And that's the way it is...

This borrowed from the Associated Press:

WASHINGTON (July 2) - President Bush spared former White House aide I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby from a 2 1/2-year prison term in the CIA leak case Monday, delivering a political thunderbolt in a highly charged criminal case. Bush said the sentence was just too harsh.

As rich a topic as this would be to write about, Unsaid is not a political space. At the risk of disappointing its valued readers, I will not use this journal as a vehicle for my own personal feelings about whether our president is living proof that you can be born into wealth and privilege and still be arrogant trailer trash with no sense of shame or responsibility who doesn't hold anyone in his administration accountable for anything. As an impartial reporter of the facts, I am also obligated to keep readers guessing as to whether I feel attempts to cite the trangressions of people who are no longer president as a defense would amount to little more than a smoke screen to keep attention off the current president. 

I just wanted to be clear on these points.

 

Painting With Fire

Like a reunion tour of middle-aged rock stars who now get more looped from standing up too fast than they ever did from drugs, we took it on the road this week as part of College Tour 2007. For the past three days, instead of sex, drugs, and rock and roll it was cheap motel rooms, hundreds of miles of driving and what felt like almost as much walking. (While we didn't get to trash our rooms, the shower rod and curtain in one of the motel rooms in which we stayed came crashing down completely on their own. My son James, who was in the shower at the time, somehow missed seeing the humor.)

 

Focusing on Pennsylvania, we saw Millersville, a fine and impressive medium-sized college, and Penn State, a respected college whose size would have to be reduced by half before you could call it enormous. At its present size, it has the area, infrastructure and population of a city. (It is, I'm told, the only campus in America with its own zip code. Not kidding.) Both colleges deserve great and public praise for the job they did with their tours, including successfully accomodating my wife's mobility problems.

 

The real purpose of this entry, though, is education of an entirely different kind. On our return trip we visited the Frank Frazetta museum in East Stroudsberg, Pennsylvania. (The title of this entry is borrowed - ok, stolen - from a documentary done a while back on Frazetta's life and work.) Finding the museum (which is located on the breathtaking 75 acre Frazetta estate) in the first place is a test of how much you value the experience of going there; they do not advertise anywhere -it's all by word of mouth; their web site includes general directions but no address; and from where it's located having a street address probably wouldn't help anyone find it anyway. Despite this, visitors were there today from Hawaii, and in recent days from France and Bali.

 

The museum is not large in terms of its square footage, but it's thoughtfully (and efficiently) filled with about 80 or so wonderful paintings. The images, most (though not all) of which might be described as sword/sorcery/fantasy, jump off the canvas at you with an energy that's striking. (The paintings, of course, are copyrighted and can't be shown here, but for a great look at some of what's there, check out http://www.frazettaartgallery.com/ff/musem/index.html ).

 

As striking as the paintings themselves is the integrity with which the museum is run. A helpful gentleman keeps an eye on the exhibition space, and the gift shop is run by Ellie Frazetta, the charming and friendly wife of the great artist. I mentioned to her one of the things I thought about as I toured the space, that while it's not unusual to see exhibits of a particular artist's work, usually they're pieces purchased by the museum or a private collector. Every one of the paintings we saw could have been sold by the artist for enormous amounts of money and yet the Frazetta's preferred to keep the artist's gifts available for the world to enjoy. (Mrs. Frazetta told me of turning down an offer she'd received of $1,000,000 for a painting I'd mentioned was one of my favorites.) That would be great enough to hear from anybody. To find an artist of Frank Frazetta's stature maintaining that position is beyond refreshing, it's inspiring.

 

I'm not sure if an on-line journal officially qualifies as word-of-mouth but I'm hoping it does. This museum and the experience surrounding it was a real treat.

 

In an unrelated item, I saw today that Joel Siegel, who (among many other accomplishments) did movie reviews for Good Morning America and some other ABC-TV programs, passed away. I got to meet him years ago, interviewed him actually, for my high school newspaper when I was about 13 or 14. It was after a speaking engagement he did at the men's club breakfast at my local synagogue. He was a nice man, enduring my clumsy, insipid questions and total lack of interview skills with grace and kind patience. I hope somehow it's possible for him to know the adult version of that kid he was so gracious towards still remembers, and still appreciates.

 

In another unrelated item, there's a magazine here on my desk that has a picture of a priest on the cover. A few minutes ago I killed a fly on it. Do you suppose that means something?

