While I was navigating through the streets of Wilkes-Barre tonight, a person wearing dark colored clothing emerged from a dark vehicle and into my lane of travel. Did this person think about the potential outcome of his/her exit from a vehicle and into the path of a moving car? Eh, not so much.
Every week I go to the grocery store, where wide-eyed shoppers stand, mouths agape, in the middle of the 9, which is already cluttered by a giant cereal box display and an occasional "junior shopper" with a tiny cart overflowing with bananas and Gatorade. Some people are swimming in a sea of self, overwhelmed with waffle choices and wondering if they should get one or two Chunky Soups. Their self-awareness is so slight that they could be anywhere in the world at that moment, but to other shoppers, they're in the way. I know that hurts, but it's also true.
Have you been to the donut shop recently to grab a quick Double D on the way to somewhere? The person in front of you dwells painstakingly over a dozen donuts while all you want to do is keep moving. It's a mind-numbing exercise in self restraint.
It doesn't have to be this way. I recently had the opportunity to see two movies that demonstrated the value of heightened awareness and critical thinking (gasp). "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows" was a spellbinding tale of the two-fisted detective and his doctor friend working feverishly to overcome a fiendish professor who engages in war mongering in his spare time. This Sherlock Holmes is much more animated and punchy than the one I remember from "The Hound of the Baskervilles" in junior high. The one thing that's constant regardless of who's visioning Holmes is his keen sense of observation and ability to make split second decisions when danger is grave. His analytical skills are always in play and he is always two steps ahead of the jailer. Although the movie seemed too contemporary for the 1890s, I marveled at his problem solving acumen. The film engages the audience, and makes them focus more keenly on their own detective abilities.
The second film, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" is also about problem solving, though the audience is put through a much starker and violent experience before its muted conclusion. In this thriller, a disgraced journalist joins forces with a disturbed young computer savant to solve a 40 year old disappearance case that has played on the mind of one of her relatives. Old methods of discovery, like going through stacks of photos, meld with modern techniques, like hacking. Together, the older writer and young sleuth come to the same conclusion about a suspect. The movie runs almost three hours and the audience believes it's over about 45 minutes before it actually ends. Once again, there's a chance for viewers to think about the possible scenarios before the author's vision is revealed.
It's time the real people of the world embrace some of the traits of characters like the ones Arthur Conan Doyle and Stieg Larsson's books embody. Is it too much to ask that we actively pay attention to the world around us, no relying on someone else to swerve out of the way when we enter their path? I say this because I'm floored by the lack of paying attention people do to things that can really impact their lives. Last year, I asked listeners to spend five or ten minutes a day reading before the election in November, where citizens picked Luzerne County's new council, a slew of judges and commissioners up north in Lackawanna County. Some people said they would make their decisions while standing in front of the ballot on Election Day. Terrific. You're never going to be able to solve the mystery of what's best for your future if you operate this way. Put some stuff under the microscope and examine it. That's my New Year's resolution for you, navel-gazers.
Bill McDonough slipped into my life, and he slipped out of it in August.
During the course of his colorful, no-holds barred journey, Bill had a habit of disappearing. If he felt like moving to Florida, he did. Colorado? Not too far. Old Forge? Why not?
He would depart a gathering suddenly, a family tradition that was called "pulling a McDonough." He was here, then he was gone, but when we got back together, it seemed no time had passed. The McDonoughs have been part of my life for many years, and I consider them my family. Macaire and Sean, Bill's niece and nephew, were both my roommates. When I met their Uncle Bill, he became mine. It was like passing down a treasured family heirloom. Of course, the heirloom was transported in a well worn blue pickup named "Desperado," replete with a Grateful Dead license plate.
Our first meeting, as Bill reminded me on August 9 during my notation of the death of Jerry Garcia, was after a group of my friends traveled to Buffalo for a concert featuring Bob Dylan, Tom Petty and the Dead. It was post July 4, 1986. When you meet a guy who drives with his real nephew and college friends to a Dead show in a vintage Volvo station wagon, it's the start of a great adoption. And, oh, the lessons.
