Scare or Share

It's amazing how a religious devotion, commemoration, and remembrance really, evolved into an all-the-candy-you-can-eat-without-barfing exercise all the way to an adult party hearty event. Greetings and salutations nevertheless.

There was an ancient Celtic festival called Samhain that some sociologists theorize 19th-century Irish immigrants brought with them that helped create our current observance/holiday/day on which to go gluttonous on chocolate. 

It certainly caught on in the United States, among other places. Halloween is celebrated in about a dozen countries around the world, gladdening the hearts, I'm sure, of candy manufacturers in the days leading up to it as well as the bottom lines of dentists in the days and weeks following it. Alas, poor Linus, I knew him well. We can always content ourselves that Strongbad doesn't do candy, I guess. Did you have Trick or Treat for UNICEF in your neighborhood? Sign of the times now, I fear, I haven't seen or heard about it in years and years

Remember how our Moms used to go through the goodies making sure the apples didn't have unpleasant surprises and throwing all the unwrapped candy away 'just to be safe'. Would it have killed them to pretend the Mary Janes were unwrapped (talk about a dentist delight-it could take fillings out)--a candy that I don't think I even see at any other time of the year except now. 

And what about candy corn (and I loved it, btw)? If scientists are correct that cockroaches would survive an atomic war, I believe they would do it munching on candy corn, indestructible, indescribable, often imitated but never duplicated. One of the many things I surrendered once my doctors made me understand, as an adult, I couldn't be a part-time diabetic. And I miss it more than I can say.

As a parent, I can recall some of the worst weather of the season always seemed to start about two hours before the kids got organized to head out. So I'll keep my fingers crossed for all the goblins tonight. And every child, no matter how young, wanted to trick or treat with her/his friends. Only a baby goes out with a parent. So with a heavy heart and a quiet footstep, the trick was to figure out how far back to trail them as they went from house to house, and no matter how many times a child was told 'no running', what happened? Yep.

Why was I always surprised when mine paid as much attention to me as I had to my parents? And every neighborhood had a trick or treater without a bag-usually one of the hyperactive kids from down the street who ate the candy as quickly as he got it. Can you imagine how much magic it was in that house later that same evening? Me neither.

My own children long ago outgrew the doorbell ringing and candy-collecting aspects of the evening and we don't even play anymore at my house. But the Dream Children and ghosts of ghouls past sometimes encounter one another on my porch when "open locks, whoever knocks!" 
-bill kenny

When Enough Is Enough

Someone once told me 'Gratitude is what turns what you have into enough." I'm thinking it's not just because of a lack of gratitude that we don't have quite enough of that attitude. Anymore.

Enjoy every sandwich.
-bill kenny

Ich Habe die Nase Voll

Since no one else will say it, I will. I am VERY proud of how good I've been in NOT being a snarky azzhole during this election season. 

Here in Connecticut, it's a municipal election cycle with statehouse and gubernatorial elections (and congressional and Senatorial to say nothing of Presidential, either in the mirror or in the foreground) and that's fine because for my money with all due respect to whoever is President (not a sentence I'd have typed this time last year when I had ZERO respect), the folks on my City Council and Mayor's chair or in seats on the Board of Education have a far greater impact on me and mine than anyone else.

My town, like yours, is dotted with lawn signs (a true boon for those in the wireframe business, I sincerely believe), and my local papers are filled with letters from family and friends on why a certain someone would be/is just the right fit for a position, mostly and it's usually in the first two paragraphs someplace because they've lived here all their lives and/or because they love where they live.

Your local newspaper is filled with this same kind of stuff, too. Letters assuring us the people seeking office are good to their Mommas, love Elvis, rescue stranded kittens from trees and, generally are kind and generous people. But, and it's not just me saying this, we already know that. We are all universally fortunate in that we live in cities and towns with carloads of people who want to help and who will work hard to make things better (unless you live next door to me and then, please fall back on the 'There Are Exceptions to Every Rule' rule). 

Except not all of us who want to help can actually do so. 

All things being equal, how do I pick the goodest of the good-intentioned? Here's a little something for candidates everywhere-too late for this election but there's always a Next Election: It's wonderful your neighbors, co-workers, and your family want to write a letter for a newspaper to tell me how wonderful you are, but take the pen yourself. Tell me your goal, your plan for achieving it, and your measurement device to make sure we don't get lost on the way to the Emerald City. You've one minute to tell me and sell me and no more than that. Do NOT mention puppies. 

Gimme the Truth.
-bill kenny

If Life Is Just a Gamble

I'm told Connecticut is referred to as "The Constitution State" (it's on our license plates though I often wonder what the inmate labor that makes those plates thinks of that sentiment)  and the "Land of Steady Habits." 

Shortly after I arrived here in the autumn of 1991, legalized gambling, always called GAMING by the marketing folks as it's a more subtle sell, was permitted on the sole federally-recognized Native American property in the state at the time, the Foxwoods Casino, and then later at the Mohegan Sun, which is celebrating its 25th anniversary this month. 

The two casinos are about a fifteen-minute drive from one another and together transformed the sleepy beyond-the-Connecticut-River-part-of-our-state-with-not-many-people-but-a-lot-of- nervous-farm-animals, especially at Prom Time, in a process that continues to this very day. 

The state of Connecticut gets a not insubstantial cut of the revenues from the casinos' slot machines and has recently cut another deal to allow them to host sports betting in-house, while the state offers it online and through that old and less than sexy standby the CT State lottery. I have yet to fully appreciate what becomes of all the money but I take cold comfort in the knowledge that no one I know knows either. 

