challenges which many have over-simplified into 'Houston, we have a parking problem.'
I confess to not having a dog in that hunt or even being able to catch the scent. If I had a nickel for every time in the nearly eighteen years I've lived here that I had a problem finding a place to park, I wouldn't have enough to buy one of those gob-stoppers from a bubble gum machine. But from everything I've heard for years, parking in Norwich is like the weather, except people more often than not use even more colorful language to describe it.
In recent days, the amount of interest in talking about solutions has increased though whether that translates to fixing the problem depends on a lot of people putting aside personal and petty agenda to create a larger, more global means of incorporating seemingly small stuff like 'where should delivery trucks for downtown merchants be allowed to park when loading and unloading' into perspectives that may require addressing issues such as why are there one-way signs every which way all across Chelsea, to whom should a business go when they have a question on customer parking and where should everyone not named Kenny be able to park when they go to a restaurant, a pub or one of the other shops in downtown?
The forum is the result of a lot of folks, but a great deal of the heavy lifting was done by Bob Zarnetske, an alderman and a member of the Public Parking Commission who is also one of (at least) four people seeking to be elected Mayor this November. He has some curious beliefs on holistic (=systemic) solutions-and by 'curious' I mean beliefs not shared by others wishing to become the mayor. Head-shaking, hand-wringing and finger-pointing are the staples in the catalog of responses that many who've lived here for a long time use for issues that perplex others who aren't native to here.
I think it's funny that the one candidate, Mr. NFH (not from here), who gets tarred with the "He's an outsider" brush is the best hope for all the insiders to heal a self-inflicted wound with a long history. Of course, the danger then becomes that people prefer problems that are familiar to solutions that are not. Come early and see if some of us can help the rest of us. I'm told there'll be plenty of free parking-proving the Lord does have a sense of humor, though His timing may need a little work.
-bill kenny
Monday, July 27, 2009
A Quiet Week for Norwich Government
This time of year many of us either actually take a vacation or some 'me' time and cutback on the activities outside our homes and families. That's pretty much the case this week in the Rose City as the municipal meetings calendar actually has more cancellations than scheduled meetings.
The Redevelopment Agency meets this afternoon at five in Room 210 of City Hall. Of its nine members, five have expired appointments which is an oversight the City Council would correct in seconds if any of the RDA members attempted to drive through Mohegan Park, I suspect. The Redevelopment Agency is very hard-working, dedicated and remarkably honest with one another and the rest of us. And no, I don't say that about everyone, ;-).
Check out page two of their June meeting minutes and tell me the last time you heard/read of a Norwich citizen volunteer panel wondering as to what their function is supposed to be and how they can do their jobs better. If we had at least one elected body in Norwich with this degree of selflessness, we'd be a darn sight better off. And their plate is pretty full for tonight's meeting as well when you look at the agenda.
I'd hope to see one or more of their members Tuesday evening at 6:30 in the Wauregan Ballroom for the Downtown Parking and Business Forum organized by Mayoral candidate Bob Zarnetske. Sort of an outgrowth from a Public Parking Commission meeting, I think in a perfect world, all the folks who insist they have a speaking part in the economic redevelopment of downtown (and all of Norwich for that matter) should be in the same room at the same time so the merchants and businesses who have invested their own money and sweat in working downtown can explain what they feel is going well and what is in need of improvement.
I, for one, suspect the latter is a target-rich environment and wonder why the Public Parking Commission just doesn't tell the shop owners how much they love Norwich and how they hope things will get better. That should take care of everything, right? Except, as we all know, hope is NOT a plan. Only a plan is a plan and without the will to implement a plan, it's a wish you make with your heart.
Also Tuesday, starting at six, in their conference room on Golden Street is the July meeting of the Board of Public Utilities Commissioners/Sewer Authority. Norwich Public Utilities, as I'm sure you know, is municipally-owned and potentially the most potent single force for economic growth in Norwich. I say that in deference to Bob Dylan's observation that 'money doesn't talk, it swears', as they generate millions in revenues, whereas to my knowledge, none of the three or four dozen other development boards create any wealth at all.
As I said, a quiet week for meetings and perhaps if we get some nice weather, this would be the week to get out and about. Maybe take up swimming, or rafting, or boat-building, especially if the current trend of overcast skies followed by torrential downpours continues. If it stays wet like this the plague of locusts will have nothing to eat when they get here, making the bugs easy targets for the rain of frogs.
-bill kenny
The Redevelopment Agency meets this afternoon at five in Room 210 of City Hall. Of its nine members, five have expired appointments which is an oversight the City Council would correct in seconds if any of the RDA members attempted to drive through Mohegan Park, I suspect. The Redevelopment Agency is very hard-working, dedicated and remarkably honest with one another and the rest of us. And no, I don't say that about everyone, ;-).
Check out page two of their June meeting minutes and tell me the last time you heard/read of a Norwich citizen volunteer panel wondering as to what their function is supposed to be and how they can do their jobs better. If we had at least one elected body in Norwich with this degree of selflessness, we'd be a darn sight better off. And their plate is pretty full for tonight's meeting as well when you look at the agenda.
I'd hope to see one or more of their members Tuesday evening at 6:30 in the Wauregan Ballroom for the Downtown Parking and Business Forum organized by Mayoral candidate Bob Zarnetske. Sort of an outgrowth from a Public Parking Commission meeting, I think in a perfect world, all the folks who insist they have a speaking part in the economic redevelopment of downtown (and all of Norwich for that matter) should be in the same room at the same time so the merchants and businesses who have invested their own money and sweat in working downtown can explain what they feel is going well and what is in need of improvement.
I, for one, suspect the latter is a target-rich environment and wonder why the Public Parking Commission just doesn't tell the shop owners how much they love Norwich and how they hope things will get better. That should take care of everything, right? Except, as we all know, hope is NOT a plan. Only a plan is a plan and without the will to implement a plan, it's a wish you make with your heart.
Also Tuesday, starting at six, in their conference room on Golden Street is the July meeting of the Board of Public Utilities Commissioners/Sewer Authority. Norwich Public Utilities, as I'm sure you know, is municipally-owned and potentially the most potent single force for economic growth in Norwich. I say that in deference to Bob Dylan's observation that 'money doesn't talk, it swears', as they generate millions in revenues, whereas to my knowledge, none of the three or four dozen other development boards create any wealth at all.
As I said, a quiet week for meetings and perhaps if we get some nice weather, this would be the week to get out and about. Maybe take up swimming, or rafting, or boat-building, especially if the current trend of overcast skies followed by torrential downpours continues. If it stays wet like this the plague of locusts will have nothing to eat when they get here, making the bugs easy targets for the rain of frogs.
-bill kenny
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I Guess He Could Be Your Co-Pilot and Best Friend
Traveling yesterday afternoon, taking advantage of the nice day for the month of July (I thought it was scheduled earlier in the week, but I'm so wrong about this stuff so often), my wife and I were heading from Norwich to Waterford via Route 32 (we can go 395 but there's such a level and pace of traffic it wears me out trying to keep up with it).
It's not really the road less taken, though the volume of traffic pales in comparison to 395 which is just as well as it connects Norwich and Montville and New London as you travel around the not-so glamorous back entrance to the Mohegan Sun casino.
The only tricky part is just as you're hitting Quaker Hill, because 32 blends with an exit of 395 and I know from experience on both sides of the merge, it's not a day at the beach. For a driver on 32, the merge involves a reasonably extreme over-your-right shoulder scan of your sector, so to speak, as cars entering far faster than your speed are (in theory) trying to slow down as they merge and before they hit the traffic signal (or you).
If you're coming off 395 at this exit, all the turtle drivers are to your left and to make it interesting for both of you, at that traffic signal I just mentioned, there's always a lot of people making the right at the light which means they need to get into that lane, and if they cross in front of you, well, stuff can happen.
Which it did yesterday, but funny stuff. It was a guy in dark Saab, the sedan model (I think that means four doors, right? Anyway, that's what I mean) and he's looking to go straight and get into the left lane on 32 coming off from 395. There wasn't a lot traffic and it was a pretty easy maneuver.
So much so that I had more than enough opportunity to eyeball his shotgun partner, his dog, a big brown one, window rolled down, head out the window (I'd love to know what they are thinking about aside from 'here, kitty, c'mon Kitty') wearing wraparound sunglasses, just like his owner. For a moment, I was watching the SPCA version of the Blues Brothers movie. The part of a trimmer, and far more hirsute, Jake, played by the dog. My turn was approaching and as I put on my blinker, I murmured a short prayer, "Our Lady of Acceleration don't fail us now."
-bill kenny
It's not really the road less taken, though the volume of traffic pales in comparison to 395 which is just as well as it connects Norwich and Montville and New London as you travel around the not-so glamorous back entrance to the Mohegan Sun casino.
The only tricky part is just as you're hitting Quaker Hill, because 32 blends with an exit of 395 and I know from experience on both sides of the merge, it's not a day at the beach. For a driver on 32, the merge involves a reasonably extreme over-your-right shoulder scan of your sector, so to speak, as cars entering far faster than your speed are (in theory) trying to slow down as they merge and before they hit the traffic signal (or you).
If you're coming off 395 at this exit, all the turtle drivers are to your left and to make it interesting for both of you, at that traffic signal I just mentioned, there's always a lot of people making the right at the light which means they need to get into that lane, and if they cross in front of you, well, stuff can happen.
Which it did yesterday, but funny stuff. It was a guy in dark Saab, the sedan model (I think that means four doors, right? Anyway, that's what I mean) and he's looking to go straight and get into the left lane on 32 coming off from 395. There wasn't a lot traffic and it was a pretty easy maneuver.
So much so that I had more than enough opportunity to eyeball his shotgun partner, his dog, a big brown one, window rolled down, head out the window (I'd love to know what they are thinking about aside from 'here, kitty, c'mon Kitty') wearing wraparound sunglasses, just like his owner. For a moment, I was watching the SPCA version of the Blues Brothers movie. The part of a trimmer, and far more hirsute, Jake, played by the dog. My turn was approaching and as I put on my blinker, I murmured a short prayer, "Our Lady of Acceleration don't fail us now."
-bill kenny
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Art Imitates Life
The memorial services for Walter Cronkite had just concluded when the next reminder that we're not in
As a child I have memories of David Frost with something called "That Was the Week That Was" (listening to the musical salute to the state of
It wasn’t coincidental that one of the first things Hitler and the Nazis did after seizing power was eliminate Fasching or Karneval observances from everyday German life. If there was one thing the gang who couldn't shoot straight knew it was that they didn't need or want anyone poking fun at them.
But in a country that televises poker tournaments and spelling bees on an All-Sports Network, and covered the death of Michael Jackson like it was the passing of Mary and Joseph's other Son, naming Stewart the most trusted newscaster in
"Don't believe I'm taken in by stories I have heard. I just read the Daily News and swear by every word. I'm not one to look behind, I know that times must change, but over there in Barrytown, they do things very strange."-bill kenny
Friday, July 24, 2009
Idiot Wind
Because it's Friday and there's no holiday this weekend (except for my sister's birthday, today) and because I can (and you can help), let's declare whatever this economic toboggan ride, without the toboggan and the snow, OFFICIALLY over. I put officially all in CAPS so that it has some gravitas just like the talking mutton heads on television with the degrees from the Harvard Business School and the London School of Economics who sat there night after night and told us we were petting a kitty-kat with a racing stripe that proved to be a skunk.
Nobody we know invented Bernie Madoff-I can't even conceive of a hustle like that, my brain is too small to do it. Do you know anyone who was working a McJob and who bought a house with a 400K mortgage through a bank? Nope, me neither. For the longest time, all the reporting on the 'economic tsunami' could have been from Pago-Pago.
When the banks started going out of business, we began to take this seriously and got very solemn and sort of grim. We spoke about putting our shoulders to the wheel, reminded each other 'we've been through this before' (well, no, we haven't; our parents and their parents have been through this before) talked a LOT about shared sacrifice and vowed to 'pull together.'
So, in light of all the bickering and dickering, posturing, pouting and politicking in the last three weeks, from the Grand Coulee Dame to the Capitol, the 'debates' that all sound like "I know you are, but what am I?"and the return to finger-pointing as part of the problem-solving matrix, I guess we're done.
Welcome to the New Prosperity, please insert forty cents for the next three minutes. You probably don't get that. At one time in America we had phones in glass booths on every street corner because we had no phones in our pockets. We could put coins in those phones, starting with a dime, and call people, Mrs Avery (I had honestly NEVER heard that version before)). We can't afford a return to the Good Old Days, so this will have to do. Especially since this is all there is.
This time last year, as a nation, we were falling in love with love. As is the case so often in personal relationships, there's a phase of the courtship where everything is endearing and precious and then as life grinds on, we find ourselves waiting for the shine to come off. The same habits that were so cute become irritations and annoyances and, if unchecked and uncorrected, grounds for growing apart and divorce.
We hold elections for office-seekers as if they magicians. Open the curtain and let the wizards' duel begin! Voila! Health care or poof! a balanced budget or Ka-zaam! an exit strategy. All with no money down and no easy, monthly payments. But when the house lights come up, it's always no more than two guys in bathrobes and pointy hats left on stage.
And a lot of unpaid bills. They wanted to be what we wanted them to be and we sure as heck wanted it as well. And none of it happened because none of it was real. "It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves."
-bill kenny
Nobody we know invented Bernie Madoff-I can't even conceive of a hustle like that, my brain is too small to do it. Do you know anyone who was working a McJob and who bought a house with a 400K mortgage through a bank? Nope, me neither. For the longest time, all the reporting on the 'economic tsunami' could have been from Pago-Pago.
When the banks started going out of business, we began to take this seriously and got very solemn and sort of grim. We spoke about putting our shoulders to the wheel, reminded each other 'we've been through this before' (well, no, we haven't; our parents and their parents have been through this before) talked a LOT about shared sacrifice and vowed to 'pull together.'
So, in light of all the bickering and dickering, posturing, pouting and politicking in the last three weeks, from the Grand Coulee Dame to the Capitol, the 'debates' that all sound like "I know you are, but what am I?"and the return to finger-pointing as part of the problem-solving matrix, I guess we're done.
Welcome to the New Prosperity, please insert forty cents for the next three minutes. You probably don't get that. At one time in America we had phones in glass booths on every street corner because we had no phones in our pockets. We could put coins in those phones, starting with a dime, and call people, Mrs Avery (I had honestly NEVER heard that version before)). We can't afford a return to the Good Old Days, so this will have to do. Especially since this is all there is.
This time last year, as a nation, we were falling in love with love. As is the case so often in personal relationships, there's a phase of the courtship where everything is endearing and precious and then as life grinds on, we find ourselves waiting for the shine to come off. The same habits that were so cute become irritations and annoyances and, if unchecked and uncorrected, grounds for growing apart and divorce.
We hold elections for office-seekers as if they magicians. Open the curtain and let the wizards' duel begin! Voila! Health care or poof! a balanced budget or Ka-zaam! an exit strategy. All with no money down and no easy, monthly payments. But when the house lights come up, it's always no more than two guys in bathrobes and pointy hats left on stage.
And a lot of unpaid bills. They wanted to be what we wanted them to be and we sure as heck wanted it as well. And none of it happened because none of it was real. "It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves."
-bill kenny
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The (other) Bikers
It's a lot different from when we were growing up and used them as essential transportation to get to and from the field (the baseball field, of course, what else was there for a kid growing up in the late Fifties and early Sixties?) or from friends' houses. You might start out with just you and Neil, and then go a couple of blocks and pick up Bobby and then all you headed across the development, to the new Levitt houses, where Tommy lived.
I'm talking about bicycles and as kids there was Schwinn and there was Royce Union, and not much else. These were big, clunky solid yoke metal frame bikes, with balloon tires and white sidewalls. You had a mousetrap in the back, and that's where you kept your glove, baseball inside of it, so that the pocket formed just right. Maybe your dad, or somebody else's dad would remember to get the little can of neet's foot oil at the hardware store and you'd work that stuff into the glove before putting it into the mousetrap.
Twenty-six inch tires on those bikes and maybe, if you had a fancy one, it had front and rear handbrakes, but ours mostly didn't-you just stood on the pedals hard and the rear wheel broke away and wound up sliding to one side or the other. You stopped all right. We all knew somebody whose folks had gotten them a bike with three gears, think of it!, but we didn't have bikes like that. Going up hill, you pedaled hard-if it got steeper, you pedaled harder. Screw up, you fell off and walked up hill holding the bike by the handlebars, feeling (and looking) like a dork.