The caper grew thicker when Uncle Bill opened a deli, Culinary Adventures, in Wilkes-Barre's East End. It became the place where college kids went to learn a life skill. Many of us cut our teeth under the knife of Billy, way before cooking became a television drama industry. We made things from scratch, including salad dressing and clam chowder. A fanciful chef (he had the checkered pants), Billy would quietly seethe when some East Ender on a bender wanted hot dogs instead of Chicken Gumbo Ya Ya or any of the other specialties he planned for the more highbrow crowd. After we threw out the customers and cleaned the pots and pans, we were allowed to drink Rolling Rock. We listened to The Kingston Trio, The Dead, The Pogues, The Ramones and Willie Nelson's "Stardust." That's the cassette I associate the most with Billy, hence the above Irving Berlin song that Willie so masterfully covered on that standards record.
There were evenings spent at McKenna's, owned by Billy's brother Ed and his wife, Colleen. Ed McKenna was another larger than life figure who left earth way too early. He was known for his annual Irish wake, a tradition that involved keening over the "deceased, "Steve O'Donnell, and more Rolling Rock, sometimes with a sidecar of scotch. My birthday is March 16; St. Patrick's Day is March 17 and Billy's birthday was March 19, so you can do the math on that shift.
On May 20, 1989, Billy drove me to St. Gregory's Church in Clarks Summit. Since I was getting married, I'm pretty surprised that my dad didn't pay him to bypass the church for the turnpike. Not ready to let go, the McDonough/McKenna clan spent "our" wedding night in the Radisson Lackawanna Station with the couple, dancing to Blue Sparks from Hell and raising considerable cain until the hotel staff insisted it cease.
Billy left for Florida again after that. He did spend an engaging Sunday afternoon in the Bahamas the following year with the Henry's. I was gifted with "the book," Billy's family recipes, which I brought safely back to Wilkes-Barre. Thankfully, I photocopied every last one, even the heirloom chili sauce recipe.
Billy eventually returned home, settling in Old Forge, where he would host intimate group dinners with random members of our extended family. He loved to not only cook, but would order everything on the menu from soup to nuts, demonstrating that living well was the best revenge.
On May 30, 1999, I called Billy to ask him what he was doing. "Looking at your father's picture in the obituaries," he replied. We made a pact that no one would ever get taken by surprise like this again.
Billy did the most of the calling, unfortunately. There were calls about his brothers. The cruelest blow came on Christmas Day of 2005 in the early morning hours when he called with the news that his beloved nephew, Christopher, died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage after a family gathering on Christmas Eve.
When I had phone calls on my caller I.D. from Billy's sister Teresa and sister-in-law Colleen waiting for me on August 27, I could only assume the worst. Billy slipped away on us again at the age 55, gone much too soon.
The wave of sorrow that followed was indescribable. Heavy rain fell that night, but it paled in comparison to the tears shed by real kin and those of us who didn't need a blood bond.
I went back over the text messages and emails.
Here is our birthday exchange:
Uncle Bill,
Happy Happy Happy Birthday!
I often think about how lucky I've been to have your family as my family.
Also, I have challenged a student to a reuben making contest and will kick his (butt) thanks to you!
Love,
Sue
Su, Su,
Thank you. Let me know if the student wants to make a wager. You'll kick his (butt) like you did Tony (Bartocci of Entercom) at air hockey. Just saw that there will be a "Super Moon"tonight. Best time to see is near sunset. Kiss the chitlins for us.
Love, Uncle Bill
Uncle Bill,
These punk kids just don't get it. They have no idea what kind of training I went through during my youth.
Love!
Sue
(Sue),
Thanks. Tell them you lived through "The Great Cheese Steak Caper" and nothing was a challenge after that. I know you are not partaking, but will still appreciate this. Scotch in glass, Sarah Vaughn's "Send in the Clowns" playing, candles burning. Uncle Bill Happy!
So, when I cry these days, which isn't as much, I cry tears of gratitude for having such an uncle. And, when I have to wait weeks during a relentless time frame that included half a semester of school, work and a large flood, I needed to tell you the story of my uncle. I know he'll understand. Heck, he's probably busy at the eternal family reunion.
