A, not The, Yellow Tricot

I was wearing a new fast dry short sleeve shirt last week when I stopped into Planet Fitness, PF for those of us in the know, on my way to work in the morning. It has no pocket so I have to put my passport and Tang in a pocket in my gym shorts.

That was my attempt at humor at the expense of the Planet Fitness people who have to endure a huge ribbing, often not especially good-natured, from other physical fitness operations because they are monstrously successful.

The shirt is made of "reprocessed polyester" as opposed to, I'm guessing now, "unprocessed polyester" or "repossessed polyester." There are no herds of esters out on the lone prairie being driven to the round-up as I understand the tale of industry and wonder that created polyester so while I appreciate the honesty of "reprocessed" unless this is something along the lines of refried beans, I'm not really seeing the whole flick.

I was tempted, while I had the yellow tricot of reprocessed polyester on, to NOT use the treadmill where I labor each morning in futile pursuit of my imaginary lost youth (I never had the form or shape I keep telling myself I once had, but damn, I'm persistent) and choose to ride an exercise cycle so I could strike a pose resembling Chris Froome.

The big challenge at the hour that I'm in PF, from about a quarter of four to a quarter of five in the morning, is finding someone to take the 'both hands and arms raised triumphantly over my head in spent ecstasy at the wonder of my achievement' picture. I have the camera, I just need the photographer. And one of those goofy sort of a painter's hat that all the cyclists wear.

I found no takers at all last week and I'm blaming that doped-up cheater Lance Armstrong. No one wanted to help an aspiring cyclist out as part of my PFPF (in this case, Pretty Funny Planet Fitness, or Punking F***ing Planet Fitness) project and so the world is one belly laugh lighter. That's how I'm seeing it, anyway.

So given the chance the other day to put down the very heavy piece of furniture he was lifting into the waiting van and help out a total stranger whom he didn't know from a partial stranger, reprocessed polyester and all, the stout fellow well-met didn't hesitate to lend a brother a hand.

No moving vans were harmed in the taking of this picture. That happened later.

I lift my water bottle in tribute to you kind sir! Next year, we'll ride in triumph under the Arc de Triomphe, at least in our imaginations.
-bill kenny

Only the Dead Have Seen the End of War

Today's title is a quote from Plato and since my last original thought dies of loneliness long ago, here's one from Margaret Atwood that she offered years ago that's a direct, concise and brutally candid definition ‘war is what happens when language fails.’

Someone (else) once noted war doesn't determine who is right, only who is left.

Seventy years ago, today, the United States bombed Hiroshima, Japan, with a weapon so horrible in its power of destruction, for a long time we, as a species, lacked the words in any language fully convey the depth of destruction and tragedy it, and its twin, dropped on Nagasaki just days later, had created.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but I suspect no one knows how many lives it costs. A thought worth holding, perhaps, as we consider these two images.

The scale and scope of the damages offered humanity a glimpse into an atomic abyss from which we knew there could be no escape, and we’ve managed for seven decades to not unsheathe the sword of nuclear annihilation again on one another.

These two images of “modern” Hiroshima should offer us hope that we can, indeed, learn to speak with one another, but more importantly than speak, should compel us to listen.

“We got your message on the radio…It’s never going to fade away.”

-bill kenny         

Head Full of Doubt

I know the summer season is winding down and you’ve got back to school on your mind so most of this today will just wash over you because there’s no life-altering aphorisms or earth-shaking revelations contained within.

If you read this for either of those, I’d urge you to get a library card and get lost in the stacks but let’s admit that too often we foolishly divide the world into “us” and “them.” Today I want to use “we” when I point out that we have elections this November which is after the kids go back to school, after Labor Day and Columbus Day and after Halloween.

I know it feels like a long time, so think of this as no more than a seed.

It’s okay to not worry too much yet about where those volunteering to be candidates for elected office stand on issues that are important to you, but it’s not okay for you to not have an opinion on what issues are important.

I realize you’re busy, welcome to the club, so is everybody else. In the last few elections here, voter turnout in Norwich varied. In the last municipal election in 2013, just 23 percent of voters cast a ballot. The year before that, turnout was much better at about 62 percent, but we had a president to pick.

