Soaring for seven minutes and seven seconds

We all have those low points, right? A moment that says reminds us that yes, we’re all flawed human beings. That tells us we all have our foul-ups and moments of insecurity and fear. That we are all not genetic specimens of perfection. That’s the not so pleasant moment of connection we all share.

But surprisingly, most surprisingly in fact, we all have our gifts, our abilities, our talents and unique characteristics. All most of us probably need just one chance to share them with others. We need just one person to appreciate what we’re offering; and that could be exactly what we need to press on, to continue to try.

Many of us never take that chance – we spend most of our time reminding ourselves of the following: what simply can’t be done; what won’t ever happen and in fact, even if we ignore the fear and uncertainly that holds many of us back from even trying, what probably wouldn’t ever work out even if it were to happen.

Very rarely do you find a moment that seems to connect millions of disparate people. Then – along comes someone like Susan Boyle. And everything we’ve ever believed about chances and opportunities and harboring a philosophy that claims, “the world is against me” starts to fade away. In about seven minutes, Susan embodied the moment we all hold secretly in our hearts: that given the chance, we, too, could show the world what we truly are.

It’s almost as if she’ll become a phrase that describes the moment everyone fears and then overcomes in triumph. As in: “I had a Susan Boyle moment during the presentation.” “Sure, it was nerve-wracking but then I got all Susan Boyle about it and it went very well.” Q: “How did it go?” A.: “Great! Any better and I would have been Susan Boyle herself.”

The reality is that the majority of us will never stand in front of a panel of judges and astonish them with our ability. We will never take a theater by surprise by shaking the rafters with our melodic voices. So where does that leave us?

For me, I find myself here: why not try? Why not banish all the demons that tell me why I shouldn’t even bother, why it won’t work out, how I won’t ever succeed, and why the odds are certainly not in my favor? I’m positive everyone who loves Susan was more than a little concerned about the chance she took, putting herself out there for the judges and the audience to see. Some of them may have even shared their concerns with her.

Ultimately, she didn’t care. She did it anyway. And she soared. For those seven minutes, she absolutely soared.

I’d love to have those seven minutes in my own life, too. And there is one person who can try to make that happen: me. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not nearly misguided enough to believe that all I have to do is try and believe and think positively and voila! It will all come true. But refusing to try won’t work either.

Thanks Susan. You have inspired millions. Next time the voice in my head tells me, “Don’t bother. It will not work out,” I’ll think of you. And tell myself this: it worked out for Susan. It may work out for me, too.

An observation - which may or may not be objective.

I've decided that the only reason things like prejudice, racism, biases, narrow-minded, dismissive behavior and otherwise exclusionary choices regarding what we say, do and think exist in our very enlightened and "tolerant" world is because people - all people - don't recognize this behavior within themselves. [We do, however, claim to recognise it in everyone around us and make quite a big deal about how bigoted everyone else can be.] Otherwise, it seems we would work to change the very behaviors and beliefs we say we find unacceptable in others in our own daily interactions and communication.

My theory about invisible prejudgements and bias within ourselves has to the only reason the following makes any kind of logical sense. If I read this excerpt correctly, and heard this exchange correctly, David Gregory, host of Meet the Press on NBC, simply does not recognise bias within himself, even when it comes from his own mouth, on live television.

As published in Parade Magazine, regarding political bias and the media:

"I don't accept the proposition that I have an ideological point of view that comes through," [David] Gregory tells us. "I work very hard to avoid that. I recognize that because I succeeded Tim Russert after he died, this has not been a natural transition. A lot of viewers are taking my measure, and I understand and respect that."

Really? No ideological point of view that comes through? Then answer this, David Gregory. Recently on Morning Joe (MSNBC), during coverage of the President's trip to the G 20 Summit and other countries in Europe, Peggy Noonan asked you a question about the foreign language skills of President Obama and Michelle Obama – specifically whether or not either of them spoke French. Your (paraphrased) answer follows: You didn’t think so; you hadn’t heard President Obama speak French and you didn’t think he spoke the language. Of course, he would be much more likely to be able to speak it than his predecessor. [Italics my own.]

(…Derisive chuckles of agreement all around the crowd around the desk that day….)

I’m confused.

Did Noonan ask you about President Bush? Did he factor into this answer at all? Did she ask you to compare the foreign language skills of our last two or three presidents and I missed it? Is there a reason you had to refer – even indirectly - to George W. Bush in your answer?

I have a hot piece of news for many in the media. Perhaps you missed it: President Bush is no longer our commander-in-chief. You want to comment on his policies or his decisions that you believe had an impact on our current situation at home and abroad? By all means; but save it for your editorials, not your reporting.

You want to comment on any of his perceived social shortcomings? Fine, but save it for your cocktail parties, not the "unbiased" airtime you occupy.

And in any event, man up about it. (Another way of stating my original premise: we should recognise this within ourselves and own it.) Don't claim you have no ideological point of view and then make snide comments about people who are not on your side of the aisle, especially when the mikes are open.

Some kind of haze is lingering too long in someone's brain.

I just read about the new direction the San Francisco School system is taking. The updated education guide they’ve developed for the district has an admirable goal: to “transform the educational experiences for every child in each of our schools.”

That’s great. All school boards come out with these kinds of reports and studies to encourage and empower their teachers and administrators. But San Francisco took it a step further. In order to drive home their positive message, they’ve compared their findings to a universal experience everyone can relate to; something that will generate enthusiasm among the staff. Something that would jolt everyone who read it in to high energy excitement, the likes of which they hadn’t felt in, well, maybe about forty years or so.

Here’s their sales pitch: “Remember the first time you heard Jimi Hendrix? Our plan is as transformational now as his music was then!” The story I read goes on to say that a pensive portrait of Hendrix himself is on the cover and on every page of the document. And in order to make it even more special, each book comes with a Hendrix poster and a Hendrix canvas bag.

I’m not sure who the authors of the education guide are, but I have a message for them: 1968 called. They want their rock star back.

Let’s think about this, shall we? The first time you heard Jimi Hendrix? I have to assume the presumption here is that sometime during the musical coming-of-age of the San Francisco educational community at large, they all shared an identical come-to-Jesus moment when they heard Hendrix on his guitar for the first time.

Perhaps that’s true. It’s just that Hendrix released his last album in 1968, ended his touring in 1969 and died in 1970. So let’s assume that by the age of twenty, you were the biggest Hendrix fan on the planet, and not only purchased his music, you attended his performances and mourned his death. That would make you about 59 years old today. If you loved him while you were in your mid-twenties, you’re closing in on retirement and your teaching pension.

I hope the teachers in San Francisco are a little less egocentric that the people who wrote the new plan. I ask you: who writes an education guide in 2009 and tries to generate excitement about it by recalling Jimi Hendrix? And giving out posters and bags? The clear implication of the phrasing, “the first time you heard Hendrix” is that you listened to him at the peak of his career, during the time when his music was “transformational.” You didn’t discover Hendrix on a classic rock station or on a CD.

Teachers in the San Francisco school system who are younger than 38 years old weren’t even born until after Hendrix died for God’s sake.

I have another message of the authors of this guide: 1968 called again. It’s not all about you anymore.

Leaving the economy aside for a moment....

I find myself contemplating some of the best parts of my life, that have not one thing to do with the state of the world these days.

I've believed for years that the very best parts of my life are my three boys. I can't explain how I managed to have three such special people enter my life almost twenty years ago but I did. They are each, on his own, quite amazing and wonderful.

The other night I spent a precious, unbelievable moment with one of sons, whom I was entreating to please, please get over the "Senior-itus" and finish his high school career on a high note...well, at least on a higher note than he's been playing lately.

Without going into the many complex and unhappy details surrounding the circumstances my son finds himself in these days, suffice it to say his social life has been somewhat curtailed lately. After discussing the next several weeks of schoolwork, that will, my hand to god, end up in a delightful graduation night of celebration and yes, a bit of relief for all of us, I tried to sweeten the deal a little. Maybe having a "date night," maybe having some time out of the house to have some fun would encourage one more quarter of hard work. The fact is that the "grounding" he's endured for several weeks has resulted in him spending almost no time with his girlfriend, or any friends for that matter. Tanisha is either the most patient young woman on the planet or she and my son have found that the wonders of texting, phone time and Facebook are reasonable substitutes for dates or spending time together. (Or they're finding time together and I'm unaware of it - which may well be the case.)

Regardless, I dangled the "date night" carrot hoping for good things. He looked pleasant enough, agreeable enough to the notion, although, surprisingly, not overjoyed. I said, "Jeez! You don't look very excited! Don't you think Tanisha would like to spend an evening out with her boyfriend??"

In what will go down as a historic moment in my life, his lukewarm response to my offer became clear. "O-o-o-oh-h-h-...I thought you meant I'd have a date night with you! I thought you meant that you and I would go out for dinner or something...."

Thank you, God. Thank you for a son who not only imagined I would dangle an offer of an evening in my company as some kind of fun-filled option, he actually considered it and didn't outright reject it. And God bless him for that. I'm thrilled with his lukewarm response if that's the case. THRILLED.

I don't need to tell you the excitement meter increased considerably when he learned a real date night was his reward for good work.

