The Inevitable Pinhole Burns

I stopped smoking cigarettes at 1330 on Monday, 30 September 1996. I was smoking about three packs a day at that time and stopped cold turkey.

Was I scared of cancer? Yeah, I guess. Especially when someone I knew would be diagnosed with it-but you never light the cigarette that gets you, I suppose or believed. Still miss it. Eventually I switched to 'light' cigarettes, a champion misnomer if ever there were one. And then I stopped altogether.

And then I got sick and now I spend a lot of time listening to people who aren't doctors tell me how much worse all of my health problems would be if I still smoked. I wish they'd take up smoking and get cancer. Just kidding (no, actually I'm not).

I mention this because light cigarettes are a lot like hands-free cell phones while driving, at least in my eyes and ears. Holding the phone in my hand while driving isn't what makes me a lot less safe though I concede I am unsafe, and if you don't think this applies to you, your cell phone and your driving, stop reading now and go do something else because it does.

Listening to that other person on the phone-whether I'm holding it against my ear, marveling at how it comes out of my blue tooth (I remembered the name!) or reading it as a sky-writer circles back to dot the eyes or put the umlaut over the U in F-nevermind the word, is what distracts all of us. We can think anything we'd like but we're wrong because we can't do anything else but drive when we drive or fail at everything we are trying to do. And because you didn't have an accident today doesn't mean you won't the next time.

There are too many distractions that get into the vehicle with us these days, if we'd all pledge to turn the phones off before we put the keys in the ignition, we'd all be a lot safer. From each other. Our vehicles are marvelous triumphs of technology, but brainless. That's why they need us to use the one we have. There are too many ways for our lives to end but by our own hand, or hands-free, shouldn't be one of them. Ever.
-bill kenny      

Playing to Strengths

By all accounts, this past Saturday evening was a fine night to be Irish, or to say you were, especially in downtown Norwich where everyone "knows" just about nothing is ever going on. And yet, as the late afternoon became the early evening and, in turn, became later that same evening, wining and dining establishments had plenty of both wearing of the green as well as spending it.

I'm as guilty as anyone else, and sometimes more so, of clock-watching and tea-leaf reading when the discussion becomes economic development and Chelsea, downtown Norwich. The bonds for the Norwich  redevelopment projects were approved by us, the residents, some sixteen months ago. For many, we round our numbers up and say 'it's been a year and a half! What's the delay?'

Except: it hasn't eighteen months and we can get so daunted by the journey before us we lose sight of where we're going, how far we've been and why we decided this whole trip was necessary in the first place.

For the merry-makers observing Saint Patrick's Day Saturday night, there were more than enough feet on the street, as people headed to a favorite destination for their own celebration or texted and phoned friends who were already knee deep in the corned beef and good times. None of the downtown restaurants who had positioned themselves for shamrock shenanigans had any complaints by the dawn's early light of Sunday about the size of the groups who came and enjoyed themselves and one another's company.

The lesson we could learn is: Norwich should have a Saint Patrick's Day every month. But the lesson we should learn is: if you give people a reason to come to downtown, or anywhere for that matter, they will.

It's terrific the city leadership created economic stimuli for the most expensive, but least productive, real estate in Norwich. With some patience, some business acumen and strategic investment by the private sector, Chelsea can become every day what is was for Saint Patrick's, or is for Taste of Italy, Fourth of July, Wednesdays all summer long for Rock the Docks, every First Friday and (insert your two or three favorites that I forgot to list here ____).

Municipal government can make sure the sidewalks and streets are clean and well-lighted, that there's enough public safety on hand to assure the public feels safe and that all the available parking is clearly marked and as accessible as advertised. Our city can't put businesses in vacant storefronts or apartments and offices above those shops, no matter how large the incentives to do so are. Look at 146 Main Street, an eyesore if there were ever one. No municipal effort would/could ever help that address unless it was to drape a curtain across the front of it, but the gentleman who bought the property earlier this month wasn't waiting for a helping hand.

