John Foley

A friend of mine can’t stand Brad Pitt and thinks he’s a terrible actor, nothing more than a pretty boy. I disagree, and I’m always mindful of the films he’s in because he’s starred in three of my favorites: A River Runs Through It, Seven Years in Tibet and, most recently, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I resisted seeing the last film because I didn’t think I could suspend my disbelief enough to buy that, for Benjamin, life travelled backwards. Yet when I finally did see the film on DVD, I found it deeply moving — and so did my wife, Jules. I immediately watched it twice more. Here’s a segment of monologue that I particularly enjoyed: [Voice over; letter to his daughter] “For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

I’ve been a fan of film critic Roger Ebert since I first began reading his columns and watching his famous TV debates with Gene Siskel back in the early 80s. Early on I think I admired his caustic wit the most, but now I admire him more for other things…Of course, the caustic wit still surfaces from time to time. Remember a few years ago when Rob Schneider came out with the deplorable “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo”? Schneider got very upset at film critic Patrick Goldstein, who ripped the film (along with nearly every film critic in America), and he took out a full-page ad in major publications to attack Goldstein. He noted that Goldstein had not won a Pulitzer Prize or other awards, but Ebert came to the defense of his fellow critic: “As chance would have it, I have won the Pulitzer Prize,” he wrote. “So speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks.”…When I entered the journalism profession myself, I heard tales about Ebert’s remarkable ability to write — and write extremely well — at the speed of typing. I’m a fairly fast writer, and can crank out a readable column (800 words) in twenty minutes or so and a novel in about six weeks during my carefree summer months. But that pales in comparison to Ebert. He’s a machine. A few years ago he lost the ability to speak after several cancer surgeries on his jaw, and in 2008 he began writing an on-line journal. He’s written over 500,000 words in that journal. To put that in perspective, a 200-page novel is about 50,000 words — so he’s written the equivalent of 10 novels in the last two years. Beyond his formidable writing skills, though, I admire Mr. Ebert for the way he’s handled his hardships. He could’ve felt sorry for himself, retired, become a bitter recluse…Instead, he’s accepted the hand life dealt him and contnued his work. Eckhart Tolle said that our hardships can provide a portal through which we can access the richness of the world right here and now, and I think Ebert has done just that. Here are some recent words: “I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our curcumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.”

A friend of mine recently had an argument with his girlfriend, which ended with him saying, “If you’re going to be like that, I’m just going to leave!” To which she replied, “Go ahead and leave, you son of a bitch!” She’s an animal lover in calmer moments, and her collection includes a young parrot…I visited them recently, and after a pleasant time I rose and said I had to leave. The parrot croaked, “Go ahead and leave, you son of a bitch!”

Today was one of those inspiring days that come along now and then. I’m not a fan of the dreary and endless (despite what the calendar says) month of February, so perhaps such days are necessary this time of year. In any case, while standing at my class door between periods, I saw two boys who could really sing — they wear sweatshirts that say, “Will Sing For Food” — serenade a girl down the hall, who appeared charmingly embarrassed and pleased at the same time. I’m guessing it was her birthday but didn’t catch the details. Then this evening, while refereeing basketball, a coach put his scrubs into the game in the second quarter. A boy with Down Syndrome was running around a bit aimlessly, but then the ball bounced his way on a rebound and before he could think about it, he tossed it at the basket — two points! I sensed it was the first, and possibly the last, basket he would ever make in organized play, and his coach fittingly called timeout to let the team celebrate the boy’s achievement. While they mussed his hair and patted his back, I asked the coach if he wanted a 30-second timeout or a full one. “I could care less!” he shouted with a smile, then returned to the celebration. I gave him a full.

My son Sean Michael is 15 months old today, and he apparently decided it’s time for him to start walking. He’s been furniture surfing for a while, and taken a couple of tentative steps now and then, but always dropped to the floor to crawl. No more. Today he walked across the living room, repeatedly. Sure, he looked like a miniature Frankenstein (yes, I know, Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster), but who cares? My wife Jules and I applauded his efforts every time. The kid is on the move.

