MindRacingintheStreet

An Enduring Truth

2012-02-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Whatever happened to you and me?
Whatever happened to the way things were supposed to be?
We started out fast but eventually....
....whatever happened to you and me?
- The Ballad of The Can't Miss Kids

It was one week ago today that Greg Schiano announced he was leaving Rutgers University to accept the job as the head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers of the NFL. Given that Coach Schiano's departure was less than one week prior to "National Signing Day" the touts who make their money projecting which high school athletes are going to be stars on the collegiate level (my favorite faux profession but a rant for another day) predicted heartache for Rutgers football fans. A mass exodus of the kids who had given non-binding verbal pledges to come to school on the Banks of the Raritan was inevitable. Do not take my word for it. Go online and check out what the "experts" were saying.

This morning we are at National Signing Day +1 and while I could not and would not pretend to know what the future holds for any of the kids who signed their binding Letters of Intent yesterday - whether for Rutgers, for Colorado or for any school - a trait I submit that I share with the experts, I know that the feeling at Rutgers was one in keeping with the weather on February's first day: Sunny and unseasonably warm.

While only time will tell whether the youngsters whose names appeared on the Letters of Intent that Rutgers received yesterday actually turn out to be the greatest thing since sliced bread, it appears based upon the presence of those names as if the rumors of Rutgers' demise were in fact greatly exaggerated.

If you have nothing but time to kill, then feel free to scour the virtual world over the course of the next two or three days to look for the admissions by the touts that their dying declarations made this time last week were based on nothing other than a belief in the 21st Century maxim that he who screams the loudest is most likely to get heard. Volume having replaced substance as the day's watchword, it mattered most who said what they said first. The veracity - or lack thereof - of their words? Sadly, that mattered not at all.

I hope that the young men who signed their names to pieces of paper - whether at RU, CU or Whatsamatta U - enjoy productive, positive college careers. Call me a pie-eyed optimist, but I hope more of them earn degrees than NFL paychecks.

And for those of you who like me, follow and enjoy college football, be careful not to declare a youngster sporting your team's colors for the next few seasons a "bust" irrespective of how he fares on the gridiron. Remember that life, much like football, is not a drama comprised of a single stanza. 'Tis not a sprint after all but an endurance race. As the great American philosopher Lawrence Peter Berra once observed, "It ain't over 'til it's over."

And when exactly it is "over" is not something that can always be predicted with certainty on Signing Day or on Opening Day for that matter. Again, do not feel compelled to take my word for it. Ask Bobby Sabelhaus. He knows all about making the proper halftime adjustments and coming back strong in Life's second act.

It is an enduring truth after all. Noise abates. Strength remains inviolate.

-AK

The Rush Into Spring

2012-02-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hello February! Is it the unexpectedly warm, unseasonal weather that has been fearlessly forecasted for today that has me thinking that maybe, just maybe Spring might be today's object in the rear-view mirror? Perhaps. Well at least in part I suppose. But as the late, great Paul Harvey used to promise, there is of course "rest of the story".

Today at the user-friendly time of 5:00 a.m. (well, friendly I suppose of you are a user like me whose day starts well before the Sun has pulled Dawn's pants down far enough to reveal its ass crack) registration begins for the Spring Lake 5 Mile Run. The Spring Lake 5 is held annually on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. It attracts 10,000 entrants. It probably has three to four times as many applicants. Last year, Gidg and I each ran in it for the first time. This morning we shall be certain to participate in the "early" registration. This morning's registration is designed to be open only to those runners who took part in last year's race. Registration to the world at large opens on Thursday morning. All 10,000 spots in the field will likely be filled by the time Commissioner Goodell hands Tom Coughlin the Lombardi Trophy on Sunday night.

My law partner Arnold has made this event part of his summer for the past two-plus decades. Me? I am just a Spring Lake 5 neophyte but given how much I enjoyed it last year, I am going to make damn sure not to miss it this year. For all intents and purposes my summer running schedule starts today - calendar be damned! You best believe that brings a smile to my face.

Meanwhile, somewhere north of here Alex Lifeson, Geddy Lee and Neil Peart smile as well....

....and they are not even signing up to run.

-AK

Guaranteed to Bring You a Smile

2012-01-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

I for one am not sorry to see January get its bony ass on out of here. If this month is intended to serve as a window through which I can see how the remaining 11 slices of 2012 are going to be served to me, I think I shall just climb back into bed again with a note pinned to my chest, "Do Not Wake Up 'Til 2013."

As is the case with all things - as a general rule anyway - as bad as January has been, it has not been without its charms. Take for example the story of Santa Ana Zuloaga-Campuzano of Chicago. As an aside to my fellow Springsteen fans out there, given his age (30) he appears not to be this Santa Ana. Mr. Zuloaga-Campuzano was arrested by Chicago police in the wee small hours of last Sunday morning. When the police first encountered him, "he was sleeping in a 2002 Ford Expedition that was stopped in the median of 115th Street at South Doty Avenue in the Riverdale neighborhood, according to a police report. The vehicle was littered with empty beer cans, and Zuloaga-Campuzano mumbled, belched and laughed as he talked with officers, authorities said."

Even I have enough real-world awareness to recognize that what makes his tale one of humor and not one of tragedy or outrage is that he inflicted no harm on anyone but himself as a result of his night out on the town. He is reported to have told the police that he consumed eight beers, three shots of tequila and three shots of cognac prior to beginning his journey home. He is reported to have told the police that he simply stopped to go to sleep so that he would not hurt anyone. If it was not for what happened once he was taken into custody and to the Calumet District police station for processing, then the funniest part of this story might have been this piece of it: Asked to submit to a breath test, he refused, saying, "What's the point? I know I'm drunk," according to a police report.

It is however precisely because of what happened once Zuloaga-Campuzano reached the Calumet District police station that his wonderfully concise statement against interest is reduced to the status of an amusing anecdote. Once again, courtesy of the Chicago Tribune:

After police found him asleep and surrounded by empty beer cans in an SUV that was obstructing traffic, a Chicago man urinated on the police station floor and then entertained himself by singing loudly and playing air piano, prosecutors said.

The story made no mention of Zuloaga-Campuzano's setlist but I suspect that he probably opened with this one and played this piece as his encore.

And if you missed him Saturday night, good news! He shall be playing the greater Calumet District for the next couple of days or until his arraignment anyway. If you go to check him out remember not to sit too close.

He is a performance artist after all.

-AK

Candle Power

2012-01-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

I suppose that as a parent I do not need my own birthday to remind me of how old I am. I can measure my life through the use of Suz's and Rob's birthday. For while I sought refuge in law school to escape from hard math, even my rudimentary grasp of arithmetic permits me to understand that as they get older, I must be doing likewise. Looking at the reflection that stares back at me in the harsh light of 3:00 a.m. every morning, it appears as if I age a decade for every one of their years. As it should be I suppose. It is them after all - and not me - who each has a whole life ahead.

Today is Suzanne's birthday. I was not present at either the moment of conception or the moment of arrival. I would like to think however that I have been there for most of the big ones since. There have been countless great ones and one or two....well, let us just call them less than great ones and leave it at that. The good stuff far outweighs the bad.

This is the first birthday Suz is spending in her new, adopted home state of Texas. We used to needle her about the fact that unlike her brother (who essentially has not lived 'home' since his second year of college) we were going to have to include her in the listing when we put the house up for sale (4 bedroooms, 2.5 baths, Central Air and 1 Adult Child). And then in early November she came home and announced she was moving to Houston. Her car was packed and she was Texas-bound by the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

There are times when it feels as if it has been much less than sixty days since she moved to Texas. There are far more times when it feels as if it has been much longer than that. There is a decidedly different vibe in the house without her in it.

I wonder if it has occurred to her yet that her success in Texas forging her own way in life comes as exactly no surprise at all to Margaret and me. We have known always what she knows now, which is that anything she sets out to achieve, she can. She is her mother's daughter after all.

In honor of her birthday, we decided to send her something a bit kitschy. We gathered up the troops in a place near and dear to Suz's heart - not to mention a place to which she went to extraordinary lengths to keep Rosie, Dempsey and Boo from - and took a group picture:

The note that went along with the photo said, "Wish You Were Here!" and while that is true, it is only half of it. The rest of the wish, left unwritten is, "Happy That You Are Happy There!"

Happy Birthday Suz. Mom and I love you and miss you....

....and we promise that as soon as the picture was taken, we got the animals off of your bed and out of your room.

-AK

Empty Spaces and Abandoned Places

2012-01-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Friday morning was "feeding frenzy" time in the New York/New Jersey portion of Springsteen Nation. Tickets went on sale throughout the morning for the two shows that Bruce and the E Streeters are going to do at the Izod Center (the Brendan Byrne Arena for us lifers), the two shows at Madison Square Garden and the one show at the Prudential Center in Newark prior to joining Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo on their European vacation this summer. And as to be expected whenever more people simultaneously attempt to purchase tickets for an event than there are available, Friday morning turned into a real sh*t show for the folks at Ticketmaster. If I had a dollar for every time Ticketmaster offered up an excuse/alibi/defense for managing to screw up the ticket-purchasing process, then let's just say that I would be comfortable sleeping through my alarm clock at least a couple of times a month.

Clearly, no one in charge of things at Ticketmaster puts much stock into Shakespeare's query, "What's in a name?" "Master" suggests some level of expertise has been achieved. "Mastur" on the other hand suggests that some level of something else altogether has been achieved. Perhaps their problem is not one of competence but one of spelling.

I made out better than some of my fellow die-hard fans. I was able to grab two GA (code for "you shall be standing and not sitting to watch this show") tickets for the Missus and me for the April 4 gig at the Izod Center. History has taught us that at some point in the late summer/early autumn the tour shall wind its way Stateside again and will likely take up residency in football-sized stadiums for multiple night stands from sea to shining sea. If it does, then I shall channel my inner insane person and once again try to navigate the Ticketmaster gauntlet to get tickets. While I hope that I have better success on that day than I did on Friday, whether I do or not the Republic shall stand. Life shall go on....

....as must the show.

-AK

See-Saw Man

2012-01-28T00:01:00.001-08:00

We have reached the final weekend of January. I risk jinxing us by saying this aloud I know but it appears as if we shall navigate the usually treacherous waters of January in Jersey with only getting smacked once by snow. If last Saturday's display was the worst punch that Mother Nature hits us with all winter, then color me thrilled. Just try to stay within the lines. I am enough of a mess without your help. I assure you.

I have spent weeks on trial - and in bad cases - that have generated less stress than this week did. I earn my living practicing law. I do not build anything (and somewhere Kelly smiles). I do not manufacture anything. One could argue that I do not create anything. All I do is try - for the most part - is save people from themselves. I am a tort defense lawyer - as if good pastry needs defending; right? By the time I meet my clients they have already allegedly done something that damaged another and that "another" is now seeking compensation. I suppose on some level I am a repairman. My job is to fix that which someone else has screwed up. I tend to think (cue the immodesty music) that I am good at what I do.

But being good at it does not mean that everyone can be saved. Certain things are beyond my ability to fix. That is a realization that brings little comfort and even less solace. And when it happens, it bums me out more than a little. This week was one of those weeks.

And it was a week that reiterated the importance of something with which I bore my kids to death: Peace. If you are one-half of a successful couple, you spend more time than you realize leaning on your other half. Well, sometimes you realize it easier than others.

This week was one of those weeks.

-AK

Breaking the Banks

2012-01-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

It has seemed as if every season since the breaktheough 11 win season in 2006, a certain faction of Rutgers University's football fans has wondered aloud how much longer they were going to have to "settle" for Greg Schiano being their football coach. Yesterday they got their answer. Schiano moved from "current" to "former" coach at David "Sonny" Werblin's Alma mater. Schiano heard the siren's call of the NFL and did what a lot of Jerseyans do. He relocated to Florida. He is a bit ahead of the curve perhaps in that he is heading to the home of the "Early Bird Special" and Jai Alai at the age of 45. Then again, he is driving south to take a job that shall place him in the company of only thirty-one other men.

I suppose that I am in the minority among the Rutgers fan base this morning but I have not been transformed from a Schiano fan to a Schiano basher by virtue of his decision to pursue a head coach's job in the NFL. He did one hell of a job during his tenure at RU. He changed the culture at the "Birthplace of College Football". He transformed it from a punch line and into a conversation topic in college football for seemingly the first time since it bested Princeton 6-4 all those years ago. And he did so over the course of eleven years without a hint of scandal or impropriety. On the contrary, over the course of the past several years Rutgers has kept the company of Stanford, Duke and Northwestern in terms of the percentage of its football-playing student-athletes who graduated.

I wish that the timing had been better. Methinks that a number of the young men who had given non-binding verbal commitments to Rutgers to become members of the freshman class of 2012 will end up signing letters of intent to play their college football somewhere other than along the Banks of the Raritan. It is their right to do so. And if the change at the top of the program impacts upon their decision as to where they attend college, then they should take another look at all of their options.

I hope that life in the NFL treats Greg Schiano well. I for one shall miss him. I hope that I am not alone.

-AK

Hearing the Footsteps of the Green Monster

2012-01-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

As I have mentioned in this space from time to time over the past several months, the Missus and I are preparing to place the old homestead on the market (timing is everything right?), which we anticipate doing at some point in the first half of 2012. If you know anyone in the market for a beautiful center-hall Colonial in suburban Middlesex County New Jersey with four bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, fenced in backyard, full basement and vinyl siding, windows and central air conditioning all installed within the last eleven years (a/k/a "the time that we have owned the joint"), then tell them to drop me a line. Happiness is saving the Realtor's fee after all.

One of the interesting aspects of the packing process is it requires one (in our house Margaret is that "one" far more often than am I) to do some expeditionary work, going through long-ago forgotten boxes and containers in the never-ending quest to divine the difference between trash and treasure. Over the course of the past month or so at least a couple of occasions have arisen when she has taken a picture with her phone of something uncovered in a box whose identifying markings confirm that its contents once rested in the room of either Suz or Rob. Margaret photographs the item of indeterminate significance and then sends it to its erstwhile owner with a query, "Keep or Toss?" If the response is the former, then we keep it. If it is the latter, then out it goes. Well, that is the story we have told the kids thus far anyway. Whether everything they designate as a "keeper" is in fact kept remains a story for another day.

But I digress.

While we (meaning of course Margaret) were compartmentalizing the contents of Rob's room among the items of his we stumbled across is an old iPod. I know not how old this one is - or whether it was his original one. I know that it is metallic green in color and it is the approximate size of the Brooklyn phone directory. Well, at least the White Pages.

I presume that it is among the vestiges of his college years. That presumption - uninformed as always - is predicated upon the fact that we stumbled upon it in the general vicinity of other items from that era. My scientific method is so strong that if Santorum gets elected President, I am a shoo in to head up Health and Human Service....or NASA....or both.

Anyway, in my mind's eye I visualize Rob making his way through the subway tunnels and streets of Manhattan from what was then his home at the New Yorker Hotel to the John Jay campus. It is a visualization that makes me smile. Given that smiles can be in short supply now and again - I am Irish you know - I take them wherever I can get them.

Marathon training has commenced. Training in the Winter to run a marathon that takes place in the early Spring requires dedication and an ability to overcome monotony. The latter is a direct effect of so much of one's training having to take place indoors on a treadmill. To help me keep on keeping on this week I have listened to music not from my iPod - where the songs are at least known to me - but from Rob's old green monster. And it has been fantastic. I must confess that thus far most of the songs I have heard have been wholly unfamiliar to me. But it matters not. It matters not because they all seem to possess a decidedly uptempo vibe, which comes in damn handy when one is spending time on the human hamster wheel.

And it matters not because while the process is tedious, the smile on my face has remained in its appointed place. For I think not of what I am doing while I am listening to the music in my ears. I think instead of what he was doing when he was listening to it in his ears way back when in his crazy college days. And that is most assuredly a very good thing.

If it is enjoyment through osmosis, so be it. I shall take it without complaint. And given that he apparently downloaded close to 400 songs on this iPod, I shall take it down the road a good long piece.

-AK

The Antidote for Temporary Periods of Joy

2012-01-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

A million years ago - before my whiskers turned just so many shades of gray - I worked for my brother Kelly. One of us is an absolute genius at taking what is drawn by architects and engineers on plans and prints and turning it into a real live building. The other one of us went to law school. I would like to think that my abandonment of my career in commercial construction in favor of the puruit of one in law was likely the single greatest thing to happen to my brother in terms of his profession. After all these years, I would be willing to wager that he agrees.

I might be the most mechanically unskilled man on the planet. I let out a little cheer whenever I open the refrigerator door and the inside light comes on. I do not pretend to know how one relates to the other. I just appreciate that they somehow go together. They say ignorance is bliss. I do not know about that for if that was true I would be the plaent's happiest man. I am not. I am Irish. As Yeats once wrote, "Being Irish he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy."

While it is self-evident that none of what Kelly attempted to teach me about construction actually seeped its way into my pores, I did learn very well from my brother another very important lesson. I learned from him that while people sing about their disdain for Mondays, it is not Monday that is the week's worst day. It is instead the day that lies in wait behind it on the calendar. The day so horrible that when I worked for Kelly I learned to not refer to it as "Tuesday" but rather, "The Day After Monday".

For it is that day - the Day After Monday - that is the worst day of the week. Monday is a bummer but it is the Day After Monday that takes center stage as the #1 El Sucko Day of the week. His rationale was that since a lot of people have off on Saturday/Sunday while getting up for work on Monday is a buzz kill, your mind thinks, "Hey this is not so bad. The last time the alarm clock woke me up and I had to go to work, I was rewarded with two straight days off!"

But when the alarm clock rings again on Tuesday morning, your mind realizes that it and your body are screwed. The day before was not an aberration but rather the jagged tip of a spear that is five days long. It occurs to you that not only were you not rewarded for having worked on Monday by receiving two more days off, you have actually been punished. Your punishment shall be four more sleep-crushing mornings in a row before your chance to come up for air appears on the horizon line.

Scoff at his logic at your own peril. I learned long ago to respect and dread - just a little - the pain that the Day After Monday brings. Yesterday I was not disappointed. It delivered it in spades. And lucky boy that I am, it appears - in one small corner of my professional universe - as if it shall be the Day After Monday for the foreseeable future. Color me excited....

....not.

-AK

Geography and Other Mysteries of the Universe

2012-01-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

"We’ve had three races,” Santorum said. “One was in Mitt Romney’s backyard state of New Hampshire. He has a home in New Hampshire and he has campaigned there for six years as governor of a neighboring state. Last night’s race in South Carolina was pretty much in Gingrich’s backyard where he staked his claim. There was one race (Iowa) in nobody’s backyard , one race where you had to go out a level playing field. We competed and we won that race. We’re going to go out and campaign all up and down the state of Florida.”

In a Santorum Administration a premium will not be placed on geography. The former Senator from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania himself revealing a startling lack of knowledge on the subject inasmuch as the geographic juxtaposition between Georgia and Florida appears to be classified information on which he has not yet been briefed. Perhaps at some point between this day and Inauguration Day 2013 he can hop a flight to Jacksonville, Florida and take the long, involved trip directly North on I-95 until he reaches Florida's northern neighbor....Georgia. He should be prepared to spend at least 45 minutes in the car. Florida is not - after all - in Georgia's backyard or anything.

From a man who is an ignorant tool to one who earned his living by donning the tools of ignorance. Today is the day that Jorge Posada formally announces his retirement. His retirement from professional baseball. His retirement from the Yankees - the only team for which he played. Posada was a hell of a Yankee. He was a cornerstone piece of a period in Yankees history that awakened the echoes of the dynasty teams of a bygone era. He shall be missed.

I for one am looking forward with eager anticipation to the day when Santorum gathers the media to announce his retirement from the race for the White House. Unlike Posada, he shall not be missed.

-AK

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

2012-01-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

Joe Paterno died yesterday morning. He was 85 years old. "Joe Pa" spent more than sixty years in the employ of - and to a large degree in the service of - the Pennsylvania State University system. He spent the final four and one half decades of his life as the head coach of the Penn State University football team. His career ended with his teams having won 409 games - the most victories ever earned by a single coach in Division I college football.

But his career ended under circumstances that as recently as Win #409 would have seemed unfathomable. On a Thursday evening in early November 2011, the Board of Trustees of the Pennsylvania State University terminated the employment of the University's football coach. In the "Transaction Wire" of the sports page, the last entry of Joe Paterno's read, "FIRED".

I did not know Joe Paterno. I do not think I know anyone who knew him. There shall be many words written about him in death - as there were about him in life. There shall be words of praise, words of condemnation, words of anger and words of forgiveness. People who knew him in life shall write about him in death, sharing their view of him through the prism of whatever relationship they had with him. People who did not know him in life will continue to feel free to offer an opinion of him - whether good, bad or indifferent. Opinions are like a##holes after all. Every one has one. And here in the Century of Gaga and the Kardashians, every one is eager to expose you to theirs - regardless of its actual informational content.

Not having known the man, I cannot engage in the hypocrisy of pretending to offer an informed opinion of him. I know that it shall prove worth remembering no doubt as the words come pouring in from all corners in the days and weeks to come that History is in the mind of the teller. And it is worth remembering as well that no teller can now - in death - change the man Joe Paterno was in life. He was who he was. Whoever that was. Be it an effort to elevate or an effort to impugn matters not. Not to the dead anyway.

When sorting through the seemingly endless number of things that shall be written about his life and his death, it may be helpful to remember that regardless of what he was, Paterno was a man. He was - by genetic limitation - imperfect and flawed. Just like me. Just like you. Just like all of us....

....just so many shades of gray.

-AK

Dry as a Bone

2012-01-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

While it was not an anniversary marked with public celebrations and memorials anywhere in these United States - at least to the knowledge of Yours truly - 2011 marked the sequicentennial of the American Civil War, a conflict that serves as the de facto genesis of the term "oxymoron". The War Between the States commenced in South Carolina when the troops of the Confederacy bombarded the Union garrison stationed at Fort Sumter into surrender.

If Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant, negotiating the terms of the surrender of the Confederacy at Appomattox Court House, Virginia on Palm Sunday four grueling and blood-soaked years later could have known that the inhabitants of South Carolina would grow no smarter in a century and a half, one suspects that they would not have permitted them to re-enter the Union. We already had North Carolina back in the fold right? Did we really need two Carolinas?

For those of you in South Carolina who voted for Newt Gingrich in your Presidential primary yesterday, H.L. Mencken applauds you. Well, he would but for the fact that he is dead. Given that it was Mencken who wrote,
"Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard" his applause may be implied. Gingrich is a malevolent force whose supposed political resurrection would have remained merely farcical but for the good old, "Good Ol' Boys" in the Palmetto State.

Mencken also wrote that, "Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public." Or at the very least, the electorate of South Carolina....

....a group of people looking for the map that leads them home. Thus far with little success to show for their effort.

-AK

Indian Summer

2012-01-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

Pitchers and catchers shall report to Major League spring training facilities throughout Florida and Arizona next month. It is an annual rite of winter is it not? The arrival of Summer's boys. If you are - as I am - a baseball fan the mere thought of spring training caused the corners of your mouth to curl upward a bit. If outside your window this morning you are looking at ground covered with snow, sleet or some other wintry bullshit, then yours is not sly smile. It is an ear to ear grin.

Among the "boys" who shall be camping this February is Jamie Moyer. Forty-nine years young and one full season removed from his most recent major league. Moyer's age might work against him but he has two qualities that big league teams love: smarts and a left arm. The soon-to-be half centurion southpaw just signed a contract with the Colorado Rockies. Moyer made his major league debut in 1986. The team whose camp he shall be in next month made its debut in 1993. It is not every player whose professional experience pre-dates that of the team for which he plays. Then again, Moyer is not "every" player.

When he pitched in Seattle a few seasons back, the media and his teammates called him "The Ancient Mariner". If he makes the Rockies, I wonder what kitschy, team-appropriate nickname his mates shall hang on him. I read somewhere that his goal is to pitch in the major leagues at age 50. He has - to date - 267 victories. While logic would dictate that he shall hang up his cleats at a win total somewhere south of 300, I for one am not inclined to bet against him making it.

Jamie Moyer - The Boy of The Endless Summer.

-AK

The Never-Ending Story

2012-01-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

The boys from Mara Tech are channeling their collective Horace Greeley this weekend - jetting West in the hope of striking a bit of gold in Northern California. Perhaps it is because I have developed the ability to blot from my memory those things that I found to be especially unpleasant but the name Trey Junkin had disappeared from my mind completely.

That was until I read this piece in the New York Daily News. Mere seconds before I started to read it, I had forgotten that the last time the Giants played the 49ers in San Francisco in the postseason had been in the Fassel Era. As soon as I started to read it, it all came rushing back.

Junkin is a terribly tormented man. In his mind, his life has been reduced to one moment. A moment that he cannot escape or erase. Sad stuff. I suppose it is of little consolation to him - and to the prison that he has built inside his own head - that at least one Giants fan (Yours truly) viewed the turning point of the game NOT as being Junkin's errant snap but rather Jeremy Shockey's drop of a certain touchdown pass from Kerry Collins, which served as the accelerant on the Giants' self-immolation as they turned a 24 point lead into a 39-38 defeat.

Unfortunately for Junkin what I think matters not at all. History exists in the mind of the teller and in Junkin's mind, his half-century of personal history, the things he has accomplished, the woman he has married and the children he has raised has been reduced to a few horrific seconds on a football field.

Every man plays the game. And for some, the game never ends....

....even long after the rest of the players have left the field.

-AK

Wilde Times and Feats of Clay

2012-01-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

You might have missed it but "The Greatest" turned 70 earlier this week. Many gifted wordsmiths, including Jerry Izenberg, wrote tributes to Ali on the occasion of his 70th birthday. I suppose that I would appreciate the lovefest more had I never seen the HBO documentary "Thrilla in Manila". It revealed in a stark, harsh light just how much pain Ali inflicted upon Joe Frazier in the early 1970's when the two men were arch-rivals and blood brothers in a trilogy of fights that was an epic.

Ali bullied and baited Frazier in every conceivable way outside of the ring. Then after having opened wounds that festered for decades thereafter and may or may not have ever fully healed made a lame attempt to assuage his own conscience about what he had done to Frazier by peddling some crap about it having all been done "in the name of the promotion" of their fights.

This week, the shell of the man who once was "The Greatest" reached the age of 70. He bested Frazier one final time I reckon. Frazier died in early November 2011, a victim of liver cancer. He was 67.

Oscar Wilde wrote, "No man is rich enough to buy back his past." Nor outlive it. Not even if, once upon a time now likely trapped in the dark folds of his memory forever, he was "The Greatest"....

....well, in the ring anyway.

-AK

My Ever Disappointing Self

2012-01-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

I made a bit of news around the office on Monday. In hindsight, nothing too spectacular to be sure. Actually even before my view of the scene shifted from present to past tense, I knew it was nothing too spectacular. Just an oddity I suppose.

I rolled into work Monday morning carrying with me not only my lunch and the stuff I had worked on at home over the weekend but with an uninvited "tagger on". I know not from whence it came but I was the proud owner of a cold/virus/whatever the hell one wants to call it that grabbed me by the ever-graying hair on my chinny chin chin and slapped the crap out of me. Whether that phrase is used literally or figuratively right there is left to your own fertile powers of imagination. It forced me to do something I never do. I left work shortly after noon and went home. I retired to the comfort and solace of my bed for the afternoon, trying to sleep the illness out of me.

