No Need for Carriage Return

Last week, my computer zigged where it normally zagged. The keyboard stopped responding. I should confess that I'm not a very good typist. Or liar, since the preceding sentence was an understatement. 

I am a terrible, terrible typist (one terrible will simply not do) who has no concept of touch typing at all and who punishes every keyboard, hitting them with a unrelenting and frightening ferocity. It is very possible (and practically inevitable) that if you're very quiet right now, wherever you are, you can hear me typing.

Much like breakers against a jetty on a beach, my unceasing pounding of the keys has resulted in the letter "A", the one below the "Q" and above the "Z", an anchor of the home row, to have worn away to nothing. The key is there, but the letter on top is gone.

Not only am I not a touch typist, I'm a simpleton who has to look at the keyboard all the time I'm typing and also say the word aloud as I type it. Pathetic, I know. Perhaps the sound card in the computer chose to work in reverse, and the keyboard was finally able to hear what I was doing with it all this time. Perhaps not. 

My screen saver, John Lennon in National Health glasses, stared as unhelpfully and blankly at me as I did, a lifetime earlier, at his Yoko sideboard watching Get Back, both to the same end and to no avail. 

I have no idea how to repair a computer keyboard, but here in the Brave New World, I don't need to. The solution was so 21st-century — pitch it and get another. They don't grow on trees, admittedly, but it's not like mining gold, and it's actually cheaper than repair.

So here I am, with a brand new keyboard whose letters gleam as they are bathed in the late April New England sunshine of sorts streaming through my window, still surprised to look down and see ALL the letters in all their glory and majesty. The "P" may be silent in pneumonia, but the "A" in Aardvark is visible from space.
-bill kenny

Eighteen Years On

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Crossroads

Sitting at the intersection of Lafayette and Washington in Norwich, CT, this morning, as my light turned green. Because my mother raised crazy, but not stupid, children, I've practiced for years the art of 'three Mississippis' after the light changes before rolling ahead. This morning, again, counting to three (Mississippi) stood me in good stead.

An Obliviot in a mid-nineties model of a four-door Toyota rolled through the red light, at two Mississippi, all the while chatting away on the cell phone clamped to his right ear. At that moment, he was only physically in the car, but was really wherever he and the person on the cell phone were having their moment. 

Piloting a mobile device weighing a ton or more (I have NO idea how much cars weigh but a ton reads pretty well. Does this SUV make my butt big?) with an internal combustion engine, and casual disregard for traffic signals and rules of the road (and common sense) to the contrary, this fellow is another Obliviot with whom we all share the planet.

When we reorder the universe and place ourselves at the center, when instead of realizing life goes on within you AND without you, we see ourselves as the stars of a worldwide movie where everyone else is a walk-on, we've become an Obliviot. 

It's not a constant process or a one-time deal, but the more often we live without thinking, the harder thinking in our lives becomes, and the easier the path to oblivion seems. As kids, our moms taught us to take turns, but as grown-ups, we practice that as 'me first'. Close, but different enough that the rest of us have to cope.

In a perfect world, this morning, this driver could and should have had a misfortune befall him, but the Larger World compensated for him, and the worst thing that happened was I mentioned him in this rant. Probability suggests he'll never read these words, and even if he did, he'll never recognize himself, and in my own way, I've become an Obliviot.

I'm 56 74 today and continue to grow old without growing wiser in any way. I keep bumping into the people I used to be without fully appreciating that, at many levels, I am still those guys, and that a part of me will always be those people. 

If we are truly the sum of our life experiences and of everyone we've ever met, I should have paid more attention to arithmetic in St. Peter Grammar School because I'm terrible at addition.
-bill kenny

Volunteers of America

Welcome to a 'when I was growing up' tangent. I'd like to think at the end, there will be a lesson in all of this, but if you've stopped by before at any time in the over six thousand and seven hundred of these I've posted, you suspect that might not be true. Fair point. 

I grew up in what we would call the sticks-we didn't at the time, because we didn't know-but it was, sort of. It was housing developments, hundreds of houses into the thousands, built, in this case, in Central New Jersey, in the decade after the end of World War II, when the tri-state area (CT, NY & NJ) looked to "The City" the way the fingers on the hand look to the thumb. 

As more houses brought more people, more amenities and services were added, soon overburdening the original governing infrastructure that had hosted the initial growth. Eventually, the new settlements became their own autonomous government entities. I went from growing up in New Brunswick, New Jersey, to growing up in Franklin Township, and now I think it's Somerset, as opposed to Somerset County, without ever moving.

I now live in New England, where everything is a LOT older, and pride in the past can contribute to less agility in coping with the present, never mind the future. Norwich, my hometown for the last thirty-four plus years (I've lived here longer than anywhere else in my life and feel less at ease today than I did when I arrived), celebrated its 365th anniversary last year (yep, a century and more older than the USA). 

As an NFH (not from here), I sometimes get the impression far too many of us still have fond memories of bygone days, which is where we'd like to stay, even though that's not possible (nor should it be).

New England gave the United States of America the Minutemen. Last Saturday was the anniversary of Paul Revere's Midnight Ride. In social studies, because we don't call it history anymore, the other rider, William Dawes, is probably NOT even mentioned. These days, they'd take a page out of Pete Hegseth's book and use Signal, dude. 