During the all too brief time I knew my mother-in-law, I learned what flooding could do. I realized it could take your home, but I didn't understand the way it could overcome your spirit.
In 1972, my own mother was overseas on an extended vacation to see her brother, so my dad and grandfather watched us. My grandfather rode us around in areas I can't name and we saw people's possessions piled up on the sidewalk, including a beautiful piano which was decimated by the immense power of raging Hurricane Agnes. It pained by grandfather to see this beloved instrument cast to the side of the road by the forces of nature.
When I got to know my mother-in-law many years later, the imagery of that storm became a lot more clear. She discussed what it was like to return home to Oxford Street in the Lee Park section of Hanover Township that summer in June. She described the the water rising up the staircase as it threatened to make the second floor and the unforgettable odor of the flood mud. The pain of this event was evident in her storytelling of the long road back, where family memories were carried in salvaged photographs.
In 1996, the snow fell and the rain followed near the end of January. I was working for The Citizens' Voice when I called her to utter the "e" word. Residents were told to leave their homes on a Friday night. Gathering the photos and little else, my mother and father-in- law sought refuge with us in Hanover's higher ground. I could tell she couldn't bear the thought of living through another Agnes. Thankfully, there wasn't one and my in-laws returned to their home about a day later. Less than two weeks later, my mother in law died, succumbing to ovarian cancer at the age of 55. In the back of my mind, I blame that scare for shortening her life. The thought of another round of flood mud and a long road back clearly took their toll on her.
In 2006, the rain fell hard in June, flooding our basement. I looked through the window wells and all I saw was water. It eventually poured down the walls and settled wherever it wanted. The following morning, I left for my regular shift at WILK, beaten and exhausted from bailing a soggy basement. Hours later, the "e" word was uttered and the valley was emptied. The following day, the levees held and the threat subsided. Once again, the day was saved, thanks to savvy engineers from the U.S. Army Corps and the vision of Jim Brozena, a Luzerne County engineer to whom we owe much gratitude.
Wednesday, that vortex of unhappy memories planted itself in my brain as I watched the men and women of the Luzerne County EMA struggle to re-assure callers to their rumor hotline about a mass on a weather map that looked as dangerous as any red menace can. Plopped smack dab on the Susquehanna River was a storm with voluminous amounts of rain from Pennsylvania to upstate New York. Words like "catastrophic" and "record breaking" were pronounced. Darkness Wednesday into Thursday gave way to a deluge of water. At times, it seemed like someone was tossing buckets of water from the sky. Predictions grew dire, as the National Weather Service declared there was "no end in sight" for trouble. The "e" word was back and the window of time to get out of town was shortened by four hours as officials tried to move as many people away from the swelling Susquehanna as humanly possible. Hour after hour, the water level rose by ¾ of a foot. That didn't stop the levee system near the Market Street Bridge from turning into a cross between "A Clockwork Orange" and a cable tv show, as odd looking onlookers came out to gawk at Jim Cantore of The Weather Channel. In news that seemed good, a river crest was predicted Thursday night into Friday.
That crest was announced with great relief at 38 feet and change, and it looked good for most, but not all. Communities like Pittston, West Pittston, Shickshinny and the Brookside section of Wilkes-Barre took it on the chin. U.S. Senators Casey and Toomey came to tour West Pittston, where a wheelchair bound woman insisted the flooding was worse than ever, prompting some to point to the new and lowered Eighth Street Bridge as a possible culprit.
After lunch on Friday, a wave of uncertainty washed through the E.M.A. building. Small discussions began about broken gauges, higher numbers and compromises in the levee system. Officials hastily called a news conference and said there was a crest, but it was much higher than previously reported. In fact, the new number stood at 42.66, higher than most were lead to believe the system could endure. "Worse than Agnes" summed it up right. The ashen faces told the story and their strong insistence that people not return home and get away from the levees was forceful. Further strong messaging came from Pennsylvania's Gov. Tom Corbett, who bluntly told people to stop gawking and start listening.
The threat of the flood ended early Saturday afternoon, right before the Penn State game. Residents were told they could return to their homes. Some found them just the way they left them, others found nothing at all.