While I went to bed Monday night and awakened yesterday morning feeling not much better than I did at midday Monday, I ceased acting like a blithering simp, put on my big boy pants and made it through the entire day at work. People get sick. I wholly grasp that concept. I have siblings who deal with more maladies, illnesses and injuries on a daily basis than any ten people should have to. When they are overcome by illness, which they are far less than one might reasonably expect or anticipate, their respites are well-earned. They have more than an air of legitimacy. Me? Mine had all the legitimacy of a Kardashian marriage.

The goal for me is not to "d-bag" out between this morning and week's end. Will I pull it off? It is only Wednesday. Check back on Friday.

-AK

This Is What Will Be

2012-01-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

Tip for anyone EVER seeking the Presidency of the United States. Do not do anything that makes you even remotely palatable to Yours truly. For as soon as you do and I make up my mind to support your candidacy, you are doomed to fail. My apologies therefore to former Utah Governor Jon Huntsman and all of the fine people who worked hard on his campaign. In my defense, I thought I was helping. In hindsight, I am happy I did not order my Hunstman 2012 baseball cap. Where would I wear it now? I still have not worn my "Giuliani 2008" one.

However, I shall be certain to wear this Sunday that which I have worn the past two Sundays in support of the boys from Mara Tech and their march through the NFC playoffs. I know that the "experts" will tell you that the Giants' recent success is the result of (a) the seemingly always excellent play of Eli Manning; (b) their kinda, sorta rejuvenated running game; (c) their very much rejuvenated pass rush; and (d) the irrepressible Victor Cruz (a/k/a "The Salsa King"). While I suppose those four factors have contributed at least a bit to the ascent of the G Men, none of them is the difference maker. This is:

Go ahead and scoff. My magic t-shirt and I are used to dealing with detractors. People mock that which they cannot understand after all. The proof of its magic is irrefutable. I wore this shirt, which I received on New Year's Eve 2011 as part of my participation in the JSRC's Twilight Run in Asbury Park, for the first time on January 8, 2012. What happened on that day? The Giants won their first playoff game - opening kegs of whoop ass on the Atlanta Falcons 24-2. Big deal, says you. The Giants played at home and were favored to win. True, I say. But remember what else happened on January 8, 2012. I was rooting hard for the upstart Broncos and their prayers of an upset victory over the Steelers were answered. Why? The t-shirt of course. Still a skeptic? I did not wear it this past Saturday.

Sunday afternoon my magic t-shirt and I led the Giants onto the not-quite frozen tundra in Green Bay. Admittedly, we led the charge from the warmth of my den at home but our presence was felt nevertheless. How can I be sure? I can be sure because the team that was a 7.5 point underdog crushed the homestanding defending Super Bowl champs 37-20.

Thus, on Sunday the 22nd Magic T and I shall once again combine our considerable powers in support of Coach Coughlin's troops. If the Giants win on Sunday and then win the Super Bowl on February 5, then I shall put my lucky charm away for the duration of the winter....

....although I might test the depth of its power on one final occasion this calendar year. In the early spring perhaps.

Who among us could not use a little Magic....

I got shackles on my wrist
Soon I'll slip 'em and be gone
Chain me in a box in the river
And I'll rise singin' this song
Trust none of what you hear
And less of what you see
This is what will be, this is what will be

-AK

Where the Palais Used to Stand

2012-01-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

You may be among the Americans enjoying the day off today. Although it is not actually his birthday, today is the day set aside this year to honor the birth and the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And while the National Basketball Association - a professional sports league whose biggest stars include a number of high-profile African American athletes - views today as a 'work day', for a number of public and private organizations and their employees today is a 'non-work day'. For us at the Firm it is business as usual. Whether the workplace you call home has a space that needs your face today or not, do yourself a favor. Spend a few minutes here. Learn a little something about the man.

In addition to being a federal holiday, today is my sister Jill's birthday. I am not brave enough to disclose her age publicly but I can say this. If you took arithmetic at Abraham Lincoln Elementary School then today you would be calling Jill to wish her well as she celebrates her birth "Two score and seven years ago" on this date.

I hope Wilma has a wonderful, happy birthday. There are six Kenny siblings. Jill is the one who is closest to me in age and the one with whom I have probably had the closest relationship my entire life. It is not an exaggeration to say that had Jill not loathed the entire time she spent on campus in South Bend as a freshman at Notre Dame, which loathing led her to transfer to CU, I likely would never have ended up in Boulder.

She and I are similar enough in terms of our personalities that once ND proved to be a brutally poor fit for her, I never bothered to apply there. Seemed like nothing but a waste of my time and Mom's money to fill out and mail in the application. Moreover when I could not decide as a senior in high school where I wanted to go to college - a decision made all the more difficult by Georgetown's and Boston College's separate but similar decisions to reject my effort to matriculate to one of their institutions- it was Jill who brought me the CU application and who encouraged me to not only apply there but to enroll there.

While I was running Saturday afternoon, a song from a lifetime ago popped up on my iPod. It made me think of life way back when as a teenager, which made me think of some of the funny (often hilarious) jams Jill and I got ourselves into as kids. My personal favorite is when - during my first impromptu driving lesson (using Mom's Chevette) - I managed to make a left turn right into the railroad ties that the guy whose house was located at the corner of Amwell Road and Wertsville Road used to mark the border of his property. While the exact details of the ridiculous story we told Mom to "explain" why it appeared as if someone had jammed an entire set of Lincoln Logs under her right front wheel's rim have been lost to the fog of time, I do recall how earnestly the two of us tried to sell it to Mom. Whether Mom bought it I know not. Considering that we were children 5 and 6 - all of whom had tried to sell her on one thing or another at some point - I suspect that she did not.

Jill's oldest child is a freshman in college this year. I suspect without knowing for certain that Jill's principal role has been transformed from seller to potential buyer. And having learned from the best, I suspect that she knows exactly how to handle it.

My sister's married and she lives on an Estate
Her daughters go out, now it's her turn to wait.

She knows they get away with things she never could
But if I asked her I wonder if she would....

Happy Birthday Wilma.

-AK

Second Helpings

2012-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Like wind on the plains, sand through the glass
Waves rolling in with the tide
Dreams die hard and we watch them erode
But we cannot be denied....

For Christmas, Margaret bought me the coolest gadget I have ever had access to: a Garmin Forerunner 410. To date I have not figured out all of the great stuff it is able to do and candidly given the disparity between (a) its assortment of bells and whistles; and (b) my limited mental capacity it is reasonable to presume that I never shall. I have figured out however how to set it anew every time I want to use it so that instead of following a pre-set course, I simply go where I want to go. It is a feeling that can only fairly be described as liberating.

This week I shall begin in earnest the 16-week training program that is designed to prepare me for the 2012 New Jersey Marathon. This year's race shall be run on May 6th. The goal this year is what it was last year: 4 hours or less. It is a goal I missed by close to 30 minutes last year. I went to law school to stay away from hard math but even I recognize the fact that 30 minutes plus 12 months is not likely an equation for success.

Yet the pursuit begins anew. My brain tells me that my goal is not likely to be achieved. It is hard to fathom how an additional year's worth of age will help me in my quest. Logic dictates that it shall not. And yet my gut tells me I can....

....well to be 100% accurate, it tells me I might. And in the cold of January that is good enough. All you need to keep warm is a bit of fire inside.

-AK

JC v. GQ

2012-01-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Jesus is coming
He's got a new bag of tricks
No more walking on water
No more healing the sick
But he can sure pick the horses
And he makes a mean sauce
And let's not forget
How he came down off that cross

While I do not pretend to know the whys or wherefores as to John Eddie's motivation for writing "Jesus is Coming", which was a standout track on his excellent "Who the Hell is John Eddie?" disc several years back I am confident that it was NOT Tim Tebow. I say that not because I am a Tebow basher or because I pretend to know Eddie's feelings about him - presuming he has any. I say that because Eddie released the CD and the track in 2003....also known as the year that a future Heisman Trophy winner, Two-Time National Champion and NFL first-round draft pick was sixteen. He would not even begin to receive notoriety - or take his first steps towards saving mankind - for another year or two.

T Squared leads his disciples (teammates - sorry!) into battle tonight against the QB who everyone (not from New England) formerly loved to hate more than any other. And in fairness to everyone - what's not to hate? Is it not enough that Tom Brady has won 3 Super Bowls - including his first one against a Rams team that supposedly could not lose (cue ironic music and clip of Tyree catch while asking, "Sound familiar?")? Not for him apparently. He has to poke us mere mortals in the eye off-field as well. He romanced and fathered a child with a beautiful actress only to dump her (prior to baby's arrival) for a supermodel.

So tonight on one field America will have the NFL QB who many fans root against just because his life is so much better than ours that our envy consumes us lined up against the NFL QB who many people root against just because he seems to be too good to be true. And I would almost be willing to wager that there are more folks pulling for Mr. GQ than there are for the Holy Roller simply because of what we presume each represents.

Me? My position on the existence of the Almighty and the inane silliness that is organized religion makes me the anti-Tebow. Yet I root for the kid. I have since he started his college career at Florida. I may not be one who has much use for faith or the power of prayer but hating on a kid simply because he does? Every time it seems to me that we have drilled to the nadir of humanity, we pull a Harry Stamper and achieve a heretofore unattainable depth. Have two minutes to spare? Read this - written by a CU-Boulder alum who actually can use language effectively - and then gauge your enthusiasm for bashing the kid. If it has not waned, then I fear the problem my friend is not Tebow but you.

What shall happen tonight in Foxboro? I have no idea. I am not a man who bets on football but I did happen to glance Friday at the line in the Star-Ledger. Brady's Bunch was posted as a 13.5 point favorite, suggesting that Tebow might need to pull off a miracle along the lines of fishes, loaves and the multiplier effect to earn a win - and he is not getting any help from this bunch. Nor from this corner either - although it is likely to cause him to smile.

The last time there was a line this big in an athletic competition with religious overtones was when the Christians went to Rome to take on the Lions. For those of us who might have forgotten how that turned out, be reminded that it was the Chiefs - and not the Christians - who represented the AFL in SB I.

Jesus is coming
Yeah, that's the company line
But Jesus ain't coming
He's been here all the time....

....Jesus, if you're coming
I hope you're coming tonight
'Cause I'm all alone in the darkness
And I could sure use the Light

-AK

Fortune's Sweet Kiss

2012-01-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

Friday the 13th is not a day usually associated with good fortune. However, in the interests of balancing the celestial scales, attention today should be given to two sterling examples of good fortune. Examples that admittedly highlight the concept on different scales.

Among the axioms we learn from the time we are old enough to learn such things is that a dog is, "Man's best friend." In my experience that has been true. Sometimes however the shoe is on the other paw as it were. Feel no need to take my word on this point. Ask Barney.

Last Saturday Barney the dog made the acquaintance of Roy O'Connor, the kayaker. Theirs was most assuredly a chance encounter. At the time Barney introduced himself to Mr. O'Connor the latter was more than a half-mile out in the sea, fishing and paddling near the beaches of Siesta Key, Florida. O'Connor pulled Barney aboard his kayak, quickly assessed that the dog seemed to be not only cold and exhausted from his swim but also very scared and injured, and then began the quest to locate Barney's owner. The link to the video O'Connor posted to YouTube is here. If you can spare five minutes to have your faith in humankind bumped up a little, then watch it.

Sadly, Barney's owner (whose name was located courtesy of Barney's microchip) had been killed earlier that day when her vehicle was struck by a drunk driver. Authorities speculate that Barney, who had apparently been in the car with his owner when the accident happened, had become frightened by what occurred and had simply taken off, ultimately ending up in the Gulf of Mexico. O'Connor's open water rescue not only saved Barney's life but enabled Barney to be reunited with his owner's family, slicing a sliver of happiness into an otherwise horrid day.

From time to time in this space, I aim my anger at one of the most despicable assemblies of/excuses for humankind of which I am aware: the Westboro Baptist Church. The dreck who are the WBC represent the worst our species has to offer.

Thankfully there is an antidote for the poisonous WBC. It is the Patriot Guard Riders. Their Mission Statement says more about them and the incredible things they do than I could ever hope to. While there are exactly zero wasted words in it, I think that my favorite ones are these, "We don’t care what you ride or if you ride, what your political views are, or whether you’re a hawk or a dove. It is not a requirement that you be a veteran. It doesn't matter where you’re from or what your income is; you don’t even have to ride. The only prerequisite is Respect."

As long as good people exist and remain vigilant about keeping the bad people among us in check, humanity has a chance.

"Down here it's just winners and losers and don't get caught on the wrong side of that line." Kudos to those whose feet are firmly planted on the line's right side. And thanks to them also for pointing out for the rest of us which side is which.

-AK

An Examination of Habitual Depth

2012-01-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

Well, it sure turned out to be a good thing that college football made us wait until we were a third of the way through January before having its National Championship Game. As if the first go-round between 'Bama and LSU was not at lest borderline brutal to watch, the rematch was worse. It is almost impossible to spend a boring Monday night in N'Awlins. Almost. Kudos to Nick Saban's kids for winning the game and to the kids from LSU for having had just an extraordinary 2011 season. Their problem was simply one of timing: all of their good playing occurred during 2011. As they found out on Monday night, that was so "last year".

The greedy suits who run college football kinda, sorta got what they deserved this year. A season pockmarked by scandals at Miami and Ohio State and the end of an empire at Penn State that may or may not have been ruled all of these years by an emperor sans clothes needed a big finish to try and refocus the public's attention on the sport from the back page to the sports page. It did not get one.

Somewhere Oscar Wilde is smiling. It was Wilde after all who wrote, "No man is rich enough to buy back his past." As the powers that be who run college football learned this autumn, the odds get no better when a lot of men appear at the "Returns/Exchanges" window simultaneously. Not even when they agree to pool their considerable resources in a vain attempt to enhance their bargaining position.

2011 was chock full of teachable moments for the people who oversee college football. I wonder if they actually learned anything. A very wise man once observed that, "Very often the difference between a rut and a grave is the depth of the habit." Left unsaid is that it is a damn sight easier to extricate yourself from the former than the latter.

In which of the two does college football (and those who run it) find itself? Time will tell.

-AK

Carving Out a Little Nietzsche

2012-01-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

The fax machine might be the most abused office machine in the history of office machinedom. Once upon a time, its creator envisioned it as the means of quickly transmitting a hardcopy of a document from Point A to Point B without the original document having to be physically relocated from A to B. Over time it has been denigrated and deemphasized. Worse yet, its gift of alacrity seems to be sadly misunderstood and relentlessly misapplied. My favorite thing? When I receive a document from someone "Via Fax & Regular Mail", which I always interpret as meaning, "On one hand I think this document is SO important that I wanted you to see it right away, but on the other hand I do not give a rat's ass when it arrives OR if it does." Talk about a mode of communication that makes Sybil appear to speak with one voice.

Worse yet for the fax is that in the e-mail, Twitter, IM era the fax is so 27 seconds ago. About the only items that show up in our office regularly by fax are those that no one has solicited. Apparently the Firm sits right in the center of the Italian Deli Delivery Triangle because if your last name ends in a vowel and you own a deli, chances are that our fax machine is among the ones whose paper you waste five days a week. I know not whether anyone who works at the Firm ever eats at and/or orders lunch from one of these establishments. I know that if they do it is not because they have glanced at the day's menu that was faxed over at dawn's ass crack. I am the first one in the office every morning. While the buck does not stop with me, the unsolicited faxes most assuredly do.

Anyway, one of the places that sends it menu over - I have never actually glanced at the name on the top of the menu (or if I have, it has not registered in my memory for I have no idea what it is) - writes a famous or noteworthy quote on the bottom of its menu. I am not in the restaurant business so I must admit my ignorance as to the correlation between pithy observations on one's delivery menu and one's delivery traffic - presuming there is one at all.

Monday's offering did catch my eye. Well, the quote did. Not the daily specials. It - the quote that is - was from Friedrich Nietzsche, "It is not a lack of Love, but a lack of Friendship that makes unhappy marriages."

That seems to me to be just about absoutely correct. Margaret and I are married for more than 18 years. I love my wife absolutely. I do not exaggerate when I say that she saved my life. I also do not exaggerate when I say that she is my best friend and without exception is the best friend I have ever had. I do not pretend to speak for the rest of the world. I know not whether such a sentiment is universal. I reckon that I hope it is.

Bill Cosby put it another way, "The heart of marriage is memories; and if the two of you happen to have the same ones and can savor your reruns, then your marriage is a gift from the gods."

Maybe that is why there always seems to a Law & Order repeat playing on one of the television sets in our house....

....then again, it could just be the theme music.

-AK

The Catcher Says Goodbye

2012-01-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

Round Two in the Republican dogfight takes place today in New Hampshire. It took me a while to find a candidate in the Republican field who does not make this registered Republican want to throw up in my own mouth. Now that I have I reasonably anticipate that he will finish so far up the track tonight that he will announce this time tomorrow that he is suspending his campaign. I hope not.

Perhaps it was lost in all of the hullabaloo that went on the past several days, but hopefully you saw the announcement over the weekend regarding Jorge Posada's decision to retire. Posada has been among my favorite Yankees for the entirety of his career. The Yankees reportedly told him a couple of weeks ago that he was not part of their 2012 plan. I know not how earnestly he explored the possibility of playing in some sort of reduced role for another team. I know simply that according to the reports on espn.com, Posada decided that he shall not. He shall retire from professional baseball having worn the uniform of only one team - the Yankees.

His final season in the Bronx was not a thing of beauty. His struggles were well-documented and the nadir of his Yankees career occurred in May when he asked out of a game against the Red Sox after Joe Girardi told him he was going to have to hit 9th. For a long moment thereafter - as Posada feuded with management and certain media outlets - it appeared as if that might have been the final act of his career.

Fortunately it was not. And while the Yankees season ended sooner than either expected or hoped with a first-round loss to the Tigers, Posada went out swinging. He hit .429 in the ALDS and his mere appearance in the on-deck circle sent the Stadium faithful into apoplectic spasm. And I sat in my den cheering along with the throng. And when the Yankees season ended, it occurred to me that I had seen Posada play for the final time.

From where I sat to watch him play for more a decade and a half, he shall be missed. A lot has been written in Yankee land the past couple of years about the "can't miss kid" Jesus Montero. Promise is a wonderful thing. I reckon we shall see this season whether there is in fact a point of intersection between hype and reality. I know not whether we shall. I know that he has damn big gear to fill. As for Posada? Not much left to say except thank you for having been an integral part of so much Yankees success since the mid-1990's. And of course - good luck.

....and maybe, just maybe, "Hip Hip Jorge!"

Ah, I could not resist doing it one last time.

-AK

Retro Vision

2012-01-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Margaret and I went to the movies on Saturday night. We took in George Clooney's new movie, The Descendants. I am not much of a moviegoer so I shall not pretend to know whether there are better bangs for your cinematic buck at the multiplex. I do know however that Clooney's movie was terrific. I shall confess - without giving away anything not already shared in the film's previews/teasers - that seeing Clooney play a guy whose wife was preparing to leave him unnerved me a bit. I mean for crying out loud he is George Clooney. In The Descendants he even plays a successful lawyer - and his wife was still preparing to leave him. Man, if Clooney can be cuckolded, what hope do the rest of us have? Anyway, if you are inclined to spend an evening (and $20.00 or so) taking in a film I recommend you see The Descendants. Clooney is terrific, the two young actresses who play his daughters are as well and the story is first-rate.

The coolest part of our Saturday night at the movies was the fact that because the movie was not playing in our neck of the woods, the Missus and I took a ride down towards Princeton to see it. We went to the Montgomery Cinema. Margaret had never been there. I had not been there since I was a little boy. In fact the last time I recall being there was when Kara, Jill and I went to see "In Search of Noah's Ark", which I happened so long ago that we were still living on Canal Road. Missed that one, eh? Given that most movies seem to get remade, perhaps "In Search of Noah's Ark" shall sail again.

If it does it will likely end up playing again at the Montgomery Cinema. Perhaps I shall see it again just to see how much the new edition has changed from the original. Having been inside the Montgomery Cinema for the first time in more than three decades Saturday night, I can attest to the fact that its setting has not changed much since its first voyage.

Not that it was a bad thing at all. There was something nice about going to see a movie at a place that trends towards the homespun as opposed to the fast-paced. It has been said that everything old is new again. As I was reminded Saturday night, there is more than just a kernel of truth in that old saw.

-AK

For the Love of Mama, America and Jesus Christ

2012-01-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this helping of dreck this morning, then congratulations to you - and I thank you for responding in kind to me. We have made it through Week One of Year 2012. Not everyone did so if you are still here and those you love are all present and accounted for, move Week One into the "W" column and get ready for Week Two.

I do not pretend to know whether today is in fact their birthday or simply a convenient date relatively close to it upon which their parents are celebrating it (we do it for the Father of our Country, the Great Emancipator and Dr. King so peddle your mock outrage elsewhere) but today Megan/Adam's twins are going to be the honored guests at their own 1st birthday party. I might very well be the only lunatic who has ever thought of this in such a manner but I can make a compelling argument (compelling to me at least) that the "baby birthday party" is an event that has more in common than you might realize with a repast.

At the center of each event is an honoree (in this case two actually) who (a) has no idea that the event is taking place; and (b) shall have no memory of it once it is over. And for good measure, at each event there shall be at least one invited guest who eats/drinks too much and stays too damn long. Of course, at the baby birthday party there is a reasonable likelihood that the honoree shall also pee on and/or poop him/herself at some point during the celebration. I have yet to see that happen at a repast. Anyway, having their little ones celebrate their first full lap on their lives' calendar is a big deal for Megan/Adam - as well as for the twins (both of whom are just adorable) - so I hope that the day goes wonderfully well for all concerned and that Year #2 follows in lockstep.

I was much more jazzed about 2012 until I stumbled across something that my brother Kelly posted on-line the other day. It was a link to an article on msnbc.com entitled, "Mental Decline can begin as early as 45, study finds", which article begins with the following upbeat news:

The brain's abilities to reason, comprehend and remember may start to worsen as early as age 45, a new study from England suggests.

Researchers gave tests of thinking skills to about 5,100 men and 2,200 women between the ages of 45 and 70 years over a 10-year period. They found people ages 45 to 49 years experienced a notable decline in mental functioning.

Fantastic. Nothing excites a man less than one month from acknowledging the happening of his 45th birthday than finding out that upon its arrival this lawyer shall need an immediate influx of guns and money because the sh*t is going to start.....well it is going to start doing what sh*t has a tendency to do. "Clean up in Aisle 5!"

So I suppose the bad news is that my mental decline shall start in earnest in less than a month. Not terribly exciting. The good news, however, is two-fold. First, it makes my decision to subject myself to a second consecutive New Jersey Marathon much easier to defend - "Do not blame me, it is my diminished mental capacity!" Second, given my pre-age 45 mental acuity it is a development, much like my guy Jon Huntsman and his Presidential campaign, which shall slip below the surface while causing nary a ripple on the water.

Here in 2012, I may very well make the transition from a slow turning to free falling. As long as I stick the landing, everything else will take care of itself.

Or at least I hope so. For if ignorance is bliss, here is to hoping that the next stop for me is euphoria....

-AK

(Before I forget....Go Giants!)

The Quest to be Thumbody

2012-01-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

He said, before it had really begun,
"I prefer the one about my son."
"I've been wading through all this unbelievable junk
and wondering if I should have given the world to the monkeys"

It is winter presently in these United States. It makes it mitten season - at least for those of us who do not call Houston, Texas home. In case you might have missed the latest examples (scattered hither and yon across the great swampy morass we call this country) of the importance of hearty mittens - and with the recent spate of holidays and all your oversight would be understandable - here goes your proof.

First, as someone who is a diehard New York Rangers fan and someone who knows good, intelligent people who happen to suffer from the affliction of being Philadelphia Flyers fans, I shall resist the temptation to paint all Flyers fans with the brush reserved for the small handful who attacked - seemingly without provocation (other than of course that the Rangers fans had the audacity to wear Rangers jerseys to the game) - a couple of Rangers fans on a South Philly street after Monday's Winter Classic. One of the two assault victims and the one who - by all accounts - was the more seriously injured of the two Neal Auricchio, Jr., is a Woodbridge Township, New Jersey police officer and while a member of the United States Marine Corps served in Iraq was awarded a Purple Heart for a wound received in combat. As of Friday, published media accounts indicated that Police Officer Auricchio intends to return to work on January 9th - one week after being attacked.

There is something fundamentally wrong with us bipeds that we think - even if just for a moment - that one's attendance at a sporting event in support of the team that our homestanding favorite team is opposing - is something akin to a declaration of war. And as much as I would love to drop a Philly joke in here (they are after all the city that booed Santa Claus) it is a problem endemic in too many venues in too many cities around this country. An asshat is an asshat, geography be damned.

From the great state of Illinois comes a peek behind the curtain into why a lot of people hate those of us who practice law. Let us have some fun with a quick hypothetical and you shall see what I mean. Ready?

You are the mother of a young man who while walking in a marked crosswalk and across the tracks at a local train station on his way to the passenger platform is struck by an express train moving at a speed faster than 50 miles per hour, which train had as it approached this station honked its horn and otherwise expressed its intention to zip right through (as opposed to slowing down and stopping). As a result of the impact between the speeding train and your average-sized son, his body gets shattered into pieces, including a particular piece of considerable size that flies through the air and strikes a passenger standing on the platform waiting for a train. What shall we call you, mother of the dead 18-year-old boy?

According to a state appellate court in Illinois, we should call you a defendant:

A woman who was injured when she was struck by the body of a commuter killed by an oncoming Amtrak train may sue his estate for damages, an Illinois appeals court has ruled.

The slain man, 18-year-old Hiroyuki Joho, was hurrying to catch a train in heavy rain in September 2008 when he was struck and killed, the Chicago Tribune reports. A large part of his body flew through the air and struck Gayane Zokhrabov, who was waiting for the Metra train. The 58-year-old woman suffered injuries to her shoulder, leg and wrist.

The First Judicial District of the Illinois Court of Appeals said Zokhrabov may sue because her injuries were foreseeable and Joho owed her a duty of care. The court reversed a trial judge who found that the accident “was not reasonably foreseeable and was instead tragically bizarre.”

If you think the excerpt from the ABA Journal article is a head-scratcher, then check out the actual opinion in the matter of Zokhrabov v. Park. For pure comedic content, the comments under the article are unsurpassed. My favorite is the one written by someone identifying her/himself as a lawyer and that reading this opinion caused her/him to "throw up in my own mouth."

Among the things that force me to fight hard to suppress the feeling of wanting to throw up in my own mouth is the "Jumbotron Proposal". We have all seen it; right? Some young Romeo pops the question on his unsuspecting Juliet in front of tens of thousands of total strangers while sitting courtside or rinkside or wherever. He proposes, she accepts and then to the delight of those seated around them and the scores of others sitting at home, they engage in an uncomfortably long and forced game of tonsil hockey not seen since the salad days of Tipper and Prince Albert of the Valley or at the very least Lisa Marie and Michael.

At a recent UCLA basketball game - one at which a lot of Bruins fans came dressed as empty seats - a certain young man opted to pop the question on his beloved while the pair was on "Mistletoe Cam". Perhaps it was the stress of the moment. Perhaps it was the incessant presence of the reporter and the microphone she kept trying to shove into the young woman's face. Perhaps it was the fact that the young lady had bet the "over" and simply wanted to watch the rest of the game. Whatever the reason or the reasons, she left this particular Bruin in ruins.

Are you scared? Are you scared?
Are you scared? Are you scared?
You might have never heard, but God's comic....

And there you have it folks. Proof that kittens are not the only ones who should be careful to wear our mittens. After all, we have but two thumbs.

