It's Good to Be the King

Really happy you stopped by on your way to the Super Bowl. I knew all this hype had gotten out of hand when the "pre-game" show on NBC started last Tuesday. I'm surprised, in light of Florida athletes' prominence in the SEC that the Republicans didn't move their primary because it might have been a distraction (on the other hand, considering the choices, a  distraction might have been a small mercy).

I am so ancient I can remember the first Super Bowl, also on NBC and carried simultaneously on CBS (we had two leagues, not conferences back then: the National Football League and the upstart American Football League and each had its own TV network who carried the games). It was held in the Los Angeles Coliseum and it was not a sell-out by any means. And if you were a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs (Len Dawson at quarterback and Fred "The Hammer" Williamson at defensive back), it wasn't very much of a game, either.

But through the years, the Super Bowl has become the ultimate triumph of style over substance, packaging over product, Siskel over Ebert and Laurel over Hardy (I didn't think that would ever end). We've all seen the sneak previews of the commercials that will air later, at a cost per insert, in the millions (how'd you like to be someone who shelled out three or more million bucks for an availability in the fourth quarter and the game is a blowout? It happens) and that doesn't include the expenses of making the ad. Bets that Matthew Broderick made more money from Honda than he ever saw from Ferris Bueller?

I've watched the Super Bowl in recent years for the half-time entertainment. Bread and circuses and all that comes with it springs to mind which is why I think the game should always be played in the LA Coliseum and the Commissioner of the NFL gets to go thumbs down on the losing team and this huge massacre takes place at game's end near the fifty yard line while the music swells and the credits roll. Try being the show on NBC after that feces hits the ventilator later tonight.

I've sat through execrable half-time performances by Bruce Springsteen (and I adore his music), the Rolling Stones, what's left of The Who (seriously guys, you still need the money?). Was it last year the Black Eyed Peas were there and sucked? God, they were awful and that guest solo with Slash? Why? I wasn't watching Justin and Janet so I may well be the only man in the United States who's never seen her nipple (a true statement before Super Bowl Sunday as well), so you can probably imagine how excited I am that Madonna is performing.

I appreciate her 'no wardrobe malfunction' promise realizing at her age with physiology and gravity being what they are, we'd only have a problem of breast exposure if she took off her knee-high boots. But so much for the goings-on  between the hash marks, and speaking of hash, and all foods in general, Super Bowl Sunday is the second greatest gorging day in the US (Thanksgiving being first). Over a billion and a quarter chicken wings? What do they do with the rest of the bird?

It's not that we've forgotten about the scourge of world-wide hunger, but we don't want to hear about it today or see any reminders. In the hours before kickoff, as we're figuring out which salsa goes on avocados and if we've purchased enough antacids (the answer is 'no!'), we'll have trouble enough squeezing in the time to go to church unless the sermon is on how Brady/Manning is the Second Coming of You Know Who.

Now turn to Page LMMMVII in your hymnals and join us in singing "Jesus is My Wide-Out." And tell that kid in the back, near the nave, Tebow, to get on his feet and quit goofing around. That's my job.
-bill kenny  

It’s the Grill not the Radio

I’m an amateur carnivore-that is to say, I eat meat but don’t get paid for it. I’m thinking of those guys on the cable niche stations who are willing to eat the most amazing crap stuff ever televised (until the next show).  I believe in my entire life, I’ve not (yet) known a vegan but have known a vegetarian, though I didn’t like his rationale for his lifestyle. 

It wasn’t so much that he didn’t like to eat meat, I believe, but that he hated plants. I used to think of him and smile while emptying the grass clippings bag on my lawnmower, 'add oil and vinegar; serves six!'. I’m not nearly as brilliant and brazen when he’s around but give me half a world of separation and I’m fearless.

I thought about this whole Meat the Beatles when I came across this story on pink slime. You’re probably wondering what kind of marketing/ manufacturing people call something by that name. It is, I submit, a vast improvement over its original name, ammonium hydroxide. If you’re someone who has always been disquieted by Red Dye #40 (any relation to WD-40?), this is close to one of those ‘sell my clothes, I’m already in heaven’ moments. I guess Soylent Green had been trademarked.

There’s a subplot deep inside Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 where Yossarian tells Milo Minderbinder about Corporal Snark putting mashed up bars of GI soap in the sweet potatoes at the chow hall to prove the men  are Philistines who couldn’t tell the difference and Minderbinder assumes they most certainly could only to learn from Yossarian such was not the case at all. Funny how life imitates art.

