Confessions of Keveny Graduate

You don't like War? Well, bleep you!

2011-01-19T09:22:00.000-08:00

So I’m talking to Charby about the news of the day. After we determine that the world would be a far, far better place if everybody were to think like me, I propose that the problem with the fundamentalist freak show has less to do with Jesus and more to do with tribalism. Show of hands time: How many of you have been actively proselytized? What the f*ck? Do the born againers get coupons at the Church of WWJD for bringing newbies in?

They’re not the only ones. Unions, at least here in the Capitol City, would love to see the end of the small bidnessman vis a vis bodyshopper (re: me!). The local membership of Communist working party yearn to have me as a member (victim). My church is always asking for new parishoners (historic st mary’s – check it out some Sunday. Admission is free). Planet Fitness would love to have me (and you) but we grunt.

I guess that’s why I liked the community here. We had at least one thing in common. On the face of it, it wasn’t booze but time and place. If I cracked and called one of my former classmates a communist, he knew I meant it in the best, nicest way. Suppose you support legal hemp farming and I didn’t, there was still something bigger keeping us together. Say it loud and proud folks: Keveny, Cohoes, turn of the eighties! Hoo-rah! Three cheers for commonality mofos!

So the next time you’re ready to tear into some rabid left (right) winger going on about gun rights (control), think to yourself: What would KC do?

That’s right, the only solution is to put an arm around the f*cker and start singing.

As a totally unrelated aside, my keen detective sense kicked in and figured out who the hell my fan in TexASS is. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Matt Ducatt of Texas Tech, formerly of the hill. Go check him, here or on Facebook.

Me? I will be throttling a disagreeing and disagreeable coworker.

How to Be Awesome Part I: Make Your Kid’s Soccer Team Awesome

2010-12-28T10:50:00.000-08:00

Let’s cut right to the chase: As your child’s recreation league soccer, your responsibilities are:

1.) Make sure there is a snack. Don’t scoff. Very important. Every activity that gains and retains your child’s interest includes a snack. No crappy soy based snacks either. Best snacks have sugar, fats, and salt (or a combination of the three).

Get the snack assignments out of the way before the season begins. Parents are happy to stop off at the grocery store and pick something up. Set up a schedule. Stick to the schedule.
If, on the off chance, this week’s snack parent fails to buy or show, you, as the coach, must be prepare to solve this problem. I always have a supplemental snack in the trunk of the car for just such occurrences. I need it every season. Remember the watchword is “snack.” And “prepared.”
2.) Exercise. The children may bring chairs, blankets, mats, whatever however, they will not be using them. Recreation League is a misnomer. The child is here to air himself out. Her one-hour foray into awesomeness will consist of:
a. 5 minutes on some soccer drill
b. 5 minutes on a competitive drill where the drill involves running and losing involves pushups.
c. The game.

You might not believe me but I never jest about pushups. They are very important. One other
important note: coach needs to be kind of fit so he can demonstrate good sprinting and pushup practice.

3.) Everybody plays. This means you autism boy. I don’t give a shat if you go out there and run laps for twenty minutes. You (or your parents) signed you up. You did not come here to sit on the sideline. Get out there and get them.

You think I’m mean. You think I make light of developmental issues. Well, I might, but I’m not doing that here. For two years running, I got Stevie who suffers from autism or Aspbergers or some crazy ass disease. That little sonofa (tyke) was dragged (by me) for various kickoffs, throw ins, and general soccer activities. When I became distracted, he might run about the field with no apparent direction or purpose. That is until I chased him yelling “Get the ball Stevie! Get the ball! The ball! The ball! Get! The! Ball! “

He scored in the second year. That is success. I now have another disciple in the “Rules of Awesomeness.” If you doubt me, feel free to contact my daughter.

4.) We play to win. Again, I don’t cotton to those awesomeness lackers who would tell us that a score should not be kept. They are living in some fantasy world where they think they can pull the wool over the kids’ eyes. They are mistaken. The kids keep score. They equate losing with being ineffectual and lame. As the coach do what you can to get that win. That is without breaking rule 2. If you are currently lacking in awesomeness, here is a mnemonic phrase to help: “Everyone plays to win!”

For example, my best player this past season also played for the SERIOUS soccer program. For our team’s purposes, that meant he needed to spend a great deal of time in goal. There was that rare occasion, where our team of heart breakers and widow-makers might be losing. My response, in keeping with rule three, was to play without a goalie (this is rec league – NO RULES!). My extra man (AKA my best player) would help us even the score and return to his post.

Some slacker actually called me on it. I knew he was awesomeness deficient because he had rain gear on and a stop watch (because don’t you know if we don’t finish the game right on time we might miss our tee time). When he asked what I was doing, I told him “Teaching winning.” I don’t think he agreed with my awesome philosophy, but then again his kids were using their hands (and not just on the ball either).

Final word on winning. Don’t be confused. Failure to win does not make you a loser. Not trying to win makes you a loser, a slacker, and, by definition, non-awesome.

Now get out there and be fugging awesome, for the love of God.
********************************************************
Bet you thought this was going to be about you. Sorry.

I do however, have some notes for those interested.
1.) Got hits from France. More than one. Don’t know who it was. Just thought it was rad.
2.) Someone uses their Playstation to surf the web. And get here. I’m not throwing stones, just reporting.
3.) Turk sighting. No email. Sorry.
4.) Texas contact. I know who it is. Maybe you do too. But I’m not much in the mood for calling people out, so I will let this one be. This policy will probably change.
5.) Couldn't fit all the labels I wanted for this post. Here's the rest: edwards, cornell, crogan, frangie, kluz, doremus, cashin, coulombe, waterman, tremblay, borden, johnson, maloney, mcElligott, flinton, keefe, lester, roy, fortin, rogers, clements, fleury, foster, mcGivern, dugan, roberts, abbott, dingley, muller, guzy, heins, campbell,decker, winner, lewis, napolitano ,prediger, franklin, seeberger, benardo, finn, bania, carboni, murray, wandell, bulmer, parker, maron, owens,costello, charbonneau, fisher, barr, gratton, pontore, esposito,iachetta, cote, breton, conroy, grego, hack

Merry Christmas -More Holiday Fiction to Make You Cry

2010-12-24T07:24:00.000-08:00

The day will come when God will render his judgement. I’m not pining for that day. I despair over the things I’ve done. But I hold fast to a few good things I’ve done. Given enough years, it’s bound to happen right? When St. Peter asks “Why should I let you in?,”

“Hey man, one year I saved Christmas.”

It was cold, dark, and fucking stormy Christmas Eve in Cohoes. Since I got Turkey Day off a few weeks back, I was stuck closing the bar that night. Don’t be sad, it’s all right. I have no family, no girl, no ambition except my rope habit.

I leaned on the service bar with a foot on a beer cooler, wallowing in my lonely sobriety, waiting for a customer. Watching the snow blow, I played a game in my head. Winner would be the next person through that door. Chances were, that would be me. Bored I grabbed for the tv remote so I could at least pretend to have some company. Hunh, Yule Log won’t do the trick.

Times like these, when I figure no one is here, no one is coming, that my idle mind turns to crimes. Ronny took the deposits with him tonight but that wouldn’t stop me from emptying the register, taking a bottle, and heading home. After Christmas, I could tell Ron that I got rolled. It’s not that much money anyways, just enough to change a hundred. Probably, Ron would be more upset about the missing booze. My imagined perpetrator had expensive taste, much like me. Before I plans caught any steam, I was stopped short by a grimy, smelly, and drunk Santa Claus.

He wasn’t fat but he was as tall as Santa. He didn’t bellow “Ho,ho,ho!” but he was loud enough. With the blast of wind he let in when he entered, there was no guesswork about the smell. Yes Virginia, Santa smells like a mix of booze, puke, and deli meat. His face was slack. Plenty of alcohol relaxed more than his tongue. It looked like his face was melting a little. His cap was relaxing a little bit too. It kept slipping down the front of his head, getting in his eyes. His finally removed it, staggered over to a stool at the middle of the bar, and tried to sit down. Success took three tries.

Oh hell, here we go…

“Barkeep! Barkeep! Merry Christmas to you and yours! How about setting me up with a beer and a shot of jack?” This was not a question. He barked like someone’s first wife or something.

“Don’t you think you had enough buddy? I bet you someone is waiting for you at home. Merry Christmas man.”

He got all froggy on me. “Don’t ever tell a Navy man he’s had enough! Why when I was your age, I was no genius but I knew enough to keep my frigging mouth shut and do what I was told. Pour me a drink! ”

“Umm, no.”

“Sonuva-, you know what? You’re getting coal tonight, you miserable mother- “(I can’t write down the rest of speech as there might be some believers out there that would be offended to hear ol’ St. Nick go off).

I felt the need to steer Santa off track for a few minutes until I could find a cop or something to bring his scrawny ass home. “Hey Santa, aren’t you late for an appointment or something? I think I heard some kids crying in Maine or something. Is there some elves or reindeer to get you back on your route?” Judging by the old dude’s face, my plan failed.

“What do you care? We’re you good this year? Let me check my list.“ The stinky man had a piece of paper in his pocket. He gave it a little look, turned to me, and said, “it says here you’re a rotten mother-“ (again I left out the swear parts).

“All right. That’s enough. You had your fun. Do you want me to call the cops or you going to leave peaceably?” I can’t do this all night. It might sound funny now but in the heat of the moment you just want work to be drama-free. I was better off without my visit from St. Nick. If he didn’t leave now, I would be speed dialing 911.

He gave me a look and a burp. Then he turned in his chair. He knocked it over when he got up of course. He practically crawled out the door into the storm. Never to be seen again I hoped.
Not the kind of guy to pass up golden opportunities, I locked the door behind Kris Kringle. If Ron calls, I’ll listen to his complaints next week. There was no good to be gained by staying open. Now if the phone doesn’t ring while I go see a man about a horse, I will be a rumor in two minutes.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear upon my return? Some glass about the door, now open. As was the cash register and all the bills were gone. Wonderful! I would grab a shot of bourbon before I called the cops but my cat burglar took the Jack Daniels too.

Well, at least I know who did it. And that he couldn’t get very far.

Hearing Ronny’s “What! What! WHAT!” ringing in my head, I did what I could to secure the dump and headed out the door. It was snowing and blowing, but I could still see the straw man’s footprints. If I couldn’t catch a drunken, miserable, old slob in a snowstorm, I deserved whatever Ronny dished out. I walked up Ontario Street, to Park and followed his prints.
Before I reached Rennselaer Ave, I found my Christmas miracle. Santa Claus was sitting in a snow bank. He wasn’t moving; I knew he was passed out before I reached him. Snow was already piling up his wet pants. His beard was stiff from the cold, snow, and booze, which, of course, smelled like he poured the bottle on himself. I kicked the old man’s boot.

“Hey Otis! Time to get up and give me my money back!”

Aside from the “Unh. Fug Yule,” there was no sign of life. I kicked him a little harder. He tossed a bit in his snow bed. Turning to me, eyes closed, he mumbled, “Hey Jimmy! Look what Daddy got you for Christmas!”

I had to rouse this guy. “Hey man! My money! C’mon.”

“Ooooohh.” With a finger to his nose and a turn of his cheek, he puked into the gutter. After that exertion, he lay on his belly. I knew I couldn’t leave the bar untended much longer, so I went through the bum’s pockets, carefully, very carefully. I found the money easy enough. It was in his right pocket. I searched the other pocket for his wallet. Finding that might make it easier for the cops. Inside was his cash-free Velcro number. Inside that was an id and a paystub. Shockingly that the guy had a job. Might explain the Santa outfit.

There was one other thing. When I pulled it out, it made me wish I had given him a drink and a ride home.

It was a DS. It was a freaking video game. For a kid. In its original packaging.

I wondered if he bought it.

I wondered if I could work a little Christmas miracle.

Pot smoker I might be, I really had no idea how good my stamina was. I tried getting St. Nick oh his feet so he could stagger back to the bar with me. That worked until we collapsed at Breslin and I nearly vomited on Santa. I dragged him by the ankles for the last two blocks When we got back to the bar, I propped him up in a chair, wiped his chin and beard, and tossed chunks in the men’s room.

I called his home and by God, his old lady was still awake, all worried about him. I told him where he was and that I would wait. She didn’t break my ass getting there either. I waited maybe 15 minutes. She apologized and asked about the damage. I told her not to worry about it. I was already concocting a lie for Ronny. Mrs. Claus poured her husband into their ride and they took off into the night. I never saw them again.

There was some plywood in the basement. Not the most handy man around, I had a hell of a time blocking the door. By one in the morning, I was set to enjoy some Christmas in solitary with my friend Mary Jane. The holiday and that night’s events got me thinking though. About how we work so hard to screw things up. About how Santa should spending less time under a bottle and more time giving away Nintendos. About how I should blaze away less and more time doing something, anything.

I wish I could tell you what happens afterwards. Best I can do is tell you I’m doing the best I can. I hope that’s good enough. Anyways, I might have it all trumped. I saved Santa Claus man. I may have saved his life. I definitely saved his kid’s present. Saved Mrs. Claus some aggravation for sure. God surely can’t cut me down now.

Lucky 200th

2009-06-05T20:59:00.000-07:00

Check out the latest from Dawn McGelligott. She produced a film of the first few pages of her script called "The Fool of Muncaster."

Perhaps after watching the video, you have a question or comment for Dawn.

Feel free to use the links at your left. Go ahead, congratulate her.

Ginny Woolfe, Eighth Floor Fire Warden

2009-05-05T10:30:00.000-07:00

An announcement heralding a general fire drill reminds me of my first day at the office. My supervisor, Catherine, echoed my mother, telling me to get down the stairs as fast as possible without injuring myrself or anyone else for that matter. I flew down the battleship grey stairs as if I were a winged angel. Transporting to the seventh floor, my first escape is impeded by a flood of people, one of whom is my ex-lover Gary, father of the beautiful child. I watch myself, rocking her to sleep in her Elmo onesie; she too, dreams of flying and being flown. She told me so before we went to the hospital, nothing serious, she fell and cut her chin. The surgeon stopped the bleeding then told me that the scar would whiten, lessen, but never disappear. My beautiful child is grotesque!!! Oh no, who will my child ever marry? She will never experience the joy of motherhood or loverhood she is bereft of the sisterhood of motherhood, hopefully she could carry on in love of God or the sick, at a convent or a hospital, recalling the grace and injury when she last visited.

In my orange vest, I grab my flashlight and head for the rest room where once we caught Raphael, dressed matronly and smoking a Virgina Slims, “you’ve come a long way baby,” hiding there waiting for the drill to finish. I asked him, half in mirth, half in solemnity, if he was lost and he told me that in his native Venezuela, people dress androgynously all the time, it was no big deal. In any event, I told him he needed to head for the street as this may not be a drill and I would hate to have to finish his Extract-Translate-Load program for him. He looked at me suspiciously and marched out of the ladies only to be spotted by Dennis a suspected homophobe. The laughter is cacophonous and I rush the stairs like I did when I was child in the meadow, running amongst wildflowers and wheat. Feeling a little like Melissa Sue Gilbert, pre Rob Lowe of course, running legs akimbo and hoping not to fall, if I fell somehow I’d be blind like my pseudo-sister Melissa Sue Anderson all Swedish and beautiful. I wonder where she is now? Probably a grandmother by now, pumping pink cheeked and chubby babies for a decade and a half, she’s now tired and wants to visit children in someone else’s house that way she can go home when she wants and watch reruns of herself on the Love Boat when she wants, watch and dream, watch and dream, watch and dream. Someday, when she has four generations of Andersons sitting at the table she helped her husband Lars build in the double wide trailer on the prarie, she’ll tell them all how she is disappointed, that her life took a wrong turn after 1980, she was bound for so much more and isn’t it terrible that she is burdened and burdening and they should just end the misery now. Even as she thought this, Melissa contemplated worlds where James Joyce stops mid-sentence asking himself “What the hell was I talking about?” Ginny stopped blinking and mechanically somnambulated down to second floor fire exit, pining for a day when she could smoke again. Blowing rings at her father she tells him she’s changing her major, this time to applied art, could she borrow another thirty thousand dollars. He tells her that they’ll be building igloos in infernal places before he pumps another dime into the “University of Woodstock” she needs to go out and get a job and…

And...
And...
I could go on like this all day. But I know you have other things to do.

So go do ‘em.

This Post Called on Account of Time

2009-05-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

Man, it’s already 2:30 PM and I haven’t posted yet.

And we all know, there ain’t no way I’m posting from home.

Todo List for May 3, 2009

Dinner: Cook and Eat
Kids: Wash then beat
Softball: Pictures at six
Scooby Doo: Until I can’t take it.
Homework: First Graders do Calculus, Daddy struggles with integration for the second time this decade.
9:00 PM: Throw kids in their respective rooms, lock doors, hide ‘til morning

So, what’s a guy to fill his blog with?

I got it!

A man with a parrot on his shoulder walks into a bar…

Dammit! Out of time!

Salute the Thumb

2009-05-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

After a perfectly dreadful day at salt mine, the wife asked me how things went. I responded, as per my style, with two raised thumbs and an overzealous “Awesome.” For a moment I was dumbstruck by the origin and evolution of my reaction.

First let’s not forget this guy. He and his bald headed buddy started it.

It soon migrated to other celebrities.

And douches who marry celebrities

Then on to celebrities I don’s know.

The ensuing years, saw a work place migration.

You’re not even safe in your home.

Even the entitled aren’t immune

Some people herald that “thumb’s up” is officially passé.

Stage Four Social Cancer is achieved when the thumb signal goes international.

As a post, I grade today’s installment as

“Awwwwwwwesome.”

No Introduction Necessary

2009-05-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

Just because they are awesome.

You can find an astronomy picture every day here.

Princesses

2009-04-30T11:30:00.000-07:00

Cinderella put on her faux gown, her faux blonde hair, and her faux glass slippers by rote. She examined the ideal in the mirror. “Just a touch more rouge,” she thought. It was fine line between a little girl’s fantasy and nightmare. Walt walked the tightrope and insisted t his employees, even after his death, carried on in fashion.
Cinderella asked “How is it today?”
“Same as it ever was,” Snow White responded.
“I hate this job.”
Smiling for the mirror, Cinderella was ready to make her grand entrance. Grabbing half a bagel and a slice of bacon from Ariel’s abandoned breakfast, she made her way to the tower elevator. Cinderella not-so-princessly ate on the way to work. Walt would be displeased.
The elevator opened and Belle and Jasmine (the B-Team) got out. Cinderella asked the girls what was going on in the banquet room.
Belle said, “Brace yourself. It’s a ‘Make-a-Wish’ day.”
“Oh, no. Not again,” Cinderella griped.
“Seriously. Put on your game face. The kid doesn’t have long.”
“What does she like?”
“Horses, hockey, and you. I guess it’s your hair. She can’t wait to meet you.”
“Thanks.” Cinderella got on the elevator. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty were having breakfast with the kids already. She prepared her smile for showtime. She rose a floor, the doors opened, and she entered the pandemonium.
There were twenty tables arranged in Cinderella’s Banquet Hall. At each table, a family of five could sit comfortably. Walt designed the room with risers to maximize seating. From Cinderella’s vantage, it was closed system chaos. Excited girls knelt on their chairs, fought with their siblings, waited for “the” arrival of the Princess of princesses. Problem brothers ran about the restaurant leaving smashed dishes in their wake. Exasperated parents, futilely fueling to keep up with kids, guzzled coffee. The wasted food piled high on each table would make Mother Teresa weep. Cinderella didn’t notice the noise level after a month’s at the Magic Kingdom, however, she saw three moms with ear plugs.
In the mouth of this madness, sat a stubble headed girl with her mom and dad. She looked to be a very sickly seven. A typical girl that age would weigh about sixty or seventy pounds; this kid was probably forty, maybe. She had dark circles under her eyes and her skin already was ashen, hanging off her bones. Her eyes, though, maintained a vitality Cinderella thought lost in herself. They were like diamonds against a violet backdrop. Just beautiful.
Their eye met both girls smiled. The princess held up a finger and started to make the rounds in the big banquet hall, leaving the sick girl for last. She spoke to the grubby little girls with food all over their clothes. She made nice-nice with impolite wannabe princesses. She obliged the parents demanding a photo. She forced barbaric little brothers to run for cover out of sheer bashfulness. Eventually, she reached the most deserving child in the room. She knelt down in a very graceful way.
“Hello. I am Princess Cinderella. Who are you?”
“My name is Elizabeth.”
“Princess Elizabeth?”
The little girl smiled and the whole world brightened. Even this dying child had beautiful dimples. In the moment, Princess Elizabeth, the skinny girl with a last wish, was hopeful. Walt might have taught his employees what to say, but Cinderella knew how to sell it.
Cinderella glanced at Mom and Dad. They seemed relieved for the moment. She asked, “Would you like to get your picture taken with me?’ Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, nearly falling. Cinderella took Elizabeth’s hand. If she had to carry this kid to the alcove, she would. Mom and Dad gave the two princesses there moment. They followed several paces back.
Behind the Banquet Hall wall, there was an area where children would meet Walt’s creations face to face. Cinderella led Princess Elizabeth to a couch that sat in front of a photographer’s portrait equipment. She and her little charge sat down. She thought about her own childhood, remembering when she really wanted to be a princess, not realizing then that good princesses serve.
“Are you enjoying your breakfast?” Cinderella asked.
“It’s wonderful.”
“Have you been to the park before?”
“This is my first time. I love it.”
“Which ride would you like to go on first?” Cinderella’s question, though scripted by Walt himself, was genuine.
“I don’t know. Maybe the tea cups. Mommy worrys.”
Cinderella, intent on doing her job, asked the little princess “What is it like to have a mommy?”
“Don’t you know?” Elizabeth asked.
“You know that my mother died when I was very young. I was raised by my stepmother. She tried her best, but it wasn’t the same.”
“Is your mommy in heaven?”
“Of course! What a silly question.”
Elizabeth pressed. “How do you know?”
“How else could it be, Princess Elizabeth?” explained Cinderella. “What kind of a world would it be where wonderful people like my mother, who gave everything that I might live, pass and are never seen or heard from again?”
“If I go to heaven, I’ll find your mommy.”
Cinderella was struck dumb. She pulled the little girl in close. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around favorite princess. For joy’s sake, Cinderella leaned back whispered, “Thank you so much.” In that moment, Princess Cinderella forgot all Walt’s tips and dictums. She remembered what it was like to want to do this job.
The photographer snapped their picture. They didn’t notice let alone mind.

The Damage That We Do

2009-04-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

The smell of ham, coffee, and eggs did the alarm clock’s job. Tom was shaved, showered, and dressed before seven. “Hiho, hiho! It’s off to salt mine I go!” he thought on his way downstairs. Silently sliding into his ash breakfast chair, Tom bet himself that Sydney had not heard him.
“Hello honey. Did you sleep well?” she asked without turning from the stove. She walked over to the table, kissed him, and deposited a plateful of morning delight.
“Damnit!”
“Like a log hon! Say this is great! Where’s the Beaver?”
Sydney glared at Tom. Smiling, she said, “You’re son is not awake yet.” She retrieved her plate and placed it carefully next to Tom’s setting. Sitting down to eat, Sydney asked, “When were you going to tell me about the audit?”
Tom coughed up some of the bacon he was enjoying just a moment prior. “What are you talking about, honey?”
“Whaddafuck?”
“Well, I thought you might know what this notice from IRS auditor Herman Johnson was about?”
“Syd, I honestly have no idea what they want,” Tom said.
“Did she find out about the Caymans' account?”
She would have none of it. “Let me tell you something mister. Until such time that you do find out and tell me, this breakfast will be the last meal I cook for you. Do you understand me? When this marriage becomes a partnership, i.e. you inform me of all your business activities, then I will resume my agreed duties. Is that clear?” She would stop staring when he acquiesced. A tense, near pregnant, pause ensued.
“Yes, dear.”
“Thank you. Is there anything you would like to tell me?” She was soft again.
“I can’t think of anything. I’ll get right on that tax stuff sweetie.”
“I look forward to it.”
They ate their breakfast like two monks. She read the paper. Tom watched her. He watched and thought about his last doctor’s visit. After a moment, he returned to his plate, still musing, “Plenty of time to deal with it after I clear up the taxes. It's not a good time to tell Syd about the chlamydia.”

Tueday Haiku

2009-04-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

Opus #1
Red headed menace
Shrugs his shoulders when I look.
He's up to no good.

Opus #2
Blondish highlights in
my daughter's longish brown hair
creep down her backside.

You can prevent further literary insults by making a comment or sending an email.

I might be back if I get some time and an idea.

P.S. The streak continues...

No More Drama

2009-04-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

You could say a lot of unflattering things about Joe. He was, unfortunately for Linda, decisive. About one hour into the party on Muldoon Ct., Joe announced, to Carmen in particular and all the partiers in general, that he was deeply, madly in love with her. Most of the attendees received the news with varying levels of drunken indifference, since they were also pursuing love dream actualization. The news drove Linda to the basement restroom for a good, long cry.

Tears streaming down her face already, Linda heedlessly burst into the bathroom. Thankfully unoccupied, she put the toilet seat and cover down and sat. She bent over, her head almost touching her knees, and sobbed. Her cries would be audible except for the stereo. She pulled some toilet paper off the dispenser so she could wipe her eyes. She dabbed at them, careful not smear her makeup. She failed.

A few moments of well deserved self pity later, Linda surveyed herself in the mirror. “Who is the sad clown?” she said. She ran cold water. While she looked for something to wash her face with, Cindy knocked on the bathroom door.
“Are you ok in there, Lin?” Cindy asked.
“Just a minute.”
“Please let me in.” It was almost a whisper.

Linda considered for a moment. She thought “Can I pull off the ‘I’m not upset’ routine?” Not tonight. She opened the bathroom door. Cindy slipped in like she had to use the facility.