I was thinking about all of that yesterday as the bikers, not Marlon Brando and The Wild One, raced across parts of France whose towns can only correctly be pronounced by having your adenoids removed. And again this year, one or more people have died along the route at the various stages, and I keep thinking 'nobody ever got hurt when we rode to Resko's house' and that was over an hour back in the day (it'd be like three days in 'now' time).
It wasn't until the LA Olympics in '84, sitting in Germany and watching the highlights of the games the Warsaw Pact boycotted, that I first saw Americans go ga-ga for the most European of sports, in my opinion (unless they make sulking an event). The oval track with the impossible angles of banking, the skinny tires that seemed to be made of solid rubber, the 'Disco in Frisco' skin tight speedo outfits and most especially those 'revenge of the Alien' head shaped helmets, all of it so aerodynamic I thought these guys could fly. Reading about the Tour de France, I learned flight wasn't the half of it.
I was aware of a Frankfurt am Main based Tour de France cyclist, Didi Thoreau, I think his name was (I have no idea as it turns out) and I couldn't understand how you could make a living as a professional bike rider. I had a movie in my head, where Didi is in Munich, perhaps visiting his fan-club (I'm sure he had one) and checks into the Munich Hilton which is right at the Munchen-Reims airport and as he checks in, what exactly does he put under "occupation"? 'Professional Bicycle Rider' And if the concierge snickers across the desk while reading it, upside down, in the ledger, does he offer to prove it with a bike strapped to his back?
Then in the late Eighties, Greg Lemond, an American from I have no idea where, not only became successful on the European Bicycle race circuit (that's hard to believe, isn't it; a circuit for bike racers? 'See you in Naples?' 'No, I'm training for the Bern Butt Buster, see you there.') he won the Tour de France (and why, by the way, is THAT the big race, or at least the one we all think we've heard of). Actually he won it three times, twice AFTER accidentally shooting himself. He recovered, but after those two victories his career seemed to go away (I always wondered where he'd been shot since we're talking a LOT of hours on a bike seat if you follow my drift. Where's that AFLAC duck when you really need him?)
How many times did Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France before most of it even realized it. And then all the great back story: the battle against cancer, the birth of the little boy, more bicycle races, more yellow tricots, Sheryl Crow, no more Sheryl Crow, the retirement and then the unretirement and now after four years, he's back on the bike in the thick of the competition, even though the battalion of announcers (and cameras-I love the mini-cam guys riding backwards on the motorcycles thisclose to the charging riders) covering the event are more often now noting with keener and deeper regret he will, in all probability, NOT win the race. And what does the winner get anyway? A permanent press yellow jersey? The opportunity to write 'winner of the Tour de France' on the hotel check-in form? Do you think Duna could do that?
-bill kenny
I'm talking about bicycles and as kids there was Schwinn and there was Royce Union, and not much else. These were big, clunky solid yoke metal frame bikes, with balloon tires and white sidewalls. You had a mousetrap in the back, and that's where you kept your glove, baseball inside of it, so that the pocket formed just right. Maybe your dad, or somebody else's dad would remember to get the little can of neet's foot oil at the hardware store and you'd work that stuff into the glove before putting it into the mousetrap.
Twenty-six inch tires on those bikes and maybe, if you had a fancy one, it had front and rear handbrakes, but ours mostly didn't-you just stood on the pedals hard and the rear wheel broke away and wound up sliding to one side or the other. You stopped all right. We all knew somebody whose folks had gotten them a bike with three gears, think of it!, but we didn't have bikes like that. Going up hill, you pedaled hard-if it got steeper, you pedaled harder. Screw up, you fell off and walked up hill holding the bike by the handlebars, feeling (and looking) like a dork.
I was thinking about all of that yesterday as the bikers, not Marlon Brando and The Wild One, raced across parts of France whose towns can only correctly be pronounced by having your adenoids removed. And again this year, one or more people have died along the route at the various stages, and I keep thinking 'nobody ever got hurt when we rode to Resko's house' and that was over an hour back in the day (it'd be like three days in 'now' time).
It wasn't until the LA Olympics in '84, sitting in Germany and watching the highlights of the games the Warsaw Pact boycotted, that I first saw Americans go ga-ga for the most European of sports, in my opinion (unless they make sulking an event). The oval track with the impossible angles of banking, the skinny tires that seemed to be made of solid rubber, the 'Disco in Frisco' skin tight speedo outfits and most especially those 'revenge of the Alien' head shaped helmets, all of it so aerodynamic I thought these guys could fly. Reading about the Tour de France, I learned flight wasn't the half of it.
I was aware of a Frankfurt am Main based Tour de France cyclist, Didi Thoreau, I think his name was (I have no idea as it turns out) and I couldn't understand how you could make a living as a professional bike rider. I had a movie in my head, where Didi is in Munich, perhaps visiting his fan-club (I'm sure he had one) and checks into the Munich Hilton which is right at the Munchen-Reims airport and as he checks in, what exactly does he put under "occupation"? 'Professional Bicycle Rider' And if the concierge snickers across the desk while reading it, upside down, in the ledger, does he offer to prove it with a bike strapped to his back?
Then in the late Eighties, Greg Lemond, an American from I have no idea where, not only became successful on the European Bicycle race circuit (that's hard to believe, isn't it; a circuit for bike racers? 'See you in Naples?' 'No, I'm training for the Bern Butt Buster, see you there.') he won the Tour de France (and why, by the way, is THAT the big race, or at least the one we all think we've heard of). Actually he won it three times, twice AFTER accidentally shooting himself. He recovered, but after those two victories his career seemed to go away (I always wondered where he'd been shot since we're talking a LOT of hours on a bike seat if you follow my drift. Where's that AFLAC duck when you really need him?)
How many times did Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France before most of it even realized it. And then all the great back story: the battle against cancer, the birth of the little boy, more bicycle races, more yellow tricots, Sheryl Crow, no more Sheryl Crow, the retirement and then the unretirement and now after four years, he's back on the bike in the thick of the competition, even though the battalion of announcers (and cameras-I love the mini-cam guys riding backwards on the motorcycles thisclose to the charging riders) covering the event are more often now noting with keener and deeper regret he will, in all probability, NOT win the race. And what does the winner get anyway? A permanent press yellow jersey? The opportunity to write 'winner of the Tour de France' on the hotel check-in form? Do you think Duna could do that?
-bill kenny
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
One-Trick or Not
I don't remember what the product is-actually, eventually I do, but when the commercial starts I can never recall the sponsor (it's for an Internet bank)-and a grown-up is sitting at a short table with two little girls of less than (probably) five years of age. He asks the first little girl if she would like a pony, and the child eagerly says 'yes' and the man gives her a small pony replica. Smiles all around.
The man asks the other little girl if she, too, would like a pony and she responds in the affirmative, at which point he makes a 'chck-chck' sound and out from behind this large doll house ambles a real pony, bridle and saddle. The child is delighted.
The first child not so much and we get some close-ups of her face as we hear the squeals of delight from other little girl. Eventually she screws up the courage to tell the grown-up very non-judgmentally for a child who just got double-crossed 'you didn't say I could have a real pony.' To which he quickly rejoins, 'you didn't ask.'
The announcer proceeds to read advertising copy about sneaky is as sneaky does, trust whatever the bank is to do whatever banks are about, grown-ups eat bugs or some such palaver. What I always come back to is the abject hatred on the first girl's face for all things adult. She isn't close to tears or a tantrum-she's close to homicide.
Either she is an incredibly gifted actress at such a young age, or the producers of the commercial didn't let her in on the joke and what we are seeing in the commercial is her actual animus, spontaneous and unrehearsed.
Sometimes when I follow the news even casually, I expect to see the streets of America littered with plastic pony replicas. We are, I think, as a people the most relentlessly optimistic nation on earth, perhaps unrealistically optimistic. I grew up in a USA that liked Ike, grudgingly extended equal rights to everyone, went in one generation from a chicken in every pot to two cars in every garage and which now finds itself, for lack of a more elegant term, flat-out broke.
The part that doesn't have me worried is that we can't fix what doesn't work, because two hundred and thirty plus years of our history tells me we can. What bothers me is will we choose to repair ourselves? We've conspicuously consumed just about everything this planet has to offer and its riches haven't come close to filling that hole in our hearts. And now the one in our wallet is even larger than that one.
We've conditioned ourselves to find solutions in fifteen, thirty and sixty second increments and ideas like universal health care, green-house gases, economic reinvestment, don't lend themselves to discussions or explanations that can be jammed in between the blue mountains of a beer can commercial and the soft porn of a shaving cream advertisement. It's not even fair to say we lose interest-we never had any.
Our whole lives guys in suits with briefcases fixed everything. We never asked, because we never wanted to know. We built armies, we went to the moon, we sold each other real estate everyone at the closing knew wasn't worth the money being paid for it, but no one got upset or concerned because the Suits were there and they were fabulous. We, too, were fabulous. Heck, everything was fabulous, unless it was brilliant.
And now the suits are shiny with wear, and in some cases, there's holes at the elbows and the sleeves are ragged. And the property we used to build the grand list to elevate the bond rating for the twenty-year municipal debentures we sold to finance the construction of the new transportation hub of the city that would increase all of our property values, well, bad news on that front as the sub-prime mortgage lenders who shouldn't have advanced us the money they didn't have in the first place are all flopping and twitching on the beach as the tide of prosperity continues to rush out and no one warned us about the undertow.
Except of course, we were warned, but we thought they were asking if we wanted a pony.
-bill kenny
The man asks the other little girl if she, too, would like a pony and she responds in the affirmative, at which point he makes a 'chck-chck' sound and out from behind this large doll house ambles a real pony, bridle and saddle. The child is delighted.
The first child not so much and we get some close-ups of her face as we hear the squeals of delight from other little girl. Eventually she screws up the courage to tell the grown-up very non-judgmentally for a child who just got double-crossed 'you didn't say I could have a real pony.' To which he quickly rejoins, 'you didn't ask.'
The announcer proceeds to read advertising copy about sneaky is as sneaky does, trust whatever the bank is to do whatever banks are about, grown-ups eat bugs or some such palaver. What I always come back to is the abject hatred on the first girl's face for all things adult. She isn't close to tears or a tantrum-she's close to homicide.
Either she is an incredibly gifted actress at such a young age, or the producers of the commercial didn't let her in on the joke and what we are seeing in the commercial is her actual animus, spontaneous and unrehearsed.
Sometimes when I follow the news even casually, I expect to see the streets of America littered with plastic pony replicas. We are, I think, as a people the most relentlessly optimistic nation on earth, perhaps unrealistically optimistic. I grew up in a USA that liked Ike, grudgingly extended equal rights to everyone, went in one generation from a chicken in every pot to two cars in every garage and which now finds itself, for lack of a more elegant term, flat-out broke.
The part that doesn't have me worried is that we can't fix what doesn't work, because two hundred and thirty plus years of our history tells me we can. What bothers me is will we choose to repair ourselves? We've conspicuously consumed just about everything this planet has to offer and its riches haven't come close to filling that hole in our hearts. And now the one in our wallet is even larger than that one.
We've conditioned ourselves to find solutions in fifteen, thirty and sixty second increments and ideas like universal health care, green-house gases, economic reinvestment, don't lend themselves to discussions or explanations that can be jammed in between the blue mountains of a beer can commercial and the soft porn of a shaving cream advertisement. It's not even fair to say we lose interest-we never had any.
Our whole lives guys in suits with briefcases fixed everything. We never asked, because we never wanted to know. We built armies, we went to the moon, we sold each other real estate everyone at the closing knew wasn't worth the money being paid for it, but no one got upset or concerned because the Suits were there and they were fabulous. We, too, were fabulous. Heck, everything was fabulous, unless it was brilliant.
And now the suits are shiny with wear, and in some cases, there's holes at the elbows and the sleeves are ragged. And the property we used to build the grand list to elevate the bond rating for the twenty-year municipal debentures we sold to finance the construction of the new transportation hub of the city that would increase all of our property values, well, bad news on that front as the sub-prime mortgage lenders who shouldn't have advanced us the money they didn't have in the first place are all flopping and twitching on the beach as the tide of prosperity continues to rush out and no one warned us about the undertow.
Except of course, we were warned, but we thought they were asking if we wanted a pony.
-bill kenny
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
It's NOT Progress when NOTHING Changes
Tomorrow and Thursday are the equivalent of the Super Bowl weekends for local politics here in The Rose City. Except it's kind of a Super Bowl where the East Squeegum Mugwamps take on the
The Republicans, who seem to be in shorter numbers on this side of the
There are currently two Republicans on the City Council. One, who returned via special election in April, will be (by all accounts) his party's nominee for Mayor-unlike four years ago when the Republicans endorsed the same person the Democrats had selected. The other incumbent Republican alderman is seeking a second term. And that, unless Divine Providence intervenes, will be it for the Grand Old Party and the Norwich City Council. That could be awkward.
In the case of the GOP, it may really be ‘if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always gotten’ (Be careful, some consider that a definition of insanity). Because of the minority representation provisions within CT's elections laws, the next seven-person City Council may have no more than five from one party, so the Republicans have left themselves no room for error or loss. In light of their previous history and voter turnout, that's a very brave thing to do.
There are, as I mentioned, nine seats on the Board of Education (it's hard for me to think of local school board philosophy or policy as 'that's Republican' or 'this is Democratic') and the same minority representation requirements in this case allocate three seats to the Republicans who, may have, I've read found a (fourth) candidate (and a great person as well).
I registered as a Democrat after years as an unaffiliated voter mainly for the free pudding on campfire nights. Sadly, because of a tree shortage, campfire nights were discontinued almost immediately afterwards, but the damage is done and no amount of pudding will persuade me from remaining a registered Democrat, though neither I, nor the Democratic Party (large or small) seem to derive any benefit from our mutual association.
The Democratic Town Committee will have a candidate's forum at
We, the registered Democrats in Norwich, can finally start being in the 21st Century, albeit late, by making a choice in selecting as our voice someone who is NOT politics as usual and who would like us to consider, contrary to how we've functioned around here for decades it seems, that sometimes ideas are what drive public dialogue and not the public personalities espousing them.
I've lived here almost eighteen years and have long tired of explanations for toxic stasis that include expressions like 'we need community input' or 'we should build consensus at the grass-roots', as all of those are code for 'here's how we roll in
Back in the
The same politics that failed
If you care about
-bill kenny
Monday, July 20, 2009
Norwich Meetings 20-24 July
This is a little awkward. This week's preview will contain ZERO meetings we might see one another at and none of that is your fault. I spent a reasonable amount this past sunny Saturday afternoon in the Emergency Room and Convenient Care areas of
The good news, when my three hour staycation was over, is I don't have H1N1. The bad news is I do have pneumonia. In the interests of public health and safety I'll be staying home and away from others, immediate family excepted (making it even more of a lousy deal to be related to me). Should you have a few extra dollars and a list of people whom you dislike, I will consider a few public appearances to kiss them full on the lips and see if they get sick. No guarantees, mind you, and ten bucks is ten bucks per person.
As it is, this a very active and (hopefully) robust week in The Rose City. What, exactly comes of all that activity remains to be seen, as is so often the case.
This afternoon, at four, meeting at
At seven is a regular meeting of the City Council, with a sparse agenda, though you might disagree with that characterization if you have any positive or negative feelings about another five million dollar bond issue for road pavement.
At seven, meeting a short walk from one another which is only fair since in many ways they complement one another, is a regular meeting of the Commission on the City Plan at 23 Union Street (the application to operate a "Homeless Veterans Supportive Living facility" is on the agenda) and in the community meeting room (upstairs) at the Otis Library, it's a regular meeting the Downtown Neighborhood Revitalization Zone Committee whose name just isn't long enough in my opinion. (But who still do not comply with state law on publicly accessible meeting minutes a year after the public law went into effect.)
Wednesday afternoon at
In the middle of all of this is the Republican Town Committee Caucus at 6:30 in Room 335 of City Hall where they will solicit and endorse their nominees for Mayor and the six seats for this year's City Council elections but will, as is always the case, have nowhere near enough candidates to field a full slate. Because of CT's 'minority representation' provisions in the State Constitution, there must be at least two members of the Republican party on the seven-person City Council. And if their past is an indicator of their future, it'll be Peter Nystrom for Mayor (maybe specifics show up after the nomination) and Bill Nash for Alderman, and no one else (though I'd love to be surprised).
At seven, in their facility on New London Turnpike, is a regular meeting of the Norwich Golf Course Authority whose June minutes and July agenda are both unavailable.