Here's the thing. Nothing else needs to happen here. Not really. I'm going to live on this moment for at least a couple of weeks - the realization that somewhere along the line, I find myself in the amazing situation of having helped raise an almost 18-year-old son who wasn't quite horrified or even the least dismayed about the prospect of spending an evening with his mother.

WOW. As my friend and fabulous writer Amy Krouse Rosenthal says, MOM is really just WOW turned upside down. She's right.

Is this harrassment? Could you do this and get away with it???

Several years ago, I attended a harassment seminar at work. It's purpose was the enlighten managers of the many, many ways one could harass employees. Sexual harassment gets the most press but there are a number of ways employees could be intimated or otherwise distracted (or "harassed" in legal terms) by management.

Turns out, having a manager who uses harsh or graphic language was one of the ways employees could feel uncomfortable in an office setting. Sure, we're all adults but nonetheless, if someone is not used to hearing cursing or off-color language, or does not use it at home or in personal life, it can be off-putting to hear it from the person who, to some degree, holds your professional life in his or her hands. Language like this can even cause an employee to feel less than comfortable talking to their supervisor about a work-related topic.

The March 2 issue of The New Yorker contains a profile of President Obama's Chief of Staff, Rahm Emmanuel. He's an interesting, well-educated man who brings a lot of umm, personality to the office. Time will tell whether or not he is effective in his role in the White House.

One of the aspects of the story that startled me was the mention of a plaque displayed in his office. A gift from his brothers, Ezekiel and Ariel, it looks very official and bears this inscription: "Undersecretary for Go F--- Yourself."

Charming! Is this the message we want to send to everyone who visits Emmanuel's office on any kind of business? "Go F Yourself?" Nice.

If I worked for Rahm Emmanuel, the first thing I would tell him is that the plaque he's displaying is unprofessional and it offends me. The second thing I would say is thank you for not firing me for telling you that.

Look, it's not that I am an innocent who has not been around the block when it comes to language. But making that kind of statement, even in jest, on a plaque that is displayed in your office, when you have a very elevated position working very closely with the leader of the free world and everything that surrounds him, feels very different to me.

I get it. It's a joke from his brothers who know Emmanuel very well. So he should hang it or display it at home. In his family room. At least there, only his children and your wife will have to see it everyday. I don't think they can claim harassment at home.

Well, I guess it was inevitable.

The prevailing wisdom tells us that when we face a huge task or obstacle or project, we are supposed to break it down into manageable pieces and have at it. You can do almost anything is it doesn't look and feel so intimidating! A version of this advice is on the cover of every single women's magazine on newsstands every single month.

I guess I misinterpreted the advice. I thought it was related to things like cleaning out your dresser drawers or straightening up your file cabinet. Wrong. Given the horrible financial climate that pervades nearly every aspect of our lives, I guess it was inevitable that someone, somewhere took this advice and applied it to - you guessed it - spending money you may not have, but feeling okay about it.

I couldn't believe it but I just watched a General Motors commercial about - guess what? - financing your new car! Just like Ford, you can pay it off in just SIX SHORT YEARS. But here's their twist: why think about this in something as Pre-TARP-like as "monthly car payments." No, that's way too much money or debt to contemplate. It may make the payments look unaffordable, even to the most financially illiterate among us.

So back to the old wisdom: break it down. Break that figure down from a monthly total to a much more manageable daily expenditure. Maybe that makes it all okay. According to GM, a new car will cost you only $9.63 a day. Doesn't that sound so much better than almost $300 a month???

They make it look very accessible. Instead of buying yourself lunch, buy a car! Instead of seeing a movie on your own, buy a car!

Dear God when will this stop? Our national financial future is doomed. If we need convincing that we can afford new cars by calculating what they'll cost us on a daily basis, we can't afford them.

Now. Is that so hard?

Here's the problem - in thirty short seconds

I watched a Ford commercial on television and thought that it perfectly captured the blind eye many of us seem to be turning to the root of our financial catastrophe: spending beyond our means.

In a effort to motivate buyers, Ford is offering to make the first three payments for you on your new car. That's three months without a car payment while you drive around in your new car! WOW!!

What happens in month # 4 is anyone's guess. Here's my stab at it: if you finance a car and can't afford to make the payments each month, no matter how many times someone pays it for you, you won't make the first payment that comes due under your watch. In this case, in month # 4.

But wait - there's more to the offer. To help you actually feel like you can afford the car you want, Ford will help lower the monthly cash outlay by extending your credit/loan on the car for 72 months. Yes, that means just SIX short years later you can own a car that is by then close to seven years old.

Isn't Ford's promotion more of the same problem that got us into this mess? Overextending ourselves and our credit to finance a lifestyle or products we couldn't afford?

I'd like to see a major manufacturer, whether it's a car company, an electronics company or other fairly high ticket commodity try to do the responsible thing here.

Let's review the real offer Ford is making to consumers who don't have clue one about how to be responsible with money:

"Hey! We're going to make it easier than ever for you to come on in and buy a new Ford. We'll make the first three payments for you - and that means we'll pay $XXX a month for three months (disclaimers clutter the bottom of the screen at this point.)

After that, you owe $XXX for the next 69 months to own this car. That's right, in the middle of 2015 you will finally be finished paying off this car!

Yes, your insurance will also cost more on a new car, of course, but let's not think about that right now. Let's concentrate on putting you in a brand new car!!!"

I'd love to see someone make a commercial that delivers this kind of message:

"Hey - we're Ford and we make cars for a variety of budgets. If you want to spend $xxx a month and finance your car for 36 to 48 months with no down payment,and you have good credit and your monthly income is $XXX, come into one of our dealerships and take a look at these models. Let's discuss your monthly bills but it's possible one of these models won't break your budget.

"Here's a way to tell if models like the ___, ___ and ___ are good choices for you: your weekly paycheck should put at least $xxx in your pocket. And your weekly expenses should leave you with at least $XXX left over to put toward a car payment.

"We know there's a lot to think about when buying a car - and committing to that payment each month. Come in and talk to us - if the numbers add up for both of us, we'll put you in a car you can afford.

And that's the best offer there is out there today."

I'm not holding my breath.

50 years later...

Young girls are STILL playing Barbie. That's what you call it when you're a girl and you and your friends decide to play with your Barbie dolls. You don't say, "Let's play with our dolls." You say, "Let's play Barbies."

At least, that's what we used to say. My sisters and I each had a Barbie doll and so did our friends. One of our friends, Peggy, also had just about every Barbie doll accessory you could think of as well so playing Barbies on her front porch was always the most fun. She had cars, houses, and other dolls that would help us create that day's scenario. I have absolutely no recollection of exactly how we used to play with them or what could have occupied us forever, except that we were constantly changing their clothing. Which we never called clothing by the way. Barbie wore outfits.

(And by the way, women still do. I wrote about that years ago - the idea that only women, not men, use the word outfits. I can't explain it. It just is.)

These days, girls can have the Barbie Jeep, the Barbie RV, and the Barbie Pet Shop. My son's girlfriend told me she had Barbie Vet when she was growing up, and Barbie "Mom," with her very own set of quadruplets.

So the headline these days is that Barbie is turning 50. Just half a century after she was introduced at the Toy Fair in NYC in March, 1959, she is still going strong with her tiny waist, long legs and perky look. My question is this: how did this
happen?

Wouldn't you think that the women's movement - which hit it's stride just as Barbie was entering adolescence would have brought and end to Barbie and her breasts? Wouldn't you think that now two generations later, parents would have long ago turned their backs on Barbie, disdaining her for all the wrong-headed priorities she seemed to represent to girls the world over? Wouldn't you think girls would be over her by now?

Well, a few people think so. In fact, a lawmaker in West Virgina wants to outlaw Barbie for all those reasons. According to USA Today, Democratic Delegate Jeff Eldridge wants to ban the sale of Barbie and other dolls like her for the benefit of all girls in West Virginia because it places "too much importance on physical beauty, at the expense of their intellectual and emotional development."

Like others have before him, Eldridge also denigrates Barbies unnatural body image and faults her for "promoting materialism."

That's noble and high-minded of him. But we've heard these kinds of protests about Barbie and the glittery road to perdition she leads us down for decades now. Surely, there is some truth to it; surely she has led millions of women into a vapid existence of fashion, beauty and few if any accomplishments; in the opposite direction from a classroom and professional lives, right?

But how can I put this? How's this: Oh, for Gods's sake - give it rest! I have yet to read one study, one report, one snippet of investigation that tells me this: Barbie has caused an entire generation of girls to become dumb. To become materialistic, empty-headed bimbos. To become less than what they could be.

I know anecdotal evidence is nothing but that but let's revisit my Barbie play group for a minute, shall we? Out of the eight girls who played Barbies together, six of us went on to college and earned degrees. Among us, there is an attorney, an engineer, a social worker, a publishing professional, a librarian, and a teacher (by degree) who works in an office. The other two have worked in offices over the years as they've raised their families, one as single parent for many of those years.

So here's looking at you, Barbie. Happy 50th. Not one of us have your bone structure, your breasts, your waist or your long sleek mane. Not one of us can wear the heels you wear with a smile. But envy, jealousy or inferiority were never what we felt when we played Barbies. You were always our friend and you helped us pass countless fun afternoons with our friends.

Sometimes a Barbie is just a Barbie. Let's all relax and count on another 50 years of unenlightened fun by girls the world over.

