Already?

Some of us still have hangovers from those New Year's Eve parties. And today is the LAST day of the Second month of the year. 

How is that possible?

I'd like to talk to the supervisor, please.
-bill kenny

 

Junk Food Junkies

Who hasn't heard the expression, 'you are what you eat'? (Hears snickers and tittering coming from the back of the room) No more of that, please, and thank you for your attention to this matter (has a ring of familiarity to it, doesn't it?).  

Our diets, wherever we live, are very different from those of our parents and, in turn, from those of our grandparents. For the latter, fast food didn't exist, and for the former, it mostly meant fast and cheap. No one ever accused it of being good.

When we look at studies on American obesity, you can guess the primary culprit, but we all helped get us here. But how? How about if you spend in excess of fourteen billion dollars a year on advertising for fast food?

"Fast Food Tattoo Guy"

Suspect that would add a few inches to the old waistline. Guten Appetit!
-bill kenny 

It All Seemed to Make So Much Sense

I was born the same year Dwight David Eisenhower was elected President, though I had no knowledge or any memory of my life with him as the Chief Executive. I remember being in the third grade at Pine Grove Manor School when Nixon and Kennedy ran for the White House. 

Politically astute even then, I recall a very wise fourth-grader telling me that if Nixon were elected, kids would have to go to school on Saturday. That's when I decided to back Jack. There you have it, for all those who've suspected I am a Democratic left-leaning pinko liberal loser, that may have been the moment the road to perdition was paved.

Too many years later, I'm not sure I understand what has happened to the country I grew up in, returned to, and have grown old in. We had so much go so well for so long, we don't seem to have any stomach for hard work or truth anymore. Our institutions, which have always buttressed our way of life, from finances through relationships, are pretty much bankrupt, and we don't seem to have the will or wallet to repair or replace them.

We've spent most of the last score of years in free fall, and when I say "we," I mean what was once considered the middle class. For the better part of a decade, we watched billionaire oligarchs trade blue skies for BMWs, wash their cigar boats with bottled water, and elevate day-trading to an Olympic event. 

Meanwhile, for tens of millions of Americans, the promise of prosperity remained a rumor, so while we lament what happened, some of our neighbors never had even the sniff of that in the first place, and now look at us as if we've lost our minds, and maybe we have.

Pick a place and space. Be it micro or macro, it's almost always the same movie, just with a different cast. We have trouble, not with leaning forward and looking ahead, with my apologies to Alvin Toffler's Future Shock, but with accepting where we are and why we will be here for the rest of our days if we don't change the way we are. What I call Present Shock.

At both the national and local levels, it seems there are two ways to manage Present Shock. One is to do nothing but say no and insist that those in power are to blame for whatever we now see as a failure. The other response is to just keep pressing the same button even though the pellets stopped dropping a long time ago. 

We're working very hard here to break the cycle and seize the day and the momentum, but there's still a longing for what was. If it could only be yesterday tomorrow, then today would be wonderful. 

We've failed to realize that (too) often the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth (of the habit) and that sound of footsteps we hear belongs to ourselves as we calculate the distance we'd need to outrun our own shadow. But after a while you realize time flies. 
-bill kenny

Don't Hold Your Breath

I was going to call this Seeds & Stems, but that's a blast from my past that none of us should want to revisit. Still think the Zig-Zag rolling papers guy might well have been Jesus; perhaps a discussion for another time (post-Lent)?

But since we're on the subject of seeds, I like seedless grapes of just about any color, but mostly green. I see seedless watermelons in my grocery stores all summer long. What I've never spent a lot of time contemplating is how all that comes to be. 

It seems like a very adult version of 'which came first, the chicken or the egg?' and copying off your neighbors' paper is frowned upon. C'mon, I can't be the only one mulling this whole thing over right now. We have acorns to grow oak trees and dandelion seeds to grow weeds, to say nothing of red ball caps to grow....moving right along. On the other hand, if you plant bird seed, you don't get the first robin of spring or the bluebird of happiness.