With apologies to John Donne's Bell, no matter who you are or where you live, you must accept the consequences of every action and every inaction (having raised two children--okay having lived in the same house while my wife raised two children), that's the hardest part about becoming a grown up, accepting that responsibility.

We, wherever we live, need to be telling those whom we have selected and elected, what we expect of them. We define the goals and they refine the methods. When they succeed, we succeed; and when they fail, we all have to try again and try harder.

In Norwich, it's the usual suspects on those Mondays when City Council meetings are held and you’ll see the same faces at Board of Education meetings, for economic development workshops, or meetings on the Commission of the City Plan (and the list goes on forever).

Let's all stop using the past as a pretense to not map the future. When does a second chance become a last chance? And, more to the point, when does a 'last opportunity' become a lost opportunity?

"When nothing is owed or deserved or expected.

And your life doesn't change by the man that's elected.
If you're loved by someone, you're never rejected.
Decide what to be and go be it."

Simple as that: Decide what to be and go be it. 

-bill kenny

There Once Was a Day

...when I was sanguine about life here in Das Land der Runde Türgriffe, The Land of the Round Doorknobs.

Okay, it was a while back and it was only briefly (shortly before the last Congressional but after the Presidential elections, and we are inexorably approaching that dual train crash on our calendars) but it was a moment and I'd like to revisit it today.

Momma told me 'when life hands you lemons, Lucius, make lemonade.' It turns out she was talking to the family dog but her one good eye was fixed on me so I took her words to heart and have been drinking lemonade, with pulp, peel and seeds ever since. Or not.

It is very likely as near as I can determine from the various press accounts with which we have all been bombarded in recent weeks (Post Ed Snowden) that the National Security Agency, NSA, had the means, if not the actual physical records, to track every single one of us via the phone and computer to include our text messages and the times that our evil twin Skippy, or his evil twin, Raoul, wandered into some pretty frisky chat rooms for discussions involving saran wrap and petroleum jelly.

And now the men and women whom we've chosen to represent us at the Seat of Government (seat being another word for ass at least in my neighborhood) in Washington, the District of Columbia, are becoming concerned and almost engaged (but not quite). 

I'm wondering if it's because certain Senators worry that the five hours their mouse sat on the Victoria Secret's website could become public knowledge. Yeah, turns out there's something about Mary and Bob and Elizabeth and John. Unless you're wearing gloves, I'd just wave to them.

And the saddest part of all may be that after all this effort and breach of personal privacy and just plain barefooted trampling on our Constitution, the harvest of information was akin to that after a boll weevil infestation. Laboring greatly and bringing forth a mouse. 

The only upside seems to be if your computer crashed or your smartphone had a hiccup and you lost your data, you probably didn't. The NSA in all likelihood has it. Of course, having it and finding it are two different concepts. In much the same way as at one time Republicans and Democrats were different. 

Perfection in every detail fabricated from the curl of the hair to the tip of the nail. Because our units never fail. We know you'll be happy. Just don't ask how we'll know.
-bill kenny

What Hath Doug Ingle Wrought?

Some days, I am the most fortunate person on the planet, and not just because I have as my wife the most beautiful woman in the world though that certainly helps. There are days this stuff writes itself, except others, elsewhere do it for me and this is one of those days. 

Thank you, Daniel Tepfer, of the Connecticut Post. With some luck, there should be a little something extra in your wage packet this week for all the heavy lifting you did for me in filing this dispatch. It’s safe to assume Walter Berg the star of our show was, how shall we say, feeling thorny when caught in flagrante with what I’d hope was an attractive piece (of landscape).

Yes, you’re right of course who would have sex with an ugly shrub? My personal favorite part, aside from ‘covered himself with a grill cover’ (I’m hoping it wasn’t an Hibachi or the Pfizer Blue Pill Patrol will be stopping by later today) was the idea the neighbor, whose name is NOT in the story, was rolling video of Mr. Berg while he was beating around the bush, metaphorically speaking.

And how can you NOT love the headline, ‘charged with abusing greenery’? As ye sow, so shall ye reap. And it’s a fine line Behind the Green Door and behind the greenhouse.  When we speak of spilling seed, and we will, Onan, these were not the rosebuds you were encouraged to gather while thee may. 

I’ve read that bee pollination has declined precipitously in recent years so I’m happy someone took solving that problem into his own hands. I’m just not so sure about the gardeners’ gloves.

