Old World Swine

"I Feel Young! I Feel Fifty!"

The title of this post is a phrase very familiar to the men-folk of our family. It was coined by George, a barber, in Anchorage, Alaska in (I'm guessing) about 1973.

Dick was my regular barber (I was by then 12, or so) and the proprieter of the establishment, and George - a wizened old native Alaskan, - played second chair. He was what they sometimes call "wirey", about five-feet-two, at least eighty years old and more often than not sported a wide grin. I remember him as being remarkably quick and energetic for a man of any age.

This particular day, my Dad led his gaggle of boys (3) into Dick's Barber Shop and ordered the usual - buzz cuts all around. He greeted Dick, then George "Hey, George! How're you doing, today?", to which George famously replied, "Oh, great... I feel young! I feel fifty!"

Today, I am fifty, and I am pleased and privileged henceforth to adopt George's enthusiastic mantra as my own. Turning fifty does seem almost comically and absurdly unreal for someone of my generation; the tail-end Baby Boomers. By the time I hit my teens (late in 1973), the Cult of Youth was rocketing toward its preposterous zenith, and the day when the only forseeable use for a middle aged white dude was as the butt of jokes. Stand up, blue collar guys like my Dad were set up as buffoons, a bunch of clueless Archie Bunkers.

So, it was with some great humor that I first observed in the wobbling hand held mirror an undeniable bald spot. It concerned me not at all, but struck me as unaccountably hilarious (we men do have it easier in the looks department. I mean, we're mostly sort of dull and frousy, anyway... what's a little hair loss?). It seemed a kind of cosmic joke. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe it has to do with the strange thrill I get driving by a graveyard... as if a chorus of murmured voices calls out, "Hey... we're waiting! Did you get the invitation? Okay, then. Bye! We'll see you soon." (and at this there are some laughs in the background).

Okay, then. I'm going to be optimistic and consider this the halfway marker. The fifty yard line. Even given that favorable forecast, I'll have to be busy if I'm to get even half the paintings done that I have in my head.

Thanks for all the good Facebook wishes!

John Hughes Dies at 59

Unless you were comatose during the entire decade of the eighties, you can't help but be aware of the movies of director John Hughes - Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Home Alone... the list of instantly recognizable titles, like a list of Hall & Oates radio hits, just goes on much longer than you might have expected.

High art? Not really. Reliably (maybe deceptively) insubstantial, and shamelessly aimed right at the demographic center of the country's pop sensibilities, Hughes' writing and direction were designed to achieve the broadest appeal possible. By turns naughty and immature, cool and trendy, corny and schmaltzy, Hughes had this hand on he pulsing jugular of the ticket-buying public.

It's too easy to dismiss Hughes as a hack, a purveyor of cinematic cotton candy, founder of the Gen-X-ploitaion genre, working in a limited palette of teen angst, schoolboy humor, clueless adults, predictable sentimentality, double-takes and pratfalls.

But understanding the common life of common folk isn't as easy as it sounds, nor is it a necessarily a fruitless artistic endeavor. Broad popularity may, of course, come from a calculating appeal to the baser instincts (which Hughes wasn't above either), but it may also flow from a higher source - from a common appreciation for the bumps and thrills of everyday life.

There are two John Hughes films that are staples in our house, movies we watch at least once a year, if not more; these are Uncle Buck (the dialog of which my brother and I can probably reconstruct verbatim) and Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Both these films are, on the surface, goofball comedies. One could write the promo copy for Uncle Buck blindfold... something like; "Irrepressible (and irresponsible) free-wheeling bachelor uncle is suddenly called upon to babysit his straight-laced brother's kids in the suburbs... hilarity ensues.". The same is true for Planes, Trains and Automobiles; "A bumbling and gregarious screwball salesman and a fastidious and upscale (and uptight) business professional become reluctant traveling companions. Hilarity ensues. Will their misadventures keep them from making it home in time for Thanksgiving? The wackiest buddy comedy since The Odd Couple.". The scripts ought to be so obvious that they write themselves... except they aren't and they don't.

Both of these comedies boast a surprising amount of character development, and both probe the human condition and the importance of family in artistically significant ways. Both also benefit immensely from overachieving performances from the lead cast... from John Candy (in both films) and Steve Martin (Planes...).

