Kurt Would Probably Use Rice Milk

I am not a big fan of experimentation (I used to be a huge fan of things created through fermentation but that was another lifetime, one of toil and blood, and I make it a rule to not go there on Mondays) and plod along for the most part with one foot in front of the other in travel and travail from Point A to something like Point B. It fills up the day and makes the time go fast.

On weekday mornings I have a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast after I've gotten to work. I still spend more time there than I do at home because I live for the approval in strangers' eyes, I guess (keep your pity or contempt to yourself; I have my own). Perhaps true for you as well, I have a routine from the time I open my eyes to about a half hour after I'm actually at work. All the stuff in between happens, of course, because I'm the one making it happen, but it's an auto-pilot operation. I'm such a slave to how things flow that if anything changes or shifts, like one of those wind-up toys that walks itself into a corner, I just keep bumping into whatever the roadblock has become, unable to clear it or go around it.

Cheerios at work is my decompression food, I suspect. When I sleep, I cannot recall if I dream though my wife has told me there are nights (and early mornings) where I shout out and/or talk or get up, and for which I have no explanation because I have no recollection. My dream world is just black. I use the whole going to work and getting used to being there for the next twelve hours part of the day as the Re-entry to Earth part of the program. And the fuel for this is Cheerios.

I knew someone who called them bagel seeds-suspect the Big G folks wouldn't have been too happy about that but it makes me smile and I repeat it to myself every morning and crack myself up. I never tire of saying it or laughing at it. If I had but a million or so folks with my delightful sense of humor (someone had to say it, and it didn't look like you were about to) I could have my own cable news show-and oh, how we'd all laugh then. I have Cheerios in the next to last of the red plastic bowls we had when we lived in Germany and used for cereal there.

Some time ago, Sigrid finally (endlich!) found very nice and (actually) quite pretty replacement bowls and the red plastic ones went to the land of their ancestors on trash day. As the oldest thing still in our house, I get VERY nervous when anything is pitched out 'because it's really old.' You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows on that equation.

I eat Cheerios, and none of the generic brands (which all taste like cardboard and don't even feel like Cheerios) without sugar or milk. Actually, and I don't eat a lot of cereals, I NEVER eat dry cereal with anything other than a spoon and my mouth. Why do you think they call it DRY cereal?

What am I supposed to do with the milk? Drop little tiny people in the bowl, so they can be rescued? Perhaps I should get a recording of Nearer My God to Thee, and using sugar cubes to construct a fake iceberg, reenact the sinking of the Titanic. Of course, with that much sugar in my system, I'd be crayoning all the walls in the five story building I work in for three days, from the outside in, until sedated with a croquet mallet.

I used to eat Wheaties, back when Bob Richards (if I were shorter, I could ask him for a pony ride for my birthday) was on the cover (I don't how old I was before discovering he didn't invent them but was the first endorser of a cereal. I never count the Quaker guy on the oats). I guess if you had a box with Michael Phelps, using milk would make sense, but for that collector's edition on ebay (I'm assuming with contents), I guess you'd have to use the ultra-high temperature stuff that looks like white water. I've never understood how they get the cows to stand still while they heat 'em up. I suspect they catch them early in the morning.....
-bill kenny

The Stick Stays

I'm glad the selections have been announced for this season's edition of "Dancing with the Stars (in the loosest sense of the word imaginable) DWTSiTLSoTW" since I slipped on a wet floor at work Friday and have spent the weekend with ice packs on my left knee which suddenly straightened as my foot slid out from under me. I wouldn't have made the cut this time around for the show. I don't think I ever, even as a child, had that much flexion in any limb, so I'm sort of sad my orthopedist didn't get to see the split. Wish I could say the same. That it's sore and swollen (still) suggests to me that he may get a chance in the next couple of days, way ahead of the schedule he and I (but mostly him) had worked out. And bottom line, I don't get to tango with Kate Gosselin or Shannon Doherty (talk about spoiled for choice) which, because I can't dance a lick (or lick a dance) and neither of them are actually stars, works out just fine.