Where was I? Right! Seeds. It turns out plants are older than seeds by hundreds of millions of years. (Don't look a day over three hundred million in my opinion). And as an FYI, there's no truth to the urban legend that Cheerios are actually bagel seeds. Happy to clear that up for you.
-bill kenny

The Other SOTU

Big night and big doings under the Capitol Dome. Lights, cameras, bedazzlement! The President of the United States delivers his State of the Union Address. 

"...and I've eliminated those transgender mice!"

Why?
Article II, Section 3 of the U.S. Constitution mandates that the President "from time to time give to the Congress Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient". This duty ensures Congress is informed on the nation's condition and acts as a legislative roadmap for the President's agenda.

Unless you haven't been paying attention since the inauguration, you already know his agenda.

I no longer wonder how we got here.

Or here.

I worry about how we return to one nation.
-bill kenny

Manna from Heaven (almost)

As you should have long since sussed if you've popped in and read anything that's been posted here for most of the last decade, I'm not a big fan of the current occupant of the White House. I have a great deal of difficulty identifying a solitary redeeming characteristic unless we count comic relief.

That's really not surprising, considering he's a convicted felon, among other adjudicated findings. But you know how they say 'water seeks its own level?' A quick look at his cabinet confirms the wisdom of that saying, and just when you think it can't get any worse, you have Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., the gift who keeps on giving. 

I'm assuming/hoping there's a slide show or an interactive video to support the new guidelines. I cannot wait to see it, I think.
-bill kenny

Paging Carl Douglas

I'm showing my age when I mention Carl Douglas. More than one of you may wonder how he's related to Kirk or Michael Douglas, and more than one of you would be very wrong. 

Carl, of course, was the performer of this classic toe tapper (not to be confused with Jake Tapper). I wasn't necessarily a fan of it, but Flo & Eddie's strong negative feelings put my opinion in the shade. 

Between you and me, I'm surprised all these decades later that someone hasn't re-roasted Carl's chestnut and presented it to us on something like America's Got Talent or The Masked Singer, two shows I have never watched, which is why I think they would be the perfect platforms to launch the revival. 

I found just the video to complement the song. No need to thank me.
-bill kenny

Dorothy and Toto Think Otherwise

I'm on peritoneal dialysis (and hoping to be considered for a transplant) because my kidneys have been failing for years and can no longer do the job they were designed for. 

I have a lot of time all night, every night, as my cycler goes through its "Fill, Dwell, and Drain" cycle, to marvel at how complex a machine our bodies are.  

Scarecrow, Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion notwithstanding, there are five organs we can live without, if we have to. 

If you're waiting for a joke or a quip, hope you packed a lunch, as I don't have one, but I was wondering if I could swap a kidney for a gallbladder.
-bill kenny

Put Me In, Coach

We've had perhaps more than a fair amount of snow this winter (so far, and maybe we're not done with the white stuff yet). It's February in New England, I get that. But I'm all kinds of warm inside as Major League Baseball returns today when the Boys of Summer start spring training games.  

I know it's 'not real baseball' and 'the games don't count,' but a boy can dream. Spring training games are to Doubleday's delight what Velveeta is to cheese, but until the games start to count, I'm willing to grin and bear it (and eat it up with a spoon, preferably out of an ice cream sundae baseball helmet snack bowl). 

Sometimes the best reason to hit the ballpark

And if the joy of baseball's return isn't quite enough for you, here's a brainteaser that will keep you occupied.

I know, 'just a bit outside.'
-bill kenny

A Fine Line Before Heinlein

I've sort of gotten used to the automated assistance a lot of online vendors and service providers use. Having lived through Microsoft's Clippy or whatever its name was, I can put up with a measured amount of that nonsense, but I think I draw the line at hospitals, looking at you, William W. Backus Hospital, Norwich, Connecticut, pulling it on me when I call them. 

I don't call often, but when I do, I want to speak to someone in scheduling for the too-many tests and scans I require as part of my daily life, or with someone in my doctor's office because I have a concern that requires attention; an itch in need of a scratch. 

Not a machine, supposedly AI (or A One, as our Secretary of What-Used-to-Be-Education calls Artificial Intelligence) that leads me nowhere and then leaves me there. 

Seemingly, "Grok" is the future. 