Cindy was insightful, caring, and unwilling to ignore the obvious. Hardly enough room in the head to give Linda her space, Cindy leaned against the bathroom door. “He’s not worth it,” she said.
“What? I think I need to go home. All of a sudden, I just don’t feel all that great.”
“You don’t want to talk?”
“About what?” Linda said. “You mean Joe? No, he can do whatever he wants. We’re over. Right? Whatever.”
“Ok, honey. If you want, I can drive you home.”
“That’s ok. I’m ok. Really. I haven’t been here long enough to get drunk. I’ll be fine.” Linda tried to sell it, but she couldn’t buy it. She sat down on the commode. Cindy knelt beside her. She put her arms around Linda, who was ruining her make up again.
The girls didn’t hear it right away but another voice from beyond the bathroom door queried. On the third try, questions were punctuated with knocks. “What are you guys doing in there? Come on. Let me in.” It was Bridget. Cindy let go of Linda, shifted on her knees, and opened the door. For her part, Bridget did her best to glide in nonchalantly. “People are wondering what’s going on,” Bridget started.
“Let them,” Linda said, getting up.
Cindy noticed the other two girls were standing on either side of the toilet. She felt self-conscious and stood. They were a three witch coven over a porcelain cauldron. Cindy asked Bridget, “Did anybody notice Linda?”
“Everyone except Joe, I think,” Bridget reported. “It’s not quite a level three drama yet, but the night is young.”
“Drama?! What drama? No drama, no drama,” Linda stated. Incredulous, the other two girls looked at each other. There wasn’t much room to do anything but look.
Another knock at the door followed by a bellow, “You guys need to get out of there. I need to use the can!” It was Madeleine. Closest to the door, Bridget immediately opened it. Maddy did not acknowledge the quorum until she situated herself of the throne.
“You guys should get out of here,” she commented..
“What’s going on out there?” Cindy ignored her.
Madeleine offered her best withering stare given the circumstances. “I was preoccupied Cindy.”
Bridget pursued,”You’re telling no one is remotely curious..”
Linda hoped to stave off an emotional show,”There’s nothing going on. I just came in here for a minute. I was feeling sick. You guys followed me. Now I can’t get out because it’s like a crowded telephone booth in here. If everyone moves to one side, I…”
“That’s bullshit,” Cindy retorted.
Bridget concurred. “There’s twenty people out there that agree with you.”
“I’m trying to take a dump!” Maddy announced.
In the ensuing silence, the four easily heard the knock on the door. Without urgency, a voice asked, “Please. May I come in?” It was Carmen. The other girls looked at each other. Barely able to squirm in her seat, Maddy said, “Sure. What the hell? I’m not getting any privacy until this blows over. Come on in, Carmen.” Maddy pushed Bridget three inches towards the door. The lock was undone. The three standing girls squeezed towards Maddy and the toilet so Carmen could enter. Not a large girl Carmen contorted into the room. None of the other partygoers caught a glimpse of Maddy in the all together.
“Linda, I’m sorry. He’s an ass.”
“Sorry? For what, Carm? I’m ok. Nothing going on in here.”
“Ok. I’m sorry. I was just checking…”
Linda interrupted. “Checking for what? You want to see how humiliated I am? Hoping to see a big pool of tears and blood in here. Sorry. Can’t help you.”
Bridget and Cindy turned to Carmen. Madeleine shook her head. Linda waited for a reply.
“Like I said, I’m sorry,” Carmen offered.
After a moment, with nothing left to say, Carmen almost left. Bridget re-lit the fuse, “You should be.” Maddy almost rose from her seat. She settled for a glare.
Carmen asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever you want it to mean.”
“I don’t even like the guy. I just told him so.”
Cindy decided to join the fun. “Yeah right, likely.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re ruining a great girl’s life here.”
“I am not! You guys should be ashamed for attacking me like this.”
“We’re protecting our friend from a cheat and his asshole girlfriend!”
Carmen began a protest and Maddy examined the bathroom’s linoleum, Linda cut off debate, “I don’t care. It’s ok. He’s not worth it.”
The girl on the toilet prayed silently for a truce. “Friends?” Carm obliged.
“Sure.”
Bridget and Cindy didn’t look too sure. Considering for a second, they relented for their friend’s sake. Bridget apologized for calling Carmen an asshole. The four combatants tried their best group hug over Maddy. She observed it all, finally asking, “Is this little drama over?”
By reflex, Linda started, “There’s no drama.” After a beat, “ No more drama.”
“Then get the hell out of here.”
Linda, Cindy, Bridget, and Carmen did their best to get out the bathroom without putting Madeleine on display. Just before she shut the door, Carmen asked “You need anything?”
“Five minutes alone. And lock the door.”

Editor's Note: The above is fiction. And as such, it should not be surmised by the reader that the author has ever, ever seen his high school classmates in a compromising position. Rest assured, if that were the case, his eyes would have been plucked out many, many years ago.

I'm not talking to you

2009-04-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

I ask the in-house psychologist, "How could someone nurse a grudge for N plus years? How do you "not talk to somebody" for that long?"

She says, "KC, I do assessments. In my job, I tested kids to determine what services would best suit them. I never know what to say to people about their problems."

Ironically, this does not prevent my bride from correcting me continually. Now in out seventeenth year.
***************************************
Look, I don't want to waste anyone's time with respect to things deeply personal. Not here. Not ever.

HOWEVER...

I offer the following advice: If you're cool with the fact that you manage a noo-speaking relationship with anyone, than that's great. I'm not here to be your judge. There is a long list of people I would never, ever like to see again.

HOWEVER, part deux...
If you are not speaking to someone because of some typical day-to-day b.s., you might wish to mend fences. Take one for the team, dammit. Go eat some crow and make nice-nice. All you have to lose is your pride. Terrible things happen all the time. I'm not and you're not Kreskin.

You never know what tomorrow will bring.

Or take.

***************************************
I'm watching "Cat in the Hat" (with Mike Myers) for the 4,567,890th time. Daughter loved it. Boy loves it. I want to put chopsticks through my eyes, knitting needles through my ears.

Cheers

Keeping it Alive

2009-04-25T06:19:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I'll be back today. Softball is taking up a huge chunk of time.

Then there is the drinking. You can't get drunk without drinking. And we all know drinking takes time.

Gotta run. Mrs. KC needs me right now.

Seems to me I never told anyone about the Daughter's birthday party even though I promised.

Well, perhaps at midnight.

Later.

Riding Pine. Contemplating Retirement.

2009-04-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

Remo says, “You know what you need? You need to work on your skills. You could be something if you would stop playing this game like football and worked on your shot.”
“You know what you need?” Mark responds.
“No what?”
“You need to grow a foot and half so you can grab my ass without getting on your tiptoes.”

Another St. Christopher’s Warriors basketball game rolls on. Mark and Remo are varsity teammates in the same way the mascot was a cheerleader. They did not impress at tryouts nor in practice. Game situations were ostensibly a question mark. However, they did not sit at the end of the bench because they were last-minute secret weapons. Marginally worse than the first string, Remo and Mark questioned their roles on the squad. The issue was resolved in Coach’s mind: Remo and Mark filled uniforms and provided fodder for practice.

They sit in silence for a half court sequence. Warriors score. They clap. Another pause, Mark says, “You know, I think I’m in love with Marcie.” He is looking across the court at a particular cheerleader. Remo stares at him. Mark continues, “You know. If you take away her buck teeth and acne.”
“Oh. You had me going for a moment.”
“Where are your parents tonight, Reeme?”
“I don’t know.” Remo looks directly behind the bench. “Not up there. Must have left.”
“Makes sense. Nothing to see here. My mom’s a diehard.”
“Hey look! She’s waving to you.”
Mark looks up and does nothing. Remo waits him out. Eventually, Mark waves discreetly. He mumbles “Jesus. This sucks.”

Sitting quietly for a moment. They rise on a fast break. The Warriors blow it and Mark and Remo return to their seats. Remo sticks his legs out onto the court.

“You’re right.” He agrees finally.
“About?”
“What do we do this for?”
Mark thinks for a moment. “The girls?”
They laugh. After a minute, Remo says, “Seriously, let’s hand in our shit tomorrow before practice.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? You’re scared of coach, right?”
“My old man would have a coronary.”
“No.”
“Yeah. 'Quitters suck!' Don’t you know I can’t disappoint the old man?”
Remo thought about this for a moment. “What if we have ‘injuries’?”
Mark hadn’t heard him. He was watching the game now.
“Mark, remember when Ryan fell on your leg?
“Yeah. I almost rolled my knee. Asshole.”
“Could he do that again?” Remo asked.
“On purpose?”
“Yeah.”
Mark laughs, “Not in a million years. But you know how raging hemorrhoids are: Just when you think you got them licked, they burn your ass again. I guess if I practiced with some purpose then, for sure, he’d lay me out when I least expected it.”

Remo and Mark stand during the timeout huddle. They stand above the seated players, the kneeling coach. They scan faces in the crowd. Coach keeps the rah-rah short and the huddle is over painlessly. They return to their stations at the end of the bench.

“That’s it then,” Remo says.
“Play dead at practice?”
“It’s a plan.”
“Yeah, this really does suck. I’m in,” Mark decides.

Enraptured with another losing effort, the crowd doesn’t notice the silence at the end of the bench. Remo and Mark have nothing to say. Tonight's cycle is complete; they would have the same discussion tomorrow.

Dr. Legbreaker, DDS

2009-04-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

It has been awhile since I visited a dentist. Probably too long. Way too long. Influenced by boyhood phobias, my mind whispers “Ah, you’re fine.” My bleeding gums beg to differ.

I call the last dentist I visited. Things are desperate and I have no where else to turn. Luckily, the office manager remembers me, we’re all Cohosiers after all. Pleasantries are exchanged. An appointment is made.

In cases of doctors and dentists, one must forgo normal “Lombardi” time. One recalculates arrivals with expected wait times. I figure five minutes before the appointment will provide an adequate lead. When I enter the office, it is immediately apparent that I am wrong. The office is empty. The dental crew is waiting for me.

“Hey KC! How are you?” asks the receptionist I spoke to earlier.
Before I answer, “I can take your coat. Please come this way,” commands the hygienist.
As you recall, I follow rules. I do what women command. I follow her to the examination room.
“Boy, it’s been awhile since we last saw you. What brings you here today?”
Taking my dental chair, I wonder if I have ever seen this woman before in my life.
“I’m having a little pain in one of my molars…”
“I am sorry I forgot to ask, but do you insurance?”
“Not dental. I usually pay as I go.”
“Oh. OK.” She makes a note on my chart.

I notice a red mark on my chart when she puts it down. There is no time for a longer look, the chair is already lowering me to examination level. My anxieties get no time to amp up. She’s spelunking around in my mouth in no time.

“Aw geez. I see it. That’s not so good. I think we will have to fill that one.”
“Howmhamphra?” I reply.
“Yeah, and your gums are bleeding. Doctor will have to take a look at that. Probably need scraping.”
“Gumpthengeesusatsateen?” I ask.
“It’s going to be ok. I’m going to clean your teeth.”
All right. I know what that entails. I relax.

The cleaning takes a little time. Enough time, however, to let me examine the room from mouse eye level. I read the comics on the ceiling. I watch a little TV. I notice the photo of Doc with new boat adorning the wall. It’s the picture right next to the one with him, his daughter in jacket and jodhpurs , and her jumping horse. Seems remarkable to me that he can afford these things and the office seems so dead.

After fretful scraping, cleaning, and flossing, I am seated upright again. My mouth is rinsed and I am alone. The hygienist ran off to get the dentist. He must have been standing right outside the door; they’re back in no time.

“Hey KC. How’s the family? I understand you have gingivitis and need a filling”
Um, ok.
“What kind of insurance do you have?”
“Out of pocket.”
The dentist looks down at the chart and nods. “OK. Here’s what I want to do…”

I will spare you the gory details. Sounds expensive though.

“Ok,” Doc is wrapping it up. “We obviously can’t get all that done in one sitting. Would it be ok if do the filling today and schedule you for the other procedures?”

I almost balked. I would have given anything to not come back. I defer to his recommendation.

“That’s great! Let’s get started.” He eyes the hygienist and she leaves the room. She is probably standing right outside. Listening.

I will not say that the filling was painless. However, I have had my share, and this procedure was hardly traumatic at all. Surprisingly, we are done in a jiffy.

Once again, I am waiting in my chair. The dentist left me to the tender mercies of the hygienist. She comes with my complimentary toothbrush and appointment card shortly. She asks me about my relative comfort…

“You don’t have any insurance? Is that right”
“Right. You can bill me.”
This produces a slight pause. “Okay. Can you see the receptionist before you leave?”
“Sure. Let me ask you something. Your office seems really well run. You do a great job. And Doc is pretty painless. Why aren’t there patients lined up out the door to your office?”
“As geez. I don’t know.” She escorts me to the outer office.

“He can’t pay today.” The hygienist rats me out to the office manager.
“Really. You would like a bill, KC?”
I am putting on my coat. “That would be great.”
The office manager eyes me for a moment.
“Rocco! Moose! Help KC find his wallet!”

From an exam room I hadn’t noticed earlier came two ferocious man mountains in hygienist’s garb. Stubbing their cigarettes out on the office carpet, they wasted no time bearing down on me. The rest, sorry to say, is a blur and black out.
In retrospect, the experience made sense.. Doc could afford a boat, riding lessons, two BMWs, despite a severe lack of clientele. You see at Dr. Legbreaker’s office, business is cash and carry. He gets the cash and you continue to carry your teeth in your mouth.

More Things in Heaven and Earth

2009-04-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

I say “Let’s study our addition flashcards.”
Daughter responds, “I don’t want to.”

She’s instantly in her room, playing with a computer. A little part of my heart dies. I weep. My eldest doesn’t want to get better, faster. She’s happy limping along, thinking her calculations out.

She has a great memory. That’s not the issue. What she needs to do is the involuntary. It is the “light bulb going off” moment. The instance when you stop thinking about what one plus one equals. Trying to speed through flash cards pushes you to that point but it can be daunting for a little girl who thinks she’s dumb.

What the hell does 1 + 1 equal anyways? Are the numbers real? Are they whole? If not, rounding could make 1 + 1 = 1. If they are integers, the sum could be zero (use absolute values). How precise do I care to be? How accurate? Why am I complicating this simple process.

The process in learning. Memorize by rote. Make the results of your memorization part of your nature. Then, just when you’re taking your massive knowledge for granted, your world shatters.

I have no idea what 1 + 1 means, let alone what it equals.

Or perhaps she’s just lazy.

Ask her to test how long it takes to form mold though and she is up to the task. The experiment requires water, bread, a dark, dry place, and some containers. Place a slice of bread in one container then into a dark, dry place. Do the same to the second slice of bread except add a little water to the container. Come back in a week and be disgusted.

My little girl loves this kind of tactile crap. Maybe she learns better by doing. Education researchers think she is like most kids. Give them something to manipulate, show them how it works. I guess we are wired that way. From there, we move onto the mental models.

I am reading about Richard Feynman, Manhattan project physicist and Nobel laureate. He began his career, while still a child, fixing radios. He tells a story where someone brings him a radio that makes an awful racket when it is initially turned on. The noise subsides after awhile. Young Mr. Feynman sits and looks at the radio, lost in his thoughts, thinking how this can be. After sometime, he analyzes the problem correctly and fixes the radio.

His customer exclaims to other owners of broken radios, “He fixes radios by thinking!”

Maybe I’ll bag the flash cards and buy her a cheap computer to take apart.

Two Link Tuesday

2009-04-21T08:31:00.000-07:00

Gotta run. Here’s your little tidbit for today. Although the article is a tad depressing, the Times Union archive search is pretty cool.

Peace out and what’s past is passed.

Today's Brief Interlude

2009-04-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

It’s Monday and I am nursing my “Day after Sunday night when the kids are asleep and I’m catching up on my crappy reality TV and beer” late night. From amongst the cubicles, I hear the dronings of our latest guru.

“Do you happen to know where KC sits?” says he.

Alphabet Soup mumbles directions. I imagine there is some hand gesturing. I definitely hear steps approaching. My stomach braces for the torrent of oral diarrhea. Instinctively I swivel my chair and face my enemy bravely.

With enough exposure to the IT world, a narrow minded individual might divide the ranks in two: morbidly obese geinusess intent on proving their superiority; skinny, rat faced nerds determined to bring your inferiority to light. I am face to face with the latter.

“Hello KC. You’re here already. That’s great. Do you have a moment?”

I stare blankly, quietly calculating which lie to tell. In a moment, my mind flasher “better now than at 4 o’clock.”

“Sure Steve. What’s going on?”

“Well, I had some work to do over the weekend and, long story short, examined your code. Some of your techniques left me a bit befuddled. Can you walk me through it?”

Color me suspicious. “Is it incorrect?” I ask.

“No it isn’t that. The results appear correct.”

Suspicion Level Red. “How long does it take?” I ask.

“Oh it’s very much performant. I just have a few questions. Is that a problem?”

“Well, geez, Steve. I guess not. However as a contractor, I need to know in what capacity I am utilized. It’s all bookeeping. Very tedious”

“Suffice it to say KC, that your role here is a transfer of knowledge.”

“Oh. No real work involved, right.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“You just want to pick my brain.”

“Yes. Yes, yes, exactly.”

I pause for a moment and eye Steve.
“I charge triple for lessons.”

A video clue

2009-04-19T12:37:00.000-07:00

Granted today's post was a helluva idea. However, the execution really stinks. See video clip below.

Anyone know the dude in the clip?

'til tomorrow.

The Streak is the Thing

2009-04-18T10:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder. Often I wonder what I’ll have for dinner, where is my next beer coming from, how might I better serve my fellow man. More often, I wonder how the hell do people get to this site. In a depressing display of sloth and voyeurism, I am sharing with you today the best keyword searches that led to this little playground of my mind. For your entertainment, I submit the following

1.) Paul Iachetta, Mr. Iachetta accounts for more hits than any other search with the exception of “keveny” or “keveny blogspot” or any other variations. As a tribute to Paulie’s undying popularity, I stand up and salute Mr. Iachetta and his multiple self-googles.
2.) “Marlamarathon” gets a nod. Try it out. I’ll wait. That little search gets you to a post that has been called, in certain circles in and around the eastern San Franciscan Bay as well as points beyond, as “brilliant.” I agree and admire the Google search engine. I leave the link here.
3.) “teachers keveny Stephanie” Looks like someone is looking for “science copeland crazy."
4.) “kris maloney book Indiana” Uh-huh. Kris wrote a book. I have no clue what the Indiana part means. Could you help me out Kris?
5.) “punishment complex spanking” I’ll leave to your imagination as to what kind of an individual trolls the net for punishment complex and spanking. Is it a pretty picture?
6.) “ann connors lama” Between bestiality and stock prices, we can catalog about 92.34% of all internet searches.
7.) “keveny aust drive in” This person has the single best sense of humor displayed on these pages. His search led here.
8.) Other keveny notables getting a ping: Clements, Conroy, Maron (finally!), Kluz, Prediger, Smeltzer, Wandell, the dreaded other Connors (Jim), Frangie, Fleury, Edwards, Decker (well, Bond but it counts)
9.) If someone searches “maggie domina english,” are they looking for Maggie Finn? The post is here.

10.)Let me ask you something: What would one of these lists be like without a Margie (Margaret) Bania sighting? Not quite as popular as our man Paul, Margie proves to be a powerful force to be reckoned with internet stats-wise. People still get here with her name. People are still frustrated that there has not, as of the time of the writing, been a sighting.

Hopefully, the next post will be more interesting. Would anybody like to hear my thoughts on various ISP internet speeds?

Day Three: First One to Welcome My Return Gets an Autographed Photo

2009-04-17T10:50:00.000-07:00

Often the Confessor rises before to sun so he reaches the office early. The Confessor reasons, rightly so, that if he rises early he doesn’t have to prepare his kids for the day ahead. KC lists his morning responsibilities thusly: make sure dog does his dirty, filthy, disgusting business out of doors, shower; shave, eat breakfast, run out the door like his hair is on fire.

Arriving uber-early has many benefits. Not the least of which are getting primo parking spots at the garage. However, here we get to the meat of it, there are pitfalls and pratfalls. Confessor asserts that primary amongst this list is his quality time with the dawn patrol panhandlers in Capitol City.

Take the other day for instance…

KC gets out of his red, 1998, Camry with two dents on the front fender. Before he closes the door, he mentally ticks his checklist. He’s got his keys, his coffee, his peanut butter sammich. Bring on the day mofos! The asskicker insider him and every man hopes, nay prays, that some ne'erdowell approaches him with malicious aforethought. Asskicker/Confessor imagines a brutal and swift beatdown followed by incarceration for our would be criminal.

But of course, that’s another story for another day. Today, Confessor catches up with Hobo Harry. When Confessor lies awake at night, considering those questions which concern all stout hearted men of Cohoes, he asks himself, “What the hell is Hobo Harry’s real name?” To date, the answer is null.

Anyhow, Harry’s in a squeeze and puts the pinch on the Confessor. He’s pretty effective. His scraggly beard, “Sex Fiend” t-shirt, zombie shuffle are designed to catch the passerby-eye. Much like a cobra, when Hobo Harry catches your eye, his gaze will put you in spell, despite 2.5 real teeth and noisome breath.

“Hey man. You got any bus fare? I’m a short today.”
And so it begins.
“Harry, what did you do with the buck I gave you yesterday?”
“Spent it.”
“Really. Do bleeping tell. On what?”
“What’s that matter? It’s all gone now. Gone baby gone. Like Ben Affleck baby.”
“Very funny dude. You’re up early today. What’s going on?”
“I gotta live my man. Birds gotta eat. Fish gotta swim. Bums gotta put the arm on you.”
“Right you are sir. Well, you may as well get started. What’s today’s pitch?”

Confessor and Harry are walking side by side now. A distant passerby might mistake them for colleagues, or perhaps buddies. That may not be the case, but that doesn’t mean their relationship is not mutually beneficial.
“Why you always breaking my ass, man?” says Harry.
“How do you mean?”
“I’m a bum. You know it, I know it. I put the bite on you and your job is a quick yes or no. You ain’t supposed to be asking me twenty, thirty questions.”
“Jesus, Harry. We’re just talking right?”
“Yeah, I know but it gets to be a pain in the ass. All I want is my dollar. And you make me pay and pay and pay. You know, forget it. You beat me ok. I’ll just go ask some other statie. Have a good f*ggin day, man!”

Confessor considers this. Is this bum for real?

“Dude, don’t be like that. I just wanted to know what you’re up to. Here’s a buck. C’mon take it.”

“I don’t want it. Fug you!”
Confessor realizes his danger now. He’s upset the bum. Not the least of Confessor’s troubles is the burgeoning crazy bum per capita ratio in Albany. He must placate with extreme caution.
“I don’t want to feel bad Harry. Please don’t ruin my day. Take the money.”
“All right man. But stop busting my stones ok?”
“Ok.”

Confessor starts to walk away. Suddenly, he’s called back.

“Man. Dude! Hey Man!”
“Yeah, Harry.”“You gotta another buck? I need the fare to come back. You’re not gonna force me to bug any of these other fine people, are you?”

Can't We All Just Eat Some Steak and STFU!

2009-04-16T08:45:00.000-07:00

Out on the streets of Albany, I live and let live. Others are not as charitable.

I saw this at lunch yesterday. Read it, scratched my head, kept on trucking to the bank. There was a notable increase in foot traffic towards the Hudson. By the time I hit Broadway, it was pretty clear that the kinder and parental units were taking in the river park sights.

Then it occurred to me.

It’s Tax Day.

It’s also Tea Bag Day.

Dammit.

I hate protests. Well, most protests. PETA brings nekkid women dressed as animals to protest the circus. That. Is. Very. Cool. Most other protests suck gas. That includes the retched right wing.

Someone explain the Jesus/Fiscal Conservative nexus please? It’s must be hard to make the moral argument for lower taxes yet, these people try. How you go from “I try to do the right thing by my neighbor for God’s sake” to “Bleep you! You’re a freaking immoral socialist! You made your bed now sleep in it!” befuddles me no end.

And while you’re at it, what’s with the Children of the Damned?

Lefties are no better. They surpass Darwin. Not only are sudbugs equal to man, but they are better because they leave no carbon footprint.

I smell hemp.

And musk.
And, of course, the well-maintained B.O. expected of someone not accustomed to bathing on a regular basis.

And don't forget: They need to spend all YOUR money!

For those of you so frustrated with those amongst who can’t seem to get along well with others, I humbly offer the following:

KC’s Chicken Fried Steak recipe

About two pounds of cube steak.
2 eggs
½ cup of flour
2 Tbsp Vegetable oil
Salt and Pepa (yeah, I’m getting old school nineties on you’re a**)
Bag o’Broccoli
Mashed taters (I have a recipe for this, but I’m short time and space, make your own)

Ok. Season the steaks with salt and pepper. Get a small bowl and break both eggs in it. Spread the flour on a plate, egg the steak, dip steak in flour. Heat oil in hot, hot pan. Carefully place the breaded steak in the pan (Remember: Gordon Ramsay DEMANDS you place the steak AWAY from you). Cook three minutes both sides.

Gravy:
1 Tbsp of flour
1 and ½ cups of heavy cream
Bacon drippings
Worcescescescestishire sauce
Salt and cayenne pepper

Whisk flour and heavy cream in bowl until smooth. Heat the bacon drippings. Dump flour and cream in dripping pan. Add Worcesticesticestishire and season. Whisk like it’s your job or something. When the gravy begins to bubble, simmer for three minutes.

Make some broccoli baby (all this fat will kill you without some mitigating vegetable).

Plate steak, taters, broccoli. Smother in gravy baby (Special note to Charbs: I’d bet you’d like to smother me in gravy you damn dirty ol’ man).

Done. You have just made your entire family very, very, happy. If you live alone, take solace in the fact that you will be eating this delicacy all week.

Andy Griffith says “Hmmmm-hmmm. Everything tastes great when it’s sitting on 3,000 calories of meat/dairy fat!”

Eat, enjoy, and forget about the fundamentalists and hippies. They don’t know how to live anyways.

A non-Keveny update

2009-04-15T06:32:00.000-07:00

Great. Time to call Dewey, Cheatum, and Howe, Family Attorneys. I know for a fact I wasn’t smiling.

How about you?

*********************

I’m watching Real Housewives of NYC last night. Don’t laugh boys, it’s the perfect post-Yankee equalizer. Anyways one segment of said episode showed model cum hausfrau Kelli running in downtown Manhattan. Nothing odd here, except perhaps she’s not in Central Park, not on the sidewalk but in the streets, in traffic, in front of a cab, during midday. Hmmmmmmm.

Well there might be something odd after all, namely Kelli’s commentary. Our Miss Kelli is going on and on about how great it is to run in NYC. How freeing the experience is! What a wonderful city it is! Her life is great, she tells you, just f*cking fabulous! (I would love to check in on Kelli on a day she skips her meds)

She’s going on and on and I’m looking at the wife, she’s looking at me, and we’re both wondering when will “Jamesh the Cabbie” run her over.
*********************
Anyhows, we got a dog. Before I tell you the breed, let’s review the votes.
Mommy: Let’s get a lap dog.
Daughter: I want a little dog.
Son: Dog! Dog! Woof-woof!
Guy who feeds, walks, makes sure dog does his filthy business outdoors then picks up said business: Perhaps we might get a dog like the last one we had (Welsh Terrier).

And the winner is: Papillon. Ok, it is official. I am gay.

So we buy a dog from a local pet shop. So wifey and I know better. So wifey and I get buffaloed by our children about thirty times per day. So the new addition to the family has giardia. Yaaaaaaay!

We begin treatment. It isn’t really a big deal. Twice a day, I give the little guy his medicine. After ten days, I collect a stool sample, hermetically seal it, and send it packing to the vet.

I call the vet for the results.
“Ummm sorry Mr. Confessor but your dog still has parasites.”
“You’re kidding me. How’s that work?”
“Well, you need to make sure to pick up his feces immediately”
“Lady, you could eat off my lawn. In fact I often do.”
“Ok. You need to come down and pick up some more medicine.”

Lovely.

Another week passes. Medicating doggy is getting real old. One day I’m out in the yard, watching for new dog poo and picking up the old dog poo. I see my miserable mutt munching on something. It’s not his excrement so what do I care. Live it up doggy! However, during careful yard inspection, I notice several rabbit pellets (by several, I mean enough rabbit sh*t to fill a wheelbarrow…twice). “That’s funny,” I say to myself, “these turds look just like Doggy’s chow.” As a highly trained, highly paid analytical mind, I begin to put one and one together…

Sure enough. The dog is helping me keep the yard clear of rabbit feces.