Speaking of less than available, Thursday morning at eight in their offices at 75 Main Street, it's a regular meeting (I assume) of the Norwich Community Development Corporation, though I've no sign of an agenda or meeting minutes posted on the City's website and most certainly not on their own. It's just no fun anymore to tease about their lack of a web presence, especially in light of their charge as the city's redevelopment engine and agency and more especially since our taxes are directly and indirectly paying for all of this. Not sure how successful you can be at doing those tasks needed to foster economic development in
At six, up in their office at the Recreation Office in
Starting at six in City Hall, in Council Chambers, it's the Democratic Town Committee Candidate Forum and Talent Show. You don't think Alderman
My feelings are well-known and I see no point in not talking about it now. If you live here, and your candidate for the next Mayor of Norwich doesn't have at least this much specifically outlined, you need to find someone else or you need to move. It's as true today as it will be next Friday morning, no matter who receives the nomination at the actual caucus starting at seven in Room 335 of City Hall.
I'm gonna spend a reasonable amount of time this week working on getting and staying healthy, which seems to take up more and more of my time everyday. Our city, and your town, works only as well as we who live there make it, and help it, to do. Roll up a sleeve and lend a hand, we all need all the help we can get.
-bill kenny
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Forty years is but a Moment
Forty years ago tomorrow, we walked on the moon for the first time. If you weren't yet born when that happened, you missed something, you really did. You can read a library of books on how much effort and coordination, time and talents and money such an effort took, and it's staggering, but here's the thing to remember from 'back in the day'.
Going to the moon wasn't the only thing we were doing as a country, as a tribe, a nation state on Earth. We had almost 450,000 men under arms halfway around the world in forests and fields of Southeast Asia in a war that was to be as divisive as any in the history of our nation and whose outcome left us saddened and sullen for a decade.
Nearly the same number of young men and women were heading to Upstate New York during this summer, actually in August, for what was advertised as four days of Peace, Love and Music and almost all anyone can remember, whether they were or not, is all the mud and the incredible performances by so many musicians, especially those whose flame flickered brightly from that stage and were then forever extinguished because of self-indulgence or profound bad luck.
Back at the moon walk, we on Earth watched around the world, with some of our younger brothers and sisters going outside to stand on the porch at Harvey's Lake (Pa) and look up at the moon to see if you could see the astronauts (if wishing could have made it so) as the astronauts seemed to skip and dance across the most desolate place we could imagine.
As a nation we were faced with challenges all around us-but we found the time, actually we MADE the time, to watch these extraordinary people do this extraordinary thing that NO ONE in our history had ever done before. And just as no man enters the same river twice because both he and the river have changed, there is no way we can ever be those people who watched by the dawn's early light what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming. We did it then, and we can do it now--not because it's easy, because it's not, but because it's hard and because if we do not repair and restore our country, we will have no one to blame but ourselves when in another forty years we cannot remember anything to be proud of since the Moon Walk.
Don't Interrupt the Sorrow,
Damn right.
He says we walked on the moon.
You be polite.
-bill kenny
Going to the moon wasn't the only thing we were doing as a country, as a tribe, a nation state on Earth. We had almost 450,000 men under arms halfway around the world in forests and fields of Southeast Asia in a war that was to be as divisive as any in the history of our nation and whose outcome left us saddened and sullen for a decade.
Nearly the same number of young men and women were heading to Upstate New York during this summer, actually in August, for what was advertised as four days of Peace, Love and Music and almost all anyone can remember, whether they were or not, is all the mud and the incredible performances by so many musicians, especially those whose flame flickered brightly from that stage and were then forever extinguished because of self-indulgence or profound bad luck.
Back at the moon walk, we on Earth watched around the world, with some of our younger brothers and sisters going outside to stand on the porch at Harvey's Lake (Pa) and look up at the moon to see if you could see the astronauts (if wishing could have made it so) as the astronauts seemed to skip and dance across the most desolate place we could imagine.
As a nation we were faced with challenges all around us-but we found the time, actually we MADE the time, to watch these extraordinary people do this extraordinary thing that NO ONE in our history had ever done before. And just as no man enters the same river twice because both he and the river have changed, there is no way we can ever be those people who watched by the dawn's early light what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming. We did it then, and we can do it now--not because it's easy, because it's not, but because it's hard and because if we do not repair and restore our country, we will have no one to blame but ourselves when in another forty years we cannot remember anything to be proud of since the Moon Walk.
Don't Interrupt the Sorrow,
Damn right.
He says we walked on the moon.
You be polite.
-bill kenny
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Next time READ the Memo
For all the folks I pass with the bumper sticker (or all the insipid variations of it) "01.20.09-The End of an Error", time to break out the razor blade and take it to the bumper. President Bush is past tense, though you seem to have NOT noticed and thank the Lord and Greyhound, he's gone.
I never voted for him, despite the pomposity of the first guy, Mr. Animal Excitement as I like to think of him, who was his opponent in 2000 and the stealth charisma of the junior Senator from Massachusetts, I always remember him as The Senator Who Could Swim, in 2004. Maybe if the other guys had nominated a can of succotash I'd have considered pulling the lever for him, but, no, I just couldn't do it.
But here's the thing--whether you voted for him or not, threatened to leave the country and never return (yes, Alec Baldwin, I am talking about you and it hurts, a lot; sort of like watching you act, that you're still here), George W. Bush is NOT the President anymore. Get over it, you won. Heck, WE all won. Nothing to see here, move along. As much as I detest poor losers, I abhor poor winners even more.
Unless the bumper sticker is holding the Volvo bio-diesel station wagon together as your Birkenstock-shod gas pedal foot makes sure you never break the speed limit, get that election year artifact off the car. It's like having a Vote McKinley campaign button on your straw boater as you dance the black bottom. That 70's Show was the nineteen seventies, after all, and they had the decency to stop once they were no longer funny (eventually).
Didn't you get the memo on this stuff? More on point, didn't you read it? Do we actually need Department of Transportation and Highway Safety rules banning trite and no longer necessary or relevant adhesive messages? Does that mean if your child has children of her/his own, it's time for the "My Child Is an Honor Student at Ridgemont Elementary School" to come off the car? What do you think? And no, State of Washington drivers, you can't leave the "Fifty Four Forty or Fight" stickers on your back windows. But nice try.
-bill kenny
I never voted for him, despite the pomposity of the first guy, Mr. Animal Excitement as I like to think of him, who was his opponent in 2000 and the stealth charisma of the junior Senator from Massachusetts, I always remember him as The Senator Who Could Swim, in 2004. Maybe if the other guys had nominated a can of succotash I'd have considered pulling the lever for him, but, no, I just couldn't do it.
But here's the thing--whether you voted for him or not, threatened to leave the country and never return (yes, Alec Baldwin, I am talking about you and it hurts, a lot; sort of like watching you act, that you're still here), George W. Bush is NOT the President anymore. Get over it, you won. Heck, WE all won. Nothing to see here, move along. As much as I detest poor losers, I abhor poor winners even more.
Unless the bumper sticker is holding the Volvo bio-diesel station wagon together as your Birkenstock-shod gas pedal foot makes sure you never break the speed limit, get that election year artifact off the car. It's like having a Vote McKinley campaign button on your straw boater as you dance the black bottom. That 70's Show was the nineteen seventies, after all, and they had the decency to stop once they were no longer funny (eventually).
Didn't you get the memo on this stuff? More on point, didn't you read it? Do we actually need Department of Transportation and Highway Safety rules banning trite and no longer necessary or relevant adhesive messages? Does that mean if your child has children of her/his own, it's time for the "My Child Is an Honor Student at Ridgemont Elementary School" to come off the car? What do you think? And no, State of Washington drivers, you can't leave the "Fifty Four Forty or Fight" stickers on your back windows. But nice try.
-bill kenny
Friday, July 17, 2009
Glad I Packed a Lunch. Wished I'd Packed a Book.
It was a pleasant enough evening, I suppose. Yeah, there was a little bit of humidity but with rain clouds rolling in throughout the afternoon and into the early evening and storm clouds piling up, how could you be surprised. Could've done with more people, but then again, I have enough challenges with the ones I know now.
I'd mentioned Monday there was a reasonably important, admittedly inside-baseball, meeting tonight in Norwich's City Hall. It was a Campaign Finance-Training Seminar, held by the State Elections Enforcement Commission (SEEC), and you've already noticed the past tense of the verb (a literary device known as foreshadowing. Fiveshadowing is something posers use) so I'll bet you've guessed what happened next (sure wish you'd been here with all this good guessing, it would have saved me some time).
The SEEC sent an advisory on the training out across the state months ago to the two traditional political parties and their town committees, as well as to city clerks in the various municipalities, to encourage treasurers and other campaign officials to register for a training session at one of the four regional locations so that the presenters would have some idea of how many people they could expect in, for example, Waterbury, or perhaps later in the same week, in Norwich.
The incentive for attending the finance training is a rather severe fine and a stiff jail sentence if you goober up your candidate's campaign finance reports. This is the Land of Steady Habits, after all, and while we deplore cruelty and criminal mischief, our blood boils when we speak of crimes against property or involving money.
The word, such as it was, trickled rather than flowed in and through The Rose City (and elsewhere). Meanwhile back at the fort (Hartford), the SEEC, based on the spectacular lack of interest they thought was coming from this corner of New London County, among other places, canceled the seminar. Actually, not just here, but in ALL four of the planned-for locations across the Nutmeg State.
And they did as good a job of getting the cancellation word out, as the local municipal authorities had in spreading the word in the first place. As a matter of fact, the remaining session (no plural, but thanks for the thought) which will now be kind of snug since it's the only session, isn't until next month, in Middletown, which for those who like to ride or drive for distance is made to order, as it's equidistant (more or less) from all four of the towns originally slated to host the seminars.
Yeah, it will, with any luck, be a lot more moist and warm on August 10th, when the seminar, possibly, kicks off in Middletown, so dress lightly and use baby powder and dry not to step on anyone's toes or sit on someone else's lap, because quarters may get close. And complain only softly about how inconvenient this training has become. Make it a point to find a mirror somewhere in the municipal building so you can have a quick word with the person directly responsible for yet another yawn in the great sleepwalking exercise we too often call American democracy.
-bill kenny
I'd mentioned Monday there was a reasonably important, admittedly inside-baseball, meeting tonight in Norwich's City Hall. It was a Campaign Finance-Training Seminar, held by the State Elections Enforcement Commission (SEEC), and you've already noticed the past tense of the verb (a literary device known as foreshadowing. Fiveshadowing is something posers use) so I'll bet you've guessed what happened next (sure wish you'd been here with all this good guessing, it would have saved me some time).
The SEEC sent an advisory on the training out across the state months ago to the two traditional political parties and their town committees, as well as to city clerks in the various municipalities, to encourage treasurers and other campaign officials to register for a training session at one of the four regional locations so that the presenters would have some idea of how many people they could expect in, for example, Waterbury, or perhaps later in the same week, in Norwich.
The incentive for attending the finance training is a rather severe fine and a stiff jail sentence if you goober up your candidate's campaign finance reports. This is the Land of Steady Habits, after all, and while we deplore cruelty and criminal mischief, our blood boils when we speak of crimes against property or involving money.
The word, such as it was, trickled rather than flowed in and through The Rose City (and elsewhere). Meanwhile back at the fort (Hartford), the SEEC, based on the spectacular lack of interest they thought was coming from this corner of New London County, among other places, canceled the seminar. Actually, not just here, but in ALL four of the planned-for locations across the Nutmeg State.
And they did as good a job of getting the cancellation word out, as the local municipal authorities had in spreading the word in the first place. As a matter of fact, the remaining session (no plural, but thanks for the thought) which will now be kind of snug since it's the only session, isn't until next month, in Middletown, which for those who like to ride or drive for distance is made to order, as it's equidistant (more or less) from all four of the towns originally slated to host the seminars.
Yeah, it will, with any luck, be a lot more moist and warm on August 10th, when the seminar, possibly, kicks off in Middletown, so dress lightly and use baby powder and dry not to step on anyone's toes or sit on someone else's lap, because quarters may get close. And complain only softly about how inconvenient this training has become. Make it a point to find a mirror somewhere in the municipal building so you can have a quick word with the person directly responsible for yet another yawn in the great sleepwalking exercise we too often call American democracy.
-bill kenny
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Sometimes the Things We Do Speak so Loudly, You Can't Hear What We're Saying
Have you seen a police officer speaking on a cellphone in a marked police car while in traffic and wondered what the heck was going on? Yeah, me too. Should I feel chagrined that there's never going to be a moment when a policeman asks, 'have you ever seen a rebel without a clue talking on a cellphone, blah, blah, blah?' And that answer will be 'no.' Not really, but it's an idea.
I grabbed ten minutes of some most excellent outdoors weather yesterday at mid-morning and walked around the block of the building in which I work. Back in the days when I smoked (and boy did I, about three and half packs a day. I stopped, suddenly, on 30 September 1996 and never took it up again), it was customary to have a break for a cigarette in mid-morning and then again in the middle of the afternoon.
In a way, becoming a non-smoker, I screwed myself out of those pauses, though whenever I try to organize a pity-party about that I have to remember 'by quitting cigarettes, I lowered my chances of ever having lung cancer, emphysema or any other respiratory illness by a huge percentage.' Unless, of course, I get hit by a cigarette truck, in which case the whole thing's a wash, I guess. I'm lucky in that the people I work for will allow me to walk away from the desk (and regroup) though sometimes it looks more like disappointment than relief when I come back.
Anyway, out yesterday morning I noticed on the corner a pick-up truck in a no-parking zone, the engine running, blocking a fire hydrant. On the door, the lettering indicated the truck was part of the fire department's fleet. There was no one in the truck and there were no emergency lights flashing or sirens howling (or even a small fire burning; I always have marshmallows and a stick. Just in case.). I half-smile at the deliciousness of this kind of stuff, be it thoughtlessness or hypocrisy or just simple absence of concern for others, because I know if that were my vehicle, the windscreen would be covered with tickets for a variety of violations, all deserved.
Continuing down the street, maybe four additional car-lengths and at the curb in a real parking space, was one of those police ticket patrol cars (you know the kind; they're electric and look like they're on loan from the Lego-land Police Department) that resemble a moon buggy. I think in theory, they're a great idea in an urban environment for a city-in much the same way as I like the concept of a Segway for patrols. In real life, the cars look silly and police on Segways crack me up, and when they have the helmets on, as well they should, I almost pee myself laughing (I never claimed to be a nice person).
I'm always surprised when the ticket person, or meter reader as I call them, is a full-sized human being, though I'm not sure what they should be, and my surprise discomfits me. I couldn't resist-I mentioned the illegally parked fire pick-up truck to Officer Krupke. Perhaps, he offered, without bothering to make eye contact with me, the guy went inside the building a minute ago and will be right back.
Yeah. Welcome to Benefit of the Doubt, population: you, Officer. I told the police person there wasn't any part of that I was buying and, truth to tell, neither was he. And it was now two minutes since 'the guy' went into 'the building' perhaps like the bear, to see what he could see. Speaking of which, I offered, why not mosey on down to the truck and the fire hydrant and time just how long 'the guy' is absent?
That suggestion got me eye contact and a heaping side order of a 'what are you, a wise guy?' look that I took to mean now was a good time to tuck and roll in the dismount and disengage portion of today's lesson on Inter-Personal Communications with Public Safety Officials. As Bob Dylan once offered, 'wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin', but don't wait too long. And I figured it really wasn't warm enough for my tambourine to spontaneously combust so I called myself the breeze and desired 'back to the office' was as fine a destination as I could think of on too-short a notice.
-bill kenny
I grabbed ten minutes of some most excellent outdoors weather yesterday at mid-morning and walked around the block of the building in which I work. Back in the days when I smoked (and boy did I, about three and half packs a day. I stopped, suddenly, on 30 September 1996 and never took it up again), it was customary to have a break for a cigarette in mid-morning and then again in the middle of the afternoon.
In a way, becoming a non-smoker, I screwed myself out of those pauses, though whenever I try to organize a pity-party about that I have to remember 'by quitting cigarettes, I lowered my chances of ever having lung cancer, emphysema or any other respiratory illness by a huge percentage.' Unless, of course, I get hit by a cigarette truck, in which case the whole thing's a wash, I guess. I'm lucky in that the people I work for will allow me to walk away from the desk (and regroup) though sometimes it looks more like disappointment than relief when I come back.
Anyway, out yesterday morning I noticed on the corner a pick-up truck in a no-parking zone, the engine running, blocking a fire hydrant. On the door, the lettering indicated the truck was part of the fire department's fleet. There was no one in the truck and there were no emergency lights flashing or sirens howling (or even a small fire burning; I always have marshmallows and a stick. Just in case.). I half-smile at the deliciousness of this kind of stuff, be it thoughtlessness or hypocrisy or just simple absence of concern for others, because I know if that were my vehicle, the windscreen would be covered with tickets for a variety of violations, all deserved.