I'm told you make your own luck and it seems to me Us Nutmeggers (yet another nickname) should be swimming in it by now.
-bill kenny

Channeling J. Wellington

I hope I'm not the only one, growing up, who used to watch Popeye cartoons (the old black and white cartoons produced by Max Fleischer) with every single frame of animation hand-drawn, not computer-generated. Many's the can of spinach consumed in a childhood belief that superpowers and feats of derring-do would result.  

I loved J. Wellington Wimpy, always offering his hopeless and impossible to accept financial arrangement to 'gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.' If you don't ask the answer's automatically no, right? Life sometimes imitates art, as this Tuesday, Election Day, here in Norwich we may hear echoes of Wimpy's voice as mark our ballots. 

In addition to candidates for City Council and Board of Education, we'll also be voting for a city treasurer and on a Pension Obligation Bond (POB) of 145 million dollars to be repaid over 25 years, which as Wimpy might say, is a whole lotta hamburgers. 

For some perspective on that 145 million bond, over thirteen and a half million dollars of the city's recently-passed current budget goes to fund city pensions. It's a must-pay expense; the concern is always how while paying for everything else we as a city want, need and require. 

As homeowners, my wife and I refinanced our mortgage last year and saved ourselves money, in both the long and short-term, so that's why I find the POB appealing as the projected savings after 25 years could be about forty-three million dollars, which is serious money, more ground beef than ground chuck. 

The POB refinances the unfunded pension liabilities of those in the City’s pension fund, to include all Norwich Public Utilities (NPU) employees and General City employees and many of the Norwich Public Schools (NPS) employees (not including NPS Teachers and Administrators who are in the State’s Teachers’ Retirement System). 

Having lived here for thirty years, my family, and yours, too, I know, have benefitted from the services of talented city workers from public safety, through public schools, and everything in between. Their pensions are part of the compensation agreement we and they made when they came to work for us. 

And having consistently excellent professional city services is an integral part of our community's quality of life. Voting in favor of the POB protects our city employees, helps Norwich continue to recruit and retain the talented employees we'll need for what's next, and helps create a more stable mill rate which each of us as a taxpayer wants and desires 

The passage of the POB doesn't really impact the City's Standard & Poor's 'AA' bond rating since we'd be replacing one liability for another. Other towns in Connecticut have most recently issued POBs with no negative impact on their ratings. 

In many respects, voting 'yes' for the POB means getting comfortable with the $145 million price tag. But let's not kid ourselves, the pension liabilities for our employees must be paid; that's where the road and the sky collide. 

Right now, as it's going, it's so far and so good; but a 'yes' vote Tuesday for the POB has the potential to save every taxpayer money through historically low-interest rates and provide the dollars we'll need to fund further and future growth. Think about voting 'yes' Tuesday for the POB, and that next burger may taste even better.
-bill kenny 

Auto-Biographical?

I'm exactly halfway through my sixty-ninth year on this orb, as of today. 

Proving that the universe does have a sense of humor, I'm also slated for my annual physical later this morning. Why now as opposed to in April, which is my actual month of birth is a mystery to me and as I understand the various attempts at explanation from my health insurance carrier's representatives before they trail off into silence on the phone, it's basically because they can...

I would characterize myself as a gearhead in terms of cars for most of my time here on earth though I would also confess to having ZERO mechanical aptitudes at all. Coming of age in the late Sixties, my first car was a 1961 Corvair Monza, which demonstrates all the absence of mechanical and technical ability I should ever need to provide except the next car I owned, and (come to think of it), the only new car in my entire life, was a 1971 Ford Pinto. Herr Ober, check, please. Ich möchte bitte bezahlen.

Despite, or perhaps because of that, I will still insist that I love cars. Motorcycles and trucks, on the other hand, from not so much to not at all, but cars, yes, please, and two scoops. Probably why I devoured this article. 

And today, I should remind myself, is as good a day as any to still want to drive a Deora, at least once. Unless, of course....
-bill kenny  

As Good As It Getz

When I open my email in the morning I never know what I'll find and sometimes after wading through the dross, there's nothing left, and other times there are things that make me smile and more. 

This is one of those 'and more.' 

Of course, it sent me running, or, in my case, furiously hobbling towards the super-smile-inducing version that always makes me feel the sand between my toes as the waves kiss the beach.
-bill kenny

Familiar and Familial

Fun fact: Today is United Nations Day-and you probably didn't send any of the Lower Manhattan double and triple parkers a birthday card did you? Don't feel bad, they wouldn't have read it once they checked the inside of the envelope and didn't find cash or the next generation of fighter-plane or armored vehicle. Perhaps a small umbrella to help with their balance up there. I'm sure we can guess where they can store it when it's not raining.

Actually, and much more importantly, today is my brother Kelly's birthday. It is a little-known fact that he is 237 years old though his youthful appearance and childlike innocence and enthusiasm (plus a lot of plastic surgery) belie his age. Truth to tell, I have no exact idea as to his age having seen him only very sporadically since returning to the US some three decades ago. My other brother and sisters are very jealous of his good fortune. 

In a large family of children who all resemble one another  Kelly was the tall, blond kid who looked exactly like, well, exactly like Kelly. It was an interesting house growing up with a brother who locked himself in the little boy's room while simultaneously locking Mrs. Brennan, the teacher, out at Saint Peter's kindergarten in New Brunswick. I have a memory of her calling the house and our Mom speaking into the telephone in an attempt to coax Kelly out. I believe he eventually decided to exit of his own accord.