Martin and Candy are a joy to watch together in Planes..., bringing more authenticity and nuance to their roles than I think any other contemporary duo could have pulled off with the same material, and more emotional depth than any screwball comedy has a right to. I recognize both the main characters in Planes Trains and Automobiles... not just because I have known both kinds of guys, but because I have (at one time or another) been both kinds of guys. I have been the self absorbed prig - cold, and too wrapped up in my own life to notice or care much about the struggles of others. Too concerned about my own dignity. I have also been the crass, obtuse, naive and unaccountably optimistic buffoon, always assuming that everyone is glad to see me, and that everyone is equally glad to listen to any mundane comment that might come out of my mouth. I have been the affable mooch who overstays his welcome.

I think most people have played both roles to some extent.

Martin's and Candy's dual performance is at times truly painful to watch, which makes the hilarious moments (of which there are plenty) ring that much truer. One of our favorite family films (in spite of one inexplicable and inexcusable string of expletives, which we mute every year).

SPOILER ALERT:
There is a scene in Uncle Buck that is well worth noting. In it, Buck has been left in the lurch by Tia, his teenaged niece who had promised to babysit her younger siblings while Buck went to the horse track to play a tip that will likely bring him enough income to last him half a year, at least. It's a BIG DEAL for him.

Seeing no alternative, he loads the two cute little kids into his giant old beater of a car and heads to the horse track, where madcap hilarity ensues, the kids quickly get into big trouble and lead some shady underworld crooks on a merry chase, several snack vendor carts are overturned and Buck, in a comedy of errors, ends up riding the prize-winning horse to an unlikely victory, hanging on for dear life all the way.

Except, that's not what happens at all. What happens is that Buck loads the kids in the car and is all set to go to the track. The car is running. He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks at the kids bundled in the back seat. He looks back at himself... he stares into space, and in a tortured agony of conscience and worry he decides he can't go through with it. This all plays out on his face in just a few seconds, a performance comparable to Jimmy Stewart's masterful and wrenching depiction of George Bailey's desperate prayer at Martini's bar in It's a Wondeful Life.

Buck is tired and ashamed of leading the worthless life of a petty gambler. He is more concerned about the runaway Tia, and about bringing two innocent young munchkins to a rather seedy fixed horse race, than he is about his own momentary welfare. He (not without pain) lets the horse race go, unloads the kids and calls for help. He mans up.

This is Hughes taking the road less traveled, passing up the easy joke in exchange for a truly great and moving human moment. The zany horse track action must have been nearly as tempting to director Hughes as the easy money was to the character, Buck Russell. But Hughes (through Buck) went for something better, and was rewarded for his effort.

It's an overlooked scene, and one I've never heard discussed, but it just about makes me cry every time I see it.

Startling Pattern Emerges

It's like they're all just waiting for us...

I think my grandfather's death was the first that really affected me as it happened, though I understood the concept of death, having seen a lot of T.V. westerns, along with media coverage of the Vietnam War, the Kennedy assassination, the Munich Olympics and other deadly events.

I've seen a number of deaths, since, and taken note of many more, but the tight grouping of celebrity deaths in the last week has made me look back over my experiences of death, and I have begun to sense a pattern.

Stay with me, here. I'm no conspiracy nut, but it begins to appear that no one is safe, and that the chances of death for any one of us - by my rough figures - approaches 100%. For instance, the older I get, the more people in my general age group pop up on the news, having died in one way or another and it is most often treated as a surprise, if not a shock.

But the shock, to me, may be unjustified. I don't want to start a panic, but it looks to me like we may all be headed for the cemetery.

"Teach us to number our days aright,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom."
Psalm 90:12

Last week we heard first, of course, of Ed McMahon, then Farrah Fawcett, then Michael Jackson... next, Billy Mays and this morning I read that Fred Travalena and Gale Storm passed away.

I have no great observations to make, except to say that the only genuine shock for me would have been if Michael Jackson had somehow lived to a ripe old age. I did not see how he could manage much longer. Over the past few years he appeared to be a shell.

I have good memories of Fred Travalena, who often appeared on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, was all over the variety show circuit, and also starred with Rich Little, Frank Gorshin and other master impressionists on The Kopycats - a comedy show (which I never missed if I could help it) built around impressions. He was also an extremely prolific and successful voice actor.

Most people may not know anything much about Gale Storm, but my wife will remember My Little Margie (which was old already when we watched it) from our days as college students, when we could count our TV channels on one hand.