Carpophagia. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.

More exploits later.

For the two left

2009-02-12T04:56:00.000-08:00

I have competition.

I thought Sr. Marilyn retired or died or something.

Answer: 2 milliseconds
Question: The amount of time I could stand reading this. Sorry Comrade, can't make tonight's organizational meeting. You'll have to rally the proletariat without me.

An aside

2009-02-06T04:29:00.000-08:00

For those of you wondering whether a Birthday swim party for seven year olds is a good idea:

It. Is. Not.

Recap and body count to follow.

How did you get here?

2009-02-03T11:05:00.000-08:00

Studying the metrics of this here blog, one is struck by the number of hits received by those using the names of those people you used to know. In the lead, by a slim margin, Paul Iachetta. Combined, the Bania girls tie his score. On their own, well, you know what they say about houses divided.

Since I don’t want anyone to feel unloved, the following is a list of other hits (in no particular order). If you don’t see your name, that’s ok, neither is mine. Rest assured, I still love you (you know, in a man-love/beer commercial sort of way). Maybe someday, you too may become as popular as Paul.

Without further ado:
Fleury, Keefe, Flinton, Wandell, Frangie, Guzy, Edwards, Kluz, Maloney, Finn, Conroy, Campbell, Tremblay, Napolitano, Pontore, and Roy.

You are probably asking yourself: What the hell is he talking about? Well, I’ll tell you. Ever since I stopped writing here, I have been interested in the web traffic: who is visiting, when they stopped by, etc. So just color me nosy yet willing to share my findings.

I’ll leave you with this bit of advice. If you forget how to get here and need a quick pointer back, try this (sure it’s safe for work).

This would be the point where you would stop reading, stare pensively at your coffee cup, then tell your family that you are removing the internet from the house.

Where No One Remembers Your Name

2008-08-25T06:54:00.000-07:00

She’s old and tall, has her raincoat on and shambles towards my office lobby doors. From Sacred Heart onward, the nuns’ instruction in such matters: “Hold the door open.” I do. I wait. Seems like an eternity. I expect no acknowledgement. However, as she shuffles through the threshold, she offers, “Why thank you! I’ll remember you in my will.”

I love old ladies with a sense of humor. Made my day.

Get on the elevator with my DB buddy, Alphabet Soup. He looks like Monday, all depressed and dreadful. Trying to brighten the day I say, “No emergencies yet, Alphabet.” He looks at me like I’m lying. He knows. I follow up with, “It’s early yet.”

On the eighth floor, I run into GladHand. He often asks about the kids. Not today. I say good morning. “How are you today?” is his reply. I smile to myself because I know GladHand has no clue as to what my name is. Remember, I established squatter’s rights at the office about six years ago. Funny stuff.

Dearly beloved supervisor drops me an email. “Were you notified of the latest change/enhancement/catastrophe?”

Would you believe I got off my arse to respond in person? It is true. The answer to her question is, regrettably, no. She asks me what I think about the change and I defer for a moment to check out the person/(s) responsible for the request. It is the magnificent Marblemouth and his mentor, IKnowNothing. Reading the two names, I balk for a mere moment but beloved supervisor catches me. “That’s what I thought,” she surmises. Their request engenders a meeting. A meeting I will not be forced to attend. My boss will beat meatheads with inpunity and, more importantly, without my presence. I am getting to love my boss.

I don’t much feel like giving a recap of last weekend’s get together. Four of your closest friends, Kym, Kris, Bede, myself, came, saw, and got pie-eyed. Kym and Bede look much like they did in December. Kris, on the other hand, looks taller. Is that possible? I forgot my camera although I had one on my phone (I didn’t really feel like taking pictures). The next day, I asked my lovely daughter to render an artist’s third person rendition of Ms. Kristin. I attach the following without further comment.

Ms. Simmons (Gratton) is walking for Alzheimer’s. If you were to drop a buck or two into her tip cup, you might bust up your negative karma!

Tomorrow’s post: I get a hang nail and detail its removal for your entertainment.

Just when you thought I was back...

2008-07-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

Maggie and Chris think I need immediate psychological services.

I agree. Shutting down blogger and leaving this rad post for a few days.

Sorry but you will have to wait for your daily dose of tomfoolery.

Buck up, you will hear all about my mental days off upon return.

Ironic, I take five months off. Write two posts and thirty emails, then I split again.

Where’s Waldo Opus 45

2008-07-17T06:16:00.000-07:00

WE HAVE A WINNER!!! EVERYONE CONGRATULATE MAGGIE FINN. SHE GUESSED MARGIE BANIA!!!

I think today’s contest exemplifies the spirit of the game. Within the picture below, you will see a 1982 graduate of our fine institution. No clues but one stern warning:

Charbs,

If you spoil this, I will be forced to reach through the network cables and strangle you.

Love and Kisses,
KC

To the rest of you,

Have fun. Good Luck. A shiny penny and a great deal of respect to the person who drops the first comment with the correct identity.

KC

07/21/2008

In my continuing efforts to make things less than impossible, I present the following and ask the same question: Where's Waldo?

Emptying my Inbox

2008-07-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

Dear KC,
I was hoping that you could help me with a problem I have. It seems every time I do or say something that warrants a “That’s b*llsh*t!” and subsequently someone does call me on it, I become enraged to the point of unleashing my “FISTS OF FURY!” I have felt this way as long as I can remember. Do I need professional help?

Preparing a punchfest,
Former teacher and UFC combatant

Dear Punchy,
Numerous psychologists suggest taking a moment or ten before (re)acting harshly. The pause before action should give you time to reflect on the repercussions and wisdom of any “respond in kind” reprisals. They state that reactionary behavior is not only unkind, but also a good means of alienating everyone you know.

My experience with those daring enough to question my infallibility tells a different story. I find a sharp kick in the *ss does these reprobates a world of good. Then again, that’s only my two cents.

Working the heavy bag,
KC

Dear KC,
Sometimes, late at night, I lie in bed wondering when the “Big Red Machine” will return to the post season. The glory of the “World Championship 1990” has faded like many memories of childhood past. Crushing the Yankees this season provides little solace to this fan of the basement dwelling Reds (members of arguably the second worst division in the MLB). How do I carry on?

Deluded by sorrow,
JF (my name must remain secret as I have children that don’t need to know their parent is a whiner)

Dear Foster,
The whole world changed the day Marge sold the team.

Perhaps, when you’re feeling depressed, you can tune into ESPN and listen to the warblings of former Cincy hero, Joe Morgan. Listen to Joe tell you why Soriano, Pedroia, Kinlser, Utley, Uggla (individually or combined) are no Joe Morgan. Listen to Joe tell you how the game has missed his presence. Listen, again and again, to him regale you with the glory of the K-Zone.

Then remind me why I should watch sports at all.

What’s on the Food Channel?
KC

Hi KC,
Mind if I borrow some of your style or content?

Feloniously yours,
A Fan

Hi Fan,
Usually I forward all copyright issues to my legal team at Turnem, Burnham, and Churnyum. However, your request is ridiculous on its face since I steal most material from Penthouse Forums.

Cheers,
KC

Dear KC,
As a formerly avid reader of this here blog, I was wondering if you recall college fondly.

Iterating through the classes,
Your former Math teacher

Dear Prof. <>,
I remember this fondly:

If A is age,
And B is obesity,
And C is Bay Rum
Then
A + B + C = a very lonely college professor

Take it easy on the freshman,
KC

Dear KC,

Are you doing any work today?

Your statie supervisor

Dear Sup,

Shhh — I’m multitasking.

The TPS reports will be on your desk COB,
KC

KC,
Are you still writing?

Sincerely hope not,
The Keveny Reunion Advisory Panel

Dear KRAP,
You should have left me alone.

KC

Dear KC,
Are you still writing?

Go to bed for crying out loud,
Mrs. KC

Mrs. KC,

Yes dear.
Sigh!

Dear KC,
Just coming to say hello and what a great job on the blog page. My first time visiting the site. By the looks of things not to many changes have occurred, everyone is still crazy as ever. Loved the fashion and beer show.

Forgot to include the where abouts of the famous Mr. Smeltzer, you can find him riding a bicycle around cohoes, and believe it or not it will make you turn your head twice when u spot him, it did me....he still has the beard and hair but has turn to gray... he has been seen shopping at the famous cohoes price chopper as well riding down columbia street all different hours....

I also wanted to give you another flash back from those crazy high school days, does anybody remember when Jenny Roberts got her license, and what happen? she made the corner from the Community Center and went right into one of the corner apartments and she didn't know how it happened? Thankfully no one was hurt when it happened. What about the night at one of the dances when Arleen and myself got pulled into Sister Maura's office because she thought we were drinking before coming to the dance???? No one really knew if we were or if we were not.... and by the way I remember the food zoo do's and don't's and how we could not get out early... you boys forgot that I also worked there.... Have another memory you may not remember but my sister and I remember how when we were up behind the bowling alley, drinking and our lovely mother paid someone $5.00 dollars to find her shoes that she lost while she too was having herself a good time partying.... When I have time I will send you other memories....

Lesleigh Winner

To Lesleigh,
Thank you very much. Where in God's name is Jenny? Sorry for posting this so late.

KC

To the rest of you,
If you, or someone you know, would like to drop Les a line, feel free to hook up at the right. Her name is a link to one of her many email addresses. I chose one and shot.

If your magnanimity extends to yours truly, feel free to tell me all that is going on in your life including all your hopes and dreams. I will do my darndest to make fun of you privately or on this here site. Your choice.

If, on the other hand, you are socially disabled, please feel free to disregard my message.

In either case, I just thought I would reach out see how you're all chillin'

Yours,
Me

Connie Owens (1936-2008)

2008-05-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

I remember her rolling her eyes, looking for something with which to strike me on the forehead. Connie might bemoan your youthful arrogance, the ignorance of your inexperience, your failure to see how simple it all is.

But she never made you feel that your presence was unwelcome or that you were keeping her from something important.

And that’s how I will always remember her. Exasperated but always keeping her humor. Oftentimes, the object of her ire was her own kids, but Connie was generous. She always had advice and direction to share.

Plus the Budweisers. She never forgot the important things.

Take a moment tonight, and thank God or Allah or Buddha for sharing some time with Mrs. Owens. Then pray for her soul. She would do the same for you.

For the life of me, I can't figure out what school he's talking about.

2008-03-07T10:24:00.000-08:00

Sorry, back again.

Like a bad penny.

Check this out.

Lying Liars and their lies...

2008-02-19T04:01:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I said I was done. I lied.

Today's post is brought to you by the fine folks at Southern Vermont College. Take it away Mr. Consalvo.

Hi, Some of you may remember me Bob Consalvo? One of those evil teachers you had many years ago? Jackie Nash sent me an email about three weeks ago as she discovered my email address at Southern Vermont College in Bennington VT.Over the last 22 years I have been a professor at SVC, with the last 10 years as chair of the McCormick Division of Business.

My wife Terry is a principal in Amsterdam, and we live in Scotia NY.

Just this Sunday I saw Chris Coulombe at Taft furniture for the first time in 25 years with one of her sons. It was nice to talk about the fun times at KMA. Also, from time to time I have talk to Mr. Labate as well as Mel & Diane Byron who also live in Scotia. I have received emails from Jackie as well as Mary Anne (Clemenzi) McHarg

It was nice to see the tribute to Sister Agnes Mary who recently passed away. She was a great lady who helped may people along the way. May years ago, I also had the privilege of working with Sister Dennis at Maria College.

If you would like to see what I look like now and scare your children, you can visit the college web-site for Southern Vermont College. If you look for the business department you will see my wanted posted, along with an article I had published in the Albany Times Union.

I hope to hear from many of you and hope all has been well over these years! It was a special school and special place and it is a shame it had to end the way it did.

God Bless

Bob Consalvo -
Southern Vermont College
Bennington VT 05201
tdewey1@nycap.rr.com
consalvo@svc.edu

Give me a minute and I'll link Mr. Consalvo up. Why not send Bob a message today. Things can get boring during office hours.

Last Mailbag

2008-02-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

A few letters come trickling in…

Dear KC,
How old will your daughter be this week?

LoveHerToPieces

Dear LovelyPieces,

Known throughout Loudonville as the best little girl in the world, Molly will celebrate six years on planet Earth on Thursday. The family started celebrating this past Sunday when pizza was demanded and delivered. Early odds for a seventh birthday is three to one against.

KC

To my favorite consultant,
What’s your bill rate?
A wannabe client

Wannabe,
Minimum wage + $2 per hour and all the Ramen noodles the family and I can eat.
KC

Dear Stinking Jersey Giants fan,
I hope you, and the Giants, burn in hell! They suck! They only got into the Super Bowl because the NFC is weak, Brady was hurt, the Giants got all the breaks, etc., etc. etc. Enjoy your victory because you will be the footstools for the Redskins next year.

Foster

Dear John,
It really burns inside doesn’t it?
KC

KC,
I hear you want to pack it in.
KC

Dear Self,
Yeah. I have run the string here guy. I have nothing left to say. Except…

I would like to thank all of you readers, commenters, lurkers, emailers, and whatevers for sticking around and making this a lot of fun for me.

Please keep in mind, those of you that were ridiculed in the pages, I only mock those I love. For cold and merciless commentary, feel free to contact Dan Johnson or John Foster.

Mrs. KC and I would like to throw a party again, perhaps at the end of the year. We will have plenty of time for that though.

If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask. Hell, I might say no, but you will get considerable consideration.

You can always reach me keveny1982@yahoo.com

I reserve the right to change my mind about all this.

I was going to close with something maudlin. You know something about charity for the people you meet along life’s highway. Aw, hell, that sounds really stupid so let’s pretend I didn’t write it.

Huh?

Oh. Right! Well, you can’t unsay something so there you go. Be nice to each other. Better yet, don’t be nice. Nice, at least in my house, connotes benign indifference. Be better than indifferent dammit! Take a freaking interest!

Better for the experience,
KC

Man, It's like I have ESPN or something!

2008-02-01T04:51:00.000-08:00

Look down at the post below. Yeah, the one about STFU.

Right.

Check out the comments.

Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Today I woke up thinking about my fellow Yankee fans (Lori, Krissy, Charbs) and haters (the lowly Foster). I continued thinking and I thought, “Wonder what everybody thinks about the big game (by the way, it is not, nor ever will be, THE BIG GAME, that’s what chick (sorry ladies) newscasters call the NFL Championship, er, Super Bowl)?

Well, here’s your big chance to predict Sunday’s outcome.

Me? I say Jints 28 to 27. Tom Brady comes up short. And lame.

***************************************

Ok. What else do I have? How about a contest? Winner gets a night in Natick with the Doremus family. Losers get two nights…hahahahahahahahahahaha

Don’t worry, I’ll get the ok from Chris later.

The competition…a short description of your crappiest job ever. One hundred words or less will do. Come one, come all. I’m going last so don’t bug me about getting my post up. Entries may be submitted…NOW!

I'm thinking of founding a university...

2008-01-29T11:53:00.001-08:00

I don't know what the name would be but the initials would definitely need to be ...

wait for it

STFU

All suggestions may be made via comments and, of course, are much appreciated.

Cease and Desist

2008-01-29T11:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Sir,

We represent the firm of Schoolmates (.com) and do hereby and forthwith demand that you suspend all activities that lead to an interruption of our revenue flows. With respect to blogging, speaking, emailing, text messaging, instant messaging, leaving messages, sending smokesignals, sending letters, faxing faxes, and generally communicating in any and all kinds, we request that you cease and desist.

Sincerely,
Marvin Stein, Esq
Stein, Stein, Stein, Stein, Steyn, Stein, and O'Malley
Attorneys at Law.

Huh.

Well, that pretty much says it right there. Just when I thought I would do something special for the anniversary. Best to start blogging about something else. Good thing Keveny was all played out.

I leave it to you, gentle reader, to pick a topic.

My choice is Canadian Fashion Sense: Are culottes IN or OUT?

Where's Waldo, part 3,567

2008-01-24T10:32:00.000-08:00

I am lazy.

I can't even think of anything smart to say.

I thought, however, you might get a kick out of this.

Man, I didn't realize they taught typing in college.

By the way, thank Debbie Lester for the heads up.

Fiction Alert! -- Me Dear Sainted Mother

2008-01-18T12:14:00.001-08:00

“Oooohhh, I guess I’ll go to da store meself,” moaned Mrs. O’Leary. “Too bad dough, cause me corns are killing me weary feet. Oooooh, how I wish my children loved me more than they do. Oooohh, ohhh, oooo. Me poor feet.”

Tom O’Leary rolled his eyes. So practiced he was at this he thought he could spin his orbs in their sockets. Too impatient to try today, he answered his mother. “Mom, what do you need from the store? I’ll go get it.”

“Ooooohhhh, don’t bodder yourself Tommy. I’ll eat da dog food here. Not that Fagin is going to need it anymore since you put ‘im down. What is it dat you said he had?”

“Rectal cancer Mom. Jesus, I’ve told you that a million times! You can remember ass cancer, can’t you?” He was here five minutes and losing his grip. He needed to get out of this house. Now. “Do you have a grocery list Mom?”

Mrs. O’Leary nodded towards the refrigerator. “Ooohhh, don’t go taking the Lord’s name in vain in me house Tommy. He may strike you down and take da house and me wit’ you. And tank you so much for going to the store Tommy. If I was to wait on your ten brothers and sisters, the police would be finding an old skeleton stuck to the recliner come this spring. Oh, and remember the Lactaid. Regular milk gives me da runs.”

Tom, retrieved the list and, with his back facing his mother, rolled his eyes one more time. It felt like his corneas would touch his optic nerve. He said nothing.

Trudging through the snow, Tom got nearly everything his Mom wanted from Coccas Corner Store. It was snowing like a bastard, maybe two inches an hour. Lugging four stacked and packed bags through hellish weather made Tom’s walk home ponderously plodding. That was all well and good, less time spent with the old bat. Since he was doing chores for her, his venial resentment wouldn’t need mention at confession this week. He walked home thanking God for the opportunity to offer his suffering up and dreaming of sunny climes.

From a block away, Tommy could see his mother, bad feet and all, shoveling the walk in front of the house. Under his breath, he raced through an act of contrition until his rage subsided. He wished his eyes would stop throbbing.

“I was just clearing a path for you, Tommy. God knows I don’t want you to slip and fall,” she fretted. “How would you work if you were laid up for who knows how long? Ever since that, forgive me Mary Mother of Jesus, that bitch left, you have no one at home to look after you.”

She put down her shovel and followed him into the house. Tom’s eyes felt as if someone lashed them with barbed wire. Mrs. O’Leary’s coat wasn’t off when she said “Oooh, you didn’t forget the tea now, did you?”

The one thing Coccas didn’t have. Tom closed his eyes and counted to ten. “We can have coffee Mom,” he offered, hoping that caffeine might relieve his pain.

“Oh oh oh, I don’t have any of that either,” she moaned.

“I’ll ask the Marinellis if we can borrow some.”

“Those garlic eaters wont give you nuttin’. Better to go with out. I wont drink it if you get it.”

“I think you might Mom. I’ll make it the way you like it. You’ll feel better.”

Returning from the neighbors, Tom hurriedly made sure his mother was comfortable, brewed the coffee, and downed two extra-strength ibuprofen. After serving her, he waited for her to nod off.

Mr. Marinelli found the martyred Mrs. O’Leary’s stockinged legs sticking out of a snowbank in her back yard two weeks later. The police immediately suspected Tommy and began their search. Tommy, clever boy, figured the authorities would never find him in the Grand Caymans. And even if they did, a local priest guaranteed that God absolves guilt. All Tom had to do was ask. Knowing that his Mom forgave him and looked beatifically down on him, Tommy never had a problem with his eyes again.

This could have been a three Debbie post but sadly no news from Ms. Keefe

2008-01-14T08:54:00.000-08:00

The former Debbie Lester sent in an email last week. Through her vast friends and family network , she was able to locate a certain business teacher. I would throw the guy in but I’m waiting for a promised email before begin ridicule.

Ah, me. What are you going to do?

In the same message, Debbie brought the following to my attention.

In addition, I found this obit on Sr. Agnes (SAM).

If you, like me, have a warm place in your heart for SAM, try saying a couple of Hail Marys for her. Sure she could be nasty, but I’m pretty sure her heart was always in the right place. Hell, she liked me well enough.

Another Debbie (Flinton) writes in (don’t worry, I’ll redact all items that may identify or locate)

My brother Larry works and lives in California. He is doing really well for himself. I am posting to you his email address: firedawgnla@socal.rr.com

I have been married since 1992. I work in Central NY. My husband and I bought a house in (redacted) NY (a few miles east of redacted). I am working for a (redacted) company called (Redacted) (Redacted) Company as a purchaser and maintenance planner.

I will give more of an update when I have some more time.

Debbie Flinton-(Redacted)

True Stories of the Information Technology Vendor

2008-01-09T10:18:00.001-08:00

“Hello, Keveny Information Services, Mrs. KC speaking.”
“Hello. Your firm submitted a candidate for an opening we have and we would like to interview him. Is he available?”
“What times are you interviewing?” our vice president asks. We need to narrow it down. You see, if we left it up to our subcontractor, the interview would take place in three weeks at 3 AM in an abandoned parking lot.
“Friday would be great! How about 9:00 through 11:30 or 1:00 through 3:30?”
“I am sure he can make it. Let me notify him and call you right back.” Mrs. KC is hoping beyond hope that she hasn’t overcommitted our top flight candidate.
“Great! Talk to you soon.” Chipper, cheery statie. I am intrigued.
“OK. Thanks for the call.”

Then there’s the call to me.
“Did you submit Ravi Smith for the position ABC?” Mrs. KC grills me.
“I don’t know. Are they going to interview him?” I say a prayer to myself that he doesn’t bleep this up.
“Yeah, there looking for him. Can you speak to him?” Mrs. KC would be nowhere without me.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll find him.” I say this, not really believing myself.

Call his number. After about 4-5 rings, someone picks up. In the distance, I can hear a distant strain of Bengali. I curse myself for doing this on my lunch. The phone is abrubtly disconnected.

The dope just hung up on me.

Forced to call again, I am immediately forwarded to voicemail.

“Look Ravi, this is KC. I have an interview for you. Call me or better yet, call Mrs. KC at xxx-xxxx. I have to go. Good luck.”

I write the follow up email and wonder how long before I hear from him. Bids open at 23 hours.

It’s not that I hate vendoring. It’s just that business ethics are relative to the person. You get a good worker, your life is a dream. Easy $5 an hour. You get a dog like Ravi, your overall level of stress just increased 50%. Thinking this dude might have the job makes my hands shake. Did I mention that his wife is one my subcontractors? Mentioned. Overall level of stress will rise 75%.

Anyhow.

Sorry. That’s all I have for today. Just thought I would check in and let you peek behind the curtain of high priced, low quality consulting.

Happy New Year Mailbag!

2008-01-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

In the “In with the New” department, we have an addition to the ranks. Please welcome Ms. Debbie Flinton. Debbie writes:

Dear Confessor,

I just wanted to drop you a line and give you a way to contact me. I graduated in the class of 1982. I am Deborah Flinton AKA Deborah Flinton-xxxxx.

Sigh. Another hyphenate. Oh well. Please say hello to Debbie by clicking on her name under “The Grads.” You will be sent, magically of course, to a wonderful world that is getting smaller all the time by virtue of the Internet, Email, and Instant Messaging.

Got this brick thrown through my window the other day. I’ll let the writer explain.

Feeling better? Idea for a post (answer anonymously, of course). I can't
think of other categories but it's a start.

Most Unchanged in Looks: Mary Bulmer and Chaba
Most Changed in Looks: Lori Franklin and Danny Johnson
Same Personality: Debbie Keefe and Bede
Most changed in Personality: Frank Fluery and Chris Coulombe
Anyone you didn't recognize at first glance: Chris Doremus and Lori Franklin
Most missed: Kristin and Matty O

Ok. I’m down but not anonymous. So, here goes.

Most Hostest with the Mostest: Mrs. KC
Most Prepared to do Battle Verbally: Debbie Keefe
Favorite Item Brought to the Party: Mrs. Danny Johnson’s Shrimp
Least Favorite Food Item: Caesar Salad (I kind of liked it. Sadly though, there was plenty for me to like)
Best Chin Hair: This is a tight one, but Chris D. wins by a, wait for it, whisker.
Best Necklace: Mary Ann Murray
Best Photo Head Tilt: Mary Anne Bulmer in a landslide
Best Challenge: Christine Coulombe dares you to run her down on a treadmill
Best “I’ll drink whatever you put in my hand” Moment: This is a tie. Chaba probably hasn’t a Bud in awhile and I commend Frankie’s willingness to sip the ol’ Doublewood with me.
Best Job: Alida Lear works from home. Case. Closed.
Best Career Path (Since it resembles my own so very much): Bede Edwards
Best “I’m showing my adult restraint skills by not drinking:” Jim Conners
Best Looking Kids (I take myself out of the race due to the fact it is unfair to compare my kids to yours because mine are clearly superior): Debbie Lester
Best “I can’t believe you recognize me, I have changed so much:” Lori Franklin
Most Changed Personality: Tie because the lot of you have changed very little. That’s a good thing.
Most Missed: All the maybes that, for whatever reason, couldn’t make the trip.

Please feel free to put your winners in the comments.

First Annual Keveny Fashion Show and Beer Tasting

2007-12-30T19:35:00.000-08:00

For those of you who wish I would cut to the chase: EVERYBODY LOOKS GREAT AND SEEMS HAPPY!

For those more patient, I offer the following evidence and narrative.

Some Saturday attendees hop right into the mix. Others let the good times come to them. Mary Anne Bulmer looks just a tad tentative, doesn't she?

C'mon Mare. Lighten up.

Oh, by the way, Mary Anne looks fabulous.

Another early attendee, Kym Decker coyly smiles for the camera. Oh, go ahead Kym, show us your pearly whites. That's Mr. Bede Edwards hiding in Kymie's hair.

And yes, Kymie looks fabulous. I'll get to Bede.

Prepared to take emergency action, like a manic run to the Beverage Baron, Jim Connors pauses for a moment to pose. Thank you, Jimmy. You're looking spectacular.

Sporting a "Gordon Gekko," Bede prepares for his upcoming proxy fight with Heineken. God bless him, Bede's making me yearn for the "Big 80s."

The ever demonstrative Frank Fleury is telling through sign language that he think's "Keveny is still Number One!" Go Franky! Love the ensemble.

The striking duo of Lori Franklin and Christine Coulombe are explaining high fashion to Bede's hands in this photo. Lori is enumerating the various and sundry benefits of the cardigan/jeans combo. Christine tells the hand that turtlenecks are the new power suits of the 2009. I am awestruck by the beauty of the ladies. Bede's hands seal the deal. You are all smashing.

You just can't throw beauty out there sometimes and expect solid results. That's why professional photographers make the big money. Case in point: I couldn't just take the haunting Debbie Keefe's picture without screwing it up a few times. The final result highlights matching locks and sweater. You go girl!

I offer as evidence of my poor photography skills, my initial shot of Deb. I suck. And I lie...to Debbie of course.