But years before that I recall sharing a bedroom with Kelly and by the dawn's earliest light he would awaken, stand up in the crib, clutch the rails, and shout exuberantly, 'Everybody up! Kelly's belly empy!' launching a frantic feed the child effort not seen again until Jon and Kate Need to Roller Skate Instead of Mate on TLC. 

Kelly might have had a career as a physicist since at a very early age in a finished basement in the house on Bloomfield Avenue he managed to flip over a massive TV console (those barge-like furniture stylings that said 'muricah in the early 60's) trying to retrieve a toy car that had rolled underneath it despite the complete absence of leverage or a fulcrum. If only we hadn't lived in a universe with a yellow sun? Perhaps just as well; he has always hated tights.

As it is, Kelly in this universe is more than a terrific deal for his spouse, children, and grandchildren not to mention the members only contingent composed of his brothers and sisters. I have no idea how he plans to mark his natal anniversary but I can safely assume it will be both stellar and steadfast-like the celebrant.
-bill kenny

You Can Leave Your Hat On

I retired about eighteen months before COVID-19 changed life as we know it. 

My lovely and loving wife went from having my smiling face across from hers at the kitchen table one meal a day, at dinner, to all the meals, all the time. I have little doubt that she does cart-wheels on those days I share with her at mid-morning that I'm going for a walk. (I have noticed marks on the living room rugs where, maybe, she has pulled the couches farther apart and wider so she can stick the landing on the dismount). 

I worked from home, rather than take sick leave when I had various surgeries to replace my knees, and later for the stents placed in my heart (to no avail; unlike the Grinch's, mine did not grow at all much less two sizes bigger). My full-time job was not especially physically demanding (or ethically challenging as one former colleague put it), so working from home suited me fine. 

Additionally, for a period of a little more than two and a half years, my organization was too stupid to understand how to purchase the software to maintain the various presences that I had originally created on a variety of internet platforms so I bought it and installed it on my home computer since I couldn't put 'private' software on their machine. 

As you may have just realized, I wasn't the Employee of the Month, ever, and have never bothered to look back at the twenty-six and a half years I worked for them with anything other than anger, regret, and relief to have escaped. I can count on one hand the number of times I've encountered former co-workers since leaving the organization and I know you don't need me to tell you which finger on the hand I use for the counting. 

Bygones. 

I was never confronted with the challenges of only working from home, or developing the coping strategies outlined in this article that centers around working in the buff, as opposed to the suburbs of Buffalo, which to my knowledge is NOT a euphemism for something hinky or kinky. I think my favorite part of the entire piece, and the one that caught my eye in all candor, was the use of "inevitable," in the title. 

And I can't help but smile, as the article used pseudonyms throughout (not really clear as to why, but is not to reason why or not) that quotes one Sherman Williams' explanation on the clothing-optional work-from-home lifestyle that has, at least for me, permanently dissuaded me from ever exploring the used-computer keyboard market. Yeah, sticky keys are just not worth explaining, ever.
-bill kenny      

Thinking 'Bout Ned Beatty

Not that long ago as my wife and I were driving north on I-395 (and there's not a lot north left beyond where we live), we vectored off and were in Rhode Island, but not the Providence part of the state, the Swamp Yankee part which always causes me to think I can hear banjo music mainly because I'm perpetually ill at ease in new situations or with new to me people, or both. 

At one of the lights after we'd gotten off of the interstate was a Jeep of indeterminate vintage in front of us that had a bumper sticker that read, 'Paddle Faster. I hear Banjo Music,'  which, as you can probably guess, was a little too coincidental for my taste. 

The car next to the Jeep was the puzzler. It was a red Hyundai of some kind (my daughter once had one so I tried hard to learn all the flavors of their rainbow only to realize there are scads, believe me) which had a bumper sticker that read 'Buy American.' 

I drive a vehicle usually thought of as Japanese but it was made, I believe, in an assembly plant in Indiana. I spent the Summer of '75 in Indianapolis and the people there seemed to be as American as, well, you and me or the driver of the Hyundai (for all I know).

When you're approaching Indianapolis via the interstate the trick is to remember (I think; insert obligatory bad memory joke here) that it encircles the entire city so, depending on where you got on it, you can be traveling east in order to go west and vice versa. Don't pay that any mind, that's a mistake I made for a couple of months which got me very lost very quickly and I'd wind up in the corner of the state that periodically switched from Eastern to Central time for reasons I never grasped and without warning ever given.

You do not have to show your passport, however, which is one of the ways I figure out where I'm not and when I'm not there. I did have to show my license proving I was over twenty-one to get served a beer in a cocktail lounge at Weir-Cook Airport (no, they didn't name it after Bob, I asked), which Pete F, from New Hampshire (all eighteen years and three months of him), thought was hysterically funny as the waitress had already brought him his beer.

He wasn't laughing quite so hard when I ordered a glass of milk after I put my license back in my wallet and had the waitress give Pete the glass of milk while I drank his beer, a Stroh's fire brewed draft if I remember correctly (and I do). That was the summer I also learned to drink beer fifty/fifty with tomato juice. I was young and the summer was very warm. I was crazy in the heat--that's as close to an explanation as I can offer.

Anyway, I'm not sure if the Hyundai is made on this side of the Pond or not and if it takes you where you need to go I'm not sure we're not talking difference without a distinction. I never got the chance to ask the driver what the point of the bumper sticker was supposed to be or even where the bumper sticker was made. 

