On the Humblest Yucca Tree

Unless you include sacrilegious in the widest definition possible of religion, I'm not much of  practitioner serving primarily as an example of  'that guy' whom you don't want to be. I try to look elsewhere when athletes offer me instances of misplaced deistic fervor to include the ones who cross themselves before stepping into the batter's box in baseball (the New Testament mentions Jesus can't handle the high inside curve, at least while multiplying loaves and fishes) or before attempting a foul shot.

Quite frankly, I've always worried about the literal extremity of taking the admonition about Divine Concern shown for lilies of the field or larks on the wing. Whether you see Her/Him as a Hairy Muffin or Cosmic Thunderer, can we at least agree a foul shoot is extreme micro-management? The weave or executing the pick and roll, hallelujah, but unless we're talking about shooting one and one, seriously?

When we were much more recent arrivals on this planet, living as nomadic tribes wandering the face of the earth hunting down food before the Lord created drive-thrus (I have the being a hypocrite part of religion down pretty good, don't I?), thunder and lightning and other natual phenomena were seen as divine mysteries and warnings. When we decided to establish Science as the New God, our rationality extended only so far and certainly nowhere near where we often believe it to be.

I am among those who have prayed "Lord, save me from your followers" but since many who offer this prayer don't actually believe in a divinity we're working at cross-purposes. I've discovered in the course of Sandy's aftermath that believing in a God Who operates some kind of a protection racket isn't uniquely Christian. Check out this demonstration of ecumenical mutton-headedness.

Where are the Westboro Whack-jobs when we really need them, eh?

Next time they take that picture they might want to pan right or crop him out altogether (a suggestion).

I once saw a bumper sticker that read 'My God can beat up your God.' I thought it was satirical-I may have been thinking of sacramental. I always assumed Mad Dog 20/20 was the perfect choice for just sipping. Pass the ammunition.
-bill kenny

Lost and Forgotten

When I was very young, and despite your snicker I actually was young, going through the primary grades of St Peter's (sic) School in New Brunswick, New Jersey this day, aside from Good Friday, was the saddest day of the year.

Today is All Soul's Day. When you're nine and have transferred to 'the Catholic School' from Pine Grove Manor in Franklin Township because there was finally room in the class near the start of the fall for you and Neil, your next door neighbor who is now suddenly promoted to best friend, the more you think about the implications of All Souls' Day, the sadder it gets.

As I've aged (badly) I've developed quarrels with the Catholic Church in which I was raised but most of that churn is what I've taken to calling middle-level management. With all due respect to the priests, bishops and even His Holiness, the Pope, I'm not sure how much of the edifice the one true church (as it calls itself when it finds/feels itself under attack) has created since Jesus Christ founded it, Petrus, would pass the 'R U Serious?" test with the Lord.

We're not grading on a curve, either, guys. Wanted to pass that along. But one of the things I still believe, regardless of my exact grid coordinates in the theological hemisphere, is that there can be nothing more tragic than to be forever forgotten. As a primary grader on this night, I used to fall asleep trying to remember every single person I had met in my life-a tough enough job when you're nine but when you're nine and fifty-one, it borders on the impossible.

But maybe that's what 'heaven' actually is-the memory of you by another person. Look at history-much of it is a tale told by an---well, never mind who's doing the telling, but pay close attention to who's doing the remembering. Is forgotten the opposite of famous? And who prays for the souls of the faithfully departed when no one remains who recalls who they were? When facts fade, faith must suffice. 
-bill kenny

Yeah, I know. I'm going to hell anyway. Since I bought a ticket, wanted to get the whole ride.

Tie Goes to the Runner

If you see me later today sporting a shiner, be advised it was a long time coming, as in from Monday and from at least one perspective, my wife's, deserved. That's as may be but for my part, I'm blaming Super Storm Sandy.

Like many in New England, this has been a odd week for me, focused around whether or not the weather was smiling or frowning (and sometimes both at the same time). Monday I hadn't been at work very long when I, along with everyone else it seemed in Connecticut, was sent home. I had worn my store-bought fancy dress shirt and Sunday on a Monday go to meeting pants for maybe an hour and a half. I insisted to my wife I'd wear them again 'when I have to go back to work.'