Another study in styles, the absolutely breathtaking Debbie Lester models the latest in haute couture necklace wise. Lori Franklin complements the scene with the simply stunning unadorned sweater look. Simply fabulous girls!

On the left, Alida Lear sparkles the night away with her bejeweled blouse and blonde hair. Not to be outshined, Mary Ann Murray shines her pearly whites and demonstrates beauty in the guise of necklace and neckline.

I title this one as three guys in search of a golf course. These refugees from a Dockers' ad, Misters Daniel Johnson, Michael Charbonneau, and Matthew Maron seem perfectly at home with a smile and casual wear. Only one question, why is Matt styling the short sleeves? Are they the new sweater of the Winter of 2008?

Lori, Debbie, and Mare show the host how best to pose for holiday photos? Beauty head tilt Mare! Ladies, you are a picture of grace.

Christine and Bede show blog viewers that the best accessory is a smile.

Danny Johnson chats up one of the many unnamed models at the fashion show. Rowr-rowr. Someone tell his wife.

Alida expresses a desire to leave the runway life. Jim listens attentively. In the distance, Chris Doremus regales Mary Ann on the travails of fashion.

Danny finally snags a model.

As Chris and Debbie show off the latest beauty shots, note each owns the same camera, Ms. Murray beams beatifically and judges.

Matt Maron finds the best looking person late at the party. Who took this picture?

Finally, this year's models pose with next year's models. Maron beams with pride.

Thanks to all for coming. You can save the pictures by a right click and "Save Picture As."

One more nap and I should be right fine

2007-12-30T12:09:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to thank everyone for stopping by yesterday.

Your holiday photos with smart arse comments will be here before you know it.

This is your final opportunity to remain anonymous (at least visually).

Remember these sage words for the dreaded morning afters: Caffeine and water are your best friends in the battle against hangovers.

My Prediction: This blog has about 1.5 good posts left

2007-12-27T04:44:00.000-08:00

All right. Now I KNOW there are some folks out there that did not exactly gradeeate in 1982.

And that’s …OK.

Mostly because I am about to ask you a favor. If you, or someone you know, graduated in the last four years of Keveny’s existence, would it be possible to obtain a copy of your yearbook?

That wasn’t so bad was it? Please send your response to keveny1982@yahoo.com.
********************
Let’s review a recent conversation with one of my favorite people in this whole wide world, Ms. Mary Ann Murray. The role of Mary Ann Murray will be played tonight by, well, Mary Ann.

MA: Hey Confessor, I can’t access some of my emails when I’m away from home. How do I get to your crib? (She did say “crib.” I weep for her.)

KC: After deplaning at JFK, …, make your way up the Northway and blah, blah, blah, there you are.

MA: Hey that’s great, thanks. Can I bring anything? Oh, and by the way, what day is the party on?

KC: (Sighs) That would be Saturday, December 29 from 3 until I don’t know the kids will be back in the house around 6. Plan accordingly.
********************

Photos will be taken on Saturday. If you be a little skittish about appearing on the this here cool website, let me know. No big deal, I just don’t want to hear about hurt feelings later.

********************
Menu: Caesar Salad, Four Cheese Tortellini, Shrimp Scampi, and Chicken Cacciatore. I signed up for some Dessert Sampler, we’ll see how that works out.

Beer: I will get some today. Hope everybody likes Meister Brau.

Wine: Beaujolais. And that is it.

Booze: I have both Irish Whiskey and Scotch. There is a smattering of other boozes but I am not up to making Daiquiris and whatnot.

Coffee: yes
Soda: sadly, yes.

Smoking: Accomodations are OUTSIDE by order of the MANAGEMENT.

********************
I am really looking forward to seeing everyone. If you, or someone you know, chose not to RSVP, it is ok. Stop by with someone who did or, at least, knows where I live. You have my personal guarantee of ONE really good laugh.

********************
As I am still nursing my post-Xmas toy hangover and I have my fourth cold of the season, this is the end of this crappy post. Hope all is well, Christmas was merry, and that you have better memories than Mare.

Adios.

Early Christmas Presents...Plus Where's Waldo, Part Thirty Four

2007-12-21T06:11:00.000-08:00

All of the pictures made me laugh. I provide them here because, well, it's Christmas, I'm bored, and it's Christmas.

Let's start with the Raccoon...

Yeah, I love me some mug shot action. Next, a hunting picture.

We'll be eating good in the neighborhood this Christmas! Gotta wash that varmint down right. These dudes are getting carried away.

Ahhhh, another Holiday with the Confessors. Who will be the last man (woman) standing?

Ok, be very, very quiet. I am going to show you my Achilles' heel.

And that was the crucial step in meeting, drum roll please, the first Ex-Mrs. Confessor!

A keeper indeed! I only wish she told me before I tossed her to the curb.

Hey, there's someone else I want you to meet. My boss.

His boss...

And the gal who wants to be boss of us all...

One more work photo. This one of my cubicle mate...

It's ok, he's cool. Just don't talk to him about Hindis. The "Where's Waldo" portion of today's post...

This is a diagram of my plan to punish those who choose to bring their cell phone into the men's room.

And finally, what I want to be when I grow up. Well, the gender is wrong, but you can't have everything.

This is my second post of the day. Merry Christmas! I might have a third in me.

Season's Beatings

2007-12-21T04:49:00.000-08:00

Season’s Beatings

The title has nothing to do with the content. I heard it on wrestling a long time ago and now use it as my own little Christmas greeting. People wish me “Happy Holidays,” I either throw them a “Merry Christmas” or “Season’s Beatings.”

It also works on kids…

Some unnamed child: Daddy, when are we going to open presents?
Daddy: Right after the season’s beatings, kiddo.

I can’t help but bring the funny.
****************************************
Ok, judging from my readership, you are all doing something a bit more exciting than reading this here blog. God bless you. I, on the other hand, have 8.25 hours to kill today. So maybe I can come up with more than one entry for you…Nah, that would cut into my planned nap.
*****************************************
Dear Miss Manners,
I am planning a get together for 30 of my closest friends (sic people I haven’t seen in about 25 years). When sending out the invitations, some answer yes, others no. Some are so busy, they may say “Maybe.” They are not the problem. My problem is with the invitees that never RSVP. Is it appropriate to go to their homes with tire iron in hand so that we may discuss their poor manners in a civilized way?

Any help you could give would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,
KC

Dear KC

F*ck ‘em. It’s not worth the effort.

Miss Manners
*****************************************
Christmas Wish
I would like a Padron 5000 and a tumbler of Bushmills. I would like them around midnight Wednesday while the kids are very much asleep. I would like them delivered on my deck where I sit contemplating church bells and flying reindeer.
Remember, the secret to happiness is low expectations. This might just happen.
*****************************************
Notes:
Like I said, it’s going to be a long day. Hopefully, I will be able to share some more of my holiday joy with you.
Some people are so contemptuous, they stopped concealing their contempt long ago. I find them contemptible.
I am wondering if anyone else is working today. Not here baby, not here.

Merry Christmas Mofos!

Operation Smile

2007-12-18T10:07:00.000-08:00

The sonogram monitor was the only light in the darkness of the technician’s office. As soon as Sonny Boy moves his hands, we’ll be able to see his face.

He knows we are there. Our inspection is disturbing his sleep and this makes him cranky. Hard to tell if he is vindictive, but he continues to cover his face with his hands. The technician probes another spot on Mrs. KC’s abdomen. Moving the probe some more, she says “He doesn’t want to cooperate…”

Until he yawns. I think I saw it first. His mouth unfolds vertically towards his nose when he does. His mouth looks like one of those paper games grammar school girls play. It looks odd, but his gaping mouth doesn’t seem to be discomforting our baby. He seems used to it already. I look at the technician and register her reaction. I’m not sure if she saw it. He moved his arm back in the way quickly.

I know my wife can’t see the details too clearly from her vantage point. Thinking I’m crazy for a moment, I consider not saying anything at all. It’s not our style to sit around in ignorance. Mrs. KC and I need to know, need to prepare, need to get ready to do what is necessary for this boy. And I say, “Does he have a cleft lip?”

The technician doesn’t exactly ignore me. She’s still trying to get another look at his face. “I’m sorry Mr. KC, but I can’t do a diagnosis,” she says maneuvering the probe for another vantage point. She’s not frantic, she’s determined. She's telling me I'm right.

I look at my wife and tell her I saw something. But I am no technician, I don’t know if what I saw is what I saw. Mrs. KC has set her cogs in motion. She is thinking “What are we going to do if this is just an indicator of something far worse?”

What indeed?

Cleft lips and palates are not quite considered coincident symptoms of larger problems. But the researchers are still studying. Having a cleft palate alone is enough of a burden for a child. Feeding adaptation, hearing difficulties, dental abnormalities, and multiple surgeries to repair the streak of bad luck head the laundry list of woe.

The boy is nearly 8 months old, sitting in Mom’s womb. We wonder what we would have done if we knew earlier…

It is so easy to join a tribe in the abortion debate. So easy to say, in theoretical world, I am absolutely right in my conviction. You, my adversary, are not only deluded but, you are evil too.

Throw all that shit out the window when the question becomes real. Reality then begs this question: Are you willing to fix it, if you can? Are you willing to do what is necessary to help this little one carry his burden, if you can’t? The level of damage is hard to assess prior to birth, but Mom and I would like to know.
And when we ask for a referral, it is hard to explain why we need one.

“We would like to know the extent of his problem.” Mrs. KC explained.

“Why, what would you like to do at this late date?” the doctor asked.

“Prepare.”

I don’t think the doctor realized how close he came to getting his face punched. I knew what he was asking. I resented his implication. And certainly I resented his mouthing his suspicion. “Fuck it,” I think, “I am not going to beg this douchebag for a referral. We will just go to Boston.”

So we did. And before I tell you how it shook out, let me tell you something about Boston Children’s Hospital. If you ever lack for reason to thank God or Allah or Buddha or whatever floats your boat, go there or some other large pediatric center. Your grateful nature would probably change.

Name an affliction, any affliction. Heart disease…got it, we were at the cardiac care unit. Facial/Cranial abnormalities…right this way, sir. Cancer…check. AIDS…present. And the kicker is: the hospital is very large and very, very busy.

There wasn’t a lot of suspense in our visit. The sonogram techie there confirmed the earlier analysis, our kid had a cleft lip. But …but, but, but they could see if there was a problem with the palate. We just have to calm Mommy down enough to get her into an MRI. Mrs. KC was up for the challenge. Then we saw a very wondrous thing.

Our radiologist could do cross sections of Mommy and baby. If Mommy stayed still, the radiologist could do cross sections of baby’s head. If the baby didn’t move, the radiologist could see if baby’s gum and palate were intact. Thankfully, baby slept. The MRI showed that his gum was intact as was his palate.

Our kid would probably only need cosmetic surgery. And that’s a long story for another day.

Besides generating a little sympathy for me and mine, what could my point possibly be?

Well, I am not shy about rattling the tin cup. Repairing cleft lips and palates is a fairly straightforward operation(s) in this country. In other countries, not too far away, that is sadly not the case. Operation Smile is a charity that raises money in the US so that kids in poorer nations may receive treatment for their disfigurement. During the Christmas season, I’m sure you get deluged with opportunities to help out this charity or that. This is my pitch. Please help, if you can, whatever you can.

C’mon! It’s not like I ever put the arm on you before. Give a little, then you can, with clear conscience, get hammered at Casa Confessor on the 29th.

Thanks.

I say Christmas is all about giving. Today, I'm giving you Hell.

2007-12-17T05:30:00.000-08:00

Okay…
Christmas’ week is nearly here and I’m going to give myself an early present.

No more pleading emails.

See, it’s a present for all of us.

A conversation from back in the day…

Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Hey, you going to the party on Dec. 29?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: Uhhh, I don’t know, are you?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Huh?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: Are you going to the party on next Saturday?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Who else is going?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: uuuuhhhh, I don’t know.
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Are you going?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: I don’t know. I’ll go if you go. Will anybody else go?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Huh?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: Jeebus, wake up, will you! Will anybody else go?
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: Just these guys, in no particular order: Decker, Lester, Maron, Murray, McElligott, Edwards, Franklin, Bulmer, Fleury, Foster, Johnson, Lear, Coulombe, Keefe, Charbonneau

Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: I don’t know man. Seems a little weak still…
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: What if I suggested but did not promise: Doremus, Breton, Carboni, Finn
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: Well, Maggie’s kind of funny, for a Cohosier.
Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #1: All right. The following people are saying maybe, but they’re also looking for a way to back out: Maloney, Kluz, Buckley.

Moronic Class of ’82 classmate #2: Sounds about right. I have to get back to Food Zoo so I’ll make this easy: I’m in but tell me when did Annie get on the radar screen?

That’s right folks. Doggedness pays off. I quote:

I admire your perseverance and I am actually considering coming on the
29th. My sister will be in town and since I only see her at this time of year and once in the summer when I visit her, I always leave the week more open until I see what she has planned for us before I make definite plans. I hope this answer is good enough for now and please accept my apologies for not responding sooner.

Anne Buckley

You can contact Annie by looking to your left and clicking on her link under the Grads. By the power of the Troy City School District, you will be transported to a forum where Anne and you may email each other at will. Have at it.

Speaking of perseverance, sometimes it pays off. Sometimes it doesn’t. Please take a look at the following long time viewer email.

What a persistent SOB. My God I have been trying to do away with Italian Catholic guilt for (number redacted lest it be said I reveal women’s ages) years and here it is and you aren't even a family member. I check this email 2-3 times/week. The kids I am teaching this year are not very needy!

My family will be in SOMEPLACE WARM on the 29th. So my answer is "NO I WILL NOT BE THERE." Hope all have a great time....do take pictures and post so I have an idea what every one looks like!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
God Bless.....
Stephanie

Not only does Steph pound away at many of my various insecurities, but she leaves me holding the bag. All right then. Please give it up for the only teacher to ever contact your gracious, and apparently very troubled host, Mrs. Copeland.

Please feel free to contact Steph at “Friends of the Revolution” link to the left. I can guarantee that she will be at least half as gracious to you as she was to me. Get emailing now!

I COMMAND IT!

Look, I would love to see you between the holidays. Please don’t have a hemorrhage though! I mean, I read the following and it makes me want to cry.

KC....
Sorry not to answer...I haven't checked my email in a week. I am working 6 days a week 13 hrs a day.....
I am working on the 29th....if I can switch my schedule or get out early I will try to drive over there but it doesn't look good. I plan on going over there within the first week of January...I promise to try to get together with as many of our classmates as possible...Holiday are difficult for me to get any time off. Pleassssssseeeee accept my apologies!!! Maybe you will see me!

Kristin

There are several things wrong with the missive above. I will gladly elucidate in person when you see me next. However, I request that you send Kris a message and tell her everything will be ok once Christmas is behind her.

Come on now! Everybody make a note. Kris is Kracking and needs help. Drop her a line.

Finally, this little message reminds me that some people need a fuse, a detonator, and a pound of C4 to get off their arse…

Hi KC -
Hope this doesn't piss you off more than not answering (sorry, man, this time of year has become a bit tough for me - you know how it is...). I am going to say thank you, and if you please, put me down as a strong "maybe". Thank you so much for the invite. Merry Christmas, my friend.

Maggie Finn

I have said it before and certainly will say it again: Someone, bring me the head of Maggie Finn.

Hopefully, Mary Ann is on the case.

Hey! That’s all I have for now. Get back to work!

Hot Dad, Old Dad

2007-12-13T05:14:00.000-08:00

“She is older than us,” wifey dictates.
“Not a chance,” says the defender of the faith and women’s ages.

No one is older than us.

Not in this group.

Not by a long shot.

We were at our oldest’s kindergarten Christmas (that’s right, Christmas is coming; you may stick your ‘Holidays’ wherever you may choose) concert. While the sea of parents, grandparents, teachers, aunts, uncles, well wishers, not so well wishers (read siblings) waited for the arrival of the school’s pastor, I chased my son around the auditorium. He checked out the chairs, soda machine, and cash register. I scanned the crowd for hot moms.

Eh, it’s what I do.

Brittney sits behind us. She has dirty blond hair and her kid is in my darling daughter’s class. Are we all mature enough to handle that I have a thing for Brittney? Well, the truth is out there now. Mrs. KC pegged me a couple of days ago…

Mrs. KC: You have a thing for Brittney.
Me: Yeah, she’s got it going on.

She could be 35. Maybe. If she is thirty-five, she’s making it look good. My son sprints over to the other side of auditorium. I am right on his tail while I check out Hot Dad. Don’t look at me, Mrs. gave him with the name. I have to admit, though, he is “model” good looking. His kid is in my daughter’s class too. She is a doll. I can’t tell if she takes after Mom or Dad. Doesn’t make a difference, she will be gorgeous either way. If the parents have seen thirty, I would be surprised.

Then there is the older crowd. I see Soccer Mom and she smiles and waves. The fact is she’s thirty seven. In other words, she is a child.

My daughter’s best friend’s Mom is all of twenty-eight. She has three kids and looks like she’s twenty-two. Un-fuggin-believable. It goes on and on.

Then it hits me. Not in a flash but, like waking from a fever dream the day of a big exam or presentation or project drop dead date. A creeping, gnawing awakening to certain facts first among which is: You are the oldest dad in kindergarten. You will be the first to hit geezerhood. You will not even have your wife to lean on in that day because she’s younger than you too.

WTF?

Wait a minute.

My kids are healthy. They are smart. They have yet to display anything other than the usual little kid psychosis.

When the oldest was born, I was tilting the scales at 250 or so. Now, I am down to a more manageable weight.

Before they were born, I needed my seven hours of sleep come hell or high water. Now I can do on five or less.

In my thirties, I wore glasses. That is, of course, until a real optometrist told me to throw them away.

I am balding, but I was balding twenty years ago.

I run. Every day. I run like an old man, but I run.

Hell, I might even give Hot Dad a run for his money.

I am all alone chasing my little namesake around the auditorium. And I’m laughing to myself about self delusions.

Holiday, er I mean, Christmas Mail Bag

2007-12-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

Dear KC,
You should write a blog, man.
A devoted fan

Dear Devoted,

It’s like Descartes said man “I blog therefore, I am, man.”

KC

Dear KC,
I was talking to Jackie Foster the other day. And I asked her if John and she were fraternal or identical twins. Do you know what she said?

Dawn McElligott

Dear Dawn,
She said “Neither, we’re Irish.”

Yeah, that’s a great joke that works with the Connors gang as well.

KC

Dear KC,

Do you think my kids waste too much time on the Internet?

Chaba (Rules!)

Dear Chaba,
Time spent on the Internet is never wasted. Just think about it. The internet has freed so much time by allowing the user to shop, talk, write, work, etc. all from the comforts of home.

Now the question is: what do we do with all that free time?

Might I suggest checking out dirty pictures on the internet?

KC

Dear KC,
I understand you are in the market for Keveny yearbooks circa 1984 – 1986. What gives?

Class of 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986

Dear Class,

The calendar and the blog march on.

And I will pay top dollar.

My first bid is: fiddy cent.

KC

Dear KC,

What is the most satisfying thing about the IT industry?

F. Fleury, PM, PMO, PMP, etc.

Frank,

I am greatly satisfied when something like the following happens:
1.) You spend about 20 years in IT, specializing in, ahem, back-end and databases
2.) You create a small database for your client
3.) A user, another consultant, or your boss tells you, not quite explicitly, that you and your design are fugged up.
4.) You go to a meeting to discuss the pros and cons of your plan versus alternatives.
5.) Your plan and your twenty years of experience are summarily sh*t canned and new plan will be implemented. By you, of course.
6.) The twenty two year old recent immigrant from Mumbai (that’s Bombay people) tells you, in so many words, since English is about 144th language, not to worry, he will help you with database design and queries.

That, in a convenient list, just reeks of satisfaction.

Taking it out on my fellow contractors,
KC

Dear KC,

Tell everybody there will be an after party on the 29th at a bar of my choosing.

Why! Because I am soooooo special!

Kymie

Dear Kymie,

Done and done!

KC

Dear KC,

Anymore mystery readers?

Chris Doremus

Dear Chris,

As a matter of fact, yeah. Somebody is not working very hard in Cambridge and Glens Falls. I wish they would drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com. That way, I can start obsessing about something else.

Hey, and Chris, it would be great to see you on December 29, at my house, eating my food, drinking my beer. Please come.

And that goes for the rest of you. Just let me know you are on your way.

KC

P.S. If anybody needs me, I'll be spending the rest of my free time today sending messages of love to former classmates who don't write back.

I'm all about lost causes.

One announcement, one question, one silly website

2007-12-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

Ok, one last time. On Saturday, December 29th, all readers of this here website are invited to the KC hacienda for food and drinks. The particulars: Time: 3-6 PM then I throw your ass out. Go find another bar to hang out. And take me with you.
Directions go via email, so send me a response, dammit! Bring nothing except yourselves. I can't think of anything else except I implore you to respond so I can get enough food! You can contact me at keveny1982@yahoo.com. Do So NOW!

No fuggin' way am I making my way to the Chopper on Saturday afternoon. If you show up without responding, you get dog food and water.

For those of you who need further prompting, my definites are franklin, bulmer, mcelligott, me, murray, edwards, and I think foster and johnson.

Second: Any ideas on how to coax recalcitrant lurkers to chime in? Two people in mind have, so far, ignored messages from me (if you can believe that!). How would you get them to um, lighten up just a scooch?

Third and lastly, a little entertainment for your troubles. Click here. Don't worry it's safe for work. It is not safe if you just ate though. You can give Chaba a message by clicking on his link at the left. I've already told him he's a few beers short of manly, so don't bother.

I. AM. OUT.

I. am. out.

Where's Waldo, part two

2007-12-04T04:07:00.000-08:00

Ok, granted the first picture was way too easy. Today, you have a challenge. See if you can guess which classmate is in this picture.

FIRST BIG HINT (at 12:47pm EST): See the labels below the post. What numbers are there? What does that signify?

If that is too much of a challenge or if it is still too dang easy, tell me which Keveny grad is pictured here. Look, he's waving!

Just a nod to my dedicated two readers,

2007-12-03T05:03:00.000-08:00

I am actually very busy and will try to post something sometime today.

Keep your panties on!

Unless, of course, you managed to maintain a girlish figure after all these years. Then, feel free to de-pantisize.

Where's Waldo, I mean, your ex-classmate?

2007-11-29T11:54:00.001-08:00

All I can tell you is that a Keveny Grad is indeed here. Find him or her and you get 30 Stratton dollars good towards the purchase of Stratton Marketing Training (not legal tender, not exchangeable for cash).

Frankie Says: Work Harder, Not Smarter!

2007-11-27T08:15:00.000-08:00

“Look,” I say, “you might think I will buy all this food. But, if I don’t get some responses about Dec. 29 back right quick, you can take your gabbagool (cappicola) and your baked ziti and stick ‘em…”

“Ooooooooooh! Wait a second there, tough guy! No need with the threats. We all know that the failure to consummate this here transaction may result in one or more visits to the hospital. What we need to do is focus our concentration on getting some fortysomethings to the food trough, so to speak, as it were..”

Vito makum much sense. Him speakum with straight tongue.

“So what I repose is that Tony and myself visit a select few classmates and persuade them to, um, RSVP, for lack of a better term,” Vito proposes. I am in no position to argue.

“Well, that’s that then. Gimme the list.” I hand my food vendor several names. Sorry to get you folks involved. But hey, you could have avoided all this by ANSWERING MY EMAIL. Enjoy your visit with the Gambinos.

So far on the Yes column, we have: Bede, Mary Ann, Dawn, Foster
On the maybe: Kris, Lori, Mary Anne, Kym
On the no: John/Vicki Heins
On the “do not answer” list: pathetic losers who know who they are.

In much the same way I ferreted out Chris Doremus as the mysteriously silent visitor, I must now put my pitiful powers of persuasion against the great uncommitted. Come on people, don’t make me cry! I will cry don’t you know. That’s right! I will come to your house uninvited, tell your adolescent daughter Ashley how lame you really are. Then we will friend each other in facebook and have a good, cathartic sob.

Do you really want to see that? Don’t push me. I must be desperate. I am about to quote Copeland: “ANSWER ME!”

****************************
There you go. Now we can proceed with the funny.

Everyday readers might know that Mr. Francis R. Fleury, PM, PMP, Certified King of all that is Wonderful about Computers, Computing, and Technological found this here site.

That’s great because it provides me more opportunities to mock.

Unfortunately, it will have to wait because Frankie got his punch in first. I’ll let him explain.

Speaking of Steffy (Mrs. Copeland) - One day about 4 years ago or so my wife called and said she had made plans to golf with a childhood friend of hers, Michelle, and would I like to join them. Me being the good sport that I am, I said sure (always up for a 3some – get your mind out of the gutters). Anyway, we are getting ready to go and the phone rings, its Michelle. She wants to know if she could bring a friend with her to make a 4some – fine by us. Her friend is someone she works with at Shen and her name is Stephanie. I didn’t think anything of it until we were waiting to go to the first tee and who pulls up with Michelle, yup, you guessed it – Steffy.

Needless to say, I was about doubled over with apoplexy and was now really looking forward to a 4 hour tour de course with our favorite chemistry and physics teacher. As she approached the tee her face took on several different expressions, from confusion, to wonderment, to sheer terror as she saw one of her KMA grads hanging out leaning on his driver. As Michelle introduced us I greeted her with a big “Hi Steffy” (she still doesn’t like that). We explained that we knew each other from KMA, although I was quick to point out that she was a teacher and therefore much older than me.

For those of you who have not seen Stef over the years, she has not changed over much, either in looks or personality, you can still hear her all the way down the fairway the same as you could down the hallowed halls of KMA. All in all it was a good outing and we laughed about some of our antics in good old KMA as much as we golfed. She lives here in location redacted and we still run into each other on occasion.

KC, keep up the good work and thanks for the idea. I’ll be sure to keep your identity quiet. Although for those of you who are still guessing, I can be bought.

Well, Frank. My identity ain’t much of a secret. It’s more like Mom’s obvious drinking problem at the family Christmas party, it is just something we don’t talk about.

And as for Ms. Copeland, I have plans. Plans that include stupid gestures and ridicule, hopefully at her expense.

For the rest (both) of you, I hereby attach this picture stolen off Frank’s site. I understand his company’s motto is: “If you fu*king developers can’t work faster, I’ll find some Chilean IT students who can!”

Go ahead and email Mr. Fleury. Go ahead and use the link under “The Grads.” See if I care.

Go ahead, click here and visit Frank’s site. Fifty cents of every dollar in proceeds goes to the “Frank Fleury Help My Children Get through Trade School Fund.”

See it’s not for him, it’s for the children.
****************************
One more bit of news: If you, like me, love that “Answers Please” video, use the link I put on the left. Or bookmark it. Whatever. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, send me an email at keveny1982@yahoo.com. Or you can give Frank’s company a call. He’ll only charge you $249 an hour (3 hour minimum).

Rock on.

My Friend From New England Might be In the Crowd

2007-11-26T08:24:00.000-08:00

By Saturday night, I am wiped. Not quite ready to collapse in bed, I flip on the computer to see who stopped by the ol’ website. Weekends are so slow. No messages, no activity (except for my favorite stalker at 9:50 PM EST on Saturday, November 24).

