Target Acquired

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of SoHo in the rain.
He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook's
Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein." 

"Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the queen
Doing the werewolves of London.
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the queen, uh
Doing the werewolves of London.
I saw a werewolf drinking a piña colada at Trader Vic's
And his hair was perfect.
Na!"

-bill kenny

The Future Is a/k/a Perhaps

I am an unabashed child of the novelty. I have memories of sitting on a coffee table in my parents' living room in the apartment in Elechester that we lived in when I was still an only child, watching the Dinah Shore Show on a teeny-tiny black and white television. "See the USA in your Chevrolet." Dad had a two-tone Plymouth two-door coupe, but I still sang the song. 

Seventy years later, and I'm surprised by the wizened visage I encounter in the mirror every morning. Strange days indeed. So little of what I grew up with has survived, except the memories. 

Now, we're a culture, nearly worldwide, who, because we have all these television and cable 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 a 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 a 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 56th 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) anniversary of Woodstock. 

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, but I digress. I wondered eons ago if the news coverage of OJ and AC's speeding Ford Bronco was the end of an error. Now I know it was the lead car in the circus caravan, and I'm forced to acknowledge "This ain't no technological breakdown, Oh no, this is the road to hell." Makes me wonder what happened to that long-ago coffee table.
-bill kenny

You Knew I'd Remember

Richie was eighty-five this past Monday. That is to say, Richard Starkey, Ringo Starr, was eighty-five earlier this week. On the face of it, that's completely nuts, because it would mean that I Want to Hold Your Hand, the song that was their first #1 in the USA, would be sixty-plus years old....WTFO? Nearly everyone I encounter daily wasn't even alive yet when that happened. How is this possible?

I'm trying and failing to imagine popular music without The Beatles--and the drummer in the band who created a significant piece of the soundtrack to my growing up years, the guy who was talking 'bout Boys (hey hey, bop shuop, m'bop, bop shuop) and who had a matchbox holding his clothes is E-I-G-H-T-Y_F-I-V-E. Is nothing sacred?

I rewatched A Hard Day's Night not that long ago-and, yeah, my age is showing; it was brilliant. It is a postcard from another time when we all were a lot less complicated in a world that disappeared and was replaced by one with sharpened elbows and a kick drum mixed with static. And while I'm aware of what we've lost through the years, I'm less sure of what we've gained.

Ringo saw two of his former bandmates die-one murdered by a crazed fan and the other by cancer from a lifetime of cigarettes. He snagged a Bond Girl and watched as Cirque du Soleil introduced another generation to the Magical Mystery Tour that was The Beatles.

Those who listened then are now older than our fathers who growled at us to 'turn that crap down' when the Beatles/Stones/Dave Clark Five/Byrds/and ten thousand other long haired bands came blasting out of the three inch speaker in that transistor radio we each had. 

We thought those days would last forever. Ringo Starr is eighty-five, and on behalf of all of us, no longer twelve-year-olds from back then, here's to many more.

-bill kenny

Thoughts, Spoken Aloud, Haunt My Waking Moments

I find myself alone with what passes for thoughts at odd hours, almost always in my car, which is funny because life and times for my generation go full circle. 

When I was coming of age, the driver's license and the open road (and all they promised, if not always delivered) was a rite of passage. And here I am, very much as I started, a long way from home on a dark highway, lost but making great time.

It was an era of Springsteen's chromed invaders-GTOs, Malibu SSs, Olds 442s, Buick Wildcats, Mustangs, 'Cudas, and Chargers at the top of the list. Gas lines the size of garden hoses and all of us, the dweebs included (present!) knew the cubic displacement and the brake horsepower. MPG at a time when gasoline was thirty-five cents a gallon was a nonsense concept and was never explored.

We traveled in packs but were often alone. Our music was transitioning from AM radio to FM and we struggled to move from converters to tape decks, almost always eight-track, with FM receivers. I remember taking the back seat out of a car to make room for ludicrously sized speakers that were very important to me but I can't remember why. Because, I suspect; just because.

Driving a car was only slightly more important than having one of your own. Growing up in the sixties, we were all psychedelic capitalists who believed dope got you through times of no money better than money got you through times of no dope. 

A lifetime later, we invented the Real Estate Collapse and Stock Market Meltdown (all caps for a reason) and were absolutely stunned when it happened (now I know why we called it dope).

I watched older neighborhood boys sent off by my parents' generation thousands of miles away to places I couldn't say for causes I accepted as good and true because my government told me it was so. Now, it's my generation sending our children and grandchildren to other wars that are eerily familiar, and I know just how good we've gotten at lying, but I don't know who we're fooling.

I don't calculate the cost or the worth of those transactions, since those may be numbers that are too unhappy at any hour, but especially in the early ones. I think I prefer to drive in the dawning and the gloaming--when you don't know (or care) where you're going, any road will get you there. 

