The Remains of the Day

Our current President keeps reminding us that the stock market is at the highest levels in its history, but I've yet to encounter anyone, anywhere who can explain what that's supposed to mean when the price of everything continues to escalate. 

Of course, if you have a red ballcap (made in China) with four words written on it, those aren't questions you ask, which is what the resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is counting on, so keep up the good work. 

As for the rest of us, this is Labor Day 2026:        

There's a Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign

Sitting there by the left turn line

The flag on his wheelchair flapping in the breeze

One leg missing and both hands-free

No one's paying much mind to him

The V.A. budget's just stretched so thin

And now there's more coming back from the Mideast war

We can't make it here anymore.

And that big ol' building was the textile mill

That fed our kids and it paid our bills

But they turned us out and they closed the doors

'Cause we can't make it here anymore

You see those pallets piled up on the loading dock

They're just gonna sit there til they rot

Cause there's nothing to ship, nothing to pack

Just busted concrete and rusted tracks

Empty storefronts around the square

There's a needle in the gutter and glass everywhere

You don't come down here unless you're looking to score

We can't make it here anymore.

The bar's still open but man it's slow

The tip jar's light and the register's low

The bartender don't have much to say

The regular crowd gets thinner each day

Some have maxed out all their credit cards

Some are working two jobs and living in cars

Minimum wage won't pay for a roof, won't pay for a drink

If you gotta have proof just try it yourself Mr. C.E.O.

See how far 5.15 an hour will go

Take a part-time job at one of your stores

I bet you can't make it here anymore.

And there's a high school girl with a bourgeois dream

Just like the pictures in the magazine

She found on the floor of the laundromat

A woman with kids can forget all that

If she comes up pregnant what'll she do

Forget the career and forget about school

Can she live on faith? Live on hope?

High on Jesus or hooked on dope

When it's way too late to just say no

You can't make it here anymore.

Now I'm stocking shirts in the Wal-Mart store

Just like the ones we made before

'Cept this one came from Singapore

I guess we can't make it here anymore.

Should I hate a people for the shade of their skin

Or the shape of their eyes or the shape I'm in

Should I hate 'em for having our jobs today

No, I hate the men sent the jobs away

I can see them all now, they haunt my dreams

All lily white and squeaky clean

They've never known want, they'll never know need

Their shit don't stink and their kids won't bleed

Their kids won't bleed in their damn little war

And we can't make it here anymore.

Will I work for food, will I die for oil

Will kill for power and to us the spoils

The billionaires get to pay less tax

The working poor get to fall through the cracks

So let 'em eat jellybeans let 'em eat cake

Let 'em eat shit, whatever it takes

They can join the Air Force or join the Corps

If they can't make it here anymore.

So that's how it is, that's what we got

If the president wants to admit it or not

You can read it in the paper, read it on the wall

Hear it on the wind if you're listening at all

Get out of that limo, look us in the eye

Call us on the cell phone tell us all why

In Dayton, Ohio or Portland, Maine

Or a cotton gin out on the great high plains

That's done closed down along with the school

And the hospital and the swimming pool

Dust devils dance in the noonday heat

There's rats in the alley and trash in the street

Gang graffiti on a boxcar door

We can't make it here anymore.

-James McMurtry

Song of the Season

There once was a union maid, she never was afraid

Of goons and ginks and company finks and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid.

She went to the union hall when a meeting it was called,

And when the Legion boys come 'round

She always stood her ground.

Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,

I'm sticking to the union, I'm sticking to the union.

Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,

I'm sticking to the union 'til the day I die.

This union maid was wise to the tricks of company spies,

She couldn't be fooled by a company stool, she'd always organize the guys.

She always got her way when she struck for better pay.

She'd show her card to the National Guard

And this is what she'd say

You gals who want to be free, just take a tip from me;

Get you a man who's a union man and join the ladies' auxiliary.

Married life ain't hard when you got a union card,

A union man has a happy life when he's got a union wife.

The first Labor Day parade

Now I'm a union man, amazed at what I am. 

I say what I think, that the company stinks. Yes, I'm a union man

When we meet in the local hall, I'll be voting with them all.

With a hell of a shout, it's "Out brothers, out!" and the rise of the factory's fall.

Oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

Until the day I die. Until the day I die.

The union has made me wise to the lies of the company spies

And I don't get fooled by the factory rules 'cause I always read between the lines

And I always get my way if I strike for higher pay

When I show my card to the Scotland Yard, and this is what I say:

Oh, oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

Until the day I die.

Until the day I die.

Before the union did appear my life was half as clear

Now I've got the power to the working hour and every other day of the year

So though I'm a working man I can ruin the government's plan

And though I'm not hard, the sight of my card makes me some kind of superman

Oh, oh, oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

Until the day I die.

Until the day I die.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.

Until the day I die.

Until the day I die.

-bill kenny

A Pause not a Cause

I enjoy holidays as much as the next person, and when I worked, I took them off whether I deserved to or not, so if you have time off for this Labor Day, I hope you enjoy it. 

So, if you were looking for something profound or life-altering in this space today, sorry if you feel disappointed, but I'm only saying that really because I don't mind.
-bill kenny

Lest We Forget

Sometimes important stuff gets lost in the revelry. This is Labor Day 2026, and we need to consider where we are and where we would be if the robber barons and plutocrats of bygone days had had their way. 