So I figure I’ll check out the latest insanity on You Tube. Seriously, I am that bored. After a quick search on my name, I get down to serious business. Let’s see how “Cohoes” works in search.

And by the power of Bill Gates, I find this. For your entertainment on this cold and rainy Monday, I present it to you. Enjoy.

I don’t know where to begin with the comments. I guess I did this story back here. The dude doing the talking for the Street Academy is the guy who soundly thrashed us all by his lonesome. Memory is failing, but I think the three gals there were mutes.

As for the Keveny Fab Four, the less said the better. My rocking mop could only be eclipsed via some serious Afro action. Thank you George. It’s nice to be vindicated on my earlier claim that Ms. Tremblay has not and will never be seen without a smile. Rock on, Cathy! It all came back to me Saturday night why I couldn’t remember the last member of the team. I think, I’m not sure, young Jimmy there got stage fright. He looks very quietly spooked down there on the end.

Oh well, your narrator does appear to be a little hopped up. There’s one instance in the video where they show both teams in split screen (with our man Chuck buzzing with the correct answer). I’m sitting there, not quite unlike a moron, nodding my head, ready to push my fist through the dais. It can never be checked conclusively, but I’m pretty sure I am saying “Motherf*cker!” right there on camera.

I’ve been through the tape several times so that I might best spot all the individuals in the audience. My list for sure, so far:
Teachers: Mr. Labate, SMD, SAM, Mr. Hogan, Ms. Copeland, Ms. Prezio, Sr. Maura
Students: (like the whole class of 1981, but to be fair I’ll name them as best I can): Steve Cherniak, Dave Roberts, Steve Parente, Mark St. Dennis, Pat Guzy, Keith Cushing, Ms. Rigney, Marla McCutcheon, that other Steve guy whose last name escapes me and I know I am forgetting a bunch of people but I can’t remember and I can’t watch it at work
Other students: Kathy Carpenter, Jeff McCutcheon

If you study the tape and spot someone, feel free to drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com. Me getty the postee fixed up real good, real quick.

Last comment: I don’t spot any 1982 classmates. Kind makes me want to reiterate my earlier “Motherf*cker!”

I was going to give you one more link for today, but this video can’t share the spotlight with anybody or anything. Sorry Frank, the upside to being pre-empted, of course, is that you will probably have the spotlight to yourself tomorrow.

Sorry

2007-11-25T08:17:00.000-08:00

I just got out of church, so forgive me if I'm a little thoughtful.

As a matter of fact, please forgive my arrogance.
My thoughtlessness.
My blindness.
My anger.
My pride.

Yeah, I have a lot to be sorry for.

I've tried to regard the instances where I was wronged as water under the bridge. I haven't always been successful. There is at least one instance where I let myself revel in these crimes against my pride...even after the offender apologized.
...Even twenty-something years later...

That's wrong kids. Take it from me, the guy born with a chip on his shoulder. When it distances you from the people who are closest to you, pride is less than worthless. It may lead you down a path that otherwise would not be travelled. It leads you away from healing. Most importantly, pride causes you to be the cause of pain to others.

If I knew how to repair the damage I caused, I would be pursuing reparations. However, it is never to late to say I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was doing. I wish I could make it right. I hope someday I can.

Finally a word of caution, don't get so caught up in your (probably) righteous anger that you let twenty years go by before you make this right. It isn't worth it.

Up in the morning with the rise and shine!

2007-11-23T04:18:00.001-08:00

Remember class awards? You know, someone gets “Most Likely to Succeed” or “Best Looking,” whatever. I have a late entry and a winner.

“Best sport” would go to Frank Fleury. Not that this little blog is any barometer on a person’s coolness, I have to admit that it does give some indication. I try to heap as much ridicule on myself in these pages, but occasionally, I leave my comfort zone and make someone I knew a long time ago look, well, not very flattering. For those of you unfamiliar with Frank, Schmich, and the Iachetta story, check this out.

Did you check out the comments? You should have. There you will discover that Frank discovered my blow by blow.

Did he fire off a email bomb my way? No.
Did he get huffy? No.
Did he notice the general nature and tone of the story, share a laugh, and, oh yeah, corroborate my account? Yup.

So three cheers for Frankie! He’s the best sport so far!
***********************************************************

Now for a little commercial. I’m sitting here minding my own business on Wednesday when a brick is thrown through the window. It has a note attached.

Ahhhh, not really. It’s an unexpected email from Cathy.

She’s been published again. I’ll let her explain it.

Hi All!
Remember that books are a wonderful Christmas gift. To order a copy of my new prayer book, simply go to here.

Also, please note that a large portion of the proceeds will be donated to the Pocketful of Joy Foundation--www.pocketfulofjoy.org, which sponsors three villages of children in Tanzania Africa. The foundation provides them with clean drinking water, hot food, schooling and medical attention!

Thanks!
Love and Peace,
Cathy

FINDING SPIRIT Prayers for Living Each Day is a 130-Page Book which includes Prayers for Healing and Wholeness, Comfort and Transition, Abundance, Help and Support, Peace, Safety, Gratitude and Strength.
The prayers are written in a non-denominational way so they are soothing and relevant for everyone!

Here is one of the prayers you'll find in the book:

A Prayer for Peace
The Spirit of light and happiness smiles in you,
Knowing the truth that you are perfect in every way!
Healing and restoration are your birthright.
Breathe in the refreshing air and calm your mind and your heart.
The act of breathing puts you into alignment with The One Source Of All That Is.
Every cell of your body rejoices in the knowledge that Spirit's Strength lives within you.
You share in Spirit's life.
Through you, Spirit’s mind is manifested.
In your daily life the energy of The One is celebrated.
Your life and your deeds are so important to the World.
You are healthy.
You are wise.
You are peace.
You are whole.
Amen!

***************************************************************

REMEMBER: If you, or someone you know, fits the following profile:
You live in New England.
You use Verizon Internet Service at work or, more probably, home.
You visited this site on Tuesday, November 20 at 9:37 AM.

Rocco and Vito would like to speak to you. They are wondering why you will not answer the phone. Additionally, you may wish to read this and this. Feel free to send me an email at keveny1982@yahoo.com afterwards. Thanks.

*************************************************************

Hope everyone’s Turkey Day was enjoyable and uneventful. Mine? Why thank you for asking. Let me tell you one thing about my Thanksgiving: I got to the office today at a quarter after six in the AM. That should pretty much sum it up.

Folks, I’ll be here all day doing what state workers do best…NOTHING. Drop me a note, for the love of God.

Kolonel Crackdown Hates Mysteries

2007-11-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

The following is dedicated to Chris,
Or Michele
Or Nancy
Or Vicki
Or John
Or somebody, I am not sure who. I am sure that the person checked out this here site on Tuesday, November 20, 2007 at 9:37 AM EST.

I am at my wit’s end. When I feel like this, I find my neighbor Kolonel Crackdown, former headmaster at Kolonel Crackdown’s Home for Poorly Disciplined Youth, has the insight necessary to put me back on the right path. Unlike my other cul-de-sac denizens, the Kolonel has a unique way of making you feel welcome in his home. I brace myself before I ring the bell.

“WHAT IS IT MAGGOT TURD!” bellows a voice that breaks neighborhood silence.
“This soldier needs to speak to the colonel,” I timidly request.
“DID YOU FORGET YOUR DIAPERS, BABY FACE?”
“No sir. I need advice.”
“WELL THEN, LET ME OBLIGE. THERE’S NOTHING I LIKE MORE THAN TO SUSPEND MY DAILY WEAPONS TESTING AND CLEANING FOR A CONVERSATION WITH THIS CAMP’S BIGGEST LOSER!”
“I am sorry sir. I hope I don’t waste too much of the kolonel’s time.”

Did I mention that this conversation is taking place through a closed door? The Kolonel finally opens the portal to his inner sanctum.

“GET IN HERE YOU STEAMING PILE OF PUTRID PUSS! WHAT HAS YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER TOLD YOU ABOUT DISTURBING HIS PEACE?!”

“I..”

“I DID NOT ASK FOR YOUR OPINION, DID I MAGGOT?! IF I WANTED TO HEAR YOUR SQUEAKS, I WOULD HAVE BEATEN THEM OUT OF YOU LONG AGO!”

“Yes sir. This soldier would like to k…”

“SHUT UP, DOGFACE! NOW WHAT IS IT THAT I CAN HELP YOU WITH?”

“Kolonel, sir. This soldier was wondering the best way to track down a target.” Best for me to get to the point.

“WHAT TYPE OF TARGET, MONKEY SH*T?!”

“A human target, sir. I have been tracking traffic on my website. There I have found one viewer from New England that will not identify himself.”

“WHAT IN THE SAM HELL DO YOU CARE, DIAPER BOY?!”

“Well, sir. I am just curious sir. If it happened just once or twice, I would not give a moment’s thought. But this reader shows up for three or four days, disappears for four or five days, shows up for three or four days, then disappears for four or five days. And…”

“ENOUGH! I AM ABOUT TO BREAK OUT IN TEARS! ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE YOUR COLONEL CRY PYLE?!”

“No sir, it’s just that the mystery person is also strange in that he or she always stops by at about the same time. As a matter of fact, she or he stopped by on Tuesday, November 20, 2007 at 9:37 AM.”

“STOP WASTING MY TIME!”

“Also the mystery person wouldn’t even click on my perfectly innocent link to another website. This soldier thinks that’s poor sportsmanship.”

“YOU ARE GOING TO CRY AREN’T YOU BABY! WELL GO AHEAD! START BAWLING! START CRYING SO I HAVE AN EXCUSE TO SHOOT YOU RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

“No sir, I am not going to cry.”

“YOU ARE AREN’T YOU?! I CAN SEE YOUR EYES WELLING UP! C'MON BOY SQUIRT ME A FEW! GIVE ME A REASON TO STOMP YOUR GUTS AND KICK YOU OFF THE STREET!”

“NO SIR! I WILL NOT.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m talking like him now.

“CRY BOY! OR I WILL GIVE YOU A REASON TO CRY!”

“NO SIR!”

“I WANT YOU D.O.R.!”

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET IT. I GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, I GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO GO…I’VE GOT NOTHING ELSE.”

That stopped him. He waits a minute and says.
“All right, boy. Get yourself together. Have you asked this person to reveal himself?”

“This soldier has asked on numerous occasions. The mystery guy or gal refuses.”

The Kolonel asked without hesitation, “Can the target be tracked electronically?”

“Maybe, sir. But I would need stoolpigeons, private detectives, and money.”

Kolonel Crackdown paused to consider this. He rubbed his shaved head like doing so would generate brain activity. Maybe it did, I don’t know.
“Try pity,” is all he said.

Then it came to me. Of course, pity! If mystery person knew that their reluctance to speak and my hyper-obsessive-compulsive disorder combined for a possible turkey day suicide, she or he would most certainly chime in.

It’s worth a shot. Isn’t it.

If you or someone you know, checked out the site yesterday (Tuesday, November 20, 2007 at 9:37 AM EST), please, please, please, drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com. You will be doing a good thing. I would venture to say you’ll be performing a Thanksgiving miracle.

Don't know what else to do.

2007-11-15T07:16:00.000-08:00

Dear Lucky Blog Readers,
Check this out. Do it now.
Username: mpm06021964@gmail.com
Password: Your first, middle, and last initials followed by your birthdate (mmddyyyy)

For example, if your name is John Q. Public and you were born on January 31 1901, the password would be: jqp01311901

Suppose you were John's twin sister Jane Q. Public and you susequently married a Lipschitz, the password is still jqp01311901.

Got it. Good. For those of you where this doesn't work, sorry.

This entry will be removed real soon. So if you actually access the linked site, you might want to remember the url or the address at the top of your browser.

Can't wait to meet the winner.

DeflateYourHate

2007-11-15T06:04:00.000-08:00

Your humble correspondent is eating his raisin bran a few days ago. Checking my email, I notice that one of my 4,678 newly received missives is from an actual person. “Cool,” he says, “I can multi-task. Let’s see what this lovely person has to say.”

Dear KC,
You are just the kind of jackass I hated in high school. Strutting around the hallways, making the less “COOL” feel small and worthless. Now, your life is so pathetic you’re reliving your “glory days” via the internet. Good Luck Loser!
You must really think you are hot stuff. Ooooobhh, how I hate you. I would like to beat you with a tire iron. I would like hit you over the head with a burlap sack full of yak feces! I just want you to die so I can dance on your grave.

Yours in Christ,
A Keveny Loser who grew up to become a big success.

You know, a fire deep, deep, deep down in my heart is kindled when I read a letter like that. It touches me in places I don’t care to discuss. Excuse me, I need a tissue.

So anyways, I was midway through my cereal and my return letter bomb, when I stopped to think. For those two of you who know me, you’re probably saying, “How in the heck is Keveny going to blast back?”

This little story is about your impending disappointment. You see I could fire on my biggest fan. I might win the battle of internet arguments (actually internet arguments are seldom “won.” Both combatants usually look a little more than foolish).

Chewing up a lonely raisin, I considered another option. Although it would be satisfying indeed to rain a barrage of verbal blows on this loser, I would just validate everything in his letter. Ruminating on several afternoon specials I caught as a kid, I thought that this poor soul has not found his “happy spot keveny-wise.” How could I, full time computer geek and part time counselor, relieve the pain?

It is really simple.

People need to know that you are on their side, even if you aren’t. If you can’t identify with feeling awkward and socially inept during your high school days, you truly are an outlier of the six sigma variety. Verily, I agree with my internet pal. You should be beaten about the head with yak feces.

Getting to the point, my return message was quite simple.

Ready.

Dear Keveny Loser…,
I am sorry you feel that way.
KC

The reply to my reply indicated mission accomplished. I think time and some reflection led to the discovery that anything written here is for entertainment purposes only. At least that’s how I read it.

Ok, enough with the touching moments! Let’s get back to some embarrassing stories about Kris Maloney! She deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.

Today’s Reflection on Panhandling

2007-11-14T04:38:00.000-08:00

Pound for pound, Albany crushes NYC in crazy people. However, New York being New York and Albany being Albany, it’s like comparing Jabba the Hut to Mighty Mouse. I’m just saying that your random person on the streets of Albany sports at least two DSM IV diagnoses.

That’s our backdrop for the story.

Some folks opened a Mexican restaurant on Central Ave recently. On my way home from work Friday, I stopped in for some take out (As an aside, the kids are really putting the crimp in Mommy and Daddy’s dining out plans. But I digress). I didn’t call ahead because I thought I would have a beer while I waited. Plus, I guaranteed the food would be delivered hot.

Consider also that Albany has parking meters everywhere and KC has no quarters. Not complaining, just saying.

So I run into the restaurant, order a Tecate and some quarters for the meter. Mexican (food must be good, real Mexicans) owner, gives me a buck in quarters for change. I run back out to the street. Joe Panhandler is waiting for me. Forget for a moment that this dude is clean shaven, coherent, and looks healthy. The following conversation took place.

JP: Hey man! Got some quarters. Can I borrow some change?
Me: (Incredulous because I knew he saw me run into the restaurant and run back out to pump quarters in the parking gouging meter): Are you kidding me?
JP: Man, I just need some change. Anything you can spare.
Me: Dude, I know you saw me run into this place just so I could get some quarters. Why are you putting the bite on me? I need the quarters…

Let’s stop right there. Who’s the crazy mofo here?

If you guessed me, give yourself a cookie and a pat on the head. Remember, venting on panhandlers is, at best, an exercise in futility. At worst, it demonstrates how deluded panhandlee is because he thinks the panhandler cares about his troubles.

I guess Albany is rubbing off on me. I need to take a shower.

And yes, I gave Joe Panhandler my last quarter.

The Third day of the Three Day Weekend Is the Killer

2007-11-13T05:08:00.000-08:00

I am sitting at work the other day…

When one of my technically brilliant yet socially awkward colleagues asked me a question.

Doesn’t matter what the question was. I only had three options. It was early in the morning and my Bengalese-Pidgin English-English brain processes weren’t firing, so I guess a direct answer was out of the question. Dismissing him with an “I don’t know” seemed, well, dismissive. So I chose option three.

I sat there and stared at him. Occasionally, I took a sip of my coffee. After fifteen minutes or so, he went away.

You know what, I feel like a jackass. He deserved an answer, even an “I don’t know.”

So far, I have five answers for my offer on December 29th. Thanks to those who responded.

The rest of you, well let’s not say I am upset with you. Like many a nun who taught us, I am disappointed.

And I am not going away.

Thus endeth the chastisement. Send me an email at keveny1982@yahoo.com
**********************
Smoking cessation program goes apace. I don’t miss it much. During three day weekends, I tend to look for an outlet, but now inertia has kicked in. I think to myself “Now would be a good time for a smoke,” and in a beat I’m considering going to the cigar store, dropping ten bucks, finding some time to hide in the garage, the whole nine yards. Somewhere in there, I think “Eh! It ain’t worth it.”

Hang on I have a point. It was three day weekends. On Saturday, I bring the kids to a little indoor playground. The weather is starting to turn crummy and, lacking a gerbil wheel big enough for the five year old, I need a place where they can run around. Only problem is the other parents.

In case study number one, my little boy meanders over to a couple of kids about his age. Their overly protective moms hover nearby. They must know each other because they are carrying on a little conversation. This is all I needed to hear:

Someday Soccer Mom #1: Hey Jenna, where have Ashley and you been?
Someday Soccer Mom #2: Well the whole house was sick all week. This is the first time Ashley has been out since last Saturday.

All I needed to hear, in fact, all I did hear. You ever see a one year stop dead in his tracks, pivot, and start walking the other way? I doused both of us with Purell and we found other kids to play with.

November is National Germaphobe Month. Keep your sneezes to your self.

***********************
One other story from the playground. Same day. Same place.

My daughter is holding court with the other five year old wannabe princesses. She has her back to the three year old lunatic carrying a trike over her head. Lunatic is running by my pride and joy and almost clips my princess’ noggin with the trike. Well endowed Mom sees that her daughter is a public nuisance and lowers the boom on her little darling. She didn’t slug her or anything, just a five minute lecture (I leave it to you to decide which is worse).

After she’s done, she apologizes to me for her daughter’s behavior. In the spirit of all God’s children are clueless and should not be held responsible for all their crazy actions, I say this to her.
“It’s ok. It’s not her fault.”
I think I must have been speaking to truth because well endowed Mom gave me a look like she thought I was knocking her parenting skills (In retrospect, I probably was). For a moment, I thought she was going to start up an argument right there. I chide myself and my big mouth.

KC, people are way too wound up for you and your bullshit. Better to keep the peace and your mouth shut.

Title Free Tuesday

2007-11-06T06:05:00.000-08:00

So Kluzy puts an announcement in Classmates.com. So, one person signs up. So, it’s me. So, I try to refocus her efforts. So, now I’m stuck with an introduction and an announcement.

Introduction:
Ladies and Gentlemen, here she is. Her accomplishments are the stuff of legend:

1982 Class Co-President (what the hell was that about?) KMA
1982 – 2007 Who the hell knows.

I’ll let her give you the latest.

I am doing very well, 4 girls, 2 in highschool. One like me driving , working . The second drives starting anytime. They drive at 15 (permit) However they both are doing better in school! Great Memories return to my mind when I ask my eldest to be home for at least 24 hours on a weekend! Times are different . The kids are not trying to get into bars! We have higher expectations of our children and the consequences are greater ! At least we make them think so! I am pleased with our relocation. The country life is simpler. The kids are happy and receiving an awesome education! I am head odf the pto and maybe coaching basketball too! My career is starting to take off again and still continues in New York.

If you, or someone you know, would like to congratulate Cheryl on her kids, her relocation, or her kids, you can drop a dime to the right under “The Grads.” Click on Ms. Kluz’s name and you can email her.

Announcement:

If you are available December 29,
If you read this blog and would like to see meet its author,
If you like free food and beer,
If you don’t mind getting kicked out of my house after a couple of hours,

Please feel free to stop on by Saturday December 29. Say 3 to 6.

I need a headcount, so shoot me back an email at keveny1982@yahoo.com. Worry about directions later. Give me a name now.

Just bring your bad self.

I’m serious about kicking you out. Hell, I’ll probably kick myself out and let Mommy put the ragin’ Cajuns asleep solo.

Foster, I know you’re in already.
Now I sit here, waiting for complaints from Kymie.

Friday's Big "I don't care" Post

2007-11-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

My least favorite sign that winter is here…

Middle aged, bald headed men sporting some combination of the following:
a.) cowboy hat
b.) duster
c.) a bag of cash for some local or state elected official
d.) a moustache
e.) a goatee
f.) a van dyck (saw somebody on the concourse a few minutes ago, I wanted to beat him within an inch of his life with burlap sack full of camel feces)
g.) talking passionately about their exciting and ultra integral state job (don’t get me started)

Oh, by the way, winter arrived in Albany today.
**************************************
Why even people from overseas love me

I work in IT. That would be Information Technology, computers, and what not. I don’t know how it is in every industry, but I have a sneaking suspicion Teachers, Managers, Accountants, Book Editors aren’t outnumbered 10 to 1 by subcontinentals.

Not that I have any problem with anyone, even non-citizens, making a buck (even though those bucks come out of my pocket), why, why, why God wont these people make some (even half assed) attempt to assimilate?

And, while you’re at it God, please let them drop the arrogance. That would be nice.

I’ve been at this racket for a couple of years now. Even been working with the same group of folks for about five years. A week doesn’t go by without a programming lesson from a sub-continental émigré and IT wunderkind. It is usually some variation on a theme.

“Mr. KC. Do you have a moment? I have a doubt. Could you please tell me how you came to this (bit of code)?”

I begin to answer. Promptly shut up because I forgot that all questions are quite rhetorical.
“Because if you did this, it would mean …

10 minutes later
“…but if you did this then blah, blah, blah…”

He (or she) continues and I wait for him (or her) to take a breath. I do this while I contemplate how best to engender rage (or at least outrage) from questioner (albeit without questions). So far, my best solution has been the following query,

“Say Jugdish, what part of Pakistan are you from?”

Check and mate. I’m learning south Asian class distinctions on the go. Jugdish is apoplectic and I’m free to get some work done.

Next Week: I give a symposium on how to piss off a state worker.
**************************************
Continuing this post’s high quality and standards of excellence, I give you, the lyrics to Elvis is Everywhere by Mojo Nixon. Have a swell weekend

When I look out into your eyes out there,
When I look out into your faces,
You know what I see?
I see a little bit of Elvis
In each and every one of you out there.

Lemme tell ya...
Weeeeeeeeeellllllll...

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis is everywhere, man!
He's in everything.
He's in everybody...

Elvis is in your jeans.
He's in your cheesburgers
Elvis is in Nutty Buddies!
Elvis is in your mom!

He's in everybody.
He's in the young, the old,
the fat, the skinny,
the white, the black
the brown and the blue
people got Elvis in 'em too

Elvis is in everybody out there.
Everybody's got Elvis in them!
Everybody except one person that is...
Yeah, one person!
The evil opposite of Elvis.
The Anti-Elvis

Anti-Elvis got no Elvis in 'em,
lemme tell ya.

Michael J. Fox has no Elvis in him.

And Elvis is in Joan Rivers
but he's trying to get out, man!
He's trying to get out!
Listen up Joanie Baby!

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Man, there's a lot of unexplained phenomenon
out there in the world.
Lot of things people say
What the heck's going on?

Let me tell ya!

Who built the pyramids?
ELVIS!
Who built Stonehenge?
ELVIS!

Yeah, man you see guys
walking down the street
pushing shopping carts
and you think they're talking to allah,
they're talking to themself.
Man, no they're talking to ELVIS!
ELVIS! ELVIS!

You know whats going on in that Bermuda Triangle?
Down in the Bermuda Traingle
Elvis needs boats.
Elvis needs boats.
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis needs boats.

Aahh! The Sailing Elvis!
Captain Elvis!
Commodore Elvis it is.

Yeah man, you know people from outer space,
people from outer space they come up to me.
They don't look like like Doctor Spock.
They don't look like Klingons,
all that Star Trek jive.

They look like Elvis.
ELVIS!
Everybody in outer space looks like Elvis.
Cause Elvis is a perfect being.
We are all moving in perfect peace and harmony towards Elvisness

Soon all will become Elvis.
Everything everywhere will be Elvis.
Why do you think they call it evolution anyway?
It's really Elvislution!
Elvislution!

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

That's right ladies and gentlemen,
The time has come!
Time has come to talk
To that little bit of Elvis inside of you.

Talk to it!
Call it up!
Say "Elvis, heal me!"
"Save me, Elvis!"
"Make me be born again
in the perfect Elvis light"

That's right!
You've got that Elvis inside of ya
and he's talkin to ya
He says he wants you to sing!
Everybody's got to sing like the king!

Like the king
Get that leg going now
Get your lip too.
Not no fool Billy Idol lip either
Everybody!
Yeah, we're rockin now!

Elvis is with us.
He's with us and he's speaking to us.
He says "Peoples!"
"Peoples!"
"Everybody!"
"Everybody got to sing!"

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis!

FACT: I have felt good three of the last 30 days.

2007-11-01T05:40:00.000-07:00

Another Halloween in the books and I can only describe it as memorable.

Well, maybe not for me. After work yesterday, I slept for 13 hours, rising occasionally to debate myself on the pros and cons of vomiting. For those of you who need to know, I have yet to convince myself to toss it.

Baby doesn’t care either. He doesn’t know what it’s all about. Plus, he’s the one who infected me. Specifics? Okay, vomiting and diarrhea. How’s that grab you?

The ladies of the house were rooked in an unforgettable way this year. Our eldest, darling daughter lost her lunch about 5 minutes after ingesting it. Sorry honey, there will be no trick or treating this year. Momma Confessor, the sole healthy family member, was forced by these circumstances to be primary and secondary caregiver, as well as, primary candy giver-outer.

Like I said, I slept until my daughter came into bed with me around eight or so. She’s not happy. In my estimation, her feelings are justified.

“I don’t feel good. But Mommy gave me some green tea, so I should throw up real soon. Then I’ll feel better,” she says.

I muster an “OK” and roll over.

Sometimes, late at night, I ruminate on how the day went, how I could have handled things better. Often I come to the conclusion that I should listen to what people are saying to me. In this particular instance, I didn’t pay darling daughter proper attention because I, also, feel like poop.

The story does not end the way you think it will.

About three minutes after she made her pronouncement, my daughter starts to get out of bed. I am getting a little irritated by the unneeded motion. For a moment, I consider puking. Before I say anything though, I have a moment of clarity and think smart girl.

She goes to the bathroom, sends the green tea to the sewer, and then brushes her teeth. Without comment, she gets back into the sick bed.

I turn on the TV and ask her if she wants to watch Nickelodeon. Too late. She’s out like a little light.
**************************************
I dropped an email with Ms. Nutter. I’ll let you know if she responds.
**************************************
They say genius may be characterized by a person’s recognition of a pattern where the vast majority of us only see random events, numbers, symbols, or whatever. Kris Maloney recognizes patterns and gets the Confessor’s Genius Certification for today.
Now Krissy is certified and certifiable.