Going back didn't happen Tuesday. Across the Northeast, cleaning up happened on Tuesday, where it was possible and in some places where it wasn't the heartache is palpable and, I hope, transitory.

But in my house it meant my memories of Monday's proud words had grown dim and don't even get me started on their meaning.

By the time it was preparations for Wednesday going to work, I couldn't find the tie I had been wearing. Point in fact I couldn't remember what tie I had even had on. My wife with her unerring eye for style and color coordination, marriage to me notwithstanding, sped through the closet, found a tie and matched the ensemble perfectly. As always.

As I went to move my work clothes to their staging area late Tuesday night, I made a discovery of the Monday tie hanging on the hook on the left side of the shirt hanger, right where I'd left it. What that helped explain was why it wasn't in the closet. I figured I'd handle this with that rare combination of debonair and suave that has made e the envy of men on six continents and two large but partially submerged islands.

Was sie nicht weiss, machts sie nicht heiss. What she doesn't know won't upset her. I returned my wife's more recent tie selection to the closet of its origin and knew, with just a smidgen of luck I could wear the original tie on Wednesday and she would be none the wiser. Easy money, yes sir buddy. Ask me how that all worked out, after the swelling around my nose goes down.
-bill kenny   

Finding the Balance

This time next week thanks to an election process too many of us take for granted while the rest of the world envies our nonchalance, our lives as we know them may be changed. Whether the election results bring good or bad news not only depends on your perspective as the beholder but also on the prism you employ to view the results.
I promised some time ago to not offer opinions on any of those seeking our votes and I will not renege on that promise though in a couple of races, I'm feeling pretty provoked. I'm grateful, despite appearances otherwise, to everyone who has offered to serve no matter the office; quite frankly more grateful for some rather than others, but it takes all kinds to make a world.

After we have assured one another that we have registered to vote, know what documentation to bring with us to the polling place and know where we need to go to cast our ballots, we should make sure we are informed on the issues and the candidates' positions and then vote based on your best judgment.
More than that can no one ask, and less than that should no one expect.

Opinion, goes the old saw, are like noses; everybody has one and they all smell. No matter what decisions we make next Tuesday in matters of leadership at the highest through more humble strata of our government, it's highly unlikely that either the dawning of the Age of Aquarius or the end of the world will follow as an outcome.

Our decisions and subsequent actions and the consequences of both will make us or break us. How well supporters and proponents of candidates and/or bonding questions have explained themselves to us, the people with the power at the voting booth, should be a critical factor.

Open and honest communications can help build bridges between the different segments of our communities just as deceitful and duplicitous efforts inevitably erect walls and create distrust both of those elected to govern and of one another who chose them.    

Your informed vote is critical to the success of who we are as a city, state and nation. Just as there are no insignificant votes there are unimportant offices in elected government. And here in Norwich, as in thousands of cities and towns across the country there are ballot initiatives for bonding requiring a decision that we'll make but perhaps only in the lives of our children, or theirs, will we learn if the investment was worth the risk.

That's why you can't have enough information before you cast your vote-though please don't allow yourself to be overwhelmed by your responsibility. Don’t choose to NOT choose. When the polls close next Tuesday evening, whether you see yourself as a victor or a victim is entirely up to you. The decision to be better or bitter is yours alone. Your vote is your voice so be as loud as you can.
-bill kenny

Hurricane Party

Here's the situation. I'm home because everyone along the path of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Sandra (we haven't been formally introduced so I feel foolish calling her 'Sandy') is home.

Whatever work we are supposed to have will keep which is more than you can say about a lot of other things, near at hand in my town, like Howard T. Brown Park at the confluence of the Shetucket, Thames and Yantic Rivers (Sofee Noblick shared this image which she borrowed by WFSB television).

Or how about someplace that's beyond iconic, albeit somewhat far away at least for me,  Times Square (and how oddly disconcerting when viewed without the usual complement of people running around everywhere).