Those with whom I travel always seem as lost as I and the roads lead everywhere and nowhere. Keep the windows rolled up, crank the climate control, and turn the tunes up. It remains what it has always been from the start until now, a dark ride.
-bill kenny

Not that Song Again!!!

I wrote this a really long time ago, before our son got married (He and Jena's anniversary was last Friday). I've not done very much very well in this life (at least so far), but marrying my wife and being the father to our two children were excellent moves on my part. At the time, I called it: 

Memo to My Son

Today is the birthday of our son, Patrick Michael. If we've not met, count your blessings. I am NOT likable. Take my word on that, and rest assured, I could provide you a list of folks who could attest to this fact, and the list would resemble the census in size and scope. 

Me and Patrick at Yankee Stadium Go Yankees!

Being not likable makes it a difficult stretch to be lovable, and yet, my wife, an otherwise sane and logical person, could not possibly be married to me for nearly five decades, but has. She not only raised two children, but she also transformed a self-absorbed obliviot into an Approximate Dad. 

Sigrid went into labor in the middle of the morning, and we drove across town to the Offenbach Stadtkrankenhaus. German physicians in the early Eighties were an unknown species to me (Sigrid's frauenarzt was cool enough-I still have the black and white Polaroids of Patrick in the womb), and I was to them as well. 

As Sigrid's labor continued and the contractions shortened and the delivery preparation's tempo quickened, I was asked where I would be during her stay in the geburtsaal, and I assured the doctors, 'right there with her', which surprised them. 

I attempted to explain that I had placed the order and had every intention of taking delivery. Maybe my German wasn't that good-it was like playing to an oil painting, no smile, no nothing, gar nichts.

Rocking Suspenders

The midwife placed Patrick Michael on Sigrid's chest for mother and child bonding, and my disappointment knew almost no words. At that moment, I was so jealous of the woman I loved. 

I asked as politely as I could if, after she had 'had enough of holding him', if I could, and she picked him up and fixing me with a stare that bordered on a glare handed Patrick to me, saying 'I've carried him for nine months, it's your turn now.' 

From the moment I held him, Patrick Michael was, and is, my deal with God. I know your children are beautiful, smart, talented, and handsome, and I'm sorry-they're not my children, and my son and my daughter are the absolute best, not only in the world but in the history of the world.

My always favorite photo. Always.

I walked him around that delivery room for the next two hours or so, singing I've Been Working on the Railroad and really working those Fie-Fi-Fiddly-I-Os, making up in volume what I lacked in pitch. 

He and his sister have overcome the handicap of being my children, mostly because they've had the good fortune to have the love and devotion of my wife as their Mom. And, yeah, he's made me crazy, angry, frightened, delighted, and every emotion in between--because that's what children do.

I know we told you we lost this picture. We lied.

And as long as you remember to make sure they always know that sometimes they will do things you will not like, but that you will always love them, they will be able to do anything, even leave you when they grow up to be adults of their own. And your eyes will fill with tears as you watch them end the chapter of their childhood and begin to write their own novel as the life you always wanted for them finally begins. 

And maybe the keyboard blurs as I type this because it's really warm and my eyes are perspiring-yeah, that's what it is, I'm sure. And I also get to say a few words to the newest Mrs. Kenny on the planet (to my knowledge), Patrick's bride, Jena: Sigrid and I have no words to express our joy that Patrick has found someone who loves him as much as we do. 

Patrick & Jena Kenny

Happy Birthday, Patrick! Love, Dad.

This Concludes this Test of the Emergency Broadcast System......

 

If you are NOT outraged at what is happening, you are NOT paying attention.
-bill kenny

Biding My Time

I haven't been alive for ALL of them, but I truly believe this is the saddest Independence Day holiday of my life.  

Hopefully, for next year's 250th, things will be better.
-bill kenny

Approved by Bobby McFerrin

I had an email from the Social Security administration yesterday advising me that, thanks to the passage of Trump's Big, Beautiful Bill, I won't have federal income tax taken out of my Social Security monthly stipend anymore.

The note forgot to tell me that Ronald Reagan was the one who slapped the income tax on my Social Security stipend in the first place.

We ain't just whistling Dixie either.
-bill kenny  

Not Feeling So Blessed Now

I cannot be the only one who is angry all the time at what a clusterfeck my country has become. In the battle between the Greedies and the Needies, it looks like the Greedheads won out. Let's face it, the Billionaires and Tech Brothers have decided that people with nothing have too much. 

Aerial of Norwich, CT 2019 Harbor fireworks

And don't look to Congress to stop the most awful, evil, talentless piece of skin in my lifetime to occupy the Oval Office, as they are busy helping themselves (that's why they have two hands to take it all and two pockets to put it in) and are as craven and spineless as the nine nitwits on the Supreme Court, who, instead of being impartial and adjudicating cases based on the facts, check to see if you're a woman or an immigrant or gave one or more of them a yacht ride before rendering a decision. 