Nein danke.
-bill kenny

That Was Just a Dream

When we were kids, today was a very serious and solemn moment on the calendar, Ash Wednesday. 

It's been decades since I gave something up for Lent (truth to tell, I failed my faith and gave up Lent but then kept on living) and I've rationalized my failure by pointing out to myself that since I always went back to whatever I gave up (usually something to eat as opposed to a behavior change), I hadn't really changed at all, so surrender cost nothing because it was worth nothing.

And then I look around me, and see where we are and where I am in the midst of all of that and realize I didn't run backwards or stop running at all to be here (nor did any of us) but rather, just ran a step slower, a step less resolute, perhaps a shorter footfall until the distance grew inexorably longer between where we wanted to be (and knew we had to go) and where we were to end up, so far behind we could no longer see those up ahead.

And when the distance between us was too great to ever fill, we stopped and have forgotten how to start again. Which makes today more important as a beginning than it can ever be as an end, because I think I saw you try.
-bill kenny 

Did You See His Name?

I grew up and more-than-halfway old without the Internet and all the wonders it hath wrought. Instantaneous and worldwide connectivity sure sounded like a good idea, except we get in one another's way and create unintended casualties.  

There are as many online villages and communities of interest as there are people on the planet. Sometimes they do good things, and no one knows who to applaud, and other times they do horrible things, and there's no way to undo the harm. 

Last weekend, on a Facebook group page (among thousands, I suspect) about where I live, Norwich, Connecticut, someone posted a video showing another someone behaving badly (abhorrently to be candid) and then yet another someone else did some 'research' (i.e., Google) and put a name to the face of the miserable miscreant. Insert graphic of self-righteousness here.

I think the kids call that 'doxing.' 

Here's the problem: the person outed by name on the page was NOT the person misbehaving in the video. Too late! Their family and employer have been bombarded with insults, invective, and all manner of imprecations. There's no way to unring the bell, and no one knows where the injured party should go to get their reputation back. 

Sometimes a pause does more than refresh. Maybe we should all try it more.
-bill kenny 

Automobiles and Mattress Sales

Abraham Lincoln's birthday is still on my calendar for 12 February but it has had less meaning for decades, since Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holidays Act, and we rolled it into the birthday celebration of the Father of Our Country, George Washington (listed on my calendar for February), but observed today as part of Presidents' Day. 

That George spent more than half of his farewell address warning his countrymen about the dangers of political partisanship, I find, in light of where we are today, obscenely funny, but that might just be my sense of humor. 

That Honest Abe used his Second Inaugural Address to offer "(w)ith malice toward none, with charity for all..." at a moment in our history where we most fervently hated one another (with a ferocity that would cost him his very life a little more than thirteen months later) causes me to wonder why we, you and me and all the lunatic loudmouths and bombastic blowhards on either side of the political fence, can't pipe down long enough to work together to get this cart we're all in out of the ditch we've maneuvered it into. 

To put it into perspective, when Washington and Lincoln were presidents, people disagreed with one another so strongly that they pointed and fired weapons at one another--and you've seen those weapons. It took a LOT of work to successfully shoot somebody with one of them. None of this cap bustin' stuff, serious mayhem was on the agenda then. We keyboard warriors should blush.

All this pouting and posturing we are up to these days on Sunday morning talk shows, the endless primaries, and in the Halls of Congress makes my brain hurt, and when we get all through sorting out who's to blame for all the wrongs and shortcomings, real and/or imagined, maybe we can devote a scintilla of that energy to fixing things. We certainly have a target-rich environment to choose from, don't we? 

Today, since it is a holiday, is as good a reason as any either of us can think of as a reason and a fulcrum to move one another closer together in order to form a more perfect union. And stop being so damn cranky with each other while we're doing it.
-bill kenny

Pssst....Wanna Buy a Fire Engine?

One owner, meticulously maintained. Go ahead! Take 'er around the block, and then we can talk financing to put you behind the wheel today. 

That's foreshadowing, sort of. 

Here's some more: remember Tommy and Dickie Smothers ('Mom always liked you best), Liam and Noel Gallagher, or Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin (BMT)? All very much "I love you, but I also hate you" relationships. A lot of, as my mom would say, 'cutting off your nose to spite your face.' (In my case, an improvement). 