He's put his own money where his vision and his energy is and when he turns it around and makes 146 Main another destination, we'll all benefit because of his vision and willingness to do what he felt he had to do. City government can create a positive environment for those it is seeking to attract. Let those who have the experience and expertise in making money from delivering goods and services do what they do with a partner working to help them, and by extension, all of us, succeed.
-bill kenny              

Wiedersehen Macht Freude

This is a day I think about two people with whom I was once close. And if absence makes the heart grow fonder, their absence from my life for the better part of three decades should be a special measure of my affection; except I'm a cad, but they knew that and saw it as part of my charm. They shared more than just a place in my life but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Today in a month defined by Saint Patrick, this is the Feast of Saint Joseph, whom the new Testament tells us was the husband of Mary (Mother of God) and, in a way, Jesus' step-dad. That could NOT have been the easiest job in the world in terms of keeping the young lad on the path of righteousness when running for instance, with whatever the Old Testament had for scissors. "You'll put an eye out!" Joseph might have said. "So?" Jesus might retort, "I'll put it right back in." Actually I can very easily imagine a lake of fire and Old Scratch wandering over to poke me with a stick and going, 'you had to do the Joseph as a step dad joke, didn't you? How'd that work out, chuckle trousers?'

Today is when the swallows come back to Capistrano. I have no idea if their return is connected to St. Joseph but many feel it may be and if that gives you a sense of hope then good for you and your belief. I don't know how the birds know today is the day, but they do. In NYC they painted the white stripe on Fifth Avenue green for the St. Pat's parade so I wonder if the village fathers paint their center stripe on main street bird droppings white with grey for their St Joseph's parade, or if they even have a parade. 

I knew two marvelous people who shared the Feast of Saint Joseph as their birthday. They are from a time when I was always in a hurry and knew the price of everything and the value of nothing (sort of like now, but much younger) when I worked for American Forces (Europe) Network in Germany. 

Bob was my first boss in Radio Command Information (we produced public service announcements, the equivalent of radio commercials). He drove an absolutely beaten VW Beetle, had a neurotic dog named Sandy and a wife whom he worshiped, Erika. He was a former musician in the Army band and that's how he came to Germany in the post-World War II era. 

Bob had wonderfully detailed stories filled with narrative intricacies that didn't end so much as they'd just stop and his voice would trail off because he'd just remembered the subject of the story had died or had some other sadness befall him or her and you'd look at his face and realize his eyes were glistening as he fought back tears from a long-ago memory.    

Gisela was the record librarian of the most amazingly organized collection of vinyl in the world (not a lie; even the Library of Congress was jealous of her system). She had a story about coming of age in the ruins of her country after the war and choosing to work for the besatzungstruppen over someone else (who'd offered a little more money), because the former offered a hot meal at mid-day. And that was what sealed the deal and why Gisela had come to work for AFN. 

Bob's wife, Erika, was 'local color' (a citizen of the country in which the GI was stationed;  usually guys marrying women though I can recall Mimi being the opposite) and he lived in Erika's hometown, far from the exchange, commissary and all the GI Joe trappings and looked like he was having himself quite a time. 

Gisela translated my permission letter from the Standesamt of Offenbach am Main (where I and Sigrid were to marry) because I couldn't read, write or speak a word of German. She'd read a line and then offer me the English translation. I still recall how brightly her eyes shone, how warm and broad her smile was as she translated the 'permission is granted' part and grasped me by both shoulders and gave me a congratulatory hug.

I remember both of them today on their birthdays as I have on previous years. I hope you'll forgive that I've told you a story you may have already heard. That's how us old people are. I hope Saint Joseph doesn't mind too much either since this is his day, but I knew them a lot better .What I don't know is how many others knew them or thought of them today. I worry about what happens when no one is left here who knows you ever even lived. I'm starting to feel the pressure, just a little bit. I told you a small piece of their story to help me remember to celebrate them and to remind you we are the sum of everyone we have ever known or, perhaps, known of. People change but memories of people stay the same.
-bill kenny

Copulatory Vocalization

There's a title that should cause search engines everywhere to skip a beat, eh? Or is that more of a 'what the heck is that supposed to even mean?' look on your browser? I love the way we use language to mask meaning instead of enhance it-the difference between translucence and transparency. That phrase is actually grown-up researchers’ code describing (women) moaning during sex.  We both know the number of hits for that page on CNN was probably off the charts. I’m trying to imagine what the banner ads looked like, and failing.