When is the middle missing a middle? When it's a panel from Washington.

Okay, this made me scream.

The night the President addressed the nation and informed us that VP Biden would head up a middle class task force, I shook my head and thought: “I’ll bet not one person on that task force has been a member of the middle class for decades.”

Now, thanks to Time.com, my reaction has been validated. Turns out, everyone who sat on that panel last week in Philadelphia makes more than $150,000 a year – some of them much, much more – which puts them squarely in the top 5% of wage earners.

The panel did not take questions from the audience but luckily, the government thoughtfully created a website where “the middle class” can go online and submit questions. Oh, please. That’s helpful. According to an article in WebProNews, 18% of U.S. households have no Internet access. And guess what contributes to that circumstance? Age and limited education. Who could that be? Perhaps they are seniors on lower fixed incomes or younger people with limited prospects for employment because of limited education.

Does it occur to anyone on this task force that perhaps those people who have the most questions or those who could offer the most insight into the challenges of the middle class might not happen to hop online every night on their laptops? These are the people who need to speak to the middle class task force. They may want to submit questions to this panel of $175,000 / year earners.

And don’t tell me they can go to the public library to access the web. They certainly can and I’m guessing at least some households at the lower end of the middle class income figure do get web access that way. Maybe even some of them will go ahead and submit questions to VP Biden’s task force.

I hope so but for some reason, I doubt it. I’d love to track back where the submissions originate. If even two percent of them come from places like public libraries, I’ll be stunned.

The most amusing part of the article in Time was the mention of the official Middle Class Task Force "live blogger" commenting on a discussion about the "greenest" city: Portland, Los Angeles or Philadelphia. When will these people get a clue? I"m not certain the MCTF needs a live blogger, that perhaps that resource and money could be better spent but what do I know?

The score is Martha:1 ; Bernie: 0

I’ve spent a decent amount of time thinking about this topic. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, “I can’t write it;” or “I shouldn’t write it.” Or something like that.
I know – a fair number of you would have bet I’d invested no more than six minutes thinking about anything I’ve ever written. You’d be wrong but that’s your prerogative. The truth is, sometimes I agonize over words or phrases, trying to create exactly the right feelings through a single sentence that I hope conveys the message I want to deliver. Warning: This isn’t one of those pieces. In fact, I’d recommend that if you’re looking for facts and journalistic integrity, you stop reading now.

Of course I’m talking about what else - the economy. I have absolutely no credentials nor do I have any specific expertise that qualifies me to talk about the financial crisis that surrounds us but that hasn’t stopped anyone in Washington from talking about it, or creating programs about it. And speaking of programs, who named “TARP?” Is the best word to describe these assets really “troubled?” Troubled? I’m troubled when I can’t remember where I parked my car at the mall. Or when I forget to record a check and then can’t remember why I wrote it. “T” should stand for Tragic. Or it should have been called HARP for Horrific Asset Relief. How about CARP, for Criminal Asset Relief? The activity that led to these assets being “troubled” is criminal.

Leaving aside the mortgage debacle, I think my own personal financial point of no return came a few weeks ago when The Wall Street Journal published a PDF of the document independent investigator Harry Markopolos submitted to the Securities and Exchange Commission on November 7, 2005, in which he expressed his concerns about Madoff Investment Securities, LLC. Yes, THAT Madoff Securities. Yes, 2005. That would be just over five years after he submitted his very first suspicions about Bernie Madoff but four years before Madoff became infamous for a Ponzi scheme that resulted in $50 billion dollars of fraud.

I read the Markopolos memo – or, more accurately, I started to read it. While I don’t know finance, I’m fairly fluent in English and yet I was lost. I could define almost every word; I just couldn’t figure out what any of them meant, strung together in that document. On the very first page, Markopolos describes his credentials: “I have experience managing split-strike conversion products both using index options and using individual stock options, both with and without index puts.” Well…good. That’s sounds…complicated.

In one of the more straightforward passages, he states his intentions: “As a result of this case, several careers on Wall Street and in Europe will be ruined. Therefore, I have not signed nor put my name on this report. I request that my name not be released to anyone other than the Branch Chief or Team Leader in the New York Region….” Four years later, as the walls come tumbling down, he’s in front of Congress testifying about the contents of his memo that was summarily ignored by his supervisors at the SEC.

I feel confused and angry. I don’t understand why Bernie Madoff isn’t wearing in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. I don’t understand a court system that justifies sending a Martha Stewart to jail for insider trading that led to her own financial gains but didn’t ruin countless others, and allows a Bernie Madoff, who stole $50 BILLION dollars from scores of people, to remain in his penthouse. Wearing an ankle bracelet.

I feel gullible and abused. Turns out, if you did the “responsible” things, you lose. If you have savings accounts for college expenses, you watch them shrink every day. If you have a reasonable mortgage and make all your payments on time, you won’t qualify for the very favorable mortgage being offered to those who are overextended. If you own a business and run it well, you won’t get any help, either.

I used to think: Well, you’re still better off than many! Really? The way the bailouts keep piling up, that’s hard to believe. And the way the markets are moving these days, we all lose – no matter how many times we chose to do the “responsible” thing.

Maybe it's a Kevin Bacon thing....

Watching the last twenty minutes - I'm not kidding, it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes - of Apollo 13, I'm in tears. Again.

There is something so completely compelling and moving about this story that appeared to have united people all over the world in the face of tragedy. Even more incredible than that, who could imagine that the Congress of the United States would call for a day of national prayers from the American public?

So what's the deal here do you think? Maybe I don't let out real emotions enough of the time and they have to escape somehow. I've touched on this before but I seem to favor some sort of "control" over freedom when it comes to expressing emotions. Which, believe me I know, can't be all that healthy for you.

So where does that leave me? I weep over movies.

Then again, I'm not completely deluded. I've found myself overcome with tears at other times that have exactly everything to do with real life, not Hollywood. The movie tears feel less painful, of course.

I need to find a middle ground of some kind. A place that lets me express emotions over some of the bumps in real life but where I'm not necessarily in tears automatically. This middle ground is also the same place I could find a way to watch twenty minutes of a movie I've seen half a dozen times without crying.

At times like this I wonder if I'm the only person on the planet who reacts to life this way. I suppose it's possible but I'm not nearly that complex or unique so I doubt it. But I'd love to know.

Another tear.

A new addition to the list of things that have me completely overcome in a matter of seconds.

If you haven’t watched Taking Chance on HBO, the true story of two marines and how their lives intersected, I’d recommend you don’t unless you have a tissue – or even a convenient sleeve - nearby. If you’re like me, you may be taken by surprise when you feel the first tear slip away. You won’t quite know why, but at one point or another you will feel your eyes fill up. Your throat will get just a little tighter and the screen will blur just slightly for a little while.

The story, on its surface, is deceptively simple. Kevin Bacon plays Marine Colonel Mike Strobel who escorts a soldier, PFC Chance Phelps, from Dover Air Force base to his home in Wyoming. Phelps was killed in Iraq and Strobel is his escort home. During that trip, Mike finds himself questioning his own role as a “paper pusher” in the Marine Corps, although he was deployed during the first Iraq war.

If I had to choose two words to describe this movie they would be respectful; quiet. I have loved Kevin Bacon’s acting forever but I have never seen him perform a role with such quiet control. His movements are controlled and tight. Even at the local VFW post, where friends and other soldiers gather to celebrate Chance’s life, Bacon maintains his respectful distance as he sits and listens respectfully to the stories told about the fallen soldier. His smiles are small; his glances are attentive; his tone is measured.

Toward the end of the evening, Chance's very good friend tells Cpl. Strobel about the day of the attack. The silence that endures – for a very long time – as he relates the circumstances of Chance’s death is exquisite and painful. The simple expresson of comfort Strobel offers him is powerful.

There is only one moment during the film where you feel anger in Bacon’s character and its directed at himself. He questions aloud – during a talk with a Marine who saw his action in Korea about sixty years ago - and berates himself for his choice to work in an office, and not go overseas.

When Mike meets the family to deliver Chance’s belongings, I could barely breathe. His speech to them, about the family not mourning alone, was almost too much to bear. The cut away shots during the hand off of the dog-tags and Chance’s watch are devastating. You’ll understand when you watch the scene.

My dad was a Marine and you know what they say about Marines: Old Marines never die – they just go to hell and regroup. Maybe that’s why this movie had the effect it did on me. My Dad loved the Marine Corps until the day he died. The men who portray Marines in the film clearly feel the same way about their service to the country.

What is entirely absent from this movie is anger, regret or judgment about the military or dying for your country. The love of country is palpable and real, although never overplayed or overwrought.

To me, the movie is a testament to everyone who ever wore a uniform for this country. To me, it’s irrelevant where you stand on Iraq, Afghanistan or any other place in the world that is viewed – at least by some – as an enemy of this country. It’s not about “the troops” or “the war on terror” or which side of the argument you embrace philosophically. The film is much smaller but much bigger than that. It’s about two men. Both of their stories will touch you and move you to tears. And ultimately leave you inspired by their honor.

People are nice enough....

Almost five years ago at Christmas time, I chose to honor my Dad (who had passed away six months earlier) by donating books to the library in Allentown’s Central Elementary School. Instead of buying gifts for co-workers that year, I donated the books in their names, in memory of my dad.