So now, that same old feeling is back for the families who know too well the odor of flood mud and understand their lives will always contain a chapter about that early September in 2011 when it kept on raining. Thinking of my mother-in-law, my heart goes out to them and I pray that the strong hands of Wyoming Valley uplift them in this time of immeasurable heartbreak.
The lesson the Scranton Federation of Teachers is giving this Saturday is clear: Throw a tantrum if you don't get your way.
Sinking their teeth into the taut skin of the city's taxpayers, the members of the Scranton Federation of Teachers 1147 have decided to bite the hand that handsomely feeds them by picketing the opening of a new elementary school in the city. An Open House has been planned for the Isaac Tripp Elementary School by the PTA and administration. It was supposed to be a chance for apprehensive students to have their fears calmed and their presence welcomed in a new place where everybody's starting from square one. It was intended to give the youngsters a chance to be welcomed by the Tripp faculty with open arms. Instead, teachers have decided it's better to slap families in the face with an "informational" picket on the grounds of the school. To make matters worse, they spelled "contract" wrong on their website when making the announcement. That should drop their credibility by half a letter grade from the jump.
If you perceive this as "teacher bashing," you get an "A." However, it's not without some thought of what the profession has meant to my family and me.
I admire and think often of the teachers in my own life. They gave me some of the tools I use every day in the course of my career. They taught me to ask questions and expand my horizons. They made me understand the world in context. Some patiently taught me the craft of journalism.
My own father was a teacher until he left for private industry. My uncle was a teacher. My cousin is a teacher. I am a part-time college instructor. I know there's much more to this career than meets the eye.
That's why these learned scholars, some of them with multiple initials after their names from their higher education, should learn a little bit about PR 101. During this course, teachers could be introduced to common sense practices that would help them play well with others and gain sympathy with effective messaging.
Lesson One: There's a time and place for making your point. Just like those who speak out of turn and snap their gum in class, some behavior is just not appropriate in certain venues. As someone who has worked without a contract for long periods of time, I know it's frustrating. However, certain actions make matters worse. If these educators think they'll be met with sympathy, they should grab a newspaper and read about the challenges faced by those who work in other industries. It's not pretty out there.
Lesson Two: Gratitude is the attitude. When a school board that represents taxpayers takes the bold move of building a new school, don't act like they've just handed you a cow pie. Even if you have some issues involving your perceived treatment, check them at the door. You'll be glad you did, and some people may decide you are worth your weight in gold because you cared about their kids.
Lesson Three: Don't spoil the party. Like the proverbial fly in the punch bowl, don't ruin things for everyone else who's there to have a good time. The president of the PTA told us the other day she and others volunteered their time to make the event possible. The PTA bridges the gap between parents and teachers at no cost to anyone. It's a thankless task, but they do it because they want to help. That's what we call positive role modeling.
The head of the PTA also asked the teachers to attend the Open House because it means a lot to the students. If teachers really are "for the kids," it would behoove them to put down their signs and pick up the spirits of their young pupils. Class dismissed.
It's the end of a summer's day, after a long summer that was preceded by a long summer. It's just the two of us in the house, which seems odd because there are five of us. But, for much of this summer, circumstances have meant the band is rarely together, and it's quiet, except for the snoring of the dog and the rush of traffic on I-81 that you can hear from the window. One of my kids poses the above question, and at first, I laugh. Then, I think about it. Are we alike? More than I planned.
I often wonder what it was like to be my parents when I struggle with the tall task of raising young people in a world of uncertainty. And yet, I can relate.
In the early 80s, my mom and dad had two college tuitions to pay, and that's what they wanted. There was never a question of attending college at our house and I didn't even consider any other option, except for the time when I saw women on a television commercial serving their country and suggested that might be an option for me. The option was college, I learned.
And, so it was college. I only applied to one _ King's College in Wilkes-Barre. I contemplated Marywood, but never even submitted the application. King's College had a radio station, WRKC, and that was my goal. I had many record albums and was enamored with people on the radio. One of them is Louis Tarone, now my colleague at WILK. Another was a guy named Bosco, who's still around somewhere.