I'm smiling today partially from the controlled substance pain-killers I'm taking to manage the knee noise, and fear (if you've ever had limb replacement surgery, the adjective you NEVER want to hear is 'spoiled'). The pills make my sense of whimsy towards the foibles of others a little deeper so the clown princess in the over sized and soon-to-be-extinct SUV who looked me straight in the eye as she backed out across two lanes of traffic on Washington by the bank, and kept coming anyway, gets no more than a shake of the head from me, because it's all I can muster. I'm feeling sorry for myself and I do it well.

In the fast food place, standing behind a dad and his young daughter, based on the time of day and their clothes possibly on their way home from Mass (Holy Communion and a McGriddle, who could ask for anything more) I realize from the way he's speaking to the counter person about employment that he doesn't have a job. There's a discussion of shift availabilities (all of them) and pay differentials (doesn't sound like many) and he's nodding as she's talking while scribbling names and numbers down on a McNapkin.

It's funny, I think, as we age, it takes us longer to bounce back from the knocks and bruises of everyday life. I remember a coarse witticism that involves endurance at a specific act for the course of a night and how you know you're getting old, and how I laughed when I first heard it. Same with the rest of our lives, too. In our twenties, we went from position to position with nary a thought--as the decades advanced, each job started to look more like a career until the tsunami we're enduring at the moment swept away savings, self-respect and maybe home.

The child at his feet was no more than five and had a tiara on and a pink fairy-dress that parents think every daughter at that age loves, and maybe some do. He's making sure he understands the sequence in which to call the numbers, because 'if you call region before district, they'll tell you there aren't any vacancies' when the child squeals in delight and holds up her prize.

She's found a dime on the floor-perhaps someone dropped their change from a purchase, or, more likely, it didn't quite make it through the slot in the counter collection box for the supportive housing of parents of children with cancer the franchise has constructed across the USA and around the world.

I'm not alone in this latter supposition as the father bends to pick his daughter up and explains to her where the dime really came from and, by inference, where it really belongs. Without hesitation, safe in his arms, the child leans across her father and drops the dime through the slot in the top of the box. He smiles as his order is given to him and both dad and daughter head for the parking lot and home with breakfast and, perhaps, a new hope. For a just a moment, a bright Spring morning brightens even more. The past is gone, it's all been said. So here's to what the future brings, I know tomorrow you'll find better things.

-bill kenny

Limited Time Offer, Seemingly

I'm typing as fast as I can and only hope that spell check saves me from the ignominy of reading like a Hottentot at a Hootenanny. It's my own fault really-I like to live on the edge, walk on the wild side, sail too close to the wind, hang on by just a thread and as many other cliches and bromides as I can get on a 24 hour loan from Billy Bob's Emporium of Previously Used Sentence Components located in Del Rio, Texas.

Went to make myself a little pick-me-up and decided to skip the Java jive and the tea leaves and made a cup of chicken bouillon from those cubes that are so dense I've always suspected they are actually made from the matter that comprises a black hole in space. I especially like how there's always one piece of the foil wrap you cannot get off until you're reduced to trying to scrape it off with a fingernail and then, uh-oh, there's bouillon fragments under the nail. Do NOT put that fingertip in your mouth. Ever. If you have to ask why, it's too late.

So here I am, struggling with eight fingers (the foil was really hard to get off), putting the cube container back in the pantry and checking out the label (thank goodness for that Literacy Volunteer!). There's some disquieting news all the way around, starting on the front that tells me there's chicken 'with other natural flavors'. Sure wish we'd be more forthcoming detail on that. And what about the LARGE yellow letters that brag NO MSG ADDED ('contains naturally occurring glutamates' Huh?) or the nutritional information that ONE cube provides 45% of your daily intake of sodium. Let the Morton Salt girl put that in her umbrella and smoke it.

And then atop the screw cap, I saw the fateful advisory, 'Best by August 2007'. OMG. I'm lousy at math (and English as we both know) but I knew there was trouble. The light grew dim and my life started flashing before my eyes. It's been so unremarkable, mine was replaced by the Jimmy Dugan Story and since that's so short, the second reel was the Song of Bernadette (Peters, which was disconcerting especially the excised dance of a thousand veils scene from Barney's Great Adventure).