I can’t tell you why I chose Central School. I have no personal affiliation there, nor did my father. I didn’t know anyone – students or faculty - at the school. But I do know my children live in a home where they always had an extensive library of books at their disposal. (One of my earliest decisions about raising kids was to never say no to a request for a book.) I also know that Central faces challenges with many students – or their families - that simply don’t exist in a suburban school setting. It broke my heart to imagine some children not having books on a shelf at home. Maybe by adding a few to the school’s library, even just one child would begin a lifelong passion for reading.

All I can tell you is that on that day – the day I dropped of my co-workers books - I watched a young boy walk into school alone. Several years later, I can still picture him clearly. What struck me that morning was his look of absolute, unquestionable enthusiasm for the day. He looked eager and alert, and, yes, thrilled to be walking up those steps. I wondered: Is this the best part of his day? Is this where he feels secure? Stimulated? Safe? Challenged - in a good way?

He’s stayed in my mind’s eye. I wonder about him – five years later. I wonder about his eager look. I wonder if middle school generates the same positive emotions I saw on his face that day.

In a recent column, I made a request of readers, something I had not done in the eight years I’d been writing for the newspaper. To mark a milestone birthday this year, I planned to donate ten books to the Central library and asked readers to join me. My goal was to add total of 50 books to the school’s library.

Just about six weeks later, I’m honored and delighted to report that according to the Central Elementary Librarian, donations have come in that have more than doubled my goal. The school receives books daily donated in my name, which brings tears to my eyes.

In addition to the lovely thank you note I received from the Librarian, I was touched by sincere notes from some of the students. As they thanked me, each one wished me a happy birthday and expressed his or her feelings about reading. Every note was charming, unique and expressive, but one of them told me everything I needed to know: “That was nice of you to do. You are friends with Central.” Another wrote: "I'm so glad that people are nice enough to give books to the school."

To everyone who wrote me an email expressing your own plans to donate, to everyone who gave me books (or cash) to donate, to everyone who sent me a card or a note through the mail and told me about your plans to make a donation, I want to say thank you very much for your support and your help. Your generosity is touching and overwhelming.

In the perfectly chosen words of the students:

“That was nice of you to do. You are friends with Central.”

"I'm so glad that people are nice enough to donate books to the school."

I'm so very glad, too.

Those elusive little details...

On Valentine's Day, one of my least favorite holidays ever, the USA Network played a day-long marathon of romantic comedies, otherwise known as chick flicks. I have no quarrel with these kind of films, in fact, some of them are very near to my heart.

I do have an objection to them being labeled "for women only," however. If men were honest, they would admit that the real point of these movies is that there is no better feeling on earth than love at it's newest, at its freshest. That moment when new love takes its first breath, first blinks in the bright sunlight and taps the shoulders of two individuals who have been looking for it their entire lives: "I'm here! Enjoy!"

This "best feeling in the world" also partially explains why people the world over have choose to have affairs or "emotional" affairs. The desire to recapture that "new love" feeling never quite goes away no matter how long ago we turned 17.

But that's the moment we wait for in these movies. The first hour and fifty minutes is nothing more than the preamble to the final moment of recognition when the couple reaches that mutual stage of admiration and desire and passion and love. Voila! The kiss, the embrace, the moment we want to see. (And if we're lucky, have experienced in our lives.)

It's just that despite the excitement and fireworks, it isn't real. It isn't real in the movies and it isn't real in life. And by real, I mean - lasting. It's fun and manic while you're in the throes of new love, but it can't possibly by definition stay "new love" forever. On a good day, that's where the magic really happens: When it's not new but it's still good.

Along those lines, there are those who say the best bit of love isn't the start, but rather the mellowing that comes along only after years of commitment and compassion for each other. Which brings me to one of my favorites authors, and how he handles this subject. The New Yorker has labeled Nick Hornby "a maestro of the male confessional." I love him - he writes male characters I want to know (and feel like I have known as a matter of fact.)

In his wonderful novel, High Fidelity, Hornby reveals the angst and turmoil of his storyteller, Rob. And Rob, in his own wonderfully insecure voice, tells women (and men) the truth about how we're different people (but not in an annoying and simplistic Mars / Venus way) and how we approach the same thing (love) from two different angles.

Rob and his girlfriend Laura are about to reconnect after a breakup and Laura tells him she isn't good at "the slushy stuff." I feel that way. I think many women do, partly because many of us believe we'll never measure up to the fantasy women who seem to capture the collective male psyche through the media these days. And Rob can't help but show his disappointment in her revelation:

"That, to me, is a problem, as it would be to any male who heard Dusty Springfield singing "The Look of Love" at an impressionable age. That was what I thought it was all going to be like when I was married....I thought there was going to be this sexy woman with a sexy voice and lots of sexy eye make up whose devotion to me shone from every pore. And there is such a thing as the look of love...it's just that the look of love isn't what I expected it to be. It's not the huge eyes almost bursting with longing situation somewhere in the middle of a double bed with the covers turned down invitingly; it's just as likely to be the look of benevolent indulgence that a mother gives a toddler, or a look of amused exasperation, even a look of pained concern. But the Dusty Springfield look of love? Forget it. As mythical as the exotic underwear.

...it's much harder to get used to the idea that my little-boy notion of romance, of negligees and candlelit dinners at home and long, smoldering glances had no basis reality at all."

And this bit of honesty: "I know what's wrong with Laura. What's wrong with Laura is that I'll never see her for the first or second or third time again. I'll never spend two or three days in a sweat trying to remember what she looks like, never again will I get to a pub half and hour early to meet her..."

That's true for everyone in a committed relationship, isn't it? Doesn't everyone get caught in the daily life that includes such unromantic moments as stopping for milk, unclogging the washing machine hose, working your way through paperwork and bills that are due or helping someone overcome stomach flu as they hang out in the bathroom for several hours? This isn't just about men although again, I'll admit to being an enormous fan of Hornby's male characters and the peek into the male mind he gives readers.

Sometimes the look of love is the glance you give someone during a difficult moment that says: Please stop talking. Trust me on this one. Stop right now. It's the look that tells them: The kids are making me crazy and I'm about to lose it, for the nine-thousandth time. It's the look that says: I'm sorry. Or please help me. Or thank you.

No one ever wrote a song describing the look of love in someones eyes as they balance the checkbook or sort the laundry or clip the hedges. It's those kind of elusive little details that never get the spotlight that make up a marriage, and a lifetime. The rest is just Hollywood; it's Dusty Springfield. And when the screen goes black or the song is over, you're left in the dark, in the silence with each other. Ready to start again tomorrow.

Courage Decisiveness Tenacity: The Time Is Now

Those are the words that appear on the cover of this year's brochure advertising the World Business Forum which will take place in October at Radio City Music Hall. I've never attended the event but for some reason I get the promotions for it every year. My name must be on a list that gets rented for this mailing. My husband is one of the media people who works there every year and he ususally comes home with some interesting stories.

Here is the brochure's description of the people appearing at the Forum, "the world's most important gathering of senior executives." The event offers "an incredible lineup of brilliant minds, business icons and legendary CEOs." It promises to provide attendees "the energy and ideas to face today's challenges with confidence, no matter how demanding the business climate."

So who are these guys? (And this year, it's almost all guys.) You can certainly hop online for the detailed resumes but here are a few select words and phrases about several of them:

Gary Hamel: The Wall Street Journal called him the world's most influential business thinker and The Economist called him "the world's reigning strategy guru."

Jeffrey Sachs: Time Magazine named him among the "100 most influential leader sin the world." Special Advisor to the U.N. Secretary-General, Professor of Health Policy Management at Columbia University after spending 20 years on the faculty at Harvard.

George Lucas: American Film Institute's Lifetime Achievement Award and recipient of the National Medal of Technology. Founder of one of the world's leading entertainment companies, winner of eight Academy Awards.

Jack Welch: 20-year Chairman of General Electric, where his leadership grew GE's market value from $3 billion to $400 billion; named the 2000 Manager of the Year by Fortune; named Most Admired CEO of the past 20 years by Chief Executive magazine and the World's Greatest Leader in a survey by Fast Company.

T. Boone Pickens. Paul Krugman. And several others, all of whom are very bright, very experienced senior executives who have stories and messages of leadership to share. The presentations carry titles like these: Emerging Multinationals, Leading Transformational Change, A Conversation on Energy Dependence and Economics for a Crowded Planet.

Oh, one more celebrity speaker - another advocate of courage, decisiveness and tenacity no doubt - I wanted to mention: Michael Phelps. His presentation? High Performance.

I'm not kidding. I can only imagine the conversation that took place in the office of HSM Global, who creates this event each year, when they realized their brochure was at the printer or already in the mail announcing the High Performance presentation by Michael Phelps.

You can't make this stuff up.

It happened again.

I read this headline and was ready to scream:

"Is community service the new green?"

God help me.

We are losing our ability to speak plainly. And when did speaking plainly become so undesirable? The translation of this headline is this: "Is volunteering popular again?" Or perhaps slightly more nuanced, you could read it as: "Is volunteering becoming the new trend?"

In fact, I'm not quite sure what it means. I do know it's lazy and boring. On the plus side, it takes yet one more swing at that horrible "this is the new this" phrase, which please dear God should be put out of its misery in terms of journalism and trend-spotting in this country.