Continuing down the street, maybe four additional car-lengths and at the curb in a real parking space, was one of those police ticket patrol cars (you know the kind; they're electric and look like they're on loan from the Lego-land Police Department) that resemble a moon buggy. I think in theory, they're a great idea in an urban environment for a city-in much the same way as I like the concept of a Segway for patrols. In real life, the cars look silly and police on Segways crack me up, and when they have the helmets on, as well they should, I almost pee myself laughing (I never claimed to be a nice person).
I'm always surprised when the ticket person, or meter reader as I call them, is a full-sized human being, though I'm not sure what they should be, and my surprise discomfits me. I couldn't resist-I mentioned the illegally parked fire pick-up truck to Officer Krupke. Perhaps, he offered, without bothering to make eye contact with me, the guy went inside the building a minute ago and will be right back.
Yeah. Welcome to Benefit of the Doubt, population: you, Officer. I told the police person there wasn't any part of that I was buying and, truth to tell, neither was he. And it was now two minutes since 'the guy' went into 'the building' perhaps like the bear, to see what he could see. Speaking of which, I offered, why not mosey on down to the truck and the fire hydrant and time just how long 'the guy' is absent?
That suggestion got me eye contact and a heaping side order of a 'what are you, a wise guy?' look that I took to mean now was a good time to tuck and roll in the dismount and disengage portion of today's lesson on Inter-Personal Communications with Public Safety Officials. As Bob Dylan once offered, 'wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin', but don't wait too long. And I figured it really wasn't warm enough for my tambourine to spontaneously combust so I called myself the breeze and desired 'back to the office' was as fine a destination as I could think of on too-short a notice.
-bill kenny
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
There, that Didn't Hurt, Did It?
Suspect this is NOT what the Reader's Digest folks were driving at all those years ago with their notes about 'more picturesque speech', but it's a whole lot easier to remember and more fun to read. Having read the news account twice and the summary of the actual study, I'm surprised it's not louder at Norwich City Council meetings-from the gallery, I mean. (Some nights it's a bit loud from the front of the room, and warmer, too.)
I'm not suggesting we should sponsor contests to see if we can peel the paint from the walls in Council chambers, in terms of the coarseness of the language, though that idea is tempting and oddly comforting. I'm just not sure we can organize the logistics of Council meetings so there's an even distribution on all surfaces as we move the citizens from side to side, and not just along the back wall near where I sit.
Of course, true confession time, I do think of some (perhaps) technicolor participles and anatomically difficult aerobic exercises, but I strive to NOT speak them aloud while processing those thoughts-at least not too loudly. Like many of us, I have had instances in the past where my evil twin, Skippy, (what my Imp of the Perverse tends to answer to) has confused inside and outside voice and my ears have heard my mouth say things that I had truly hoped would remain secret.
Now, if I can just work hypoalgesia into a sentence, ideally a limerick, it'll be a banner day.
-bill kenny
I'm not suggesting we should sponsor contests to see if we can peel the paint from the walls in Council chambers, in terms of the coarseness of the language, though that idea is tempting and oddly comforting. I'm just not sure we can organize the logistics of Council meetings so there's an even distribution on all surfaces as we move the citizens from side to side, and not just along the back wall near where I sit.
Of course, true confession time, I do think of some (perhaps) technicolor participles and anatomically difficult aerobic exercises, but I strive to NOT speak them aloud while processing those thoughts-at least not too loudly. Like many of us, I have had instances in the past where my evil twin, Skippy, (what my Imp of the Perverse tends to answer to) has confused inside and outside voice and my ears have heard my mouth say things that I had truly hoped would remain secret.
Now, if I can just work hypoalgesia into a sentence, ideally a limerick, it'll be a banner day.
-bill kenny
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Wherever I Lay My Hat
I took advantage of the nice weather yesterday (a really nice day, not just a day without torrential rains which is what I've taken to considering 'nice days' in recent weeks) to walk a few blocks to attend a meeting rather than carpool. I know the folks in the van appreciated the respite.
I wandered over (now that my knees don't hurt all the time, I'm a walkin' fool; I'd been at least part of that for years previously) and as I walked I noticed those little brown birds, maybe sparrows (I'm not an ornithologist and I did not stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night), who have built their nests in most, though not all, the street lamps that line a pedestrian area that cuts through the district and breaks up the traffic (and feels a little like an oasis).
These are tall street poles, at least twenty feet high. You'd need a cherry picker (bucket truck is the preferred name, I think, these days. We can't make it better so we make it different and call it even) to replace the bulbs when they burn out, which they don't do very often so it works out well for everyone except if you're in the bucket truck rental business (and you can be forgiven for always having a slingshot, I suppose). For the birds, who don't seem to be much bigger than a balled fist, it's a good deal and for me, a bit of a lesson.
The nests are high enough that, aside from another bird, or Superman, no predator can threaten their home. It's not the most convenient location, but they can make it work and, obviously enough, they do. They've lived in the vicinity of humans for countless centuries and have learned to make allowances for us (probably not Icarus-suspect he wasn't a biped with whom they did a lot of shoe-shopping, or in his case, sandal-shopping). I wonder what they used to crap on before we invented cars. I'm visualizing Ben Hur with bird poop, nope, not happening ......
Their nests are barely visible within the gratings of the lamps at the top of the poles from the ground, but even from the ground, you can tell that they're made from whatever they can find when they're out scavenging for stuff. In a sense, whatever they bring, they sing. You can see how some nests have more twigs than string or ribbon or discarded paper.
I don't imagine they sit in them as evening falls and look at one another's nests and conspire darkly or gossip viciously. We might take a page from them on that. They all have just enough for themselves to get by, without the luxury of too much so that they would be tempted to get greedy or envious. I suspect none of the nests look a whole lot better from above than they do from below, so there's never any concern that the Good Nestkeeping Magazine folks will waste a day in a center spread photo shoot for next month's issue (just as well, since the sparrows have no pockets to put change in for the vending boxes) or to provoke any further jealousy among the sparrows.
You should watch how they hop and bop along the sidewalk (if I could fly, I would NEVER walk anywhere, ever), picking up bits of whatever they can to eat or use as building materials (sometimes both, I bet). Their motto, if they have one, might be 'Peeping not Reaping.' There was a crumb from a doughnut that was large enough for a small party among a group of them (they kin do it, I suppose) and they grabbed a piece from a Styrofoam cup that will be around for hundreds of years (Yay, science!) for the equivalent of home improvement.
They do not miss what they do not have. Or at least it seems so. They've learned to adapt, if not to overcome, then to survive. I kept my eye peeled for lilies of the field, but sometimes the lesson ends a little early.
-bill kenny
I wandered over (now that my knees don't hurt all the time, I'm a walkin' fool; I'd been at least part of that for years previously) and as I walked I noticed those little brown birds, maybe sparrows (I'm not an ornithologist and I did not stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night), who have built their nests in most, though not all, the street lamps that line a pedestrian area that cuts through the district and breaks up the traffic (and feels a little like an oasis).
These are tall street poles, at least twenty feet high. You'd need a cherry picker (bucket truck is the preferred name, I think, these days. We can't make it better so we make it different and call it even) to replace the bulbs when they burn out, which they don't do very often so it works out well for everyone except if you're in the bucket truck rental business (and you can be forgiven for always having a slingshot, I suppose). For the birds, who don't seem to be much bigger than a balled fist, it's a good deal and for me, a bit of a lesson.
The nests are high enough that, aside from another bird, or Superman, no predator can threaten their home. It's not the most convenient location, but they can make it work and, obviously enough, they do. They've lived in the vicinity of humans for countless centuries and have learned to make allowances for us (probably not Icarus-suspect he wasn't a biped with whom they did a lot of shoe-shopping, or in his case, sandal-shopping). I wonder what they used to crap on before we invented cars. I'm visualizing Ben Hur with bird poop, nope, not happening ......
Their nests are barely visible within the gratings of the lamps at the top of the poles from the ground, but even from the ground, you can tell that they're made from whatever they can find when they're out scavenging for stuff. In a sense, whatever they bring, they sing. You can see how some nests have more twigs than string or ribbon or discarded paper.
I don't imagine they sit in them as evening falls and look at one another's nests and conspire darkly or gossip viciously. We might take a page from them on that. They all have just enough for themselves to get by, without the luxury of too much so that they would be tempted to get greedy or envious. I suspect none of the nests look a whole lot better from above than they do from below, so there's never any concern that the Good Nestkeeping Magazine folks will waste a day in a center spread photo shoot for next month's issue (just as well, since the sparrows have no pockets to put change in for the vending boxes) or to provoke any further jealousy among the sparrows.
You should watch how they hop and bop along the sidewalk (if I could fly, I would NEVER walk anywhere, ever), picking up bits of whatever they can to eat or use as building materials (sometimes both, I bet). Their motto, if they have one, might be 'Peeping not Reaping.' There was a crumb from a doughnut that was large enough for a small party among a group of them (they kin do it, I suppose) and they grabbed a piece from a Styrofoam cup that will be around for hundreds of years (Yay, science!) for the equivalent of home improvement.
They do not miss what they do not have. Or at least it seems so. They've learned to adapt, if not to overcome, then to survive. I kept my eye peeled for lilies of the field, but sometimes the lesson ends a little early.
-bill kenny
Monday, July 13, 2009
People Curse the Government....
"Lights are out in the city hall
The castle and the keep
The moon shines down upon it all
The legless and asleep."
I think we're fortunate that neither above condition precludes being part of the (at least) forty-six different elected or volunteer advisories, authorities, boards, commissions and committees in The Rose City (I say at least, because not listed but very much a presence and a reference is the Norwich Community Development Corporation, starting closest to home, I guess) and I don't know how many other organized volunteer efforts of which I am clueless.
So many people in the same device. The one volunteer panel on the list that caught my eye, this week, and there's not a lot on the city's website to go on, is the Microenterprise Grant Program, especially as some of us continue to talk (and develop plans) about economic development and smart growth in Norwich during this Mayoral and City Council election year (though in fairness, I should point out that others of us don't talk about it at all). I did find this and have promised myself to return and review.
I wanted to start a preview of meetings with an item that's NOT a meeting, but, rather a vacation trip for hosts with the most on Washington Street, 好旅途!, and enjoy your time away.
Turning to this week's meeting calendar:Tomorrow afternoon at five, at the Public Works facilities at 50 Clinton Street, is a regular meeting of the Public Works Capital Improvements Committee, who haven't held any meetings, it appears, since February. Here's the agenda for tomorrow's meeting-forthcoming isn't a word I'd use to describe it, but that's probably because I got a dictionary for my birthday. I'd assume updates on the dog pound (you remember that from the City Council meetings, right? That actually goes back to the previous City Council) and the repair of the seawall (that was to happen before the 350th but couldn't), might be logical.
Later, at seven in the basement conference room of 23 Union Street is a regular meeting of the Zoning Board of Appeals. (By the way, it seems two of the members, including the chairman, have lapsed memberships-so now I really know how local government really works.) If you're looking for their agenda, good luck. It's not posted. If you're trying to project what might be on it, based on the decisions and actions of their 9 June meeting, there are no minutes posted from that meeting. It's like 17 June 2008 never happened.
Speaking of never happened. I could feel bad about repeatedly pointing out the lack of current information on the Children First Norwich website, except two months ago I dropped them a note offering to help bring them up to date and am still waiting for an acknowledgement much less a response. This is an organization I know from our two children, engaged in important and worthwhile work, who consistently fails the 'who cares?' test because they cannot seem to get their stuff in one sock (as used to say in the Air Force, sort of) in terms of timely updates on critical events and intiatives . Meaning well is so ten minutes ago; doing well is the new now. Anyway, their regular monthly meeting is at nine o'clock Wednesday morning at the community meeting room in the Dime Bank on the Salem Turnpike.
Thursday may be busier than it seems, or not, depending on whom you read and what they say. At five in the afternoon in Room 319 of City Hall is a regular meeting of the Historic District Commission. Their agenda doesn't seem to be available, which I realize comes as a surprise, but here's a draft (=not yet reviewed and approved by the Commission) of the May meeting (Yeah, I noticed the same thing; maybe we had so much rain in June, it flooded out the minutes).
Perhaps, at six in Room 335 of City Hall (the room with the lousy acoustics and the cathedral ceilings) is a Campaign Finance-Training Seminar, held by the State Elections Enforcement Commission (SEEC). It's NOT listed on the City of Norwich, but SEEC website has it posted.
Also Thursday, also at six, though across town at the Norwich Ice Arena on New London Turnpike is a regular meeting of the Norwich Ice Arena Authority. It would appear, as is so often the case (get Al Gore on the phone and be careful, you're getting carbon footprints all over the rug!), global warming has caused both the July agenda and their June meeting minutes to melt into nothingness.
In keeping with my first point about the number of committees, the last meeting this week I'll mention is for folks NOT on the city's list but still working hard. Friday morning at eight, is a 'Private meeting' (it says on their events calendar) of the Chelsea Gardens Foundation, to be held 'east of the sun and west of the moon' perhaps....which is where, I suspect, "The ghost of Dirty Dick is still in search of Little Nell." And an Old Curiosity Shop could be just what's missing from the Chelsea District.
-bill kenny
The castle and the keep
The moon shines down upon it all
The legless and asleep."
I think we're fortunate that neither above condition precludes being part of the (at least) forty-six different elected or volunteer advisories, authorities, boards, commissions and committees in The Rose City (I say at least, because not listed but very much a presence and a reference is the Norwich Community Development Corporation, starting closest to home, I guess) and I don't know how many other organized volunteer efforts of which I am clueless.
So many people in the same device. The one volunteer panel on the list that caught my eye, this week, and there's not a lot on the city's website to go on, is the Microenterprise Grant Program, especially as some of us continue to talk (and develop plans) about economic development and smart growth in Norwich during this Mayoral and City Council election year (though in fairness, I should point out that others of us don't talk about it at all). I did find this and have promised myself to return and review.
I wanted to start a preview of meetings with an item that's NOT a meeting, but, rather a vacation trip for hosts with the most on Washington Street, 好旅途!, and enjoy your time away.
Turning to this week's meeting calendar:Tomorrow afternoon at five, at the Public Works facilities at 50 Clinton Street, is a regular meeting of the Public Works Capital Improvements Committee, who haven't held any meetings, it appears, since February. Here's the agenda for tomorrow's meeting-forthcoming isn't a word I'd use to describe it, but that's probably because I got a dictionary for my birthday. I'd assume updates on the dog pound (you remember that from the City Council meetings, right? That actually goes back to the previous City Council) and the repair of the seawall (that was to happen before the 350th but couldn't), might be logical.
Later, at seven in the basement conference room of 23 Union Street is a regular meeting of the Zoning Board of Appeals. (By the way, it seems two of the members, including the chairman, have lapsed memberships-so now I really know how local government really works.) If you're looking for their agenda, good luck. It's not posted. If you're trying to project what might be on it, based on the decisions and actions of their 9 June meeting, there are no minutes posted from that meeting. It's like 17 June 2008 never happened.
Speaking of never happened. I could feel bad about repeatedly pointing out the lack of current information on the Children First Norwich website, except two months ago I dropped them a note offering to help bring them up to date and am still waiting for an acknowledgement much less a response. This is an organization I know from our two children, engaged in important and worthwhile work, who consistently fails the 'who cares?' test because they cannot seem to get their stuff in one sock (as used to say in the Air Force, sort of) in terms of timely updates on critical events and intiatives . Meaning well is so ten minutes ago; doing well is the new now. Anyway, their regular monthly meeting is at nine o'clock Wednesday morning at the community meeting room in the Dime Bank on the Salem Turnpike.
Thursday may be busier than it seems, or not, depending on whom you read and what they say. At five in the afternoon in Room 319 of City Hall is a regular meeting of the Historic District Commission. Their agenda doesn't seem to be available, which I realize comes as a surprise, but here's a draft (=not yet reviewed and approved by the Commission) of the May meeting (Yeah, I noticed the same thing; maybe we had so much rain in June, it flooded out the minutes).
Perhaps, at six in Room 335 of City Hall (the room with the lousy acoustics and the cathedral ceilings) is a Campaign Finance-Training Seminar, held by the State Elections Enforcement Commission (SEEC). It's NOT listed on the City of Norwich, but SEEC website has it posted.
Also Thursday, also at six, though across town at the Norwich Ice Arena on New London Turnpike is a regular meeting of the Norwich Ice Arena Authority. It would appear, as is so often the case (get Al Gore on the phone and be careful, you're getting carbon footprints all over the rug!), global warming has caused both the July agenda and their June meeting minutes to melt into nothingness.