I don’t understand why the article doesn’t talk about men moaning during sex or what that’s called, aside from ‘this is news, why?” (In which case it’s a multi-part series hosted by Dr. Sanjay Gupta). And I’m NOT going a lot farther speculating about this topic because I have zero desire to find out what it’s like to sleep on the couch in our living room, for the rest of my life.

I guess we all think about Meg Ryan in “When Harry Met Sally” but my favorite passage in the on-line account was “(w)omen also reported making noise to relieve boredom, fatigue and pain/discomfort during sex.” Don’t know about you, but I’m seeing a whole new market for Playstation as the other adult handheld device if the Sony folks know what they’re doing. It’s very possible many women have either a Super Mario or a Sonic the Hedgehog as a partner. Batteries sold separately.    

I suppose, a good realtor can turn all of this research to their advantage in selling those homes that happen to be in airport flight paths to newly-weds. By the time, those couples realize the neighborhood schools are too far from the house for their children to walk, they’ll be looking to move because of all the aircraft noise they hadn’t noticed before. Concerns they didn’t have when the moving van first arrived. It hasn’t been easy lately for folks like Shields and Yarnell-a little too quiet on the professional and personal front.

-bill kenny 

At Home on the Green Fields of Amerikay

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Let's treat the over consumption of dark beer and the ensuing drunken stumble-round in celebration of the day as read. Not all of us who claim the heritage are drunkards. I, to cite but one example, stopped drinking. About four hours ago. Ah, yes that scintillating "Irish wit" I claim to possess. Now I know how far my humor can take me-the next punctuation marks the demarcation. 

The Irish's arrival in America was, for its time, the largest and most prolonged migration of one ethnic group since the nations of the world had begun keeping track of such things. Those who fled Ireland for America, and they were not only family members, but extended families, whole neighborhoods and, in many instances, entire villages and townships, were half a step ahead of starvation and destitution.

To remain in Ireland was to die but fleeing to America was often death of another kind, only more slowly. Having already been made into outcasts in their own country, the immigrants hardly noticed how their treatment in the New World often resembled their handling in the old.

And still they came, by the thousands every month, by the tens of thousands and into the millions. At one point, very nearly twenty percent of all Americans were of Irish ancestry which is a statistic offered on Saint Patrick's Day to help not just those of us who were part of the Irish Diaspora to remember where they came from but to remind all of us how far we have yet to go.

"Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and shamrock.
Farewell to the girls of old Ireland all round.
And may their hearts be as merry as ever they could wish for.
As far away o'er the ocean I'm bound.

Oh, my father is old and my mother quite feeble;
To leave their own country it would grieve their heart sore,
Oh the tears down their cheeks in great floods they are rolling
To think they must die upon some foreign shore.

But what matter to me where my bones they may lie buried
If in peace and contentment I can spend my life
The green fields of Amerikay they daily are calling
It's there I'll find an end to my miseries and strife.

So pack up your seastores now consider it no longer,
Ten dollars a week isn't very bad pay.
With no taxes or tithe to devour up your wages
Across on the green fields of Amerikay.

The lint dams are gone and the looms are lying idle
Gone are the winders of baskets and creels,
And away o'er the ocean, go journeyman cowboy
And fiddlers that play out the old mountain reels.

Ah and I mind the time when old Ireland was flourishing,
And most of her tradesmen did work for good pay
Ah, but since our manufacturers have crossed the Atlantic
It's now we must follow on to Amerikay.

And now to conclude and to finish my ditty
If e'er a friendless Irishman should happen my way
With the best in the house I will treat him, and welcome him
At home on the green fields of Amerikay."