Kellogg's cares. So does the USA Swimming.

The online poll was a bit surprising but I'm willing to admit that I'm probably much more conservative than a lot of people. The MSN poll indicated that 466,994 people voted on question: How do you feel about Michael Phelps smoking a bong? 21% agreed with this response: "I'm dismayed, I can't believe he would do that." Remember the contents of that phrase. Dismayed. Disbelief.

ON the flip side, 79% agreed with this: "He's 23 years old - can we all relax?"

First of all, let me clarify something here. I'm relaxed. And the fact that Phelps is 23 years old doesn't indicate anything to me other than the fact that he may be older but he's no brighter than any completely ordinary teenager who makes the same wrong decision about smoking pot.

Secondly, these two statements in the poll are not parallel. If you agree with the first, you sound humorless, judgemental and "square." Agreeing with the second makes you sound like a now grown up Spicoli in Fast Times.

Turns out that Kellogg's would have probably weighed in with the 21% had they cast a vote. A report in Ad Age states that Phelps will no longer be affiliated with Kellogg's. According to a Kellogg's spokeswoman, "We originally built the relationship with Michael, as well as the other Olympic athletes, to support our association with the U.S. Olympic team. Michael's most recent behavior is not consistent with the image of Kellogg. His contract expires at the end of February and we have made a decision not to extend his contract."

On a related note, USA Swimming, the sport's governing body, has suspending Phelps from training for three months. He'll miss a competition in March and compete again starting in May.

Here's the deal. Phelps became a media darling because he represented an American kid who made good - dedicated himself to his sport, overcame some personal challenges and became the most successful Olympic swimmer in history. His onscreen and offscreen personality was sold to the viewers just as successfully as the products featured in the commericals on the NBC Olympic Games and for the most part, we all bought it. A major publisher "crashed" (rushed) his book full of "you can do it, too" motivational nonsense so he could scoop up sales during the first holiday season following the Games. Corporations scooped up Phelps and paid him handsomely to have him and his success associated with their brand names.

Now the truth is, he doesn't really owe his fans much more than a great performance in the pool so they can continue to cheer and he can continue to set world records. But in terms of engendering their good will - especially the good will of parents who still may be archaic and uptight enough to care about whether or not their children decide to smoke pot - I propose he also owes them some reasonable, admirable, non-controversial behavior. I suppose reasonable people can argue what is meant by the phrase "reasonable, admirable, non-controversial behavior." But I have a thought: could it mean law-abiding? Could it mean responsible? Could it mean reliable? Could that be it? Why is no one online or elsewhere talking about the fact that Phelps broke the law and there is a photograph which he does not dispute that proves it?

Why, exactly, are none of us supposed to care about this and, in fact, enjoin those who might to just "relax?"

Maybe there's an "inappropriate" line somewhere that he needs to cross. Cocaine? If he were snorting a line of cocaine in a photo, would the vote lean more like 40 % to 60%? Or shooting heroine. Maybe we'd be a little tougher on him then and the vote would fall into the 50 / 50 range. Freebasing. That might get him in trouble with more people.

I need someone to post the rules. Because although I have not spent one minute thinking about Michael Phelps since the summer games ended, he "disappointed" me. And I think if more people voted honestly, not according to the "cool way" to vote on this topic, that 21% would look more like 79%.

The puff - and tax returns - heard round the world

Let me try to understand this.

In November, Olympic swimming sensation and all-time gold medal winner Michael Phelps attended a party at the University of South Carolina. At the house party, someone snapped a picture of him smoking pot - or at least in a position that very much indicated that taking a hit would be his next move - and the photo was published in a British tabloid last week.

If you read the stories about this revelation, you read a lot of apologies, a lot about disappointment, and platitudes like learning from your mistakes. You also read what this means to the Olympic committee and to swimming's governing body (I'll save you the time: nothing) and what the companies who have sponsored Phelps and hired him as a spokesperson have to say about the disturbing image (I'll save you that time, too: not much.)

Turns out that no matter what kind of splash (you should pardon the expression) you make during the Olympic games, the IOC can say absolutely nothing about the state of an athlete's body while not competing nor can they apply their code of conduct once the games conclude.

So, here's what we have: an athlete who was apparently not using any sort of illicit or illegal substances while he was completing and making a worldwide reputation for himself as some kind of phenomenon. Fast forward about four months and he's partying with friends, smoking pot, and then he offers us this, once he is exposed by a tabloid: "I engaged in behavior which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgment," Phelps said in the statement released by one of his agents. "I'm 23 years old and despite the successes I've had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way, not in a manner people have come to expect from me. For this, I am sorry. I promise my fans and the public it will not happen again."

And this: "It's something I am going to have to live with and something I'll have to grow from," Phelps said. "I know with all of the mistakes I made, I learned from them and that is what I expect to do from this. By no means it is [sic] fun for me, by no means is it easy."

Let's take a look at his statements, shall we?

His act was regrettable and exhibited bad judgement.
Regrettable? Bad judgement? How about: stupid? And given his high profile, moronic?

He's a 23 year old star swimmer and he acted like a kid, and inappropriately.
...all this despite his success in the pool?
Being a good swimmer - being a world class champion swimmer in fact - has nothing to do with what you may choose to do at a party in South Carolina. And 23 years old doesn't exactly make him a hot-headed teenager.

...not the behavior people expect from him.
What do people expect from him?
Quite honestly, we expect him to win swimming competitions. Expecting anything else, based on his past behavior, is ill-advised at best.

He's sorry..won't happen again.
Uh-huh. Keep reading.

He'll have to live with it; he'll grow from it.
Yes, he will. That's very nice for him. Somehow, I don't think he's quite bereft.

He's learned from his mistakes in the past. He expects he'll learn from this one.
I'm wondering what exactly he's learned from his mistakes in the past. One of those mistakes was probably his underage drinking and drunk driving arrest after the Athens Olympic games in 2004. He apologized then, too.

It's weird that according to the quote I read, he misspoke and said "..it is fun for me..."

My favorite quote from the stories this week comes from the USOC: "We are confident that, going forward, Michael will consistently set the type of example we all expect from a great Olympic champion," the group said.

Boy, everyone's really apologetic and confident aren't they? Based on what?

I'm so weary of reading about people who get caught in situations that are less than admirable and "regretting" them and exhibiting "bad judgement." If anyone felt like being honest for just one second, they would skip all the polished statements that PR professionals get paid very handsomely to craft and simply issue a statement like this instead: "I thought I'd get away with it. I didn't. This is entirely my fault and my the blame rests with me. I don't deserve any more leniency or understanding than anyone else would get for the same actions."

No one will make that statement, though. Michael Phelps won't. Tom Daschle won't. Neither will Nancy Killefer nor Timothy Geithner. But that simple statement is the truth. They all thought they'd get away with it. Some did - for some time. And now it's all "regrettable." And they're all "disappointed."

Please. We're disappointed. They're pathetic.

This has to go.

If I never hear this conversational construction, "Blank is the new blank" again it will be amazing. Whoever started this I don't know but this phrase has long since worn out it's usefulness and now people seem to be using it for all manner of circumstances they simply can't find any other way to describe:

Fifty is the new Forty.
Translation: People are looking and behaving in a more youthful manner than they have in the past!

Green is the new Black.
Translation: Environmental concerns seems to be more important to many people than being chic and trendsetting.

Cash is the new money.
Translation: Credit is crap. Cash is what matters.

But I just heard a new one, this one promoting network primetime television shows. Here it is: Monday is the new Thursday. Ahem: umm, no, it's not. Monday will never be the new Thursday and I don't care what programs are on the air.

First of all, Thursday is almost Friday. Monday is nothing more that a version of a bleaker Tuesday, that showed up one day early. It indicates nothing but the start of the week for many of us, and rarely carries with it that lighter, happier feeling you tend to find around a day like Thursday.

Second of all, substituting your own words within a phrase that was passably amusing when used very specifically and occasionally about ten years ago is pathetic. It doesn't make you clever, just derivative.

I know this post sounds kind of depressing but it's the end of a long, difficult day and believe me, not matter what's on television tonight, it will never feel like a Thursday night to me.

Unfortunately, someone reading this may feel the need to convince me otherwise. Phrases like "depressing is the new encouraging" or "bleak is the new bright." Good lord. They are not, okay? Can we all agree that we can stop comparing two disperate things and claiming they are the new whatever?

If not, I have one of my own: saying one thing is like another thing in an effort to be amusing and surprising is the new literary nadir. I like it.

What bad economy?

Here's the latest news from the world of publishing, my absolute favorite industry, one that continues to survive despite having no perceptible business model or the skills to run even one legitimate P / L on anything it produces.

Publisher's Weekly reports that a literary agent at major firm is "shopping around" (which means 'trying to sell' if you live in world that is not connected to publishing), a memoir by one Diane Keaton. Ms. Keaton's mother died about a year ago, after what PW called a "lengthy" battle with Alzheimer's disease. The story will be told "through the lens of [Keaton's] relationship with her mother."

As an aside, let me simply say that referring to the proposed book as a "memoir" more or less indicated to me that of course it would be told from Ms. Keaton's point of view. Maybe someone else is writing her memoir. But wouldn't that make it a biography? Does no one care about language anymore? Wouldn't you think a magazine devoted to publishing would? So would I.