Remember from a couple of years ago, one of those organizations handing out little American flags to 'encourage' patriotism (and discourage what they regarded as dissent) learning their flags were from some off-shore sweatshop? Talk about a quiet night in the old sleeping bag...
-bill kenny

Vielen Dank für die Blumen

This is my most favorite day of the year. It's better than my children's birthdays (combined or separate) or even that of my wife-basically because none of those would resonate without some, part, or all of today, which is our wedding anniversary.

My wife, Sigrid, and I married forty-four years ago, today at twenty after ten in the morning (a Friday as I recall) in the Offenbach am Main Rathaus, when we tied the knot and signed on the line (there really is a line on the heiratsurkunde). I grin every time I think about that day and my grin grows so wide I find it a wonder that the entire top of my head doesn't just fall off into my lap. Except for the improvement, I doubt anyone would notice the difference.

I'm sorry to bend your eyes with my meanderings down memory lane, but as much and as often as I lose track of events and people from my past, it's amazing that my memories of this day are crisp and bright. How many of them actually happened is sometimes a point of contention in my house, and that's part of the journey, too.

Another part is my annual bad joke, where I say 'Sigrid says it feels a lot longer than forty-four years of marriage, but that's because the Germans use the metric system.' And then I pause and hope for her roll of the eyes and wan smile.

I would hope you, too, have already, or will soon, meet that someone whose very being is enough to reassure you that you're finally home. The person around whom you don't need to hold your breath. Who, no matter what you do, still loves you for who you are, even if you sometimes don't act like that person for really LONG periods of time.

I have twenty billion reasons for why I am in love with this Offenbach madel--and no idea how she could possibly love or be in love with an arrogant, ignorant, loud-mouth stumblebunny like me. But she is and I've stopped wondering why and finally accepted that love is something you can only give, but never earn. 

Sigrid tries so hard to make this marriage of ours, but really hers (mostly), work and all I do is show up for meals (and I often don't do that on time or properly dressed). In the end, if I were honest, I'd admit, as Daltry once sang "I'm not into your passport picture. I just like your nose."

Had she ever stopped to wonder about how literally she might have to live the 'for better or for worse; for richer and for poorer' parts of the ritual, she might have asked for a lifeline or to phone a friend. Oder ein pause einlegen. 

Sigrid and I may well celebrate our anniversary with takeout (there is a pandemic you know) from a wonderful Indian food restaurant we both know in Groton that reminds us of a place we used to frequent in Frankfurt am Main in what seems like another life (because it was).

It was the first place I ever took her to eat when we started dating and I only knew about it because my friend (and future best man) Chris H. had shown me how to ride the U3 from Adickesallee to get there two weeks earlier. Best fahrschein I ever bought. She ordered the chicken curry and I had the lamb vindaloo. We both enjoyed the nan and thought the mango chutney was marvelous. It still is.

Happy Anniversary, Angel Eyes!
-bill kenny

Leaf Me A Lawn

It’s almost time for the World Series. Meanwhile, professional football is on television every Sunday, Monday, and Thursday with high school football under the lights on Fridays and college football dominating Saturday afternoons with both professional basketball and hockey just starting.

Sports and Autumn just seem to go together. The air is crisp and filled with the scent of picked apples, even by those of us who don’t eat apples, and let’s face it nothing says fall like a set of new pumpkin-spice-scented brake pads on the family jalopy. 

But that’s NOT what Autumn in New England is about. Nope. 

Around here we grab our trusty old leaf blower, slap on those mickey mouse earphones so the engine’s roar doesn't deafen us like those Iron Maiden concerts in the Eighties used to do (still have the Run For The Hills tee-shirt, do you?) and then work gathering up the fallen leaves in piles, placing them in the backyard composter with the active biologicals combined with cut grass and moisture to produce the enriched matter for our spring lawns.

Though more likely, not.

Most of us have gas-powered leaf blowers because they have a louder and more satisfying roar than those electric ones; you can go anywhere with them, and they can blow any and all leaves you find on/near your property out into the street or onto a neighbor's property, because somewhere in an obscure codicil of the Bill of Rights or an addendum to the Articles of Confederation grandfathered into the Constitution is a provision about the right to arm bears, be obnoxiously loud, befoul the air with gasoline fumes, and poison your relationships with your neighbors.

Leaf blowers are uniquely American-no one else has them and most people in whose countries I've lived or visited cannot comprehend having a device as pointless and wasteful as a leaf blower. In many ways, it's more perfectly symbolic of the United States than the bald eagle and is the closest thing an appliance could ever come to representing (and encapsulating) our entire election system.

Except that it wouldn't work, because all successful sports in the USA have television contracts, I can see a new national sports craze where people in golf carts drive around (blindfolded? why not?), talking on a cell phone while a partner in the shotgun seat operates a leaf blower trying to coerce a small animal, perhaps a ferret dipped in iridescent paint (Fox Sports' experiment with the blue glowing hockey puck some years back has made an indelible impression upon me) into a shoebox that closes down with a satisfying snap on the little furry fugitive with points awarded for the number of passes it takes to herd the ferret into the box.

Of course, everyone would be so busy competing for a place on a local team that leaves might fall unnoticed for decades, renewing the earth and returning to it some of the nutrients and minerals we have thoughtlessly plundered from it in our evolution from the primordial ooze to cheese or parrot heads and foam (middle and otherwise) fingers we wear to differentiate us from the lower primates. 

And remember, like snowflakes, and leaves, no two of us are alike.
Too bad you can’t hear my point.
-bill kenny

So It's Not Just Qantas They Want....