-AK

Falling Off The Tabletop

2012-01-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

I try very hard to stay away from political commentary and such here. There are enough places on-line and elsewhere to read/hear/watch what someone possessing a thimbleful of knowledge on the subject hopes to foist upon you - the reader/listener/viewer under the guise of informed opinion. Rush Limbaugh has built a successful careeer on adherence to that very idea...well that and boatloads of prescription medications. But Tuesday's caucus in Iowa begs three questions - in no particular order of importance.

First, upon finishing ANBB ("Ahead of Nobody But Bachmann" - further proof that Huntsman's candidacy exists only in his mind) on Tuesday night, Texas Governor Rick Perry declared that he was going to head home to Texas for a few days to weigh whether to continue his pursuit of the Republican nomination. Have the good people of Texas missed him at all while he has been out/about showering the good people of the rest of these United States with his own special brand of incompetence? Suz has lived in Houston for six weeks or so - during which time the Gov has been otherwise engaged - and by all accounts she has been very pleased with her new home. Perry's alma mater even managed to win a bowl game while the Gov was off inflicting himself on the rest of the country. If A&M can win without the help of its former Yell Leader, then what Texan actually needs him to come home?

Hell, her new hometown team is even in the NFL playoffs for the first time in its history. The good news is that the Texans will play the Bengals on Saturday afternoon in the first playoff game to be played in Houston since December 29, 1991. The bad news is that given how ravaged the Texans are by injury at the QB position, owner Bob McNair might be better served luring the winning quarterback from that 1991 game (the last playoff game won by a NFL team from Houston) out of retirement to guide his team as opposed to relying upon one of the guys on his active roster.

Second, if the people of Iowa could have promised the rest of the country well in advance of Tuesday's little set-to that they would end the Presidential campaign of Minnesota's most recent and most offensive export - and considering this state has subjected the rest of us to Norm Coleman, Jesse Ventura and Al Franken that is no small accomplishment - would we have permitted them to caucus earlier than the first Tuesday in January? Labor Day perhaps.

I for one will now have time to contemplate which thought frightens me more (whether it is that Michele Bachmann is a member of Congress or that the majority of folks who bother to vote in her district in Minnesota actually opt to send her there as their representative) without really caring about what the answer is. She is now what she was before the career dissipation light illuminating her quarter-hour of fame went dark, which is their problem with which to deal.

Third, is there any reasonable basis for thinking that James McMurtry was not in fact referring to Iowa when he penned these words:

And I watch those jet trails carving up that big blue sky
Coast to coasters watch 'em go
And I never would blame 'em one damn bit
If they never looked down on this
Not much here they'd wanna know
Just Levelland
Far as you can point your hand
Nothin' but Levelland

30,007 Iowa Republicans cast a vote for Rick Santorum on Tuesday night. Proof - if of nothing else - that the best light in which to see Iowa is through the window of a jumbo jet from 35,000 feet above it while flying from somewhere else to somewhere else altogether.

Who else cannot wait to see what fun awaits all of us in New Hampshire?

-AK

Sun Circles

2012-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

My career at the Firm started on this very date - the 5th of January - a very long time ago. I began my employment here on January 5, 1998. A moment in history so long ago that (a) none of my hair was yet gray; and (b) neither of my children had yet graduated from grammar/elementary school. Experience has taught me - as I reckon it has you as well - that time flies whether we are having fun or not, although the former is much preferred to the latter. There have been significantly more good times than bad times during the rather long time I have been here. For that I am thankful.

My time here has not been continuous and uninterrupted. It was at Christmas 2008 that a "too good to be true" opportunity presented itself to me and I took it. However, almost immediately upon hopping over the fence I learned that not only was the grass not greener, it was not even grass but rather a combination of concrete and emerald green Krylon.

Forget skinning a knee. You can shatter a patella if you land the wrong way on that stuff. Trust me, almost three years after I closed my one-man show, "Prodigal Partner" and I am still walking with a bit of a limp.

I consider myself fortunate to be where I am presently, not only because of my self-imposed exile (referred to among those of us who speak of it at all as my "Winter at the Reservoir") but because of where I had been prior to arriving here - for the first time - way back when during the Clinton years. My first job out of law school was one where I learned a lot and got paid less than a little, our ability to live on my meager salary complicated far too often by the Spaldeen-like qualities of my paycheck.

I finally got the hell out of there in June of 1996 and landed in Hackensack. I worked for a man who all these years later remains among my favorite people - and I hope he feels likewise about me. Our little office would have ultimately been the death of my boss John Libretti, who worked like a crazy man. It was our perpetual economic struggles that prompted him to put in a good word for me at the Firm with a mutual friend of ours who was then a Partner here. But for that referral, I might not have ever landed an interview way back when in December 1997. I left Hackensack with a heavy heart, having enjoyed pretty much every minute that I worked for John, but knowing that he was right and that for each of us to survive, we had to go separate ways.

December 1997. I smile when I think back to the interview because the Partner who interviewed me then has been my Partner here now for close to eight years. Howard not only opened the door for me during that initial meeting all those years ago but he was instrumental - not so long ago in May 2009 - of re-opening the door for me, which door I had foolishly closed behind me a few months earlier. To this day, I know not which gesture I appreciate more. It is a nice dilemma to have.

Hmm....it has taken me close to a decade and a half but finally I have learned something. Shall wonders never cease? Ask me in another fifteen years or so.

-AK

Predictions and Other Annoying Sh*t

2012-01-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

If you doubt just how quickly everything can change, search on-line for a copy of any of the 8,200 publications that five short months ago predicted that February's Super Bowl would pit the Eagles and the Jets against one another. This weekend there are a dozen NFL teams that shall begin play in the playoffs. Philadelphia is not among them and much to the surprise of Rex Ryan the Jets are not either. Hmmm....Good to keep in mind that while football is played on any number of different surfaces, paper is not one of them.

You are having a pretty good week when the thing that has you most tweaked is the manner in which the geniuses who run NCAA College Football and the BCS have sucked the marrow out of New Year's Day for fans of college pigskin everywhere. Well, at least from one fan in particular who bears a striking resemblance to the reflection I see every morning in the bathroom mirror.

I still do not know exactly what the "Ticket City" Bowl is or what the hell it did to earn a place as part of the New Year's Day lineup. Nor do I understand why it is the 4th of January and neither the Orange Bowl nor the Cotton Bowl has yet been played. And do not even get me started on the GoDaddy.Com Bowl or the BBVA Compass Bowl - not only wondering what the hell they are exactly but why it is they are played almost one week AFTER the Rose Bowl.

And this year, the interminably long college football season concludes on January 9th with a rematch of the epic field goal-a-thon that LSU and Alabama played in early November. Rah! Inasmuch as LSU won Round 1 at 'Bama, I think that 'Bama should have to beat the Tigers twice in order to win the title. I shudder at the thought of when exactly the NCAA would schedule the 3rd and deciding game to be played - President's Day weekend perhaps?

Best part of the Ticket City Bowl? Maxwell. Still bringing it in 2012.

Business as Usual

2012-01-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

At some point yesterday, "the holiday season" officially ended. At first glance, one would surmise that it was when the Missus and I took down all of the Christmas decorations. Upon further review, it was when Rob and Jess said goodbye. The kids are jetting west to Colorado this morning, resuming their life and picking up their baby girl - Tillie. I look forward to hearing from them whether Tillie becomes a regular patron at Milo's Kitchen as her cousin Rosalita is.

I reckon that it will likely take until week's end before Christmas officially feels as if it occurred not a week ago but more like a lifetime ago. It seems to me as if in the practice of law a cessation of hostility is declared that begins at or about Thanksgiving and lasts throughout New Year's Day. Now? While I work hard to stay out of a great deal of the enmity that permeates my profession - and I suppose countless others - on occasion it can be difficult to do so. The fact that Christmas is juxtaposed against the dead of winter in these parts might have quite a lot to do with it. A season of tidings and joy is quickly supplanted by a season of relentless cold and (at least if the past couple of winters are any indication of winters to come) a ceaseless supply of snow.

My resolution for 2012? To try and maintain at least a tiny reservoir of the good feeling that dominated my day-to-day for the past thirty days or so for the next three hundred thirty days or so. If I can keep just a tiny bottle's worth or so chilled and at the ready to see me through, I should be just fine.

I only need a little bit. I learned a long time ago that the best things come in small packages....

-AK

The Ballad of the Slow Learner

2012-01-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

For the numerology freak heads among us (and you know who you are), you likely awakened today and experienced a bit of tightening in the trousers. After all it is 1/2/12. Pretty cool for you I am sure. Before you know it, the first of February will be here. Anyone else in a RUSH for it to arrive?

The Missus bought me something very cool for Christmas this year. It is a Garmin Forerunner 410. Candidly I suspect that it is in fact many miles ahead of me in terms of my skill level as a runner. I am not nearly talented enough at the whole running biz to merit such a wholly cool piece of equipment. Do not misunderstand. I have no intention of giving it back. It might be the single coolest thing I have ever owned. It is a watch, which in and of itself might not seem very cool. It is also a GPS device, which means that instead of having to map out a route that I wish to run before I head the door, now all I shall have to do is strap on this little beauty and let it tell me how far I have run. On a somewhat more depressing note, it also records how fast - or not - I am running.

I intend to break it in this morning, taking it on its maiden voyage as I take advantage of a "non-work Monday" to get an outdoor start on my marathon training. Yes, I said it. Marathon training. After bitterly failing to meet my goal last May when I participated for the first time in the New Jersey Marathon and failed to complete it in four hours or less, I have done something that I initially did not think I would do. I am trying again.

Trying again might be the dictionary definition of a fool's errand. My hope last year was to finish in four hours of less. I finished in a tad less than four and one half hours. I have no idea just how I am going to will legs that shall be more than one year older on race day in '12 than they were on race day last year to go thirty-plus minutes faster this year than last.

I really did not intend to take another shot at the marathon this year. My inclination against doing it again had less to do with what a painful experience the race was - the cramps in both legs that made me contemplate drowning myself in the tantalizingly close Atlantic Ocean almost unabated from mile 16 on were brutal - and what a potentially destructive experience the training regimen was. Margaret is a hell of a good sport. She tolerates a lot of nonsense from her husband. Last winter and last spring the time commitment necessary to train for the race took me away from home quite a bit and while we never had a direct conversation about it, I would be willing to wager that it grated on my wife's patience.

Proof that Margaret is better than I deserve lies in my Christmas present. Amazing woman, my bride. Here's to hoping that this time around that at some point on the 26.2 mile course I enjoy a point of intersection between reality and expectation.

-AK

In The Lonely Cool Before Dawn

2012-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happy Leap Year! For everyone who found that 2011 was just a tad too short to cram in all the fun you planned on having, I give you the 366 day year. Sadie Hawkins - you magnificent wench! Good to see you again.

I hope that for you and yours the transition from last year to this one went smoothly. And presuming it did, here is to hoping that the 365 days that follow this one pay heed to the example it has set for them.

In these United States, 2012 shall bring a Presidential election. It seems as if the Republicans have been on the campaign trail since January 21, 2009. They are now firmly ensconced in the "Adult Swim" portion of the program with the good folks of Iowa set to caucus this week and a litany of primaries to follow thereafter.

If you want proof that the Presidential campaign process starts too damn early and lasts too damn long, you need look no further than the resurgency of former Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum in the Republican field. Any campaign that lasts long enough to make those doing the listening to all of the speechifying think that anything emanating from his mouth sounds like a reasonably good idea is one that has gone on for too long. I am a Republican and I cannot fathom the elected office for which I would cast a vote for Santorum. One for which I would not, however, leaps readily to the forefront of my mind.

There is much ground to cover between this first day of 2012 and the first Tuesday following the first Monday of November 2012, which is when we the people shall go to the polls to either re-elect President Obama or elect a new occupant of the Oval Office. How it all shall shake out remains to be seen. If you think you know how this particular game of hardball is played, then do yourself the great favor of buying and/or hornswaggling from your local library the book Game Change. It should be required reading in every high school U.S. History/Government class in this country.

Being an Irishman and a simple-minded lad as well, I choose not to worry now about such large-scale things as the Presidential election. Tip O'Neill's lesson regarding politics, "Think global, act local" has practical application in any number of other disciplines.

As a parent I am pleased because although neither of my two resides in the same area code - or the same time zone for that matter - as the Missus and I do, it appears to me as if each of them is starting 2012 in a really, really good place. Each has reached this point in their respective lives without being burdened by bad advice from Yours truly. My resolution for 2012 is to keep that streak intact with regard to both of them. But not interfering does not mean that I am not rooting really hard for a specific outcome. At some point in the not-too-distant past each one awakened to find that where they were was at peace. 'Tis the world's most precious commodity. One worth fighting for and one worth working hard to protect. My wish for Suz and for Rob in 2012 is that the peace that found them last year continues to ride with them into and through this year and the ones that follow it.

I know not if it is something one ever outgrows - the sense that accompanies the beginning of every year that one has nothing but time in which to get things done - but I think perhaps it is. I know that I am better attuned to the relentlessness of time's march as I approach 45 than I was at 25. A few years ago, speaking of the importance of embracing the time that we are given - of measuring it qualitatively and not quantitatively, someone wrote, "Don't stand up on the dunes and watch the waves crash over the sand from afar. Let the cold water slap up against your legs and your back. Let it scare you a little, let it heighten your senses a little, let it excite you a little."

Not bad advice I reckon although - as is his habit - a fellow Jerseyan expressed it better and more succinctly, "Show a little faith there's magic in the night"....

A lifetime's worth in fact. Dive on in, the water is fine.

Happy New Year....

-AK

A Simple Life, Well-Lived

2011-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

Shortly before the tenth anniversary of the September 11th attacks, a good gent known as The Mighty Quinn pointed me in the direction of a very worthwhile endeavor called Project 2,996. Its purpose is to honor the lives of those who were murdered that day. I contributed a little something to it this year, which I hope at least scratched the surface of honoring the individual for whom I wrote it.

Not too long after I wrote what I wrote, a very dear friend of mine e-mailed me to tell me that he had read what I had written and that it made him think of his cousin. She too had been murdered at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. In our exchange of e-mails I told him a bit about Project 2,996. I also checked the site to see if his cousin was among the list of people for whom a tribute had been written. She was not.

Antoinette Dugar was an anomaly in early 21st Century America - in the best possible sense of the word - in that she spent her entire professional life working for the same company. First Union hired her at age 18 - right after she graduated from Barringer High School in Newark. A career that started in an office on Broad Street in Newark continued to grow upward and uninterrupted until it reached the 47th floor of One World Trade Center. At age 44, she had already logged twenty-six years as a First Union employee. In an age where the ties that bind one to one's employer are often tenuous to the point of fragility, Antoinette's were unbreakable.

Who she was is even more extraordinary than what she did. She was forty-four years young in the Fall of 2001. A wife. A mother. One of her daily rites was to make it home by 6:30 every night in order to do something she loved - prepare a traditional Italian dinner for her husband Raymond, her daughter Megan and her to enjoy and to share. Among her other joys? Every year she would get together with her mother and her sisters so that they could press their own tomatoes and make a year's worth of sauce for each of their households.

She was more than a mother and a wife. She was a sister and a daughter. And she was also the cousin of my friend Gerard Gonnella. Tonight, those who loved Antoinette and those she loved shall mark the 11th consecutive turn from one year to the next without her. She shall be missed of course. But more importantly she shall be remembered. As she has always been. As she always shall.

Her sister Silvia Defilippo put it best, "It was a simple life. But it was a good life."

....One might in fact say that it was a wonderful life.

-AK

The Geldofian Principle of Inevitability

2011-12-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday you can fall apart
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Oh, Thursday doesn't even start
It's Friday I'm in love

Saturday, wait
And Sunday always comes too late
But Friday, never hesitate...

Except on Samoa. Except this week. You might have missed the news item from earlier this week but in 2011 on Samoa December 30th shall be known as "Never Day". As in, it never happened. Yesterday was the 29th of December and today (on Samoa at least....as well as in the New Zealand territory of Tokelau) is New Year's Eve. How time flies when you are moving from THIS side of the International Date Line to THAT side of it.

Here's the skinny (as reported on msnbc.com):

Just this once, Samoa is making Dec. 30 disappear.

It's the key step in the Pacific island nation's plan to move from the eastern to the western side of the International Date Line and mesh its work week with two of its primary trading partners, New Zealand and Australia. The New Zealand territory of Tokelau is making the switch as well.

"In doing business with New Zealand and Australia, we're losing out on two working days a week," Stuff.co.nz quoted Samoan Prime Minister Tuila'epa Sailele as saying. "While it's Friday here, it's Saturday in New Zealand, and when we're at church Sunday, they're already conducting business in Sydney and Brisbane."

Samoa will go directly from 11:59 p.m. Thursday, through midnight to 12:01 a.m. Saturday.

I suppose that if you are not one who has ever worshipped at the Church of the Old Demon Alcohol then this example will not serve you well. For those of you (OK - "us") who have, consider for a moment that you miss the memo regarding the day drop, tie one on but good on Thursday night and come to only to learn that it is Saturday morning. One of two things would happen. You would swear off alcohol for the 1,000,000th and final time or....you would go back to the pub where you got schnockered on Thursday night and request that each and every time you were there they served you exactly what they served you that made a whole day disappear. Come to think of it, I think I have actually consumed just such a concoction on at least a couple dozen occasions. If memory serves anyway.

Given the historical animus towards Monday, I had long suspected that if there was a day that would be the intended target of a calendar bypass, it would be Monday. No one likes Monday; right? Alas, it is poor Friday that has bitten turf.

The good news is that Friday's banishment is a one-time only affair. It shall return to its appointed place on the Samoan calendar next week. The bad news? While the powers-that-be have figured out how to make the day disappear, their efforts to eradicate other evidence of its existence have been entirely unsuccessful.

-AK

The Always Delicious Taste of Irony

2011-12-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it is an affliction with which only I suffer but sometimes the line between irony and coincidence blurs. At least to my eye. I have a hard time telling one from the other. Are they a single coin's dual - and dueling - sides? I know not. I am certain that someone smarter than I am can answer that question. That line of folks is particularly long but if you would like to join, be my guest. It might be some time before we reach you and we thank you in advance for your patience.

I spent a piece of my Christmas Eve morning at the office. My purpose was two-fold: finish up some work I had left unfinished when I skedaddled on Friday and grab up my stash of Christmas stuff for Margaret, the kids and Joe. I trust no one so the items I purchase for Christmas, whether on-line or in a store, get hidden away in my office until Christmas Eve. Then and only then do I wrap them and bring them home, at which time I stash them under the tree without saying a word to anyone about what they are or for whom they have been placed there.

The Firm's building has an elevator, which is a necessity for those among our number who due to one ailment or another, simply cannot climb up and down the stairs. I am not an elevator person. First, being more than mildly claustrophobic I always attempt to limit my "man inside a shiny metal box" time whenever I can. I adhere to that so firmly that when I die I shall be cremated. Ashes in an urn seems far less confining for some reason than spending eternity as "man (or diminishing amounts thereof) inside a shiny metal box". Second, given that I am a runner it strikes me that it would be more than slightly hypocritical if I opted out of walking up/down the stairs. I can run 26.2 miles (well, kind of/sort of to be fair) and I cannot walk up 48-52 stairs to get from the lobby to the 3rd floor?

Saturday morning I actually rode in the elevator since riding down carrying packages made more sense than attempting to carry a couple of trips' worth of stuff down the stairs. When I entered the elevator on the 3rd floor with my arms full, it occurred to me for not more than a moment that on Friday afternoon the elevator had been out of service while the mechanic performed routine service on it. I had seen the sign taped to the door in the lobby prior to hoofing it up the stairs upon my return from the bank. Although I could not recall as I got into it on the 3rd floor whether he had finished doing whatever it was he had been doing, I pushed the button to open the door and after it did, I hopped aboard and pushed the "L" button without giving it another thought.

No additional thought proved to be necessary for the car descended to the lobby and its door opened automatically, permitting me to cart my stuff out to my car without any difficulty at all. However, when I re-entered the building the combination of laziness and immunity from self-loathing overwhelmed my heretofore good judgment. I eschewed the stairs for a quick ride up in the elevator. Or so I thought.

I mimicked my earlier actions for they had worked so well: depress button to open door, step through open door into car and as door closes behind you, depress button for desired floor and wait for the ride to begin. When "it" (the ride) did not begin within a couple of seconds of the door's closing, I thought that a bit odd. When all of the buttons on the wall panel inside the elevator began to light up in a random, non-specific way I thought that might be even more odd. But when all of the buttons on the panel went out and nothing I did or pushed caused any of them to light and - more importantly - did NOTHING to suggest to the car that moving was indeed the next agenda item, I thought it not good. Especially since my cell phone was not on my person but rather on my desk....up on the 3rd floor.

I did what any right-thinking person would do. I laughed. I laughed because among the pieces of business that I had been able to wrap up almost completely a day earlier was the settlement of an elevator case in which I represent the entity that owns the office building where the elevator is alleged to have malfunctioned. Better still is the fact that the company that services the elevator in my client's building is the same company that services the Firm's elevator AND is a defendant in the lawsuit arising out of the alleged accident at my client's property AND under the terms of the settlement is paying 100% of the settlement on behalf of all defendants.

After I finished laughing I noticed that the elevator still appeared to be dead or - in the words of the great I.M. Fletcher, "extremely sleepy." I realized that it was not going to take me to the 3rd floor. Of concern to me was my realization that (a) the office was closed; (b) on Christmas Eve I was not expecting to see anyone else; and (c) my ability to tell my wife of my predicament was non-existent. Cell phone was on the 3rd floor; remember?

I thought to myself "WWTPD" (What Would The Plaintiff Do?) and I did what he told us at his deposition he did when the elevator in which he was riding allegedly malfunctioned: I pried the door open and stepped out of the car. I am less proud that I figured out what to do than I am than embarrassed that it took me close to two minutes to arrive at that solution. Perhaps I should have spent less time laughing....

....I suspect however that you shall not.

-AK

Laughing a Little Slower

2011-12-28T00:01:00.000-08:00

Again, presuming that the calendar on the wall of my office is correct - and I offer this as neither an endorsement nor an indictment of the folks who put on the Spring Lake 5 annually but the calendar is their creation and not mine - today marks the end of Hanukkah. I hope that all of my friends in whose families Hanukkah is celebrated it has been a happy one, spent in the company of those with whom you wanted to spend it. I am singing "The Dreidel Song" as I write this and my Hanukkah gift to you on this - Day Eight of Eight - is NO link to an audio file of my warbling. No thanks necessary.

I do not pretend to know whether this winter shall be any better or worse than its 2010-11 predecessor. While there are many things every day that I deal with and about which I pretend to know something, the winter weather forecast is not among them. Sadly, neither is the stupefying - to me anyway - longevity of the Family Kardashian's Fame and Fortune Carpet Ride. The latter is in fact a far greater source of consternation than the former.

But I digress. My apologies.

My point (such as it is) regarding "Winter Upon Us" vs. "Winter Past" is that we are already incrementally ahead of the game. This time last year we were all digging out from the Great Boxing Day Blizzard of 2010. Yesterday, it rained. While last winter (and the one that preceded it if memory serves)Mother Nature kicked us in our boys so hard and so often all winter that by early March it felt as if we were walking through our day-to-day with a couple of peach pits embedded in our jaws that I want to do and say nothing that could be interpreted as taunting her....so far, so good. The only precipitation in the forecast through year's end is rain. I am neither a farmer nor a duck. Thus I have less use for large amounts of rain than either of the aforementioned. But as my great-grandpappy Phineas was quite fond of saying, "It beats the snot out of snow!"

Quite a wordsmith he was. In case you have ever wondered where I get it from, you can now move on to the next of your life's great Unsolved Mysteries....

....and turn the page on one more day up in the canyon.

-AK

Across A Smooth Surface

2011-12-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

This year for the first time in at least the past twenty years, Christmas Eve at 113 Howard Avenue was a subterranean affair. Family size (as well as the size of certain of the family's component parts) necessitated it. Less than an hour after the festivities started, I wondered why we had not simply always done it. And I sensed that I was not alone in my enthusiasm.

Once upon a lifetime ago, all of Joe and Suzy B's grandchildren were...well - children. Time passes. Children grow. This year Megan (Frank's oldest) and her husband Adam brought Joe's first great-grandchildren to the party. Halle and Nicholas celebrated their first Christmas Eve. A whole new generation representing. Great stuff.

And as the family grows vertically, it grows horizontally. Not only did Rob come home from Colorado for Christmas, Jess came with him. Tillie did not. Suz came home from Houston and of course Ryan was with her. It was the first Christmas Eve for each of them too. And while we did not know it on Saturday night, by the time Christmas weekend ended the cornerstone had been set on another familial horizontal expansion. Nicole (Frank's second oldest) and Jason got engaged on Christmas Day.

The poem says, "And to all a good night." This year it most certainly was.

TKO

2011-12-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

At some point today - about a dozen hours or so from now - Suz and Ryan will board the plane that will take them home. I use the lower case 'h' not only to remain on the good side of the grammar police but to cast my protest vote. Nice to draw a distinction between home and Home.

Nicer still that Suz came home looking terrific and sounding completely at ease not only with the new gig but with her new hometown. When the birds leave the nest you never know how they are going to fare on their own. So far, so good. The distance between you and them gets shortened somehow when you know that they are well-settled where they are.

Tomorrow shall be a return to normalcy for me. Today I am milking a bit more out of the holiday weekend. I suppose that somewhere - Canada for instance - today is in fact a holiday. Good enough for me. Once upon a lifetime ago I consumed enough Molson and Labatt's beer to have earned honorary Canadian citizenship. Even if that would not be enough in and of itself that fact, coupled with my appraeciation for the music of RUSH and my love of ice hockey, is enough to earn me another "free from work" day. I intend to enjoy it.

I do not know about everyday but today, at least, can be Boxing Day.

-AK

Bringing Tidings of Great Joy

2011-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

At some point in the not-too-distant future the smell of bacon frying, coffee brewing and pancakes doing whatever the heck it is pancakes do (I need a consult with my nephew Kelly - the ace chef), shall stir the still-sleeping members of my household on this Christmas morning. And for those keeping score at home that would be all of the bi-peds save for Yours truly. For present purposes, Rosie, Dempsey and Boo are serving as my company....with at two of the three paying particularly close attention to when bacon starts frying, coffee starts brewing and pancakes start doing whatever the heck it is they do. Meanwhile, Boo is looking for an inroad to trouble. If history is any indicator, she will find it soon.

Nothing profound or (if history is any indicator) masquerading as such emanating from this spot on the information superhighway on this Christmas morning. Just a momentary interruption of your day-to-day to share two messages of Christmas that I, myself, never tire of hearing and that serve to remind me what it is about this day that is important.

The first is courtesy of a little boy, whose trademark blanket has always suggested he is insecure but whose words suggest he is anything but. I am not a religious man. However, I appreciate the message that Linus is sharing, which is that this is a day about STUFF and not a day about THINGS.

The second is courtesy of a larger-than-life man, whose trademark was not his blanket of blue but his horn of gold. Clarence Clemons died approximately six and a half months after this performance. As a long-time Springsteen fan I eagerly await the 2012 tour although I know that nothing shall ever be the same on E Street. In December 2010 none of the musicians on stage at The Carousel House likely suspected that "Blue Christmas" would be an answer to the question, "What is the last song that Clarence Clemons performed live with the E Street Band?" Yet it is.