-bill kenny 

NFL & FWP

I’m glad I waited a few days before reacting, and I certainly hope the interval was decent. What am I talking about? See if you can guess and then see if you actually care. 

It was a challenge of course, as the waves of news and commentary washed over all of us for the last few days and it’s only now, here on Belichick Island in the aftermath of Tom Brady and the Most Excellently Inflated Footballs, that whatever flotsam and jetsam remains of the New England Patriots’ 2016 season can be somehow painstakingly pieced together so that fans, not only of the game of NFL football but of the integrity of the game can assess what happened and what happens next.

I’m trying to type all of this with a straight face. Sorry, little buddy. I’m kidding of course. Not sure what Patriots’ fans and players thought the endgame on Deflategate would look like, but when you have the reputation that their Skipper, Hoody B, has for skirting close to the edge, how surprised can you be when just beyond the runway out behind Gillette Stadium there is a large, flaming hole about big enough to hold an airplane’s worth of Super Bowl Title defense dreams?

And proving you learn something new every day I’ve just learned “Coach” is ten days older than I am; thank you, Wikipedia! That we are so very different (and I’m thinking of myself on the plus side of ‘better’), thank you, mom and dad!

Considering the billions (upon billions) of dollars wagered legally on any aspect of the National Football League (why do you think there are disclosure requirements and deadlines on team injury reports? So those of us so inclined could send ‘get well, soon’ cards to defensive tackles and 3^rd down running backs? Pshaw! Vegas, baby, and all the other gin joints you can make a wager on the sport) my face hurts in trying to keep it straight while saying ‘the integrity of the game.’

A game’s worth of integrity where off-field spousal abuse gets a two game on-field suspension. Narcotics busts get you extended, and extensive, quiet time despite all the bozos in the booths in stadia across the USA calling the Roided Ragers ‘warriors’ while the TV camera lights are on.

If you’re a Middle East Christian fleeing for your life from the ISIL crazies, or refugees of a dozen different stripes struggling to find refuge on just about every continent of our shared planet, or (less dramatically) one of the millions in our nation working two and three and more part-time jobs to make ends meet (and then the ends move) all of this tumult about a game played with a ball so stupidly shaped it’s impossible to kick like a soccer ball or bounce like a basketball must seem like another First World Problem to you. 

And you’re right of course, except where you live doesn’t have or offer NFL Sunday Ticket or Red Zone or a dozen other pay-through-the-nose-per-view money laundering operations whose function is to transfer treasure in mass quantities from the wallets of viewers to those of the billionaires who own the teams the millionaires toil on. 

Greed is our true national sport and come autumn, it’s time for the football version of it. Do you hear what I hear coming from the NFL Shop and TV commercial sponsors? They’re playing our song-to you it sounds like cash registers, but to the rest us, it’s the sound of a freedom you’ll never have. 

-bill kenny

Incurring the Wrath of The Other Donald

I don’t pretend to know where, but somewhere in the Old Testament probably in Genesis is a passage about the Lord giving mankind dominion over the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky and all of the creatures that move along the ground. 

No, I’m no longer sure if it was Genesis with Peter Gabriel or with Phil Collins on vocals; I suspect in any event Steve Hackett controls the copyright.

I certainly don’t intend to tell the Lord Her/His business, since in terms of creation, well-done! But perhaps that dominion over all thing should have been whispered rather than shouted. I mean what am I to make of this unhappy happenstance.

I mean the story, not that photo of John Scott Falbo, II. I’m assuming the Roman numeral is to keep him from being confused with a first someplace. I’d just look for a pile of feathers to tell them apart, but that’s me.

We have so many BIG problems in this country in how we don’t get along with one another that I often despair we shall never address much less solve. And then you stumble across this specimen of homo sapiens, JSF II. 

If mug shots could speak, I’d expect him to be asking George to tell him about the rabbits. As it is, Lenny was a saint and JSF II leads me to hope there’s no third edition anywhere. 

Such venal and petty mean-spiritedness incites me to nearly the same response, as I wonder how well that first jail campfire will go when the inmates sit around with their s’mores telling each other what they did and how they got caught and then all eyes and ears slowly turn their attention to JSF, II. The reaction could be epically biblical but should be taken with a pillar of salt.

-bill kenny