I love scouring news of the world features and stories because no matter how frightening some of those stories are, and they often are, they also invariably brighten my day because they provide a cheering comparison to my own desert island existence. 

When I was a wee slip of a lad, far more wee than slip, admittedly, and the one living room television was our window to the wide world, I used to love watching commercials for Qantas Airlines. I was today old before I learned that the koala in that commercial, and all the early ones, was living in the San Diego Zoo far from his beloved Australia.

And, based on this news item I think we might have better named him Randy. 
-bill kenny

 

A Two-Act Play

Not the most original thought I've ever had and, I'll admit, nor the most cheering or cheerful but I woke up yesterday to the realization that for the first half of your life, people tell you what to do.

For the second, they tell you what you should have done.

It was Shakespeare's Hamlet who once offered, 

“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Sounds a lot like here. -bill kenny

Today's Special: Calamari

I don't eat a lot of seafood, to include the fast-food fish sandwiches which don't actually taste like anything if you don't put tartar sauce on them (and wtf puts a slice of American Cheese on a fish patty, McDonald's? Not Mr. Krab that's for sure). 

Thus it follows as night the day I would spend even less time thinking about fish in any form or fashion but I will concede I fell hook, line, and sinker (see what I did there?) for this feature.   

And you assumed I might offer Ringo's song? Nope, sorry Squiddly, not at all.
-bill kenny

Rule 34

A billion or so years ago, in a conversation with a now-deceased friend (and probably just about the last actual friend I will ever have in this world now that I think about it) in the earliest days of convergence and connectivity that has evolved into the Internet-We-No-Longer-Recognize-But-Cannot-Live-Without, we spoke of the missing 'killer app' aspect of it all so far.

Earlier, in the era of videotape, Betacam a technically superior, in terms of resolution and stability, video format lost out to VHS primarily because the latter's storage capabilities were monstrous in comparison to the former. And the folks who made porno videos took quick advantage. 

Neither of us was saying that porn could/should or would rule the internet though at times it seems like maybe it does, but beyond the pale uses certainly took up a lot of bandwidth and helped a lot of folks who had trouble talking find something to say. For a moment, two guys in New London County, Connecticut seemed pretty smart. 

And then one of them fell asleep in his chair after an early-morning workout session on his treadmill and never woke up and here I am, learning about audio smut, which sounds like a very much in character caustic descriptive I would deploy but it's more of an open-minded summary.

Talk about a fine line between an orgasm and an eargasm. 

And I'd been wondering why sales of hearing aids, headphones, and earbuds were trending up, sometimes triple-digit increases, in recent years. Just when I'd thought I'd heard everything.  
-bill kenny

15 Minutes Can Save You How Much?

I know the animated television character is a gecko and has as much to do with Gordon as it does with insurance. I've never known how it came to represent the latter but do know I prefer it to the cavemen ads that preceded it and which inspired a frighteningly short-lived (and deservedly so) TV show of almost the same name.

This news story leads me to suspect there may be more money in automobile insurance than can be imagined between heaven and earth, Horatio. To say nothing of the seats in a Hyundai Genesis.
-bill kenny   

A Nostalgia-Tinged Polaroid of My Past

I just saw a TV spot for a new Polaroid camera (they didn't call it new) and here, as 2021 wends its way toward the next Brave New Year, I can't help but wonder why anyone buys a Polaroid camera now. But, mine is not to wonder why...this is from a dozen years ago for no other reason than it showed up like Banquo's Ghost earlier today and I couldn't think of any reason, much less a good one to send it packing.  

Back in the day, I called it:

Someone had better tell him about the rabbits

Out walking yesterday afternoon on Washington Street I saw a lady walking with two dogs-one barely a dog at all, in terms of carbon footprint while the other looked like a Great Dane crossed with a Brick House. 

I flashed on that expression always attributed to people from the South (I wonder if Bridgeport counts if I'm in Norwich) about 'it's not the size of the dog in a fight but the size of the fight in the dog.' while looking at the pair take their mistress for a pull.

She had her hands full. The big one, whom I named Lenny, was slow and plodding just taking it all in. The tiny one, George, was pushing to get ahead and move on--possibly not even sure where he was heading, but making great time while doing it. He barked at every falling leaf while Lenny moved as if in slow-motion while we were back up in the booth reviewing the replay.

It was entirely possible that one of Lenny's umm, movements (quick save on my part) would probably weigh more than George with his leash and collar on, and from the distance that George kept from Lenny it seemed, perhaps, he had come to the same realization. A chopped Honda with a rear spoiler, because that's what keeps the rear wheels on the ground when the nitro kicks in on the 1.8-liter engine, went humpty-bumpty down Washington, windows wide open, the driver sharing his music with the world.

The microscopic rep from the Animal Kingdom was the first to voice his displeasure, I suspect because the bass was so overdriven (cracks seemed to appear in the sidewalk, and birds and bugs were plummeting stone deaf and dead to earth) it was probably painful for such sensitive ears. George, as befit his size, actually sounded like a squeak toy as he registered his protest.

Lenny, on the other paw, seemed at first to not notice or mind, as he plodded on oblivious to the SOHC of the Apocalypse heading in his direction, boom chakalaka boom. However, when the Honda could have been no more than ten feet from him, Lenny let out a HUGE bellow, the force of which may have actually slowed the Honda down, and stepped into the street, dragging his dog-walking companion with him.

The Honda hot rod stood on the brakes, at least as good as his subwoofers, and Lenny stood on his back legs with his front paws on the car's hood and howled in a piteously pathetic tone that simultaneously told you he was hurting and promised he wouldn't be in pain alone for much longer. Even I, who have difficulty telling which end of the dog to pet and which not to, knew there was no translation needed from the Dog Whisperer.