Anyway, getting back to the title of this post, 'what bad economy?' here's the kicker. As of now, the entire book proposal consists of ten pages, and I'm going to guess that seven of those ten outline the reach and popularity of Ms. Keaton and the fan base who will line up to purchase anything with her name on it. I don't know who wrote this ten page "sample" but I'm going out on a limb here and guess that Ms. Keaton didn't sit in front of her laptop and labor over them. Of course there is a chance she did but somehow, I doubt it.

The rumored "offer" for this book? Two million dollars. TWO MILLION DOLLARS. For Diane Keaton's memoir about her late mother's Alzheimer's.

Has no one in publishing heard about the state of our economy? People are losing their jobs all over the place and some editor at some major publisher has the money to pay TWO MILLION bucks for this book?

Can someone explain to me why Diane's mother's Alzheimer's is of any more interest than anyone else's experience with a relative's Alzheimer's? Why is it worth a publisher paying her TWO MILLION DOLLARS to tell the story? The sad truth is that because we worship celebrities, more people will take notice of this disease because of Keaton's book. Maybe that makes it worth the money they're spending but somehow I doubt the publisher's motivation is that altruistic. If they'll pay two million they expect they'll make much more. And unless Ms. Keaton's planning to donate her advance and her royalties to Alzheimer's research, the whole thing is nothing but aggravating.

Look, I know the pain of watching a relative suffering from Alzheimer's. It is heart-breaking and difficult and frustrating and one of the saddest things there could possibly be. The energetic, entertaining, intelligent, fun person you knew and loved for years is gone but somehow not gone. She's mostly locked away, behind a wall of silence but looks out at you, offering nothing more than blank stares of non-recognition. At least you think she's probably gone. It's the unanswerable question. Is she still there? Does she know what we're saying and doing and telling her? Does she know exactly what she wants to say and is horrified to learn every single day that she can't tell you even one thing that's on her mind?

Ms. Keaton and her family have my sympathy. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease and watching it claim a loved one bit by bit, year after year, is terribly difficult. I hope her motivation for "writing" the book is to help others through the pain, to help them see that the disease can claim anyone, anywhere.

It's that two million bucks on the table that has me not quite convinced.

Another in the unending series of things I don't get....

Touch of Gray...I think that's what it's called. And no, I'm not referring to the Grateful Dead song. It's the latest innovation in grooming products developed to help women feel old and inferior to men in a whole new way.

Used to be that there was one thing a certain group of women (and men) of a particular age shared was their aversion to going gray. Because many (most?) women are just needy and insecure enough to obsess about matching our specific hair color down to the last spec on a single strand, hair color companies are delighted to produce scores of boxes in scores of shades to feed our obsession.

Men who were concerned about losing their natural hair color to the ravages of time needed exactly one product to tint their hair and it was called something that had exactly nothing to do with air color: Grecian Formula. God knows. The Greeks usually have a decent head of hair? And it's dark, not gray? Whatever.

That has changed, according to the latest commercial I've seen for a new men's hair color product. Apparently, while a LOT of gray is bad, some gray is good. We've heard this for years - the distinguished sideburns, the salt and pepper bon vivant....now that look is in a bottle.

The models (model? Maybe it's the same guy with two different looks) in the commercial make me laugh. The one with the fully gray / white head portrays this geezer kind of guy with one foot in the grave. The young guy with the lovely dark locks is chipper and 'ready to roar,' in the words of Prince, someone, I suspect,who has never and will never touch a drop of hair color.

But hey - why look like an old coot or an inexperienced young jerk? Have the best of both worlds by using Touch of Gray. The tagline at the end - where we find the perfectly coiffed guy with the perfect number of gray hairs on his head - is something like: "My look says experience" (the gray guy). "Mine says energy" (the brown guy). Now you have the best of both worlds.

I can't quite remember the end of this story because I'm annoyed and envious. For women, a touch of gray may as well be a helmet of gray. There is no middle. And now there is a product that allows men to practically count the number of gray hairs they want on their heads to create the right look of distinction for themselves.

I suppose women could buy touch of gray. I wonder if the company tried testing it with women? If they did, I predict they were laughed out of the focus groups.

He's Baa-ack

One month after he arrived home for Christmas vacation, my oldest son left again earlier this week to return to college.

Having him home again was, most of the time, delightful. It made me extremely happy to walk by his bedroom and see the door closed. Isn't that weird?

Before you think he's some kind of freak, he's not. He's just 19. And the door wasn't always closed. The reason I'm positive the door wasn't always closed was because I can clearly visualize the damp towels on the floor and unmade bed.

The experiences we had at home started off with almost cliche-like situations, where we heard phrases like "I'm not a baby" or "No one else needs to be home when I do" whenever we discussed what might make a reasonable time for him to return home after an evening out. I've read about this and heard about it but it was uncomfortable to actually live through it. It didn't take long to settle into a 'time to come home' agreement that made all parties concerned more (that would be us) or less (that would be him) content. The push-back was almost inevitable, and absolutely manageable.

For me, the very best part of my son being home with us was the fact that within reason, I could give him a hug or talk with him anytime I felt like it. Sure, he spent time with friends and his girlfriend but there were many occasions where I could go hang with him and chat or hop online or whatever. It was nice.

But just a few months after we made an emotional parting as he began his college career, we had another parting when I dropped him off on Monday. It felt entirely different to me. The 'missing him' feelings and the constant thread of "please be careful" thoughts that weave their way through some part of my consciousness at all times: those were still there. The sliver of unoccupied space he would leave in his absence was still there. I missed him already.

But this time, I dropped him off and ..what was this? Unbelievably, uncomfortably, improbably and inexplicably for me, it felt almost like I was dropping him off where he belonged. It's hard for me to believe that's true but it's starting to feel true.

I'm not sure who changed but I suspect it's me. And I wasn't expecting it. I wasn't prepared. Part of me wonders if that makes me a bad mother. Or maybe not bad - but at least - a detached mother. That's not quite the correct term either but it's something like that. Is it possible that I could start to accept the new reality in my life - one of my children moving on, moving away, moving toward complete independence - in a matter of a few months?

I've never thought of myself as "detached" or whatever the correct word is. Maybe it's the very pragmatic part of me asserting itself. I wish I were more "romantic" or whimsical about life but the truth is, I'm not. I tend to be your classic Capricorn (although astrology is ridiculous.) In case you're interested, here's what astrology says about Capricorns: "On the downside: Cold, Miserly, Indifferent, Rigid. Your good qualities include: Practical, Self-disciplined, Responsible, Reliable. Controlling your abilities, ambitions, destiny, and priorities will be your life's work." A barrel of laughs, right? Somehow, this particular string of words make admirable qualities like self-discipline, reliability and responsibility sound miserable. I'm not touching the feel-good words in the description, words like miserly, cold, indifferent and rigid.

All this to say, I'm still not exactly sure why or how I developed this unspoken and mostly unwelcome perception of myself as the mother of a son who is ultimately and irrevocably heading out the door and possibly, just possibly, being okay with that. I know I haven't quite reconciled that persona within myself.

It's sort of interesting to ponder..although yes, there is still a bit of me that wishes we could stop time and find a place that feels comfortable and livable and stay there. But the question is: comfortable for who? For me? For my sons? I suspect we'd choose different moments to freeze if we could.

That wouldn't work, even if we could do it. I'd miss the future, if you know what I mean. In my better moments, I think it's possible that we'll all get to a new place together.

But the boys may get there just slightly ahead of me.

"...people are really good at heart."

I think those words - or something like them - appear in the the final entry of Anne Frank's diary. And like Anne, the world has shown me that despite everything to the contrary, there are those who are truly good at heart.

In this week's Morning Call column, I wrote about the milestone I would reach in 2009: turning age 50. The point of the piece was really about the idea of looking outward for a change, instead of conducting our typical intense, relentless and harsh assessment of our own lives. It's not as if I don't want to somehow mark the occasion; it's just that this could also give me a chance to think about everything I don't need and a few things other people do.

If you're so inclined, check out the link and read the column. But if not, you should know that enough people have read it, responded to me in the kindest way possible, and restored my flagging faith in our ability to care for each other. Each one of them is everything Bernie Madoff and the people who emulate his behavior are not: compassionate, sincere, unselfish and kind.

And the truth is, that's really all any of us seem to crave these days, isn't it? The idea that we can still believe that people are good at heart? Over the past few months, the news has been filled with nothing but stories of how one group or even one person chose to act in a way that brought harm to many. I'm tired of hearing bad news and believing the worst about yesterday, today and tomorrow. I'm tired of thinking there is no way out of the climate of distress that surrounds us.

And the good-hearted people who responded to the column made that weary, defeated feeling go away. Not all of it - but a lot of it. And that feels pretty good.

More on publishing aggravations..then I'll let it go for a while.

At age thirteen, I read The Catcher in the Rye for the first time. I’m not going to describe the moments that stayed with me over the years, or add up the number of times I’ve opened the book since then. I will tell you this: I remember thinking long and hard about the flap copy that accompanied the book. Along with some author background, it included this startling little story from Salinger himself: “I’ve been writing since I was fifteen or so. My short stories have appeared in a number of magazines over the last ten years, mostly – and most happily – in The New Yorker. I worked on The Catcher in the Rye, on and off, for ten years.”

