We May Need to Arm Bears

Sometimes your right to bare arms gets in the way of other folks' rights to arm bears, or to steal them while they're small and try to sell/rent the opportunity to pet them.

From the archives and submitted for your review and approval, John Chadwick Montgomery, whose brush with the law is captured here.

I have a lot of questions but the one that jumped out at me was mathematical in nature. That $1 to pet the bear cub, was that a dollar for every pet of the bear cub or was it an all-you-can-pet price? Does the bear cab, Newell, have a bald spot where folks were really taking advantage of the price?

I love the quote from the director of the preserve about Montgomery's behavior, "It almost makes me think he wasn't thinking." Its applicability to a range of behaviors beyond the realm of bear cub napping is nearly universal, I think.

And let's not forget about Lizzy who, it's reported, rushed to the aid of Petey, a fellow capuchin monkey, who was Montgomery's first abduction target. I will admit to some admiration of Montgomery for persevering after getting bitten by Lizzy.

Lizzy ended up with a black eye as a reward for her rescue efforts and I'm inspired to wonder if monkey boxing might be worth considering as part of a new triathlon for the Summer Olympics. Three rounds of monkey-boxing, five minutes of petting a Kodiak bear and two laps around an indoor track with a lion while wearing liverwurst after shave. I'm pretty sure no one will win any medals but the TV ratings should be rock-star spectacular.
-bill kenny

Tenuous Assumption of Innocence

As a Scarlet Knight, I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for the young men and women of Rutgers University who represent the State University of New Jersey to the best of their ability in a dizzying variety of collegiate sports.

In some sports, such as men's Division 1 basketball, this past season made it hard to do as victories were as scarce as the proverbial hen's teeth and I, for one, might have settled for losses that were, at the least, sort of competitive. RU kidding me became the way I checked the scores all season long.

I went to Rutgers so long ago, and so long before Big Time College Football (I always capitalize every word of The Evil that destroyed the greatest college basketball conference in the USA, The Big East, because of the seduction of the money in televising football) arrived on the Banks of The Olde Raritan, we, the students could attend home games for free. But usually didn't because we were trashed from whatever had gone on the night before.

Besides, who wanted to get up both stoned and hungover to attend games against the likes of Delaware, Villanova, Lafayette and Bucknell. It was to be another decade until we swapped cupcakes like those guys for beat downs of epic proportion by Penn State (motto: "we beat you on the field and in the shower") and others of  that ilk. And then another decade before we got close to being in the same weight class.

A lot of factors finally coalesced for the Scarlet Knights to not be a joke. The program matured, some very talented people joined the staff and a lot of successful recruiting paid off with hard work and long practices. One of those who profited, literally and figuratively, from that fortuitous turn of events was a youngster of exceptional talent and for whom, until very shortly ago, I was always happy to cheer, Ray Rice.

I don't pretend to know if he owns or broke every single Rutgers football offensive record, but he's probably close. He went on to become a successful professional football player, currently in the employ of the Baltimore Ravens.

When he showed up in headlines Thursday for punching out his affianced, Janay Palmer, who is the mother of Rice's child, in an Atlantic City casino elevator, I was sickened and saddened.  But I wouldn't claim to have been surprised.

Then I found this on Saturday afternoon. Cynic that I consider myself to be, I'm obviously an amateur because it surprised me. Looks like Ray-Ray got his Chris Brown imitation on and he nailed it. Perfectly.
-bill kenny

Gabby or Purple

I met someone the other day whose name I understood to be Harry Krishna. I attempted a joke by inquiring if we had perhaps met one another in an airport. My smile disappeared when I saw his reaction and realized the temperature in the room had dropped dramatically.

He explained his last name was Kirchner, thus obviating my humorously intentioned bon mot and we were left with an awkward silence and the realization there was no way we could ever go shoe shopping again, or for the first time.

I don't why I just thought about that or remembered from Germany, in another life, stalking the crafty and ubiquitous veal fig newton. When Sigrid and I were dating, I'd share the couch as we watched programs on German TV (either first, ARD, or second, ZDF, as there was very little else-back in the days of ein geteiltes Deutschland).

Prime time TV back in the day had, for me as an American, a curiosity, hostesses or viewer guides, who offered you a minute's worth of preview and highlights of the night's coming attractions before the schedule kicked off. At that time I spoke just about no German at all; and have been constant and consistent for nearly the last four decades.

But back then I'd just sit there and let it wash over me and the mind being the way it is, or at least mine being the way it is, I would manufacture meaning from the verbal churn and hear what, to my ears were English language words and phrases, even if no one else did. Hence, the veal fig newtons.

The TV hostess, having offered us, the lieber zushauer, a preview of the evening's broadcast would always close with some variation of 'wir wunschen ihnen ein veal fig newton' (we wish you a veal fig newton). On Saturdays, long or short (a topic for another time), when Sigrid would go grocery shopping, I would tag along and prowl the aisles, trolling among the cookies and snack cakes, or keks, in search of the wily fig newton.