The driver fell out, more than exited from, the car, frantic that he'd hit the dog. He should have had such luck, instead, he had the animal's fullest attention. The woman was struggling to control George who was doing that small dog classic barking while straining on the leash routine that translates as 'let me at him and I'll murder the bum!'

Meanwhile, woebegone Lenny yelped for relief from forces he could not perceive. Eventually, the driver realized the sound system was the culprit and turned it a tick to the left of eleven, the dogs quieted down and he got back into his ride. I was just driving past as I watched George, always quick to hold a grudge I suspect, christen the guy's front tire. I figured as angry as he'll be about that later, he should be grateful Lenny hadn't followed George's lead.
-bill kenny

The Return of a Friend

As I've mentioned, I'm not a fan of  Autumn but will gladly welcome the return of an Autumnal tradition we all missed last year and because it's been a little longer than I'd have liked, I've been getting prepared for it by having my eyeglasses steamed clean so that this weekend, I can, and will, rival Clark Kent for visual acuity (and bulk purchasing carrots was also a pretty good idea).

I'm prepping, as I'm hoping you may have already guessed, for the Friends of Otis Library Book Sale which kicks off this Friday morning and runs through Sunday afternoon at three.

This Friday morning will feature a sneak preview from nine to ten that collectors from across the Northeast gladly pay $10 for the head start that is well worth the money because it allows them all manner of goodies and great deals, but there's no need to fret because there's a basement chock full of hardcover and paperback books, compact discs, audio cassettes (remember them? I do. Ouch!), and DVDs, of every genre and description.

If you're going to tell me you'd love to go but <sigh> there's always 'problems with parking,' please stop right there. The truth of the matter is when we say 'problems with parking' about downtown Norwich what we really mean in this case is we cannot take our cars into the library with us. Point in fact, there's plenty of municipal parking with hundreds of spaces no more than a four-minute walk from the Library. Just walk.

And it's okay to take a break from the book browsing to grab a bite at one of the restaurants that seem to be everywhere on every path from the library. What kind of food do you want for lunch-it's right there, steps away from Franklin Square or should I say Franklin Rotary Square-good deals on great meals.

The book sale is a terrific way to stock up your home shelves (in my case we might need to buy some more and find space for them), but, in light of the ongoing financial challenges facing libraries across our state (and nation) as budget 'corrections' (a/k/a reductions) continue to cut deeply into programs, people and resources, the money raised from the three-day sale helps keep the O in Otis. Actually, it could be the T as well, I'm not always sure.

What I am sure about is that libraries are vastly more than the sum of the goods and services they offer which too often means it's very difficult to put an accurate price tag on their value to all of us throughout the community who use them. We're fortunate here in Connecticut that there are so many inter-library programs in place across the state. Library patrons in Norwich can avail themselves of products and services from larger metro areas with more plentiful resources. 

But, and without intending to harsh your pre-book sale buzz, it's the same old story every year when state and municipal budgets are configured, Someone, somewhere, gets a little less and is expected to still do a little more and there's always a chance that library patron services can be constrained or curtailed, casualties of fiscal hostile fire, which is why the dollars raised by the Friends of Otis are even more important than they already always are.

What is Otis worth to you or your family aside from a trip downtown to rummage through the shelves and bag some bargains? Check out this page What's Your Library Worth? and brace yourself for an answer that may very much surprise you.

A cynic, I'm told, knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. At this weekend's Friends of Otis Library, Book Sale prove that you know how valuable this regional resource is to you, and buy a bag of books. Borrow my glasses and buy two bags.
-bill kenny

Walking Punchline

One of the (very) few things I've ever been even close to good at in my life, so far, is worrying.  Without sounding too much like a humblebrag, but knowing that's exactly what it is, if they ever make worrying an Olympic event you'll see me at the awards podium. concerned that the creases on the bunting draping the platform might be too sharp and cut someone or how the ribbon for the medal has been known to cause chafing on some people's necks. 

I got up yesterday morning with a moment of clarity I've not had in many, many years: none of the things about which I worry are impacted in any way by my concern about them. As a matter of fact, the only thing seemingly that is impacted by my worrying is the enjoyment of those moments of pleasure and happiness I do have, usually through no merit of my own. 

As I've aged, a lot of the stuff that I don't remember being covered in Grown-Up School is catching up with me and the number of health 'issues' that are now well beyond that continue to both multiply and intensify. 

I have a primary care provider, a cardiologist, an endocrinologist, a hematologist, a nephrologist, a pulmonologist, a rheumatologist, and a urologist. That's a helluva lot of healthcare professionals for someone who is only five foot, eight inches tall (not counting my smile, visible from space).

There's a joke about 'cheer up, things could get worse; so I did cheer up and they did get worse,' that's not nearly as funny to me in recent months as it was in previous decades, and yet I intend to keep the grin affixed to my mug because from a distance it's harder to tell if it's a grimace or a smile.
-bill kenny

History. Personal as well as Misremembered

I returned to the Land of the Round Doorknobs, thirty years ago today. I had very little choice, move or starve-my family had less. I tell people I ended up in Norwich, Connecticut because I lost a bar bet. Point in fact most surveys of those residing in The Rose of New England suggest it was they who lost the bet.

Columbus Day is almost the perfect American holiday because Christopher Columbus is exactly like us. He didn't know where he was going when he was going there, didn't know where he was when he got there, had no idea what to make of what he found where he ended up and squandered all that he received for his troubles and effort.