At that time, I hadn’t worked on anything, off and on or otherwise, for ten years. And since the book covers little more than seventy-two hours in Holden Caulfield’s life, I found myself wondering: how did Salinger create so seamless a narrative if he worked on it for so long? What was he thinking when he went back to the manuscript over those years and found his place – “Where was I with this? Oh, that’s right, Holden had just gotten out of Horwitz’s cab.” How could he keep up his belief in his creative process? How did he keep the characters so focused when Salinger’s own life experiences had to have been growing exponentially over that decade?

I come back to his revelation often, particularly when a new writer seems to grab hold of our collective literate consciousness and rattle the publishing world. I thought of it again as I recalled the story about the Kaavya Viswanathan / Megan McCafferty conundrum. (Many people saw too many close similarities between the novels of the previously published McCafferty and the acclaimed new novel from the young, fresh Viswanathan, a situation that took place in the past year or two.)

Don’t misunderstand me: I’m all for overnight success, as long as it happens to someone who has worked long and hard to get it. But then I learned that only a few years ago, Ms. Viswanathan’s parents hired a college placement counselor to help secure a spot for their daughter in an Ivy League college. Fine. Lovely. Why not?

Then the counselor fortuitously “discovered” this student’s writing ability and connected her to an agent – why not? – at a little shop called The William Morris Agency. Who then connected her to a packager who connected her to Little Brown. So by age nineteen, Ms. Viswanathan finds her debut novel, with what many believe was a generous leg up from author Megan McCafferty, climbing various lists.

Question: What? How do you have no publishing history - I believe I’ve heard it called a “platform” – and get a deal represented by The William Morris Agency to have your first novel published by Little Brown? This is the same publisher who gave us The Catcher in the Rye more than fifty years ago, presumably to reach Salinger’s fans who had been reading him for about ten years in, what was that magazine again – oh yes, The New Yorker. I guess that’s the difference half a century makes. Fifty years ago you may have needed the equivalent of ten years worth of New Yorker stories to get a publisher to look at your novel. Today, you may need little more than a guidance counselor with connections.

The larger question for publishers isn’t about plagiarism. More than a few articles over the past few years have given us laundry lists of books gone bad once plagiarism and/or outright lies were discovered well after the books had hit the shelves. And while I haven’t read “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life” nor have I read either of Megan McCafferty’s novels that provided so much “inspiration,” I have no doubt they were written with passion, and frustration, and joy.

But at times like this, I’m wondering if in the case of ‘Opal,’ it’s too much too soon. I can’t help but recall the advice a brilliant editor gave me years ago: “Don’t publish your first book until you absolutely can’t stand NOT to. It will always be – no matter what else happens - your first book. It should be the foundation that builds your career.”

When I tell the story – some day – about my first book being published, I’d like to remember it as pleasant, satisfying and exciting, and begin with Holden’s words to us as he sits outside the carousel in Central Park: ‘I wish you could have been there.’ I’m guessing Ms. Visawanthan, and everyone connected to her story, wishes they could say the same.

If it's wrong, it may be right. Depending on your ethics, of course.

After years of trying, I may have finally figured out how I've gone so wrong in terms of looking for a book publisher. I thought I was doing it right: I wrote a great proposal, and completed several chapters. I connected with an amazing literary agent with a fabulous track record of sales and successful authors. Perfect, right? Wrong.

Based on what I read these days, my problem seems to be that the stories I tell in my book about my life are true. And in case you're confused about what that means, let me elaborate: the stories I tell are true because they happened to me, in my personal life, in my experience, in my own reality. Are we clear?

Two recent news stories about authors and publishing seem to prove my theory. According to Publisher's Weekly, and additional coverage of the same story in The New York Times, author Herman Rosenblat didn't tell the complete truth in his "memoir" titled Angel at the Fence. His moving story related how he met his future wife (the "angel" in the title,) when she would toss apples to him over the fence of the concentration camp in which he was imprisoned. Amazing and incredible and in fact, untrue. Since the facts emerged about the story, Berkley Books has dropped the title but a smaller publisher may be picking it up and publishing it as fiction.

In a similar story, author Neale Donald Walsch, just admitted that his lovely little Christmas story, which recently appeared on Beliefnet, wasn't exactly his story. Sure, it came from a personal place. He recalled his son's kindergarten pageant rehearsal, and wrote a moving essay about how reversing one letter in a sign held up by children delivered the true message of Christmas. (The children were supposed to hold up letters that spelled out "Christmas Love" but the letter "m" appeared upside down so the message appeared "Christ Was Love."

Well, the truth is the story happened to someone else (Candy Chand) who wrote about it ten years ago. Walsch says he loved the story, had told it many times over the years and somehow "internalized it as my own experience."

If I wanted to be as generous as my sons were when I related this "mis-remembering" story to them, I could marvel at the flexibility of the human brain and what we are capable of convincing ourselves is true. I don't really have any ill will toward Walsch; it's just weird. How do you actually remember a kindergarten pageant your son participated in that never happened?

Let's get back to the title of this post. I suppose if I wanted to put my ethics on hold for the year, I could write a memoir that tells some of the most interesting, most moving, most courageous stories I've ever heard and make them my own. Unfortunately, I live the same life as countless millions, and happen to write essays about it. As it now stands, my book is a collection of such emotional hot buttons as how much I hate Victoria's Secret, the tumult and turmoil I endured when I learned how creating something called an "edible landscape" for a 4th grade science class can ruin a perfectly good Tuesday evening of Law & Order and the heartbreaking reality that I endured when I realized that visiting a Pottery Barn (or even paging through their catalog) could plunge me into a deep depression.

I'd love to write a book that captures the hearts and minds of millions. Or even hundreds. One that people can enjoy so much that when they put it down, they feel like they've just made a new friend. A book that will create a little community of people who relate to each other's experiences and wisdom. But I don't want it badly enough to lie.

and a few more teary moments

Over the holidays, and to help celebrate my time away from the office, I spent some time watching movies, or more correctly, watching parts of movies. The only new movie (meaning: a movie I hadn't seen before) I watched over the holidays was "Miss Potter," the story of children's book author Beatrix Potter. I didn't know much about her other than the fact that her stories delighted my children for a few years. Turns out she was a little more complicated than I thought and much more independent than one might have imagined given the climate of her time.

But nothing in that movie made me cry. No, the ends of two other movies did that for me: the very end of the original "Rocky" (if you can believe that) and the end of "The Color Purple."

It's true: I tear up when Rocky stands in the midst of the mayhem in the boxing ring at the end of the match and calls out for the woman he loves. Both Rocky and Adrian are depicted as "losers," with Rocky eking out a living as the muscle for a loan shark in Philly and Adrian working in a dingy pet shop, hiding in the shadow of her formidable and domineering brother. Each of them have very little in terms of material things - in fact, they personify the working poor - and even less to celebrate in a personal way, until they meet each other. The vulnerability they show as they begin their relationship and the fact that these two lonely and sympathetic characters learn to love each other makes the end of the film very touching, at least to me. So I tear up every single time.

And then there's the end of "The Color Purple." Everything about those final scenes is perfect. The flowers, the fields, the colors, the characters scattered about on a gorgeous sunny afternoon, and the brilliant colors of the African garb that waves in the breeze when Celie's family steps out of their car. All of it is gorgeous and moving, and the my emotions begin to well up within me when Celie's sister, Nettie, introduces her to the grown children she never knew. But nothing gets to me as much as the shot of Albert, Celie's estranged husband, walking in the field next door. After years of fostering the separation of the women, he somehow learns what is right, what is just, and his actions are behind the reunion that means so much to everyone involved. And I'm wiping my eyes every time.

And I had one more tearful moment this holiday season, but this one came courtesy of real life, not film. It was on Sunday, December 28, when I learned of the accident involving the Parkland students and recent graduates. Two of the boys are our neighbors, including Josh, who died as a result of the accident. Garrett is home and recuperating but it will be many weeks before he is fully recovered. One of the other boys sits with two of my sons at lunch and they were horrified to hear he was in the group and badly injured as well.

I cried at this news. News of any accidental death as a result of a car crash is tragic - but this was happening only two doors away from us. To a group of kids who planned to do nothing more than spend an evening together at the movies. On the same foggy night my oldest son left the house to pick up his girlfriend and go out to dinner. The difference is that they both arrived home safely at the end of the evening - courtesy of providence and nothing more.

I've tried very hard over the years to remind myself that all of today's hassles and annoyances that come with raising children will not last. The missing term paper, the practice that isn't happening for the weekly voice lessons, the scraps of information you have to beg for in order to know what's going on anywhere with anyone - as aggravating as all of it is, it doesn't last. What will last is the relationship - good or bad - that we build with our children.

I hope they know that even when I'm angry, I love them. I hope they know that loving people sometimes anger each other. That I'm far from perfect and I don't expect perfection from them. And that when I insist on a hug goodbye as they leave, and I murmur yet another in my series of "be carefuls" in their ears, or when I ask for a phone call if they're going to be late, it isn't just to be annoying, or because I think they're babies or because I don't trust them. I'm thinking positive but also listening to the tiny little scary voice that whispers about "what might be" should the universe turn against us one night.