I had no idea what the packaging might be and knew from popping into the commissary (the military's grocery store as opposed to The Exchange which was sort of like Sears) that the Fig Newton folks had introduced strawberry and apple flavors, but to my knowledge, no veal.

My searches among the lebensmittel were never crowned by success and eventually, somewhat in despair, I asked Sigrid where Germans could buy veal fig newtons. Her look, come to think of it, was very similar to Harry's of the other day, as she explained to me that what I took to be an exhortation to enjoy a snack cookie was actually, 'wir wunschen ihnen viel vergnügen' (we wish you much pleasure).

Oh. Well why didn't they just say so? I was Saint George's stunt double in Jousting with the Mondegreen and hadn't realized it. And while I've always enjoyed the Sky Marshall, I liked him even more once he stopped lip locking with that guy who looked nothing like that fellow who wasn't from the airport.

Though him I can describe: Red and white sweater, hand in hand with Carmen San Diego, sharing some fig newtons. Eww.
-bill kenny

I'm Sweeney Todd and I approved this Message

I concede that for serious and sober people especially in the Far East of the world, Kim Jong-un is equal parts menacing and challenging, but for bozos like me, thousands of miles away, he's like something the writers on Comedy Central's Daily Show might imagineer if they were washing 'ludes down with Annie Green Springs.

The good news, I suppose, is they're not. Leaving the bad news that another grease spot with legs is wandering the world tyrannizing his own countrymen and terrorizing his neighbors. There is, in the opinions of people who claim to know this stuff, very probably a no more oppressive, backward and evil regime on earth than the one Jong-un, Dennis Rodman's H-O-R-S-E buddy, heads in North Korea.

Armed to the teeth, paranoid (and with good reason, so I guess in that sense, they're cured), always on the brink of starvation as they continually and continuously fail to produce enough food to feed themselves, and engaged in a form of international relations that makes brinkmanship look like Neville's return from his Weekend in Munich the best thing since Vlad's staff assistance visit to the Crimea, the reason why we haven't nuked North Korea, I feel, is that the South Koreans prefer to be part of a peninsula instead of an island.

And now, in addition to learning 450 recipes for gluten-free rock soup (North Korea's sole cash crop unless braggadocio and BS have been added to the list), Jong-un has skin in the game in terms of haircuts.

This showed up some time ago on line and, once you realize the site is a leisure time activity of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, it's actually quite nice, albeit in a you-folks-live-on-a-different-planet-doncha kind of way. I especially enjoy the drop down window on the right side of the screen where moderators and world wide guests exchange invective while pretending they're having a conversation.

And for a moment, it looked like we had gone to ludicrous speed, as the Web was abuzz with 'news' that the men of North Korea were all going to learn the Korean tonsorial command for 'high and tight' but perhaps that's one one tale that's beyond the credible.

I'm still working on the career choice of Simon C, quoted in the story, who describes himself as being someone who arranges foreigners' vacations to North Korea. What do you suppose his client base might be? People who've already seen the Killing Fields of Kampuchea? Does he offer other packages, perhaps a "Flaunt Human Rights" 8 days and 7 nights in some dark corner of the world and/or perks like 'Have Your Picture Taken with Kony'?

Perhaps Jong-un who could be the Pillsbury Dough-boy's evil twin, physically, has stumbled onto a greater truth though he'd never concede it, not even to himself. "Because in all of the whole human race Mrs. Lovett, there are two kinds of men and only two. There's the one staying put in his proper place And the one with his foot in the other one's face."

I'm sure some North Koreans cannot wait for the jackboot to be on the other fist.
 -bill kenny

I'd Feel Sorry for You but.....

I think the world is actually spinning faster now than it was when we were kids. Everything seems to move more quickly and relentlessly forward, good or bad.

The summer vacations we used to look forward to as schoolkids will be here in an eye blink and gone again. Why put the snow shovels and winter clothes away, aside from a glance out the window, as the next winter will be here before the ink is dry on the calendar page.

At some point in recent days, I read a story on the murder trial in South Africa of Oscar Pistorius, charged with the shooting death of his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp, in which he described himself as 'having a tough time' as the prosecution seemed to carving holes in his defense large enough to drive a truck through. I realized a moment ago I'm still processing that whole story.

I make no judgements in terms of guilt and innocence. How could I? I don't know the man but know of his struggles and his triumph over daunting circumstances in becoming a paralympic sprinter. But still, cynic that I am, my black as coal heart and soul prominently displayed finds the idea that he sees himself in any way as the victim to be just beyond the surreal.

