Response to Gen X on State of Union

Boy do I agree that that chamber does not represent real diversity of American people. BUT it is better than when we were your age. Still lots to do.
Medicare is wonderful, literally a life saver.
Vets should be one of our top priorities. Guys coming back from Viet Nam got screwed re mental health care, physical health care. It's time to take care of our military!!!!
Also agree that if they can't stay awake, they should retire. We do need young blood in gov't. And there is. Some.
See my note to Gary Starin. ... See More
I will just reiterate that if some of these changes don't happen, and Congress continues to dig in and not work together, both sides will be surprised at next election when incumbents of both parties will be voted out wholesale.
The young people turned out in massive numbers at last election I hope they turn out in November. By then we WILL know if there is real change.
Leiberman had such a smug expression, he and some others. Some Republicans on their feet cheering President so there is hope. As for Boomers, if you are a woman and have a good job and are working with people of all races in your workplace, thank us. And thanks Pre Boomers like Eisenhower who sent Federal troops to enforce integration in South and Johnson who gave us the greatest social legislation of 20th century. And Reagan who I didn't like personally, but who somehow managed to pull country out of toilet in 1980's when Calumet Region steel mills layed off 30,000 people in about three years.
Remember gov't cheese anyone? They predicted the Calumet Region would not recover and it is fairing well through this downturn.
Glad to see you all engaged in this debate. Rock on Gen X. Or whatever name you guys get stuck with.
34 minutes ago ·

The State of our Union: The Morning After

Have checked in this morning on TV with all major news networks and have to say all fair and balanced except Fox. Morning Joe had some dissinting opinions, but very fair and reasonable. MSNBC same. CNN had Republican and Dem talking heads on and made good points from both sides of aisle. What is wrong with Fox? The one sided mocking tone can do no good. They had Carl Rove on commenting on huge dificit. Does he have such a short memory. I have to say all in all news stations and papers giving the President a fair break.
I agree with Republicans that "don't ask don't tell" might best be left alone. Agree with people they interviewed in Youngstown Ohio that it's hard to believe in change for main street when things are so bad in so many places. People are so discouraged.
Carol Kane reporting from Youngstown said that midwest wants to see Pres and Congress "put their money where their mouth is." That was CNN.
Generally, people encouraged but dubious.
I am glad to see Pell Grants boosted but they promised that last year and not sure if cash has been put into program. I am glad to see college loan forgiveness. Etc. Big push for Charter Schools which Bush started is a good thing.... See More
I agreed about the need to enforce NAFTA rules and quit giving tax breaks to corps. who outsource. I agree that it's time to build nuclear energy plants, look into off shore drilling which Dems opposed when Repulicans were pushing it. I agree we need to really boost our exports. I think Bush and Clinton were lax on that
I think there's lots of room here for Republicans And Dems to work together and if they don't, I predict that the blood will flow on both sides in next election. If there isn't some serious effort for them to work together, we will have a whole new Congress after next election. YOung people disgusted by OLD members of Congress snoozing through speech and I agree. If they can't stay awake, retire.
I guess I need to post this to my blog.
Generally reporting this morning fair and balanced.

43 minutes ago ·
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Even the Stones Cry Out

When Gertrude Stein made her comment about Oakland, California, that "there is no there there" she may have been way off base. I haven't been to Oakland, have heard it's an interesting place to visit, and perhaps there is something she missed. Even the most desolate spots have a presence and some of the most heavily occupied feel empty.

Thinking again about Paris, Notre Dame Cathedral was lacking something for all it's beauty and ancient history. Maybe after it was desecrated during the revolution and used to store wine, the spirit left and didn't return even after it was reconsecrated. We walked all around the cathedral, up to the altar, sat and felt the spirit of the place. It felt empty.

Heysham, a little town near Lancaster in England, has one of the most desolate spots I've seen in my travels. When we walked through the town and past an ancient church down in a dell, we climbed to a cliff overlooking the Irish Sea. At the edge of the cliff, looking out at a couple hundred yards of beach, the waves rolled in and the wind was stiff and cold. On this desolate and isolated cliff stood a small stone hut with three walls still standing and an arched door. The hut was built over the stony floor of the outcropping. Dug into the stone were body-shaped hollows, two of them, and a square dug in the stone we were told once held a wooden cross.

My daughter Ruth had been to this spot on a school trip while at the University of Lancaster, and wanted to share it with me. The hut had been built in the 7th century and had been occupied by Christian hermits who guarded the shore and saved travellers who washed ashore from the rough Irish Sea.

There was a kind of tunnel going down from the cliff, built from the same stone as the hut, with ancient stairs that led down to the beach.

And that's all that was there.

We were both deeply moved, literally held there by a feeling of presence, a feeling that we were in touch with the spirit of the brave holy men who had inhabited this spot and been buried in those stone hollows, probably covered with rocks. I think then I first understood what Jesus meant when he said that even the stones would cry out.

Standing in the hut, hands on the stones, we both felt a sort of communion with the love and faith that had lived there. The stones themselves spoke to our spirit.

We walked around and around, looking at the graves, touching the stones, staring out to the rugged water, feeling the unending stiff, chilling breeze that blew continually in from the sea. It was one of the most difficult places to say goodbye to in all my travels.

Finally, we had to leave. I ran my hands lovingly over the stone wall one more time, and turned away.

Ruth and I talked later about the intense presence of the place. That was why she had wanted to bring me there. She knew I too would feel it.

And I think, looking back, that when you are in a place where God has truly dwelt, He never leaves.

The famous and much visited stones of Notre Dame spoke to me of beauty. The desolate and isolated stones of Heyshem spoke of God.