Hazel Dickens

Phil Ochs

Sweet Honey in the Rock

-bill kenny

Moments Away

We are a heartbeat away from the Labor Day weekend and the more or less end of the summer of 2026. Many may have deided a three-day weekend of not working to honor organized labor and what it did for American workers, just isn't long enough and have called in well today. As a retiree, every day is Saturday. Well, except Sunday.  

Maybe we can spend a minute of the last barbecue (until the next one) wondering what happened to the summer of 2026 as we watch the neighborhood kids brace for impact as school buses roll up, another school year begins, and the fall election campaigns get nasty as they heat up. 

No worries. We'll have time to talk about all of that and more in the weeks ahead, instead of just watching the wheels go round and round.
bill kenny 

Random Axe

I ran into a former work colleague a couple of days ago. She retired some years before I did, and we'd lost sight of one another. It was fun to catch up, and it probably happened like your reminiscence sessions go, where you skip ahead and jump back, then race on and stay behind. 

Sometimes the hardest part is remembering where the shared reference ends, so then you have to add details. If you were to transcribe that conversation, I doubt there were more than five complete sentences uttered in the half hour-lots of quick references and brief glimpses and then moving on.

Later, on the same walk, I encountered a man with a Mohawk haircut, but the part that wasn't in the Mohawk was shaved to the naked scalp. He was wearing a three- piece suit that probably cost twice what my car is worth. He wasn't a young guy, either. I'm not real good at guessing ages, or weight for that matter, so that career as a Carney is out.

Actually, he was closer to being my age, and he looked as goofy as the guys with whom I didn't go to Woodstock together all look. You've seen 'em, too. They have long hair, gray, frayed, and wispy, in a ponytail. And nothing sticks it to 'the man' like a Volvo station wagon, Teva sandals, and the green 'we recycle' bumper sticker that seems to be holding the back end of the car together.

Here's somebody I'd like the 'man' to stick it to. The auto-American cretin who compensates for his car's driver's side headlamp being burned out by driving with his high beams on and not dimming them as you and he approach one another. Yeah, I remember what Driver Ed said: don't retaliate and turn yours on-it makes two blinded drivers, but still...

I also don't know what to do about the driver who goes up a one-way street the wrong way, slowly because he certainly doesn't want to cause an accident, for a short distance, to pull into somebody's driveway, rather than go around the block. 

I love when he comes nose to nose with a car coming down the street the correct way, and they glare at each other like Mr Upstream Salmon has any comeback at all. Or that guy's cousin, the driver who backs up a one-way street the wrong way with the car flashers on, so I guess it doesn't count as much.

How many crumbs from the toaster tray do you suppose it takes to assemble an entire new piece of bread, and can you toast that slice when you're done? And for folks with paywalls on websites that have a screen that says, "you must log in to see this page"? Isn't it more accurate to say "you must log in to see the NEXT page" since I can see the log-in page just fine?

These are the kinds of imponderables that keep me awake at two in the morning when I already have a headful of terror supplied from the machine alongside my bed. I'm hoping no one's ever died from imagination (and I don't plan to be the first). 
-bill kenny

Some Women Wait for Jesus

We're at that point in the summer when we keep an eye on hurricane forecasts, as they will be coming thick and fast. Mostly here in the Land of Steady Habits, we get a lot of rain from them; low-lying areas see some flooding (not in my part of Norwich), and we get scared watching the damage elsewhere in the country on the Weather Channel.  

I'm not really concerned so much about the rain as I am about what Dylan Thomas referred to as the dying of the light (and I'm not talking about the darkening of the skies). 

Almost everyone my age I know, and there's not nearly as many of us left as I'd have thought should have survived to this point, is, like me, bone weary all the time. We get up tired, slog through our days semi-comatose, and crash on couches in middle-class fever dreams we never envisioned ourselves as ever living in to go to bed and fail to dream to get up and do it all again..

Don't get me wrong-I'm disappointed in myself and in my life, so far, but I'm not unhappy. I met and married someone who loved and who still loves me, though I haven't done anything remotely lovable in a ridiculous number of years. We have two children who are now happily married adults themselves and getting on with their own lives rather nicely without us (and making us grandparents as well), which is the whole plan, as I remember from the orientation briefing at Dad School back in the day.

I, and by that I mean my peers and me, didn't crash or go down in flames; we surrendered a little bit every day until we really ran out of things to give away. We traded our blue skies and beliefs for BMWs and shipped good-paying jobs to low-wage third- and fourth-world nations so that their people could have an opportunity to earn forty cents a day making sneakers that I buy at a three hundred bucks plus a pop and never even think twice about.

In another fifty years, some of those places will have indoor plumbing and potable drinking water, and those people, or maybe only the ones who survive until then, will want to put up a statue to folks like me. Don't worry about it. You're welcome, and keep the cholera blankets-hell may freeze over and you could use the warmth.

At some point, we turned into our parents, who are laughing their asses off now as they really didn't do as terrible a job as we kept insisting they had. And considering how we could fuqq up a one-car funeral procession (and don't ask me about the wet dream in the desert), it might not have been a bad idea to quit while we were only slightly behind instead of pressing on and losing sight of the entire caravan.

We thought the future was Twenty Questions but, instead, it proved to be Hide 'n Seek in a dark room. And I take the one who finds me back to where it all began, when Jesus was the honeymoon, and Cain was just the man. Same as it ever was, and I knew coming in that going out would be the same.
-bill kenny