All of which brings me to my city of residence, which seems determined to prove a small town can house a lot of small people. 

The Day photo by Dana Jensen

We have a population of under 40K with a paid fire department and five volunteer fire companies. They were in a pissing contest when I arrived here in the Autumn of 1991 (NOT suggesting cause and effect) and have recently escalated that to a dimension bordering on Beyond Ludicrous. 

I've followed this quarrel for decades and still don't understand why any principle should be greater than public safety. We have one public utility, one public works department, and one police department. 

I'd appreciate it if the so-called adults in leadership positions in both city government and in the various fire departments would act like they were grown-ups and remember they all serve those who live and work in Norwich. 

This 'ten villages in search of a city' $hit is not a good look.
-bill kenny

My Valentine

Today is Valentine's Day, and while I appreciate the history that the link provides, I'm struggling with the meaning, which remains probably more personal and individual for each of us than anything else we do or ever have in our lives.

My wife and I have been married for forty-nine years, this October, though in recent weeks I've subjected my bride to bracing for the next installment of Wild Billy's Circus Story. We live in Norwich, CT, in a home we once shared with our two children, both grown and gone, far from where either of us grew up, her more so than I.

How it Started

I'm from a couple of hours down the turnpike, New Brunswick, NJ (whose Mayor was my classmate from 3rd through 8th grades. Sometimes it's the journey and other times the destination, I guess). 

She came of age in Offenbach am Main, a city in its own right in the shadow of Frankfurt am Main, (West) Germany (it's hard to realize the number of years that have passed since we no longer needed to make that distinction.)

And of all the places she or I thought we might have been had we stayed married, where we are now is not one of those places. We met and married in her country at the height of the Cold War, and I never really gave thought to living anywhere else.

We, or at least I, lived without a plan and for the most part, without a care. In many respects, I guess, we are the Ant and Grasshopper of married couples. She has always defined who I am and who I could ever hope to be. 

How it's Going

Knowing she will, and always does, love me despite the insanity and inanity of living with me, is all the reward I need to be who I am. I've always admired Robert's note to Elizabeth Barrett, "Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. 

And I wasn't alone in my admiration. In both of those instances, I wish I had half the eloquence each of those men showed to the women they loved, because I feel that way about my wife, but don't possess the gift to express it. 

So I'll borrow from another Jersey Guy. "So hold me close, honey, say you're forever mine. And tell me you'll be my lonely valentine." Für immer und ewig.
-bill kenny

Paraskevidekatriaphobia

Someone the other day, with the best of intentions, I'm sure, told me they liked to stop by and read this stuff, but I needed to understand 'people who tend to read blogs don't really like to read.'

That's okay. I think people who like to write blogs don't really like to write, and especially don't like to write for people who don't like to read. Somehow that makes us even though I am often considered rather odd.

He suggested radically shortening everything, condensing, and reducing it; sort of like a haiku suitable for TikToks. In his opinion, as the crown of creation in this food chain, we are much akin to goldfish, with memories and attention spans that last all of thirty seconds. 

When I read how we whine about our environment, our economics, our national and international relations (or you pick a subject), it's certainly popular to feel that way. Except that doesn't make it right. So stop being a lost soul swimming in a fish bowl year after year. 

Never mind Wish You Were Here.
We are here now. Be. Do. Soon enough, we'll be gone.

Here goes: it's Friday the 13th and exactly ONE month from now we'll have another one. Hey, you said 'keep it short and punchy.' I did. 
-bill kenny

With the Penny Gone, Thoughts Are Now Free

As a frighteningly homely person myself, I've always had a fondness for an observation from our 16th President, Abraham Lincoln, whose 217th birthday is actually today. 

Mr. Lincoln grew a beard as an adult at the written suggestion of a young girl, so he knew whereof he spoke in the looks department. 

In responding to members of both his own party and those across the aisle who questioned his constancy as the War between the States dragged on, he rejoined to charges of hypocrisy that "if I were indeed two-faced, why would I choose this one?" 