My Father's Way

This is my first Father's Day without my father. In January, after a lifetime of quiet strength, great dignity, and exemplary devotion to family, he found peace from his long, brave fight with his illnesses. He was a private man and probably would prefer that I not to put all of this out onto the Internet for all the world to see. And it's not that a lot of other people don't have stories to tell of a great father. They do. It's just that...this one's mine.

 

My father was a man of great, very gentle strength. As an adult, and a father now myself, I better appreciate how my father spent a lifetime working, sacrificing, doing what had to be done and never making a big deal out of it. Because to make a big deal out of it was not my father’s way.

 

Somewhere in the middle of my father being ill I was reminded of a song. (That’s fitting because for almost situation it was not only my father’s way to have a song, but a song that practically no one had ever heard of.) The song I was reminded of is an old song called Old Rivers, one of those spoken songs popular in the late 50's that the actor Walter Brennan had a big hit with. In the song, a young man is talking about a farmer he knew named Old Rivers. He said,

 

“Well, that old fellow did a heap of work.

Spent his whole life walking plowed ground….

 

He'd say, one of these days
I'm gonna climb that mountain
Walk up there among the clouds
Where the cotton's high
And the corn's a-growin'
And there ain't no fields to plow.

My dad spent a great deal of his life doing a heap of work. As a man devoted to family, he exemplified a very high standard. There are many stories, but I’ll stay with this one, which is kind of a family favorite. We’d gone on a day trip down to the Cherry Hill (NJ) area, which is about an hour and a half south of where we lived. My sister, who was three or four at the time, left her purse at one of the places we'd gone, and she was very upset. It was just a kid’s pocketbook. Who knows if it even had anything in it? The next day, my father drove an hour and a half down, and an hour and a half back, just to retrieve that little pocketbook. Just as important, he never made a big deal out of it, seeing it as just something daddies do. (He was known to enjoy telling the story of the looks he got when he stopped for something to eat and walked in carrying a small pocketbook.)

 

It is simply impossible to discuss my father and not bring up his sense of humor. Not an over-the-top, hilarious, joke-telling sense of humor. It was more of a light-hearted way of avoiding whatever drama was trying to make its way into some situation. It showed up in the most amazing places. Several years ago my father survived being shot. A few weeks later, he called me at work, and the secretary who answered the phone was very concerned and asked how he was feeling. He said, “Not bad for a target.” It was his way of saying, “It’s not necessary to make a big deal out of it.” Again, my father’s way.

 

Four years as a soldier in World War II had a profound impact on him for the rest of his life. He talked about it quite a bit. My father worked hard to bring the character and values he’d learned in the army to everything he did. Toward the end, people who knew he was ill would ask me, “How’s your dad doing?” And sometimes I’d answer by saying, “He’s a good soldier.” And they understood what it meant as an answer to their question. They understood it was my father’s way.

 

Even as a gravely ill patient, he soldiered on. Managing household paperwork. Planning. Advising. All with quiet bravery. It was good for my father. And it was good for the rest of us, too. His courage made it easier for the people around him to be brave. Like all great leaders, he never said, “I’m a great leader.” He just led. And this, too, was very much my father’s way.

 

We're going to spend the rest of our lives discovering all the wonderful ways he’ll always be right here with us. And each time we do, we’re going to do something that will make him very happy. We’re going to smile.

 

So take your rest now, Dad, and have the peace you’ve worked so hard to earn. Be very proud of what you’ve done. Stand tall and climb that mountain. Walk up there among the clouds. Where the cotton’s high. Where the corn is growing. And where there ain’t no fields for you to have to plow.

Thought Salad

Like fraternal twins in the womb kicking the living daylights out of each other to get out (a habit I find they still have after almost 17 years), some possibly unconnected thoughts make their way into the world this morning.

 

Issue 1: Angels. Lately I've been spending time thinking about them. Not the winged variety, hauling harps all over the place. I mean the ones who show up in the form of friends, co-workers, people you meet, or don't meet and just pass somewhere and yet who still make an impact. They do something, or write something, or say something, and a light goes on and you realize you've just received something you needed someone to give you. They can come along suddenly, or can be in your life for years and one day the angel moment happens. Maybe the angel quality was there all along, waiting for its cue. Maybe it was sent from elsewhere right then and the person was just right to serve as the conduit. What I've noticed is that what angels do in your life is usually not big and obvious, though it can be. Most of the time it's not the size of what they do, it's the divinely perfect timing of it. And to those of my angels who are reading this, if you even know who you are, know that I am grateful.