My other goal was to read. I read for hours when I was a kid. I loved Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, J.D. Salinger (who doesn't?), Flannery O'Connor and many plays. I was in the "Play of the Month" Book Club, which sounds much geekier than it really was. Some of those plays were pretty heavy. It was my love of reading that made me love writing.
In 1983, I set my bags down in East Hall at King's College, where I took to life as a college student with a great deal of trepidation and excitement.
It so it began, my humble and tiny steps into the world of academia, a place no woman in my family had ever tread successfully before. I got my education following directions from Professor John Ennis, who gave me a grade I would have been ashamed to earn in high school on my first paper. You see, you have to pay attention in college. I learned broadcasting from a group of dedicated students and from Father Tom Carten, the "radio priest." I'm pleased to say I still know a lot of my mentors to this day, thankfully.
I learned about Shakespeare, James Joyce, D.H. Lawrence, Marshall McLuhan and Socrates at King's. I worked in commercial radio beginning in April of my freshman year and eventually stayed up all night in the control room of WILK, where I worked part-time and lived around the corner in a building known as Burke House, which was later razed to build the McGowan School of Business. Although I miss that place, I know the memories are safe in my mind.
On the day when the opening question of this entry was asked, one of my children told me he was reading the works of Flannery O'Connor. In this summer of the query, the opening riff of "What Difference Does It Make?" by The Smiths has blared through the hallway of our house. And, last week, the second generation of Henrys casually hosted a radio show on WRKC, stating the skill comes naturally. It should. That's where his parents met.
Some days, I feel disconnected from the next generation as they lounge in their Sperrys and peck away on their smart phones . Then, there's a Ramones t-shirt in the dryer and a King's College schedule for the fall of 2011 on the dining room table. No, I guess we're not so different after all. And, as much as I can, I understand what it's like to be them.
One judge has put Luzerne County on the map and embroiled it in one of the worst corruption scandals in the annals of the court system, causing a prosecutor to opine it will never be fixed in our lifetime.
One judge says although he has been convicted of certain crimes, he is not guilty of the ones that have given him the most notoriety.
One judge once had an 11-year old boy in his courtroom who couldn't pay a fine. That judge says the boy can stay until he pays the fine. "Put the cuffs on him and take him out of here. We're having a good day," he reportedly said.
One judge says that although an 11 year old did appear in front of him, the boy was out of custody by the afternoon.
One judge sent away a high schooler who created a fictitious MySpace page about a school administrator, harshly admonishing her for the offense.
One judge says he did everything he could for kids who appeared in his courtroom and never violated their rights.
Both sleep in a federal prison cell somewhere in America tonight and they are named Mark Ciavarella.
For those who attended Thursday's sentencing of the former Luzerne County judge, they heard a tale of yin and yang, good and bad, Christ and anti-Christ. For you see, one side of the aisle painted Ciavarella as a callous destroyer of the juvenile justice system and the other side portrayed him as the community-minded public servant who helped kids at the CYC pool and on the Little League diamond.
In the middle of the pendulum sat U.S. Judge Edwin Kosik, a Reagan-appointee and retired full bird colonel from the U.S. Army Reserve. Stern and punctual, Judge Kosik arrived at nine bells and handed out his decision shortly after 10. The sixty some minutes in between offered a fascinating insight into the prosecution and defense's opinion of a fair and just punishment for the former judge, who was convicted of 12 federal charges earlier this year, including racketeering and tax fraud. The genesis of the conviction was money paid to a sitting judge who presided over juvenile court to make a developer of a juvenile detention center's facility a reality.
The defense did their best to discredit and discount the public outrage over the matter, which compelled many people to write letters about their experiences in Ciavarella's court and minimize the testimony of a host of young men and women who appeared in front of the Interbranch Commission on Juvenile Justice, many of them tearing open old scars in the process. The defense also dismissed the idea that Ciavarella was the father of Luzerne County's "zero tolerance" policy, which is interesting because the defendant toured many a local school touting his toughness. No, that policy was the baby of former Judge Patrick Toole. Here, failure truly became an orphan.