Mom used to say ‘don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer’ and the more you wonder and worry about pink slime, the more reasons you discover you ain’t heard nothing yet. We call them “Kitchen Secrets” for a reason and if you think otherwise, try a heaping helping of this and take as many napkins as you’d like. You’ll probably need more. Seems to add a whole new dimension to ‘you are what you eat’.

-bill kenny

Madam I'm Adam

When you grow up in a large family keeping track of your siblings’ birthdays becomes a major undertaking. You can cheat when you still live at home because Mom worries about all of that-and in this case, probably still does-but once you’re gone, you can never come back when you’re out of the blue and into the black.

We grew up under one roof, or more precisely a series of different roofs, as six children in the same family but closer to being two clusters of three children reasonably close together with a pregnant pause (pun intended) in the middle (that may get me a pop on the nose from one or more of my brothers and sisters). 

Evan Dolores, Kelly Christopher, Kara Melissa, Jill Marie and Adam. My mother hadn’t run out of middle names by the time she got to Adam, but the check engine light on whimsy was burning brightly. Mom loves to tell of the day Adam, whose birthday we celebrate today, was being baptized and Father Stosh expressed (mild) surprise at his having but one name. Our mother explained to the good priest ‘he was God’s first and he’s my last. Pour the water.’

I’m not sure any of us kids gave any of that a moment’s thought. Adam was another Kenny Kid to be piled into the Chrysler Newport station wagon that was eventually replaced by a Ford Country Squire because in the pre-fab sprout era of America, what else could hold that many children? 

I am inordinately fond of my youngest brother and make no apologies for it. I have my reasons and they’re not mine if I tell you. We look nothing alike but I suspect people guess easily that we are brothers (so much for the element of surprise). I'm the more handsome but also the more modest, while he has the talent and the wisdom (to not argue about the looks and modesty). 

Adam has all the brains some of us older children suggested might be genetically possible without actually realizing. We were the promise, he was the performance. He was my wingman at Rutgers College-too young, yet, for school himself, I took him with me to courses sometimes every day for a week or more. I never asked him what he made of his first college experience (he is a devoted RU football fan, despite being a CU Buffalo Alum) or what, if anything, he got out of listening to music on eight track cartridges in my Pinto, at max vol, rushing cross-town in New Brunswick (before its renaissance) to classes on the various campuses.

I lied to him later, not so much a lie as pulling his leg, when I promised him an armadillo when I was going to Air Force basic training in San Antonio, Texas, or later, as I assured him I’d bring him back a penguin from my assignment in Greenland (I think he had long known penguins were found only at the other pole; I learned that only after having purchased a pigeon in a tuxedo six months after arriving at Sondy.)

The six of us kenny kids are a rambling, shambling assortment of aspiration, inspiration and perspiration but as long as we all continue to practice respiration we’ll never lack for company. I'm not sure what our spouses make of us and we rarely enough ever get together so the danger of that is minimal. Adam and Margaret are still getting used to living in a house with an echo, which is what parents everywhere earn as a result and reward of doing their jobs. That might make today’s birthday a little different in terms of third-party help when it’s time to blow out the candles, but I think my youngest brother will do just fine. Take a deep breath and have a Happy Birthday, Adam!

-bill kenny 

The Parable of the Mixed Metaphor

This was going to be about Groundhog’s Day and may well yet end up going there. But I have to go back to yesterday to do that, so if you don’t appreciate history go play Angry Birds or something for two shakes of a lamb’s tale.

I assumed it would be transparent to everyone who stopped by yesterday that I was offering my version of ‘cast your bread upon the water’ or ‘Mrs. Paul ain’t the only one who knows about loaves and fishsticks.’ (for the record, mein schatz, es war fisch sticks nicht was anderes, okay? ), but I forget the Feast  of the Assumption is 15 August and any other day you do so, you’re doing it at your own peril.

I had way too many phone calls and email from people concerned about ‘your car’ and, in some instances slightly hurt that I hadn’t asked for their help at that time. Again as I kept explaining, with diminishing results yesterday: there was nothing wrong with my car. I was attempting to say something entirely different. If you didn’t see my point, it’s because I was wearing my ski-cap (in honor of the Winter X Games, dude) and for that I apologize. 

I appreciated the thoughtfulness of the various offers of assistance, to include the one for a ride which came via email von den alten heimat. I guess we would have had to keep the windows rolled up when we hit the Pond. Glad I gave up smoking and thrilled you left the dog at home (she calls shotgun all the time).