The great Pete Hamill wrote in Downtown: My Manhattan, "Time itself is long, even if the time of man is short." Embrace the moment in which you live as you are living it. Embrace those you love with whom you are living it. A "lifetime" and an "eyeblink" appear to represent two distinctly different periods of time. But a point will arrive in your life, as it shall in mine, at which those two concepts intersect. And when they do, their relationship shall be both brief and everlasting. Live each moment as if it is the moment immediately preceding that point of intersection.

It is Christmas. May it be Merry for you, for those you love and for those who love you.

Merry Christmas....

-AK

The Boys of the NYPD Choir were singing "Galway Bay"

2011-12-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true....

For you and yours, this simple man's simple wish (impossibly naive as it is) is that this Christmas brings you not simply merriment but joy and peace as well. Merriment is a fleeting thing. Sadly, far too often so is joy and so is peace. But the latter two have substance to them. There is meat on their bones. It gives them better staying power....or at the very least the possibility of same.

You need only turn on the news for an eyeblink or scan the headlines of a newspaper to be reminded of just how messed-up a place this planet can be. Joy and peace are not given. They are not bestowed upon us. They are earned. We must mork hard to attain them. My wish for you this Christmas is that you be surrounded by those you love and those who love you so that the collective strength necessary to achieve joy and peace is channeled through each of you - for all of you.

It is Christmas Eve. I stop for a moment this day to think not only of those whose lives ended at some point between last Christmas and this one and how hard this Christmas shall be for those who remained here in the wake of their passing. I hope that for them amidst what will be a difficult holiday there is an opportunity to come up for air long enough to not dwell upon the loss but instead to reflect upon the life. And I hope that gives them a reason to smile.

I think as well of those who have joined the cast of characters in the longest-running show on Earth since last Christmas. Margaret's niece Megan and her husband Adam had twins in January (although to hear Meg tell it you would think she did all the work!). They shall spend their first Christmas as "mom" and "dad" as their beautiful babies Halle and Nicholas make their maiden Yuletide voyage. My nephew Kelly just welcomed a new addition to his family earlier this Autumn and she will be part of the Christmas festivities for the first time and (if the pictures he shared from Thanksgiving are any indication) much doting and fawning over by her Grandpa. And I think as well of my long-time friend Dave and his wife Tessa who just three weeks ago celebrated the birth of their first child. I certainly hope that this Christmas shall be a joyous one for them and their son. Merry Christmas Indy.

Wherever you are, wherever you are going and with whomever you are sharing it, may Christmas bring you and yours that for which you wish. And if it could somehow include a win by the Giants this afternoon over the J-E-T-S, then all the better. And apropos of nothing, before you open a single present (be it tonight or tomorrow morning) say a prayer that yours were delivered by this guy....and not by this guy.

And for my bride, as we prepare to celebrate Christmas not with a couple of new arrivals but instead with a couple returnees who we miss very much. Merry Christmas Baby....

-AK

Reasons to Believe

2011-12-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

At some point today both of the adults F/K/A children who resided with the Missus and me here in the State of Concrete Gardens shall be here again. I refer to it still as "home" when I think about their arrival fully confident that the only one fooled even momentarily by my euphemism is the cragged reflection that stares back at me from my bathroom mirror every morning. And candidly, not even he is immersed that deeply in self-denial. The guy on this side of the glass? Another story completely.

Tonight Rob shall fly east from Colorado - in the company of Jess (but not Tillie) - and Suz shall trek northeast from Texas - accompanied by Ryan. As far as I know, my daughter has not yet become a Pet Parent. I suppose I will know for certain by 10:00 p.m. or so. Their respective stays shall be far too brief. Experience has taught me that the time one's adult child spends "home" when he or she comes to visit seems to grow shorter and shorter with each trip. But they shall be here. They shall be here for Christmas Eve. They shall be here for Christmas morning. And because of that, Margaret could not be happier.

All my wife wanted this year for Christmas is that which she wants every year: those she loves the most gathered in the same place. Tomorrow night we shall convene at 113 Howard for our traditional Christmas Eve. The joint will be packed. And all of those who are capable of being there in the flesh shall be. And those whose presence is felt only in the sense that their spirit fills the space between and around those assembled shall be there too.

They said there'll be snow at Christmas
They said there'll be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the virgin's birth
I remember one Christmas morning
A winters light and a distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas tree smell
And their eyes full of tinsel and fire

They sold me a dream of Christmas
They sold me a silent night
And they told me a fairy story
'till I believed in the Israelite
And I believed in Father Christmas
And I looked at the sky with excited eyes
'till I woke with a yawn in the first light of dawn
And I saw him and through his disguise

I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave new year
All anguish pain and sadness
Leave your heart and let your road be clear
They said there'll be snow at Christmas
They said there'll be peace on earth
Hallelujah Noel be it heaven or hell
The Christmas you get you deserve....

I certainly hope that Margaret does. There is not a soul more deserving than my wife of having her Christmas wish granted. I shall do my level best to see that it is.

-AK

Saving Tillie

2011-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

Before any fellow Springsteen fan happening past this space gets too excited, I am not talking about this one:

I am however speaking of this one:

Jess and Rob are now the proud adoptive parents of that beautiful little amalgam of fur, spunk and bones. Inasmuch as she was a shelter pup, inasmuch as they saved her and inasmuch as Rob is a longstanding Springsteen fan (the boy has taste....just sayin'), they have named the new addition to their lives....Tillie.

It is my bias soaking through to be sure but given her beautiful coat of black and her heart of gold, I think that young Tillie - although a canine - is the quintessential buffalo. Colorado Buffalo that is. And I am quite certain that Jess agrees with me. If you look in the general direction of Colorado as you read this and focus your eyes really hard, you can see her nodding her head in agreement. Or maybe she is waving. Although if she is waving, how come only finger on her hand is raised? Questions to ponder and mysteries to solve on another day.

Rob telephoned Tuesday night to let us know that he and Jess had formally adopted Tillie. The excitement in his voice was palpable. I am someone who considers himself to be a dog person so it was very cool to hear. Tillie is not going to make this trip East with her parents so it will be a little while before those of us here in the State of Concrete Gardens make her acquaintance person to pooch as it were. For present purposes, we shall do it via Kodachrome:

I hope that the three of them are taking the first few steps on a very happy journey. Jess and Rob "saved" Tillie to be sure. But if there is one thing that is a universal truth - or as close to such a thing as one can get - about people and pets is that the role of savior suits both quite well. Each rescues and is rescued by the other. A mutual aid society I suppose.

She marked our trail
Up the back bone ridge
How many times can one dog pee
She keeps me high as an eagle
When i'm on the skids
I guess you gotta come down eventually

Buddy i coulda gone that extra mile
For an extra bark or an extra smile
'Cause i never felt so free
It was just my dog and me

Then she gives me that look
Like she'd lay down her life
No doubt she would in a minute, man
She'd face the bullet
Oh she'd face the knife
Just to keep my butt from the fryin' pan

Now she's runnin' up ahead to chase some deer
Comes back to tell that coast is clear
It's a different world i see
When it's just my dog and me

There's a rabbit on the run
Man and beast ans sky and sun
Who's talking to the birds in the trees
Why its just my dog and me

Now it looks like we've been makin' tracks
From the crack of dawn
To the end of the day
So its nice and easy down the devil's back
She wouldn't know
Any other was

So its over that ridge for one last mile
'Til we're fast asleep by the fire side
Dreamin' these dreams for free
Just my dog and me

A Promise Made, A Promise Kept

2011-12-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

For a number of years I have subscribed to what I refer to as the "Phil Collins Rule" with regard to how I dress for non-court appearances, such as depositions. I sometimes refer to my rule of thumb as, "No Judge, No Jacket". Experience has taught me that the willingness of a witness to embellish, exaggerate or flatly lie while under oath at a deposition has little to do with my ensemble. I have a closet full of quite fetching ties. I am committed to extending their lives for as long as I can. I am a softie for silk worms. I shall not apologize for it.

A number of Decembers ago when Rob was still a boy and I had far less snow in my beard and on my head than I now do, the two of us were in the Stern's Department Store at the Middlesex Mall doing a bit of Christmas shopping. As we stood in line at the register waiting our turn to pay, his eyes fell upon a rack of ties strategically placed immediately adjacent to it. At that time, a tie was part of my day-to-day work uniform so when he beseeched me to purchase one it was not as if I could use the excuse of, "But when will I ever wear have a chance to wear it?"

He seemed to sense my reluctance to make the purchase - in spite of my daily tie consumption. Thus, even after I relented and agreed to purchase the one that he picked out, he made me promise that I would wear it. And I did. I promised him that it would be the tie I wore for my final pre-Christmas appearance that year and every year thereafter

Rob has not been a boy for quite some time. He is a man in his mid-twenties who has lived two time zones away for the past three years, building a career and a life. His day-to-day is filled with far more important considerations than my neckwear. At this point in his life, given all that he has to think about, I would wager that his recollection of my purchase and my promise is far less clear than mine.

Presuming I am correct does not vitiate my responsibility to honor my promise. Yesterday afternoon I made my final "Pre-Christmas appearance" for 2011. I was in the Monmouth County Court House in Freehold appearing before Judge Kapalko on a Settlement Conference. I do not know His Honor especially well, having only appeared before him on a handful of occasions over the years, so I know not what he thought - if he thought anything at all - about my tie.

Whether he did candidly matters not. It matters - to me at least - that sometimes a tie is more than simply neckwear. It is what its name suggests, which is something that holds one to another.

A tie that binds.

-AK

Paging David Lee Roth to the Big White Courtesy Menorah

2011-12-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

I hope like Hell that my office-issued desk calendar is right about two things today. First that Hanukkah - the Festival of Lights celebrated by those of the Jewish faith - begins begins tonight at sundown. Second, that it (and now by extension me) spelled "Hanukkah" correctly.

I remember how festive the final week prior to Winter Break always seemed to be at W-H. That last week of classes seemed like less work than other weeks because the overwhelming majority of the students were preparing to celebrate either Christmas or Hanukkah. In fact, if memory serves me correctly there were years on which Hanukkah came early enough that my Jewish friends had already lit a candle or two (or three) on the Menorah by the time Winter Break began....not to mention received a present or two or three.

I smile thinking of the friends of mine with whom I went to school preparing to celebrate Hanukkah this year. Hopefully this Hanukkah finds them and theirs safe and sound.

So grab your friend Ronnie. And tell her to remember to bring her mouth harp. There are presents to be opened, menorahs to be lighted and dreidels to be spun.

Happy Hanukkah!

-AK

The Piano Man

2011-12-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

My father died on May 31, 1981. On the day he died he was fifty-seven years old. Had he lived to see the 19th of December that year, we would have celebrated his 58th birthday. Today, had he lived to see it, would have been his eighty-eighth birthday.

By the time of his death, Dad and I had a relationship that could fairly be described as strained. Perhaps it had at least a bit to do with the fact that I was the youngest of his six children. I turned fourteen three and a half months before he died. At some point in time prior to what became the last of my birthdays he lived to see, he and I had a parting of the ways. We became "people who lived under the same roof". Nothing more. Nothing less. When it happened, I was at a bit of a loss trying to understand what had happened. Prior to our entry into the woods by way of divergent paths, we had been thick as thieves. Once we got into them, we never found our way out. Would we have? I know not. Time did not allow us that chance.

I am slightly older now than Dad was when I was born. In the years that have passed since a son of fourteen buried his father, the son has married and raised two children of his own. Perhaps at this stage in the son's life, he has lived almost long enough to have a bit better understanding of the issues that confronted his father in his father's day-to-day than he did thirty years ago. Perhaps.

Or perhaps the son has lived long enough - and run far enough himself - to know that no matter the direction you head you are always running against the wind....

....Happy Birthday Dad.

-AK

Twas the Night Before the Week Before Christmas

2011-12-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

And I wonder which song they're going to play when we go
I hope it's something quiet, mannered, peaceful, and slow
When we float out into the ether into the everlasting arms
I hope we don't hear Marley's chains we forged in life

I find myself filled with a bit more of the Christmas spirit today than I did yesterday. Last night Margaret and I took a ride down to Princeton to take in McCarter Theatre's production of "A Christmas Carol". Last year we saw it for the first time and so enjoyed the experience that as soon as McCarter sent me the promotional e-mail for this year's edition, which I think they did back in August, I purchased our tickets.

In the couple of years since her mom died, this time of year has been a decidedly mixed bag emotionally for my bride. It is not uncommon - if I happen to catch a glimpse of her when she is unaware of my glimpsing - to see in her eyes the battle that is still being waged in her heart and in her head. Christmas was among my mother-in-law's favorite times of the year because she had the people she loved the most gathered together in one place. Even if it was just for a moment, it was a moment capable of producing memories that last a lifetime.

Margaret has taken on the role of being the family's emotional center since Suzy B.'s death. While she has filled those big shoes without seeming to miss a beat, I have borne witness to the toll it has taken and shall continue to take upon her.

Which is why a night such as last night is so important for Margaret and for me. An evening spent doing something that my bride is reticent to do, which is doing something for herself. It is my sincere hope that for as long as McCarter puts on its production and for as long as we are able to get to Princeton to enjoy it, what has been a highlight of this Christmas season and last year's as well will continue to be a "date" that we make and that we keep....

....well into the days of Christmases yet to come.

-AK

A Vacancy at the Marriott

2011-12-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

"Faith is the surrender of the mind; it's the surrender of reason, it's the surrender of the only thing that makes us different from other mammals. It's our need to believe and to surrender our skepticism and our reason, our yearning to discard that and put all our trust or faith in someone or something, that is the sinister thing to me. Of all the supposed virtues, faith must be the most overrated."

Before you shoot the messenger - admittedly a low-risk endeavor for me given the virtual nature of our relationship - know that while I tend to favor the sentiment expressed the words are not mine. Not on my best day. They belong to the always fascinating Christopher Hitchens. He died on Thursday. He had been diagnosed with esophegeal cancer in 2010. At the time he was diagnosed he rather matter-of-factly acknowledged that a lifetime of heavy smoking and drinking had likely played a role in his having been stricken.

He was most assuredly not everyone's cup of tea. In yesterday's Los Angeles Times Elaine Woo wrote, "A swashbuckling opinionator, he loved few things better than a good argument — and he knew how to pick one." Based upon nothing more than anything I have read by him or about him and/or watched about him, I always had the impression that he cared not at all whether you thought him a god or a devil, a sinner or a saint, a genius or a fool. He cared not what you thought but rather that you thought. Thinking, after all, is a good thing.

"It will happen to all of us that at some point, you get tapped on the shoulder and told not just that the party's over, but slightly worse: The party's going on, but you have to leave."

....eventually everyone purchases a ticket for the 3:10 to Yuma.

-AK

So This is Christmas....

2011-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

“Let me be clear: Iraq will be tested in the days ahead — by terrorism, and by those who would seek to divide, by economic and social issues, by the demands of democracy itself,” Mr. Panetta said. “Challenges remain, but the U.S. will be there to stand by the Iraqi people as they navigate those challenges to build a stronger and more prosperous nation.”

So said the United States Secretary of Defense in a speech yesterday in Baghdad, Iraq, during the ceremony that formally marked the official end to the American military mission in Iraq, which mission lasted nine years. Nine years. Billions of dollars. Too many American lives.

I care not what one's opinion is on this war. I do not pretend to have an opinion better grounded than anyone else's so when I say I care not to hear yours, it is not because I lack respect for it. Rather it is because you are entitled to it - as I am to mine - and neither of us owes the other the courtesy of an explanation.

Today is not a day to preach of the politics of this conflict. At least not here. Not in this space. Today - here at least - is simply a day to say to all of the servicemen and servicewomen who served, to say, "Thank you." Thank you to all of your families who lived here while you were there, each of you hoping and praying for the day on which you would safely return and the night on which you would all sleep again under the same roof. "Thank you" to all of the service members whose lives were lost in this conflict and to offer sympathies and condolences to the loved ones whose prayers for your safe return went unanswered. "Thank you" to all of those who survived injuries that can fairly be called catastrophic and whose incredibly difficult post-war lives will continue to be aided and assisted by the good works of countless organizations such as the people at the Fallen Heroes Fund and the Wounded Warrior Project.

For me, all I can competently say to any of you is, "Thank you." I have never walked a single step - much less a mile - in the shoes that each of you wears every day. If you tell me how this experience has impacted you, I cannot tell you that I understand. That would be a lie.

I suppose that even with my limited ability to comprehend I can say one thing in addition to simply saying thanks. "Welcome home"....

....War is over.

-AK

beat the BULLY to a PULP IT....

2011-12-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Proof that two separate and distinct half-assed, full-throated endeavors of hate - when combined - do indeed add up to a complete ASS(W)HOLE are brought to us once again this morning courtesy of the mouth-breeding miscreantic sheep who follow the teachings of Fred Phelps and the Wasteboro Bastards Church.

As a much younger man I was fairly chock full of hate. In retrospect I have come to understand that spending most of my days and nights chock full of liquor contributed mightily to my generally anti-social bent. As I have aged, apathy has replaced anger in large part. There are of course now - as there were then - a number of persons and things for which I have a deep-seated love. However, over time the list of people and things I hate has been pared down considerably, many of its members having defected to the list of things about which I simply do not give a rat's ass.

Not everything has made that transition. Perhaps it is because the line of duty killing of a NYPD Police Officer has been splashed across the newspaper front pages and television sets in the New York metropolitan area these past several days and perhaps because his death hits a bit closer to home than I typically permit myself to think, but I find myself particularly filled with venom this morning about the events at which Phelps and his hate-mongering disciples intend to occupy themselves on this day, less than one week to the start of Hanukkah and ten days from Christmas. Then again, considering what an assemblage of human deritus Freddie and his followers are, neither recent events nor the time of year may have a damn thing to do with it.

At some point in time while you are reading this piece the thought shall likely occur to you that Phelps and his cronies have the legal right to do what it is they do, which is show up to protest at funerals of servicemen and servicewomen killed in combat, law enforcement officers and public figures such was Steve Jobs and Elizabeth Edwards. The Supreme Court of the United States said so earlier this year. I am an attorney. I not only recognize the authority of the SCOTUS, I am a member of its Bar and have been for more than eleven years.

The mere fact that something is legal neither makes it (a) right; nor (b) something that good, upstanding members of society should tolerate meekly. Legality aside, Phelps is a bully. Nothing more. Nothing less. His followers share that singular characteristic with their leader. It is abject foolishness to stake out a position that the best way to deal with a bully is to ignore him. A bully ignored shall not go away. He shall advance. He shall continue to take liberties with and from those who lack the courage to make him stand down. Do not believe me? Stop reading this and read this. Once you have read the latter, come back here if you wish. I shall still be here.

This morning the pricks of misery who call themselves the Wasteboro Bastards Church intend to assert their Constitutional right to assemble and express themselves on their home turf in Kansas. This morning a memorial service shall be held at Benedictine College in Atchinson, Kansas for a police officer. Sgt. David Enzbrenner was killed in the line of duty last Friday morning while serving a warrant. This morning, the WBC bunch shall picket Sgt. Enzbrenner's memorial service. If for even a moment you harbor the delusion that they have a legitimate reason for doing so, then avail yourself of a review of their declared basis for doing it.

This afternoon, a contingent of WBC imbeciles shall congregate at one of this nation's most sacred places, Arlington National Cemetery, in order to picket the service for Army Sgt. 1st Class Johnathan B. McCain. Sgt. McCain was killed in action in Afghanistan. He died on November 13 from injuries sustained when he encountered an IED while on patrol. McCain was 38 years old. He first enlisted in the Army in 1992. The WBC press release announcing the group's intention to appear today at Arlington closes with this salutation, "THANK GOD FOR IEDs".

While it would be satisfying on a visceral level for those assembled to pay their respects to the fallen and to express support for their families to simply set upon the WBC jagoffs and assail them physically, doing so would in fact play right into the WBC's warped little hands. And it would put law enforcement in the wholly unwelcome position of having to arrest those who were doing the assailing. After all, WBC does have the Constitutional right to picket.

They do not however have the Constitutional right to be seen or heard by the family whose loss is the subject of the service. Today at Benedictine College and Arlington National Cemetery alike, those who are able to get there - whether they have a connection to the deceased or not - should get there and should peacefully assemble. Their peaceful assembly should take place at a point between the WBC crew and those attending the service so that the family who has already suffered so much shall not be required to suffer the indignity of having this day besmirched by these assholes. Assemble in a location and in such a manner that the effect the WBC hopes to have on these services is blunted in its entirety. And your efforts are precisely the efforts that should without exception be duplicated in each and every place where Phelps' whelps attempt to sow their particular brand of hate.

I am not a religious man. However if I were, the Reverend whose teaching I would follow is most assuredly not Freddie Phelps. It is the late, great Robert Marley....

Get up! Stand up!

-AK

Snowfall in the Sunshine State

2011-12-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

The most interesting thing about being in Florida in early December was examining the zeal with which the locals embrace Christmas imagery that this jaded Jerseyan associates with colder climes such as....well, such as New Jersey. Evergreens decorated for Christmas in an area where shorts and t-shirts abound? Priceless.

We were in central Florida - a mile or two from the various Disney properties, Sea World and Universal Studios - and during the week we were there we spent time at Universal and at Epcot Center, both of which were all dolled up for Christmas. Hearing Nat King Cole crooning about roasting chestnuts over a park's P.A. system is always welcome - irrespective of the weather - but seeing animated figures such as polar bears and penguins on the front lawns of homes and businesses alike in a region in which the average daytime temperature in December is north of the 70 degree pole was a tad jarring. For me at least.

The single most intriguing thing to me though was the nightly snowfall in the town of Celebration. Celebration, Florida is a town that very well may have served as the inspiration for the town in Jim Carrey's "The Truman Show". Not only is the town named Celebration but we counted at least four different thoroughfares that had Celebration in their names as well (Boulevard, Drive, Street and Way) although curiously when I asked for directions to Kool and the Gang Court, the man behind the counter at the Information Desk told me he had never heard of such a street. Odd, right? He turned out to be utterly useless for when I asked him what was the quickest way to get from Celebration to Stepford, he told me that he had never heard of my proffered destination.

Celebration simulates a snowfall every night - at least (according to the sign prominently displayed on Route 192) between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day (since having it snow nightly in central Florida in mid-April would be silly). While it sounds insane as an abstract concept, it was actually pretty cool to see:

I wish I had gotten a better picture of her for as Margaret, Joe and I were taking in the man-made snowstorm (talk about living 'NTSG), there was the tiniest little moppet of a girl standing in the middle of it all. She said nothing for the several minutes while we were there near her and her parents. She simply stood, eyes wide open, mouth fixed in a smile looking up at the flakes tumbling down out of the sky.

Proof once again perhaps that the answer to Virginia's question is now as it has always been, "Yes". Santa Claus is alive and well. Even in central Florida. And even in a town where December's nightly snowfalls are but memories by the following dawn in spite of the dearth of plow equipment or rock salt.

-AK

A New York Minute

2011-12-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebody's going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hang on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door

Yesterday morning NYPD Police Officer Peter Figoski - a 22 year veteran of the NYPD - and his partner Glenn Estrada responded to a call of a "burglary in progress" shortly after 2:00 a.m. According to what Police Commissioner Ray Kelly told the Post:

Officer Peter Figoski, a 22-year veteran, responded to a “burglary in progress” at 25 Pine Street in Cypress Hills at 2:15 a.m. and was confronted by career criminal Lamont Pride, 27, police said.

After the landlord called 911, Pride, 27, and his cohort initially hid from the first responding officers and were attempting to make their escape when Figoski and his partner surprised the thugs. Without hesitation, Pride allegedly shot Figoski, 47, once in the face and took off on foot.

Meanwhile, Figoski’s partner, Glenn Estrada, 42, was tussling with Pride’s unidentified cohort nearby. Estrada broke away and chased after Pride, slapping the cuffs on him several blocks away on Chestnut Street and Fulton Street, police said.

Officer Figoski was the father of four daughters, ranging in age from 14 to 20 - the oldest two of whom are both college students and all four of whom shall now live the remainder of their life without their dad. Four young ladies who - should they marry - shall have to be walked down the aisle by someone other than their father.

Anyone who has a loved one in law enforcement lives every day hoping that each and every day on the job for the one you love is uneventful, routine and (if one is feeling a little greedy) perhaps even a little dull. Those who earn their living in law enforcement accept that there is risk inherent in all that they do and that danger lurks around every corner. And yet they do the jobs that they have sworn to do. They do it in spite their knowledge of its risks. They do it because it has to be done. Actions and consequences are now what they have always been - different sides of the same coin.

And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool's advice
And take care of your own
One day they're here;
Next day they're gone.

Sadly and almost incomprehensibly, yesterday proved to be the "next day" for NYPD Officer Peter Figoski, those he loved and those who love him.

-AK

That Familiar Look

2011-12-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

If previous experience is any indication, the "era of good feeling" associated with having been on vacation last week will be merely a memory by - approximately - 9:11 this morning. It is for that reason that my work day starts at 4:30 a.m. I might as well keep the dream alive for as long as possible; right?

The economy has ravaged every industry it seems and whether your collar is white or blue you have sweated through it too many times to count. Therefore, being busy is a very good thing. Having too much to do at times is not only nothing about which to complain, it certainly beats the alternative. A lot of good people have been put out of work these past few years. Musical chairs is a game that was mildly entertaining when we were children. As adults, not so much.

I absolutely enjoyed every moment of our week in the Florida sun. Happiness as a runner is being able to run outside every morning - at sunrise mind you - wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts. Margaret's plan to return home on Saturday - as opposed to Sunday - was pure genius. Rather than return home on Sunday and immediately transition into "back to work" mode today, we had the chance to relax a bit on Sunday. I know not whether "sea legs" is a term that translates into other scenarios (such as acclimating back into one's day-to-day following a vacation) but Margaret's foresight in giving us Sunday to do just that was...well it was genius. No other term adequately describes it.

We spent Sunday doing a bit of Christmas shopping (no time like the 11th of December to start the process). We also infused the house with a bit of the Christmas spirit. Over the years we have accrued a lot of Christmas "treasures" (a/k/a "Christmas-themed crap that Adam has purchased at one store or another"). It has been several years since we put any of it up. It has - in large part - lost its appeal. This year shall not represent a reversal of that trend. Less is more once again at the Kenny home.

I am allergic to live Christmas trees. Twenty years ago - when Margaret and the kids spent their first Christmas in what we refer to as "the flood house" we purchased an artificial tree. My recollection is that we bought it at Bradlee's. Margaret's is that we purchased it at Caldor's. The receipt was resigned to history's dustbin many years ago - as coincidentally were both Bradlee's and Caldor's. Our sturdy little tree is now twenty years old. And while I suppose I am biased as to its beauty, I think it has not only withstood Time's ravages but that it has aged gracefully

Hell, I wish that these past twenty years had treated me as well. Our tree still has all its original coloring and does not look its age. Sadly, I cannot say the same for me....on either count.

-AK

Skin Shedding

2011-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

One week ago today -as Joe, Margaret and I sat in Terminal A at Newark Airport awaiting the departure of our flight to sunny FLA, I perused Facebook. As I did, I came across my old pal Dave Lackland's announcement to the world of the brand-new addition to his and his wife Tessa's family. At some point during the previous evening, little Indigo Atoll Lackland arrived on the scene.

While I have not spoken to Dave since his first-born son was born, I have communicated with him via text message. If it is possible to gauge one's emotion from the written word, then I would be willing to wager that each text message I received from Dave this week was sent while he was sporting an ear-to-ear grin.

For each of us, life is a journey - not a destination. Just eight days ago, Dave's journey went headlong into uncharted waters, which given his area of expertise I expect he will handle with aplomb. He is one of the world's genuinely good souls. I have never met his bride. However, given the tendency of water to seek and find its own level I have no doubt that Tessa is at the very least his equal.