In keeping with my first point about the number of committees, the last meeting this week I'll mention is for folks NOT on the city's list but still working hard. Friday morning at eight, is a 'Private meeting' (it says on their events calendar) of the Chelsea Gardens Foundation, to be held 'east of the sun and west of the moon' perhaps....which is where, I suspect, "The ghost of Dirty Dick is still in search of Little Nell." And an Old Curiosity Shop could be just what's missing from the Chelsea District.
-bill kenny
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Bow-ties and High Noon
More and more we live in a word-less world. By that, I don't mean a silent one but rather, a world in which you can scrape by with pictures and symbols. I love looking at the tags in shirts--it's like a graduation from Semaphore University. There's no bleach, hang-dry only, wash in cold water, dolphin-free, dry-clean, only etcetera.
I thought it reassuring that no matter where in the world you travel those symbols are the same until I realized it has a lot to do with the manufacturing process and that almost all the clothes we buy, no matter where in the world we live, are made in the same third-world sweat shops. That's more likely the reason why the care symbology at the collar is the same. Oh.
I'm not going to hold a Geography Bee with Carmen Lauer and Matt San Diego on where our clothes are made, because I have no trouble finding my way around as nearly everyone, be it at home or at work, tells me where to go. And that's an unfair advantage even for television stars to overcome.
What I am intrigued by is how our technology, not knowing where in the world we will use it, has created its own language to which we have universally adapted. Do you remember when you used to yell for 'Help!'. Our machines' clocks do the same thing, sort of, except they flash 12:00--we all know that means there's trouble at the mill and are now conditioned, when we see it, to look around for a cause.
My smart-phone does this weird little vamp when it's loading an application (I had to ask someone who knows about phones to describe that process so I could write it down here. I have so little idea of how the device works, when it doesn't work, someone else has to tell me as I cannot figure it out by myself). Maybe yours does the 'gimme a minute jitterbug', too.
It looks like a vertical bow-tie and then it starts to whirl and twirl in a clockwise direction. Someone told me it's NOT a bow-tie at all, it's supposed to be an hour glass. That actually makes more sense to me, since that would have something to do with time, which is what the device is wasting, and not neck wear, of which I have a closetful though I have no idea of its purpose (or didn't) even though most workdays I wear one.
Every time I see the posters for the raffles, there's always the disclaimer at the bottom, 'duplicate prizes awarded in the event of ties' and I keep thinking, today's the day. Good fortune, here I am! Luck be a Lady tonight. And yet all I ever win is a dry-clean only dolphin two sizes too small, no bleach only.
-bill kenny
I thought it reassuring that no matter where in the world you travel those symbols are the same until I realized it has a lot to do with the manufacturing process and that almost all the clothes we buy, no matter where in the world we live, are made in the same third-world sweat shops. That's more likely the reason why the care symbology at the collar is the same. Oh.
I'm not going to hold a Geography Bee with Carmen Lauer and Matt San Diego on where our clothes are made, because I have no trouble finding my way around as nearly everyone, be it at home or at work, tells me where to go. And that's an unfair advantage even for television stars to overcome.
What I am intrigued by is how our technology, not knowing where in the world we will use it, has created its own language to which we have universally adapted. Do you remember when you used to yell for 'Help!'. Our machines' clocks do the same thing, sort of, except they flash 12:00--we all know that means there's trouble at the mill and are now conditioned, when we see it, to look around for a cause.
My smart-phone does this weird little vamp when it's loading an application (I had to ask someone who knows about phones to describe that process so I could write it down here. I have so little idea of how the device works, when it doesn't work, someone else has to tell me as I cannot figure it out by myself). Maybe yours does the 'gimme a minute jitterbug', too.
It looks like a vertical bow-tie and then it starts to whirl and twirl in a clockwise direction. Someone told me it's NOT a bow-tie at all, it's supposed to be an hour glass. That actually makes more sense to me, since that would have something to do with time, which is what the device is wasting, and not neck wear, of which I have a closetful though I have no idea of its purpose (or didn't) even though most workdays I wear one.
Every time I see the posters for the raffles, there's always the disclaimer at the bottom, 'duplicate prizes awarded in the event of ties' and I keep thinking, today's the day. Good fortune, here I am! Luck be a Lady tonight. And yet all I ever win is a dry-clean only dolphin two sizes too small, no bleach only.
-bill kenny
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Cursing (in) the Darkness, Sitting at the Light
It's early when I go to work, not as early as when my brother Adam heads out, and by the time I do he's gotten most of the chickens fed and the cows milked, which works out well for me since my employment efforts are confined mostly to the mess the back ends make.
At the foot of Washington Street, which is also a state highway whose number, even after almost 18 years here, I cannot remember, right next to the church with a sign that once advised, "Life is Short, Pray Hard" at the intersection with the Sweeney Bridge, is a traffic signal that captures relationships in and with The Rose City.
The light sits at the junction of a "T". Those coming down the hill who go right AND those coming up the hill who go left, all head in the same direction over the bridge onto what becomes Route 82 (I think). Maybe that's what happened to Norwich-everyone went for a drive and drove over the one-way bridge and never came back because they can't. Whoa! Talk about 'Norwich is moving forward.' The traffic signal is a beacon and often a vexation and, I suspect not for me alone, a cause for some head-shaking.
No matter the hour, this traffic signal is on duty--no blinking light, red for us and yellow for the other folks. No pause and go-no roll on through and have a nice day. Nope, nada. It works 24/7 every day of the year. Once, during a truly awful snow storm it was a blinking light (red in both directions-that was very helpful, especially for those struggling to get up the hill) but only that one snowstorm. I wasn't sure what to make of the state snow plows NOT heeding the red blinking light as they blew right on through it, so I decided I imagined it (I'll bet you didn't know there's a difference between city snow and state snow.Yepper). I'm not going to mention, come to think of it, that the light was blinking last Saturday evening for the fireworks at the Harbor and for many hours thereafter, because that's just crazy talk.
Again, as always, yesterday morning the traffic signal was red when I reached it. It's not on a sensor and if it's on a timer, it's more of a calendar than a clock, based on my experience. My red signal lasted five and a half minutes at five fourteen in the morning (Yes, my life is that empty that I timed it. In fairness, it's NOT always that long, so add consistency to the list of quirks.).The part I find funny is at the time of day I'm there, it's not unusual to NOT see another vehicle for the entire time I'm at the light. Yesterday was a bit weird when the walk/don't walk signal came on, and there were NO pedestrians. For a moment I thought I saw a barbecue, but that would have been quite a feat...so I'll imagine I thought I saw a 'puddy tat.'
Eventually (of course) the signal changed, otherwise I'd be trying to type this on a cell phone (and be cited for violating CT's hands-free law) and I had f-i-f-t-e-e-n seconds of green light (that amount of time is a constant; go figure). I've driven the street at all times of the day and every day of week and it's not always like that so I have to wonder why, at oh-bright-early it can't be blinking. I'm counting on, eventually, the bulb(s) in the signal, mine (red) and the oncoming (green), just burning out and motorists can then drive happily ever after or until they reach the next intersection at the Laurel Hill Bridge.
-bill kenny
At the foot of Washington Street, which is also a state highway whose number, even after almost 18 years here, I cannot remember, right next to the church with a sign that once advised, "Life is Short, Pray Hard" at the intersection with the Sweeney Bridge, is a traffic signal that captures relationships in and with The Rose City.
The light sits at the junction of a "T". Those coming down the hill who go right AND those coming up the hill who go left, all head in the same direction over the bridge onto what becomes Route 82 (I think). Maybe that's what happened to Norwich-everyone went for a drive and drove over the one-way bridge and never came back because they can't. Whoa! Talk about 'Norwich is moving forward.' The traffic signal is a beacon and often a vexation and, I suspect not for me alone, a cause for some head-shaking.
No matter the hour, this traffic signal is on duty--no blinking light, red for us and yellow for the other folks. No pause and go-no roll on through and have a nice day. Nope, nada. It works 24/7 every day of the year. Once, during a truly awful snow storm it was a blinking light (red in both directions-that was very helpful, especially for those struggling to get up the hill) but only that one snowstorm. I wasn't sure what to make of the state snow plows NOT heeding the red blinking light as they blew right on through it, so I decided I imagined it (I'll bet you didn't know there's a difference between city snow and state snow.Yepper). I'm not going to mention, come to think of it, that the light was blinking last Saturday evening for the fireworks at the Harbor and for many hours thereafter, because that's just crazy talk.
Again, as always, yesterday morning the traffic signal was red when I reached it. It's not on a sensor and if it's on a timer, it's more of a calendar than a clock, based on my experience. My red signal lasted five and a half minutes at five fourteen in the morning (Yes, my life is that empty that I timed it. In fairness, it's NOT always that long, so add consistency to the list of quirks.).The part I find funny is at the time of day I'm there, it's not unusual to NOT see another vehicle for the entire time I'm at the light. Yesterday was a bit weird when the walk/don't walk signal came on, and there were NO pedestrians. For a moment I thought I saw a barbecue, but that would have been quite a feat...so I'll imagine I thought I saw a 'puddy tat.'
Eventually (of course) the signal changed, otherwise I'd be trying to type this on a cell phone (and be cited for violating CT's hands-free law) and I had f-i-f-t-e-e-n seconds of green light (that amount of time is a constant; go figure). I've driven the street at all times of the day and every day of week and it's not always like that so I have to wonder why, at oh-bright-early it can't be blinking. I'm counting on, eventually, the bulb(s) in the signal, mine (red) and the oncoming (green), just burning out and motorists can then drive happily ever after or until they reach the next intersection at the Laurel Hill Bridge.
-bill kenny
Friday, July 10, 2009
Not quite Jim Morrison, though longer
To start, a happy anniversary wish to SJ and her guy, RZ. You know we're only helping him so he gets out of your way around the house, right? May you both have many more.
A friend had a valid point about yesterday's screed which was, basically, analysis of the orgy of self-flagellation among all our media partners, great and small, on the death of Michael Jackson until the man himself became the excuse for the mummery. A kind of parlor trick, an infinity of mirrors navel-gazing exercise and that's probably closer to the truth than I'd like to think. But then again as he and I both know, I don't like to think.
Important news happened that had nothing to do with the phalanx of TV crews and 'journalists' who deployed to Los Angeles, including: an effort to move the discussion on national health insurance forward by soliciting a pledge from major hospitals; too much/a surprising amount/hardly any progress on global warming as part of the G-8 meetings (depends on who you talk to and to whom you listen for your TV news); the transfer of cities from US to Iraqi forces is a bit bumpy, (so far) and that's just for starters. We more or less missed all of that with a seance that no one could figure out how to say 'enough is enough' so as to allow a family to be alone with their grief. Talk about 'Never Can Say Goodbye.'
I didn't add anything to that conversation. It was, despite protestations to the contrary, the very piling on I insisted it wasn't. I apologize for that but I'm actually sorry because I failed to make my point, in much the same way as I failed to make it when John Lennon was murdered. Lennon was shot shortly before four in the morning, Central European Time. I had hours before my air shift at American Forces Network, AFN, Europe, in Frankfurt am Main, (West) Germany. My sadness at his death was profound. My anger at his accused murderer was/is immeasurable.
As I sat in the studio and started my board shift, I knew I'd play at least one selection from the Double Fantasy album. I offered sadly that it wasn't the record he would, or should, be remembered for and left it at that. What I had no way of knowing was how the station switchboard lit up as listeners reacted. The following morning my boss attempted to explain to me why trying to step back and out of the maelstrom the evening before was in poor form. He conceded nearly everyone calling had agreed with my observations and then added 'but don't let it happen again.' I asked him what he meant by 'it'-Lennon's murder or the casual contempt with which we take one another's lives. Now, twenty-nine years too late, I realize, he meant neither.
Fast forward to the days leading up to the video pyre in LA. Who really believed Larry King gave a fried rat's hindquarters about Michael Jackson? Did you catch any of his incredible interview with Sean Coombs ('How are you handling this?' I think he says in this snippet) whom he called 'P Daddy'? I actually sat and waited for it as Larry used him as his very own 'dig how hip I am' credential. We heard from the rich and famous as if they had clue one as to what had happened or what any of it meant. But it was okay because we were grieving.
TMZ became the most important 'news agency' in the world, and let me be clear, we were NOT okay and will never again be okay. I'm watching Charles Gibson attempt to tell me about his favorite Michael Jackson song. What? But don't worry, folks at home, after the break-and stay tuned-we'll be talking with Elizabeth Taylor who'll share with us that she has nothing to share. You'll want to stick around for that. Please don't touch that dial.....
As excruciatingly garish as this all became-cue the banshees-I guess it could have been worse. I just don't know how. And in the Brave New World we've created, a critical shortage of imagination can, and will, prove fatal. You doubt me? Wait until the next time, and there will be a next time.
"The boys are all ready. They've laid out the plans. They're setting the stage for the man-made man. We've worked out the kinks in your DNA. So sayonara, kid, have a nice day."
-bill kenny
A friend had a valid point about yesterday's screed which was, basically, analysis of the orgy of self-flagellation among all our media partners, great and small, on the death of Michael Jackson until the man himself became the excuse for the mummery. A kind of parlor trick, an infinity of mirrors navel-gazing exercise and that's probably closer to the truth than I'd like to think. But then again as he and I both know, I don't like to think.
Important news happened that had nothing to do with the phalanx of TV crews and 'journalists' who deployed to Los Angeles, including: an effort to move the discussion on national health insurance forward by soliciting a pledge from major hospitals; too much/a surprising amount/hardly any progress on global warming as part of the G-8 meetings (depends on who you talk to and to whom you listen for your TV news); the transfer of cities from US to Iraqi forces is a bit bumpy, (so far) and that's just for starters. We more or less missed all of that with a seance that no one could figure out how to say 'enough is enough' so as to allow a family to be alone with their grief. Talk about 'Never Can Say Goodbye.'
I didn't add anything to that conversation. It was, despite protestations to the contrary, the very piling on I insisted it wasn't. I apologize for that but I'm actually sorry because I failed to make my point, in much the same way as I failed to make it when John Lennon was murdered. Lennon was shot shortly before four in the morning, Central European Time. I had hours before my air shift at American Forces Network, AFN, Europe, in Frankfurt am Main, (West) Germany. My sadness at his death was profound. My anger at his accused murderer was/is immeasurable.
As I sat in the studio and started my board shift, I knew I'd play at least one selection from the Double Fantasy album. I offered sadly that it wasn't the record he would, or should, be remembered for and left it at that. What I had no way of knowing was how the station switchboard lit up as listeners reacted. The following morning my boss attempted to explain to me why trying to step back and out of the maelstrom the evening before was in poor form. He conceded nearly everyone calling had agreed with my observations and then added 'but don't let it happen again.' I asked him what he meant by 'it'-Lennon's murder or the casual contempt with which we take one another's lives. Now, twenty-nine years too late, I realize, he meant neither.
Fast forward to the days leading up to the video pyre in LA. Who really believed Larry King gave a fried rat's hindquarters about Michael Jackson? Did you catch any of his incredible interview with Sean Coombs ('How are you handling this?' I think he says in this snippet) whom he called 'P Daddy'? I actually sat and waited for it as Larry used him as his very own 'dig how hip I am' credential. We heard from the rich and famous as if they had clue one as to what had happened or what any of it meant. But it was okay because we were grieving.
TMZ became the most important 'news agency' in the world, and let me be clear, we were NOT okay and will never again be okay. I'm watching Charles Gibson attempt to tell me about his favorite Michael Jackson song. What? But don't worry, folks at home, after the break-and stay tuned-we'll be talking with Elizabeth Taylor who'll share with us that she has nothing to share. You'll want to stick around for that. Please don't touch that dial.....
As excruciatingly garish as this all became-cue the banshees-I guess it could have been worse. I just don't know how. And in the Brave New World we've created, a critical shortage of imagination can, and will, prove fatal. You doubt me? Wait until the next time, and there will be a next time.
"The boys are all ready. They've laid out the plans. They're setting the stage for the man-made man. We've worked out the kinks in your DNA. So sayonara, kid, have a nice day."
-bill kenny
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Mirror or Window
At the risk of sounding like I'm piling on, even though I'm not, how much of the coverage of the memorial service/Viking funeral for Michael Jackson did you follow? At what point, if any, did you find it garish that you and I, as members of the gawking public, were participants, witnesses if you will, to such a sad, personal and family tragedy? And yet, let's be honest with one another, we don't feel unclean at all-it was just another day watching the tube and double-clicking the mouse. And when the services ended and the last tweeter twitted and the final mini-cam was capped, we looked to what (ever) was next. That the Jackson Family lost a son, a brother, and his children lost their father is more or less obscured by the churn of events--and when one among us suffers the loss of her/his humanity, we all lose.
