The King is Dead, Long Live the King

The passing of Michael Jackson has been a trigger for irritation in me. He was an iconic talent, and the saddest, loneliest man-ever. He was clearly wired and rewired in a way that was the result of emotional trauma. I am not a shrink- but the man was clearly in pain. Pedophile? Don't know. Weird? Yep. Talented? Amazingly. Dead? Forevermore.

The fascination that Americans have with the epidermal layer of their celebrities is sick. We worship people one moment, and then begin to puncture their celebrity. Is the blood sport fun? It must be financially rewarding, as monosyllabic scribes like Perez Hilton create media niches dedicated to sniggering and gushing. TMZ breaks the Jackson death. E! publishes photos of the body in the ambulance. Drudge posts links to all tidbits. The pronoun "I" becomes more prevalent than "he" in reportage. A death is a chance to trot out stories, be an insider, be important. The celebrity is a vehicle to shift attention to the talking head. "Dead! Sad...but when I interviewed him......"

What is the shelf life of a celebrity now? Why would anyone want to live in the prison of 24/7 media scrutiny? It is a young fool's paradise, built on a fault line. There is no respite - ubiquitous cell phones film, while twitters create a wildfire of tattling. Scores of media outlets open the vault for photos of movie stars without makeup, or overweight, or after cosmetic procedures. Emergency workers take pictures of the dispatch monitors and send them to wire services, just in case we want to see Michael Jackson's life digitally summarized. Hospital workers pierce hospital secrecy to make sure the world knows the minute details of Farrah Fawcett's cancer. And we gape, and discuss as if the world depended upon it. We are complicit. We get the news we ask for.

With Steve home, there is more chance to catch Entertainment Tonight, Extra! and a zillion permutations of the same sick fixation with stardom. The hosts are clearly jealous of their topics, and now their stories feature the hosts in BFF proximity with their subjects. Oh, I am sure that Heidi Klum wanted to go to Billy Bush's house and present lingerie to his wife. And what show business correspondent would not DIE to go shopping with Idol loser Adam? Yikes! Steve laughs, I cringe. If as many resources were dedicated to news and world events as are deployed to asses breast augmentations and the latest Jennifer Aniston date we would be geniuses. Our brains are being trained to process information that is an inch deep and a mile long with a thousand redundancies. How soon until our brains start abandoning the connections needed for complex discovery? I guess I will be dead by then.

Some thoughtful writers can quickly push us to think beyond the cacophony of gossip reporting. Roger Ebert is one. He never fails._

I am sad that we are ravenous in our curiosity for how the other half lives. There is so little joy left once the vultures are finished. Peck, peck peck.

Family matters

I am in New Buffalo for a stopover on my way to Detroit. This weekend we say farewell to my nephew Andrew, who will be leaving next week for West Point, New York. Andrew honors his country by choosing to serve, and we honor him. His family is over the moon proud, but it is a different college dream than they have had for him (Paul, his Dad, is Mr. MSU) and one that involves distance, separation, and sacrifice. I have watched them respect and nurture Andrew's decision. They travelled with him to the Academy last year so that he could attend a "preview" camp. They wanted his decision to be informed and certain. Andrew had two Grandpas who served the USA, and his determination to gain admission was colored by his wish to honor their World War II service. My sons have always been kindred spirits to Andrew, so Pat and Matt will be with us. Mike is tangled in a bachelor weekend, and we miss him already. But we must party on, Garth.

The farewell is bittersweet, of course, because Dad is not there to watch Andrew honor him. The convergence of Father's Day is a blessing or a curse, depending on my variable mental health. It will be a gift to gather, but still...

Andrew's Dad, my brother Paul, bought Dad's company years ago, and Dad worked there every weekday he was in Detroit. Paul sent him South in January, and the company did just fine in his absence. Dad was as much decorative at Michigan Air Products as he was functional in the last years, but he was still the lion that roared. Paul learned to laugh at his computer errors (like ordering 10,000 registers instead of 1000) and warehouse them. Dad's emeritus status, his proclivity for crazy e-mails, and his relentless high spirits made him a welcome inhabitant of his cubicle. Paul spent

more time with Dad than all of us put together, including the moment of his death. He has a couple of big holes he will seek to fill in his everyday life; I know that he will carry on with the determination he witnessed in Dad. He has a great wife, fabulous daughters, and a network of in-laws. His children testify to a job well done. Love is around him. But for 6 weeks there will be no contact with his son, and for 9 years, there will be a different scheduler for Andrew. It is a lot to organize. And a lot to celebrate.

I need to tuck Janny Maudlin away. My propensity to meditate on all the nuances in life is not productive when emotions are high. I need to just LIVE for the next 24 hours, not think. The rumor is that there will be a new baby in the family this weekend, via my sister Jennifer's daughter, Laura. I am breathless with anticipation; life goes on, gets richer, with strong roots and joyous memories. Dad loved that he got to be a Great Grandfather. He pronounced it with emphasis on GREAT, and told the Mother of his first great grandchild, "You made me a GREAT Grandfather." He was always great.

I was lucky enough to wake up at the crack of dawn and witness a beautiful morning: perch fishermen trolling with nets, a mother bird feeding her young ones in my neighbor's decorative birdhouse, the lake lapping at the shore. Every October I whisper a prayer that I will be back in the spring for another visit. I made it back. I do not take it lightly. So on we go to Detroit. I will report on my trip next Monday or Tuesday...

Happy Father's Day to all, especially the father of My Three Sons. Enjoy life's gifts.


UPDATE:  Maxwell Thomas Fehevary was  born Saturday night at 9:50.  Laura and Adam, proud parents, are over the moon.  Me, too.

The Universe is shifting...

 Just a quick observation here, and a promise to be a better correspondent from the green green valley of premature retirement...

Steve has shocked me in too many ways to count this week.

1.  He played in a golf tournament despite the absence of any ability.  He did not finish- but he did not quit.  The box on the score card was too tiny for his score....Then he turned around and took a lesson from Jay Hilgenburg (who basically gave up) and a local pro (who traced the errant shots to his wrists).  I applaud Steve's dogged determination to get Golf right.

2.  Steve has always claimed that "Reading is for Losers", but this week he usurped my Book Club offering, The Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick, and read it in two sittings.   He will not divulge any plot points, but he loved it.  His domination of my book led me to finish Lark and Termite, by Jayne Phillips- a book I have struggled to love.  Yet love it I did- the key to most books is immersion, and my typical reading method is confetti-like.  The other thing his absorption allowed me to do is watch Sense and Sensibility ,  which has languished on TIVO for some time.  Jane Austin's Emma was last month's Book Club selection, and I have been trying to decide if Jane was a genius or a bored spinster.  Her work is accorded so much adulation that I figured I had better consider whether I was illiterate or wise.  I have Pride and Prejudice scheduled to tape and will withhold serious consideration until I hit her top 5 offerings, in print or on tape.

3.  Last night Steve gave the green light to a chick movie- Last Chance Harvey- for the evening's PPV entertainment.  I made about 5 gallons of popcorn, and we nestled in the dark like kids.  Then we went to bed and watched Iron Chef and the Cake Making contest on The Food Network.  He is getting in touch with his domestic side.  I am wondering what is next.  I'll let you know.