Twenty-plus years ago Bruce Springsteen became a father for the first time. Shortly after the birth of his son Evan he wrote "Living Proof", a song expressing his visceral reaction to that moment. It is a song that begins with this lyric:

Well now on a summer night in a dusky room
Come a little piece of the Lord's undying light
Crying like he swallowed the fiery moon
In his mother's arms it was all the beauty I could take
Like the missing words to some prayer that I could never make
In a world so hard and dirty so fouled and confused
Searching for a little bit of God's mercy
I found living proof....

....and I presume that my old friend has now as well. And shall continue to do so every day.

-AK

All Good Things....

2011-12-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

I do not vacation much so I am open to the possibility that I do not know as much about it as the next fellow. This morning we make the trek home from Florida. The past seven days have flown by. If you asked me what the best part of it, I would be hard-pressed to say just one thing. The whole trip was extraordinary from start to finish....

....although having had the chance to spend all of Wednesday in Jupiter with Mom and Jill made for a very special day. The five of us ate in Mom's favorite little joint after spending the afternoon hanging out by the pool.

The grindstone awaits. No worries. Fueled up and ready to go.

-AK

Chillin' in the Florida Sun

2011-12-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

We are now just two full weeks from Christmas. I must confess that having spent This week in Florida it has not felt a great deal like Christmas, at least in terms of temperature. Florida is neat in that although the folks who live here presumably are here at.least as an expression of their lack of affinity for snow, they go to extraordinary lengths to incorporate the notion of snow into their Christmas celebrations. Funny stuff in a sweetly corny kind of way.

We shall make our journey home tomorrow, which means that for the first time in four years I will not be running in the Big Chill 5K race in New Brunswick. If you are a runer and can be in New Brunswick tomorrow morning bright and early, then grab your shoes and get over there. The entry fee? An unwrapped toy for a needy child. If not for children then who is Chistmas for? Figure it out on the way to the College Avenue Gym.

You shall be happy you did.

AK

A Day for Sinners and Saints

2011-12-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Vacation is in the homestretch. In forty-eight hours or so, we shall be a big old jet airliner flying home to the State of Concrete Gardens. While I could not imagine living in Florida until at least forty-five minutes after affixing of the toe tag, it has been a nice place to visit. Happiness is being able to run outside in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts in the wee small hours of the morning.

Like a lot of good Irish families, the Kennys are Catholic. Fortunately for me, by the time I was matriculating my way through elementary school Dad's employer (Wardlaw), which was an all-boys' school had consummated its relationship with the nearby all-girls' school Hartridge to become a co-educational institution. Albeit one with an incredibly long, difficult to say aloud name. Eventually I got the hang of it.

I started at W-H in 5th grade. By staying active in school, I managed to escape the torture of CCD class. No CCD, no Confirmation. I was dancing the Texas Two-Step decades before Suzanne heard the siren's song of Houston. Time passed and neither Mom nor Dad pressed the issue. Being agnostic even at that young age, I certainly did not either. Thus, while I have been married for close to two decades, I have never been confirmed...unless being a confirmed A**hole counts. Occasionally my wife indicates to me that it is.

Today is a day of some significance on the Roman Catholic Church's calendar. It is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which is not to be confused with the Feast of the Immaculate Reception celebrated annually in Pittsburgh and Oakland Pennsylvania but NOT in Oakland, California. I enjoyed this day the few years I went to catholic grammar school - at least when it fell during the school week. Happiness is day off from school. Religious beliefs be damned (or is that non-believers be damned?), I can never get that quite correct.

This day also always makes me think of one of my favorite Springsteen lyrics, which I presume is not on Pope Eggs Benedict's iPod playlist:

His countryside's burnin' with wolfman fairies dressed in drag for homicide
They hit and run, plead sanctuary, 'neath a holy stone they hide
They're breakin' beams and crosses with a spastic's reelin' perfection
nuns run bald through Vatican halls pregnant, pleadin' immaculate conception

-AK

From Eternity To Here

2011-12-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

The United States was at peace with that nation, and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleague delivered to our secretary of state a formal reply to a recent American message. While this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.

It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.

The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.

Yesterday the Japanese government also launched as attack against Malaya.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.

Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Wake Island.

And this morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.

Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.

As commander in chief of the Army and Navy I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense. But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. . .

In late August there was a lot of discussion in a lot of places of whether those still affected by the events of September 11, 2001 needed to "get over it" as the 10th anniversary of that dreadful day approached. Regardless of your point of view on that particular issue, it bears remembering that nothing occurs in a vacuum. The events of a single day are not easy to forget because they are inexorably linked to the events of subsequent days.

Action necessitates reaction. If you have any trouble wrapping your head around that concept, take a trip to Washington, D.C. to visit the World War II Memorial. The Memorial's Announcement Stone contains the following inscription:

HERE IN THE PRESENCE OF WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN, ONE THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FATHER AND THE OTHER THE NINETEENTH CENTURY PRESERVER OF OUR NATION, WE HONOR THOSE TWENTIETH CENTURY AMERICANS WHO TOOK UP THE STRUGGLE DURING THE SECOND WORLD WAR AND MADE THE SACRIFICES TO PERPETUATE THE GIFT OUR FOREFATHERS ENTRUSTED TO US:
A NATION CONCEIVED IN LIBERTY AND JUSTICE.

The notion of a "stand-alone day" is a fiction. History has taught us that time and again. Including seventy years ago on this very day in a little place called Pearl Harbor.

-AK

Justice is In

2011-12-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

This past weekend we the people of the State of New Jersey put the final bow on the 2011 high school football season. Included among the 1159 squads that earned "Sectional State Championships" were the Patriots of Wayne Hills. Wayne Hills rallied from a 12-0 halftime deficit to defeat Old Tappan 15-12 on a touchdown in game's final couple of minutes. The kids from Wayne Hills won without "The Wayne Hills Nine". Well done and well-earned. Perhaps now the Wayne Board of Education can cancel the Continuing Adult Education Winter Session lecture series, "Is Isn't Paranoia When Everyone Really Is Out To Get Me"? They might want to keep it on the calendar. Never can be too careful. Right?

A bit further south on Saturday night - on the turf at Rutgers Stadium - the kids from Matawan High School sprung a bit of an upset and captured their very own sectional title. Matawan defeated the kids from Springsteen's adopted hometown 3-0 and did so without its quintet of wayward boys, suspended not by their local school board but by their Head Coach for some as-of-yet undisclosed (publicly anyway) transgression. Congratulations to the kids from Matawan and to their parents who, unlike their neighbors to the north in Passaic County, kept their mouths shut when their sons received punishment that they had apparently earned.

And on the subject of receiving punishment that had been well-earned, no discussion of the weekend's events would be complete without mentioning the beat down Miguel Cotto put on Antonio Margarito in their fight at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night. Margarito is a cheater of the highest order in boxing. He was caught prior to a fight against Shane Mosley a couple of years ago illegally wrapping his hands pre-fight (packing on more wrapping to enhance the "shwallop" effect of each punch). Given that his fight against Mosley took place roughly one year after Margarito had inflicted a brutal beating on Cotto in their first fight, Cotto has repeatedly stated since that he believes Margarito cheated the first time around.

Cotto sought no recourse in our civil justice system. He simply continued to fight. As did Margarito. Eventually they found their way back to one another. And when they did, Cotto administered a form of retribution far more severe than anything that would have happened in a courtroom. It has been said that revenge is a dish best served cold. The first Saturday night of December in New York City proved to be precisely cold enough.

-AK

The Annexation of Puerto Rico

2011-12-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

Time passes so quickly that Suz has been a Texan for a week already. Holy smokes. It is still so eerily quiet around the house that I wonder if and when I shall get used to it. I suppose I shall. It's like the song says, "You get used to anything. Sooner or later it just becomes your life."

It is a bit easier to take this week as not only is Suz not home. Neither are Margaret and I. More than a tad odd to wake up on a Monday morning AND not have to go to work. I could get used to it I suppose. Another thirty years or so and perhaps I shall have the opportunity to test my enthusiasm for it. Perhaps.

As we were in "pre-trip" mode on Saturday night I stumbled across a rather silly movie from a lifetime ago. "Little Giants" with Ed O'Neill and Rick Moranis was a moderate hit in the mid-1990's. I smiled when I flipped to the channel it was on because it made me smile. It focuses in large part on the relationships between kids, including those who comprise the rosters of the 'have' and the 'have not' pee-wee football teams. I remember first seeing it what seems now like a million years ago. A time when our kids were the same age as those on the screen.

The thing that separates real-life from make believe is that the latter is formulaic. The former rarely is. Time and again it is nice to get lost in the formulaic - even if just for ninety minutes or so.

-AK

Changes in Latitudes

2011-12-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

Ahoy mateys! Today playing the role of Captain Hooky is Yours truly. The Missus, Joe and I are off today to spend a week in (hopefully) sunny Florida. The notion of taking a week's break from work is more than slightly alien to me. The notion of spending that week in Florida is off the charts.

I might well be one of the few Americans born and raised on the East Coast and over the age of forty who can count the number of times I have been within the geographical boundaries of the State of Florida on one hand. Mom has lived there for close to fifteen years and I have been there to see her on two occasions - and both "visits" centered around her being in the hospital. Margaret and I went on a cruise a number of years ago and flew in and out of Miami. The harbor area was lovely. The airport less so. And slightly more than three years ago, Margaret and I flew into Jacksonville prior to making a brief jaunt north to Georgia for Rob's graduation.

This morning I embark on Trip #5. Presuming Mr. Doppler has not been telling a fib on all the weather reports I spent the past week watching, our time there should be spent under sun-splashed skies enjoying temperatures in the upper 70's. Not a bad gig given it is December's first full week. Not a bad gig at all.

Vacation makes me lazy. Need proof? That is all for now. Enjoy your Sunday. Wheels up in 30....

I took off for a weekend last month
Just to try and recall the whole year
All of the faces and all of the places
Wonderin where they all disappeared
I didn't ponder the question too long
I was hungry and went out for a bite
Ran into a chum with a bottle of rum
And we wound up drinkin all night

Its these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of our running and all of our cunning
If we couldnt laugh we would all go insane

Reading departure signs in some big airport
Reminds me of the places Ive been
Visions of good times that brought so much pleasure
Makes me want to go back again
If it suddenly ended tomorrow
I could somehow adjust to the fall
Good times and riches and son of a bitches
Ive seen more than I can recall

These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands
If we couldnt laugh we would all go insane

I think about paris when Im high on red wine
I wish I could jump on a plane
So many nights I just dream of the ocean
God I wish I was sailin again
Oh, yesterdays over my shoulder
So I can't look back for too long
There's just too much to see waiting in front of me
And I know that I just can't go wrong

With these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of my running and all of my cunning
If I couldnt laugh I just would go insane
If we couldnt laugh we just would go insane
If we werent all crazy we would go insane....

....enjoy the trip. I intend to.

-AK

While I Was Taking Those Old Records Off The Shelf....

2011-12-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

I do not pretend to know whether it means something or nothing at all but a quick look at the sports page this morning revealed that Tiger Woods was atop the leader board in whatever golf tournament he is playing in this weekend. You can fit all I know about golf into a thimble with adequate space remaining available for a thumb but even I know that once upon a lifetime ago Mr. Woods was universally considered to be the best golfer in the world. And that it has been quite some time since the third round of a tournament began with him playing in the day's final grouping. Whether it is because people shall root against him or because people shall root for him, the people who make money from televising golf are thrilled to have Tiger back. Even if just for today.

Last night at Met Life Stadium (because "F***ing You Out of Your Money Without the Courtesy of Foreplay or the Pretense of Cuddling Afterwards" Stadium proved impossible to fit on the marquee) Don Bosco Prep played its arch-rival Bergen Catholic for the Non-Public Group 4 State Championship in high school football. Don Bosco Prep is ranked nationally (another great faux industry from where I sit is the national ranking of high school teams in various sports) either #1 or #2 and - as expected - defeated Bergen Catholic (and did so quite handily 42-14) to win its sixth consecutive state title. I cannot help but wonder though who schedules these games to be played at a stadium that holds more than 78,000 when yet again last night the joint was only filled to approximately 20% capacity. Nothing says playoff intensity quite as much as playing a game in front of thousands of fans all dressed alike....as empty seats. Ridiculous.

While poking the sacred cow that is high school football, why not go in whole hog? Parenthetically did anyone notice the sloppy mixing of animal metaphors in the preceding sentence? I hope so. It was quite deliberate. This weekend (today I think) the Wayne Hills football team will battle Old Tappan for one of the State of Concrete Gardens' 917 "Sectional" State Championships for which our public school football teams compete. There are more teenage boys walking around in New Jersey wearing a varsity jacket identifying each as a member of a "Sectional State Champion" in high school football then there are people related by both blood and marriage at the annual Polygamy Convention in Salt Lake City. It is beyond ridiculous.

Anyway, Wayne Hills will be short nine players for its championship game. Apparently in late October these kids were involved in an altercation either at or after a party with some kids from The Township of Wayne's other high school, Wayne Valley. Published reports stated that due to the altercation, the two Wayne Valley kids were left beaten pretty badly. Apparently in Wayne the relationship between the two schools is something akin to the Sharks and the Jets of West Side Story....although being suburban New Jersey the rumbles inevitably occur at a shopping center that delineates the boundary lines for each faction's turf. The police arrested the nine boys from Wayne Hills and charged all of them for their role in this assault.

A lot of ink and video has been expended the past several weeks here in Joisey as to the goings-on in Wayne. Most of it has addressed the somewhat embarrassing lengths to which the head football coach/athletic director at Wayne Hills and the parents of his football players went in an effort to first intimidate the Wayne Board of Education (which does after all serve the residents of the Township who send their children to either high school) into letting the kids play in the team's State playoff games. The efforts were successful initially, until the Board of Education members realized their testicles had fully descended. Thereafter, once the Board of Education suspended all nine kids from playing football, the equally dubious lengths to which the parents went through the legal system in an effort to overturn the Board of Education's decision to ban them from this weekend's championship game against Old Tappan. Yesterday afternoon, the State Commissioner of Education upheld an Administrative Law Judge's ruling that the kids could not play.

Wayne Hills is not the only school participating in this weekend's football finals that shall be at less than full strength due to disciplinary issues. Matawan plays Rumson this afternoon at Rutgers Stadium for the (write this down because it is a bit of a mouthful) "Central Jersey, Group 2" Sectional State Championship. Five of Matawan's players are not playing today, having been suspended from the team by their head coach who is also the school's athletic director. In Matawan, the "OCCUPY THE BOARD OF EDUCATION" moment that is all the rage in up in certain community in Passaic County has apparently not trickled down the Parkway to Monmouth County. Matawan clearly has a better fundamental understanding of the concept of there being a consequence assoiciated with each and every action than Wayne Hills does.

The only people in these two "Mr. Touchdown" melodramas for whom I feel badly are the kids on the Wayne Hills team and on the Matawan team who had no role in either incident that resulted in certain of their teammates being sidelined. For a number of these kids, high school will mark the end of their formal, organized participation in sports, including of course members of each school's senior class. For those kids, who presumably worked as hard as the players who are not permitted to play did to reach this point, the selfishness of their teammates could cost them. Is that fair? It matters not. It is Life.

Final idle thought of the day from me is how great it must have been to be at MSG on Thursday night for the Bob Seger show and get, as an unexpected pre-Christmas present, a special guest shot of Bruce Juice. Old Time Rock and Roll indeed.

-AK

The View From Space

2011-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder whether there is indeed life "out there"? And by "out there" I mean, of course, the Dakotas. I kid - of course. I reside each day in sufficiently deep hot water without making all 41 people who reside in those two states sore at me. Besides, North Dakota gave us Roger Maris. Tough not to love a place that produced the low-key half of the "M n' M Boys". South Dakota gave us the Battle of Little Big Horn. Tough not to love any place that effectively put the kibosh on American military leaders being seen in public with facial hair that would have made Rollie Fingers proud.

If one was looking down from space at one point or another during the period of the past seven days, one would have seen some pretty wild stuff. For instance, right around the corner in bucolic Rahway, New Jersey the good people at RWJUH had an unexpected visitor to the hospital's emergency room. A flying squirrel entered the facility somehow. Upon being told that the E/R could not treat him without proper proof of insurance, he screamed "OBAMA CARE! ROMNEY CARE! I DON'T CARE" to the top of his little varmint lungs and started flying all over the Emergency Department, much to the delight no doubt of all of the patients in the waiting room seeking medical assistance secondary to accidental overdoses of hallucinogenics.

After several minutes, the firefighters who were called to the scene to apprehend this little rat with wings did just that. In order to ensure that this new TV reality series has a longer life expectancy than Charlie's Angels or The Playboy Club, upon catching the flying squirrel the firefighters took him out into the woods and released him back into the wild.

Now that he has been freed, Rahway's wayward squirrel would be well-advised to steer clear of Utah. Lots of beautiful scenery and historically expansive views on polygamy to be sure but a very dangerous place to be a wild animal. Or a water fowl apparently. You need to fear not only the intrepid bipeds who pursue you but their canine companions as well. In at least one case, the latter has proven to be a more worrisome adversary than the former.

While duck hunting with two of his human friends, a dog decided not to wait until one of his companions had finished placing all of their decoy ducks in a row before engaging a target. Apparently the trio was hunting from a canoe and when one of the men got up and out of the boat in order to place duck decoys, he left his 12-gauge shotgun in the canoe. In hindsight (pun most assuredly intended) not such a great idea:

A Utah bird hunter was shot in the buttocks after his dog stepped on a shotgun laid across the bow of a boat.

Box Elder County Sheriff's Deputy Kevin Potter says the 46-year-old Brigham City man was duck hunting with a friend when he climbed out of the boat to move decoys.

Potter says the man left his 12-gauge shotgun in the boat and the dog stepped on it, causing it to fire. It wasn't clear whether the safety on the gun was on at the time.

Potter says the man was hit from about 10 feet away with 27 pellets of birdshot. He says the man wasn't seriously injured, in part because he was wearing waders. The man was treated at a nearby hospital.

If there is one thing to be learned from this story it is that one should adhere to the teachings of Lyle Lovett. A pony + a boat = a lifetime of contentment. A dog + a boat = an assful of birdshot.

Or to put it another way, a bird in hand might be worth two in the bush. But a bird in the water with a dog in a canoe is worth twenty-seven in the caboose.

-AK

Magic Beans and Birthday Pony Rides

2011-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

'Tis December. A month that ends with the ringing out of the present year begins with the ringing in of the commencement of another trip around the sun for my first-born sister Evan. I know not if she and my brother-in-law have a boat but I know she has a pony, which means that for her - unlike for my brother Bill - birthday pony rides are not mere wishes. Happy Birthday Ev and if you and Bentley (? - I think that is his name) end up spending a portion of your big day sailing the ocean blue, know that somewhere Lyle Lovett sits smiling.....and strumming upon his guitar.

I was pleasantly surprised to receive a phone call Tuesday afternoon from my recently-transplanted daughter. Suz was in Kroger's doing some grocery shopping and called to inquire of Yours truly about certain items and whether the price of them in her store comparable to the price in the A&P that I shop in weekly. It never ceases to amaze me how one's enthusiasm for something can be contagious. We spent just a couple of minutes on the phone, chatting not only about the importance of coupon-clipping but also about her first visit as an employee to her new gig. The excitement in her voice about all of it was palpable. I do not have a mirror in my office. I did not need one to confirm the presence of the ear-to-ear grin on my face as I listened. While I smile infrequently, I do it enough to recognize that pulling sensation on the corners of my mouth. I felt it.

The best part of the conversation was her telling me that she was shopping for what she needed to make dinner last night. Her entree? Lentils. As small children, Suz and Rob ate dinner every night with Joe, Suzy B. and Nanny. Lentils were a staple item at that table. Suz loves them. So much so that at the completion of her first full day in the heart of Texas, she made them as her first meal in her new home.

But the best part of the day for me was a part that involved me not at all - at least not directly. In the couple of years since Suzy B. died, Joe has become quite the chef. Truth be told, a lifetime ago he owned and operated a diner with at least two of his brothers and he did a lot of the cooking. He has not so much learned to cook in the past two-plus years as he has reacquainted himself with the art of doing it. Necessity is more than the mother of invention apparently. She is also the mother of rekindling.

Joe makes a mean dish of lentils. He knows that it is among Suz's favorite things that he makes so any night he makes them for himself, he sends a meal or two's worth home with Margaret for Suz. Tuesday night, Suz called him to tell him that she had introduced Houston to the dish she had grown to love as a child 'NTSG. He was thrilled. Not so much about the fact that Houston now has lentils among its charms but that she took the time to call him to tell him about it.

Life is comprised of scant few "big events". It is in fact a tapestry of day-to-day, seemingly ordinary events. Events that viewed separately might not seem to be too much at all but when seen for what they actually are - an integral part of a much bigger picture - take on a much more complete profile.

It is the little things that count. Proof that sometimes a hill of beans is not only valuable, it is priceless.

-AK

Caps and Big Finishes

2011-11-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happy 11/12th Day! What? You did not realize that today was yet another in the seemingly eternal parade of made up, pseudo holidays? In fact is is not although it could be. If you wander through a Hallmark store next autumn and happen to see cards celebrating "HAPPY 11/12TH DAY 2012!" on a shelf, throw a shout-out my direction. And send me an e-mail to let me know the name of the store and its location. I shall be suing those bastards for stealing my idea.

The absence of a formal, designated holiday to honor November's end notwithstanding it is nevertheless a bit frightening to me that mere moments after I finally remembered to write 2011 and not 2010 on correspondence and such, 2011 has rounded the clubhouse turn and is churning down the homestretch. In an eye blink 2012 will be upon us. And lucky us - we the people of these United States - for 2012 will bring with it the pure unadulterated joy that is a Presidential election. I thought that dreadful John Cusack flick of a couple of years ago was a work of fiction. Turns out it was actually a documentary.

A lot has happened in my little corner of the world this year. 2011 has been unique in certain respects. It has of course also shared certain characteristics with its brothers in arms that went before it. It is comprised of the same core ingredient after all: time. An ingredient although equally distributed across the year's component parts - its days - that always seems to grow scarcer as the year grows shorter.

Time. It is said that it waits for no one. It is also rumored to heal all wounds. I believe fervently in the former but not so much in the latter. If you do not believe me about its elixir-like abilities, then ask Joe Kapp.

Just be sure to ask him nicely.

-AK

Just Another American Saturday Night...

2011-11-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

As I suspected it would, the Republic survived Suzanne's move from our State of Concrete Gardens to the State of "Related By Blood Or By Marriage What Difference Does It Make Anyway?". More importantly, Suz and Ryan made the journey safe and sound. They left civilization early Sunday morning and arrived in Houston in the late afternoon/early evening on Monday.

It was profound how quiet our home seemed to me to be as I padded around it on Sunday evening. The quiet was more theoretical than practical I suppose. Suz is but one person after all and it is not as if she spent her evenings practicing on her drum kit or with her tuba or some such thing. My perception of the depth of the quiet grew out of the practical recognition that but for the Missus and me our house is now an empty house. It likely was not as quiet as it seemed to be. Perception became reality I reckon. It happens.

In an odd way the best part of the extended holiday weekend for me was Saturday night. Not that I have been in any hurry to kick either of my kids to the curb (in spite of any representations I ever made to the contrary vis-a-vis Suz or Rob) but that fact did not prevent me from really enjoying Suz's send-off. She spent the evening surrounded by her cousins and a coterie of close friends from as far back in her own life experience as grammar school (it was as it always is a pleasure to see Gabe Hurley and Dan Byrnes within the four walls of our home) to as recent in time as college and graduate school. Even those who did not really know one another appeared at ease in one another's company - given the spirit of the evening. There were tears spilled - to be sure - including those of the evening's honoree and my other #1 girl. But laughter was the night's most prevalent sound. Although judging by our recycling bins in the garage, the opening of beer bottles was the night's SECOND most prevalent sound.

Laughter is a sound that never gets old. Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand. That Mr. Twain was a pretty smart fellow. At least in my experience.

On her way from Point A to Point B, the Missus and I did what we could do to help prepare Suz for her journey. And as it turned out the final order or business (well, the second-to-last as it turned out given the last-minute items we stuffed into the car's nooks and crannies on Sunday morning) was giving her a send-off that let her know just how we feel about her in the off chance that we had not stated our case with certainty all these years. And how her friends and family feel as well. I know not whether I shall live long enough to trip across the dawning of a pitch-perfect day. If I come no closer than I did Saturday, I shall die a contented man.

Not to mention I have another photo to add to the top shelf of the bookcase in my office. My girls. Same as they ever were. Same as they shall forever be...

You know everywhere has somethin' they're known for
Although usually it washes up on our shores
My great-great-great-granddaddy stepped off of that ship
I bet he never ever dreamed we'd have all this

You know everywhere has somethin' they're known for
Although usually it washes up on our shores
Little Italy and Chinatown sittin' there side by side
Live from New York
(It's Saturday Night!)

The Running of the Turkeys

2011-11-28T00:01:00.000-08:00

I spent the early part of Thanksgiving in Green Brook, running in an inaugural 5K Turkey Trot. We had an unseasonably warm Thanksgiving weekend in the State of Concrete Gardens. That unseasonable weather did not roll in until the middle part of the day on Thursday. When the gun sounded to start the race Thursday morning at a touch or two past 8:00 a.m. it was not visions of sugar plums that were dancing in the air in front of me. It was my own breath.

As is the case with any "first-ever" event there were wrinkles that one hopes the folks who put on this Trot iron out by Turkey Day 2012. Wrinkles notwithstanding, it was a very nice event. And given that I spent more time running (a touch more than 25 minutes) than I did getting back and forth to the event, if there is a 2nd annual edition - and we are still living 'NTSG this time next year then I shall look forward to taking part in it. If you live in the Green Brook area and you are a runner who shall be home for Thanksgiving next year, then check this event out. A worthwhile way to spend a small slice of one's Thanksgiving Day. Eased the guilt associated with that slice of pumpkin pie as well.

Margaret and I ate Thanksgiving dinner with Joe at his house. The three of us watched the Packers-Lions game on FOX. The best part of the game? Certainly not the absurd cheap shot that Lions star defender Suh took that resulted in his ejection from the game. It was Pam Oliver's piece on the pre-game show on Packers receiver James Jones. I had no idea who he was before watching the piece. I think I shall root for him for the remainder of his career after seeing it. A remarkable story. And one that was well told.

-AK

From The Driveway

2011-11-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

If the decision was mine to make
and Time was mine to tether,
I'd take a picture of this moment now
and freeze this frame forever....

The decision is not mine to make. Nor is time mine to tether. Three years has not changed that at all. Confronted by the infirmities associated with my own inherent limitations, I shall do today nothing other than stand beside the Missus today and through tear-stained eyes (be they the result of joy, sadness or a combination platter their appearance is assured) stand on the driveway and wave goodbye to Suz.

Her next great adventure begins today. And as is the case with most "Next Great Adventures", it shall unfold in a locale different from the one that she has called home for the entirety of her life to date. My head tells me that it is a great thing. My heart needs a bit of convincing. Eventually it shall come around. Selflessness shall trump selfishness and parental pride shall overcome parental sadness. That day shall come. And its arrival shall be soon. But that day is not today.

Today the Missus and I become that which we have never been in two decades together: empty nesters. This day is not easy for me but it is worse for my wife, who perpetually envisions a world in which our adult children and their families shall reside within a hug's reach of us. Given the far-flung nature of the Kennys, it is a vision that is a tad difficult for me to wrap my head around. For Margaret, who has lived within walking distance of her parents and her only sibling for practically her whole life, it is not.