 

Issue 2: A guy is willing to expose two continents to a rare, drug-resistant form of TB to be with the woman he loves. Who says there's no real romance anymore? Add a Rodgers and Hart score, choreography by Gene Kelly, and Oscar Levant in a supporting role as the sardonically witty CDC TB expert who's also the protagonist's father-in-law, and it would have made a great MGM musical.

 

Issue 3: It's good to see the right reverends Sharpton and Jackson following up on their promises to take on racist rap lyrics now that Imus is gone. I haven't seen an effort this intense since OJ's crusade to find the real killers.  

 

Issue 4: Yesterday I planted a tree. I'd been at the garden store and saw these little fern-type things that are supposed to grow to only about 15 feet. There's an area of our garden-in-progress that I hadn't yet decided what to do with, and this seemed a good solution. It didn't come with much in the way of instructions, but I'm figuring it's a tree, how hard can this be? The thing I noticed when I got home was that planting it felt different from anything else I've ever planted. There always was something spiritual for me about planting a garden anyway, but there was something downright sacred about planting a tree. It reminded me of that feeling when baking bread that it's beyond cooking, that you're getting to participate in a kind of holy process. Proof that it really is possible to feel centered and serene. And the timing of it was perfect. Those angels really do know what they're doing, don't they?

Location, Location, Location

Big weekend here. We completed the purchase of some fine Bergen County (NJ) real estate. Nothing built on the property yet, and we're not planning on developing it for a while. Still, it's in a beautiful part of the state, right next to a golf course, and the area is quiet and private.

 

Ok, ok. It's a cemetery plot.

 

You might be thinking it's a little creepy to hold in your hands the very pieces of dirt they're going to be shoveling onto you, and I admit it gives one pause. I've seen the subtle recoil in several friends when I've mentioned the purchase to them. Buying it just seemed like a good idea after we counted the graves, both occupied and reserved, in the plot my grandmother bought years ago, and found there was one left for about six of us. (You want creepy? Now that's creepy.) Besides, everyone - even if they're horizontal - has to be somewhere. My main focus now is not to die within the next ten days, before the check clears.

 

I got to visit it yesterday, meet the neighbors, that sort of thing. It's in a new area of the memorial park, so many of the nearby plots aren't sold yet or, at the very least, haven't had anybody (perhaps that should be any body) move in. The plot is only 20 or 25 feet off the roadway, so if my kids can develop a good hook shot they won't even have to get out of the car to leave flowers.

 

If all goes well we won't be sowing anything there, as it were, any time soon. In the meantime, it seems a bit of a shame to let prime real estate sit unused. One idea I had was to put a metal storage shed there while we're, well, waiting. Keep the kids' bicycles there, the snow shovels, things like that. When the time comes, we can just clear out the stored items, or maybe just push them to the side, spray paint my name on the front and have a very reasonably priced mausoleum.

 

Another question I have to find out about: is our ownership limited to the first six feet of depth? It may not seem important now, but if oil or gold is ever discovered there it's going to matter.

 

Have I considered avoiding all of this by being cremated? Yes, but I quickly dispelled the idea. I just don't see the point of burning twice.

Letters, We Get Letters...

The previous posting got a number of great comments, both posted here and sent to me privately. One of them in particular, from a marvelous lady you've gotten to know as Oldhousegal, triggered today's thoughts.

 

She wrote, in part, "I heard that Oprah once did a show asking audience members questions about various general knowledge topics, such as whether the earth revolved around the sun or vice versa.  One woman (who answered the question incorrectly) stated that 'she never felt anything moving.' "

 

My initial thought, of course, was probably the same as most people's: it's a trick question - everyone knows the world revolves around Oprah. Beyond that, though, it reminded me of one of the finest mini-soliloquies I've ever heard in a movie. If you saw Men In Black, there's a good chance you'll remember the scene in which Wil Smith and Tommy Lee Jones are sitting on a park bench. Tommy Lee has just shown Wil that there are aliens on earth everywhere. Wil asks, "Why the big secret? People are smart. They can handle it." And Tommy Lee, bless his manly-man heart, had this response:

 

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicy, dangerous animals and you know it. Fifteen hundred years ago everbody knew the earth was the center of the universe. Five hundred years ago everybody knew the earth was flat. And fifteen minutes ago you knew that people were alone on this planet. Imagine what you'll know tomorrow."