Honest Abe seems to have an insightful quote for any occasion, which may be why he's so often invoked by his successors. Well, all except one, who we all know has 'all the best words.' 

Abe's known for his aphorisms, but it's this prophecy that I find most chilling.

-bill kenny   

Looks Warmer Outside from Inside

I don't know about you, but I've had all the National Weather Service Winter Advisories on my cellphone I've ever wanted. I get it: snow, wind, and cold. Lather, Rinse, and Repeat. 

As a resident of the northeast USA, I recognize millions of us are up to our keisters in snow and ice, the only person I'm concerned about in all that seasonally affected and detected and rejected hullabaloo is moi.

A lot of us are going through the motions right now, and I suspect it has to do, at least a little bit, with the weather we've been having (which works if you're in Boston or Philly but less so in San Diego or Honolulu) and, in my case, some personal head noise I could and should have managed better.

As the years have passed, and seem to now be rushing by, there are things I've left undone because I thought I'd 'get around to them.' I'm not the happiest camper at the jamboree to concede that more and more, less and less of what's been left undone is going to undergo a status change. That I'm not the only one to appreciate my leave-taking will create a hole about the same size as a fist pulled out of a bucket of water, which is rather small solace as the remains of the day scatter across the horizon.

I surrendered The Big Picture effort because I'm small-minded, and now that the miniatures are proving too hard to accomplish as well, I'm starting to look around for the exit to the place I was before, knowing I won't make it back there, either.

I really need Spring to get here NOW. Despite the too-many-inches of frozen snow beyond my front porch, I'm scouting for shoots of new grass. The first one I see, I'm gonna grab with both hands and pull so hard that the earth itself will give unto me a verdant field, and still I will demand even more. I'm not saying I'm sorry, unless I'm captured or cornered. And it doesn't look like either is happening today.

-bill kenny

Picture Postcard from Near-Prosperity

A fellow, somewhat worse for wear judging from his clothes and shoes, but most especially his physical demeanor, sorting through his wallet with one hand, the hand he's using to hold the wallet, for bills to feed into the CT Lottery vending machine just beyond the checkouts in a grocery store. 

We're not exactly Vegas (baby), with slot machines tucked in alongside church baptismal fonts, but here in Eastern Connecticut, home to Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun, it's always go time. And this is just the next day in the only life he will ever know. 

He's just a few paces to the left of the woman funneling all the coins ever lost between the couch cushions into one of those sorters that, in return, gives you bitcoin. 

In his other hand, but not without a struggle, he's clutching a portable nebulizer. The oxygen mask is cloudy and dimpled with condensation from his heavy exhalation. The side of the lotto vending machine asks in chirpy orange and green letters, "Are You Feeling Lucky Today?"

Not so far. 

At least that's how it seems to me as I gather up the odds and ends I've purchased while the voice of the self-checkout hectors me to 'remember to take your receipt' because the Forces of Mendacity and Mediocrity (sounds like a grunge band, don't it?) could easily spirit it away. 

The would-be lotto millionaire completes his purchase and scans his ticket to see if he's won. He takes himself and his ducat to the 'solutions center' to redeem it and get a pack of smokes, creating one question while resolving another, at least for me.

Between the taxes a cash-strapped federal and state government has levied on a pack of cigarettes, he's out over ten dollars for a pack. But he has no time to feel sorry for himself. He hurries past me through the exit's double doors and the Blue Rhino propane tank corral, and just makes a bus that was about to pull out. Instead, it halts and opens its doors to let him board.

The doors remain ajar, and February's chilled air fills the bus as he goes through his pockets in search of loose change he needs for the coin basket that counts his fare. When sated, it's silent as the driver finally closes the doors, and the bus pulls away from the stop and back into the go 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise.

-bill kenny

It's a Flawed Work of Art

Suspect your house is a lot like mine in terms of activity and hours in the day to accomplish things. We’re already into February, and it was just the other day we wished each other a Happy New Year. Of course, as we should know by now, it takes more than wishing to make happy happen. 

For any number of reasons, ranging from meteorological to and through fiscal, this is yet another winter of our discontent. The (most recent installment of the) challenge of change is to never lose sight that rebuilding the Rose of New England is a never ending process and not a product—a journey, rather than a destination. There is no Grandma’s House towards which we’re driving. And the road can and does often feel like it goes on forever.