Then, Mark Ciavarella took to the podium for what may be his last in person appearance in a courtroom for some time and took full advantage of opportunity to weave a narrative of a wanton and reckless prosecution team, hellbent on putting him away using any trick in the prosecutor's manual, including omission, intimidation, poor wordplay and media collusion. Lawyers who sat with us thought he might not say anything that might damage his appeal. By the time Ciavarella was done, they were certain they were correct.
All started well. Ciavarella apologized to Luzerne County citizens, the bench, the bar, the probation department and even juveniles who may have detected his hypocrisy. Then, the soliloquy turned into an insistence that he originally would plea to an honest services fraud, nothing more, nothing less. He would also fess up to a tax charge. Ciavarella said U.S. Attorney Gordon Zubrod didn't stick with the script, and he insisted Zubrod changed the tenor of the case with three words that will live in infamy: "kids for cash."
"He backdoored me and I never saw it coming," said Ciavarella, who stated the phrase made him "the anti-Christ and the devil" in the court of public opinion.
Ciavarella said he was willing to release a file of his court paperwork and would allow anyone to read it.
"This has never been a search for the truth," he asserted.
He then launched into accusations of threats to indict his daughter and inaction against a Pennsylvania businessman in the scheme "because of who he is."
Ciavarella also assessed his own performance on the bench. "I never violated one child's rights," he commented, much to the displeasure of a group of parents in the overflow courtroom where we watched his speech on closed circuit tv. Considering some of the stories they've shared with the media, their composure was remarkable.
U.S. Prosecutor Gordon Zubrod wasted little time in laying into Ciavarella in his appeal for life in prison _ until natural death. Attorney Zubrod reference writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky, a Russian novelist who knew all too well the depths of human despair brought on by his own suffering and incarceration for using his voice to challenge an unfair system. He stated that Dostoyevsky didn't write a book called "Crime and Indictment," but chose the title "Crime and Punishment," because that's the deal.
Attorney Zubrod referenced the day in mid February when Ciavarella stood on the steps of the courthouse and "declared he had been vindicated and declared victory." Zubrod rejected Ciavarella's admission of honest services fraud was prettier than the actual picture, noting Ciavarella used straw corporations and pass through people to funnel his ill gotten gains. Zubrod said the former president judge was nothing more than "a paid lackey for one of the parties."
Zubrod said that although the court system has spoken, Ciavarella isn't hearing what it said. He returned to that Friday in February, when Mark Ciavarella's victory speech was overwhelmed by the raw emotions of Sandy Fonzo, the mother of a juvenile who appeared before Ciavarella, spiraled through early adulthood and ultimately took his own life.
Zubrod said Ciavarella could have left quietly, but instead chose to reopen closed wounds while claiming vindication without regard to community suffering.
Zubrod saved the best for almost last. "The criminal justice system is in ruins and will not recover during our lifetime."
Somebody had to say it, and Zubrod's words hung in the air like a knuckle ball. If this is the feeling of a prosecutor, what would the judge think?
Judge Kosik's pronouncement came quickly. Calling sentencing "never a pleasant task," he lowered the boom on Ciavarella with a sentence of 336 months. The media math majors got busy and figured this was 28 years.
On the steps where he enjoyed a pleasant day in the heart of February, there was no joy for Attorney Al Flora. While his client was being shackled in an upstairs courtroom, a solemn and patient Flora answered question after question from the media while being peppered with derisive comments from onlookers who didn't care much for his opinion. Flora, who defended mass murderer George Banks, has been known to file an appeal or two, so don't assume this is truly the end.
Although their gentle demeanor belies their tenacious pedigrees, U.S. Attorney Peter Smith and Zubrod stood on the same steps where Ciavarella and Flora declared victory over the government in February. Spontaneous applause broke out. There were tempered remarks about justice being served and a tip of the cap to the people who continued to have faith even when they felt helpless. In a town where most endings seem to come with a heavy dose of melancholy, this morning in August felt different. In a town where people accept losing while their chins rest on their chests, many had their heads held high.
Last week, I took my kids to Ohio. And, no, that was not a punishment.