For a long time, when driving by by a cemetery, I have had the distinct and unshakable sense that those dwelling under the tombstones are watching and waiting and maybe chuckling a little... laughing at the living and their frantic and petty preoccupations. Sometimes, I can't help but laugh, too.

This idea of the connectedness of the living and the dead runs deep in the human heart, and is confirmed in the doctrine of the Communion of Saints... which is just the Church expounding on the teaching of the Lord that "He is not the God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all are alive."  (Luke 20:38).

Andrew Wyeth Dies at 91

Christina's World - Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009)

Reuters -

Wyeth was part of a large creative family that included his father, the painter and illustrator N.C. Wyeth, and his son Jamie Wyeth. An exhibition containing the works of the three generations of painters went on tour internationally in 1987.

He began training in his father's studio at the age of 15, and drew inspiration from the landscape around Chadds Ford, a suburb of Philadelphia, where he was born in 1917.

Solzhenitsyn on the Spirit of the Age

Just had to pass this on, from a post at The Four Mass'keteers on the passing of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn -

"However, in early democracies, as in American democracy at the time of its birth, all individual human rights were granted because man is God's creature. That is, freedom was given to the individual conditionally, in the assumption of his constant religious responsibility. Such was the heritage of the preceding thousand years. Two hundred or even fifty years ago, it would have seemed quite impossible, in America, that an individual could be granted boundless freedom simply for the satisfaction of his instincts or whims. Subsequently, however, all such limitations were discarded everywhere in the West; a total liberation occurred from the moral heritage of Christian centuries with their great reserves of mercy and sacrifice... man's sense of responsibility to God and society grew dimmer and dimmer. In the past decades, the legalistically selfish aspect of Western approach and thinking has reached its final dimension and the world wound up in a harsh spiritual crisis and a political impasse. All the glorified technological achievements of Progress, including the conquest of outer space, do not redeem the Twentieth Century's moral poverty which no one could imagine even as late as in the Nineteenth Century."

I think it fits rather well with some of the recent posts on modernism.

Christmas Trees Unsafe - Faith Inconvenient

I link THIS STORY (Reuters) - about the removal of Christmas trees due to the risk of fire - only because it reminded me of an incident that took place when I was a newly minted Catholic and Parish Council member.

During one council meeting I noted that some parishioners had asked me to ask if we couldn't have some votive candles in the church. The priest made some remarks about the fire hazard, and said he wasn't sure about insurance and liability, and stuff. He suggested electric candles. The meeting moved on, as I silently resolved not to press the issue lest we actually wind up with prayer candles that turned on and off and reminded me of a tacky chandelier at my aunt's house.

Father then read a letter from our Bishop, directing all parishes to begin working toward perpetual Eucharistic Adoration as soon as possible.

If there is a word the opposite of "enthusiasm", it was written all over our priest's face. Once again, he noted all the problems that would have to be overcome... security, scheduling... well, that was about it, but the upshot was that it was going to be a pain in the tush and the Bishop's letter was going to be ignored. That was it.

I must have made some sort of grunt of perplexitude, because I remember Father explaining to me again what a  gigantic logistical headache perpetual Adoration would be, and ending with the clincher that "This parish is just not that devotionally-minded".

Had I been older, and a more grizzled and seasoned Catholic, I might have asked the question that popped into my head, "...and you are okay with that? As the spiritual father of the parish, the complete lack of interest in classic Catholic devotions doesn't bother you just a teensy bit?". I guess I didn't ask because I knew the answer.

This also got me to thinking about another question that has bothered me from time to time, about why we don't hear from the ambo more encouragement for Catholics to make use of the sacrament of Confession. It seems like it is always scheduled at dawn-thirty on Saturday mornings, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have heard even the mildest endorsement of it in a homily. Forgive me if I have entertained the idea that some priests might not push Confession because they really don't want to make more work for themselves.

It must be a dreary job, in a sense, listening to the same old sins week in and week out, and some that must grieve any sensible person. There is no one else in the parish who can do it. My Dad was a cop for a number of years, and I think the constant exposure to the underbelly of the human family took its toll on him over the years, though he never talked about it. Cops are basically the guys who follow after the parade with a shovel.

I would like to have some input from priests or others who might be able to answer the question. Are some priests, perhaps, partly motivated to keep mum on the dearth of confessing Catholics by a desire not to further clutter their already busy schedules? Just asking.