When we were kids, Columbus Day was a big deal. In New York City the Department of Public (almost dropped the L off that; awkward) Works used to paint the white line on Fifth Avenue purple for the annual parade that was always held on the real date of the holiday, October 12. In light of so much, I as a man of now-nearly-seventy know that as a boy of twelve I didn't about the Rape of Paradise which ensued after Columbus' arrival, perhaps blood-red might have been a better choice of colors.

When I was a kid, all I ever cared about was the day off, just like kids across the country. We all recited the rhyme because that's how we knew what we did know about Columbus and since there wasn't a snappy couplet about genocide we didn't hear anything about that aspect of discovering the New World (I also don't remember the Arakawa natives part but some of my little gray cells have had some rough days).

Looking at the world as it is and how all settlement and civilization has developed, I'm not sure it's just Old Chris we should be putting in the defendant's docket and charging. I'm thinking a look in the mirror, as well as a glance out a window, might increase our catch significantly.

And to compound the cacophony of facts clashing with opinions is the realization that not only did Columbus not discover the New World, but he also wasn't the first. We've spent hundreds of years observing a historical event that is neither historic nor an actual event. Sort of like being the second skinniest at fat kid summer camp.

And now, as it's the dot on the "i" in Monday holiday, we have another excuse (and sale opportunity) to buy bedding, or is that just me in the last couple of days? Sandwiched between the 'My candidate is on the special advisory committee to Gawd while yours eats bugs" commercials have been a steady stream of ads selling mattresses. I'm not sure there's any more of a connection of one to the other than there was to India from Bermuda back in the day.

Speaking of which, you have to cross an ocean from a basement warehouse at Bertramstrasse 6 in Frankfurt am Main to get to a certain city in Ohio. That's as may be. All I know for sure is such a journey can take decades and cost you more than you ever believed you could pay when you first started. But it's worth every penny, for your thoughts and otherwise. 
-bill kenny

Between Jumping and Shooting the Shark

Three weeks from today is Halloween (insert whatever number of exclamation points you deem necessary; I feel no need). Our children are in their late and middle Thirties respectively so I have ZERO interest anymore in a totally fabricated holiday. 

That means you can take the decorations, the greeting cards, the theme parties, and all the costumes and shove them up your attic (could be kids reading, and why take a chance?). 

And why am I so angrily intolerant about an otherwise harmless get-dressed-up-and-eat-candy- until-you-fall-into-a-diabetic-coma holiday? I don't know. Maybe 'cos of shit like this?

Yeah. What's not to love about a cat shark costume? And with just three weeks until Boo-Day, why not splurge on this little item? Yeah, on average over half a million of us across the country are homeless on any given day of the year, but just because we're hypnotized that don't mean we can't dance. And remember, the BIG candy bars are the fun-sizes.
-bill kenny

He Has a WHAT in His Throat?

My mom used to say, simple minds = simple pleasures. And as a possessor of the former, and internet access to find a plethora of the latter, I endorse her sentiment. 

Thanks for coming to my Ted-Talk.
-bill kenny 

Picturing Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue

Marshall Crenshaw released an album called, "I've suffered for my art. Now it's your turn." 

Coward that I am, given the chance to experience art in any form without suffering of any kind I'll always ask for seconds, please, especially, as happened in Copenhagen, Denmark when someone else (a museum) is paying for the art. 

The offering by Jens Hanning is "Take the Money and Run" and the Kunsten Museum of Modern Art is meget utilfreds og leder efter tilbagebetaling. I, for one, wouldn't want to have his nerve in my tooth.

For the "Work it Out" exhibit at the Kunsten Museum of Modern Art, Haaning was meant to fill frames with money.
But they were empty.

Hoo-Hoo, indeed!
-bill kenny

Thrilled to NOT Be on the List

Later this month, I'll be 69 and 1/2 years old (yeah, I know; I sound like a four-year-old counting the fractional parts too) and (between us) I never really pictured getting this old, or more accurately stated, I never came close to accurately envisioning what getting this old would look and feel like.

There's a guy in the mirror when I get up every morning who looks absolutely saddened and stunned to see me, especially since he has no idea what to do to help me, though I do appreciate his concern. And when I look at my desk blotter calendar and count the number of doctors' appointments I have in the course of a month, I am as disheartened as the face in the mirror.    

Not that I'm exploring in any way the alternative to growing older. Like Dunbar in Catch-22, I'm hanging on to this life with both hands convinced that this is pretty much all there is and am in no hurry to exchange a certainty for an uncertainty, especially when the status of pony rides in both instances is still unsettled.

I grow apprehensive when my wife speaks about getting a new couch, which she recently did, or new curtains for the kitchen or a new anything for anywhere, offering as the reason the current item is 'old.' 

As the oldest thing in our house, I get nervous when I don't see the single-cup coffee-maker on the counter or when my favorite cereal bowl comes up missing. I know it's just a matter of time until I encounter them again curbside, realizing that in some shape or form my days are as  numbered before ending up there as well, with few to miss or mourn. 

Thus I pay attention to articles like this and count it as a small victory that I don't show up in it.  

Yet.
-bill kenny

Sing This All Together

Autumn’s earliest weeks are history (which, as a half-full glass kind of guy, means winter is closer now than it was this time last week, BUT the end of winter is also a week closer) and with major league baseball playoffs, high school, college and pro football all battling for our attention while the partisan unpleasantness in Washington DC (Disruptive Contention) continues, there's still the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other plod of daily life on this Big Blue Marble to which to attend.