Every day, city administrators and their professional staff, joined by, and with, volunteers on advisories, board, commissions and committees, all of them our neighbors, begin again as every aspect of municipal government’s ability to deliver good and services in response to our desires for a particular program (sometimes to complement another one and sometimes in competition with it), is balanced against the ability to afford the delivery of those goods and services.

Governance at all levels shouldn’t be a spectator sport, but because of the pace of our lives, we sometimes do not choose to invest the time in much more than glancing at a headline about a state or local issue. That becomes our level of engagement, but elevates the degree of difficulty in arriving at decisions.

We have a general unease that this coming budget season in Norwich, and not just here, will involve hard choices almost pre-ordained to make no one happy. If politics is the art of the possible, then, without our informed opinions and observations, we’ll see elected and appointed officials attempt Mission Impossible. When the smoke clears, and we look for someone to blame for results we don’t like, look no further than the nearest mirror.

Almost every weekday, and weekends, too, there are public meetings on the nuts and bolts operating issues and many of the spice of life aspects that define us as a city--be they Board of Education, the Historic District Commission, Public Safety, Commission on the City Plan, Public Works, and so many others-usually without anyone or almost anyone from the public attending.

Check the city’s website and pick a meeting. You might want to review the online posting of the meeting minutes, so you are caught up, so to speak, when you take a seat be it in person or via a Zoom link. 

You’ll know one or more of the volunteers on most agencies, boards, commissions and committees, so the ‘them’ factor disappears immediately, which leaves only ‘us’, which is as it should be, if we are ever going to reinvent ourselves and our city. 

And since we’re learning to effectively speak to, rather than at, one another, why not use this as an opportunity to practice listening as well as speaking?

-bill kenny

Oh. That's TODAY.....

I'm talking about Super Bowl God-Knows-What-Number (and if they use Roman Numerals to designate how many, why don't they use them to track the score of the actual game?). Asking for a friend, or would be if I had any.

My brother Kelly and I watched the New York Jets' Joe Willie Namath, Matt Schnell, Emerson Boozer, George Sauer, and Don Maynard (among others) upset the Baltimore Colts back in the early years of both the Super Bowl and Roman Numerals which featured a terrific post-game brawl between Arthur M. and his older brother Vincent. Kelly and I who had our share and more of disagreements could only watch in admiration at the level of violence those exhibited.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Super Bowl Sunday. I don't remember who the half-time entertainment was that day, though I'm sure I watched it (it was the Florida A& M University Marching Band in a program entitled "America Thanks."). Right now, we could use a program called "America Thinks," but that's a bridge too far, I fear. As for the entertainers themselves, when did everything become a political litmus test? 

I've read many folks tune in to watch the commercials because it gives them something to talk about in the office later this week. Good news! I retired almost eight years ago and don't have a water cooler, so here are the 2026 Super Bowl commercials, all in one place without any of that football stuff to get in the way.

Don't see anything quite as memorably immortal as the Outpost commercial, but that's just me. Although, come to think of it, the second gerbil reminds me a bit of Arthur. So close.
-bill kenny

The Ghost of Astro

An argument I have against owning a dog is watching folks who do own one freeze on winter days when they take the animal for a walk. I remain convinced the dog would be willing to learn to use the bathroom, but agrees to go outside in the cold because it thinks its owners like doing so.

And don't get me started on clean-up, or shoveling yellow snow.

I say, 'Give 'em the leash and let them walk themselves!' Looks like Robo-dogs could be the next big thing. 

"Who's a good boy?" (Which end do you pet?)
-bill kenny  

Catch Your Breath

I can't be the only one who goes to bed tired and wakes up exhausted. If I were a Jet-Setter or one of the Beautiful People, I could (sort of) understand my fatigue. Non-stop glamour takes its toll on anybody, and I am not immune.
And, I suspect neither are you.

But wait! I've discovered what could be the root cause of our exhaustion. And after checking this out, you might feel better about feeling so tired.