We still have Minutemen and women, in that same tradition, pitching in across the country who lend a hand on the Parks and Rec Committee, the Getting Bill a Pony Ride for his Birthday Commission, the Zoning Board, and a hundred other small steps that comprise the journey from where we are to where we want to go.

I spend a lot of words writing about the Rose of New England. If you don't live here (and don't want to move), that's fine if you skip ahead, but you should look around where you live and at all that stuff that's not quite right, and could be done better, because maybe it just needs you offering to help out. We are so much better together than we are each alone; it shouldn't need to be stated, but sometimes we get too busy to remember. 
-bill kenny

Book Your Weekend

If one of your hobbies is complaining about how terrible things are and how little there is to do here in Norwich, put your hand up. In light of this weekend in downtown, please place it over your mouth. Yeah, I'm out of patience with the whiners, mewlers, and pukers. 

I'm done with those who work so hard to find grey clouds around any silver lining, and you can spot them from a mile away as they start with 'well, Norwich certainly isn't Mystic,' ignoring the fact that at one time Mystic wasn't Mystic and its companion troll, 'there's no place to park downtown when there is something to do.' 

I suppose that means I won't see unhappy folks, or their cars, anywhere near the Otis Library for the Friends of Otis Library Book Sale which starts today (with a private showing and a ten dollar admission this morning from nine to ten for those who want a head start on the weekend's steals and deals) and then continues tomorrow, starting at 10 before concluding Sunday, from noon until three.

Technically, the sale could be called "The Gently Used Book Sale, to include, Biographies, Autobiographies, Memoirs, all manner of Fiction as well as Mystery, Arts and Crafts, Classics, Cook Books, Non-Fiction, How-To books (though almost no why-are-we books), History, Gardening, Sports, pony rides (wanted to see if you were still reading), Science Fiction and Books for Children of All Ages. As well as lots of audio cassettes, CDs, DVDs, and Stuff You'd Have to See for Yourself to Believe." Technically. 

And because Otis is situated in just about the middle of downtown, as you pass the restaurants and shops that line or border Main Street on your way through Franklin Sqaure, you can see all kinds of folks, clutching newly-purchased books, mingling with the regular patrons and eating a late breakfast, or lunch, before returning to one of the municipal parking lots that ring downtown and heading home. 

The Friends of Otis Library Book Sale is the perfect excuse to table hop and finally stop into one of those restaurants you promised yourself to hit 'the next time I'm downtown.' Bring some napkins and your reading glasses. Enjoy.
-bill kenny

Me and John Irving

We've had some marvelous weather here in Southern New England in the last week or so (we had a day where the temperature approached ninety, so perhaps 'marvelous' is a bit hyperbolic), and everything, or nearly, seems to be in bloom.

We had our first lawn mowing of the season last Thursday, thanks to the kindness of our son, whose father has become too feeble to push even a self-propelled lawnmower, (as he was unable to shove the snowthrower around on our sidewalk during the winter) and we looked pretty good afterwards, though the air was heavy with the smell of onion grass of which we have much many. 

We have a trio of forsythia bushes that are shaping up nicely and a Prarifire Crabapple Tree that I bought last spring at a home improvement warehouse because it seemed to speak to me, and amazingly, I have not killed (yet). I am heartened that I can help anything grow. 

With all the flowers and trees in bloom, I should be ashamed to complain about the infestation of all manner of bugs, and yet I do. However, I have discovered there's something to be more concerned about than insects, and that's bears. It seems we are having a BOGO on them here in Connecticut. 

I'm keeping my eyes peeled for one riding a bicycle, though I fear, without thumbs, they won't be able to work the bell on the handlebars.
bill kenny

No Plan(et) B

I'm writing this in observance of today, Earth Day 2026. The writing, not necessarily the celebration, may surprise some who believe I create this every day by opening a dictionary over a blank piece of paper and shaking it vigorously and then gathering up the words that have fallen out. I wish it were that easy. 

With so many bright shiny objects of all manner to distract us in recent weeks, you might have lost sight of Earth Day on the calendar this year. Let's face it we certainly have had enough 'other stuff' on our plates, right? But with all that's been changing in our lives, Earth Day is as good a time as any to recognize our place in the world and to acknowledge that our world is so much more than just us.

Not that you asked, but I accidentally ended up in the first-ever Earth Day Parade in New York City back in 1970 as a pimply prep school know-it-all. And now, over a half-century later, I have clear skin and not only still know it all but now think I know it all better. Kidding with the last part of the previous sentence, but I'm hoping you knew that.

Earth is more than our mother and home, but most importantly, it's the only place with chocolate, so please find an activity and help make a difference.
-bill kenny

You Can Leave Your Hat On

Check out my current favorite baseball cap. I bought it from Andy Borowitz's website back in the days when he worked for The New Yorker. All the profits went to Doctors Without Borders. 

I got it very early in the first Trump tragedy in 2017, and hadn't thought about it very often since then, until very recently (like the start of his second term). I avoid online contact with folks outside the USA because I cannot explain, much less defend, the cretinous idiot some of us elected to sit in the White House. 

I'm seriously considering having the ballcap surgically attached to my head, as I see no reason to consider having to remove it until November 2028.
-bill kenny