And we're the ones who do it for-and sometimes, inadvertently (and other times maliciously) do it to one another. I tried earlier in the week, pretty much out of boredom, to count all the local elections going on across these fifty mostly United States this fall and gave up as the number was staggering.

That doesn't mean we shouldn't care or that we should become passive, on the contrary. The poet, Edward Everett Hale once offered, "I am only one, but still, I am one. I cannot do everything, but still, I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do the something that I can do." And he’s right.

Part of what makes this country this country and not somebody else’s is the tens of billions of hours of volunteer effort that we invest in making where we live a better place. You probably think I’m making that number up and maybe I am but maybe I’m not.

Go to the city’s website and check out the calendar of meetings and learn again how many of our neighbors are involved in the various advisories, boards, committees, and whatever they’re called this week that are holding meetings and do a rough calculation of the amount of time those meetings take (And don't forget to add the prep time and the follow-up time). How's that calculator doing now? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Bearing in mind, I’m not pretending to count all the school-related and/or neighborhood connected outreaches and informal projects that so many of us are engaged in as we find the time (or in my case the energy and enthusiasm).  As much as I’ve enjoyed my involvement on a lot of city citizen-panels, something I will ruefully concede that those also on those same panels might not be inclined to say, it’s never really been about whatever ‘the job’ has been but, rather, more the sense of shared community, the idea of hey-this-is-important-and-we-need-to-do it and the satisfaction that comes from trying that I find intoxicating and rewarding.

And no matter how much we do, there’s always more that needs to be done. For some of us, there's a band or after-school sports practice in need of a driver, and falling leaves that will not rake themselves-though how cool would that be if they did?

And there are a hundred other reasons for leaving all the lugging and heavy lifting to someone else, but I suspect Washington had better things to do a long time ago on a cold winter's night when someone said, 'there's a rowboat crossing the Delaware in ten minutes, George; be on it.' And just as there will always be another river to cross, let's hope it's always standing room only in the boat.
-bill kenny

Fragen Kostet Nichts

There's a great Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip where Calvin asks his dad how those weight limit signs on bridges are developed (When I Googled to search for the strip below, Google Auto-Complete added Klein behind Calvin. I'm not sure what that was about). 

I've always loved that panel because who among us didn't ask his dad just those kinds of questions (Little Orphan Annie and Oliver Twist, put your hands down)? And it turns out, there's a world of curiosity seekers and satisfiers all around us who answer those sometimes more, and sometimes less (way less), pressing questions offered by the universe in which we live.   

We've all heard of the Noble Prize. My circle of acquaintances doesn't include anyone who will ever get near one of them, but in fairness, they know me so perhaps that's disappointment enough. But what about those who pursue the 'why would anyone want to know that' questions and imponderables? 

Glad you asked.
Small drum flourish please, ladies and gentlemen, the 2021 Ig Nobel Awards. And while I, for one, may never be in the rhinoceros helicopter transport industry, and no longer have a dog in the hunt for "A New Method for Cockroach Control on Submarines," I will, armed with science, be even more careful when placing my hands on the underside of a desk or table. Talk about giving me something to chew on.
-bill kenny

Like Golf on the Radio

As my wife and children can attest, the concept of wealth, earning it and keeping it, has for most of the 69.47 years into the only trip I'm getting on this orb very much eluded me. 

Not that I don't admire the idea behind the accumulation of anything, be it drachmas, dollars, or the Quasi Universal Intergalactic Denomination (or QUID). Until you clicked on the link back there, <==, admit it; you thought I was making that up. And after all we've been through together. You have cut me to the quick.

In recent months I've even seen standalone machines in the nearby mall in Waterford trying to sell me Bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies. Of course, the website has nice things to say; the people who make Bitcoin made the website. 

But wait! There's more! (I got a deal on exclamation points, so enjoy). There are other make-believe currencies, far more than I'm comfortable trying to enumerate, to underscore just how arbitrary our accepted financial systems actually are.  

And while you might have, as do I, a financial advisor and planner to help make what you've got in the currency of your choice go as far as it can for as long as it can (and thank you, again, Patrick Kenny), who's to guide you as a Stranger in a Strange Land of cryptocurrency?

Mr. Goxx. Why? Because, of course. Proving again that every time you say 'that's the craziest thing I've ever heard!' you should bite your tongue, count to ten and prepare to say it again. Because, of course. 
-bill kenny

Imagine the Anniversary Celebrations

As much as I love a good love story, though not necessarily this one, I like it when the tale is both shaken AND stirred and leaves me wondering 'what in the world will happen next?' 

Sort of like this.  

I'm familiar with silver and golden anniversaries but which one is bail bonds again?
-bill kenny

Eventually We All Make the List

I'm becoming demoralized about how far down I have to scroll online when filling out a form for a good or service that asks my year of birth. All that's missing as I roll the trackball is a balloon to pop up that reads 'seriously?' as I continue to downward roll picking up speed and momentum but, alas, no further wisdom along the way. 

I've told people for decades who'd noticed my stunning lack of skills that I was always more decorative than functional but as I've aged that excuse has started to wear as thin as most of my other attempts at humor. 

It was with some trepidation that I approached this link, from The Saturday Evening  Post, fearful that I might find myself named and enumerated on their list.   

You can exhale now. You're not there, either. I checked for both of us.
-bill kenny

Afternoons at about Two-Twenty

Same movie, different cast. 

It's comforting our City Manager knows about the congestion and makes it a point to avoid the area. Not quite the definition of problem-solver I was going for, Alex.
-bill kenny