Lord of the Flies Meets American Bandstand

2007-10-30T05:58:00.000-07:00

While taking a break from work on my upcoming novel "The Second Future Ex-Mrs. Shapiro," I thought it might be fun to look back on the music of the late 70's/early 80's. In advance, I would like to thank the fine people of Wikipedia for remembering songs for this little project. Keep in mind that in addition to selecting music reminiscent of the era, not just my favorites (some of the selections do not age very well).

It’s not that I am strictly scientifically inclined. It’s just that if I, you, they state something, the facts must back up your assertion.

With that in mind, I took the CD player and both kids out to the kitchen for a little test. Today’s experiment: Which, if any, of the music we listened to, back in the day, maintains appeal. As a baseline, I used Mojo Nixon’s Elvis is Everywhere. Granted, the song is from 1986 but if you don’t get up on your feet for
“Elvis is Everywhere.
Elvis is Everything.
Elvis is Everybody.
Elvis is still the king,”
then your are an irredeemable communist. Music is playing and children are dancing. All systems go.

The experiment was simple. I play a selection of the 1981/82 playlist. If the children dance, the selection stands the test of time. However, placed within reach of the children, are two socks full of rolled up quarters. If the song engenders disgust, the children will reach for the socks and pummel Daddy within an inch of his life. Needless to say, I am strategizing on how to best introduce my kinder to musical tragedies of our youth.

Note on my first selection: I hope to God that my oldest doesn’t understand the words. With trusty CD remote in hand, I hit play. I am not too surprised to learn the kids love Start Me Up. When the song is over, I tell my oldest that Mick Jagger was only 57 years old when that song came out.

Still afraid to unleash the really awful, my next selection is classic. Released in the spring of 1982, Rock the Casbah just makes the cut. I have tried, Oh Lord how I have tried not to let the raga drop. Now it’s the babies turn. Turns out they love Joe Strummer.

I don’t know about you, but when I think Early Eighties crap, my mind zeroes in on Billy Squier. The Stroke is awful. It is painful. It is unholy. Three seconds after pressing the play button, my youngest struck me with all his infant might across my shins with the weapon provided. As I bent over to inspect the welt, my oldest crushed my cranium with her bag of pennies. When I came to, I was lying on the kitchen floor where both children knelt beside me alternatively pummelling my back with their sacks.

Unwilling to subject myself to another beating right away, I skipped over Huey Lewis’ Do You Believe in Love and moved onto another heavyweight. Granted Led Zeppelin pretty much wrapped things up well before 1980, but the music lived on. Right? Right. For my experiment, I played Rock and Roll. Children put down their socks and Daddy reached for Ben Gay.

Assuming everyone was in a better mood, I move on to a track that, in my estimation, could go either way. Stevie Nicks’ Edge of Seventeen is a good song. That much we can agree. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that my youngest, the boy, was going to appreciate a song without any rhythm and blues connection. When I played it, he reached for his sock, thought about it for a second, then continued to listen. Hmmmm.

At this point, I would like to comment on three of my personal favorites from the era. Springsteen, Southside Johnny, and Elvis Costello might have been used in my experiments had they
a.) made a decent album in 1981,
b.) made a decent album after 1979
c.) weren’t singing country and western
Forgive me for not cueing up Hungry Heart.

Side note: PJ and Bill would be happy to hear that the children loved Crazy Train, For Those About to Rock, and most of Tom Sawyer (I think they thought it was a bit looooooonnng). I cut Rush short and avoided a daughterly jab to the solar plexus.

As with anything childish, time is of the essence. The kids were getting a bit bored and, thus less forgiving. With great trepidation, I played the following:

So now I come to you
With open arms
Nothing to hide
Believe what I … (this is the point where I blacked out)

Sorry Chaba, Journey is a no go.

A few minutes later, I awakened, not so ready to tempt the fates. I thought quickly how best do I get these kids dancing on the floor and not on my head. I played one of my favorites, Madness’ One Step Beyond. And for the record, ska music plays. It plays all night long.

In order to save space, I’ll give some thumbnail reviews:
The Who (You Better, You Bet) … No Beating
REO Speedwagon (Take It On The Run) … Beating
The Tubes (Talk To You Later) … Clapping, Dancing
Supertramp (The Logical Song/Long Way Home) … Dancing Stops, Thrashing ensues
Phil Collins (In the Air Tonight) … Avoided beating until Drum riff then the kids settled down
Tom Petty (The Waiting) … Kids listen, Daddy recuperates
Loverboy (Working for the Weekend) … I only remember my children swinging their penny filled socks overhead, the oldest one saying “I wish you hadn’t done that Daddy…”
The Police (Every Little Thing She Does) … Next track after Loverboy dreck. Saved my life
Tommy Tutone (Jenny/867-5309) … Let’s just say we liked it better in 1982. And by “liked it better” I mean it didn’t drive us to homicidal rage.

How do you wrap up the experiment. With another baseline, I guess. In order to determine if my readings were correct, I needed to test a truly awful tune. In the same way I knew the kids could judge good music (see Mojo Nixon above), I played an abomination and hoped I could dodge my children’s wrath. For the test case, I used (what else?) A Flock of Seagulls’ I Ran…

I should get out of the hospital in a few days.

Today's Five Minute Metaphor: Albany

2007-10-29T10:54:00.000-07:00

Almost forgot the clue. Verizon. Write me up at keveny1982@yahoo.com

In today's metaphor, you represent yourself.

Five psychotics are the other people on the streets of Albany at lunchtime.

A Volkswagen bug is the city of Albany.

My walk at noon is a 200 mile ride in that Volkswagen bug with those people.

I really am working on a really cool post that I really hope to have up tomorrow.

Really

Augmentin or Chantix

2007-10-26T07:05:00.000-07:00

MARGIE, I KNOW YOU CHECK OUT THE SITE EVERY ONCE AND AWHILE. GIVE ME A YELL AT keveny1982@yahoo.com
**********************************************************

My head is still congested. How do I know it is not working right? Well, for starters this looks correct.

Suppose x and a are two real numbers. Suppose further, in this caes,
a = x
Add a to both sides
a + a = a + x
then
2a = a + x
Subtract 2x from both sides.
2a - 2x = a + x - 2x
Right? Right. Simplify
2(a-x) = a - x
Ready for my big finale? Divide each side of the equation by (a - x)
2 = 1

What the hell went wrong here?
**********************************************************
Just before I got my antibiotics, the docs prescribed Chantix. Me too weaky to go Cold Turkey.

I don't know if this some wonder drug or what, but the thought of smoking right now just turns my stomach.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

One thing for sure, progress is being made towards "A Clockwork Orange."
***********************************************************
Recent keyword analysis for the blog. Thought somebody might get a kick out of this.

Micronesia.

You probably don't get a kick out of that but I think it's kind of funny.
***********************************************************
Here at "Confessions...," we're always looking for a few good stories. If you, or someone you know, likes to write, put your story on a piece of paper, tie it to a brick and throw it through my front window (email works too!). I would love to hear from you.

***********************************************************
I was going to write my latest Bania magnum opus, but I just don't have the energy. Plus it seems like I'm picking on Marge. Generally, that stuff doesn't bother me, so if I feel better, it's a go!

I hope both of my readers have a swell weekend.

Yeah, physics always gave me a headache

2007-10-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

A quick update to those of you still keeping track.
Oldest child: Outpatient surgery yesterday
Youngest child: Strep throat
Daddy: Sinus infection. Both youngest and Daddy are finally on antibiotics.
Mommy: Running around the house with gloves and a mask, trying not to touch anything.

Since I am still a bit under the weather (yet I still bill, go figure), I'm handing the blog reins over to wingman, sorry wingwoman, Dawn McElligott. Please thank Dawn by dropping her a line. You can do so by clicking on her name under "The Grads."

Hello KC,

Before you close the door forever on Keveny memories, let me leave
you with some of mine: Keveny seemed so superior to Cohoes High in so
many ways until you got to Physics Lab. We had the kind of Catholic
school budget equipment you could only get at Frankenstein's Warehouse.

The inferiorty of the lab equipment became painfully apparent when we
studied centripetal force. I entered the lab not only dreading the
equpiment, but our dear blogmaster. You had quite a reputation for
making fun of others then; the teachers, the principal, everyone. I thought
I was on your short list for people whose faults you could exaggerate
for amusement so I was afraid to do anything daring in the lab. It was
like gym class for science students.

Volunteers were sought to demonstrate centripetal force with a goofy
piece of lab equipment. It was like a plastic thing on the end of a
rope. Daring volunteers were supposed to whip the plastic thing over
their head and ... I don't know what. I honestly don't know what the best
outcome was supposed to be, but it was supposed to prove something
about this force.

Sheepishly, I sat at a table and worked in the workbook. You were
whipping an object around your head. I looked up and suddenly, the
plastic thing was konking you on the head. It was like watching the
Titanic hit an iceberg, only you were the Titanic, not the iceberg. The
nice looking guy with all the answers looking like ... well, you know.

I guess if centripetal force is something that draws an object to
the center, and your head was at the center, then your "experiment" went
well and proved an important lesson: Don't whip plastic shit around
your head, it will only hit you.

Whenever life gets to be too much for me, I think of that moment and
laugh. Thanks, KC. (Feel free to post this)

Until Next Time,
Dawn McElligott

The ol' "Let's Make a Deal" Problem

2007-10-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Get out your decoder ring.

Do the numbers 1, 30, and 66 mean anything? Give me a yell at keveny1982@yahoo.com.
Pythagorean triples? Ummm, no.

You can count on Professor JimBob. He makes the "Math is Fun" class interesting. He just assigned us the following problem.

"You are a contestant on 'Let's Make a Deal.' Monty Hall would like you to select Door #1, Door #2, or Door #3. Behind two of the doors is a goat. A million dollars is hidden by the third door. You make your selection. Then Monty throws the curve ball. He opens one of the doors you did not select. Then, in pure Hallian fashion, offers you an opportunity to change your selection. Should you?"

Most problems can be solved with the simplest solution. Most people get bogged down by not simply thinking.

My first thought: "Professor must have somewhere to go today..."

Second thought is on the question. I mull over possible solutions, tossing them away. The problem is not technique, it is perspective. I am not looking at this correctly. Probably, my probabilities are confused. I go over the problem in solitude with a classroom full of people. Some of my classmates do the same, but quite a few commitees break out. That usually means trouble. For every good idea engendered from group give and take, there are two that get shot down through the group dynamic. I don't want to sell my idea, I want to see it through.

What is the probability that a million dollars is behind one of the doors?

Seems simple, doesn't it? The problem now is that I am questioning my answers. I guess that's part of the exercise. Quantum quacks might state that the probability nears zero as long as no one observes the money. That assumption seems a bit ludicrous for this problem. Either Monty is lying and the money is not behind one of the doors or it is. Why would Monty lie? There is no motivation. He didn't.

What is the probability that a million dollars is behind anyone of the doors?

This is where the rubber meets the road. Ask yourself, what are the chances I guess correctly the very first time. There is no trickery here. The answer is what you think it is. Allright, can that be expressed as a fraction?

What is the probability that you guessed wrong initially?

I am going to confuse you with notation. If the probability that the money is behind the doors is P and the probability that the money is behind the door I initially selected is Z, then we can express the probability that I guessed wrong as:

Y = P - Z

All possibilities can be summed up in P and the addition of Z and Y. Time for substitution kids. What is the value of P? How much did we say Z was?

Are you getting the picture yet? Think about this: What's the probability that Monty would disclose the money's whereabouts when he opened up one of the unselected doors?

In all things use your common sense. You must, in real world examples, apply everyday logic. This question is easy. I may or may not have selected the correct door on the first pass. But, in all things, Monty wants to keep the game interesting. If he showed me the money behind one of the unchosen doors, the game is over. Not so interesting a conclusion.

You have all the pieces to make your decision. It's all there in front of you. The crucial question is: Am I better or worse off by switching?

Z is the probability that you guessed right the first time. Y is the probability you did not. Y can be further expressed as the sum of the probablities of the two doors that were not chosen.

Y = Y1 + Y2

Suppose Y2 represents the probability that the cool million is behind the door Monty revealed. Does that give us enough information to make a guess at the probability that the money is behind the one remaining, unselected, unrevealed door (Y1)?

Yes it does. I leave the rest to you. There is an answer and it leads to making the same decision each and every time.

Have a swell weekend.

Wanted: One or two ideas to write about.

2007-10-18T07:41:00.000-07:00

And that's today big clue.

If this means anything to you, drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com. It's alright. How can you not trust me?

It's inventory time here at the KC industries...

Baseball...check
Prom...check
Answers Please...check
SMD...check ad nauseum

I am out. Let me tell you what that means.

1.) It would be great if you, gentle reader, could forward one or two ideas that might get this here mess rolling again. And no, NO IDEA IS TOO STUPID. I offer the past seven months as proof.

2.) I could just keep plowing along. Very little KMA stuff, more crappy posts about life in the Great Northeast. You're more than welcome to stay.

Actually, I'll beg you to stay. PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! DON'T LEAVE ME!

What's going on with the top of the post? That's interesting. I was just thinking the same thing. You tell me. You have my email. Shoot me a note. It gets lonely here at work when I don't speak Bengalese. or Hindi. or whatever other dialect heard mainly in downtown Mumbai (that's Bombay to you and me).

Sheila A. Keefe-Mai (1966-2007)

2007-10-15T04:39:00.000-07:00

Sheila was a wonderfully honest and cheerful woman in the 1984 class. She passed away yesterday after a long illness. Her obituary may be read here.

Please say a prayer for her and her family.

Answers? Please!

2007-10-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

My client's client, those of great functional and political knowledge, occasionally ask some highly sophisticated analytical questions. This is one of those times.

"Mr. KC?"
"Yes..."
"Hi this Emily with Policy. I understand you're the data guy. I was wondering if you could tell how many left-handed, red-headed, girls born on a Monday are in our system?"

Silence.

I don't know whether to play dumb or actually give her an answer. However, I can guarantee 100% customer dissatisfaction. You see, I don't know the answer. And, sadly, I don't know how to retrieve it. Seeing as how, we have no data on hand dominance or hair color, I am at a loss. Horribly lacking words, I stare dumbly at Emily and let my mind wander...

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when I could shoot facts from the hip. I knew it all. Years of Full Contact Jeopardy and Extreme Trivial Pursuit with the siblings trained me to be a lean, mean, answer machine. Blurting out the correct answers becomes so easy when you practice under the gun. By under the gun I mean sisterly body slams and brotherly head locks for wrong or untimely answers.

I knew, way before 1981 arrived, I had to make the show. Eldest sister was on it. And there wasn't a chance in hell that I would let her stand on that achievement podium solo. When Jim Labate was looking for contestants for Answers Please, I eagerly signed my name. It was time to take my trivial skills to the big time.

It wasn't a huge turnout for the tryout. Maybe ten. Eyeballing the competition, I reminded myself, "Yeah, they can be smart. They could be quick. But smarter and quicker than me, no bleeping way." Hey and if all that fails, I still have a forty percent chance of getting on the tube.

I could sit here and type out who else tried out. It would be lies. all lies. I only remember one. And fancy that, she's female. Oh Cathy, ye of gigantic glasses, rapier wit, and rapunzellian hair! How I would love to hold your braid in my teeth whilst I read to you from Lady Chatterly! Wait a minute! Where the hell am I going with this?! Cathy Tremblay was cool for two reasons: one, those just mentioned above; two, I have yet to see her frown...ever.

And that's the team. Cathy, me, and two others I can't recall without consulting the archives (Sorry!). We're on our way! Full of promises of Tim Welch accolades and local media glory! Our opponent would be the E Street Academy. I privately told myself that victory would be achieved in short order.

You know what? It was.

We get to the studio and I'm checking out the competition. Muttering to myself, "Idiot. Dullard. Simpleton...wait a minute. WTF?"

And there he stood. Rail thin, Wally Cox glasses, and a speech impediment. He fits the profile.

I turn to Cathy and utter, not the first time nor the last, "We're screwed."

The game is on and your heroes answer the first question with ease. I think we skated on the team question as well. From the very next question and continuing on for the next twenty two minutes, that villain with the Coke bottle glasses ruined Cathy, mine, and the two nameless folk's shot at immortality! Damn you Coke bottle glasses! Damn you to hell!

Wally Cox knew everything. And he knew he knew everything. Tim couldn't finish a question. Wally interrupted him.
Tim: What is the capitol of...?
Wally: Montpelier.
Tim: That is correct. Who holds the record...?
Wally: Joe Dimaggio.
Tim: Correct. What speech...?
Wally: (yawning) The Gettysburg Address
Tim: That is amazing! And correct.

And so it goes. Forever playing in my mind. A nightmare where I can't get a word in edgewise. A fever dream where I futilely press my buzzer while Einstein across the studio has locked me out. Oh how unfair! Oh the humanity!

Time heals the wound and conceals a lesson. In the ensuing years, I discovered that if you are the data guy people will lean on you. They will not seek answers themselves. They will lazily turn to you for the answers. Thus, today's morale to this little passion play is that YOU DON'T WANT TO BE THE DATA GUY! There is way too much responsibility. Eventually, every slack bahstahd in your office looks to you for answers. Trust me. Tell your little ones to stop showing off. Use Wally Cox as an example, I think his teammates only opened their mouths to yawn.

If, unfortunately, you are the data guy, I feel for you. It is a heavy burden. You must be ever vigilant and correct. And God forgive you if you come up empty. Just ask Emily. I think I can hear her now, telling my boss that I am useless.

Adventures in Greater Capitalism

2007-10-02T08:48:00.001-07:00

Put my money down.
Pray that crude oil goes higher.
Don't wait for the plunge.
--Ancient trading haiku

My adventures in pure capitalism began in 2003. I always wanted to be a commodities trader but, it seemed too risky. That all changed when I found a little grubsteak and put it to work at XYZ Capital. I had a little down time at the client and a program that suggested a plan might work. The trick, at least in my mind, was to avoid extending myself beyond a point that my meager portfolio could endure. The problem, as you might guess, came when I forgot that little nugget of wisdom.

I remember my first trades. "Give me one contract of September Corn at two and three quarters." At twelve-fifty a tick, I thought it was a nice, small entry into the world of high finance. Well, Corn broke $2.75, then fell 50 cents and languished. It really did absolutely nothing for a week. I even went on vacation with an open position. Note: Don't this unless you, absolutely, positively, have no problem monitoring the position from Cape Cod, Silver Lake, Bermuda, or where ever the hell you go on vacation. Note 2: Don't do this if you have a family.

When I got back to my desk the following week, I decided two things: one, I am going to close my corn position; two, I am going to purchase something a little more volatile. It was really nice for cattle to break resistance that day. I bought a contract, it went up, I bought another and they continued to rise.

Call me Mr. Money Bags.

By the time that little move fell to a point where I thought it prudent to divest, my portfolio ballooned 50%.

Cool. I wanted to press my luck and soybeans (and soybean oil) fell into my lap. I laddered up on both, simalarly to the cattle trades, and made booku bread. And all it cost me was some sleep.

Getting up in the morning to go to work, I fired up the computer to check out the latest action in Asia. Malaysian palm oil rises on higher demand! You know what that means kiddies! Pile into soy oil as the near perfect substitute.

My experiences weren't all positive. It took two tries on coccoa to figure out that it was trading in a range. Break resistance at the open and fire straight back down to support. My position is whipsawed by light action. I'm out a sizable chunk of change. On my third try, I deviate from my plan to buy breakouts and sell breakdowns. Coccoa is the anomaly.

And holy sh&t, it worked.

So it went for a couple of months. By September, I increased my portfolio fourfold. Then hubris kicked in.

Oil contracts are tricky. There is enough action to make some money but there are times in the day when the floor traders work at will. Their will, in a nutshell, is to weed out the weak hands for some real easy bucks. At 10 bucks to a penny, I had to make sure I was right then hang tough. My first foray into this market proved disastrous. I was both wrong and weak. In one two hour period, I blew away 5% of my bankroll. It would have been ok if I hadn't tried to make it all back immediately.

Coccoa tries its standard fake out and I sell a top. Crap! It keeps going higher! Get out. Get out. Get out.

Gold keeps moving up...until I move in. After that, it stalls.

Who knew that the Euro would crap out like that? Obviously, not me.

In one month, I shredded my mighty bankroll. "What the hell just happened?" I'd ask myself while assuming the fetal position in bed night after night.

Was work keeping me from the markets? Maybe. Perhaps the strain from no sleep was too much to bear. I didn't know.

I think the answer came to me after I received a check for my initial bankroll. Too many positions. Too many times trying to force the issue. I wasn't waiting for the pitch to come to me.

Older and maybe wiser now, on occasion I wonder if I should get back into the pit. I'll miss the sleep. Work and family will suffer. However, 300% gains for a couple months work is really hard to sneeze at.

Today, I purchase my little financial products and wait. I buy and hold. Hit my predetermined price and I'll sell it back otherwise, I've got other fish to fry.

I think I hear one of them crying right now.

Overheard in Albany

2007-09-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

Again, nothing about Keveny. Hope that is ok.

I was taking my lunchtime constitutional when I passed by the County Social Services Building. Leaving the building, two female social worker types are talking to one another. The younger one with the low rise jeans says to her older colleague:

You know, she's not a real lesbian. She isn't really attracted to women.

I'm wondering what kind of a lesbian she is.

Have a good weekend.

Let's celebrate the Yanks with a little fiction!

2007-09-27T04:21:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Since I'm out of Keveny tales of horror, let's start making stuff up. Nothing in this tale happened. Despite that, I changed the names so you couldn't tell. Have fun.

Since I was thirteen years old, every time we played McGowan Hardware, Terry would pitch. And every time he pitched, I got plunked. That works out to two times a season and three seasons, six bean balls. One pitch got me in the shoulder, one in the thigh, three to the back, and finally, the topper to my ass. It was bad enough that the guy was successfully throwing at me but, he threw the baseball as only adolescent Cro-Magnons could. “Hulk throw ball. Crush puny human head,” I thought I heard him rumble more than once from the mound. As luck would have it, he missed me once. The ball sailed about six inches over my head, hit the plank board backstop on the fly, leaving a three inch dent there. I knew this because, as our catcher, I inspected the wall between innings.

I found it hard to think that Terry felt some deep seated hostility towards me. In the three years we spent at Cohunk Intermediate Baseball League, we may have exchanged eight and one half words (grunts count fractionally). Standing at first rubbing my thigh, back or ass, I would ponder the mystery. I would stand there waiting for the coach’s sign, which seldom came, to steal second against the vaunted McGowan Hardware nine. Maybe I breached some baseball etiquette. Perhaps I forgot to shake his hand after they shellacked our team again. Could the hostility stem from butting the hot dog line? Was I too tall? Too short? Not worthy to be on the field? I had no idea. The only certainty was that I should never, ever dig into the batter’s box when facing Terry Bove.

Indeed I am no angel. More than occasionally I considered letting my bat “slip” in Terry’s general direction. Reasoning, or so I thought, that my flying aluminum Adirondack would be construed as a defensive measure against more talented and hostile adversaries. However, more fearful and judicious voices in my head restrained me.

A cinch for last place, our team, “Mabel’s Sundries,” entered my last year of organized baseball by meeting very low expectations. Two men in scoring position and no outs, there they stayed until the end of the inning. A pop out to shallow left field turned into a double as the fly ball would fall between the shortstop and outfielder who subsequently fought over who would throw the ball back into the infield. I too made remarkable mistakes, both at the plate and behind it. While my .222 average was mediocre in anyone’s book, my .432 strike outaverage opened many eyes to my true putridity. When Ricky Mason, the amazing limping first basemen for the opposing Berdar’s Bakery, tried to steal second in our first meeting of the season, I managed to bounce my throw before it reached the pitcher’s mound. I outdid myself the next week by hitting the batter’s club with an errant throw to third. These plays and others less ridiculous are recorded in my mind’s highlight reel. From time to time, I review them and vomit.

You might expect a more understanding and grounded adult manager would find some humor in our baseball escapades. There might be such a man. A man with beautiful wife and two happy kids. He enjoys his work and attends church every Sunday. He’s a Boy Scout headmaster that no one thinks anything but wonderful about him. Alas, Don Sanders was not him. Coach Sanders was former semipro standout who settled down, got a job, and had a family. He was in his mid-forties, yet maintained many of the abilities which made his glory days, well, glorious. Standing about 5 foot 10 inches, his shoulders almost managed to be as wide as he was tall. Popeye would envy this man’s forearms. They were massive; I could see him ripping the top off a can of spinach. His legs were just bigger versions of his arms. Don’s kid was on the team and lacking his father’s gifts, I imagined Dad coached Mabel’s with the hope that he could get Donny Jr. some playing time. Unfortunately, our pathetic play proved that there were bigger fish to fry.

By the third week of the season, Coach Sanders had seen enough. After another inevitable and yes, ignominious blowout, he held a meeting after the game. His face burned with shame and the clenched tendons in his neck told our team that now would not be an excellent time for levity. We gathered in the dugout with heads hung low in disgust. Standing at its entrance, Coach Sanders gripping the roof with his great ape arms and began his speech.

“We’re going to have practice on Memorial Day. Be there or hand in your uniform now. Our play is like crap and I don’t want to manage a team that doesn’t want to get better. We will have batting and infield practice, but mostly we are going to work on fundamentals. That means hitting the cutoff man, getting in front of the ball, making strong throws, and basically, changing our attitude towards this game. I can’t take it anymore boys. We are a laughingstock and I’ll be damned if that will continue. See you on Monday at 11 sharp.”

Sheldon Lisp, our starting right fielder, thought this was a good time to manage the manager’s schedule.

“My mom and her boyfriend wanted have a cookout Monday. Is it ok if I leave practice early?”

While twelve pairs of his teammates’ eyes peered at Sheldon with incredulity, Sanders, expecting some lame excuses, fired back calmly and evenly.

“Sure, Shelly. You can leave early. You can leave right now. But, please don’t bother coming back. Oh, and by the way, could you take some of the boozers, potheads, and girl chasers with you? I am sure your Mommy has a few extra wienies for your friends that don’t want to play better.”

And at that debate ended. The following Monday practice was full of griping young men. Resigned to my fate, I took my position behind the plate for batting practice. Before I could get into a squat, Sanders barked out: “No, uh-uh, we are not hitting yet. Coach Stram will conduct infield practice for the next hour. Get to your positions. Coach Stram, if anyone of our lovelies doesn’t get in front of a ball or doesn’t hit the cut off or doesn’t call for a fly ball, make him run a lap around the field. Another lap every time he does it. If he drops while running laps, leave him where he lies.”

Turning to me he barked “Catcher’s practice is in the bullpen. Bring your gear and I hope you wore your cup today.”

Thankfully, I had.

Watching Coach grab a bucket of balls, he strides over to the bullpen. It was then I remembered that Coach Gargantua used to pitch semipro. Putting two and two together, I cursed my fate and shambled along behind him.

“All right. We are going to practice digging balls out of the dirt. Get your mask on and get behind the plate,” he recited his request, expecting no complaint. Taking my punishment like a man, I gave him none.

The first pitch was a hard “12 to 6” curve about a foot wide of the plate. It bounced about five feet in front of home and to my right. Since I was leaning on my haunches, I offered a very feeble glove move to block the ball. Coach Sanders yelled “Don’t relax back there. Get on the balls of your feet and move your ass!”