You know it's bad when pond scum like Elon Musk threatens to form his own politial party to put the two monopoly parties on notice and you think that's a good idea except Musk is a horrible human being so how can you agree with him on anything?  

Norwich, CT Veterans Memorial Garden

I wrote this fifteen years ago when I was feeling far more optimistic about myself and my nation. I called it: 

The Gift of Quiet

Here's what I"m thinking, since we're now hip-deep in the holiday weekend, maybe all the bobbing talking heads on the 24/7 Noise channels can follow Piers Morgan's lead, if for only 72 hours, and not bring me their version of the Ghosts of Independence Day Past, Present and Future. 

Drone photo by Brian Swope of Norwich, CT fireworks 2021

On a good day, downhill with a strong breeze at their backs, most of these folks can't diagram a sentence much less construct a coherent argument that doesn't involve the use of 'Democrat' or 'Republican' as an epithet.

A lot of people had to sacrifice everything, and far more sacrificed a great deal (from space you can't tell us apart, trust me on this one) for us to choose to barbecue, watch fireworks, go to the beach/the mountains, do whatever, for "America's Birthday" that I'd just like us, just for today to NOT have to pick a side, unless it's either Cole Slaw or potato salad, if you follow my drift.

Television is everywhere we go, and in some places, though none that I frequent, that includes public bathrooms and newborn nurseries (like a six-hour-old infant can tell Hannity from Watters). We can't know everything, but we seem to be hellbent on trying.

The chatter channels make sure we never have to be alone-and if you and I are distressed by the vicious belittling of those who don't share a studio host's views, we may be the only people who grasp that two diatribes don't make a dialogue. 

I'm not sure that's a good thing for us, especially this holiday weekend, as we'll get stomped from both sides for lacking the purity of faith that their ideology, mislabeled as patriotism, demands.

So maybe later, instead of turning up the big screen so you can hear it better over the charcoal in the grill, you can hope for a lull in the battle that has become Life in these United States, where the sides are no longer clearly defined and the tradition of Right and Wrong hasn't been "improved" by situational ethics. 

We're not the first Americans to have seared our souls searching for a better life, but if we can't find or create a common ground to continue to do so real soon, there may not be that many more after us. God Bless America, a once-fine idea that was hollowed out by selfish bastards.

-bill kenny

It's Not a Lie if It Was Never Intended to Be True

         Old Taylor said

                Old Taylor meant to cry, oh my

                Field marshal meant

                Field marshal went away again

                Look out below, the tides

                Lean heavily like wine.

            We are all innocent, in spite of you and me

Then Martha went

Yes, Martha went away again

Down in Transvaal

Where crocodiles and men fight on.

They would have played all night

Even with loaded dice.

    It's gold that eats the heart and leaves the bones to dry

                Segovia watched

            Gendarmerie and all, that's all

        The radio man

                Amanda, did you choose your tune?

        She walked away in time.

        She walked a crooked line.

So gracefully she turned her head and smiled away. 

-bill kenny

Paging Paine

Neville Chamberlain learned much too late what happens when you rationalize capitulation.

Let's hope we're actually learning something from history and not just reliving it.

-bill kenny

What Else Do I Have to Say?

The expression says if you wait at the bank of the river long enough, you will see the body of every enemy float past you. I'm reaching an age where that may be true, but I probably would no longer remember them and that's scary as well since those who cannot remember history are condemned to repeat it.

I mentioned to a former colleague one time  that it was the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination to which, somewhat alarmed, he responded 'someone killed her?" 

Welcome to the Feast of Unshared Assumptions-the Holy Father hasn't quite gotten around to recognizing it yet, but it's on his list of projects after he closes that endorsement deal with Trojan.

Actually I'm making up part of the previous paragraph (HINT: not as much after the last conjunction as you'd hope). For people under the age of thirty (which my chum was), a valid question would be who is Lisa Kennedy Montgomery? No, she's not related to Jamie though the argument can be made she is about as annoying. (I love Tori Amos and when the interview concluded I wanted to whack someone with a mallet.)

But I digress-the larger question as someone who will not see seven agai is when did the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy shift from memory to history? It depends on your age, of course, and how empathetic you are to doddering codgers like me who too often use the past to avoid the future.

His death was, for Baby Boomers, the first seance if you will, that we all experienced. 

Everyone to and through a certain age stayed home from school and watched three days of relentless black and white news reels as haggard reporters in their white shirts sat in airless studios attempting to come up with new ways to tell us the US President had been murdered.

By the time we reached the on-camera live from coast to coast killing of the man who was accused of murdering the President, I don't think very many of us were left to do any critical thinking about anything for years afterwards.