And then, just before the darkness enveloped me, I tried to figure out how anyone, even the manufacturer (yeah, Hormel, I'm talkin' 'bout you) would distinguish among good, better or best in chicken bouillon cubes. Turns out it was getting dark because I was dozing, not because the mortal coil was assuming the shuffle off position. Talk about relief! Of course I'm still a little peckish-perhaps a slice of fruit cake will hit the spot.
-bill kenny

Taking Leave of My Census

It came in the afternoon mail earlier this week, and truth to tell I thought it was the auto club, looking for a renewal on a membership (I already have a lifetime membership but I can never remember if it's mine or the car's). Once I figured out it wasn't that, I assumed it was probably a statement from Usury International Bank explaining, in accordance with the new Credit Cards R UR Friend Act (reminiscent of the warnings Big Tobacco put on their products), that at the minimum monthly payment level, I'll need to believe in reincarnation to get their Plutonium Card off my back.

It wasn't either of those things, of course. After all the weeks and months of screaming and yelling on the THNs (Talking Heads Networks), it was only the 2010 Census. Anyway, since it was paper, I decided opening the envelope under running water was counter-intuitive, not that we didn't have enough running water on the Eastern Seaboard in the last few days.

But, to minimize the chances of Demon Spawn escaping the envelope, (of course) I opened it outside, behind the sandbags in the bunker where I watch both Glenn Beck ('The Fusion of Entertainment and Enlightenment.' Modesty is such an over rated virtue, just ask Courtney Cruz) as well as Keith Olbermann (I'll save you some time. The answer is"NO, He's not!"). Together, they're like a cranial colonic, though refreshed is never what they leave me.

I've been around these parts for close to fifty-eight years, and maybe there was a lot MORE brown acid at Yasgur's Farm than previously advertised, but I don't remember filling out a census form, ever. My evil twin, Skippy, 'blue or black pen' in hand, wondered if we should be living in a barn and if you can sell myrrh on e-bay. You have to offer it as a bonus for purchasing frankincense, I think. And cows contribute to global warming, especially when you drive to the store and buy pieces of them for cook-outs.

I've been eyeballing the whole form for a while and if there's a lyrical conspiracy behind it (Sorry, what? a liberal conspiracy! That makes even less sense), it's pretty slick, since even when I hold it up to the light I cannot see any aspect of it. Although, come to think of it (and maybe this is the clever by a half part), the ball point pen manufacturers might be up to something since no #2 pencils are needed (or even wanted) at all. And what the heck are the The Duggans supposed to do when they run out blanks before children's names to put in 'em? Move?!?
-bill kenny

Raze We Great Men

It wasn't just Julius, Orange or the salad guy, who needed to beware of the Ides of March. As it happens, and all of it wasn't strictly speaking WITHIN the Ides themselves, politicians from New York State have had a rough time and the month is barely over and it's not even all Empire State Fun and Games.

To place the more recent contretemps in context, I'm not sure if we need to revisit Eliot 'In Cash We Trust' Spitzer, or if we have to go back to the bygone era of an always controversial and more than occasionally absent from Congressional roll-call Representatives before marveling at the ham-handedness of Eliot's pinch-hitter, David Patterson. Speaking of hands, a round of applause for Eric Massa as well (don't offer to shake hands, otherwise this gets silly in a hurry).

Hailing from a state where a previous governor reduced a four year term of office to about half while currently residing in a state whose (suddenly previous) governor (literally) piloted an unscripted version of the Hot Tub Time Machine right into a federal correctional institution, I'm not sure why so many of us are surprised, even angered, by egregious behavior that makes headlines.

Since I live in the Northeast, I tend to use that as my frame of reference in terms of human weakness and malfeasance, so I have former New York City Police Commissioners who've covered themselves in something less than glory but that doesn't mean I, or you, should (or even can) ignore the Congressional Floridian or the people's representative in the Utah statehouse (there's that hot tub again)who've both been weighed and found wanting.

The list seems to go on forever, and if this were happening someplace else, it would be funny. How quickly did 'hiking the Appalachian Trail' become a euphemism for an inappropriate relationship and whom should we thank for that? I don't pretend to be able to count the human cost in terms of lives ruined, and opportunities that went begging because flawed men (and women, though we don't seem to focus too much on them, do we?) once they embarked on a path of self-immolation we all just held our breath.