Suz heads out today to blaze a new trail. I know - as she does - that having learned at the knee of her mother all these years, she heads out well-prepared for what lies ahead. The two greatest testaments to the incredible character and strength of my wife are Suzanne and Rob. Suzanne shall succeed in Texas and anywhere else that life's journey may take her because she has been well-taught.

More than that though. She has opened up her heart and her mind to learning the lessons that Margaret has taught to her. Lessons Margaret learned from Suzy B. who in turn learned them from Nan. Nan lived so well and for so long that I suspect she was in fact the original teacher - and the original author of the Book of Life.

(I have this picture framed on a shelf in my office, as I have had since I took it standing in "the Pit" at Springsteen's 10/03/09 concert at Giants Stadium, the first Springsteen concert Suz had ever attended with Margaret and me. I suspect that both my wife and my daughter shall groan upon seeing its presence here. This is among my favorite photographs. In it, they are as they have always been: side by side, shoulder to shoulder and united in their purpose. A damned formidable duo....even before Suz developed the ability to deadlift two or three Backstreet Boys at once.)

As she heads off today, I know that Suz shall do well in Texas for she has never failed to do well in anything she has attempted. I wish that I could say that her success is owed in substantial part to my good efforts. I cannot. Two decades into it, I suspect highly that I have never quite gotten the complete gist of this whole Dad gig. I kept presuming that at some point I would figure it out. Tonight the only bedroom occupied in our home will be ours. I reckon the time for figuring it out has pretty much been used up completely.

I am no genius. Yet, I was smart enough however to know that which I did not know, which led to me standing off to the side a lot so as to not screw up whatever it was Suz was in the process of achieving while she was achieving it. I am happy that in spite of my limitations, I never turned into an obstacle she could not overcome. Truth be told, the obstacle that Suzanne cannot overcome has not been invented yet and it is not likely to appear on the horizon any time soon.

Tomorrow morning Suzanne shall awaken somewhere very far from here. Yet, even with New Jersey squarely in her rear-view mirror, the road she will travel on will be the one that carries her home. And that will never change. No matter where she goes. There shall always be a road that leads her home....

....and Margaret and I shall be here to welcome her. Always.

Suz, Mom and I shall miss you more than we can adequately express. Your absence from our day-to-day shall be painful. The love we have for you and the pride we feel in you for all that you have done and all that you shall do shall ease it. We shall be better than fine. So shall you.

Always.

-AK

One More Sleep

2011-11-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

It hit me yesterday afternoon. The fact that Suzanne is moving to Texas tomorrow. Up until yesterday afternoon it was something of a conversation item. Something to talk about. It existed only in the deepest corners of my mind. Not in the forefront of it.

All of that changed yesterday afternoon. I spent about thirty minutes - ably assisted by the Missus - packing Suz's car. About halfway through the process it occurred to me that what I was doing was not simply packing her car. I was making her life transportable. All of it - but for Ryan and her - is now neatly stored within the cozy confines of her trusty little Dodge Neon, at rest in our garage. It awaits the commencement of the great migration southwest. It is now only twenty-four hours away.

Our kids grew up in a household where their mother taught them to measure things in terms of "sleeps". Suz has lived a lifetime's worth of sleeps under our roof - including the past eleven-plus years' worth in her room at the top of the stairs. Tonight shall be her final sleep at least for the foreseeable future. Quite possibly forever.

In my head, I have been prepared for this day for years. Now that it has arrived on my doorstep I realize that I am woefully unprepared for it. But I also realize that whether I am matters not at all. All that matters is that the formerly little girl who grew to adulthood under her mother's watchful eye is ready. And she is.

One more sleep.

-AK

Yogi Berra Super Genius

2011-11-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Lawrence Peter Berra is arguably the greatest to play his position in the 100+ year history of Major League Baseball and he is one of the all-time best clutch hitters the game has ever known. He is undeniably an American treasure. And in case you started the Dance of the Giblets a bit early during this abbreviated holiday week or are simply having difficulty arising from your Tryptophan-heightened daze on this morning after Turkey Day, you might have missed a couple of things that happened right before Thanksgiving that reinforced his status as a Super Genius.

Wednesday was a tough day to be a prosecutor anywhere within the jurisdictional boundaries of Newark, New Jersey. Whether your beat was the Federal Courthouse or the Superior Court of New Jersey, it mattered not. First, in the Federal Courthouse the United States Attorney's Office - having spent five and one-half weeks trying one of its own former brethren for murder - ended up with no better than a draw. A jury of twelve deliberated for more than five days in the murder trial of Paul Bergrin. Bergrin is a well-known criminal defense lawyer (and former Asst. United States Attorney) who was on trial for murder and for conspiracy to commit the murder of a witness. He eschewed the maxim that, "An attorney who represents himself has a fool for a client" and acted as his own counsel.

On Wednesday, after five-plus days of considering the evidence presented, the jury informed the judge that it was hopelessly deadlocked, which prompted him to declare a mistrial. Bergrin's faith in himself was rewarded. Bergrin is not out of the woods yet in terms of either these two charges or the other charges still pending against him. However, after Round One, he appears to be ahead on points on all scorecards. It shall be interesting to see how the government chooses to proceed. I reckon that we shall know the answer to that question sooner rather than later.

On a typical Wednesday, the mistrial in Bergrin's murder trial might have been the most scintillating legal story of the day. Not on this Wednesday. For on the Wednesday that just sped past us as we were stuffing turkeys and saucing cranberries, something even more atypical occurred in the Superior Court. In 1978, five teenage boys disappeared from the streets of Newark. They had last been seen together, shooting hoops or some such thing. For three decades, no trace of them was ever discovered. They were simply gone.

Dedicated detectives never gave up the investigation altogether. In 2008 a man named Philander Hampton confessed to having had a role in the quintet's disappearance and - as he told the story - murder. He not only implicated himself in the crime but he laid the lion's share of the responsibility at the feet of his cousin Lee Evans. In March 2010, Evans and Hampton were formally charged with five counts of murder five counts of murder and five counts of felony murder in the deaths of Michael McDowell, Randy Johnson and Alvin Turner, all 16, and Melvin Pittman and Ernest Taylor, both 17.

Hampton entered a plea of guilty to felony murder in exchange for a reduced sentence and testified against Evans at trial. In relying upon Hampton, the Essex County Prosecutor's Office did something that it would have preferred not to have had to do: it went "all in" with him. No DNA evidence surfaced to link Evans to the crimes. Prosecutors had no fingerprint evidence either.

Evans proclaimed his innocence from the time of his arrest. At trial, he took a page out of the Paul Bergrin playbook and represented himself. Unlike Bergrin, Evans is not a well-regarded, experienced criminal defense lawyer. He is a mason.

Wednesday, after having spent more than a dozen hours over four days deliberating the evidence that had been presented at trial, the jury acquitted Lee Evans on all charges. He was found "not guilty" on all ten counts. According to the Star-Ledger:

Although Evans displayed no emotion in court as the verdict was read, he requested that the judge tell him, “You’re dismissed.” And she did. On the short elevator ride down from the courtroom to the courthouse lobby, Evans hung his head in his hands and cried..

What actually happened to the five young boys who went out one evening in the summer of 1978 and never came home to their families I do not pretend to know. I do know that a jury of twelve seated in a courtroom in Newark, New Jersey determined that the State was not able to meet its considerable burden of proving beyond a reasonable doubt that Lee Evans had killed them.

One of the best lawyers I know is a former classmate of mine from Seton Hall Law. Ed McElroy is a sharp, quick-witted dude not to mention a damn fine trial attorney and an even better human being. On Wednesday afternoon, he and I exchanged e-mails about all the goings-on in Newark. I mentioned the fact that Evans, a mason, had represented himself at trial. Ed, never one to miss a beat, replied that Evans had himself disproven the not-quite-as-well-known axiom of, "A mason who represents himself has a tool for a client." Quite true.

For the State, the investigation into the disappearance and presumed murder of those five young souls is now over. For Lee Evans, it is over too. Tragically, more than thirty years after the fact it appears to be further from over than it has ever been before for the families of the five youngsters.

Some heavy sh*t hit the fan right before the holiday. But not all that was heavy was bad as well. Some of it was just heavy even if it was a feat performed by a woman who is anything but. Tip for anyone struggling with what to do with Thanksgiving leftovers: Call Sonya Thomas.

In case you were wondering, Yogi was right of course....

....for today anyway.

-AK

Happiness in a Big Brown Shoe

2011-11-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

Whether I deserved it or not (if you are wagering, put your money on the latter), slightly more than twenty years Life landed me at Margaret's doorstep. But for her, I would have nothing. I do an unsatisfactory job of conveying it to them more often than not, but I am beyond thankful every day for her and for Suz and for Rob. With them, I have all I need and more than I could have ever hoped to have. Without them, I would have nothing.

I know not where you awakened this morning. I know not where those who you love the most of all awakened. Whether it was in the same place or in different ones, do not let today fade into tomorrow without telling them that you love them and that you are thankful for their presence in your life. You will be happy you did. So will they.

I hope that Thanksgiving brings you more than just happiness. I hope it brings you peace. Happiness is good. Peace is better.

Happy Thanksgiving.

To you too Jimmy Walker....still Dy-No-Mite after all these years.

-AK

Paint It Black

2011-11-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

If I recall my history correctly, then today is the busiest day of the entire year on which to travel. A lot of folks are on their way over the river and through the woods apparently. If you are among them - or if someone you love is, then I hope that you/they make it from Point A to Point B in as uneventful and boring a fashion as possible.

Admittely, my information could be wrong. Most of my Thanksgiving Eve-related travel - actually all of it I think - occurred while I was matriculating my way towards my degree at CU, which matriculation took place (as Don McLean once sang), "A long, long time ago."

I note now, looking at my CU Alumni Association Calendar on my office wall that CU students have been off all week for Fall break. No such animal existed on the Boulder campus whilst I was there - unless it did and I was in too much of drunken stupor to realize it. I cannot pretend to know (a) how many years it has been in existence; and/or (b) whether the school's implementation of it had anything to do with shutting down the tension convention associated with Thanksgiving travel.

Perhaps the University higher-ups simply wanted their students to be home -wherever that may be - so that they could spend their Thanksgiving night on the road to their favorite retail outlet to kick off their Christmas shopping? As we are being reminded of this year, 'tis never too early to hit the mall. Or the big box store.

Americans fascinate me. We are after all the same bunch of ornery, whiny little bags who shall complain until the cows come home over the length of lines at security checkpoints at airports or public arenas. Yet we shall spend the night in sleeping bags and pup tents for the opportunity to be the first one across the threshold of a Wal-Mart, Best Buy or Costco to purchase all of the "must have" items on our Christmas shopping lists. Require me to spend a half-hour in line in order to better protect me from someone with bad intentions? F*** You Roy - and Trigger too. Permit me to spend twelve hours in line, outside, overnight and in the cold for first crack at Betsy Wetsy or some such other bullsh*t? G*d Bless America!

Should retailers be commended or condemned this year for formally giving in to the inevitable and opening as early at 8:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving night ("I'll take my mince pie to go Grandma, the Apple Store opens in fifteen minutes") in anticipation of the Black Friday insanity? Margaret and I were watching TV on Monday night and a spot came on for Wal-Mart, which is opening its stores (at least in the New York area) at 10:00 P.M. on Thanksgiving night to get a jump on Black Friday, in which Wal-Mart sold the concept as one designed to enable you the shopper to beat the crowds without having to first spend the night outside waiting for the store to open.

We the people of the United States grow fatter and unhealthier by the year. We can not pry our ever-expanding asses (this poor woman is exempted from this particular list this year) from the couch to go to the gym, for walks or to change the channel on our televisions. Yet dangle the promise of being the first moron on our block to have the hottest sh*t this Christmas (sorry, I am not "PC" so "Holiday" just does not exist in my vernacular), and we break into a national salute to Jesse Owens.

One might think that either we the retailing public or they the retailers would be ashamed of the heights - or are they the depths - to which our crassness has reached this year. No chance. That train jumped the tracks a long time ago. Thankfully, at least some got off before it did.

Here in the New York metropolitan area there are almost as many electronics retailers as there are nail salons and Chinese take-out joints. A lot of them are here today, gone tomorrow. One of them, which is still owned by the same family that started it, has been in business for more than a century. When asked about the bum's rush to the start of the shopping season - including moving up the starting time for Black Friday to Thanksgiving itself P.C. Richard & Son President Gregg Richard said, "A lot of people are opening at midnight now and we may do that one day. But we will still choose to not be open on Thanksgiving. It's disrespectful to family values."

Considering that his family's business has been in business for more than 100 years, his point of view might be more than simply refreshing. It might be right.

Just saying.

I wanna see it painted black, painted black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun, blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black

-AK

A Day Worth Shooting Down....

2011-11-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

The most advantageous thing about being a moron is that the bar is lowered just about to shin level regarding things that delight, shock and amaze me. It is as if the remote control I hold in my hand is programmed to channel surf nothing but good stuff (speaking of which, I hope everyone else is as excited as I am by the promise of Friday night's show on Nat Geo WILD: Shark Attack Experiment LIVE).

I spent a bit of my Sunday out and about. Skate and I made our usual jaunt up the mountain to the A&P for the weekly grocery shopping. During that portion of Sunday, the sky was sunny and blue. It really was a quite gorgeous late November morning. At some point later on that afternoon - while I was apparently otherwise engaged - the weather turned. Slate gray replaced azure blue as the sky's Crayola of choice. Where only a few hours earlier not even a whiff of rain could be detected, its impending arrival was announced in broad brush strokes.

It was at or about this point that a reasonable man might have asked himself, "Self - while I was out running around this morning and it was so bright, sunny and warm that I had the window down in my car, did I ever remember to go back out onto the driveway and shut it?" Had said man asked said question, then a stupid man - and one whose resemblance to my mirror's reflection is uncanny - might not have needed scuba fins and a regulator to drive to work Monday morning.

A generation ago Geldof posed the question, "Tell me why I don't like Mondays?" to which almost everyone has an answer or two. Add "swamp ass" to the compilation under my photo. Thanks.

Actually, I am kidding about the swamp ass. Having walked out onto our driveway yesterday morning (in the still-teeming rain) and been confronted by an open space where my driver's side window would have been - had it been rolled up - I did a quick inspection of Skate to see just how bad things were inside the car. Much to my chagrin and in response to the query, "How much water did the car's cloth driver's seat absorb?", the answer proved to be, "All of it." Fortunately we have a large box full of what Costco sells as "Contractor-size garbage bags". Judging by the size of them, I presume that the name suggests a method of disposal for a plumber or handyman who really pisses you off while working at your home. Whether you can lift him off of the ground is your issue I suppose but there is clearly enough space within this garbage bag to place the body of an average-sized adult. No question about it.

Its jumbo size came in very handy on my morning commute seeing as driving to the surface of the sun for the purpose of flash-drying Skate's interior was not available to me as a remedy. I admit that I felt like a character from a Tarantino movie, driving while seated on a large plastic bag that completely covered the driver's seat - as if I was attempting to avoid leaving any trace evidence behind at a crime scene. Nothing quite like starting the work week by giving off the impression of being a human-flavored fruit roll-up.

Ignorance may be bliss but stupidity is ecstasy....

....while providing yet another reason not to like Mondays.

-AK

Lessons Taught and Learned

2011-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

A portion of yesterday at our house was spent yesterday in a sacred exercise. This time next week Suzanne shall be Texas-bound. At some point after she arrives in Texas and sets up her home, no doubt a Sunday shall arrive when Suz continues the finest of family traditions: Sunday macaroni. During the course of the past several years - as she has flirted with the idea of moving from home to one location or another - she had discussed with Margaret on more than one occasion doing precisely what they did yesterday.

Yesterday was the day on which Margaret revealed to Suz the "secret of the sauce". I stayed out of the way while the "how to" session took place. I did get to hear the sounds of questions being asked, answers being given and laughter being shared.

Fortunately I was among the quartet who got to test the fruits of their labor. Suzanne proved to be a quick study. Given her track record for learning, not really much of a surprise there. None of us made mention of the fact that last night's dinner was not simply symbolic but also more than a tad bittersweet. Left unspoken was now that the lesson had been learned, Suz was ready to take it on the road with her to Texas.

I have only been to Texas one time in my life. I was not there long enough to know just how well-developed the Eye-Talian population is (and I was in Dallas which is a considerable distance from Houston) so in an effort to ensure that my young chef can replicate in the Lone Star State the kitchen magic she pulled off here in the State of Concrete Gardens, I did a bit of 21st Century detective work. Even if she is unable to locate Tuttorosso tomatoes anywhere in the greater Houston area, we can bring the "old country" to her. Man, do I love the Internet.

Although not as much as I love Sunday macaroni and sauce. I have a hunch that Texas is going to learn to love it as much as I do.....

....and the chef as well.

-AK

Saturday in 'Squan

2011-11-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

This time next week Margaret and I shall spend the day saying goodbye to Suzanne. Yesterday, the three of us spent a simply fantastic day together in Manasquan. Suz and I ran in the Turkey Trot. It was held - as it has been for a number of years - on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Yesterday marked the third time I have participated in it.

Next Saturday will not be a banner day in our home for the Missus and me. While Margaret and I are happy for Suz and hope Texas is even better to her than she hopes it shall be, it would be untrue to say that we are looking forward to her move. This time next week, ours shall be an empty nest.

Yesterday Suz and I ran the five-mile route through the streets of Manasquan accompanied by 2,000 or so other runners. Afterwards, the three of us joined Gidg, Lynne and other members of the Family Kizis, Carolyn and Ryan and various and sundry other folks for a post-race celebration at Leggett's. On a simply beautiful, sunny, fifty-plus degree November day, we had a wonderful time. Manasquan is a great place to run. People lined the street for most of the course, including the folks who had the beer stop in their driveway shortly after we passed the 3 mile mark. It is always great when you are running in a race to see and hear people on the side of the course waving, clapping and cheering. It is energizing.

Not only was yesterday Suz's maiden voyage in the Turkey Trot, it marked her maiden voyage at the five-mile distance. She did a great job. And she did so at a less than eleven minute mile pace. Gidg ran her best time ever in this event. Gidg's niece, Liv, who is all of thirteen ran her personal best for five miles by close to five minutes. Even this old man did something that I had never done before in a five-mile race. I broke the 40 minute barrier.

Hell of a way to spend a Saturday.

-AK

Keep the Change

2011-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Once upon a lifetime ago - at some point before the Federal Government got into the automobile business - there was a saying, "As GM Goes, So Goes the Nation." As Mr. Dylan once observed the times they are indeed a-changin'. The observation regarding GM appears to be one of historical perspective as opposed to present case analysis.

Not all is lost in America's Heartland, mind you. Not by a longshot. This Thursday, Detroit's Lions shall host the first of the NFL's Thanksgiving Day games as they have done for more years than I have been alive. In a nice change of pace, the Lions are still actually playing meaningful games as the NFL schedule reaches November's final full week. That does not happen very often. I am at a loss to recall when the last time - prior to this year - that it was such a year.

Thanksgiving Day in Detroit means football. This year's opponent is the defending Super Bowl Champion - and long-time rival - Green Bay Packers. Since the game is on Thanksgiving Day, it shall be nationally televised on FOX. National TV game on a holiday means also that the NFL and the TV people will do all that they can do to entice non-football fans to the set to watch the game. How do they do that? A number of ways I suppose. One of them is to arrange to have a popular recording artist (solo or group) provide the halftime entertainment.

This year's halftime act in Detroit? Nickelback. I consider myself to be a fan of many different types of music. Nickelback is not among them. I do not know any of the folks in the band and have little interest here in maligning them personally. Suffice it to say that to my ear, their success remains a mystery. No accounting for taste I suppose.

Apparently I am not the only one who shall not be spending $10.00 and a stamp to enroll in the Nickelback Fan Club. Courtesy of the earnest efforts of Dennis Guttman of Ann Arbor Michigan (he is, I believe, a student at the University of Michigan, where he is clearly learning how to effectively present an argument from a certain stalwart at the U of M law school. For anyone out there concerned that Mr. Guttman is a close-minded xenophobe, fear not. He has a far more substantive reason for not wanting Nickelback to perform on the most American of all holidays. He thinks they stink:

This game is nationally televised, do we really want the rest of the US to associate Detroit with Nickelback? Detroit is home to so many great musicians and they chose Nickelback?!?!?! Does anyone even like Nickelback? Is this some sort of ploy to get people to leave their seats during halftime to spend money on alcoholic beverages and concessions? This is completely unfair to those of us who purchased tickets to the game. At least the people watching at home can mute their TVs. The Lions ought to think about their fans before choosing such an awful band to play at halftime.

Following along with Mr. Guttman's reasoning, Rush or Neil Young would be acceptable halftime performers, their Maple Leaf heritage notwithstanding. Frankly, I like his argument. And presumably at least some of the more than 40,000 people who have signed his petition do as well. I would care not if halftime consisted of nothing other than a high school or college marching band. The pop/rock mini-concerts are always train wrecks (if you disagree Google "The Who" and "Super Bowl Half-Time Show"). Hell, if Janet Jackson had been wearing a pasty, no one would have any recollection at all of her otherwise completely unforgettable performance.

I do not know whether the efforts of Guttman and his fellow Lions fans will prove successful. I applaud the undertaking and thank them for it. For too long have we the viewers of televised sporting events sat idly by and let the powers that be cram any and all pre-packaged crap from the musical automat down our throats while we are just trying to watch a football game. If Guttman and his fellow signees are successful, then they will have given the rest of us yet one more reason to be thankful....

....and a Thanksgiving actually worth looking forward to.

-AK

From the Desk of the Devil's Workshop

2011-11-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

First things first. Three years ago on this very day Margaret and I sat in a chapel in Georgia and watched Rob graduate from FLETC. It was as happy a day as I have ever spent in my life. Having just seen the boy child (as I - and no one else - like to refer to him) just last weekend, it is almost mind-boggling to me how much more grown up he seems now than he did even then. In my mind's eye I can see him on the phone in his dorm room after the ceremony - still dressed in his suit - talking to Nona and filling her in on the morning's events. Three years ago today.

I have no idea for how many seasons Dancing with the Stars has been on television for I have never watched an episode. I do know however that this season there is yet another member of the America's first family of ceaseless self-promotion participating in it. I saw on-line the other morning that Rob Kardashian (ostensibly the "star" in his pairing) and his partner are one of three teams still standing. I presume that the show started airing in September in accordance with the beginning of the new television season. Presuming that is true, then his relationship with his partner (dance) has lasted longer than his sister Kim's relationship with her partner (marital). That is a sad commentary to be certain. Whether it is a sad commentary on the Kardashians or on the rest of us I know not.

Last Friday when the Missus and I were temporarily home on the Front Range, one of the things that we were not able to do was drive up to the summit of Flagstaff Mountain, which is just outside of Boulder. When Margaret saw Colorado for the first time in the Fall of 2001 and again when we were there with Joe in July of 2009, I took my wife's picture standing next to the elevation sign at the summit. We like to think of it as Margaret's retort to all of those inane, "This Car Climbed Mt. Washington" bumper stickers that have polluted the landscape seemingly forever. Our efforts to complete the pictorial trifecta were rebuffed last week.

We presumed that the reason for the road closure was weather-related. Now, we think it might have been for something altogether different. Apparently a young fellow visiting from Missouri thought that climbing the First Flatiron while hallucinating on 'shrooms was a really clever thing to do. A thought that undoubtedly seemed much funnier (and safer) while he was on the ground staring up at the Flatiron as opposed to actually climbing upon it. His climbing partner called for assistance and little Petey PCP Head had to be rescued by the Sheriff's Department and the Fire Department. Thanks for harshing our mellow, slacker dudes. Much obliged.

Sadly, these two are neither the dumbest nor (mercifully) the most sadistic members of the Boulder community to allegedly run afoul of the law out there recently. Not even close. That ignominious honor belongs to the power trio of Nicholas Philip Foti, Lucas Holton and August Quinn Noble. These three - all 19 years of age - were arrested by Boulder police earlier this week, "after they admitted to officers they killed a raccoon with a baseball bat and a machete."

I know not what is more curious to me: the fact that it took three of them to apply this beatdown to a raccoon or that at least one of them was able to put his hands on a machete to use in the attack. It is always nice to know that some knuckle-dragging miscreant who lives in your neighborhood has access to something as fun for all to play with as a machete. For their trouble, all three could be charged with felony aggravated cruelty to an animal. I know what part of their tale sickens me the most. Foti and Noble are CU students. If they plead guilty or are convicted of a crime arising out of this incident, then count this Alum as one who hopes that CU kicks these two little asshats to the curb....or ties them by their ankles to a rope affixed to Ralphie's back legs and then permits our beloved mascot to drag them behind her as she makes her pre-game jaunt during every home game in 2012.

Here at home, we are not growing them any brighter - or any less offensive. Last Friday afternoon, while mourners were gathered at the Ewing Cemetery for a 2:00 funeral, Carol Cimino was rifling through at least one of the mourner's cars from which she pilfered a pocketbook. She was interrupted in mid-purloin after which she immediately fled the scene in a red Dodge Charger (you have to love a thief who (a) works cemeteries; and (b) drives a cool getaway car). The police were able to arrest her only a few hours later, courtesy of the fact that the person who put the kibosh on her one-woman crime spree jotted down the Charger's license plate number. Perhaps next time around, Carol will use a less high-profile ride as her escape vehicle. Something a tad less easy to remember perhaps?

Then again, perhaps there shall be no next time for Carol Cimino. She is after all 65 years old. Perhaps getting nabbed this one time will be enough to get her back on the straight and narrow? I know not. And for all we know, she may end up being able to bet this rap yet. She is 65. Keep your eyes peeled for a filing by her attorney of his/her intent to use the "Uncle Leo Defense".

Remember - whether it works or not, you still say "Hello".

-AK

The Amazing Mr. Hurley

2011-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

I am fortunate enough to be able to lay claim to the fact that I have known Gabriel Hurley for most of his life. He and Suzanne have been friends seemingly forever. They attended and graduated together from Our Lady of Mount Virgin School right here 'NTSG. A couple of years later, when Gabe was matriculating at St. Joe's High School, he and Chris Bieksha (another OLMV alum), served as volunteer assistants for me when I coached Rob's OLMV 7th/8th grade basketball team. Once upon a lifetime ago, Gabe and his folks lived just around the corner from us. I was apt to find him in the backyard and/or in the kitchen, playing guitar with Rob or hanging with Suz, or blazing past me on his daily run through the neighborhood. I am a notoriously tough grader when it comes to other people's children. Gabe has long been among my favorites - and in the interest of full disclosure his running buddy Chris B. is on that list too.

In the late spring/early summer of 2009 Gabe was involved in a motor vehicle accident. I earn my daily bread attempting to pooh-pooh the significance of injuries that individuals claim to have sustained due to my client's negligence. Based upon what I do to earn my living I do not toss around lightly the term "catastrophic" when discussing one's accident-related injuries. I would not use the term catastrophic to describe the injuries Gabe suffered either.

I would not use it in Gabe's case because catastrophic does not come close to describing them. I like to think that I know a fairly wide array of words - at least in English. I know not of one that paints an accurate picture of Gabe's although "numbing", "life-altering" and "horrific" seem as partially descriptive - and therefore as fatally flawed - as catastrophic.