If this were a snow day, I could battle my way to the garage and futz around until I got the snow blower started. It might take a few hours, but it would be something. As it is, I have had doctor's appointments canceled out from under me and calls from where I work encouraging me to stay where I am (classy in San Diego?) and even our Governor, Dannel Malloy has told folks to stay off the roads unless you have a hall pass (I may be making part of that up but I doubt it).

And you thought I might offer you Springsteen's Atlantic City? You're close, but not quite.

"The hurricane party's windin' down and we're all waitin' for the end
And I don't won't another drink, I only want that last one again
 He gave me such a fine glow, smokin' slow, now I should probably be homeward bound
 There's just no one to talk to when the lines go down

 I guess that in the morning I'll go lookin' for my gray-striped cat
 My old house can take the weather so I'm not too concerned about that
 It was built to take the wind back in nineteen-and-ten when this was one damned fine town
 But now there's no one to talk to when the lines go down

 Some insurance man-biker is yellin' out for one more beer
 But a part-time pirate just can't get much respect around here
 We got our problems too, man we'll get to you
 In just a minute, sit your drunk ass down
 Yeah, there's no one to talk to when the lines go down

 Now there's water up past the wheel wells of my  Ford and I don't guess that it'll run
 But I left a pack of Winston's on the dash, could you fetch 'em for me son?
 The morning's first cigarette, that's as good as it gets all day I should know by now
 But there's no one to talk to when the lines go down."

Hope floats but don't go wandering someplace where you don't need to to find out if you do, too. Okay?
-bill kenny

Channeling William Burroughs

Hunkering down like everyone else on the East Coast along the path of Hurricane Sandy (the name of the storm undercuts the menace, don't you think?) I have to admit for a guy who still gets flaky when he enters a dark room, atmospheric turbulence and destruction from above is definitely so much all of this you can keep the bag of chips.

I have found my copy of Naked Lunch -I was a fan of William S.Burroughs for a long time and then we just started seeing other people (okay, I did) and drifted apart. Someone mentioned Junkie the other day and that reminded me of yet another box in the basement from when we came from Germany and I dug around without making too much of a mess (that part is for my wife) until I found what I was looking for and it was before breakfast and I was fully clothed. Now I am ready, or as ready as I'll be.

Watching a storm rage, especially from someplace safe and dry is a simultaneously soothing and disconcerting experience. You are in all of it and yet you are not. You could be scared but you may not need to be. Your mileage may vary but the majesty of what you are living through never does.

Here's the best Burroughs I can do for you and if you don't like it blame my performance on the anxiety of the storm: Eat your school, stay in drugs and don't do vegetables. A copy of these remarks is available by sending a stamped self-addressed envelope to the address shown on your screen. Or not.
-bill kenny 

Transit

Today we are departing from a hotel or motel (I never can tell which is which) from an undisclosed location in New Jersey where we've spent most of the weekend as part of a surprise organized by my brother, Adam. I'm always surprised I can find his house since I'm not especially discriminating in my dotage and I don't see him that often so after awhile all these forty-ish white lawyer guys look the same so it was nice to be on the side of the surprise equation.

Every time we go to Jersey I'm always disappointed that there's not more of  a sense of homecoming for me and then I remember it's been almost forty years since I lived in the state and aside from seeing my callow youth self somewhere in a dream sequence what do I hope to have happen?

There's a great bar perhaps in Point Pleasant Beach, or Point Pleasant, I forget which, called the North Pole with a guy out front dressed in a Santa Claus outfit everyday of the year (except Christmas, who says irony is lost on Jerseyites?). I wonder if for my last act, or close to it, if I'm supposed to end up there. Every once in awhile I'll have a dream I can remember after awakening and it always seems to have something to do with that bar.Gotta admit if that's really the finale, I'm setting the bar sort of low.Bar. Get it? I missed my calling as a stand-up comic.

Remember to tip your waitress. Anyway, we're racing Hurricane Sandy up the Eastern Seaboard and though the fireworks aren't hailing over Little Eden tonight I have the sinking feeling it will be dark enough soon enough when something wicked this way comes.
-bill kenny