So that’s out of the way, okay? When a family member  calls me before she goes to work to make sure ‘none of this really happened’ I need to sign up for the Bravo TV show, “Bowling for Participles with the Real English Teachers of the Carrier Clinic.’ While I’m neatening up loose ends, there’s no hard feelings or confusion left over from Buzz Lightyear and Newt Gingrich? Poor Ralph. Talk about a target rich environment. Who called shotgun in the rover? (Three guesses and the first two don’t count.).

In honor of another nearly mythical character today we have a custom to honor a belief no one actually shares, Punxsutawney Phil.  I have a very enlightened attitude on his relationship to winter-as long as whatever has created our current situation continues, he can see Ken Howard if he’d like. (Make it Ron; Hell, a herd of Winnebagos-we’re givin’ ‘em away.) As for me, I’m thankful for the pretext this gives me to revisit a favorite tune. Very thankful. Amazing.   

-bill kenny

Light and Sound

The cold snap we had ten days ago sidelined my car. When I went out into the garage to start it and head for work, the engine wouldn't turn over so I called our auto club. It was a busy morning for roadside service guys and gals and it took about twenty for someone to call me back and offered to trouble shoot what was going on, or not going on, under the hood.

Based on my seconds of professional automotive experience (and I did not stay at a Holiday Inn Express  the night before), I told the mechanic it was the starter. He wasn't nearly as impressed with my automotive acumen as I was and suggested I go back out to garage, turn on the headlights, and then try to start the car. I explained to him as slowly and as evenly as I could that  I'd already checked the battery by honking the horn and it was fine. I repeated my suspicions about the starter.

There was a discernible pause on the phone before he repeated, yet again, what he'd just told me to do: go back out to the garage, turn on the headlights and then attempt to start the engine. I decided it was pointless to argue with him, and besides, in two minutes he'd have to agree with me anyway so I went out to the car as directed, turned on the headlights, turned the key in the ignition and and less than nothing happened.

Actually something did happen-the two points of illumination on the garage wall in front of the car, the reflection of the headlights, dimmed  as I tried to crank the engine. The car still did not start. I went back inside and explained to the mechanic on the phone that the starter was shot.

No, he said, it was the battery that had spit the bit. I was incredulous and, quite frankly, angry. How, I demanded to know did he come to that conclusion since I had checked on the battery by honking the horn and it sounded loud and clear.

I'm sure it did, he said, but you told me yourself your headlights dimmed when you tried to start the car. That means the culprit is a weak battery, no matter how loud your horn is. He explained it takes more energy to be a light than to be a horn.

For just a moment, I wasn't sure if we were still talking about cars on cold winter mornings or if we had moved on to the larger and more important topics in life. A week and a half later, I'm still not sure, but I'm thinking it was probably the latter and have decided everything I learn after I think I know it all is also knowledge.
-bill kenny

Where Is Jeremy?

I’m enslaved, by a habit that’s not just part of my daily shopping routine, but the best part. You'll know it when you read it. On my way home every afternoon, I swing by my local grocery and avail myself of their make-your-own-damn-salad bar as I prepare my healthy lunch for the following day. 

At the rate at which I make and eat salads, I should be so healthy I glow in the dark. I eat salad because I’m told it’s good for me; I have no idea or proof of truth and have even less interest in finding out. I do believe if there is a just and merciful God S/He could have had broccoli taste like chocolate, thus making those created in Her/His image very happy. And healthy.

There’s not a lot of variation in how I assemble the salad-lettuce, peppers, those goofy small tomatoes that explode everywhere when you cut them into smaller pieces (but they’re too large to not cut), some spinach, pieces of pineapple, a few sliced strawberries, cranberries and some pieces of white meat chicken all go in the aluminum foil and I pop a plastic lid on top (so the salad can see where we’re going?).

I use the self-checkout register because it’s almost always open and there’s no line, especially after I not too softly whisper “I own you now” after every purchase crosses the scanner. You'd be surprised how quickly people find other lines. The self-checkout has The Voice encouraging me to use my market’s preferred shopper card and then thanking me for so doing. If I have bar-coded items, all of that merchandise goes first. I put the things in those terribly thin plastic bags which are impossible to separate so you end up with hundreds of landfill-choking plastic bags you can never use for anything else and you dare not throw away.