Paris

I have read that Paris is never what one expects. And also that everyone has their own private Paris. While this is true of many places, I think it is especially true of Paris.
I'm writing this because ever since I traveled to Paris, I've been looking for someone to tell all about it but no one has the patience to listen to all I have to say. Going there was a life changing experience for me, and I have traveled to many cities. New York is exhillerating, Chicago is home and my true lifelong love, San Francisco is ultimately boring and pretentious, Washington D.C. surprised me and is a new love, and Boston is the most European and American of American cities. LA is a grind. Enough.

There are moments in life that stay with you. The birth of a child, the death of a parent, the snowstorm of '67, the last day of high school. Landing in Paris was not one of these moments.

Paris came to me slowly. The graffiti on the way into the city by train was depressing, the kids dancing their hearts out for a few bucks was sad. The treck to meet my daughter at Gare du Nord was stressful, and the trip on the Metro to our hotel in Montmartre was noisy. Obviously, I was not travelling first class. Paris looked at first site like some of the less desireable parts of Chicago, gritty, poor, overcrowded. I was not impressed.

We had decided before we left for Paris to see the neighborhoods and skip the posh spots. It was March, in the 50's, not raining. The bare trees and cloudy skies made Paris, like all large northern cities in March, look tired, ready for spring, the dead end of winter.

Never had a trip to a new city left me so disappointed; never had one ended with so much joy.

When did the magic take hold? Maybe on the Ile de la Cite at Notre Dame, maybe passing the shoe store in Montmartre with it's impossibly whorish shoes and the bridal store two shops down with dresses right out of a French fairy tale, maybe the Marais, maybe the Latin Quarter, maybe the fomage and vin ordnaire in the cafes, maybe every hour that revealed this magic city to me bit by bit. Paris didn't blow me over like London. London was love at first sight, literally. But now I have been to Paris and what, oh what could be better.

I never made it to the Louvre because I wanted to see the D'Orsay. I didn't make it to Pere LaChaise. I missed the Conciegerie, St. Denis, and the Arche de Triumph. The streets of Paris pulled us in, the cafes beckoned, the hidden treasures and strange streets, the ancient doorways, the LIFE of the streets was my magic.

When I daydream about Paris I see the Seine running through the city, grey in the early spring light, the intense life of the streets and cafes, the miles of avenues, the tiny streets, the little boy walking home with his baguette for mama. The tourist shops in Montmartre, the schoolyard full of children chattering in French, the beautifully rude caffe owners, the arrogant waiters in the cafes, the feel of a city that is lived in, owned, occupied by it's citizens.

Versaille: That is a subject for consideration. What was best? The Roman aqueduct we sped under on the train that spanned the downtown of a suburban town. What was worst: The Palace. Second class paintings of cherubs, a "chapel" where the king was obviously God with his sun where the cross should be, the overuse of red wallpaper, the gold gilt everywhere. It irritated me. All that money and the place reminded me of the mythical French whorehouse I'd heard about so often. It felt wrong. It felt bad. It felt unreal. It felt like I had to get out of there fast. The horrible open bedroom where queens gave birth in crowds of nobles, the cold, cold marble corridors, the "magnificent" hall of mirrors like a crazy house.

Versailles had it's secrets though and those made it all sublime. It was the Petite Hameau, the Petite Trianon, and the eight miles of beautiful grounds. The canal. The fountains.

But to return to the Petite Hameau. We took the trolley and got off at the Petite Trianon. That place told a story. We started our stroll there. In the Petite Trianon was one single bed and rooms small enough to disappoint anyone looking for grandeur. That single bed told the story of Marie Antoinette's life more than anything in the grand palace. A bed for one. A room for eight. A baby buggy, tiny bedroom, too small to be shared.

That was the prelude. The Petite Hameau. A short walk, a swan guarding the walk to the Hameau, feathers ruffled, eyeing us suspiciously. The emptiness of the place after the crowded Palace. Maybe one or two people there. I had heard it was haunted. I'd been to many haunted sites in England. Nothing. Then, walking around Marie Antoinette's little play farm, peeking in windows, taking in the incredible charm of the magicly beautiful place,and quite suddenly, black, black clouds moving in over that one spot, a chill, a change of atmosphere. Intense sadness. Intense presence of something, somone. A chill in the air. I shivered. Chris started snapping pictures like crazy. We both felt the same unease and pall surrounding us.

A moment where I felt certain we had touched something unearthly.

A moment caught on film and as dramatic on film as it had been at the moment.

Then the other Paris, the Eiffel Tower bigger than we expected, exploding with light, iron turned to poetry and grace. The breathtaking tapestries at the Cluny Museum, gorgeous, shining, mysterious, breathtaking. The Musee D'orsay and the amazing paintings I'd only seen in art books, the wonderful streets of the Latin Quarter, the ancient doorways of the Marais, hiding the real Paris that doesn't give up it's secrets easily, the Place de la Concorde, empty of cars on Sunday, the cement covering where the heads rolled during the revolution, the lace like structure of Notre Dame, poetry in stone. Poetry everywhere. In the buildings, the streets, the people, the moment by moment unfolding of this intensely satisying city.

Everyone has their own private Paris. I found mine in the tase of cheese that was like ambrosia, bread that satisfied the soul, wine that inspired conversation, noisy cafes that held me captive with the life burgeoning around us.

Oh, Paris. You got me finally. I came home, read Balzac, read the history of Paris, read Suite Francais, read old travel accounts of Paris found in dusty bookstores, Paris became a passion. I think about it a lot. The ex pat dinner we paid $25 to attend, to talk to people who knew Paris and came and couldnt' go home.

I want to go back. I want to go back. Maybe I could even learn a little French, take more buses to see the city streets, make it to St. Denis, Pere Lachaise, the Louvre, stay in an apartment in a neighborhood with it's own shops and pretend I live there for a few days. Paris made me dream.