A lot of things ended in the days following the murder of John Kennedy, but even more began, to include the world as most of us now know it (I didn't say it was a world many of us liked). The assassination lasted only a moment and took only one life but in the flash of the muzzle fire, everything was swept away and what we are now is heavily colored by what we were when. If you don't get given, you learn to take. And learn we have, and take we do.

-bill kenny

All Quiet on the Western Front

I started the day with some hope I'd be going home but apparently it was the root beer talking.

The nephrologist spoke to the hospitalist who consulted with the physical therapist (all of whom wear different color scrubs to help you out tell them apart, unless you're color blind, then you,'re screwed) and the decision was I am staying until at least Tuesday.

I'm starting to think they're actually talking to my wife who's saying, "Take your time."

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

-bill kenny

No Sugar Tonight

Or today either, for that matter. 

I'm enjoying medical care up close and personal in my local hospital. When you look out the window in my room, you can see the cemetery. 

But no worries, right?

See you tomorrow. Maybe.

-bill kenny

Bears Repeating

It's not so much 'guess where I'm headed today' as it is 'why aren't you going, too?' Heat of summer or cloudy skies and rain, it's the 60th Rose Arts Festival and it wouldn't be the same without you.

Rose Arts Festival 2025

As the saying goes....

-bill kenny

Take Us to the Land of Milk and Honey

It really is simple.

It's always almost roll credits time for some.
-bill kenny

Two Hands to Help Ourselves

As a cranky, elderly Yank who woke up one morning and realized he was trapped in the body of an old person, I've discovered that my tolerance for well-intentioned stupidity has been exhausted. 

My problem with controlling my urge to smack dopes with a cricket bat is that I live in a target-rich environment and Amazon is all out 'self-control.' It's not just locally; we are a nation of insatiable appetites who still think the world revolves around us, even though few anywhere else on the globe agree with that. 

At some point, as the Evangenitals would have you believe, the Lawd gave us two hands to take as much as we could and two pockets to put it all in. And to do it quickly because around here, he who hesitates is lunch. 

We want things we don't need to impress people we don't like, and think little to nothing about it. Welcome to Amerika 2025. As long as we put a flag on it, it ain't greed, right?
-bill kenny

Private Party

Very much narrow casting today, to (in general) New England, because that's where American History is made, and more specifically to where I live, the Rose of New England, Norwich, Connecticut. 

We, like many towns throughout the region, aren't suffering from Future Shock but, rather, Present Shock. When the textile mills went south, geographically, in the Fifties because of much cheaper labor (and then, in turn, in the New World Order, went overseas for even cheaper labor), we had no Plan B. 

Quite frankly, the manufacturing era is over. America doesn't make things anymore, aside from TikTok videos and MTV. We devalued and disassembled much of our education system to the point that we no longer have the skills or knowledge to apply for work, even if all the factories elsewhere came back here tomorrow.   

Here in Norwich, it means we have a Grand List mostly of residential properties because, despite all the brave talk, we are less than successful in attracting commercial and business enterprises. Oh, don't get me wrong, we're making progress, but not at a rate and pace that slows the annual mill rate increase on my house, which raises my mortgage payments to pay for taxes that fund the continuing crumbling infrastructure of every kind and constraints on public services.

What we do have is lots of old buildings, and by old, I mean the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century. In a perfect world, or even one just up I-395 a few exits, we'd have a plan for economic tourism that would complement intelligent development. The keyword is plan. Instead, we have hope.

I've been driving past this house since the day I moved to Norwich, over thirty-three years ago, and have watched many gallant and enthusiastic attempts to restore this structure. For all their efforts, and with all due respect to the artist's rendering above, this is what we have now.

This is, to me (unfortunately), TYPICAL Norwich. "Ready, Fire!, Aim." Another old building that has been determined to be historic and so must be 'preserved' but with no one else interested in buying it, the City of Norwich did, and now like the Mercantile Exchange, the Wauregan Hotel and the Reid & Hughes Building (to name just three) the city is in the real estate business, again. We were the dog that caught the car. And now what?

We're back to people buzzing about a developer fixing it up (somehow), but for what purpose and to what end? Where is the infrastructure for Norwich to effectively exploit historic tourism? We spend a lot of time talking about and still don't have a coherent or cogent plan to develop one. 

Neither of the two people nominated by their respective parties for the office of Mayor in this November's election has offered any specifics about anything they will do (or try to do) to improve our Grand List and the community's quality of life. Gibberish and generalities shouldn't be any way to run for office, but look nationally and do not be surprised. 

With apologies to Andy Dufresne, while Hope is a good thing, hope is NOT a plan, and what's needed now, perhaps more than at any time since I've lived here, is a plan. And the courage to implement it.
-bill kenny