Yesterday I also bought eggs as we had none at home. Every home should have an eggscess of eggs. I can't understand why that slogan still hasn't caught on. Your loss. I buy HUGE eggs but there’s always one I forget to check that’s welded to the bottom of the cardboard container by escaped egg insides which have now hardened. This means for the price of twelve eggs I purchase eleven. I do this with a consistency I no longer find funny. I blame the chickens for the broken eggs; perhaps that why I eat my salad with chicken pieces, but never chicken salad. Perhaps not.

Anyway. The salad doesn’t have a bar code (yet), so when I place it on the scanner/scale, I have to touch the screen display for produce and The Voice explains “touch the item to purchase.” That, of course, is crap. What I have to do is touch the image on the touch screen showing a salad (not unlike the one I made). Touching the salad itself accomplishes nothing. I know this because I do it at least once every day, more often if there’s no one behind me. Every time I do as The Voice directs, and nothing happens, I go “no?” in a tone of wounded surprise that sounds genuine even though I know it’s not. And I smile because I just crack myself up with this routine every single day.   

Why am I telling you this? Because if you’re a resident of Florida and are voting today in your state’s Republican presidential primary, I was hoping to distract you from so doing since I’m pretty well convinced, despite history to the contrary, there are worse things that can happen to us than a hanging chad. And three of your choices have the same number of letters in their first name.  May I offer you a lightly used egg?  

-bill kenny

Learning to Fly

It's difficult to believe the first month of the new year is almost over. So far, so good; so what? Not sure what we accomplished in the first thirty days but I'd hope it sets us up in good position for what's left of the year, starting with whatever's going on in your hometown this week.

Around here, here being Norwich, Connecticut, The Rose of New England (though based on my honker you might better have guessed 'Nose of New England') we have a full week of meetings of all kinds and sizes as citizens volunteer not only make a difference but try to be the difference. We are all better for their helping hands.

This afternoon at five in Room 210 of City Hall it's a special meeting of the Redevelopment Agency, and for background on the Vibrant Communities Initiative, which is what the Cecil Group is all about, visit here.

Tuesday afternoon at 2:30 in Room 335 of City Hall is something called C.O..O.L. Directions. This is all I could find out about it, but it's a start and if you go and share what you find out, we're all better off.

At 5:30 in the Latham Science Center on the campus of the Norwich Free Academy it's a special meeting of the Board of Trustees. The item of greatest interest on the agenda is (for me) #4, NFA's next budget, which will directly impact next year's tuition payment by the Norwich Board of Education which will be funded within the next city budget and paid for by all of us. My point: I, too, 'don't have kids at NFA anymore', but still care about the school and so, too, should you. Something about no man is an island, though whether it's Block or Coney is always unclear to me.

And at 6:30 in Council Chambers in City Hall, it's a training session for the members of the Council on Zoning Rules and Regulations (and all this time I thought just like the old NBA, we had to play man-to-man defense. Live and learn, preferably in equal amounts).

Wednesday afternoon at 5:00, it's a regular meeting of the Emancipation Proclamation Commemorative Committee whose meeting minutes remain missing. Remember: history rhymes with mystery. Now roll up for the tour.

At 5:30 in the Kelly Middle School Library it's a regular meeting of the Norwich Public School's School Building Committee. This is where the minutes of the previous meeting would be, if they were but they're not, so they aren't. Subject to your questions, that will conclude my briefing.

At six, in the community room of the Greeneville Fire Department, it's a Matryoshka doll meeting (of sorts) with a regular session of  the Greeneville Neighborhood Revitalization Committee; you'll find their December meeting minutes, in draft form, here. The Matryoshka part comes from a second meeting inside this one-aimed at residents of the  "Greeneville/Taftville villages" (but the rest of us are welcome as well) soliciting input to update the City of Norwich Plan of Conservation and Development. If you're going, read this; if you're not going, why not? Whose job do you think it is to redesign where we live, if not ours?

And at seven, in Room 335 of City Call, it's a regular meeting of the Republican Town Committee. I wonder if they're going to solicit for volunteers for Newt Gingrich's moon colony? I'll bet their brethren across the aisle already have a nominee.

Thursday evening at seven, in the conference room of the Planning Department at 23 Union Street, it's a regular meeting of the Inlands Wetlands, Watercourses and Conservation Commission. You'll find their January meeting minutes here.

And that is that for this week in these parts, as far as public meetings go. That doesn't mean you get to sit at home and mutter about all the situations in Norwich you're unhappy about. The person to best affect change is staring back at you in the mirror. Do something and then do something else; as a mater of fact, keep doing something until it becomes a habit. Anytime you think you've thought of everything, think again and learn to fly. See you at something?
-bill kenny