There was at least one live blog of the memorial service from inside the arena. I have no idea how many more there were and I won't even hazard a guess at the number of broadcast and cable news channels who provided wall to wall reports. Perhaps the last time such coverage was attempted, on a smaller scale (of course) because we didn't have the technology, was when Elvis Presley died and I'm not going to waste anyone's time rewarming all the parallels to that passing I've read in the last days.
We've become a culture, nearly world-wide, who, because we have all these channels and means of communication, feel compelled to fill them with something. There was a time, when our kids were very young, when the idea of 24/7 news operation was novel. Many of us wondered what would go on a channel like that at all hours of the day and night. At some point as convergence began to close the distances between one form and another, news devolved into noise, not that we really noticed. Now, there's not a lot of nutrition in any of what we watch-just empty calories. When the President of the United States speaks and it takes longer than one commercial break (three and half minutes) we start to twitch. We surf until we find something somewhere, even if we've seen it already, rather than attempt to stretch our attention span and focus. We have so much freedom of choice for information we yearn for freedom from choice.
Later this month, we'll mark the 40th anniversary of the First Man to Walk on the Moon. However, by the time we reach that milestone, it will be competing for our attention with the upcoming (in August) 40th anniversary of Woodstock (even National Lampoon whacked that one. And how!). Which one was history? Which one wasn't? How do you decide what is history? And what can a poor boy do, except to sing for a rock'n'roll band-'cos in this sleepy London Town there's just no place for a street fighting man.
Sorry-I was channeling Mick Jagger, whose initials just happen to be-OMG-how creepy is that? And speaking of the Strolling Bones, how amazed that he's still among us must Keith Richards be, in light of the number of musicians who've passed? But I digress. More frequently, and faster, private moments of public people, not just our national leaders, celebrities, become public spectacle. I wondered years ago if the news coverage of OJ and AC's speeding Ford Bronco was the end of an error (or era). Now I fear it was the lead car in the circus caravan."And the perverted fear of violence chokes the smile on every face. And common sense is ringing out the bell. This ain't no technological breakdown, Oh no, this is the road to hell."
-bill kenny
There was at least one live blog of the memorial service from inside the arena. I have no idea how many more there were and I won't even hazard a guess at the number of broadcast and cable news channels who provided wall to wall reports. Perhaps the last time such coverage was attempted, on a smaller scale (of course) because we didn't have the technology, was when Elvis Presley died and I'm not going to waste anyone's time rewarming all the parallels to that passing I've read in the last days.
We've become a culture, nearly world-wide, who, because we have all these channels and means of communication, feel compelled to fill them with something. There was a time, when our kids were very young, when the idea of 24/7 news operation was novel. Many of us wondered what would go on a channel like that at all hours of the day and night. At some point as convergence began to close the distances between one form and another, news devolved into noise, not that we really noticed. Now, there's not a lot of nutrition in any of what we watch-just empty calories. When the President of the United States speaks and it takes longer than one commercial break (three and half minutes) we start to twitch. We surf until we find something somewhere, even if we've seen it already, rather than attempt to stretch our attention span and focus. We have so much freedom of choice for information we yearn for freedom from choice.
Later this month, we'll mark the 40th anniversary of the First Man to Walk on the Moon. However, by the time we reach that milestone, it will be competing for our attention with the upcoming (in August) 40th anniversary of Woodstock (even National Lampoon whacked that one. And how!). Which one was history? Which one wasn't? How do you decide what is history? And what can a poor boy do, except to sing for a rock'n'roll band-'cos in this sleepy London Town there's just no place for a street fighting man.
Sorry-I was channeling Mick Jagger, whose initials just happen to be-OMG-how creepy is that? And speaking of the Strolling Bones, how amazed that he's still among us must Keith Richards be, in light of the number of musicians who've passed? But I digress. More frequently, and faster, private moments of public people, not just our national leaders, celebrities, become public spectacle. I wondered years ago if the news coverage of OJ and AC's speeding Ford Bronco was the end of an error (or era). Now I fear it was the lead car in the circus caravan."And the perverted fear of violence chokes the smile on every face. And common sense is ringing out the bell. This ain't no technological breakdown, Oh no, this is the road to hell."
-bill kenny
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Memo to My Son
This is one of the four most important days in my life, every year. I am still in awe, nearly thirty-two years after she said yes, technically 'ja', that my wife is still my wife so I celebrate our anniversary as if I had anything to do with the longevity of our relationship when it's really all her. And of course, there's her birthday, which I've never forgotten (nor correctly captured with either the right gift or the correct card), but I'm getting closer.
We celebrated my daughter's birthday early in May and I realize she was being kind in putting up with her mushy old dad but that won't stop me from imposing upon her in exactly the same manner next year, because mushy dads cultivate not having very good memories.
Today is the 27th birthday of our son, Patrick Michael. I remember all of it as if it were yesterday and smile looking at his earliest photos (technically speaking the black and white Polaroids of him on ultrasound), though in this case I mean after he left the capsule, so to speak. One small step for man .... usw.
I ended up in the geburtsaal even though most of our neighbors had quietly bet I would pass out if I accompanied Sigrid into the delivery room. As it was, she almost cut my left hand in half squeezing it during the contractions as it's the hand I wear my wedding ring on. Every time I even thought about mentioning that pain to her, I'd look into her face, a lovely face filled with abject hatred for me and my having put her through the pain of childbirth, and decided that I'd be better advised mentioning my problem at another time, perhaps our Golden wedding anniversary.
The physician Sigrid had seen during her pregnancy was unimpressed with having a lallygagger hanging around the OR, especially one who looked as loopy as I did before we had children. All he wanted to know was 'warum?' (why?)-because, I said, I placed the order so I want to take delivery. Still cannot really recall the look on his face, try as I might, but I'll bet it wasn't a look of gratitude as in 'just what I needed, an American nearly-comedian'.
I've told you when Patrick was born, they placed him with Sigrid to bond and then she gave him to me as, after all, she'd carried him for the last nine months. I walked him around the operating room like I was doing a tour for Grey Line and we in lower Manhattan. As much as I love my wife, and I do, being present for the birth of my son was the single most amazing thing I have (n)ever done.
He takes off every year for his birthday and this year he went with a friend to visit her friends and family in Maine. You'd think knowing where he was going and with whom would keep me from making the scary movies I make every time one of my children is out of my sight. Especially my son who has lived under his own roof for quite a number of years. Sorry-you aren't a parent and most certainly not a dad, because that never goes away. There's always a nagging worry especially with a first-born and more especially when it's your son.
Everything you vowed when you were a kid to never do if you had a son when it was your father being the dad, rushes in to grab you by the ear and lead you down the corridor of memory when you are the dad. And all you can hope is that you don't mess up your children. Meanwhile, all those times you thought your old man was just nuts and had NO clue about what was really going on, and when you remember your son's behavior at that same age, you realize, the part of the clueless father is now being played by you.
"Wait'll you learn how to talk baby, I'll show you how smart I am." Well, one of us mastered the language, and then another one, a long time; and the other of us is still working on that smart trick. Any day now. What can I say? Nur Patrick!!! Herzlichen Gluckwunsche zum Geburtstag!
We celebrated my daughter's birthday early in May and I realize she was being kind in putting up with her mushy old dad but that won't stop me from imposing upon her in exactly the same manner next year, because mushy dads cultivate not having very good memories.
Today is the 27th birthday of our son, Patrick Michael. I remember all of it as if it were yesterday and smile looking at his earliest photos (technically speaking the black and white Polaroids of him on ultrasound), though in this case I mean after he left the capsule, so to speak. One small step for man .... usw.
I ended up in the geburtsaal even though most of our neighbors had quietly bet I would pass out if I accompanied Sigrid into the delivery room. As it was, she almost cut my left hand in half squeezing it during the contractions as it's the hand I wear my wedding ring on. Every time I even thought about mentioning that pain to her, I'd look into her face, a lovely face filled with abject hatred for me and my having put her through the pain of childbirth, and decided that I'd be better advised mentioning my problem at another time, perhaps our Golden wedding anniversary.
The physician Sigrid had seen during her pregnancy was unimpressed with having a lallygagger hanging around the OR, especially one who looked as loopy as I did before we had children. All he wanted to know was 'warum?' (why?)-because, I said, I placed the order so I want to take delivery. Still cannot really recall the look on his face, try as I might, but I'll bet it wasn't a look of gratitude as in 'just what I needed, an American nearly-comedian'.
I've told you when Patrick was born, they placed him with Sigrid to bond and then she gave him to me as, after all, she'd carried him for the last nine months. I walked him around the operating room like I was doing a tour for Grey Line and we in lower Manhattan. As much as I love my wife, and I do, being present for the birth of my son was the single most amazing thing I have (n)ever done.
He takes off every year for his birthday and this year he went with a friend to visit her friends and family in Maine. You'd think knowing where he was going and with whom would keep me from making the scary movies I make every time one of my children is out of my sight. Especially my son who has lived under his own roof for quite a number of years. Sorry-you aren't a parent and most certainly not a dad, because that never goes away. There's always a nagging worry especially with a first-born and more especially when it's your son.
Everything you vowed when you were a kid to never do if you had a son when it was your father being the dad, rushes in to grab you by the ear and lead you down the corridor of memory when you are the dad. And all you can hope is that you don't mess up your children. Meanwhile, all those times you thought your old man was just nuts and had NO clue about what was really going on, and when you remember your son's behavior at that same age, you realize, the part of the clueless father is now being played by you.
"Wait'll you learn how to talk baby, I'll show you how smart I am." Well, one of us mastered the language, and then another one, a long time; and the other of us is still working on that smart trick. Any day now. What can I say? Nur Patrick!!! Herzlichen Gluckwunsche zum Geburtstag!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Hello In There
I took a day off yesterday to celebrate my own holiday, the 6th of July, and to actually give me a break from my routine work-a-day life. I am fortunate in that I enjoy what I do for a living (I'm not sure the people with whom I come into contact feel that way) but sometimes, probably like you, I get so caught up in the 'doing' I stop seeing the reason or I supply different reasons than the ones that brought me here in the first place (and making enough and having enough money is certainly a valid reason for working, it's just a lousy reason for excelling at work; sorry).
If you're a shift or a flex-time worker you've already discovered this, but I'm always surprised when I'm off on a 'regular' work day as to how much of life goes on within you and and without you. I went for a walk around the Norwich Free Academy track, which I try to do normally in the early evening,and there are always a considerable number of other folks out and about, but at 9:15 in the morning, I pretty much had it to myself.
This morning, because I was home, I had the luxury of being to read both morning daily newspapers at my kitchen table instead of on-line, and that means I read everything to include the obituaries. Suspect if you read them, you feel the same way sometimes: I'm always impressed with how long so many people live these days (and hope I and everyone I know and love will be in that number for quite some time to come). Yesterday's papers had folks passing who were in their nineties and all of their families were far away, if listed at all. That so many had so few made me wonder if the parents had outlived their children and suspected they had.
That got me thinking back to something from a long time ago in the third or fourth grade at Saint Peter's School in New Brunswick, New Jersey with Sister Thomas Ann. What happens to you, I asked her, when the last person on Earth who knew of you during your life dies as well after your death? I don't recall thinking I'd nailed anything to cathedral doors in Wittenburg (I'm pretty sure I didn't even know where that was at the time) but I found out when you ask questions like that you spend the afternoon in Sister Immaculata's office (she was the principal) and your mom gets a call at home and your father has to write a note, actually a letter, apologizing for your question even though, as I walked the track at NFA yesterday and thought about those obits in the newspapers, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why I was sorry or for what.
I have a smart phone-or said another way, my cell phone has a stupid owner. I can listen to music from a variety of sources while doing a task such as walking around an oval track in Southeastern Connecticut. In this case, I listen to slacker as it augments the albums I've stored on my phone's memory card (albums? I'm not sure that's what we call music anymore; but it's what old guys like me call it). Sometimes life imitates art and in this case makes me promise to return the favor, which may disconcert some of those whom I pass on the street as I walk in the late afternoons from now on. Through my headphones, came my favorite John Prine song-a song that if we could somehow adopt it as a second national anthem, or as the foundation for foreign policy, this planet might not find itself in the mess it so often seems to end up in and maybe one less person would die all alone in a world with over six billion of us stepping on one another's toes.
"So if you're walking down the street sometime, And spot some hollow ancient eyes, Please don't just pass 'em by and stare, As if you didn't care, Say "Hello in there, hello."
-bill kenny
If you're a shift or a flex-time worker you've already discovered this, but I'm always surprised when I'm off on a 'regular' work day as to how much of life goes on within you and and without you. I went for a walk around the Norwich Free Academy track, which I try to do normally in the early evening,and there are always a considerable number of other folks out and about, but at 9:15 in the morning, I pretty much had it to myself.
This morning, because I was home, I had the luxury of being to read both morning daily newspapers at my kitchen table instead of on-line, and that means I read everything to include the obituaries. Suspect if you read them, you feel the same way sometimes: I'm always impressed with how long so many people live these days (and hope I and everyone I know and love will be in that number for quite some time to come). Yesterday's papers had folks passing who were in their nineties and all of their families were far away, if listed at all. That so many had so few made me wonder if the parents had outlived their children and suspected they had.
That got me thinking back to something from a long time ago in the third or fourth grade at Saint Peter's School in New Brunswick, New Jersey with Sister Thomas Ann. What happens to you, I asked her, when the last person on Earth who knew of you during your life dies as well after your death? I don't recall thinking I'd nailed anything to cathedral doors in Wittenburg (I'm pretty sure I didn't even know where that was at the time) but I found out when you ask questions like that you spend the afternoon in Sister Immaculata's office (she was the principal) and your mom gets a call at home and your father has to write a note, actually a letter, apologizing for your question even though, as I walked the track at NFA yesterday and thought about those obits in the newspapers, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why I was sorry or for what.
I have a smart phone-or said another way, my cell phone has a stupid owner. I can listen to music from a variety of sources while doing a task such as walking around an oval track in Southeastern Connecticut. In this case, I listen to slacker as it augments the albums I've stored on my phone's memory card (albums? I'm not sure that's what we call music anymore; but it's what old guys like me call it). Sometimes life imitates art and in this case makes me promise to return the favor, which may disconcert some of those whom I pass on the street as I walk in the late afternoons from now on. Through my headphones, came my favorite John Prine song-a song that if we could somehow adopt it as a second national anthem, or as the foundation for foreign policy, this planet might not find itself in the mess it so often seems to end up in and maybe one less person would die all alone in a world with over six billion of us stepping on one another's toes.
"So if you're walking down the street sometime, And spot some hollow ancient eyes, Please don't just pass 'em by and stare, As if you didn't care, Say "Hello in there, hello."
-bill kenny
Monday, July 6, 2009
Doesn't Seem to Be a Shadow in the City
Just me or for the last couple of days, at least around here, are we finally getting the summer weather that we'd wondered about for most of June? I'm not complaining, mind you-just reminding everyone to be very careful what you wish for, in case you do actually get it.
Those who've wished for a less than cluttered meeting week, you get your wish though the meetings going on are important (as they all should be).
Not, strictly speaking, a "Norwich" meeting though its actions and decisions do or could impact on the Rose City, is a meeting this morning at 8:30 of the Executive Committee of the Southeastern Connecticut Council of Governments.
Maybe my sense of humor, though I'm not feeling funny as type this, but of all the organizations who should be MOST familiar with Public Act 08-3, I would assume these folks would be in that number and yet their website does NOT contain their most recent meeting minutes as required by law. Take a quick look at that public law again and see what it talks about at the top-we'll return to that in just a moment.
Monday evening at seven there are dueling public meetings in City Hall. In Room 335 (the room with the terrible acoustics and benches bolted to the floor, the old court room I've been told) is a hearing about the Pleasant Street Bridge renovations (that's the bridge over by the old Big Y).
Across the floor, in City Council Chambers, will be a presentation by Rose City Renaissance on the Chelsea District/Waterfront Master Plan (I have NO idea what's going on in the city's website drop down window for this meeting, but it's not being held in Gales Ferry as listed).
The City Council meeting will follow at 7:30 and, as I mentioned, yesterday, on the agenda is a rewrite of the city's ethics code. It doesn't go as far as the proposals the Ethics Review Committee gave this City Council back in March of 2008 (yeah, sixteen months ago; or to put it another way, before one of the members, Chris Coutu, was a State Representative or a City Councilman) but for the longest time, it appeared that some on the City Council would be successful in ignoring an issue upon which all had campaigned in 2007. I never praise the day before the evening arrives, so let's see what happens, shall we?