We took that long trek on I-80 and enjoyed everything but the town of Clarion, Pa., which isn't as glamorous as the road sign would lead you to believe. The two kids that went on the trip with me are good travelers and we listened to a lot of my favorite artists that they also like. Since it takes forever and a day to get to Ohio, we heard all of "London Calling" and "Give 'em Enough Rope" from The Clash and much of The Smiths catalog. When you're younger, Morrissey's songs are sad, but, as you age, you discover they're actually hilarious. From "Bigmouth Strikes Again:"
And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt
As the flames rose to her roman nose
And her Walkman started to melt
Comedy gold. If Morrissey appears anywhere on the East Coast this year, we've made a pact to go. Unfortunately, he is only scheduled for European dates.
We also heard some Johnny Cash and Ramones, thanks to the ipod plug-in feature in my car. I told the youngsters about the hardships of my youth, with the eight tracks, cassettes and the stack of CDs strewn everywhere. We discussed "London Calling" in depth and how "Train in Vain," became the group's biggest hit without being listed on the album and the subject of "The Right Profile," a cheery little number about the disfigurement of movie star Montgomery Clift. We also grooved to "The English Civil War" and I thought about how the more things change, the more things stay the same.
I am so happy these kids of ours love music they way my brother and I did when we were their age. When they were smaller, I thought for sure I had lost them to the dreadful world of flash in the pan pop hits, but they got older and found their way. I also thought they'd never read, then "Atlas Shrugged" appeared one night on the coffee table. Raising children is a process, I keep telling myself. We swung by Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame prior to a night game to Progressive Field. And, while I admit it is a tourist magnet and that the gift shop sold Justin Bieber's CD, there was still something about those artifacts behind the glass cases that captured my fancy.
I've been to the Everhart, the Louvre, the MOMA and Madame Tussauds, but the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is different. It contains Jim Morrsion's Cub Scout uniform, Chrissie Hynde's red leather jacket from the debut LP of The Pretenders, post cards from Patti Smith and a letter she wrote to Jan Wenner of Rolling Stone. Oh, and the hand written lyrics to "The English Civil War" by the Clash and the tap shoes of the Everly Brothers. I wish I could write for hours about all the stuff they had, but very little photography is allowed there, which isn't very rock and roll in my opinion. If you want to see the pictures I did take, please join my Sue Henry Facebook page and you'll see Janis Joplin's magic mushroom Porsche and the canopy from CBGB's.
Rock and roll is a major part of my life and it fascinates more than politics and baseball. Music is a consuming passion with me, and now with the next generation of my family. Last summer, I took one or two kids and sometimes their friends or my friends to a bevy of shows. Now, most of the shows that come to NEPA are not for me, but maybe they're for you. So, I encourage you to follow your bliss and maybe put the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on your trip planner. It's very near the Cleveland Browns and Indians stadiums, which are quite nice. I heard there's a great science museum for all you scientists as well. You deserve a day or two off from arguing about the ills of the world. Trust me on that.
There are 188,000 eligible registered voters in Luzerne County. I've been told the sixth place finisher on the Republican side in the county judicial race can win with over 4,000 votes. Do not adjust your sets, that what I was told. The sixth place finisher on the Democrat side could win with 6,500 votes. That's right.
So, imagine how few votes it will take for the 11th place finisher on the Democrat or Republican side to win the primary in the Luzerne County Council race. There are 16 Republican candidates, meaning that a lot of people are going to make it through the primary and on to the general.
Talk radio has pre-occupied itself with the nuances of these races, and I think it's the right thing to do. Look, I know there was a royal wedding. I understand the NBA and NHL are in some of the final throes of their respective playoffs. I know the kids are graduating soon and it's almost time to get your Memorial Day plans under control. However, I want you to know this election has been called "the most important of our generation" by some. Did you know that 60 percent of the Luzerne County bench will be decided on for the next ten years with this election? If you are one of the people who was sickened by the Luzerne County corruption scandal, you may want to self-motivate yourself all the way to the polls on Tuesday.
The primary election is often met with a yawn because some people don't like registered for a party or voting for a single party. Don't let this logic keep you away. Remember that we got into the sorry state where we are by allowing complacency to win. We've allowed political dynasties to destroy our chance of having a responsible government that's not run by people who have lost sight of you in their quest for them. Don't let it happen again. Vote. Please.