The next pitch was much the same only to my glove hand. In response, I tried to “Ole” the pitch. Ole was trying to catch the ball by waving your glove towards the ball similarly to how a matador waves the cape at a bull and precisely the habit Sanders was trying to break. “One more wave at the ball and you will be running a very long time. Get in front of the pitch.”

Next came the fastball. Ninety miles an hour, right in front of me, and airborne for fifty feet. The ball hit a rock in the bullpen and bounced over my glove into the chest protector. I felt a direct hit to my solar plexus. I fell forward, gasping for air. The ball, miraculously, stayed in front of me.

My coach offered the following praise, “Nice job. That’s what I’m talking about. Here comes the next one.”

And so it went. After half an hour, I thought he had enough and we would move on to some skills training. That’s when Coach Sanders managed to squeeze a low hard one between my thighs, pass my cup, and into my prized family jewels. When the stars cleared, I heard him say, not very concernedly, “You all right?” Since the searing pain prevented any communication on my part for a minute, I assumed my position. I can’t be sure, but I thought I heard him say “Good man.”

After another half hour, we stopped. While we gathering the stray balls about the bullpen and I appraised my various bruises, he muttered to me. “Look, the other kids look up to you. You have to make an effort or this whole team is going down the shitter. You did well towards the end. Use your quickness to stop the passed balls. Anymore catching balls with one hand and we’re going to have to do this again. Understood?”

I was tired and a little embarrassed by the need for Coach’s special attention. In his own way, though, we both knew that this was his peace offering. If I agreed to play harder, he would stop breaking my back. With a little luck, he believed, we could make our team a little more than cannon fodder for the rest of the league. Beaten like a rented mule, I considered the alternatives and said “OK.”

Practice was only beginning. For our next exercise, Coach gathered the team, save Jimmy Beales and myself, at first base. Jimmy was sent to second and I was behind the plate. Before he went to the mound with his bucket of balls, he left me with some words of advice. “Look, you have to stop thinking about your throws. Just get up and throw the ball. Honestly, you can’t do any worse. You’re already starting to worry about your them. How you’re gonna be embarrassed in front of your friends. How your dad is going to hate you. How the girls wont think you’re cool. Knock it off. Just throw the ball to second.”

The session began unmiraculously. My first five throws were wide left from two to three feet. After the next throw sailed over Jimmy’s head, I bounced five more ten feet in front of the bag and into right center field. Red with rage and shame behind the plate, I tried to settle myself down. And there, in the middle of all my anger and embarrassment, I had an epiphany. A little nugget of truth covered in batter box slop:

“Who fucking cares?”

And I paused for a moment to mull over my deep thought. What in God’s name do I care what my moronic teammates think? In a couple of weeks, I’ll never see them again. Hidden from their derision through no proximity, what I should be worrying about is how best to intimidate these guys and how to end this particular drill. Quickly, I strategized. Given my current state of mind, some action utilizing my hostility would probably work best. In that moment, I stopped worrying about what these losers thought and I began to visualize throws bouncing off their heads…one at a time.

On the next pitch, my throw reached second on the fly, on time, but just a little high. I darkly grimaced behind the plate. The next throw was on the money. Runner is out. And so was the next. And the next. Feeling the rhythm of Coach’s pitches and the runner’s break for second, I could get out of my stance and unload each throw quicker than its predecessor. Even errant throws, by the end of the drill, were getting the runners because: one, they weren’t that errant; two, I was giving Jimmy plenty of time to adjust to a less than perfect throw. Eventually the rhythm became mindless, receive pitch, out of stance while getting ball from glove, cock my arm and unload. Again and again.

“Whatever the hell you’re doing back there, keep doing it,” Coach Sanders said. Artful encouragement from an artful man.

“Not a problem, Coach,” I tried to say without my anger.

“Get in the outfield for batting practice,” Coach bellowed from the mound.

From left field, I watched my teammates hit. Occasionally, a ball would make its way out to me but I was mostly occupied with thoughts of how best to stop these drills from ever occurring again. I stood out there and let my rage roll over me: rage at myself for getting in this predicament, rage at my teammates for their crummy play, but mostly rage at my opponents, rage for those bastards who think they can roll right over my team. They think I’m their patsies. They think we have no pride. Well, the other teams are screwed. Let them ridicule Mabel’s. Let them say anything they want about our play. But God help them if they try to steal. And have mercy on their souls if they lose their helmet in the process.

Our next game was Berdar’s again, with Donny Jr. on the mound no less. I am sitting behind the plate as the game starts grimly determined to collect payment from those attempting to steal on Donny’s weak stretch delivery. When the first two batters made out, I thought I would have to wait until the next inning to unleash my fury. But Ricky Mason, with his uncanny leaden legs, walked on four pitches. I go out to the mound to talk to Donny.

With my mask still on, I say “Donny, don’t pitch from the stretch. And fire the first one right down the middle.”

“No way. My old man will kill me,” Donny whispers, ever the courageous one.

“Look, I have a plan. Just hurry up and throw me a fastball, then a pitch out.”

“You think old lead ass on first is going?” Donny caught on.

“He will if we ask him to.” I left the mound.

Donny waited for me to get behind the plate before he set for the pitch. With the batter in place, he threw with a full windup before anyone realized what he was doing. Strike one. The first complaints came from our dugout.

“Donny, what the hell are you doing? You have a man on first. Pitch from the stretch or you’ll be in right field faster than you can say ‘Dad, I hate baseball.’” Coach Sanders yelled and, in the outfield, Shelly’s heart skipped a beat.

I threw the ball back to Donny and the batter got in the box. Immediately, Donny stepped on the rubber and prepared to pitch full wind up again. I smiled from behind my mask and watched ambulatory impaired Ricky take off on Donny’s first movement. Without looking, Donny fired three feet wide of the plate where I waited. Ricky hadn’t reached the midway by the time I threw to second. Before he was ten feet from the bag, Jimmy was waiting for him with the ball. The inning was over.

Donny and I entered the dugout together. From the third base coaching box, Sanders promised us endless days filled with hundreds of laps if we didn’t start listening to him. I kept my head down and smiled.

The game was tight for a couple of innings, but Mabel’s would not be denied. It seemed that my rage infected the rest of the team. It was as if, collectively we surmised our opponents’ ability and desire as slightly more pathetic as our own. And, as you know, once you reach that understanding, there is nothing to do but the lay the hammer down on your competition. Our box score became littered with decent plays and some timely hitting. For the first time that I could remember I had no passed balls, three assists, and two hits. The final score: Mabel’s 6, Berdar’s 3.

After the game, there was no post mortem, no skull session following ignominious defeat. Sanders just told us we did well and we should continue to focus on those things that led to our victory. That was easy. In two short days we faced McGowan again…with Terry Bove on the mound.

Our lineup remained the same except that Jimmy and Donny would switch positions. Jimmy Beales was one of the best players in the league and gave our team a marginal winning chance with his pitching, despite the talent letdown of Donny at shortstop. I am not sure if the Berdar’s win made my teammates a tad delusional or if the stark reality of our plight made gallows comedians of us all, but the mood in the dugout was jovial. The other Mabel’s players optimistically thought that perhaps, just perhaps, lightning would strike twice and we could win. Maybe this was the start of a new, brighter, winning era for the league punching bags.

In the top of the first, I got to bat with no one on and two out. Stepping into the batter’s box, I already new what was in store for me. I stepped lightly. The first pitch zipped right over the outside corner. Strike one. I was unfazed. Terry couldn’t resist. His second pitch hit me square in the back.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t look at the mound.

And I sure as hell didn’t rub my back. I took my base and planned.

In some other world, maybe fifteen year old baseball players act like they know less than their coaches. A more effective and less fun world, it must be. I stood on first and looked at Coach Sanders. With Jimmy at the plate, he didn’t waste anytime with signs. I would not be stealing. Or so he thought. I thought I would give Jimmy two pitches.

At 2 and 0, I took off. McGowan’s catcher had no chance. Terry had bounced a curve in the dirt and I stole second, standing up. The 3-0 pitch was a fastball that Jimmy fouled directly behind him. From second, I watched Terry set for the stretch pitch, pretending to peer in at the catcher’s signs. I can’t be sure but, I think I saw sweat on Bove’s brow.

With the count 3 and 1 with two out, conventional wisdom dictates that runners on second not try to be heroes this early in the game. I had different scores to settle. Not even bothering to look at Sanders, I took off for third. The pitch hit the inside corner and I was safe by a mile. While I was dusting myself off, Coach said, “Do that again and you’re sitting.”

“Won’t happen again,” I smiled. “I think I have their attention though.”

“Don’t screw up.”

“C’mon Jimmy. Knock me in, man.”

Nowadays, you can pay big money in consultant fees in order to learn how to relax. In that moment, I think Jimmy and I reached a mutual understanding that when you have nothing to lose, the job at hand becomes much easier. Given prevailing opinion, we were expected to fail. How nice it was to see our opponents, the guys who couldn’t be bothered with our pesky presence, shouldn’t be concerned with our crappy team, become a little worried. It was in that moment that I learned that even the most accomplished amongst us might wilt under a little bit of pressure.
Terry fired a fastball down the middle of the plate and Jimmy deposited it over the left field fence.

Of course our story does not end there. There wasn’t much more scoring; Terry settled down and McGowan managed to squeek a run. At the end of five and a half innings, we led 2 to 1.

Jimmy pitched a pretty good game but our opponents were beginning to catch up to his fast ball. Their first two batters lined out sharply to left and center. With two out, they sent up my nemesis. Terry Bove relaxed at the plate. He didn’t look at me or the people in the stands. He just watched Jimmy, imagining the next pitch. I figured we would start him off atypically with a curve in the dirt. Jimmy missed but Terry didn’t. That curve landed on the center field fence and Terry stopped running at second.

Next to the plate was McGowan’s first baseman, Jack Watson. On the very first pitch, Jack screamed a shot past Donny into short left field. And the next few seconds I remember as if it happened today.

Three...

On the sound of the bat, Terry took off. He rumbled halfway to third as the ball zipped by Donny. From my vantage point, I could see he intended to round third. By the time our left fielder threw, Terry was rounding the bag.

I begin to see the short term future. If Donny cleanly retrieves the ball and realizes Terry is on his way to home, he quite possibly could throw home. I throw my mask aside and wait for the throw to get into the infield. It’s only moments…

Two…

Terry rounds third without looking, he is headlong for the plate. He doesn’t acknowledge anything but the current mission, score. And if that means Hulk must crush some puny human (that would be me, folks), so be it. Donny fields the ball cleanly and I don’t even wait for him to assess the situation. At the top of my lungs I cry out “Don, get it home.” I make sure I am blocking the plate.
Don turns and realizes the magnitude of the moment. Without hesitation he responds like a seasoned pro. He fires a seed at my chest…

One…

Terry is ten feet from me. He is running hard and heedlessly. He is ready to bowl me over. In his eyes, I am not another guy, someone you might share a joke with or a beer.. I am an obstacle to be overcome, or in this case, flattened. He lowers his shoulder and I finally, finally, finally, after three long years, dig in on Terry Bove. Because today kiddies, I already have the ball.

Zero

Jammed in my glove and protected with my right hand, I tag at Terry as he lowers the boom. His shoulder meets my jaw while my hands, arms, and torso push him off the base path. We land in a crumpled heap in front of, but not touching, home plate.

Standing up first, my first, my only concern, is the umpire. What’s the call, man? He’s looking at me and waiting. I realize he doesn’t see the ball and I know I’m home free. Holding it now with my thumb and forefinger, I show the blue suit that I never, ever, intended to drop that ball.

“You’re out!”

I wish I could say the crowd went wild. Perhaps they did. They should have. It must have been a hell of a show. Nonetheless, I was only interested in slapping hands with my fellow Mabel’s morons. We did it. We showed those opposing jackasses that we can’t be trifled with. It’s Miller Time Everybody!

They talk about men who share foxholes and K rations form brotherly bonds. I never served our country and the only thing I know of that approximates that feeling may be that night. We were shamed and ridiculed and finally, redeemed together. I will remember each of my teammates, my brothers in athletic shame, for the rest of my life. Even Shelly Lisp.

The celebration on the field eventually ran out of gas. As was the custom, we crossed the field for our usual after game ritual: the handshake. Walking over, I felt Terry owed me some answers. I mean, it was three years of hell, what was his reasoning. When I got to Terry, I had to ask:

“Terry, good game. Why do hit me with a pitch every time we play?”

“I do?”

Because I'm fresh out of Keveny anecdotes, I give you, the Mail Bag.

2007-09-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

Dear KC,
Will the Yankees make the playoffs?

They should with their $200 million payroll,
John Foster

Dear John,
I can't help but think that your apparent depression over the Yankees' success since July would be mitigated if the Reds could do something, anything that might resemble success in a division currently dominated by the once and future doormats of Major League Baseball (for the uninitiated, that would be the Brewers and Cubs). Perhaps we can dream of a day when the Reds are not the punching bags of such high achieving teams like St. Louis, Houston, and Pittsburgh.

Aye, we can dream.

However, to get to the meat of your question, why shouldn't the Yankees benefit from the success of such ambitious brand marketing like the YES Network, Derek Jeter, and Bat Day? Huh? Hmmm? Yes. By virtue of being the greatest franchise in all of sports, the Yankees may whip out their wallet and beat the rest of the league about the head like some sort of recalcitrant and red headed step child. I humbly propose that $200 million may not be enough. As league heavyweights, the Yanks' should be in the market for the following quality players:
Johann Santana: cheap at $30 million a year.
Magglio Ordonez: give him $20 mil and let him ride the bench behind Melky
Ichiro: it wouldn't be right to let him break Pete Rose's record in any uniform other than Yankee pinstripes -- $30 million
Ryan Howard: Enough messing around with Giambi, we need power at first -- $30 million

Plus new contracts for ARod, Posada, and Rivera -- $150 million

That makes $260 million and we haven't paid Joba yet.

Like where things are going,
KC

P.S. The Reds should take a page out of the Yankee book and have an inventive give-away day. Something like "Ken Griffey Superball Bat Day" might fit the bill.

KC,
Why haven't you called us out in a couple of weeks?

Lurkingly yours,
M. Bania
N. Barr
L. Benardo
M. Cahill
J. Dingley
F. Fleury, et. al

Dear Marge, Nancy, Lou, Maureen, Joe, and Frank (and the rest),
Considered yourselves called out. If you, or someone you know, would like to contact me, I may be reached at keveny1982@yahoo.com. If you don't, I'll just continue with the lame jokes until I stop thinking its funny.

Watching you watch me,
KC

Dear KC,
Have you finished your TPS reports yet?

Cancelling your contract,
Your soon-to-be former supervisor

Dear Boss,
There on your desk and I'm on break.

Your obedient servant (at a very exorbitant bill rate),
KC

Dear KC,
You used to post much more frequently. Anything wrong? Have you lost your mojo?

I remember a time when you could "ahem" do it all night long. What happened?

Longing for longer, stronger, and more frequent posts,
A fan.

Dear Fan,
It's just a phase. I promise.

KC

KC,
J'apprécie vraiment vos postes dans le français. Quand croyez-vous que vous le ferez de nouveau ?

Que pensez-vous aux instruments de traduction Internet ?

Respondez s'il vous plait
Dawn McElligott

Dawn,
Désolé, mon français pue.
A toute a l'heure,
KC

KC,
What the hell was that about?
Kymie

Kymie,
Ask Mrs. Byron. I still read the subtitles.
KC

KC,
Are you inviting us on your Christmas vacation?

Packing our bags,
Everyone

Everyone,
Ummmm, no. However, after this past weekend's debacle with the houseguests, I prevailed on wifey to throw a post Christmas/pre New Year's party for the Keveny faithful. We are still in negotiations. Stand by.

Me.

Dear lost soul,
Don't you fear the fires of hell? I pray you will find your way.

Remembering your numerous sins,
Sister Perpetua Penance, Order of the Holy Mortification

Dear Sister,
I have said it before, I will say it again: I AM DOING THE BEST I CAN!

But if that doesn't work, keep a seat warm for me.

KC

A final note: Nancy is trying to raise cash for Alzheimer's. You can forward your rent money here. I'll leave the link on the left sidebar until the big day.

Rattling the tin cup

2007-09-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

Got a message from my favorite former Kevenian under 4 foot 6 inches tall. She asked me for a donation to her favorite charity. Naturally, I replied with 100 reasons why I am not liquid right now.

However, if you're not parsimonious like me, you may feel the urge to throw a couple of bucks Nanci's way. She is walking for a cure for Alzheimer's. Her Mom, the late great Mrs. Gratton, passed away a few years ago after suffering from the disease for a period of time. Using my super, ultra memory powers, I recall a time when Nanci's Mom and Dad were more than gracious to we, the young ne'er do wells. Now is your chance to give back. Go ahead, be big hearted and click here.

You know, if we all chip in, maybe Nance will reach her goal before September 29th. She could then skip the walk, hang out at the harness track, and drink beer. I understand that's a dream of hers.

Do so now, I command it!

Hey Look! Mare contributed before I even finished the post. It's all the power of suggestion folks.

See you Monday. I have to get home and cater to Mrs. KC's house guests. Don't fear. I'll share all the gory details soon. Plus my commandment for your attendance at a little reu--, whoops, gathering I'm planning.

Right! I'm here for the folk music.

2007-09-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

She turns to me and says, "My kids are here for the Catholic curriculum."

Inside my head, my bullshat meter is ringing the klaxon. I know I need to find another Mom with whom to have a conversation.

My eldest started a new school this year. Her Pre-K school was single sex (boys). So beyond Kindergarten was not an option. Unfortunately, the public school kindergarten is only two hours a day and had seven children in her section. Mrs. KC, with my kind encouragement, enrolled our darling daughter at the local parochial school. There are 25 other kids in the class and that's plenty big crowd for new friends. Despite this, we suffer buyer's remorse.

Mrs. KC doesn't buy the Catholic way of things, not wholly. I'm not sure people mean what they say "I'm with the Pope." My theory is most people are tribal. Furthermore, the people in this neck of the woods suffer from an Irish heritage. With that comes the lockstep march with the Church. I am not entirely uncharitable if I think the indoctrination is thoughtless. I wonder if the parents are doing what their parents did in order to preserve the social structure. Oh, and to make sure their progeny don't foul themselves with the heathen hoi polloi attending public schools.

As a wise old woman said to me a million times, "So, anyways..."

I don't walk away. I engage.

"What's the curriculum like?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, are they teaching the "I'm OK, You're OK" Godspell Jesus or is it the bloody, gory, "I hung on the cross for your sins so you better watch your step" Jesus?
She looks at me for a few moments, then says, "Oh my gosh, my husband needs help with the kids. It was so nice to meet you. See you soon."
She has no clue. And now she thinks I'm crazy. And and she will never discuss religion with me again. I like to call that "Mission Accomplished."

I have another friend. She was brought up Lutheran. That's neither here nor there except she converted to Romanism a few years back. A few Christmases ago, she begins "You know that isn't what the Church really says..."
Mrs. KC and I looked at each other. I let her take this one.
"What do you mean, Ms. X?" All right, she called her by name but we protect identities here on the blog.
"Well the catechism says...," Ms. X starts.
Mrs. KC slams the door, "Did you go to a Catholic elementary school?"
"No."
"How about middle school?"
"You know I didn't."
"So your familiarity with Catholicism started in adolescence?"
Ms. X. is wondering where this is going. "Yes."
"Anyone ever tell you that if you dance too close to a boy and die before you confess, you're going to hell?"
"That's just preposterous."
"Please answer the question."
"No." Ms. X answers.
"OK. Is eating meat on Friday a sin or not."
"No, church leaders.."
"at my elementary school, they said it was." Mrs. KC is on fire, answering her own questions.
This is the point where Mrs. KC will generally tell the newbie Ms. X about her experiences with crazy nuns and the parents that hand their kids over to them. My role is to validate her tales with some of my own.
Sexually repressed nuns? Yup.
Sexually repressed ex-nuns? Got them too.
Sexually suspect priests? That's a big 10-4.
Mindless adherence to rules? Yes. Indeedy do!

It's not that I don't buy into my share of doctrine, I do. I try. I do the best I can. But I can't turn my back on the people who make up the institutions. I don't trust them. Let me pose this question: Suppose you're a parent, would you want SMD teaching your kids? Pulling both sides of her sweater, castigating this well adjusted little kid for her short skirt, her friendliness, her wanton dress. Did I miss something back there in '82? Was she really such a haradin because she loved us? Really, feel free to email an answer to that one at keveny1982@yahoo.com or leave a comment.

When I stop and consider what it was to be Catholic, really, truly, a member, in good standing, I don't know if the decision to indoctrinate kids is so easy. Oh, and before we start running around accusing each other of being worthy of exommunication, let's review some hurdles you need to jump in order to be a good church going Catholic:

Go to Mass at least every Sunday and every day of obligation
Don't murder or commit other acts of violence. Did you know verbal abuse is a form of violence?
Don't steal. Remember, skipping early from work or taking a long lunch is stealing.
No adultery. Ah, an umbrella group. In order to prevent alienation, I will not list specific dos and don'ts. However, it is a pretty safe bet that each and every one of us has broken this one, um alot.
Remember to pray. Alot. Don't have time? Make it.
Indulgences.
Corporal Acts of Mercy
Spiritual Acts of Mercy
(you get the idea)

The commitment is hard. And the penalties for failure, you know the drill. I gave you the context, answer the question: You want to lay that one on a five year old? A fifteen year old? When?

And finally here I am, wannabe good Dad with a question before me. Do I want my beloved daughter and son to carry the same baggage I have for the past forty-hamahama years?

Some friggin' legacy that is.

Halo Effect

2007-09-07T08:13:00.000-07:00

It's not like I never knew. The way to get people on your side is through flattery and feigned interest in their pathetic little lives. I have and I will choke out lines such as the following in a pinch: "Really, your son's teacher's stepdaughter's boyfriend's brother won first prize in the biggest watermelon contest at the Algonquit County Fair! That's fantastic! Will the winner get cut open at a late summer picnic?"

I swear I can do it wiith a straight face. I had practice in high school.

For reasons that are obvious, I wasn't every teacher's dream. It seemed that my personality triggered a reaction within a brain center near their temporal lobe. The center, called the pretento-cortex, recognizes and reacts to all outside stimuli that seems, just a tad, arrogant, poseurish, or putting on airs. Layman and clinicians alike label the effect as a "bragraction." I think a conversation I had with SMD might prove illustrative:

SMD: "Mr. Confessor! It seems I am missing your Othello essay."
KC: "That's right Sister."
SMD: "Do you have it?"
KC: "I do not Sister."
SMD: "And why, pray tell, have you neglected your assignment."
KC: "I know the material, I don't need to prove it to you, and I have four weeks left in this here prison before you and yours are forced, by law, to release me on an unsuspecting society."
SMD: "Well, don't you think you need to practice for the upcoming AP exams?"
KC: "Why, Sister?"
SMD: "Aren't you taking the exam?"
KC: "No, my college of choice will not accept the coursework or exam. So sad."
SMD: "You are, however, taking my final."
KC: "Yes Sister."
SMD: "Then you need to be prepared. Hand in the assignment by the end of the day."
KC: "Will you get off my back if I just take your exam now, Sister. I think I'm prepared as I'm ever going to be."

(Ducky flips her veil)

I could sit here all day and waste my client's money regaling you with stories of my delusions of grandeur and their affect on the Keveny faculty. Or I could just tell you about the one nun who saw through my bullsh*t, yet gave me a free pass anyways.

My classmates didn't care much for Sr. Agnes Mary. To the untrained eye, she was a grind, a dictator, a crab, and an oppressor of Boces students and Catholic girls alike.

Let me tell you something, if she was a 100 years younger and not married to Jesus, I would have pursued her. How couldn't I? Here's a typical conversation with the kind sister.

SAM: "KC, did you complete your civil war essay questions?"
KC: "Yes I did, Sister."
SAM: "All right. Let's hear your answer for number 5."
KC: "blah, blah, blah General Lee, yadda, yadda, yadda, Ft. Sumter, filler, filler, filler, Appomattox."
SAM: "Did you really do your homework?"
KC: "Yes, Sister."
SAM: "Let's see it."
KC holds up a blank piece of paper
SAM: "That's what I thought. You are so full of beans. How is your sister and her boyfriend?"
(and KC escapes what, for others, would be certain doom. All thanks to the ground work done by older siblings)

Who would have thunk it? I could say virtually anything to the good sister and get away with it. She remembered my sister and thankfully thought well enough of her and her high school boyfriend that I could do no wrong. Plus she rode to Keveny everyday with Sr. Mary Dennis. Imagine Duck's ire with me without SAM running interference. With the police station so close, SMD probably could have gotten me locked up (and rightfully so). Unfortunately for Sr. Mary Dennis, her fellow carpooler would never let that happen.

In the quiet of the evening when wifey and the kids are asleep and I lay in bed and think the thoughts that conclude my day, I occasionally reflect on SAM and the refuge she provided me. Her 50 minute classes were a safe haven for this wiseass and I never forget that. I might, in my more pensive moments, dwell on behalf of Joe Muller, Kyle Campbell, Joe Dingley, the female portion of our class. I think that SAM might have treatmed them a little fairer . In all honesty, Sr. Agnes Mary tended to be prejudiced and could remain so with certain peoples. But, that mood usually dissipates with a whispered "Tough Sh*t, Losers!"

Have a good weekend.

Sleeping With The Enemy

2007-09-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I pity Kris. I'll let her tell you why.

I sat here going over your latest blog entry when I realized how long it had been since the natural flow of conversation in my neck of the woods had centered favorably around the NEW YORK YANKEES!! You see I live smack dab in the middle of Red Sox territory... which might explain why my father doesn't visit much...worst of all I married one of "THEM" and I live on the "Wisteria Lane" of Red Sox cul-de-sacs!! I usually am smug and quiet to the over confident Dead Sox fans...knowing full well that as autumn approaches so does the downward spiral of the Red Sox nation begin. Although I am still waiting this year...and the natives are getting cockier than ever.....I've resorted to soaping thier car windows with "Red Sox Suck" and "I love the NY YANKEES" magnetic bumper stickers....without their knowledge of course...that would explain all the honking and fingers on their ride home from work...So to all my Yankee comrades back in the motherland...please, please get those yankees winning....I cannot stomach another playoff season with the Red Sox!

Your sympathies are appreciated.
Kristin Maloney (...of the Massachusetts variety :(

You can respond to Kris by clicking on the link to the left under "The Grads." Shoot her a message. Tell her you sympathize. Tell her you're sending a case of Hebrew National dogs to ease her pain. Tell her the Red Sox Suck!

Or you can just cut and paste my response below:

Kris,

Well done and I feel your pain. As you might remember, the Great Upstate NY has more than our share of troglodytes audaciously rooting for the Boston farm team. Unfortunately, for the Yankee faithful, six and one half game difference with about 22 to go may be too much, even for the Mighty Bronx Bombers. With that in mind, stay ever cheerful with your intellectually and socially stunted neighbors. For in the not too distant future, the Yanks invade the Bay.

Plus we got the playoffs to get through.

Here is my guarantee. No way do the Red Sox make it to the World Series.

Not gonna happen. Not this year.

KC

P.S. If you really want to piss your neighbors off, ask them which franchise is the most successful in all of sports. That will keep their head spinning for a couple of months.