My niece Meghan is a student at the University of Wisconsin. She’s a talented writer and recently co-authored an important opinion piece in the university’s paper. When she was in high school, Meghan wrote a parody of J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye that I thought was brilliant, and given Salinger’s recent passing, it seems appropriate to bring it up now. The parody involves Holden Caulfield telling a fairy tale. An excerpt: “One hundred years passed, and then one day a prince came riding by. This is so phony. Let me guess, I bet it was Prince Charming. What does that mean, anyway? The perfect man? Cuz if I was the perfect man, I’d get pretty goddamn crazy about myself. The prince was amazed to find everyone in a deep sleep. I bet they’re a little goddamn dusty by now, too. At last, he entered the room where he saw the sleeping princess. He ends up kissing her. Boy, you’ve gotta be pretty horny to kiss a dusty, sleeping, 100-year-old phony. That’s like kissing your grandma.”…On a far more serious note, Meghan was instrumental in bringing Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a prominent critic of Islam, to the University of Wisconsin as part of the Distinguished Lecture Series – which is what she wrote about in the guest column. Hirsi Ali will speak on Feb. 2nd. A citizen of Somalia who later became a member of the Dutch Parliament, Ayaan Hirsi Ali has spoken boldly against the Muslim subjugation of women, and Islamic radicals want to kill her for expressing her beliefs and recounting her experiences. She wrote the screenplay for Submission, a film directed by Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh — who was later murdered as a result…I’m proud of Meghan for her part in helping Ayaan Hirsi Ali speak her truth in Madison.

When I first saw American Beauty, I thought it was a somewhat depressing tale of modern suburban life. I saw the film again recently, however, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Two scenes were especially compelling. One was Kevin Spacey’s voiceover after he’s been murdered. I generally don’t like films in which they kill the protagonist off at the end, but this was an exception; it seemed to work. The other scene involved a bag dancing on the breeze, seemingly happy and free. Here is the commentary during that scene from the insightful and sensitive drug dealer (yeah, maybe that’s a stretch):

It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing and there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that’s the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and… this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video’s a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember… and I need to remember… Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart’s going to cave in.

The following poem, by Sierra Lafever, was recently published in Teen Ink. Sierra is a student at the school where I work, and I certainly understand why her poem was published — it’s excellent. Always enjoyable to work with talented young people:

Age Six

The bones of your face
seemed to curve inward
in a way I knew hurt you more
than anything I could do
I wanted to kiss your
whole and perfect cheeks until
both our fears scampered away
into the inky black darkness
but he had only just begun
We all listened to him yell, waiting
for his anger to come to a boil
and fizzle out
In the dark of the hallway
your eyes looked bruise-purple
but I tried to keep the image
of them sky blue in my mind
You told me to go play
but even then you meant more to me
than the blood pumping through me
I wished I could take your pain
into myself and see your eyes again

My sister Mary took a nice photo of our nephew Colin recently. Colin is my sister Amy’s middle son — she has three boys, the “Irish Princes,” between ages 2 and 6. The image Mary captured shows Colin sitting on the toilet, holding a book and wearing his mother’s reading glasses. “Wonder where he learned that?” Mary quipped. Indeed. Our children imitate us so ruthlessly.

There is something freeing about letting my facial hair grow like a field of wheat…Yes, the beard is back. I’ve decided I like the lower part of my face covered with fur; I always have, actually, and even in my clean shaven days I usually only shaved two or three times a week. My wife Jules is not fond of the beard; I’m hoping she’ll adjust in time. I quote the old line to her about how many women love to go through the woods to get to the picnic, and she rolls her eyes. My beard is rather gray – even white – at this point, and a couple of students have called me Santa Claus, as well as Grizzly Adams. One student said he admired my “Man Beard,” which seems rather redundant; if there are women around with beards, I don’t want to see them. The philosopher Epictetus said a beard is the natural condition of a man and men shave their faces to look more like women. I think he was onto something. Plus, shaving is a pain. While I may compromise with my wife and dye the beard so it’s a bit darker, I don’t see shaving again – ever.