There's only so long we can run on fumes.
Take the next right at the signpost up ahead.
bill kenny

Just My Type

I'm so old that there were typing classes in high school. Not that I ever took any. 

I'm a modified Eagle Typist, otherwise known as a 'hunt and peck' guy. I'm pretty fast, all things considerd especially when I don't know how the sentence I'm typing is going to end (Why should I? No one else knows either). Current one included (that was a little disappointing, wasn't it?).

Of course, these days all of my typing, like yours, I suspect, is done on a computer keyboard and/or the screen on a smartphone. But some of us can do more than yearn for those Good Old Days when the choice was manual or electric. Now, there's a little more.

Can you imagine stepping on that thing? 
-bill kenny

January Was a Long Year

I have little regard for the current President of the United States (I assume if he thought of me at all, the feeling would be reciprocated; and we'd both be right). 

That admission, I hope, is not a newsflash if you stop by this space in cyberspace, if only sporadically. To me, he is a fass ohne boden, a barrel without a bottom. Any time and/or every time you think he cannot go any lower, he does. 

The attack on Representative Ilhan Omar made headlines last week and provoked a wave of the political equivalent of thoughts and prayers, some of which may have been sincere, from all sides of the ideological spectrum. 

With one notable exception (of course).

No bother, brother; really. Sort of like the tantrum about lowering the National Ensign at the White House for Senator McCain's funeral while eagerly doing so for Charlie Kirk. But what hung me up was his suggestion, "She probably had herself sprayed." What could have ever given him that idea?

I only ask because, for a guy who takes to Truth Social to criticize the NFL's kick-off rule, whining about not getting the Nobel Peace Prize for ending eight imaginary wars, critiquing the logo change for Cracker Barrel, to say nothing about his insistence that the 2020 election was stolen, how often has he ever mentioned Thomas Crooks? More importantly, why not?

Perhaps, I suspect, because it takes one to know one.
-bill kenny

A Deserved Reprise

I offered this a couple of years ago on this date, since on this date years ago, and every year on this date since, it is my youngest brother's birthday. 

I called it (less than imaginatively): 

On My Brother's Birthday

I'm fortunate to have two brothers and three sisters. I concede that, as the oldest of the brood, lucky was NOT always the first word I would have reached for to describe my condition in terms of my siblings.

As my parents' practice child, I had, and have, the smallest heart, the slowest brain, and the most easily bruised feelings. By the time Joan and Bill Senior's last production model, Adam, whose birthday is today, rolled off the familial assembly line, they had a set of mighty fine children.

A brother is someone with whom you share both childhood memories and grown-up dreams. I've known Adam every day of his whole life, and any stories I would tell you, he would know, and in the telling of them, they would no longer be just ours but would belong to the world.

I suspect Adam would be okay with that, but I know I wouldn't be at all, so I'll save them for us and offer to you instead words from Clara Ortega that read as if she could be a sister we never knew, but she's describing the family, not just her family: 

"To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time."

As each of us knows, including Adam, that's not really true, but it is a lovely thought, especially on your birthday. And he was just able to read that line and wince thanks to me. Happy Birthday Adam!
-bill kenny

 

"I Could Check with the Kitchen"

I once knew someone who was born in Puxsutawney, Pennsylvania, on this date, but whose name is not Phil, though that would seem to have been low-hanging fruit at the time of his nativity.

My brother, Kelly, would be somewhat disappointed to learn his name also isn't Bill, as in Bill Murray, which might seem to be an acceptable alternative as an homage to his cinematic tour de force.

I think Kelly is on to something with his regard for the movie, since, as I've aged, I have a growing sense of us living and reliving the same day over and over again. The fear of the End of Days may be misplaced, as it could, for some of us, actually be more of a new paragraph than the closing of a book.

More people believe in a rodent's prophecy than believe in climate change

Look at our world, then at our nation, and then, if you promise not to blink, look at your own life. What do you remember of where all of this was this time a year ago, a decade ago, or perhaps a score of years ago? The rewind button is stuck, and all that changes is the characters while the play rolls on.

Lest you think I'm depressed or distressed, nothing could be farther from the truth. I love this day because it's all the excuse I need to listen to this and smile, at least usually in that order.
-bill kenny