You can't control the world. You can't really control the actions of your children when they reach a certain age. You can't even control the scary voice in your head. You can only hold it at bay, one night at a time. And when the scary voice turns out to be telling the horrible, unspeakable truth one night - like it did for some parents on Sunday, December 28 - you can only cry.

things that make me tear up

It may be the season, but I feel a little weepy these days. And since it seems to be the pervasive, I'm going to try to list these as they occur to me.

So here goes:
A Christmas Carol - at Civic Theater - but in a good way.

1. The music that plays in the background of Civic Theater's Christmas Carol. I don't know why but I actually tear up every single time that show begins. There's something quietly gorgeous about that single piano and harpsichord (?) - I guessing. I think it's a harpsichord. The songs are familiar but the arrangements bring a different, sophisticated and understated beauty to them

2. The waltz in Act 2 - the palpable sadness of what might have been touches something inside me as Ebenezer Scrooge and his long lost fiance Belle take one step then another together, in his heart and mind if no where else. Who doesn't live with a "what might have been" in their own life? The music is haunting and the dance steps are perfect but it's not what the actors are doing that brings on the tears. I have a feeling it's my own regrets about what I've chosen not to do or not to act on - without quite knowing if I've made the right choices. Trouble is, I don't get a chance - like Ebenezer - to have anyone point out the folly of at least some of my decisions.

3. And because I tend to bookend things in my life, I tear up at the end of the show, too. I simply can't watch the narrator - AKA Tiny Tim - walk up that aisle without getting overcome with emotion. It's a lovely little surprise, courtesy of the talented professionals at Civic who stage this production each year.

There's also -
Josh Groban hitting the high note at the end of Oh Holy Night. I'm not joking. I've heard it dozens of times and I still really do tear up when he hits it. One note. And my eyes fill.

The voiceover by Boris Karloff in How the Grinch Stole Christmas. When he explains, as the Grinch stood puzzling and puzzling, that "It came just the same. It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags!" I'm on my way and then he closes the deal with "the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day."

There's more. I take after my Dad that way. My sister and I would constantly marvel at how he could cry at almost anything at almost anytime and never understood it. Turns our sentiment is a gene you pass along to your children, or at least to one of your children.

I'll add to these from time to time but tonight it's all about Christmas. And what I need to do and how "far behind" I am on the tasks that "need" to be done for the holiday. Maybe I need to listen a little more closely to the stories that bring out so much emotion in me.

Why almost nothing makes sense to me.

I can't understand how something I read seems to explain the ways of the world in a way that is so sensible, so inherently true, so logical and reasonable...and then, just when I'm settling into my comfort zone of my new-found wisdom, I witness the exact opposite thing happening.

Case in point: Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell, my favorite journalist on the planet. I can't begin to explain the entire book here but will summarize by saying he takes a surprising look at "success" and what makes people successful, and in his typical way, gives his readers plenty to think over and ponder along the way.

One of his more provocative passages discusses the sheer energy and amount of time truly successful people invest in learning their skills or their art to become experts at what they do. He discusses the idea of "10,000 hours" as the amount of time that continually comes up in discussions of how people became experts: they've invested that much time into bettering their skills and consistently improving, working, dedicating themselves to getting it right.

Outliers has much more than this to it and I'd recommend it highly - pick it up if you want to read something more inspiring than the headlines about the next major collapse of a giant in business or the media.

But here's where nothing makes sense. Just as I finished Outliers, I read a profile of National Book Award winner, Annette Gordon-Reed. Ms. Gordon-Reed won her award in November for her book, The Hemingses of Monticello. In it, she discusses the Hemings family tree, and the relationship between Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson.

In the short profile I read, I found exactly the sort of person of 'success' that Gladwell profiles in his book, plus a lot more. When discussing her work, Gordon-Reed reveals that in addition to the years she spent writing about Jefferson, she spent 10 or 11 hours a day, 7 days a week, for about 8 years researching and writing her award-winning book.

Think about that investment in time and effort. Even on the low end, she spent 70 hours a week 52 weeks a year, for about 8 years. In other words: more than 29,000 hours went into this book. That is commitment and dedication and single-minded purpose. This is a woman with a message she feels absolutely compelled to share, in the most perfect way she can.

Then, just when I think Gladwell and Gordon-Reed are the success model come-to-life, I read a story about author Alec Greven. He has written a new advice book, titled How to Talk to Girls. In it, he gives the male species terrific, succinct bits of wisdom, that he claims he picked up by watching his friends interact with girls. One of the more straightforward suggestions include 'comb your hair and don't wear sweats.' What could be wrong with that? He gets a little more interpretive when he cautions that 'pretty girls are like cars that need a lot of oil.'

I'm not sure how much time Alec put into pursuing his publishing dream. But given that he's only been on the planet for about 79,000 hours total, and I'm guessing that for about 35,000 of those he was illiterate, he's going to have to convince he me spent 10,000 hours becoming a writer, one who is excellent enough to have landed a publishing deal. (Alec is nine years old.)

See how this doesn't make sense? I know - people may say, "But he's not a national book award winner!! He's charming, quirky, here-today-gone-tomorrow gimmicky author. You can't compare him to someone like Annette Gordon-Reed."

To which I say: you're right. I can't. But it feels like I can (on my bad days) and it doesn't feel good.

We are doomed. Well, our kids are anyway.

Think we've learned fiscal discipline? Think we've had our collectively irresponsible bottoms slapped and that we're through with the "buy now, pay never" mentality? That we've pledged to do much better in the years ahead?

You're wrong. And I didn't come to this conclusion after reading the latest pronouncements form economists, futurists, lawmakers and financial gurus. I figured it out by watching a commercial on television. A commercial for the latest edition of Monopoly. The "no cash needed" version of the game.

Remember Monopoly? I have vivid memories of playing the game during my childhood, where we would start a game of Monopoly on a small table in our dining room on a Monday morning and by the next Wednesday, we still weren't quite finished with it. We just kept winnowing each other out, and watch whoever bought Park Place and Boardwalk, plus the green and orange properties, wipe up the rest of us who bought the purple, violet and two railroads instead.

It's also interesting to recall the money we would count out and watch over so carefully as we could until we passed Go and collected another paycheck.

Well, all of that angst and strategizing may be something of a 20th century anachronism. The newest version of the game is a 'No Cash' needed edition. Here is some of the language from the copy on the website: "Wheel and deal your way to a fortune even faster using debit cards instead of cash! All it takes is a card swipe for money to change hands. Now you can collect rent, buy properties and pay fines - with the touch of a button." I can barely stand to think about it.

Maybe they have some new tokens that represent banks who go around the board reclaiming properties that have fallen into foreclosure. Maybe there are loan documents that replace the money the banks used to hand out. Maybe instead of Chance cards there are decks of overdue notices and credit cards.

Here's the thing. I realize plenty of people who played the old-fashioned Monopoly are the very same people who are losing homes, cars and any hope of reasonable credit because of poor financial choices they've made. Or because the people who pushed various financial instruments on them (who also played the old game)made some unscrupulous decisions that benefited themselves and their companies.

But do we have any hope of anyone who is prime Monopoly-playing age recognizing the dangers of buying without money in the bank, or spending beyond your means if its modeled for them in a venerable board game?

Sure, it's not Finance 101 but Monopoly was the closest any of us ever came to a course in money management. Whether or not it mattered in terms of our behavior in the long run is debatable. And it should take about twenty years or so to see if the latest version means anything in the real world or not.

And another thing...

This week's column in The Morning Call discussed an annoying little development in the world of women's lingerie - the fact that someone, somewhere has now figured out how to insert a GPS device into a bra or panties. The result of this breakthrough is that a women's location could be tracked and documented by a man who is inordinately interested in knowing it.

I won't belabor my incredulity about this technology that seems to have found a soft, satin home, but something else is troubling me. Without mincing words, I'll simply ask the following: Is this all we can say for ourselves? Is this really what some will recognize as achievement in the early 21st century? Aren't we better than this?

I read about the Christmas shopping tragedy in Valley Stream, NY and somehow these two things (GPS bras and killer crowds) co-exist in my mind. How could we expect more moderate, semi-civilized behavior from a unruly bargain-hunting mob when we live in a world that celebrates the wonders of GPS technology by placing it in women's underwear?

I know. It's a stretch. And for many people, there is no connection. I respect that.

It's just that events like this remind me of the sentiments expressed by the late Michael Crighton in his novel, Jurassic Park. He was talking about recreating an extinct species but the formula feels true to me in this circumstance as well. It feels like we tend to do things because we can - (we insert a GPS chip inside a bra; we stampede a department store at dawn and literally kill a man in the process ) - not because we should.

This is starting to feel like it will deteriorate into a "In my day..." rant and maybe it will. But if so, I'd have to pose the following: what's so wrong with people being trustworthy when it comes to their life partners and not feeling the need to track someone's every move to insure her faithfulness? What's wrong with holding the door for the shopper behind you and sharing some Christmas spirit, not elbowing them out of the your way as you race toward the electronics aisle?

Okay, we don't live in Bedford Falls and not one of us can go to the Building and Loan for some cash. The Santa working at Penney's is not likely to send a shopper to Macy's to buy just the right gift. Who could believe in that kind of world? No, instead we have to believe in this one. Some of us have literally killed someone who had the unfortunate timing of working at a store one morning and opening the door. Some men want to make sure their wife or girlfriend keeps her panties on all day.

Gives me a warm fuzzy feeling all over.