Another Yankee Fan Uncovered; Somewhere Foster Plots Verbal Abuse

2007-09-05T04:25:00.000-07:00

It really is so nice to hear from another member of our class. I even made a list of the benefits:
1.) You get to catch up with an old friend.
2.) Reminisce your ill spent youth with an eyewitness
3.) Tell his coworkers, "Yeah, I knew your boss when he wasn't such a jagass!"
4.) There's got to be something else, I'll think of it.

Anyways. Here's another of Keveny Lovelies with her post Labor Day greetings. Ladies and Gents, Lori Franklin:

Hi KC,

I gather from reading your blog that you're trying to remain
icognito, but Mary Anne spilled the beans. She told me she ran into you
on the plaza a couple of weeks ago. I don't know if she told you but not only do we work in the same office, we live within less than a mile of each other in Albany. Anyway, just wanted to say hello and to tell you to feel free to list my e-mail address on your blog.

What have I been up to since graduation? Well, I am an Associate Budgeting
Analyst for the state (and yes, that IS as exciting as it sounds). My
husband's name is Dave and we don't have any children, which has allowed us
to take some great vacations and selfishly blow all our disposable income
on ourselves. I am still a rabid Yankee fan, and one of the high points
of the last 25 years was getting to attend a Yankee - Red Sox playoff game
in 1999. ( The Yankees won, naturally.)

Lori (Franklin) Hodgetts

She works with Mary Bulmer! Lori has my deepest and most heartfelt sympathies.

Why don't you send Lori a message via the links to your left under "The Grads." Tell her you think it is wonderful that she finally got a job where she can catch all the Yankee games live via the Internet (Did I just say that? I don't really know that for sure, I just hear the other guys at work talk about MLB Gameday at www.yankees.com. Not that I have ever logged on myself). Seriously, it is always a great day when someone steps up to the plate. Thanks Lori.

Joyeaux Jour travailliste

2007-08-31T05:31:00.000-07:00

Lucky you! You are at work reading this and I am at home "celebrating" the big Labor Day weekend! My family's festivities include:

1.) Back to School Party last night
2.) Perhaps Great Escape today
3.) BBQ in Plattsburgh on Sunday
4.) Triple Homicide plus awesome suicide Monday

For the love of God, invite me out for a drink.

Someone. Please.

I am not kidding.

Gotta go, my youngest is crying...again.

Wednesday Afternoon and I Have Two More Hours of Work

2007-08-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

Today's contest concerns two photographs. I don't know how long they'll will stay on the web but, they're there today. Go take a look at:

Photo Uno

Recognize anybody there? Yeah, it is hard. I would have never seen it lest someone pointed it out to me. The next one may be easier.

Photo Dos

How about now? Either of those guys look familiar? How about the one on the right?

That's someone you know.

If you need to validate your answer, please click here.

Pictures courtesy of a link from The Judge Report. You can check your answer there too, I guess.

Glad to Find Keveny Class of 82

2007-08-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone,

I'm new to this site, so please forgive me if I'm once again, awkward. Awkward is how I remember myself in high school. Didn't we all feel that way? But my awkwardness continued into college, well into my early adult years and up until I finally decided to become a writer. I've been struggling as a writer for the last few years. Existing on a low salary is daunting but in many ways, I've never been happier.

After cutting my teeth in local tabloids for $ 25/story (nomatter the length) and $ 13/photo, I moved on to a monthly newspaper called Delaware and Hudson Canvas. It's distributed all around Orange and Sullivan Counties in NY and Pike County, PA. I live with my parents in Milford, PA. Milford is on the NY/NJ/PA border. (Yes, they do meet!) It's a very artsy town. Living with my parents is not as parasitic as it sounds. They're in their eighties (both born in 1925). My younger brother, John, has Down's Syndrome and needs help so I consider it a symbiotic living arrangement, but I would like more privacy.

As the town hosts the Black Bear Film Festival, I've been submitting stories to Indie Slate Magazine, it's considered the bible of independent film. I've got a story in the Jan/Feb. issue of the mag and my coverage of the Tribeca Film Festival should be coming out soon. The magazine is distributed in Barnes and Noble superstores and Borders, and at 200 newsstands in Los Angeles. I believe their website is at www.indieslate.com
In addition to magazine writing, I've been workshopping screenplays with Larry Brody, a veteran of TV writing and producing. At 22, he began his first writing assignment on the original Star Trek series. His website, www.tvwriter.com has many tools for developing writers. I posted notes there frequently, but I missed my Keveny Komrades!

My most recent screenplay, "The Fool of Muncaster" is a modern gothic romance based on the legends surrounding Muncaster Castle in Northern England. It's a finalist in two contests promoted on the tvwriter website, but I still haven't found a producer. My parents keep wondering if I'll ever you know, find a job? So I keep praying to find a producer as I send it out to various film contacts.

I'll tell you one thing, if I ever make it big in the film industry, I'd like to hire John Thomas Heins to be my spokesman. Only he could explain my way out of every embarassing situation I could get myself into. I'm sorry I missed the August 18th gathering, I didn't see this website until this evening. But I'd also like to ask, Why did Mike Charbonneau want me to shout "I love you guys!?"

Love to hear from you,
Dawn McElligott

Most Oft Quoted Woman from the Class of '82

2007-08-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

Back in the Keveny mode, I tell you. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...

Wait a minute.

Crummy Intro.

Let me think.

Got it! I have two quick stories as a matter of fact.

First one took place about a week or so before graduation. I was complaining about old man's reluctance to throw his namesake a graduation party. My frustration culminated in announcing to a packed senior section "If anyone is willing to supply a site for a party graduation night, I will bring the beer!"

And this young lady chimed in "Are you serious?"
I am not backing down now. Desperation is kicking in. "Yes, I am."
She surprised the poopoo out of me: "My parent's wouldn't mind."
Stunned KC replies..."Deal!"

This following story, probably, is how she is best remembered.

As 1981 turned into 1982, a Mikey's parents provided a site for our New Year's Eve bacchanalia. After the clock struck twelve and we rang in the new year, Mike quieted the crowd down as this young lady took the floor. I don't remember exactly what she said, but I can hum a few bars:

I think Keveny is great! I think you guys are great! This is so much better than Cohoes High, where everybody is in jail or pregnant!

Now Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, Dawn McElligott!

Hello Everyone,

I'm so glad to find the website and the web address shows the wry humor I miss so much from you guys. The brief update is this: The last couple of years, I've been trying to write for a living and it was rough going for a while, but it's starting to come together. I'm not that far from the New York mid-Hudson region. I'm in Milford, PA.

Milford is an artsy town near the NY/NJ/PA border. We have an annual film festival and I've been able to send related stories (sucessfully) to Indie Slate Magazine. This spring, an article on a hotel rennovation, along with pictures I took ran in Susquehanna Life magazine.

I write screenplays on speculation that someone, somewhere would like to pay me for them and produce them. My latest effort is "The Fool of Muncaster," a gothic romance based on Muncaster Castle in Northern England.

In my original blog I had actually asked Kevenyites to pray for me to find a producer, because my parents and many others keep wondering if I'll ever you know, get a job? I guess writing is all I can do so I pray for a producer to take a kind look at my script as I send copies of it to Lala Land. If you'll excuse me, I have to write two commercials for local cable TV.

That's it for now,

Dawn McElligott

Might I suggest a few Hail Marys for Dawn? How 'bout if I command it?

Please welcome Dawn to the fold by shooting her an email. You can do so by looking to your left, scrolling to "The Grads," and clicking on her name. Then, without benefit of a theatrical travelling montage, you will be able to communicate with Dawn via the intertube. You can also tell Dawn to keep writing for free by visiting her blog, Glad to Find This Site. I'm not big on the linkages usually, but we can make an exception here. Stand by.

Damn! Two posts in one day. I'm tired. I need a beer and a vacation!

Don't Touch That Dial!

2007-08-28T05:18:00.000-07:00

So, I'm sitting on the family room floor, somewhere amidst the thousand or so toys. I got the baby asleep. Somewhere upstairs, Mom works on his sibling. Good Luck Mom! Know that everything is hunky dorry down here on level 1.

Will the Yankees make the post season? Will Mike Mussina ever win another game? Why do these questions haunt me?

You know it is time to see what else is on the tube when the score is 9 to nothing. Aaahhh, Independent Movie Channels, the reason I have digital cable.

Die Hard 2: Die Harder: Seen it

The Silent Partner: Seen it

The Last Days of Disco: Lived it

The Writer of O: Stop the train! This is where I get off!

Aaahh! Nothing makes you happier to pay your cable bill than free porn posing as a foreign documentary.

So what's it about? Oh, about 80 minutes.

Haaaaahahahahahaha.

(Crickets)

Um, sorry. Well its about the writer of the "The Story of O." And let me tell you, there's so little to say about her story that the filmmakers needed to pad their little masterpiece with some filmed sequences from the famous story. As an avid film, wait for it, buff (ha!), I think they made the right choice. There is only so much Gaul styled reminisce a man can take. One thing that did surprise me: Who would have guessed the French were so sexually suppressive? Movie makes it sound like Catholics were in charge over there (Ding! My first, and perhaps only, albeit indirect) Keveny reference for today.

Never heard of the "The Story of O?" Sorry, can't help you right now, I'm at work. Look it up at home. Some other helpful phrases may be: Bondage, S&M, submission, france, 1950's literary porn. Some genius made a movie out of it twenty some odd years later. Look it up! What am I, your personal guide to the internet?

Oh, all right. Here you go, you lazy bahstahds!

That should get you started.
**********************************
Thinking about other possible get togethers we could have this year. I'm thinking around Thanksgiving or around Christmas. What are you thinking? Please send replies to idontgiveadamwhatyourethinking@yahoo.com.

Did you try that? How did it work out for you? All right, your comments would be appreciated at keveny1982@yahoo.com. Hope to talk to you soon.
***********************************
Today's scan of keywords: Sorry but "Keveny Confessor" is leading by a wide margin. Also, in the running, are "Vicki Hack," "Nancy White," and "Jackie McGivern." How Nancy made it to the list is beyond me, seeing as how I have never, not once, until now, referenced her. Oh well, chalk it up to Google Mojo!

Where the hell is Margie Bania? That's the question that will plague me all day.

Next Time, I Am Not Driving

2007-08-22T06:14:00.000-07:00

"Aaaah, I don't want to go!" I say to Mrs. Confessor, in full whine mode, of course.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" So much for sympathy.
"It'll suck. What am I going to say to these people? I don't know them. I KNEW them a long time ago. C'mon, we got the kids out of the house, let's go hang out upstairs."
"Get in the car," she responds flatly.

We arrive first. For a moment, I think I can have a quick beer, take off, and tell everyone "Where the hell were you? I was waiting!" That would not be cool. And, anyways, wifey would not let me pull a weasel move like that. I order a Harp while we wait. Don't let anyone bullsh*t you, if you like beer and you want to get a glow on kind of fast, Harp Lager (Ireland) is a good way to go. Brewed in Ireland by our friends from Guiness, Harp's adult sized alcohol content laughs in the face of most American ales. I finish the first one when the Mrs. orders her Iced Tea. Not Lipton's chief, Long Island.

I look at her. Is this her circuitous way to keep me sober? "Oh no, honey. It was just a long day with the kids."

Right. I order a second Harp anyways. I can finish the beer, wait an hour, and drive us home, legally.

Before I can finish my second beer, Mare gets the drop on me.
"Hey KC! You haven't changed a bit!"
Stop right there. That's not quite true. However while we're on the subject of people frozen in time, Mare has not changed a lick. All right, her hair is a little longer...

After a quick review of geography (hers - great, mine - sucks), family (hers - great, mine - sucks but it will be ok), career (hers - great, mine - it pays the bills), we get down to the nitty gritty. Mare asks me when/where we met. I tell her it was sixth grade but before I have my answer out of my mouth I know I'm wrong.
"It was the Cohoes Musical Hall when we were in fifth grade. I remember this cocky, confident kid and thinking 'Why isn't he scared?'"
"For the record, Mare. I was soiling myself."

Then we explain to Mrs. KC what happened. Hop into your time machine and go back to 1975. As I remember it, the speech pathologist for the school district taught a bunch of us (Mare, Shelly, Jack, myself) a little bit of Shakespeare. He twisted some arms and got us to perform it on stage. That was the first time I recall meeting some of the future Keveny elite.

Anyways, we chat about this and what a dork I looked like as a freshman (How do I know? Mare and I both came into possession of the photographic evidence).

And Johnny Foster hits the room. Egg Salad Sandwich discussion begins in 3, 2, 1...

Both of the ladies ask us what we're talking about and we try to explain a very, very, visual story about the boy with 1/8 inch pie hole and the two inch wide sandwich. I wow everyone with an impersonation of something goofy I saw nearly thirty years ago. Foster tells me I nailed it. Thanks Johnny, hope I don't get you in too much trouble.

The talented and lovely Mrs. Foster was unable to join us. Johnny tells the table that never, never, in the past six years, has he ever, ever used a babysitter. Mrs. KC and I are never, never at a loss for words at the same time. When John laid that on us, he silenced both of us. You see, we keep a stable of fourteen year old girls on retainer.

Oh well. Hopefully, it wont be too long before we see John's better half. He hands me a CD. It is a Yankees Classic World Series Game from 1996. Game Four. That's the one with Jim "Elvis" Leyritz. I'm not big on poseurs and Leyritz, if he is anything, is a poseur. With that said, his three run homer made me believe the Yanks would win that series.

By now, it was time for the Johnson's. Danny and the lovely Mrs. Johnson came in and promptly rattled off a bunch of mistakes (mostly omissions, so it's not a big deal yet) made in this here blog. I think the blog was news to Dan the Man and there was a glint of suspicion when he looked at me and told me he'd check it out.
"Johns, I wouldn't worry. The worst you got was the trip to the Aust. No, the worst was the Boston Bruins cap," I said, trying my best to reassure him.

By 10 pm, Mare's ride arrives and I look at my watch. It is time to relieve the babysitter. We tell each other that we should do this again. And right now that doesn't sound like too bad of an idea. Something. No planning beyond we will meet here at such and such a time. Less formal, the better. Thanksgiving or Christmas may be good. Maybe both. I don't know, discuss amongst yourselves and get back to me. Like I said, Mrs. KC and I have an army of babysitters. We are available.
************************************
Out on the plaza the other day, at the farmer's market, talking to Mrs. KC about how many tomatoes we need, I see her. Red hair, glasses, a suspicious look aimed at me. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mary Anne Bulmer. Quickly, because you know how the state is about returning late from lunch, I catch up and tell her Kymie is looking for her. She promises to catch up. And that folks, is how networks are (re)formed.

If you, or someone you know, would like to contact Ms. Bulmer, she'll gladly give you her married name if you ask. Just drop her an email at the link to the left under the Grads.
************************************
Is it ok to publish someone's email if you got it from Kymie? Let's find out. Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Debbie Lester. Debbie would love to tell you all about herself if you just drop her a line. Use the link to the left.
************************************
Even though I saw him Saturday, I still don't have Dan's email. Oh well, drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com. I promise to call Dan and relay your message.

What's that? You can call him.

OK. Sounds good. Knock your self out.
************************************
Last thing: Margaret Bania is still the most googled person to lead to this site. Despite my suspicions, the staff here at the blog would like to salute Margie and her loyal lurking followers. Our stalking staff also sends warnings out to: Deb Keefe, Frank Fleury (still), and Randy Smeltzer as other googled names.

My suspicion...

One of the Banias googles "Margaret Bania" to find this site instead of using a more efficient bookmark.

How do I know this?

Hey, do I ask you what you put in the sausage?

Oh, if only this person would drop me an email at keveny1982@yahoo.com, so I could confirm my suspicions. As with all such solicitations, if you remove your mask, I'll gladly remove mine. That is if you haven't figured out the worst kept secret on the internet.

Have a lovely day.

Flowers for Keveny and Son

2007-08-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

Bing-bong.

Who is that?

Bing-bong.

Avon calling?...

I put down my bowl of Raisin Bran and check the red headed stepchild. He is mauling his toast and splashing his milk. All systems go. On my way to the front door, I check out the florist's truck on the street. My stomach knots before I open the door. Through amazing fortune telling skills, I prepare for the conversation ahead. I had the same exchange some thirty times this week. Well, delivery boy is not going anywhere...let's get this over with. He starts his schpiel before I get the door open.

"This arrangement is for the Confessor family. Sorry for your loss."
"Who died?"
See how I confused him with the unexpected question? He searches his manifest, then the card that came with the flowers.
"Ummm, Mr. Keveny?" he flounders.

For a moment, I consider my options. If I really wanted to put a quick end to our little chat, I could just say there is no one here by that name. Watching him drive off with my flowers in the back of his truck would suck. I opt for option B.

"What the f*&% are you talking about? He's not dead," I say. Well, that is the truth.
That stunned him. Before I can say anything else, he face relaxes, his eyes glaze over, and he pivots his feet, beginning the return trip to the car.

"Yo, King of Queens, where are you going with my flowers?" I inquire.
He double pivots and faces me. Dazed confusion covers his slackjawwed face. "You just said no one died."
"No, I didn't. I said Mr.Keveny did not die. Please come forth with my flowers."
I can see the gears turning away in his head. "Why?" he says.
"Because, I want them. Because I think they are pretty. Because my daughter will have days of fun with them. Because they're mine. But mostly, because I am not one to turn down other people's goodwill."

And I'm not. Thanks everyone.

It takes about a minute for Ted, or is it Bill, to realize that he has nothing to lose and a tip to gain if he just leaves the flowers. He does and I spread a bit of good will, monetarily speaking. He drives off before I get back in the house. Where, in the kitchen, a little weasel of 14 months or so waits to show me his latest milky masterpiece. All spread out on the floor so I can see it better.

It's nice to be back.

Please stand by...

2007-08-08T10:34:00.001-07:00

Sorry about the lack of posts.

I am not sure when I will be able to pick this up again.

Additional sorries...I'm probably out for the 18th as well.

Please stand by...

2007-08-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

Sorry about not posting lately...

Not sure how long it will be before I'm back.

Might be a nice time for a guest post.

Sorry folks, but I'm probably out for the 18th as well.

Kym's Cracking, Cathy's hacking, I'm tracking, and Charb's is MIA.

2007-08-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

I am starting to dread getting emails or comments from Kym. She doesn't seem happy about the turnout for August 18th.

I'll tell ya what I'm gonna do...

A little prize for the next person to send Kymie a check for $15, address is to the top left.
I promise a pail of beer, complete with ice.
I promise no Piels Light in a can.
C'mon send her a check.
Kris, I'm really talking to you.

For those brave souls, your directions will be forwarded shortly. That would be via email. No sense giving Shelly's stalkers ammunition.
************************************************
Cathy doesn't remember Merita

Couple a days ago, I linked up a radiologist in the big city. Two quick facts: She is not Margie, she is her sister!

Man, was everyone toking back in the day. Well, I was too but not everything slipped past me.

By the way, googles on Margie are going through the roof. We are up to three or four,...

Guess, I have to track her down, for shizzle. (That's what I hear the kids saying all the time)

While I'm on the subject of tracking, I am just going through my list of bloggee activity. Thought I might share some information and see if some lurkers would reveal themselves.

First off, Margie's latest fan uses Comcast internet. I can't get a fix on the geography because of the way Comcast routes their traffic. But, hey Comcast user, TAG, you're it, baby!

Next, I see a certain Road Runner user just checked his yahoo mail. Paul, great to see you!

Maggie likes to view the blog from work.

HEY EDS USING THE MICHIGAN ISP!!! I see you everyday. Drop me a line. Your driving me crazy!
I bet you're a red headed IT angel, aren't you? Oh, like you guys never fantasize...

Hey who the hell uses Spring PCS? No seriously, is it any good? Is it very expensive? Do they use the same crappy customer service people that they use for their cell phones? These are questions that need answering, drop me a line at keveny1982@yahoo.com (OR keveny1982@gmail.com).

Someone from Pittsburgh stopped by. Nope, it wasn't Pontore, he's closer to Philly.

I spy with my little eye, Mike Powers stopping by every other day. Hey Mike!

A fan from Catskill. Hey Mid Hudson Cable, I made the big time!'

Chris Coulombe! I think it is you! Nice to see you back.

What do Argentina, San Francisco, and Calcutta have in common? Right, one visit from each in the past week. Woo hoo, we are international!

Seriously, if you have never dropped me a line or comment, now would be a great time.
***********************************************
Anyhow, both Cathy and Kym are looking for the Mike Man! Last I heard, he was giving some high school senior reprobate a tongue lashing on the merits of E.B. White's Elements of Style. I pass along your concerns when I call him.

Stoopid MIAs!

Professional Pyromaniacs

2007-08-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

Today we have a little tribute to two of Keveny’s finest from 1982 that made the big transition to Cohoes’ finest. See this to find more about Jack and Joe.

And guess what, two quick stories.

It seems Jack and I played baseball together for about 30 or 40 years. First there was Peanut League, then Jumbo, followed by Little League proper, and finally, Babe Ruth.

We were teammates about every other year.

By the time we got to KMA, we were accustomed to life together on the diamond.

I never saw Jack hit a dinger (home run geniuses) until our last year in high school. It wasn’t any old home run either. Those of you familiar with the insular grounds will attest that a natural homer was impossible. There were no fences.

But that didn’t stop Jack.

The sunufab*tch hit a gapper one day that didn’t stop rolling until it got to Bridge Ave! For you poor unitiated, that is roughly 7 or 8 hundred feet. However, he still had to leg it out.

Poor John! He huffed and puffed all the way home. After administering CPR and a little oxygen, Jack was back breaking stones and regaling women with his feats of strength.

I’m still jealous because my only shot at a homer was stopped by a tree branch. That, however, is a story for another time.

As to young Joseph, it seems a bunch of us were on a motor coach tour of sunny Troy. When viewing a local spectacle, Joey exclaimed:

“Hey Look! There’s two African Americans fighting!”

There were only two problems with Joe’s pronouncement:
1.) He did not say “African Americans.”
2.) They heard him.

It seemed time stopped in that moment. We, in the car, sat in awe as an entire neighborhood stopped fighting each other and turned, en masse, to attack the interlopers.

The car burned rubber when we realized whom the Trojans wished to reached. And,we did not stop at any traffic lights nor stop signs until we were safely across the river.

Then we threw Joey a blanket party.

Oh well, Joe. Forgive us, even though it was a stupid thing to say.

So, where did you come from?

2007-07-31T11:24:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile, I'll check out how some people find the site. Mostly there are no references, which leads me to conclude that the "bloggees" (fogive me, it's been a long day) know that which they seek. Not really interesting.

However, the other half is made up of google searches for various terms. I give you this weeks top nine.

1.) keveny confessor
2.) kym decker
3.) maria carboni
4.) keveny
5.) kegolator
6.) margie bania
7.) keveny.blogspot.com
8.) ford 16 tons
9.) frank fleury

Now I live for this kind of crap. Forget, for a moment, your former classmates names. Check out "kegolator" and "ford 16 tons." Okay, I remember writing about kegolators. I must be getting Alzheimer's though, cause, for the life of me, I don't remember writing about Tennessee Ernie Ford here.

Ok, onto the person searches. Weird facts: the fleury search came from Canada (ah, that's not so weird) BUT Margie Bania has someone checking her out in New Zealand.

I don't know what that means.

Kymie's search makes sense. I think it might have been Tim.

Maria's search leads me to suspect that someone in Albany County is googling herself. Upon rereading this, it sounds dirty.

Allright, I do have a cool link today. What with Heinsy sending a nice email and some Kiwi checking out Ms. Bania, I got to thinking. I found this website when I was trying to track down Marge. Have fun and let me know if you find the relevant page.

Now I get it! Foster told him. Duh!

2007-07-30T04:32:00.000-07:00

I always knew Heinsy was the sharpest tool in the Keveny shed. Now, I have proof. Instead of sending the email below to the Ol' Keveny Confessor, he sent it to my mild-mannered alter ego. The sunuvab*tch!

Anyways, here's Johnny and Vicki with their unfortunate news.

Don't worry, it's nothing serious.

KC:

I’ve been enjoying all of the comments on the blog site. It seems that most of our classmates have a much better memory of their years at KMA than I do. In my case, I guess it’s a combination of the passing of years, and the everyday challenge of raising 3 daughters. Nevertheless, I do have a good many memories. I can see from your observations that you still have your wit, humor and gift for writing.

Vicki and I are still in Southern CT , with one girl in elementary school, and two girls in high school (with one heading into her senior year). It’s terrifying to think that our oldest will be attending college soon, and I can definitely sympathize with Mike Charbonneau’s comments on raising girls.

While Vicki and I wish you all the best with the 25th year gathering, we will be unable to attend. We have a myriad of family events/commitments during that weekend in August. Please pass along our regrets to our classmates. Thanks for your efforts to keep everyone from the “Class of ‘82” in touch.

Sincerely,
John Heins

If you, or someone you know would like to contact this dynamic duo, feel free to ping them via the email links under "The Grads" on the left.
Please feel free to wish them luck with the college search.

I. have. nothing.

It's not like I don't want to give the Heins' a hard time. I just really have nothing to go on.

I mean, look at the letter. You could say alot of things about it, but impolite would not be one. Nor would gracious.

If anybody has anything that might enliven this sad morning, dump it in the comments. As for me, I'm gonna go talk to some staties and get some comedy material. I should be back in about five minutes.

Attack of the Killer Lurkers

2007-07-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

Allright, I wasn't going to say anything...

BUT

I hate to see Kym and Cathy beg. It hurts me. Deep. Down. Inside.

I know everyone has got to get to the Cape. Need to rub elbows with the pseudo-Kennedys.

Or go to Vegas and rock out at Mandalay Bay's largest outdoor tidal pool of DNA.

Or go visit Mickey and Donald and Goofy et al.

Or just sit at home and read this here blog and curse all your former classmates.

That's cool. I have done the same thing many times over the past 25 years.

HOWEVER

Let it be noted that your failure to send 15 banannas to Ms. Kymie is a tacit insult to Mr. Maron who will gladly down Bushmills and regale you with stories from the Brown Frown on Saturday August 18th.

Don't know what the Brown Frown is? Just ask.

Your failure to secure a spot at Ms. Shelly's Hospitality House is a slap in the face to Mr. and Mrs. Borden, who desperately need to show you the latest in their line of medical equipment. Might I suggest something in a chest retractor?

I'm just saying...

A vote against attending this little soiree is a vote against helping Ms. Gratton escape her family for a few blessed hours. You should be ashamed.

Your failure to attend places you in the company of wannabe rockers like...
Matt Owens...blech
Maggie Finn...heart, breaking, can't stop tears
Chris Coulumbe...Yeah, I probably misspelled it
Paul Iachetta...unbelievable
Debbie Keefe...remarkable
and finally, just blows my mind, Mike Charbonneau

Well, it is your prerogative. I just wanted to make sure you knew.
If this little rant caused a change in heart, contact Kymie at the top left of the page. If you still choose to sit it out, well, I feel for you. If you are just lurking, afraid to contact your former friends or, at least, classmates...
I really, really, really feel for you.
Have a lovely and safe weekend.
I will actually try my hand at some Keveny stories soon.