And, of course and as always, there's a great deal of other items on the agenda to include one I felt so strongly about I asked the City Manager, as a sponsor, last week to make sure was in accordance with a section of state law that I sent him. I may need to write to the Attorney General (sure hope I can find my lucky pen).
Tuesday there's a pair of what I originally understood to be fun-raisers, which I think is a GREAT idea since I'm tired of looking at long, mopey, Eeyore-like faces all around me. Then, I found out, there are, in fact fund-raisers for two of the people seeking the office of Mayor. I think my idea is a vastly superior one. (There's also a fund-raiser on Friday night involving feather boas, rather than Rocky Bal, and I think there's been ads for it.)
Wednesday afternoon at 4:30 in their offices at 10 Westwood Park is a regular meeting of the Housing Authority whose page on the city's website remains totally uncontaminated by the presence of any meeting minutes, meeting notices or agenda. It's like Public Act 08-3 never happened. And here's the thing--these are volunteers and neighbors of each of us who are working very hard with constrained resources to effectively manage and maintain the available supply of public housing, and doing a good job of it. But most of us know next to nothing about their efforts, or how we can help.
Later Wednesday at six in Room 210 of City Hall is a regular meeting of the Norwich Baseball Stadium Authority whose page on the city's website isn't up to date in terms of meeting minutes of notices and who has two members whose appointments expired back in February (perhaps they were part of the deal heading to Richmond?). From what I've read in recent weeks, the outstanding payments on the stadium lease have been remitted to the city and from what I've seen, the team is kicking butt in the Eastern League Northern Division.
Thursday afternoon at 5:15 (the return of the quarter hour start time! perhaps an homage to Quarterflash, a great band from the Pacific Northwest who still have about 11 minutes left on their Warhol Wrist) is a meeting of the Mohegan Park Improvements Advisory Committee (four of whose seven members' appointments expired over two and half years ago)in the Lakeside Pavilion at the Mohegan Park. Sure hope no one is running late to make the meeting and needs to drive through the park.
At six, in the Campbell Building of Uncas on Thames campus, right off Route 32, at 401 West Thames Street is a regular meeting of the Board of Directors of the Uncas Health District who have a lovely website with a great deal of information they want you to know but know of the information, in terms of meeting minutes and notices, they are required to have posted.
And that's it for this week as we head towards the middle of the summer of '09.
"Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city."
-bill kenny
Those who've wished for a less than cluttered meeting week, you get your wish though the meetings going on are important (as they all should be).
Not, strictly speaking, a "Norwich" meeting though its actions and decisions do or could impact on the Rose City, is a meeting this morning at 8:30 of the Executive Committee of the Southeastern Connecticut Council of Governments.
Maybe my sense of humor, though I'm not feeling funny as type this, but of all the organizations who should be MOST familiar with Public Act 08-3, I would assume these folks would be in that number and yet their website does NOT contain their most recent meeting minutes as required by law. Take a quick look at that public law again and see what it talks about at the top-we'll return to that in just a moment.
Monday evening at seven there are dueling public meetings in City Hall. In Room 335 (the room with the terrible acoustics and benches bolted to the floor, the old court room I've been told) is a hearing about the Pleasant Street Bridge renovations (that's the bridge over by the old Big Y).
Across the floor, in City Council Chambers, will be a presentation by Rose City Renaissance on the Chelsea District/Waterfront Master Plan (I have NO idea what's going on in the city's website drop down window for this meeting, but it's not being held in Gales Ferry as listed).
The City Council meeting will follow at 7:30 and, as I mentioned, yesterday, on the agenda is a rewrite of the city's ethics code. It doesn't go as far as the proposals the Ethics Review Committee gave this City Council back in March of 2008 (yeah, sixteen months ago; or to put it another way, before one of the members, Chris Coutu, was a State Representative or a City Councilman) but for the longest time, it appeared that some on the City Council would be successful in ignoring an issue upon which all had campaigned in 2007. I never praise the day before the evening arrives, so let's see what happens, shall we?
And, of course and as always, there's a great deal of other items on the agenda to include one I felt so strongly about I asked the City Manager, as a sponsor, last week to make sure was in accordance with a section of state law that I sent him. I may need to write to the Attorney General (sure hope I can find my lucky pen).
Tuesday there's a pair of what I originally understood to be fun-raisers, which I think is a GREAT idea since I'm tired of looking at long, mopey, Eeyore-like faces all around me. Then, I found out, there are, in fact fund-raisers for two of the people seeking the office of Mayor. I think my idea is a vastly superior one. (There's also a fund-raiser on Friday night involving feather boas, rather than Rocky Bal, and I think there's been ads for it.)
Wednesday afternoon at 4:30 in their offices at 10 Westwood Park is a regular meeting of the Housing Authority whose page on the city's website remains totally uncontaminated by the presence of any meeting minutes, meeting notices or agenda. It's like Public Act 08-3 never happened. And here's the thing--these are volunteers and neighbors of each of us who are working very hard with constrained resources to effectively manage and maintain the available supply of public housing, and doing a good job of it. But most of us know next to nothing about their efforts, or how we can help.
Later Wednesday at six in Room 210 of City Hall is a regular meeting of the Norwich Baseball Stadium Authority whose page on the city's website isn't up to date in terms of meeting minutes of notices and who has two members whose appointments expired back in February (perhaps they were part of the deal heading to Richmond?). From what I've read in recent weeks, the outstanding payments on the stadium lease have been remitted to the city and from what I've seen, the team is kicking butt in the Eastern League Northern Division.
Thursday afternoon at 5:15 (the return of the quarter hour start time! perhaps an homage to Quarterflash, a great band from the Pacific Northwest who still have about 11 minutes left on their Warhol Wrist) is a meeting of the Mohegan Park Improvements Advisory Committee (four of whose seven members' appointments expired over two and half years ago)in the Lakeside Pavilion at the Mohegan Park. Sure hope no one is running late to make the meeting and needs to drive through the park.
At six, in the Campbell Building of Uncas on Thames campus, right off Route 32, at 401 West Thames Street is a regular meeting of the Board of Directors of the Uncas Health District who have a lovely website with a great deal of information they want you to know but know of the information, in terms of meeting minutes and notices, they are required to have posted.
And that's it for this week as we head towards the middle of the summer of '09.
"Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city."
-bill kenny
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Sure Was a Good Idea
Mondays are when I preview municipal meetings in Norwich, CT (where I live) and I'm gonna cheat a little as I want to talk today about one item at one meeting this coming week even though I'll mention it, I'm sure (=positive) tomorrow as well. And if you sense a touch of anger in my tone today, yeah, you're right but some of that will evaporate this fall as the weather cools off and two of the disappointments disappear.
The City Council meets at 7:30 tomorrow night to consider a raft of resolutions and ordinances and as fate and the calendar would have it, perhaps serving as close to a capstone for this City Council will be consideration of an ordinance on a topic that was of great interest and import during the last Council election, ethics or as I like to think of it, the behavior and morality of my government.
I was on the Ethics Review Committee, as an alternate member (none of us ever really figured out as an alternate to what, exactly, and that was probably a good thing) with some very talented and patient (in putting up with me) residents who worked as hard as we could to produce a code of behavior for elected and appointed city leaders, those who work for the city and for those doing business with Norwich. I mention that as a sort-of disclaimer because I don't want anyone to think I am speaking for anybody on that committee, except myself. Okay?
We submitted our final report in March of 2008 (yes, sixteen months ago) to this City Council all of whose members (with the exception of Mr. Nystrom) ran and were elected on basically three issues: zoning, ethics and charter revision. Almost immediately after being sworn in, the footrace to see how quickly retreats could be made from promises on all three issues started. It took this City Council until last September to even hold a workshop on the report that was supposed to include the City's Corporation Counsel and the Director of Human Resources with their impressions, but 'the word' failed to get passed correctly and Council folks for the most part, showed up empty-handed and unprepared to do anything, unless NOT doing anything was the object of the exercise.
Meanwhile, on the other two legs of the three-legged campaign stool: to my knowledge and recollection there has NEVER been a discussion on zoning responsibilities in Council chambers and some of us managed to neatly finesse the rest of us (and the will of the voters), in putting the kibosh on charter reform and revision.
Thus, by default if nothing else, ethics reform could become the legacy achievement of this City Council, elected with so much hope in November of 2007. I've looked at Ordinance three, which is the ethics reform, and maybe it doesn't quite meet my ideas of what we recommended all that time ago, but it's a sight more than the City of Norwich has now and is certainly better than no action at all.
This being an election year, and three of the aldermen on this City Council being announced candidates for the Office of Mayor (Mr. Bettencourt, Mr. Nystrom and Mr. Zarnetske), there way be concerns expressed about suspicious behavior, and maybe even a contagious smile or infectious laugh (or two). If striving for open and ethical government at all levels is political, I say "bravo!" Might I suggest, if anyone on this City Council doesn't feel an imperative to keep a long-overdue campaign promise, and do the right thing, then that activity and lack of it, is far more suspicious (perhaps even 'shameful' to borrow a word from a previous Council meeting) and truly deserving of approbation and scorn.
I hope I can be forgiven for applauding the efforts of Larry, Sarah, Lois, Shiela, Tamara, Michael, Jerry, Chuck, Joe, Chris, Charles A, and Bob D, my former colleagues on the Ethics Review Committee, and hoping they are physically or spiritually present in Council chambers tomorrow night. Thank you for all of your efforts to help make our government and city a better place for all of us, albeit a little later than we might have wished.
-bill kenny
The City Council meets at 7:30 tomorrow night to consider a raft of resolutions and ordinances and as fate and the calendar would have it, perhaps serving as close to a capstone for this City Council will be consideration of an ordinance on a topic that was of great interest and import during the last Council election, ethics or as I like to think of it, the behavior and morality of my government.
I was on the Ethics Review Committee, as an alternate member (none of us ever really figured out as an alternate to what, exactly, and that was probably a good thing) with some very talented and patient (in putting up with me) residents who worked as hard as we could to produce a code of behavior for elected and appointed city leaders, those who work for the city and for those doing business with Norwich. I mention that as a sort-of disclaimer because I don't want anyone to think I am speaking for anybody on that committee, except myself. Okay?
We submitted our final report in March of 2008 (yes, sixteen months ago) to this City Council all of whose members (with the exception of Mr. Nystrom) ran and were elected on basically three issues: zoning, ethics and charter revision. Almost immediately after being sworn in, the footrace to see how quickly retreats could be made from promises on all three issues started. It took this City Council until last September to even hold a workshop on the report that was supposed to include the City's Corporation Counsel and the Director of Human Resources with their impressions, but 'the word' failed to get passed correctly and Council folks for the most part, showed up empty-handed and unprepared to do anything, unless NOT doing anything was the object of the exercise.
Meanwhile, on the other two legs of the three-legged campaign stool: to my knowledge and recollection there has NEVER been a discussion on zoning responsibilities in Council chambers and some of us managed to neatly finesse the rest of us (and the will of the voters), in putting the kibosh on charter reform and revision.
Thus, by default if nothing else, ethics reform could become the legacy achievement of this City Council, elected with so much hope in November of 2007. I've looked at Ordinance three, which is the ethics reform, and maybe it doesn't quite meet my ideas of what we recommended all that time ago, but it's a sight more than the City of Norwich has now and is certainly better than no action at all.
This being an election year, and three of the aldermen on this City Council being announced candidates for the Office of Mayor (Mr. Bettencourt, Mr. Nystrom and Mr. Zarnetske), there way be concerns expressed about suspicious behavior, and maybe even a contagious smile or infectious laugh (or two). If striving for open and ethical government at all levels is political, I say "bravo!" Might I suggest, if anyone on this City Council doesn't feel an imperative to keep a long-overdue campaign promise, and do the right thing, then that activity and lack of it, is far more suspicious (perhaps even 'shameful' to borrow a word from a previous Council meeting) and truly deserving of approbation and scorn.
I hope I can be forgiven for applauding the efforts of Larry, Sarah, Lois, Shiela, Tamara, Michael, Jerry, Chuck, Joe, Chris, Charles A, and Bob D, my former colleagues on the Ethics Review Committee, and hoping they are physically or spiritually present in Council chambers tomorrow night. Thank you for all of your efforts to help make our government and city a better place for all of us, albeit a little later than we might have wished.
-bill kenny
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Brand New Roller Skates Are Always Trumped by Baseball Bats
This is one of these 'torn from the headlines' items that, as the pretend adult I am, I'm supposed to counsel 'don't try this at home, kids!' except...it happened at home and it was kids. Aside from that, no resemblance to reality, implied or expressed is intended.
This is sort of Bob H's fault because he sent me the original item Thursday afternoon but I was so busy, I really didn't read it and it didn't sink in until Friday about the middle of the day. When it showed up in the New York Daily News, I was impressed: Teenagers mistakenly assault woman's sex partner after they mistook her screams of passion for cries. And people despair for the next generation!
I will very probably never meet Torrington Police Lt. Bruce Whiteley, but if anyone has Joe Friday down better, I'd sure like to meet them. In describing what had happened, this is his ENTIRE summation, "Swanson and Arnold had not been fighting." Yeah, once you've read the article, that conclusion just jumps out at you. And the comments offered by readers, as ungrammatical and borderline illiterate as they are, in their own way are as funny as the story itself.
I think the young Mr. Roger Swanson should be very grateful he hadn't planned on a day-night doubleheader. And whoever said 'safe at home' has certainly never been a gentleman caller of Ms. Melanie Arnold's.
-bill kenny
PS: If you wondered why I hadn't mentioned the Connecticut Second District TEA (Taxed Enough Already) Party on Norwich's Chelsea Parade today, wonder no more.
This is sort of Bob H's fault because he sent me the original item Thursday afternoon but I was so busy, I really didn't read it and it didn't sink in until Friday about the middle of the day. When it showed up in the New York Daily News, I was impressed: Teenagers mistakenly assault woman's sex partner after they mistook her screams of passion for cries. And people despair for the next generation!
I will very probably never meet Torrington Police Lt. Bruce Whiteley, but if anyone has Joe Friday down better, I'd sure like to meet them. In describing what had happened, this is his ENTIRE summation, "Swanson and Arnold had not been fighting." Yeah, once you've read the article, that conclusion just jumps out at you. And the comments offered by readers, as ungrammatical and borderline illiterate as they are, in their own way are as funny as the story itself.
I think the young Mr. Roger Swanson should be very grateful he hadn't planned on a day-night doubleheader. And whoever said 'safe at home' has certainly never been a gentleman caller of Ms. Melanie Arnold's.
-bill kenny
PS: If you wondered why I hadn't mentioned the Connecticut Second District TEA (Taxed Enough Already) Party on Norwich's Chelsea Parade today, wonder no more.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Keep On Rockin' in the Free World
Today is part of a forty-eight hour national holiday that is actually supposed to be one day, Saturday. Who would make a two-day/one day national holiday and how? Nothing up my sleeves, ladies and gentlemen, this is just how we roll in this kinder, gentler land we love. I make comedy movies in my head (very small projector with itty-bitty take up reels) and I keep unspooling a short where Washington is trying to rally the troops at Christmas to cross the Delaware and surprise the Hessians at Trenton, and one or more of the farmers turned Revolutionaries says, 'dude! Tomorrow's Christmas and the day after is when the stores open early!'
Of course that's fantasy (some of the stores NEVER close on Christmas Day; both Santa and the Baby Jesus would be so proud) but a lot of us will spend a great deal of time today cooking raw meat over hot rocks, quaffing malt and barley beverages, or playing whiffle ball over on the equivalent of your hometown's Chelsea Parade (okay; not everybody) or perhaps learning the finer points of operating a sump pump to get the weather that's ended up in your basement to the nearest storm sewer.
All worthwhile endeavors, more or less, and I suspect, crabby people like me to the contrary, all of those who gave their lives in the course of the wars fought for, in and by this nation, would probably not have a problem flipping a burger, draining a cold glass or pitching an inning and letting it go at that. The bumper stickers note what those in the streets of Tehran have discovered for themselves, assisted by police cudgels, 'Freedom isn't Free'.
We who have always lived in this society and enjoyed all the protections our Constitution and Bill of Rights provide may sometimes take for granted what others elsewhere cannot, in their wildest fantasies, ever imagine. For generations, everyone, everywhere has wanted to come to America and be free. Newsflash: they still do. There's a reason why we have a Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor and nobody else does and it doesn't have anything to do with who gave what to whom as a present.