What happened to Gabe would have killed me. I say that without reservation because I lack the steely spine this young man has displayed without exception in the two-plus years since his accident. Before his accident he was an extremely talented guitar player and his band was just starting to get noticed. He might be better now than he was then. Given that among the injuries he sustained was the complete loss of vision, his chops are not simply excellent they are miraculous.

In the course of the past couple of weeks, people far better at describing such things have written about young Mr. Hurley. One of the articles spoke to his musical prowess. I have to confess that until I read the piece on Gabe and his band, I did not realize that The Aquarian still existed. Talk about your nice surprises.

Even better than the piece regarding his mad guitar-playing skills is one that appears in Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital's, "Breakthroughs Magazine". To have a full appreciation of just how much this amazing young man has overcome, consider the words of his plastic surgeon Dr. Tushar Patel, "When he arrived both globes (eyes) were ruptured and the tissue in his face was completely destabilized."

And less than two and one-half years after an accident that could have killed him and - were he a lesser man - would have destroyed, it has done neither. Kudos to my young friend for the good press. Every word of praise is deserved. Every one of them has been well-earned.

A truly remarkable young man. One who I am very happy and very privileged to know. One for whom undoubtedly better days lie ahead. And one who - should I ever grow up - I would very much like to be just like.

-AK

The Queen & Her Rooftop Spaceship

2011-11-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today is the birthday of the "Queen of the Next Gen". My niece Jessica - who is the oldest child of my oldest sister Evan (is it just me or are we working on a Dylan lyric) - celebrates her birthday today. I remember being a fairly young fellow when Jessica was born. In my mind's eye I suppose that she will be forever young. I know better than that. She herself became a mom for the first time not too terribly long ago. Her daughter is - based upon all photographic evidence I have seen - simply adorable. One cannot help but notice the striking resemblance between that little girl and her youngest great-uncle on her mother's side although I am at a loss as to why no one other than me seems to see the resemblance.

Jessica is not only the tip of the spear of the next generation of Kennys, she is unique among her cousins in that the life of her maternal grandfather actually overlapped hers at least for a little while. For most - if not all - of her first cousins, he exists only in pictures seen and stories recounted by parents and others of my generation. She was not just a baby in her shared existence with him. She was a walking, talking little human being and by my memory very much the apple of Grandpa's eye. It takes a strong backbone and an iron will to serve as a bridge. She has both.

I smiled thinking about my eldest niece this morning on the occasion of her birthday because I thought of silliness such as the infamous spaceship on the roof of Mom/Dad's house in Neshanic Station. For years when she was a very little girl I told her that there was a spaceship parked on the roof of the house. I also told her of course that she was too young to be allowed to go up on the roof and see it for herself.

Why I settled on "spaceship on the roof" as the ruse of choice I know not. It was likely my half-assed attempt to carry on the tradition in our family of age-based restrictions that older siblings created out of whole cloth to torture those of us at the younger end of the chain. Unlike Canal Road, the house in Neshanic Station did not have a full-sized attic - (accessible only by way of a staircase secreted from view behind a heavy door in an upstairs bathroom) - to serve as the "Age 10 and Older" Shangri-La. That glaring design flaw necessitated the creation of the spaceship on the roof scenario. Also, I had no younger brother or sister upon whom to inflict such inanity. That too was a glaring design flaw that I lacked the ability to remedy. Jessica was the best available option/target.

She handled her end of the bargain with aplomb. I suspect now that she never suspected then that Grandma and Grandpa had a spaceship atop the roof of their house - although we lived so far out beyond Nowhere's middle that the aliens from Independence Day could have parked their entire expeditionary force in our back yard quite comfortably. I suspect that she simply humored her dopey uncle.

Whether her belief in the existence of the rooftop spaceship was genuine or simply her way of humoring me I know not. And all these years later it matters not. Rooftop spaceships always make me smile. And in that regard, they are not only priceless but timeless as well.

-AK

November Remembrances

2011-11-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

We are halfway through November. Already. It shall likely be a forty-five day sprint to year's end from this point forward for a lot of us. The stress and anxiety normally associated with the "holiday season" in the best of times is amplified and multiplied during times like these. My advice? Take deep breaths, slow your stride a pace or two and enjoy what is happening around you to the extent that you can. It is not always easy. I am as likely to violate this maxim as anyone I know but try to find a moment or two to embrace that which you have while spending a moment or two less pining over that which you lack. Easier said than done? Surely. Worth the attempt? Absolutely.

The Missus begins her newest work adventure today. About six weeks ago, she left what had been her professional home for several years to take on a new challenge. Sadly, the challenge became trying to balance that which had been told to her when she interviewed for the gig with what the gig actually was when she started working there. What it was represented to be turned out to be something significantly different from what it actually was. The dichotomy was not something she could reconcile. Thus she has moved on to something new. Bigger and better? We shall see. I hope only that it makes her happy. Being married to me should be the most stressful part of her day-to-day. Believe me when I say keeping an eye on an idiot is in and of itself a full-time gig for Margaret.

Margaret took advantage of her final "vacation" day to bring our old man Milo home. Milo was cremated. Yesterday Margaret went to the office of the doctor who put him to sleep to pick up his remains. He is now where he shall stay until we bid farewell to 57 Delaware, which is on a shelf in the den next to the fireplace. For an eyelash short of two decades, he lived as an integral part of the fabric of our family. That bond shall not be broken.

Much has been written in the past ten days about the atrocities that are alleged to have been committed against multiple youngsters at the hands of former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky. I am compelled at this moment - before going further - to say two things. First, I have read the entire Grand Jury report/presentment in this matter. If you have voiced an opinion on the case and its peripheral issues (such as the firing of Joe Paterno) without having read it, then do so. Second, it is the lawyer in me that mandated that I use the phrase "alleged to have been committed". The case laid out in the Grand Jury report is damning but Sandusky has to date denied any and all wrongdoing. Until such time as he pleads guilty to any or all of the charges and/or is found guilty after a trial, the phrase "alleged to have been committed" applies.

Disclaimer notwithstanding, I weep not at all for Joe Paterno or for anyone else at Penn State who has paid for his role in this whole affair with his job. Gene Wojciechowski writes for espn.com and (I think) the network's magazine also. On Friday last he wrote a piece that included the following remark, "Success without honor is an unseasoned fish. It will satisfy your hunger, but it won't taste good."

The words were Coach Paterno's, given as part of his Commencement Address to the Penn State University Class of 1973. As true today as they were when he spoke them almost thirty years ago. Am I alone left to wonder if they mean anything to him today and if they meant anything to him when he uttered them? Were they words to live by or merely something to say? I know not. I wonder if he does.

I doubt it.

-AK

Air Travail

2011-11-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

A Monday that follows on the heels of a shortened work week seems especially cruel. One that follows a great vacation seems doubly so. I will try to keep my "back to work and less than happy about it" mojo to myself today. After all when you are the one returning to the office on Monday after not simply a weekend but an extended one at that, your fellow workers are less than sympathetic to your angst. And with good reason.

Yesterday was a bit of a dead day for the Missus and me. We headed down from Boulder to Denver early in the morning in order to catch our 10:15 flight to Newark. Our flight was - as they say in the trade - "oversold". The good news was that Continental found enough people who were willing to give up their seat on the flight in exchange for a travel voucher. The bad news was that every one of the flight's seats was occupied.

Among the occupied seats was the one in which young Spence was seated. Spence was on the plane with his big sister and his parents. Spence, as we all found out while sitting on the tarmac at DIA awaiting takeoff, is two. And young Spence has - as we all do - his list of favorite things. While I know not what items are on his, I learned right quick what is not. Flying. When - at some point over Ohio - Spence finally screamed himself into exhaustion we all smartly resisted the temptation to cheer. It was tough but we pulled it off....

....kudos to his mom and dad for setting an example all of us were happy to follow.

-AK

The Latest in the Series

2011-11-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

No time passes more slowly than the time between when you decide to do something to which you are looking forward very much and its arrival. No time passes more quickly than the time spent between the commencement of that much-anticipated activity and its conclusion. This morning, after an eyeblink - or perhaps two - the Missus and I fly home from Colorado.

It was - as it always is - great to see Rob. The parent/adult child relationship was/is uncharted territory for me. My father died when I was fourteen. We were at best adversaries and at worst enemies who shared a roof atop our heads and a mailing address. He died before we ever made it to the next phase of our relationship. I know not what kind of relationship we would have had but for his death. Candidly, I have never given much thought to it. Has always struck me as an exercise in wasting time. Still does.

Given geographic limitations and the other limitations that pop up in everyone's day-to-day, I neither see Rob nor talk to him daily. In an odd way I think that is good for both of us. Among the many modern devices I loathe is the telephone. I do not enjoy using it to communicate with anyone. While I know not how chatty he is with anyone else on the phone, when it comes to our infrequent conversations via AGB's pride and joy, Rob is equally close-mouthed. I can spend a day or two in his company and talk with him non-stop about any number of things. I have no explanation as to the level of disconnect between one type of conversation and the other. It is what it is. I seek no explanation for it.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself these past few days. Boulder, Colorado is - and shall forever be - one of my favorite places on the planet. I smile at the mere mention of its name. I was a bit disappointed that when first Suz and then Rob went through the college selection process neither had any interest in migrating west to CU. Suz did apply there solely to make me happy. I still have her acceptance letter.

With neither of my kids wanting to go to college that far away from home, I presumed that the window of opportunity for me to return to Boulder had closed forever. Courtesy of Rob's work, it had not. I did wonder for a moment yesterday afternoon as we sat at Folsom watching the Buffs play Arizona and then again last night as we walked down Pearl Street whether I was seeing this place I love for the last time.

Rob's next work adventure may be just around the corner and it - when it commences - may take him miles away from Boulder. He is my connection now to this place. My tent peg as it were. I love the place and shall forever do so. But as I have grown older and my son has grown to be a man, I have come to realize that I enjoy the trips to Boulder now so much not because of it. I enjoy them so much because of him.

And wherever he is and wherever he goes, I shall enjoy any trip I get the chance to make there for precisely the same reason.

That is another story for another day however. As Mr. Joel once crooned, "Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes. I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again."

See you soon Rob. Til then, stay safe and be well.

-AK

Light Blindness

2011-11-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

With a boulder on my shoulder feelin' kinda older
I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing
the calliope crashed to the ground....

The Missus and I are spending the final full day of our excellent (albeit abbreviated) Colorado adventure enjoying Boulder in all of its splendor. And part of the day shall be spent doing something I did not think I would ever get to do, which is stand shoulder to shoulder with Rob at Folsom Field and watch my beloved Alma mater play. I wholly expect that this afternoon's game will go much the same way that ninety percent of this fall's tilts have gone for the Buffaloes, which is badly. While a victory would be nice, I believe that I win today simply by showing up. Selfish attitude? You bet. Apology forthcoming? Not likely.

Rob and I have hung out together in Folsom Field on one other occasion. On Memorial Day 2010 we ran the Bolder Boulder 10K race together. The race ends on the field at Folsom and post-race we hung out in the stands with about 45,000 other folks to watch, first, the professional runners race and, thereafter, a simply terrific Memorial Day celebration. Someone took a photo of us, which I still have in my office to serve as a reminder of one of the best days of my life

Today we shall be joined at Folsom Field by the Missus and Jess, whose Alma mater represents thus far this fall the "1" on the left side of the Buffs' won-loss record. Regardless of the final score, the four of us should have a terrific day....

....not that a "W" would not be appreciated. In the event that reading this space is part of Coach Embree's pre-game ritual (a scenario that I can readily envision....not) do not feel obligated to take it easy on 'Zona on my account Coach.

Shoulder to shoulder....

-AK

The Ballad of John McCrae

2011-11-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today is Veterans Day. From one who has neither volunteered to serve nor been involuntarily summoned to do to all of those men and women who have, I offer my humblest thanks and appreciation. And thanks as well to the families of those presently in service of this Nation - especially those stationed in places where being a member of the American military is decidedly dangerous - and best wishes to one and all that at some point in the not-too-distant future your and your loved one are not required to partake in a "long-distance" romance.

I realize that today is not Memorial Day. In addition to being Veterans Day, it is in fact also Armistice Day, the day memorializing the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. You have no doubt heard of World War I a/k/a "the War to End All Wars". The mere presence of a Roman numeral at the end of its name reveals the tragic absurdity of that statement.

Over the course of the past several years, I have had the chance to take Margaret, Rob, Suz and Joe to Washington, D.C. - a place where none of the four of them had otherwise been. Among the sights we saw and experienced were the World War II Memorial, the Vietnam War Memorial, the Korean War Memorial, the United States Marine Corps Memorial, the United States Air Force Memorial and the Tomb of the Unknown at Arlington National Cemetery. In lieu of original thoughts today, I wanted to simply share some of what we were fortunate enough to see. Regardless of the shape, size, color, placement or age of the memorial in the photographs, each is composed of the same materials: blood, heart and sacrifice.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

World War II Memorial

Vietnam War Memorial

Korean War Memorial

United States Marine Corps Memorial

United States Air Force Memorial

Arlington National Cemetery including the Tomb of the Unknown

If you were to tell me that you think every day should be Veterans Day, I would not debate the point. In a way, given that every day each of us awakens and goes to sleep in this Republic is owed in no small part to the sacrifice of those who serve presently and those who served before them, every day really already is; right?

-AK

Seeing Waddy in the Rattlesnake Cafe

2011-11-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

First things first. Tonight at 7:30 p.m. Jackie MacLean and her W-H Varsity Girls Soccer Team shall play against Mater Dei in the NJSIAA Sectional Final for the Non-Public South B title. My admiration of Coach MacLean and the young ladies in her program is well-documented in this space. They go about their business on and off of the pitch that is a source of pride to their families and friends and to W-H alums everywhere. They have had one helluva season. Good luck to them this evening and congratulations on a fantastic year.

I will not be in Holmdel to watch them play Mater Dei. Today is "I Wanna Be Like Horace Greeley When I Grow Up" Day in the Kenny household. In fact, that is a lie. I know not whether such a Day exists but I know that we do not celebrate it. I apologize for my telling of tales.

It is however the day on which the Missus and I travel west....at least as far as Colorado. We are off to spend a couple of days in some of the nicest country in these United States, including some quality time in Fort Collins with Rob and the lovely Jess and some time in and around the ol' Alma mater in Boulder. Happiness is a slice of Abo's Pizza - from the Abo's on the Hill in Boulder. I anticipate making time to get happy while I am within the jurisdictional confines of my one-time home.

Saturday afternoon I shall no doubt test the patience of Margaret, Rob and Jess simultaneously by requiring them to accompany me to Folsom to watch the scrappy Buffs close out the home portion of their '11 schedule. It has been a long, long autumn for the home team. That will change Saturday. The Buffs have never lost when Margaret has been in attendance. A cynic might be constrained to point out that she has in fact only seen them play live on one occasion. A cynic might be further constrained to point out that the one occasion in question was ten years ago. To the cynic I say, "Who the hell asked you?"

And more importantly I say, "It's an opportunity to spend a Saturday afternoon in Boulder watching my Buffs with Rob, which is a damn fine way to spend a Saturday afternoon." Our team might be down this year but our mascot will stomp the sh*t out of any other mascot in college football:

Off we go. The last time I flew Continental they lost my luggage. Here is to hoping that Margaret makes it safely out and back without them somehow losing her on me. Thankfully, she is small enough to fit into the overhead compartment so I am taking her on the plane with me.....

LeRoy says there is something you should know
Not everybody has a place to go.
And home is just a place to hang your head
And dream of things to do in Denver when you're dead.

....and while it is likely not a segue that shall bring a smile to her face, one final thing before I go today: Happy Birthday to my running companera Gidg. It delights me to no end that she is my "older" friend - by a grand total of eighty-five (85) days. Today is a milestone birthday for her as it is one that once upon a time (way back when she was young) was as associated with music as it was with age. Alas, the mp3, the CD and the DAT have rendered the 45 rpm obsolete. Not to worry though Gidg. Today also signals your membership into a new club for race purposes: Females 45 to 49. Way to go Newbie!

-AK

TGIW

2011-11-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happy Pseudo-Friday to me! I realize that it is indeed only Wednesday (and wonder whether Wednesday is still Prince Spaghetti Day in Boston and whether Anthony has heeded his mother's call and made it home in time for dinner. I have confidence in that little kid. I never once saw him fail to make dinner on a Wednesday night) but I am playing hooky the rest of the week. Thus, what is mid-week to you is the start of the weekend to me. I thank you in advance for your sympathies. I shall try to remain strong.

Kudos to the good people of the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network. This past Sunday our little quartet spent the morning in Parsippany on what was a drop-dead gorgeous early November day on which to run (a touch cold perhaps but nothing worth getting one's knickers in a bunch about) participating in the PurpleStride New Jersey 2011 5K Run/Walk. In only their second year of having this event, their participation bumped up from approximately 900 to in the neighborhood of 1,300. Good people doing good works for other good people. It was a pleasure and a privilege to spend a piece of my day in their company. Pancreatic cancer is one bad mamma-jamma. The survival rates are staggeringly low. But the people from "PanCan" are undaunted. November is Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month. Do yourself the favor of spending a moment or two here to learn more about the disease and the work of this group.

Death came Monday night for Joe Frazier. It comes for all of us to be sure. Monday night it arrived - not wholly unexpected but nevertheless uninvited - at Smokin' Joe's doorstep. A few years ago HBO aired a documentary about his classic fight in Manila against Ali. The documentary was extraordinary in that it went far beyond what transpired in the ring that evening. It examined the relationship of the two men in stark and often unflattering detail. I learned things about the two of them that I did not know. I also received confirmation of something that even as a little boy (which is what I was when these two were going toe to toe in the ring) I suspected was the case: Frazier knew that Ali meant to be hurtful when he used terms such as "gorilla", "dumb" and "Uncle Tom" in speaking of Frazier. Frazier knew it. Ali knew that Frazier knew. Frazier hated him for doing it. And, according to that particular piece of filmmaking at least, Frazier never stopped hating him for it.

Apropos of nothing, I have a device on this blog that permits me to see who visits it and when they visit what it is they come past this space to read. On April 14, 2009 I wrote about my impressions of "Thrilla in Manila" after having watched it a couple of nights earlier on HBO and my impressions of both Frazier and Ali. Apparently I was not the only one upon whom Smokin' Joe's outgoing voice mail message on his cell phone left an impression. Probably not less than one time a month someone pops by here off of a Google search, "joe frazier's voice mail". In the immmediate aftermath of his death being announced Monday night, my little corner of the information superhighway lit up with visitors from a number of different places. All of them ended up in my 'hood courtesy of that very same Google search.

The night I watched the documentary and listened to the voice mail message on Frazier's phone (it is played right at the end of the movie and you the viewer are alerted to its existence not by Smokin' Joe but by his brother Tommy who seemed to me to be more than a bit distressed by it too) it struck me as one of the saddest things I had ever heard. Now, knowing that Frazier has reached the end of his life it seems even worse somehow.

From afar Frazier seemed to be a man who was not able to live in peace. Now that his time has indeed come, I hope he is able to rest peacefully. Peace seemed to be long overdue.

Understand, in the end, Ma, every man plays the game
If you know me one different then speak out his name
Ma, if my voice now you don't recognize
Then just open the door and look into your dark eyes
I ask of you nothin', not a kiss not a smile,
Just open the door and let me lie down for a while

-AK

The Ballad of the Melancholy Man

2011-11-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

In his masterpiece "Downtown: My Manhattan" the great Pete Hamill wrote, "Sometimes no truth is more powerful than one expressed in anger by a melancholy man." Words to live by. Especially this morning. Especially at our house.

As you know if you popped by these parts the other day, we recently experienced a loss in our family. Sadly, Milo is not the first long-standing member of the tribe to whom we have bid farewell this year. I have written about Sparky in this space - the tree that Rob brought home to us a lifetime ago when neither was much bigger than a mere sprig. Sparky died a few months ago. A death that was as mysterious as it was sudden. I presumed - being my father's son - that something I had done to my tree killed it.

It appears as if I was not entirely incorrect. I unwittingly was a co-conspirator in Sparky's demise. And worse yet - I paid for my role. Literally. A couple of years back Margaret and I hired a firm to feed, fertilize and treat our lawn. I have little direct involvement with them. The Missus seemed generally satisfied with their work and Frank - our landscaping guru - also seemed to think that whatever the hell these guys were doing, they were doing well.

Less than a week after Sparky died and was removed from our front lawn, Margaret returned home from work to find a letter from our lawn dudes - Fairway Green - in our mailbox. The letter asked us to let them know if there was any problem with any of our trees or bushes. Apparently Fairway Green had started - just this season - using a DuPont manufactured herbicide Imprelis. Imprelis apparently has a slight problem - it kills everything it comes into contact whether or not it is something that it is supposed to kill. At our house that included Sparky.

We apparently did not acknowledge Fairway Green's first letter fast enough. On September 30th they wrote Margaret another letter inquiring as to any "unfavorable symptoms" we might have noticed any of our trees or shrubs experiencing due to their use of Imprelis. For whatever reason - but principally because they started their letter-writing campaign feigning an absence of knowledge as to the status of our tree only after we had been required to remove it from our lawn - the tone of their second letter legitimately pissed me off.

So I did what lawyers do: I wrote Fairway Green a letter laying out my case - including a pointed reference or two their own acknowledged negligence that they memorialized in their two letters to my wife - against them and against DuPont. And in an effort to ensure that I got both (a) immediate attention; and (b) an immediate response, I ended my letter by telling them that, "In view of your August 22, 2011 admission of negligence and your further communication of DuPont's tacit admission of its own - as set forth in your letter of September 30, 2011 we are considering our options. You may be assured that we shall keep you advised."

My letter elicited an immediate response from both Fairway Green and DuPont. And in less than thirty days from the date on which I informed my new favorite lawn service contractor and manufacturer of chemicals that kill all living things of my willingness to sue their asses, DuPont shall be at the house today talking to Margaret and hoping to sue for peace. Experience has taught me that my power of reincarnation is as ineffective with all things pine as it is with all things feline. At least today we are able to get a little something back for the former.

It is Election Day today. Get out there and vote.

-AK

The Long Walk Home

2011-11-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

Someone much smarter than I am (talk about a line so long that both its beginning and its end are impossible to discern from whatever your location in it might be) observed that it is the exception that proves the rule. As a rule in this space I do not discuss politics. You have yours. I have mine. To each his own.

Time and again, I bend - if not break entirely - that rule. Today is one such occasion. I think it is warranted. You might disagree. Opinions, much like politics, belong to the holder. I might point out at this juncture to whom the byline on this little piece of real estate belongs. If you are looking for your name, then look harder. It is down in the lower right-hand corner, crosshairs and perpendicular to the box entitled, "Suggestions".

Tomorrow is Election Day. All throughout the State of Concrete Gardens people will go to the polls. In addition to statewide, countywide and local races, New Jersey's voters shall be asked to vote upon Public Question #1.

Public Question #1 on the ballot is "the New Jersey Sports Betting Amendment". Full disclosure dictates that you doing the reading be told by me doing the writing that the driving force behind this amendment - and the placement of this issue on the ballot as a public referendum - is the Firm's Senior Partner. He is a State Senator, a Democrat who represents a District in Union County. He is also my boss.

Here is Question #1 as it shall appear on the ballot:

"Shall the amendment to Article IV, Section VII, paragraph 2 of the Constitution of the State of New Jersey, agreed to by the Legislature, providing that it shall be lawful for the Legislature to authorize by law wagering at casinos or gambling houses in Atlantic City and at current or former running and harness horse racetracks on the results of professional, certain college, or amateur sport or athletic events, be approved?"

Its interpretative statement reads as follows:

This constitutional amendment would authorize the Legislature to pass laws allowing sports wagering at Atlantic City casinos and at racetracks. Wagers could be placed on professional, certain college, or amateur sport or athletic events. However, wagers could not be placed on college games that take place in New Jersey or in which a New Jersey college team participates regardless of where the game takes place. A wager could be placed at a casino or racetrack either in-person or from any other location through an account wagering system that uses telephone, Internet or other means.

One could take the position that everything one needs to know about how important a "Yes" vote on this particular Question is can be gleaned from the fact that Governor Christie, a Republican who has waged some pretty heated battles with his Democratic counterparts in the State Legislature thus far in his term, has publicly declared his support for it. While it is true that at one time he did not support it, at a press conference last week Governor Christie confirmed his intention to vote "Yes" on Question #1:

“For those concerned what I’m going to do, I’m voting yes,” Christie said in advance of the statewide nonbinding referendum in Tuesday’s elections to allow sports betting.

“I think it’s important for New Jersey to have this option. I don’t think it’s fair that it’s restricted to just a few states. Gaming is surrounding us everywhere.”

Indeed it is. While the referendum on which we the people of the State of New Jersey is non-binding inasmuch as a federal law would have to be repealed or overturned in order to facilitate the plan, it is an essential first step. Pardon the dramatics here but absent this first step we shall take no further steps in support of this undertaking. And given the landscape around New Jersey and its ever tightening, noose-like quality, standing still is simply not an option. When the status quo will kill you, there is little risk in going forward. One could argue that it is our only option. And from where I am sitting, I believe that argument to be correct.

New Jersey has been - much like the other 49 states with whom we are united - turned into a State of Perpetual Bleeding these past few years. People are hurting everywhere you look - irrespective of the county they live in, the color of their skin or their political affiliation. The words Bruce Springsteen sang in "Long Walk Home" ring true statewide:

In town I pass Sal's grocery
Barber shop on South Street
I looked in their faces
They're all rank strangers to me
Well Veteran's Hall high upon the hill
Stood silent and alone
The diner was shuttered and boarded
With a sign that just said "gone"

It's gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home

Coincidentally, the Governor, the Senator and I share a devotion to Springsteen and his music. It is not however because of this common denominator (important as it may be under different circumstances) that I am voting, "Yes" to Question #1 tomorrow and urging all I know to do likewise. It is because of Tom Swales.

Tom Swales is a man I have known most of my life. Tom is many things, all of them are good. One thing he is not now and has never been is an alarmist. Chicken Little and Tom Swales shall never be mistaken for one another. Tom is a horseman. His family owns Tee-N-Jay Farms in Monroe Township and its thoroughbreds compete regularly and win (probably not as often as Tom would like) at Monmouth Park Racetrack.

Tom, the non-alarmist, educated me more than a little bit about what New Jersey gains from our horse racing industry. Educating me is always a challenge. I am not a bright man on most subjects, including horse racing. It is not unfair to say that I know nothing about it at all save for the number of races that comprise the Triple Crown.

Horse racing in New Jersey is responsible for more than 170,000 acres of open space. Perhaps more important than the industry's role in helping make sure that our children and grandchildren will be able to respirate without the use of equipment is its role in our state's economy. Horse racing generates more than $100 million in state and local tax revenue annually and generates over $1.1 billion per year for the state’s economy. Not too shabby.

So what does voting "Yes" on Question #1 have to do with the future of horse racing in New Jersey? According to Tom, everything. In a recent Letter to the Editor he wrote to the Star-Ledger, which appeared on November 2, he explained the cause and effect:

The final nail in New Jersey’s gaming coffin was hammered in on Oct. 28 when Genting Resorts World Casino officially opened its doors at Aqueduct Racetrack in New York. The new casino opened with 2,480 video lottery slot machines and electronic games, including baccarat, craps and roulette. They expect to expand to 5,000 machines by Dec. 1.

New Jersey legislators have sat on their hands while casinos in Pennsylvania, Delaware and New York cannibalized Atlantic City and our state’s racetracks. How do we stop the bleeding?

New Jersey must pass Public Question 1 on the Nov. 8 ballot to allow sports betting at the Atlantic City casinos, the state’s racetracks and online. Then, our legislators must work arduously to overturn the federal ban on sports betting.