Now a week later his disciples were again inside and Thomas was with them. Jesus came, although the doors were locked, and stood in their midst and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe." Thomas answered and said to him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed." _Gospel of John 20: 19-31, read at Mass, May 1, 2011
Some of you have received word of the death of Usama/Osama bin Laden with a jaw-dropping degree of skepticism. The level of non-belief, cynicism and government distrust makes me wonder if some are descended directly from Didymus/Thomas. We heard all about it at Mass over the weekend and I have to wonder if it's a conspiracy...not.
When I heard bin Laden was dead, it was early Monday morning. Struggling to catch up with some other tasks, I turned off the television Sunday night without finding out what baseball fans and network news anchors knew.
Upon hearing the account of helicopters, Navy Seals, gunfire and a burial at sea, my first thoughts were of amazement that such an intricate operation had gone down with little attention or fanfare. The long hunt was over and bin Laden himself was no longer a threat.
Then, I thought of our friend Jim, who had been murdered by bin Laden. No, bin Laden didn't climb the steps to the 104th floor of the World Trade Center and into the offices of Cantor Fitzgerald personally, but his henchman did the dirty work. More on them later.
Jim Walsh was a normal guy, a New York Giants/Mets fan who had a great sense of humor and an eternal twinkle in his eye. He contemplated staying home on Sept. 11 because it was his daughter's birthday, but he instead went to work, where bin Laden killed him. And, bin Laden didn't stop there. He killed other innocents at the World Trade Center, Shanksville and the Pentagon.
Jim Walsh's death stunned and upset our family and the families of those who knew him from his days on the campus of King's College. There was the frantic search for news of his whereabouts, then the almost 10-year silence that followed. There was a funeral in a church in New Jersey, where the remains of Jim Walsh were conspicuously absent. When Osama bin Laden went into the sea after his death, at least there was a sense of finality to it.
Then, my sorrow turned to anger yesterday, like some Kubler-Ross model gone awry. People called talk radio and a handful of them said they just didn't believe it. Where was the photo? Why the burial at sea? Why now?
While those questions seem legitimate to some, they tarnished a day when many of us in our own way were feeling the raw emotions that Sept. 11 brings at the end of every summer. Then, there was the inevitable shouting over Building Seven and the conspiracy that appears on the internet and on alternative websites. Some even see the image of Satan in the fires of the burning Towers. It's on the internet in case you care to see it, with a little marker pointing toward the devil's face so you can't miss it.
The only salvation of my distressed mood was a discussion I had at school with a political science professor, who said most of his discussions with students were about the event and not about hair-trigger theories and baseless paranoia. At least that made me think the whole world hadn't tipped off its axis.
While some people distrust our own government, where is their anger at the charlatan bin Laden? His history of bringing pain to American people didn't begin on Sept. 11; that was just his crowning achievement in his own warped mind. Funding massacres that killed innocent civilians were nothing new to him. He had declared that killing Americans and other non-Muslims was the duty of his followers. While preaching his all or nothing attitude and asking believers to sacrifice everything, it appears bin Laden had been living in a McMansion in the shadow of a Pakistani military academy. He wasn't roughing it in caves and eating locusts washed down with honey. He had his surrogates buying American colas at the local grocery store and living with about 10 others behind reinforced walls of a swanky compound. He slept in a bed and apparently had at least one wife and the company of children and grandchildren.
If people want to talk about who is a liar, why won't they point the finger at Osama bin Laden? Instead, they trot out the usual suspects, typically Americans named Bush and Cheney. If George Bush was the stupidest president ever to take in oxygen, how did he and his stooges manage this conspiracy that not only framed the noble bin Laden, but was kept secret by the gang that couldn't shoot straight?
The other outcome that worries me is this zealous hue and cry for photo evidence of the face of death. For those who need to feed their id with controversy, do they realize that such photos may incite violence around the world by those who are itching for a fight and looking for trouble? As someone astutely pointed out today, "They wouldn't allow a shrine, and now they're offering a relic." That sounds about right.