With apologies to Willie and the Globe Theater, Queen Gertrude's acerbic observation comes to mind as I recall with a start, perhaps better than Oscar himself does, that while he may feel persecuted, it is his affianced who is dead and feels nothing. And by his hand, though I'm thinking he'd prefer to gloss over that detail as well.

Again, I don't have any idea of the merits of the case or the legal burden of proof in this instance but the gracelessness under pressure being displayed gives me pause before extending sympathy to a man who is doing quite a fine job of feeling sorry for himself. Besides, I'm told he's very competitive and I'd hate to start something I couldn't finish.
 -bill kenny

You're in the Middle of the Ride

C. S. Lewis, author of "The Chronicles of Narnia," once offered that "(I)t may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird but it would harder, still, for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg."

I'm not sure if he had yet read the Hampton Project Municipal Development Plan created by the Norwich Community Development Corporation at the direction of the City Council or if I'll run into him tonight at 6:30 when a hearing on the plan is held in Council chambers of Norwich City Hall. He and I should really do breakfast some time.

Might I suggest we owe it to one another to attend or watch on public excess (sorry, access), assuming it's offered so that we have some sense of what is being risked and what is being gained.

Actually, I not only suggest that but insist on it, because my biggest concern (and why I've taken my time reading the plan and fully intend to attend the hearing) is that I don't know what I don't know. And I may not be alone in being that way but there aren't nearly enough of us willing to admit it to themselves or to one another.

I'm dismayed by some of the comments posted online and offered in person critical on this proposal to "do something" as I call the subject of tonight's hearing but that offer no suggestions or alternatives. Let's be real: we already know what happens when we do nothing in Norwich. If you're new here or you've just forgotten, take a look around you. See what I mean? We are what happens when all we do is talk.

Twice a day I drive past that bag of bricks and glass near 395 and no matter how hard I wish it would be come a thriving hotel (perhaps offering pony rides to guests), it hasn't happened. Not yet and not ever at the rate we're going.

We can keep wasting each other's time and our own breath about the original choice of sites or who should have done what to whom and when but that's boxing with a pillow- when we get done, we're tired and all that's changed is the shape.

How about giant billboards on 395, North and South as the descent down the hill begins, telling motorists to just close their eyes for the next mile so they don't see our failure of both a hotel and to find a resolution?

Or we could hire Christo to wrap the building and conceal our own inability to act for our own good? Certainly an idea not without appeal especially since if we never do anything, we can't do anything wrong.

You are entitled to your own opinion, but NOT to your own facts. The hearing starts at 6:30 tonight in City Hall. I'll save you a seat in the middle.
-bill kenny

That First Step Is the Hardest

We have spent so much time in the last two weeks transfixed by a multi-media seance approaching and surpassing a real life, real time version of Lost with the human tragedy that is and forever will be Malaysian Air Flight 370 playing out on every screen possible across the country and around the globe, it's almost crass to suggest we refocus on something else, as opposed to anything else.

Friends and families of those who perished deserve answers and the peace of some form of closure and I hope they get both, most especially out of the gaze of a world of gawkers as we all slowed down to take a look and offer opinion masquerading as fact that was often as far-fetched as it was fatuous.

The winner in the mass media category, knowing you realize my heart beats on the left side of my body, is (perhaps for you a surprise) not FAUX Gnus who were, I think, really in their element, unencumbered by actual facts and free, if not eager, to throw anything that might be a theory against the wall to see it stuck.

Nope, in my view, the nadir of coverage was CNN putting a psychic on the air I guess because it's a violation of policy to just look into the camera and say "we got nothing." It could have only been worse had Piers Morgan been allowed to interview her.

Meanwhile half a world away, for those too young to have ever witnessed it and those too old to remember it from its seventy year off-Broadway run, the Cold War emerged from retirement, prodded by Vlad the Other Impaler as Russia proved the wisdom of that old expression, "you get more with kind words and a tank than you do with kind words alone." So praise the borscht and pass the 125 mm shells and clear the heqq out of the Crimea if you're affiliated with the Ukraine military.

Perhaps escaping your notice, though not mine because he's always been a loathsome grease ball, was, in the aftermath of the previous Sunday's Crimean referendum whose sole question might as well have been "would you like to be shot in the back of the head as you stand here?" the endorsement of the result by none other than Harmid Karzai, the head of state of the increasingly embattled nation of Afghanistan.

Mr. Karzai is certainly entitled to his opinion, at least for now while ISAF troops protect his position to express himself. I'm sure the fate of Dr. Mohammed Najibullah after his Soviet protectors departed a little over a quarter of a century ago cannot be too far from his waking thoughts.

And I, mindful of how often the oceans of the world were discussed in recent days, think about a German expression that most neatly captures Karzai's conundrum, "he who abandons a sinking ship that does not sink, needs to be a very good swimmer."

It's often a fine line between Mae West the actress and the life vest, though sometimes the mileage may vary.
-bill kenny