We like our leaders to be larger than life, monuments wherever possible and, when we can, we build their statues with feet of clay, because we feel better about ourselves as we feel worse about them. We forget each of us are all of them and that I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together. Even when we are terribly and terminally alone.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in the stars but in ourselves.
-bill kenny

Tabla Rasa

Times are tough all over-we feel it in our households, across our cities and towns, in our states and throughout our nation's capital. Money, and the lack of it, drives every discussion and the easiest way to trump anyone's argument about any initiative, idea or ideal is to ask 'and how will you pay for this?' The silence is deafening.

But here's the thing, especially as we in Norwich, CT, wrestle with a city budget that many fear we cannot afford in any form while the State stares into a shortfall of billions and Washington D. C. thinks in terms of tens of trillions of dollars in deficit spending. If nothing else, we have to assume there's not going to a lot of help coming from back at the fort, so we're left alone with a one hundred million (and more) dollar municipal budget question: can we afford to spend the money required to operate our city?

How about this, instead: Can we afford not to?

In the past year we've had extended and extensive discussions in Council chambers, the voting booth and among ourselves, on expansion and modernization of Kelly Middle School, a new public safety complex, a real estate purchase of former state property, final preparations on the construction of a regional intermodal transportation center and a half-dozen other projects. The discussions have been good though some might argue some of the decisions less so. Fair enough.

We can all agree that we want to enhance and enlarge the municipal revenue stream by expanding private sector investment in Norwich but if we don't recapitalize our infrastructure, reinvest in our public safety and readdress decades of make-do funding for our public schools, whom do we hope to attract to Norwich and what will we have left of Norwich for ourselves?

No one wants to pay more taxes, none of us like what we're paying now. But all of us want the services we currently have to remain exactly as they are, and maybe even get a little more. And each of us has an opinion on where (else) in the budget savings can be realized.

The only people who can get us out of this mess are already here. We are all we can count on and that's perfect, because we are all we need; but we have to be willing to take risks to achieve rewards. And we need to remember there are NO silver bullets. Rome wasn't built in a day and even Marcus Aurelius (I'm trying to imagine the Preface updated for our current 'how does this make you feel?' environment. No joy) found the real estate market soft when trying to lease the upper floors of the Coliseum.

There are as many reasons to NOT invest in ourselves as there are residents, but there's also over 36,000 reasons why we must spend our own money on our own city. Each of us is worth every penny of the current city budget as well as the one being developed by the City Manager and the various department directors. Soon enough the men and women of the City Council, the neighbors we elected last fall to make tough decisions like budget expenditures, will take out their stubby pencils and will need every informed idea and constructive suggestion we can offer.

Once we've decided we are worth saving, we'll have to reinvent every aspect of how we do business. The difference between a rut and a grave is the depth of the habit.

-bill kenny

All Impressed and Half-Undressed

I guess it's like fire and ice, the shifting of the tectonic plates where masses meet but never mingle. I've gotta admit, the headline caught my eye and led me to the story, which is of itself very intriguing. The headline did its job and hooked my eyes.

I confess to never having heard the word nerdcore before, but now I'm starting to think that not all of the Lost Boys are sleeping on mom's couch in the basement and playing dungeons and dragons. At least NOT the ones who own calendars, I suppose. And notice, please, I got this far into the second paragraph without the obligatory 'for many, this is probably as close as they'll ever get to a woman' snarky remark.

In the fifteen minutes of fame egg timer, alphabetically, between Courtney Cox and Courtney Love, we can now add Courtney Cruz, and let's be honest if she's what George Lucas had in mind for a Vader Storm trooper, we may finally have a real idea as to why Yoda always wore a long robe and seemed to have one hand in his pocket. It may not have been The Force that was with him. Who knew?

My first reaction looking at the lady's body of work (so to speak) in tattoos was 'nice use of color' which was helpful as it allowed me to pretend I still had critical perspective. We're a culture of dreamers and sometimes (I fear too often) we're more comfortable there than in the real world. We idealize handsome men and beautiful women expecting more from them while also forgiving the frailty of their flawed humanity even less than other mere mortals, though this time around, we may have really put the object in objectify by rendering Ms. Cruz into something beyond fantasy. A flesh and blood daydream-the contradiction of her existence is actually part of the action of the attraction.

"Stop Sniffling!
You're gonna make some plastic surgeon a rich man.
Oh, but the prestige and the glory, another human interest story.
You are that."
-bill kenny