Most important, it is time to bring casino gaming to the Meadowlands. Atlantic City must become a gaming destination and, in order for that to happen, revenue from a casino in the Meadowlands would be funneled to clean up Atlantic City, expand the airport and make it a more secure place to visit.

Another piece of the pie would go to increase purses at the racetracks, along with a slice to the state’s breeders. Don’t do this and racing is finished in New Jersey, and along with it goes thousands of acres of farmland and more than $130 million in tax revenue.

Well now everything dies baby that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back. Is it worth gambling an important piece of our economic future on a "Maybe"? If you think the answer to that question is "No", then tomorrow be certain to vote "Yes" on Question #1. As the powers that be on both sides of the aisle in Trenton have demonstrated, this is not a Democrat thing or a Republican thing. It is a Jersey thing.

-AK

Of Sanctity and Bullsh*t

2011-11-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

Here's to hoping that if you live in a part of the United States that resides on the Standard side of the "Standard Time/Daylight Savings Time" fault line this time of year, you remembered to set your clock back an hour before you went to sleep last night. If you did not and right now you are standing around somewhere wondering aloud, "Where the hell is everybody?" take my advice: wait someplace warm. They will be along soon. Actually, in about 57 minutes or so.

This morning the Missus and I are off to Parsippany - because spending six days a week there on average inevitably leaves me wanting for more. Actually we are taking part in an event called PurpleStride New Jersey 2011, which this year includes both a 5K walk and a 5K run. This is the 2nd annual edition. Last year it was solely a walk so Margaret was the lone participant from our household. Having added a 5K race to the "things to do" list, I am catching a ride with her this time around.

This event grew - as so many of these laudable endeavors do - out of a terrible one. A friend of Margaret's from work lost her husband to pancreatic cancer in the summer of '09 at or about the same time that Suzy B. died. Rather than be irreversibly crushed by his death, Steve and Dolores' daughter Stephanie decided to do all she could do to raise awareness of this quick-striking, relentless form of cancer, including working hard to get increased funding for early testing and detection programs. An amazing young woman actually.

It is our pleasure - and we are of course going to be joined by Gidg on this morning's adventure - to give a bit of time to help advance the cause of something so worthwhile. If your early Sunday morning is free and/or you live anywhere near Parsippany, New Jersey it is not too late to participate, provided that you read this at some point before 9:00 a.m. That is Eastern Standard Time of course. Standard time or Daylight Savings Time - either way it is time well spent.

And it is nice to know that one can count on one of my all-time favorite actors/directors/movie star types to remind us in his not-too-subtle way just how important it is to spend our time on worthy pursuits. For anyone who may not be aware of his personal politics, Clint Eastwood is a fairly staunchly conservative individual. Once upon a lifetime ago, he served a couple of terms as mayor of Carmel, California, a beautiful little beach enclave so firmly entrenched on the Republican side of the aisle that there are no "left sides" of the street in Carmel. No, there are instead the "right" and the "far right". I just made that up but it might actually be true.

Eastwood, in an interview in the October issue of GQ, my copy of which - parenthetically speaking - has yet to make it to our mailbox, which is not in and of itself too surprising as NO issue of that magazine has ever made it to our mailbox, described himself as having initially been an "Eisenhower Republican" way back when he was 21. He then continued by noting that the philosophy of the party that had attracted him to it in the first place was something it had lost touch with over time. Eastwood now uses the term "social Libertarian" to describe himself.

My favorite part of the interview (in the interests of full disclosure that should read, "my favorite part of the excerpts of the interview I have read") is Eastwood's position on gay marriage. With the possible exception his outlaw Josey Wales' decree that, "Dying ain't much of a living boy" it might be his truest utterance ever.

I mention it here - and now - because I think it is important for all of us to not let the euphoria associated with having one extra hour to play with today go to our heads. Time has always been a precious commodity. Never more so than it is presently with all of the actual substantive issues confronting us in our day-to-day.

Well said Mr. Eastwood. Well said indeed.

-AK

Farewell Mi-Mi

2011-11-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

It speaks volumes about my character that I love and care about my animals significantly more than I do about most humans. If you are someone who knows me only at arm's length - or perhaps at even a greater distance - then you might think I am kidding or being a touch self-effacing. I am not.

Margaret and the kids moved into what we refer to lovingly as "the flood house" almost a year before she and I married. Once their belongings were all unpacked and set up, their first order of business was getting a kitten. Margaret had promised the kids (who I think were all of seven and six respectively) that they could have a kitten. Prior to moving into the little ranch house on Third Street, the three of them had been living with Joe and Suzy B. and the former's cat allergy put the kibosh on any feline family members living under his roof.

I accompanied them on the drive to Janine Breslin's house. Janine and Margaret are cousins (although I would be lying if I told you I knew the degree of kindred) and at the time she too lived in Middlesex. As luck would have it, at the time Margaret and the kids were looking for a kitten, Janine had a litter of them in need of homes other than her own.

I do not recall how many were in the litter. I do recall however that upon walking into Janine's home, most of the kittens were bundled together grappling with one another - as kittens have a tendency to do. There was one standing apart from his former womb mates, silently surveying them all with a look that was equal parts superiority and scorn. Rob's eye was drawn to him immediately. No one voiced a peep's worth of opposition to his choice. Voila! In less than one minute, Milo was out of Janine's living room and in the car heading to his new digs.

As a kid, we always had pets. I am a dog lover. Cats were to me the rather annoying little pets for which my sister Evan always seemed to have a soft spot in her heart and for which my brother Kelly's dog Bo always seemed to have an empty spot in his belly. As a species, I had little use for cats. Milo changed all of that.

The tales of Milo's exploits are in our house the stuff of legend. And on a day when I am finding reasons to smile to be an all-too-hard to come by commodity, sitting here just watching the 8mm film of them roll past my mind's eye is, in and of itself, a comfort. In a life full of big moments, however, it is not hard for me to think of the one I consider to be his signature one.

In September 1999 Hurricane Floyd laid siege to a good deal of the central part of New Jersey. Among the affected areas was the street upon which we lived. Ours was one of the two dozen or so little ranch homes on Third Street. Our home had no basement - just a small crawlspace. I mention that so when I tell you that Floyd deposited close to four feet of water inside the entirety of our home, you can appreciate that all of that water occupied living space. The damage was catastrophic.

Floyd rolled into Middlesex on a Thursday. Everyone in our neighborhood was ordered to evacuate. When they were preparing to bug out, Margaret and the kids could not find Milo. He was the ultimate outdoor cat, in the prime of his life coming inside only to eat and to toss the occasional morsel of affection towards his favorite humans. Upon my arrival home from work, when the water had already risen to the level that I had to park my car up on the corner of Route 28 and Third Street and walk down the length of the street to our house, I did just that so I could try to locate him. I failed. When I went over to Joe and Suzy B.'s to tell Margaret and the kids that much like Mighty Casey I had whiffed in a big spot, the disappointment in their eyes was palpable.

The following evening the four of us were back inside of our home - not to stay there but to survey firsthand the damage wrought by Floyd and his now-receded flood waters. Proving that I am indeed my father's son and the linear successor to the title of "Idiot Projects Project Manager" Rob and I were each using wet-dry vacs to suck the water out of the carpet in our living room. A great idea in theory. However, given that the water that had evacuated from the living space remained very firmly ensconced in the crawlspace below, a simply idiotic and inane waste of Rob's time and my own.

Our collective mood was heavy and not simply because of the petri dish that stood in the space formerly occupied by our home. At the height of Floyd's fury, several blocks all around our street had been under water of a depth of six-plus feet. Having failed to bring Milo to safety with us when we pulled out, we had little expectation of finding him. Finding him alive I should say.

Wet-dry vacs are loud machines. Two of them being operated simultaneously within five feet of each other creates a noise so loud, so obnoxious and so goddamn grating that you want to take two bananas and shoot yourself just to escape it. You cannot hear the sound of your own voice. It stands to reason that you should not be able to hear the sound of a cat's meow.

And yet Rob did. Somehow, in spite of that ear-piercing racket he heard the sound of a cat's meow. He heard Milo. He immediately turned off his machine and directed me to do likewise. When I did and asked him why we were stopping, he told me that he had heard Milo crying. Children possess a faith that life tries hard to beat out of us by the time we are adults. I remember the moment as if it happened this morning. Rob did not say that he THOUGHT he heard Milo or that he BELIEVED he heard Milo or that he MIGHT have heard Milo. He said, "I heard Milo crying."

Candidly, I thought he was mistaken. Just as I was about to launch into some long, boring speech about it being OK to miss Milo and to want to hear him when he was not there, an amazing thing happened. I heard Milo cry. We opened the front door, I grabbed a flashlight and we waited. Several seconds passed. Milo cried one more time as if he knew I needed him to make one more noise so we could get a fix on his position. Upon hearing him, I pointed the now-turned on flashlight directly across the street. And directly into the bright, sparkling eyes of our cat. He was sitting on the neighbor's front walk staring right at us.

Milo lived in fear of but one thing. And that thing was water. Drinking it was cool. Being anywhere near it if and when it occupied a space bigger than his water dish was most certainly not. As my eyes locked onto his and vice versa I realized that one of us had to cross the street to reach the other. And I knew he was not moving from the neighbor's walk.

The water in Third Street was cold and waist-high. As I walked through it to get Milo he sat waiting patiently for me. When I reached him it occurred to me that I was going to have to carry him across the street, which meant carrying an animal with sharp teeth and claws a considerable distance over water. I picked him up. He held on "tight" (I think the scratches in my chest finally went away a month or so later) as we made our passage home. To this day, I know not who was happier when we reached our side of Third Street - my son or my cat. Let's call it a tie. Everybody wins.

Yesterday, more than nineteen years after Milo took that first car ride with us he took one last ride with Margaret and me. He had been struggling for a little while - eating much less and becoming far more of a homebody than he had ever been - but yesterday his struggles reached the point where he deserved relief from them. He deserved to not hurt. He earned it a long time ago. Hell, he earned it every day for the past nineteen-plus years.

We took him to same doctor's office who had so lovingly and tenderly put our dog Shelly to sleep a little more than four years ago. And I did yesterday what I did on that August morning - I cried.

"Mi-Mi" (as Margaret has called him for years) will be cremated. While the Missus and I continue to reside where we are now he will rest in our den - above the fireplace - on a shelf right next to his old canine running buddy.

This song is over,
I'm left with only tears.
I must remember
Even if it takes a million years....

Sleep well old man. You most certainly earned it.

-AK

Cover Girl

2011-11-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

I know not how I will spend my Saturday this week without a Buffs game - complete with a brutally lopsided final score - to get me through the day. This week's beatdown arrives a day early. USC invades Boulder tonight. Methinks the Trojans will be less than pleased, coming off their triple OT loss to the Cardinal of Stanford. The good news is that it is a night game. I will be sound asleep by halftime. Based upon how the month of October went for Ralphie's charges, the game will likely be over long before then.

With no important football to clog up one's Saturday afternoon (Rutgers plays at home tomorrow night at 7:00 o'clock), there is nothing in the world preventing one (or in a perfect world many, many more than one) from walking/running/hopping to the local newsstand (or wherever magazines for really smart people are sold) to pick up a copy of the latest issue of "advance for speech language pathologists and audiologists". You will know it as soon as you see it. It is the Annual Geriatrics Edition:

Its cover story (Oral Care Protocol) is Suzanne's work. It is her first published piece in such a scholarly journal. In the interests of full disclosure, it is her first such effort and considering she has been a member of this particular field for about a year and a half, I would say she is doing quite well.

My "kid" (I know she is not such a thing any longer but humor me OK, she is moving half a continent away in a few weeks and I am taking up residence in my favorite state - denial) is having one helluva couple of weeks. She is bright as hell and she works damn hard. This success is hers. She earned it. For my money, the timing of this could not be better. As she moves from a place where she is a great, well-known quantity to one where she is an eagerly anticipated, unknown one, she carries with her an impressive set of bona fides. Success will still have to be earned, which she knows. But if you had to have something to serve as an introduction, getting something published is not a bad way to go about it.

I am a lucky person. I made out far better in the whole "marriage/family" game of chance than I ever deserved. Margaret is without equal and Suz and Rob are - in terms of the "good stuff", the intangible qualities that make the difference in one's life - every inch their mother's children. The three of them were a dynamic unit when the latter two were - in fact - children. Me? I did my part by making sure there was enough money to pay the bills that needed to be paid (at least once I stopped practicing law at the financial vortex located at 705 Park Avenue) and by driving the car when we needed to be someplace.

And I look up now - as the Missus and I prepare to spend a few days next week in Colorado with Rob and a couple of far-too-short weeks later we prepare to bid Suz a safe journey and much happiness in Texas - and I am amazed at the places they have gone. And the ones whey they shall go in the days and years ahead. Margaret was an excellent teacher. Suz and Rob learned their lessons well.

I am enough of a dork that on Wednesday - when the journal's web site put a copy of the edition in which Suz's article appears as the cover story - I pulled it up on my computer solely so I could take a picture of it as it appeared on my screen:

(I am compelled to point out that on-line one gets not simply the cover art but also a nice blurb about the author)

One of my old friends - Dave Lackland - is about to become a father for the first time. He is beyond excited. Inasmuch as he is about to take his first steps in this gig, his excitement is properly focused on the "this little human is my child" part of the parenting process. Wait until he gets into it. He shall come to realize what I hope all of us who are fathers realize for ourselves. The gig gets better and better....

....come hell or water high.

-AK

Life in the Sixty-Seventh Percentile

2011-11-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

A bit herky-jerky this morning (as opposed to just plain jerky I reckon), which is owed directly to the fact that the Missus and I were out last night - on a school night. We returned to the Stress Factory to see Jim Breuer, who had originally been slated to appear there last Thursday on Margaret's birthday after he was brought in to replace Richard Belzer - for whom we had originally purchased tickets. Neither of us had seen Jim Breuer's act live before last evening. Funny dude. Time well spent. As a result of it, I begin today feeling a bit spent myself.

Given that I no rooting interest in it, I watched very little of this year's World Series. Even so, I paid enough attention to it to know that it was a closely-contested, very competitive affair. And I paid enough attention to know that the answer to the question, "Who will not have to pick up a single tab at any joint in St. Louis until (at least) Opening Day 2012?" is, "This guy." I reckon that if you play a sport that requires you to play its championship round on cold, late autumn evenings (because who the hell ever heard of playing a World Series game in the afternoon), it serves you well to have a guy on your team whose very name evokes the image of coolness. Amazing stuff. Young man probably cried out loud on Tuesday morning when he tore the "OCTOBER" page off of his calendar.

You might have missed the story in the Star-Ledger from earlier this week about another rather amazing young man. Park Ridge High School goalkeeper Sean McCann is a senior. Yesterday, he and his teammates won their first-round playoff game vs. Becton in North Jersey Section 1, Group I action (do not ask me to attempt to explain the manner in which high school playoffs are conducted in this state for I have lived here my whole life and still have no idea). Park Ridge won 3-0. McCann made eleven saves. Thus far this season, he has made one hundred and fifty-seven (157) saves. So what? McCann is not only putting his body between the ball and the goal for himself and his mates. He is doing it as well for 17 month-old Gavin Scimeca.

It turns out that Sean and Gavin have something in common: Sean's dad Mike is the Chief of Police in River Vale, New Jersey and Gavin's dad Tony is one of the Department's 23 officers. Gavin sufffers from a condition known as autosomal recessive polycystic kidney disease, which is about as unpleasant - and serious - as it sounds:

Gavin Scimeca is 17 months old and has autosomal recessive polycystic kidney disease, for which he will need a kidney transplant. Scimeca said doctors would like to wait until Gavin turns 5 because they will likely be using an adult organ.

In the meantime, Gavin takes 21 doses of medicine a day and visits one of his doctors’ offices — his pediatrician, cardiologist, nephrologist, occupational therapist, physical therapist or early intervention specialist — 10 times a week. Scimeca and his wife Tara monitor Gavin’s diet, blood pressure, potassium intake and sodium levels. Gavin has already had surgery to fix a heart valve.

Out-of-pocket expenses for the transplant alone are estimated between $100,000 and $150,000.

Sean McCann organized a fund-raising campaign for Gavin Scimeca. The "Saves for Gavin" campaign asks people to pledge money - 100% of which goes to the Scimeca family to assist in Gavin's treatment and to help put a dent in the estimated transplant costs - for each save Sean McCann makes. Going into yesterday's first-round playoff game, the campaign had raised over $18,000. Young Mr. McCann - in addition to being one hell of a young man - is apparently one hell of a goalie. Through eighteen games this season, he has recorded 157 saves and given up only 17 goals, helping his team to a 9-7-2 record.

And perhaps it is me being - yet again - too damn cynical and judgmental. A man should be man enough to acknowledge his own flaws, failings and imperfections. Perhaps I alone find it vomit-inducing to hear Kim Kardashian express regret - while announcing she is divorcing her husband of 72 days - over the end of the marriage since, after all, they had expected to be together forever. Really? Expected "forever" and lasted "72 days"? A new hire's probationary period at a lot of companies is longer than the life span of this marriage. So is the warranty on my toaster. Hell, the Chilean miners survived UNDERGROUND for 69 days . With any luck, we are approaching the 14:30 mark in the Kardashians' 15 minutes of fame.

That is all for today folks. In the immortal words of Meatloaf....

-AK

Over Exposure

2011-11-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

First things first: congratulations to my nephew Kelly who welcomed a son to his branch of the family yesterday. As his mother Linda put it, much better and more succinctly than can I, yesterday brought "a son for my [her] son." Indeed. Much happiness and good luck to him and his bunch. Grandparents (x5) for his Mom/Dad and another great-grandbaby added to Mom's tote board. Good stuff all around.

My oldest brother Bill had an extended, rather distinguished career in radio. I have a face for radio. One of my least favorite days of every school year was Picture Day. For those of us who went to school in the non-digital photography age and who are not especially photogenic, Picture Day was torture parsed out into two equal portions: now and later.

Discretion being the better part of valor, most of my school yearbooks were consigned to history's scrap heap a long time ago. If I really looked hard for it - and I cannot fathom why I would - then I could probably get my hands on my 12th grade yearbook. The rest of them? Not so much. I suppose that I have former classmates who have held onto theirs over the past quarter century. I know not why. But since they are not occupying any space in my basement, I care not.

The worst part about Picture Day was that if you actually got one that came out well, you were not allowed to simply declare it to be "My School Picture" for the duration of your academic life and use it annually until graduation. Nope. The shelf life for the keepers was no better or worse than it was for the dogs: the remainder of that academic year.

Up until my senior year, there were two specific nightmare experiences at Picture Day that remain firmly etched in my mind's eye all these years later. When I was in 7th grade, I bore witness to my father and the official school photographer Phil Berkebile having a (insert your euphemism here. I shall opt for....) "heated discussion" about the fact that having a kid with a big, oversized round head and bad smile did not constitute a "technical imperfection" that warranted a free "re-take" of said son's picture. Interesting argument Berkebile mounted in defense of his position. He did not dispute that the picture was horrible. He simply pointed out that he used a camera and not a magic wand. Much to my dismay, his cool logic ultimately impressed Dad, who agreed that my utter absence of photogenic quality was the work of chromosome and not Kodachrome.

Thereafter, in 11th grade I had the misfortune of having to have my yearbook picture taken only two or three days after I blew out my ankle in our season-opening soccer game. While now W-H is a school that has an elevator (hooray for the ADA!) back in the day it did not. Getting from one floor of the building to another for class required one on crutches, which I was, to hop up and down the stairs. In September. In a building with no air conditioning. In a school that required gentlemen to wear a jacket and tie. Good ol' Mr. Berkebile. He managed to use the canvas I have him with which to work to make me look like ten miles of rough road in the yearbook. Not a pretty picture.

Little did I know that my experiences to that point had really been the "above the water" portion of the iceberg. Senior year was clearly the below the water portion of the 'berg. At the time, each senior had a color portait in the yearbook, which portrait occupied one-half of one page in the yearbook. At that size, even my head looks to be in proportion to the rest of me. Everyone made appointments for when/where one's portrait was to be taken. My friend Mark Bowman had his taken while seated in his Mustang. Steve Ashton had his taken with his stuffed Jerry Garcia doll.

Me? I was slated for a Sunday morning at Echo Lake Park. Of course, the date of my photo shoot, it rained. It rained with such ferocity that trios of animals on the side of the road were playing "rock/paper/scissors" for spots on Noah's boat. The photo shoot was scrubbed. Mr. Berkebile was supposed to contact those of us who got screwed out of our scheduled appointment so that we could arrange a new date and time. Whether he called anyone else I know not. I know that my "contact" came in the form of being directed during a free period one morning to head out to the driveway to meet Mr. Berkebile as he was on campus to take my senior portrait. I protested. I lost.

Fifteen minutes later, Phil the Thrill and I renewed acquaintances for the last time. My senior portrait was taken NOT in Echo Lake Park while wearing a sharp-looking suit (presuming I owned such a garment). It was taken standing under a tree next to Mr. Blazo's house at the top of the driveway coming into the school parking lot while wearing whatever the hell I happened to wear to school that day.

I enjoyed high school quite a lot. I enjoyed getting photographed for official purposes not at all. Since high school, given the opportunity I volunteer to be the one taking photos since one doing the clicking is not likely to also be the one doing the posing. So far in adulthood the reasons for which I have had to be photographed have been few and far between. Trust me, I am not complaining.

Yesterday however brought back a bad memory of days gone by. The Firm is updating our web site. This time round, "progress" means that all of us who practice law at WL shall have our photos next to our names on the web site. Lucky us. The young woman who took my official picture was very nice - as opposed to old Berkebile who I cared for not at all - and very efficient. I was in and out of the chair in about 2 minutes. I presume that her equipment was digital and that had I asked to see what my photograph looked like she not only could have shown me but she would have. I opted not to. I look in the mirror every time I am in the bathroom. That is more than enough. I assure you.

No timetable - at least to my knowledge - has been set for the unveiling of the new www.weinerlesniak.com complete with cool color photos. I assure you that mine shall not be worth the wait. I intend never to look at it once we are up and running. I would advise you to do the same....

but if you must, then check out the proofs.

Ah, a boy can dream....

-AK

The Ballad of the Tree-Climbing Fish

2011-11-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

I love stumbling upon something - whether on-line or elsewhere - that upon reading it makes me smile and nod my head in appreciation of its wisdom and its practical application to everyone's day-to-day. Yesterday I had just such a wonderful stumble, courtesy of my old friend Dave Lackland.

The title of today's piece is rather hamhandedly co-opted from an Albert Einstein quote that Dave shared on-line yesterday. I have no recollection of ever having seen it or read it anywhere until Mr. Lackland opened my eyes - and my brain - to it. The quote in its original (non-screwed with) glory is, "Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid."

If need be, read it to yourself more than once. Allow it to sink in.

Now, if you are half the ass that I am, engage yourself in a bit of honest, unflattering self-examination and add up the number of people you have encountered thus far on your journey who you have judged in just such a manner. And then if you are itching for a reason to feel sorry for yourself, permit yourself to admit just how many times to date YOU have been the tree-climbing fish in the eyes of another. The neat thing about living in a round world. Eventually that which goes around, comes around.

But maybe - just maybe - old AE meant to inspire us to do something more. To do something a bit better than simply keep our guard up and our eyes open (better to see those things that are coming 'round). I am as guilty as most - perhaps more than most in fact - of permitting my cynicism to shape the prism through which I see the world and the other humans who occupy it. As I mentioned to someone just the other day, I am rarely surprised and regularly disappointed. Maybe, just maybe, that is on me and not on anyone else.

And maybe just maybe a lesson is to be learned here from the great Samuel Clemens, "Don't tell fish stories where the people know you; but particularly, don't tell them where they know the fish." Even the tree-climbing fish has a friend out there somewhere, supporting his best efforts and assessing him fairly.

Albert Einstein was a ladies' man/While he was working on his universal plan/He was making out like Charlie Sheen/He was a genius.

A Long Time Ago

2011-10-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

Twenty-four years ago today, Jill and Joe were married. It was a simply gorgeous, snow-free Halloween. Almost a quarter of a century ago. I know that this Halloween - unlike that one - the two of them shall be in separate postal codes. Jill is tending to Mom as she recuperates down in Florida while Joe is here in the hopefully temporarily wintry climes of New Jersey.

The three of us all graduated from CU. When I finished up in '89, Jill and Joe (both class of '87) came out with Mom and Stel for graduation. Stel took a picture of our Trinity of Buffs standing outside after the ceremony

I smile looking at that photo. Back then, my hair was gray-free, Jill's hair was more brown than blonde and Joe's hair was still atop his head. A lot can change in a quarter-century I reckon.

But not everything changes. Sometimes the good stuff remains inviolate. Time passes but it neither weakens nor erodes that which it touches.

Happy Anniversary Wilma and Joe.

-AK

Pictures Taken and Stories Told

2011-10-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

This time next week we who live in the Eastern Time Zone shall note that our time is not designated any longer as "E.D.T." but rather "E.S.T.", which signifies the end of Daylight Savings Time for another year. If your work habits are anything akin to my own, it signifies not simply the return of Standard Time but something far more depressing - the return of Mole Time. Beginning one week from tomorrow I shall descend into a period of several months during which for five days out of every seven I shall not see my house in the daylight. I shall leave for and return from work in the darkness Monday through Friday until we spring forward in the Spring of 2012.

Usually it is the Sunday that harkens the return to Standard Time that is my least favorite Sunday of the autumn for it serves as winter's herald. The joyous part of the fall is over. Leaves no longer change colors. They simply fall off of the trees and die, leaving the trees bareboned in the face of winter's onslaught. Cool, crisp days are replaced by cold ones. The sun is in the sky for considerably less than half of the day and for at least 50% of the time that it is aloft, it offers light without the pretense of heat. I think November served as Yeats' inspiration when he wrote, "Being Irish he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy."

This fall, next Sunday shall not occupy its usual place on the gold medal platform in the competition of Sundays I loathe. Nope. This year that honor is reserved for November's final Sunday. For it is on that date that Suz shall begin her own great migration west (southwest actually) to life in Texas. I am more proud of her than I can adequately express in words and at least twice as happy for her as I am proud of her. None of that takes away from the fact that in our little corner of the world, that day is going to royally stink. At day's end, she will no longer be here - in it - with us but someplace altogether different.

The Missus and I have some experience at the bon voyage party. Suz's departure for Texas follows Rob's for Wyoming by just about three years. One of my favorite photographs of the four of us is one that has top shelf status on one of the bookcases in my office. I do not know who took it but I know it was taken at Rob's going-away party:

He pulled up stakes and headed out at the beginning of Thanksgiving week in '08. He and Margaret made it to Wyoming in time for Thanksgiving morning. Margaret will not be riding shotgun on Suz's journey. Ryan - who set up shop in Houston himself just a few months ago and who is serving as the other half of the Texas Dream Team - shall serve as Suz's co-pilot and travel partner. Rob will not be in New Jersey for Suz's farewell bash. The plan - as I understand it - is for both of them to be in the State of Concrete Gardens for Christmas.

And although the four of us will not be in the same place on Suz's final day under the familial roof, I shall make it a point to get an updated group shot when both of them are visiting at Christmas. I have an empty spot on the top shelf of my bookcase that I am itching to fill.

Because every picture does indeed tell a story. And some stories are worth reading time and again even if they bring put a tear in your eye and a smile on your face at the same exact moment. Tears dry. The wrinkles made by smiles? They last forever.

-AK