Who we are and what we do are the envy of the world even when we sometimes do thoughtless, hateful and hurtful things. We are the most powerful nation on earth (and in the history of the world) and we are a rare and noble notion that we and we alone should determine who we are, where we live, how we worship and for whom we vote as leaders.
We are the United States of America, not because our cars are faster, our grocery shelves better stocked, our homes prettier, our armed forces more powerful, our hair bouncier, our teeth whiter or our clothes cleaner. We are the sum of all of that and ten thousand other things--the freedom to get up tomorrow morning and move across the street or across the country and never need anyone's permission. The right (some feel it's a duty) to think our elected leadership are cloth-eared clowns who are leading us to ruin (and have been since 1776, I guess).
We have more freedoms we never use than the rest of the world put together, made possible by everyone who has ever been an American ever since there's been an America to be from. George Bernard Shaw once noted "(p)atriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all others because you were born in it." But I don't think we feel superior--I'm not always convinced we think at all. But if we did, and do, think, today might be a good day to think a little more about who we are and how we're going to pass what we have to our children, as our parents did for us.
We're a country whose Founders insisted our birthright included, "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." Not a lot of other places start out with 'fight for your right to party' as the major premise (with 'soda and pie' as, perhaps the minor premise). It may not make us 'better', only different-but at least for today, different is better and our better is better than your better. Whoever you are.
-bill kenny
Of course that's fantasy (some of the stores NEVER close on Christmas Day; both Santa and the Baby Jesus would be so proud) but a lot of us will spend a great deal of time today cooking raw meat over hot rocks, quaffing malt and barley beverages, or playing whiffle ball over on the equivalent of your hometown's Chelsea Parade (okay; not everybody) or perhaps learning the finer points of operating a sump pump to get the weather that's ended up in your basement to the nearest storm sewer.
All worthwhile endeavors, more or less, and I suspect, crabby people like me to the contrary, all of those who gave their lives in the course of the wars fought for, in and by this nation, would probably not have a problem flipping a burger, draining a cold glass or pitching an inning and letting it go at that. The bumper stickers note what those in the streets of Tehran have discovered for themselves, assisted by police cudgels, 'Freedom isn't Free'.
We who have always lived in this society and enjoyed all the protections our Constitution and Bill of Rights provide may sometimes take for granted what others elsewhere cannot, in their wildest fantasies, ever imagine. For generations, everyone, everywhere has wanted to come to America and be free. Newsflash: they still do. There's a reason why we have a Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor and nobody else does and it doesn't have anything to do with who gave what to whom as a present.
Who we are and what we do are the envy of the world even when we sometimes do thoughtless, hateful and hurtful things. We are the most powerful nation on earth (and in the history of the world) and we are a rare and noble notion that we and we alone should determine who we are, where we live, how we worship and for whom we vote as leaders.
We are the United States of America, not because our cars are faster, our grocery shelves better stocked, our homes prettier, our armed forces more powerful, our hair bouncier, our teeth whiter or our clothes cleaner. We are the sum of all of that and ten thousand other things--the freedom to get up tomorrow morning and move across the street or across the country and never need anyone's permission. The right (some feel it's a duty) to think our elected leadership are cloth-eared clowns who are leading us to ruin (and have been since 1776, I guess).
We have more freedoms we never use than the rest of the world put together, made possible by everyone who has ever been an American ever since there's been an America to be from. George Bernard Shaw once noted "(p)atriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all others because you were born in it." But I don't think we feel superior--I'm not always convinced we think at all. But if we did, and do, think, today might be a good day to think a little more about who we are and how we're going to pass what we have to our children, as our parents did for us.
We're a country whose Founders insisted our birthright included, "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." Not a lot of other places start out with 'fight for your right to party' as the major premise (with 'soda and pie' as, perhaps the minor premise). It may not make us 'better', only different-but at least for today, different is better and our better is better than your better. Whoever you are.
-bill kenny
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella
I guess some of us were a little giddy in southeastern New England when we had two consecutive days with hardly any rain or clouds at all. Transports of delight, visions of working on that eternal tan, let's go get the car washed, turn me over-I'm done on this side. Sweet dreams are made of (all of) this.
Welcome to Wednesday. Wow. I hope it was drier where you are, though it's hard for me to imagine it not being that way. What was it David Letterman made famous, a weather forecast calling for 'hail the size of canned hams'? For awhile yesterday afternoon I thought it was raining Yugos from the sound of the impact of the rain on the roof and I was inside, on the ground floor, of a five-story building.
My wife, Sigrid and our daughter, Michelle, my version of Thelma and Louise, had great plans for Wednesday that were, literally, washed away. For reasons that weren't part of the mission briefing Tuesday evening, my wife announced she and Mike would be 'going to the zoo.' Despite my sometimes wondering, Sigrid did not attend/graduate or instruct at s.e.e.r. training. Everything she does is on a need to know basis and she does everything, so do the math. She tells me what I need to know, when I need to know it. And she also tells me when I need to know things.
Thus, there was no announcement Tuesday evening of a trip to the zoo to begin the conversation but rather 'either you'll have to make fried eggs to go with the rest of the potato salad or go get yourself something else to eat for tomorrow (Wednesday) night.' (I do not look like I've missed a lot meals, in case you were wondering.) From fried, not green, eggs and, not ham, but potato salad, she then progressed to explaining the zoo they would visit Wednesday was the Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence, Rhode Island.
I think there's a zoo in Bridgeport, Connecticut and Southwick, Massachusetts (I'm not sure why I believe that, actually, come to think of it) but it was the bright lights and big city for the Kenny Women. Rhode Island has a, umm, colorful (that's a good word) reputation among its Sister New England states, tracing all the way back to its founding by (you guessed it) Roger Williams who felt his previously-Puritan neighbors to be, well, too less-than-puritanical, for his tastes.
Everyone who doesn't live in Rhode Island has a story about the state to include a mention that it's NOT an island (fair is fair; neither is Long Island, sort of; or Coney Island or Gilligan's for that matter). If you believe half of what you hear, the Ocean State is a bit more free-spirited than those who reside in The Commonwealth of Massachusetts or in The Land of Steady Habits, Laurel bushes and nutmeg. In recent weeks, the state's reputation hasn't benefited from a discussion in their statehouse about making indoor prostitution illegal. There are hundreds of lines that come to mind, none of which you'll read here, so move along (and don't go inside, y'hear?)
My wife is very strong willed and can bend what the rest of us agree is reality to suit her own particular views like no one else on earth. She and my daughter drove to Providence, in the pouring rain, with every intention of peering at the caged animals. If the Roger Williams Park Zoo know what's good for them, they spent hours Tuesday cleaning the cages, powerwashing the walkways, polishing the glass and sent the polar bears to the dry cleaners to get that yellow tinge out of their fur. My wife notices all of this, and there can be indelible entries made in your permanent record.
When I had a text message from her telling me it was raining too hard for them to go to the zoo, I knew the animals were, even as she typed, picking out bunk space on the S. S. Minnow. Instead, she and Michelle went to the Providence Place Mall which may have been more of an adventure, for everybody, than was really called for on a wet and woolly Wednesday. They were fine, she volunteered. They had found an Indian Restaurant in the food court (not listed here-someone will be getting a note) and enjoyed a high and dry lunch. In their honor, I was tempted to put some curry powder and mango chutney on my fried eggs and wash it all down with a large glass of water.
-bill kenny
Welcome to Wednesday. Wow. I hope it was drier where you are, though it's hard for me to imagine it not being that way. What was it David Letterman made famous, a weather forecast calling for 'hail the size of canned hams'? For awhile yesterday afternoon I thought it was raining Yugos from the sound of the impact of the rain on the roof and I was inside, on the ground floor, of a five-story building.
My wife, Sigrid and our daughter, Michelle, my version of Thelma and Louise, had great plans for Wednesday that were, literally, washed away. For reasons that weren't part of the mission briefing Tuesday evening, my wife announced she and Mike would be 'going to the zoo.' Despite my sometimes wondering, Sigrid did not attend/graduate or instruct at s.e.e.r. training. Everything she does is on a need to know basis and she does everything, so do the math. She tells me what I need to know, when I need to know it. And she also tells me when I need to know things.
Thus, there was no announcement Tuesday evening of a trip to the zoo to begin the conversation but rather 'either you'll have to make fried eggs to go with the rest of the potato salad or go get yourself something else to eat for tomorrow (Wednesday) night.' (I do not look like I've missed a lot meals, in case you were wondering.) From fried, not green, eggs and, not ham, but potato salad, she then progressed to explaining the zoo they would visit Wednesday was the Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence, Rhode Island.
I think there's a zoo in Bridgeport, Connecticut and Southwick, Massachusetts (I'm not sure why I believe that, actually, come to think of it) but it was the bright lights and big city for the Kenny Women. Rhode Island has a, umm, colorful (that's a good word) reputation among its Sister New England states, tracing all the way back to its founding by (you guessed it) Roger Williams who felt his previously-Puritan neighbors to be, well, too less-than-puritanical, for his tastes.
Everyone who doesn't live in Rhode Island has a story about the state to include a mention that it's NOT an island (fair is fair; neither is Long Island, sort of; or Coney Island or Gilligan's for that matter). If you believe half of what you hear, the Ocean State is a bit more free-spirited than those who reside in The Commonwealth of Massachusetts or in The Land of Steady Habits, Laurel bushes and nutmeg. In recent weeks, the state's reputation hasn't benefited from a discussion in their statehouse about making indoor prostitution illegal. There are hundreds of lines that come to mind, none of which you'll read here, so move along (and don't go inside, y'hear?)
My wife is very strong willed and can bend what the rest of us agree is reality to suit her own particular views like no one else on earth. She and my daughter drove to Providence, in the pouring rain, with every intention of peering at the caged animals. If the Roger Williams Park Zoo know what's good for them, they spent hours Tuesday cleaning the cages, powerwashing the walkways, polishing the glass and sent the polar bears to the dry cleaners to get that yellow tinge out of their fur. My wife notices all of this, and there can be indelible entries made in your permanent record.
When I had a text message from her telling me it was raining too hard for them to go to the zoo, I knew the animals were, even as she typed, picking out bunk space on the S. S. Minnow. Instead, she and Michelle went to the Providence Place Mall which may have been more of an adventure, for everybody, than was really called for on a wet and woolly Wednesday. They were fine, she volunteered. They had found an Indian Restaurant in the food court (not listed here-someone will be getting a note) and enjoyed a high and dry lunch. In their honor, I was tempted to put some curry powder and mango chutney on my fried eggs and wash it all down with a large glass of water.
-bill kenny
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
My kingdom for a video camera.....
Somewhere Grantland Rice is smiling since nothing makes you feel better than recognizing there is an order to the universe, especially when it just caught up with someone deeply deserving of being caught up and through sheer serendipity you were there when it happened.
The longer Monday went on, the nicer the day became weather-wise, at least around here. I admit the bar for 'nice' weather for just about all of June has been very low, not just here but from what I've read, all over the USA and much of Western Europe. I'm never sure why that always seems to be the case, especially in the winter months. My wife will talk with her Mom, in Offenbach am Main Germany (GO KICKERS!) and more often than not Mutti's wetter is practically identical to ours. And when she gives you the temperature in February in Celsius, it feels even colder.
I was catching the late afternoon/early evening sun (I'm so pale, I am visible from the International Space Station as a white blip with a bald spot) and had just finished walking my laps around the NFA track and was on my way past Chelsea Parade back to my house. Norwich has, I think, a great deal of green space, to include the Norwichtown Green, Cit Ouellet Park, Mohegan Park (of course) and Chelsea Parade and a somewhat cordial, but occassionally contentious, relationship with dog owners.
Norwich has a leash law and at various times (I can recall) has had signs in the parks barring dogs, though the 'no dogs' posting in Chelsea Parade seems to be absent, or was the other day. When my children were smaller and we'd walk up to the Parade to play whiffle ball or soccer, it used to chap my butt when, as if possessing radar, we always found the presents of the presence of a dog, so to speak. I blamed and still blame the owners and never the animals. Bring a bag and a scooper and I'm a happy guy (how sad must my life be that a sentence like that captures it?).
Anyway, from across the street I could see a young(ish) woman entering Chelsea Parade with a LARGE dog. I'd estimate the animal stood at least as tall as to my hips-not a puppy, a full-grown adult animal. To her credit, her dog was on a leash, albeit was now on the Parade where it didn't really belong and I noticed she didn't have a scooper or a bag for that which was scooped. I gave some thought to asking her what her plan was when nature took its course, knowing the turn of phrase 'walk quickly away and not look back' would probably come up.
Meanwhile, near the trees that line one side of the Parade, the young woman searched for and found a fallen branch, not a large one but, a smaller, thinner one, a stick, good for a game of fetch with the dog. Clutching the stick, she advanced towards the center of the Parade and concentrating on not throwing like a girl (I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist), she flung the stick for the dog to retrieve. She forgot to release the animal's leash wrapped around her other hand. The dog took off like a shot, with the young lady trailing behind it like a pennant with hair.
I'll say this about that dog, the woman didn't slow it down a jot. It was like she wasn't even there. I think the dog was going for both distance and speed since the woman went a long way, really fast. I don't know if dogs get surprised so I don't know if this one was when it grabbed the stick between its jaws and turned to run back to its mistress and found her right there already. The dog, obviously well-trained, dropped the stick at the young woman's feet, or where her feet would have been had she been standing, and waited for her to throw it again.
The woman picked herself up, dusted herself off as best she could, seemed to check to assure herself she was pretty much all still there, and this time released the dog's leash and threw the stick for the animal to fetch. And for just a moment, and if only for just that moment, there was balance in the universe, even if , from a distance, it looked to be wearing a flea collar.
-bill kenny
The longer Monday went on, the nicer the day became weather-wise, at least around here. I admit the bar for 'nice' weather for just about all of June has been very low, not just here but from what I've read, all over the USA and much of Western Europe. I'm never sure why that always seems to be the case, especially in the winter months. My wife will talk with her Mom, in Offenbach am Main Germany (GO KICKERS!) and more often than not Mutti's wetter is practically identical to ours. And when she gives you the temperature in February in Celsius, it feels even colder.
I was catching the late afternoon/early evening sun (I'm so pale, I am visible from the International Space Station as a white blip with a bald spot) and had just finished walking my laps around the NFA track and was on my way past Chelsea Parade back to my house. Norwich has, I think, a great deal of green space, to include the Norwichtown Green, Cit Ouellet Park, Mohegan Park (of course) and Chelsea Parade and a somewhat cordial, but occassionally contentious, relationship with dog owners.
Norwich has a leash law and at various times (I can recall) has had signs in the parks barring dogs, though the 'no dogs' posting in Chelsea Parade seems to be absent, or was the other day. When my children were smaller and we'd walk up to the Parade to play whiffle ball or soccer, it used to chap my butt when, as if possessing radar, we always found the presents of the presence of a dog, so to speak. I blamed and still blame the owners and never the animals. Bring a bag and a scooper and I'm a happy guy (how sad must my life be that a sentence like that captures it?).
Anyway, from across the street I could see a young(ish) woman entering Chelsea Parade with a LARGE dog. I'd estimate the animal stood at least as tall as to my hips-not a puppy, a full-grown adult animal. To her credit, her dog was on a leash, albeit was now on the Parade where it didn't really belong and I noticed she didn't have a scooper or a bag for that which was scooped. I gave some thought to asking her what her plan was when nature took its course, knowing the turn of phrase 'walk quickly away and not look back' would probably come up.
Meanwhile, near the trees that line one side of the Parade, the young woman searched for and found a fallen branch, not a large one but, a smaller, thinner one, a stick, good for a game of fetch with the dog. Clutching the stick, she advanced towards the center of the Parade and concentrating on not throwing like a girl (I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist), she flung the stick for the dog to retrieve. She forgot to release the animal's leash wrapped around her other hand. The dog took off like a shot, with the young lady trailing behind it like a pennant with hair.
I'll say this about that dog, the woman didn't slow it down a jot. It was like she wasn't even there. I think the dog was going for both distance and speed since the woman went a long way, really fast. I don't know if dogs get surprised so I don't know if this one was when it grabbed the stick between its jaws and turned to run back to its mistress and found her right there already. The dog, obviously well-trained, dropped the stick at the young woman's feet, or where her feet would have been had she been standing, and waited for her to throw it again.
The woman picked herself up, dusted herself off as best she could, seemed to check to assure herself she was pretty much all still there, and this time released the dog's leash and threw the stick for the animal to fetch. And for just a moment, and if only for just that moment, there was balance in the universe, even if , from a distance, it looked to be wearing a flea collar.
-bill kenny
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