-bill kenny

Wherever I Lay My Hat

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my animus towards office cubicles. I’m reasonably certain, official and folk histories to the contrary; they started out as someone’s idea of a practical joke and then went very badly wrong very quickly.

 I’m imagining a couple of “Human Resources” types from “The Main Office” seeking to hire the next Under Assistant West Coast promo man. The process has taken longer than anyone wanted and out of spite, they decide to find out what’s the smallest box a candidate is willing to work in. No? Take a look at a cubicle and tell me why it’s not a shipping crate for a human soul.  Talk about no way out of here.    

How about this idea? It’s happening right now, if the story is accurate and I assume it is, in Austin, Texas, as the SXSW Festival winds down. The jury of public opinion, as embodied online and elsewhere, is split (between Sodom and Gomorrah?) 

I suspect this ‘discussion’ is just beginning and hope everyone who is, or will be, weighing in remembers there is no need to add volume to your voice if what you lack is a better argument. For years I’ve regarded Fielding’s novel as modern English literature, but still in the realm of fiction. I’m not sure if that has shifted or if we have and I’m not all that positive I want to find out.    

-bill kenny

Same Movie, Different Cast

As much as we’d like to think every day the world starts anew, and for some it does, for many that’s not the case at all. We don’t actually strike the set at the end of each day-we dim the lights and head for someplace home and dry, or close, and step back and away from the magic lantern until tomorrow.

Hamlet had some choice words about tomorrow. Mine, alas and alack, aren’t even close when  marveling at how all those yesterdays set us up for where we and who we are today. How can a people who move so quickly never reach their destination, or even a consensus on where we should be going?

A fortnight or so ago, Rush Limbaugh managed to anger, annoy and offend an enormous number of people who, until that moment, had little in common with one another. I guess a small ‘thanks, junkie, for bringing us together’ is in order, as is (I suppose) some forgiveness from me, for a personal failing in his history. I should do the high-minded thing and will eventually, but not today, chubby.

I don’t listen to/watch Limbaugh, Bill Maher, Keith Obermann (Grammatik wants me to spell his name as Doberman; what a sense of humor they have at Microsoft!), the AFLAC duck or Rachel Maddow-not (just) because of their politics (I think I worked with a pretty broad brush there; sorry, duck) but because one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor and I live in a tent. One that I’d like to think is large enough for everyone, no matter how cranky they are.

I don’t know when ‘fair comment’ transcends the protections of free speech and becomes hateful and hurtful but I’ll concede that defending every moron’s right to her/his opinion, including me, gets a lot harder when what they’re saying is just awful and close to indefensible.

I can tell you I’ve been chided by folks on both sides of my political spectrum for not being willing or wanting to denounce/support the guy and or the Liberal Media Cabal that’s ‘persecuting’ him. I’ve visited Bergen-Belsen and Dachau, skippy-I’d suggest we take it easy on the “P” word. Especially since all you have to do is what I do-use the on and off switch on the radio or grab the clicker. Afraid you can’t resist the temptation? Listen to this. Yeah, GACK! But we loved it and it sold millions of copies. You’re reset now, right? No need to thank me.

Besides, coming back to ceiling and floor-it wasn’t that long ago that (I think; I’m lying, I know) Bill Maher had some pejoratives characterizing politically prominent women of the conservative persuasion in tenor and tone that made me cringe. If you wondered why there’s no link back, it’s for the same reason El Rushbo didn’t get one. I’ll not encourage that kind of boorishness in this neighborhood.

As a nation, we’ve been through this demonization of the other side throughout our history. Admittedly, I’m not sure ‘Van, Van is a used-up man’ is analogous to announcing some village in Texas is missing an idiot or that the citizenship of the President is suspect. We are all entitled to our own opinions on any issue-but not to our own facts.

And if we don’t work a lot harder to bring back civility in our civil discourse we’re going to become the dysfunctional country in the middle of North America while Canada and Mexico develop an appreciation for situational relationships as postulated by Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty.

-bill kenny