 

I love that. It makes me think. And it got me thinking about other movie lines I keep as favorites because they make me think.

 

From Superman (the first one) comes the only quote that beats the Men In Black one as my all-time favorite. This is Gene Hackman as Lex Luthor, after explaining his plot to do evil things:

 

"Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it's a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe."

 

For me that's just a great description of what an eloquent friend once called our "sacred search."

 

And this from Clint Eastwood's great western, The Unforgiven. Eastwood is Will Munny, a retired gunfighter whose career included killing men, women, children and animals and, as one of his lines says, "deserve" had nothing to do with it. The Schofield Kid, a young, inexperienced gunfighter wannabe, has just helped Munny kill a man, his first. Shaken and looking for reassurance, the Kid turns to Munny and nervously says, "Yeah, well, I guess he had it coming." To really get this, as you read, squint, snear a little, and imitate Eastwood's trademark disengaged cynicism. Ok, ready?

 

"We all got it coming, kid."

 

Now that's something to think about.

 

I could go on - I love quotes, including movie quotes - but I'll keep it at these for now. Besides, I have to start working on the true meaning of gum base, corn syrup, glycerin and extract of peppermint.

 

In another unrelated item (there seem to be a lot of those in this space lately) I just saw a news item reporting that Dick Cheney made an unannounced visit to Iraq. How unspeakably cool would it be if, as he was preparing to leave in a day or so, he got told his stay was being extended an additional three months? Just asking...

You Report, We Decide - To Lose Interest

Compiled from the Associated Press -- Former New Jersey Gov. James McGreevey claims his wife knew he was gay before they married. "On the offhand chance she wasn't paying attention, I AM A GAY AMERICAN," McGreevey wrote, using capital letters and referencing the term he used to describe himself when he announced his resignation in August 2004. McGreevey says a snipe by his estranged wife about [his alleged lover's] appointment [to the position of state homeland security adviser] is "evidence of a bitter vengeful woman."

Dina Matos McGreevey, who is seeking custody of their young daughter, claimed that the ex-governor exposed the child to erotic artwork. McGreevey countered that his wife "HAS NEVER SEEN THE PHOTOGRAPH" of the nude male model, again using capital letters for emphasis, and that she "tries to remain on a pedestal while hawking her tell-all book." [His own tell-all book was published last summer.]

As vitriolic as their divorce proceedings have been (and no doubt will continue to be), anyone who's been involved with, or even a close observer to, a divorce involving child custody recognizes this behavior as typical. The only difference here is that this one involves a former NJ governor who resigned with the revelation that he is a "Gay American."

This labeling is unfortunate. As a society, we should be well past looking at McGreevey and saying, "I see a gay man." We should simply be saying, "I see a man. A corrupt man, forced to resign from public office in disgrace under the weight of more scandals than there are stars in the sky, but a man nonetheless."

I really don't need wall-to-wall news coverage of the McGreevey's child custody arguments, or the Baldwins', or anyone else's. Two people announce they're getting divorced, and suddenly we're a step away from CNN giving the story its own theme music. There aren't many rules governing my life, but one of them is this: there are more reliable sources of information about a person than their estranged or ex-spouse.

None of this, of course, is new. Years ago a television program I was watching was broken into. I don't know about you, but "We interrupt this broadcast to bring you this special news bulletin" shoots a chill through my back. It means the president's been shot, or we've started bombing somewhere, or that something else has just happened, something big, and you must know about before 6:00. So what was the emergency? Woody Allen was holding a press conference to respond to Mia Farrow's allegations of improper conduct regarding the children. It was surreal, like something you'd see in, well, a Woody Allen movie.

Let's all make an effort to focus on real news, shall we? The things that matter. Things like videos of David Hasselhoff rolling around on the floor. Now there's a story.

An unrelated item...

You've probably seen the news items about a limited edition gold coin issued by The Royal Canadian Mint. Equal to $1 million Canadian paper currency (familiar to non-Canadians as Monopoly money), it weighs 220 pounds and is the size of a pizza.

Combining money and pizza - be still my heart! Now if the coin just had a picture of naked woman drinking a cup of coffee, everything important to me would be contained in a single place.