Let The Good Times Roll!

A pictorial essay captured by Viscount Christopher Francis
(Click any image for a close-up.)


A clear sky, a beautiful day, and the greenery of Prescott's Granite Creek Park in the prime of Spring! 'Tis the perfect venue for an 18th Century picnic and lawn bowling, the sport of kings, and Miss Alia is the queen -- undefeated. It's going to take a tournament to handle all the enthusiastic challengers of We Make History. And so it shall be.

The object, sports fans, is to roll your team's balls closest to the "jack" -- that white sphere reminiscent of a billiard cue ball. Score one point for each ball closer than your competitor's, and two if you touch the jack. Seven ends the match.

Let the games begin.

To no one's surprise, Miss Alia and Josh enter the championship match against Lord and Lady Scott. Who shall emerge victorious?


The Belle of the Lawn Ball demonstrates her impeccable skill. Nearly every roll lands in a scoring position, often knocking away competitors or maneuvering around them as if she were piloting the ball with her mind.

Lord and Lady Scott, however, are fit competitors, rallying to stay in the game.


It is a dramatic showdown. Every point is crucial. Too close to call? Let's go to the tape.

The final round arrives with both sides in reach of the match point. And the winners are...

...Lord and Lady Scott! Green, the colour of victory, the results undisputed.

The winners, of course, are gracious and thankful for such worthy competition.


Your humble viscount, for those who wonder, found himself eliminated in the first round -- putting him in empathy with the Arizona Wildcats' NCAA performance.

Now, are you ready for some football?

I have no pictorial assistance for this passage, but I shall merely say that defense meant everything. After a 35-7 blowout in the first game, both sides reshuffled competitors, producing two bowl-worthy defensive squads, as pass after pass found merely air or ground and turnovers added up. The final score: 0-0, with a pledge to continue the game in June, and your viscount glad he did not rip his beautiful new coat and breeches, a fine labour of Madame Rodriguez.

But ah me, the camera does not lie. My stockings did sag afterwards.

A Czary State Of Affairs

Employment numbers show a strong U.S. job market. The Help Wanted sign is even out at the White House.

SUPPOSE THEY HELD A WAR... President Bush is having trouble finding a "czar" to oversee the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

From the Washington Post:

At least three retired four-star generals approached by the White House in recent weeks have declined to be considered for the position, the sources said, underscoring the administration's difficulty in enlisting its top recruits to join the team after five years of warfare that have taxed the United States and its military.

"The very fundamental issue is, they don't know where the hell they're going," said retired Marine Gen. John J. "Jack" Sheehan, a former top NATO commander who was among those rejecting the job. Sheehan said he believes that Vice President Cheney and his hawkish allies remain more powerful within the administration than pragmatists looking for a way out of Iraq. "So rather than go over there, develop an ulcer and eventually leave, I said, 'No, thanks,' " he said.

Has Bush tried listing the job on monster.com? Our advisers in the Lightning Round classified department came up with this sample listing, submitted for the chief's approval.

JOB OPENING: High-level executive to manage open-ended stabilization projects in our overseas divisions. The ideal candidate will have excellent command and conquer abilities, flexibility and creative problem-solving skills, yet still be a team player. If you're not with us, you're against us! Fax your resume and kevlar requirements to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C. The Office of the Executive is an Equal Opportunity Employer (except for liberals and peace pansies).

A PLACE WHERE YOU'RE WANTED. Pennsylvania has 1.4 million unserved warrants, including at least 100 for homicide, according to a new computer system and an audit by the Associated Press.

The AP article doesn't mention how much time Pennsylvania authorities spend trying to serve these warrants, but some of the wanted are busted while they're paying fines for other offenses:

The Armstrong County clerk of courts, Brenda George, said she has learned not to overreact when someone paying a fine at her counter triggers the computer system's yellow "WO" alert, indicating a warrant is pending. She quietly summons a deputy.

"We've had some circumstances where we've said 'Hold on, you have a warrant, we need to get the sheriff,' and they've run down the hall," she said.

Your Lightning Round wonders what would happen if we linked the system with grocery store and quick-mart cash registers. Paper, plastic, or handcuffs? Hey, wait, don't run off! Now we've got another problem -- shoplifting.

WALKING THE LINE. Arizona's governor just made it legal to cross the street. Truth be told, she closed a legal loophole regarding internationally-flavored crossing lights, the ones with the blue man and the red hand. Some enterprising jaywalkers in Phoenix were getting tickets dismissed because nothing in the books said a red hand meant "don't walk."

Now if we can just get Tucson drivers to understand a red light means stop.

WHEN YOU GOTTA GO. Two airliners circled for 18 minutes above Manchester, New Hampshire airport because the only person in the control tower needed to make a waste dump. A plane carrying human lungs for a transplant also waited on the runway.

From CNN:

"There should never be one person in the tower, because it's not safe," said Doug Church, spokesman for the National Air Traffic Controllers Association. "It's just added proof that the system is stretched to its limits, and these are the type of things that are happening."

The FAA says the controller acted professionally, waiting for a lull in airport traffic before relieving himself. But what about installing a port-a-privy in the tower?

TEN STUPID THINGS PEOPLE DO TO MESS UP THEIR GRAMMAR. Our staff of rewrite editors, chained to their Webster's, Roget's and Strunk and White's like Marley's ghost, recommended this helpful guide to help people rectify homophone problems. Teaching your teenager to start using real words again instead of text-message English -- that may take immersion therapy.

Is One Minute Of Originality Too Much To Ask?

CBS News just canned a producer who plagiarized material from the Washington Post's Jeffrey Zaslow and used it for "Katie Couric's Notebook" -- a one-minute editorial series that runs weekdays on cbsnews.com and some CBS TV and radio stations.

From the Post's Howard Kurtz:

Much of the rest of the script was stolen from the Journal. Couric said: "For kids today, the library is more removed from their lives. It's a last-ditch place to go if they need to find something out."

Zaslow wrote in March: "The library is more removed from their lives. It's a last-ditch place to go if they need to find something out."

Couric said: "Sure, children still like libraries, but books aren't the draw."

Zaslow wrote: "Sure, there are still library-loving children, but books aren't necessarily the draw."

From the CBS News "PublicEye" Blog:

Couric has significant involvement in the Notebooks, though she does not write all of them. Every week, she meets with producers to go over ideas and discuss possible themes. Sometimes, she then writes the pieces herself; in other cases, a producer writes them, after which Couric edits and tapes them. In the case of the April 4 piece, Couric was involved in choosing the topic, though she did not write the piece herself... Couric was on vacation last week, and the April 4 Notebook was pre-taped to run while she was away.

Plagiarism is unacceptable, but that's not the only thing that bothers me. Katie let someone put thoughts into her mouth, even if she did choose the topic. As Kurtz notes:

What made the ripoff especially striking was the personal flavor of a video -- now removed from the CBS Web site -- that began, "I still remember when I got my first library card, browsing through the stacks for my favorite books."

"I" who? That producer or Katie?

For $15 million a year, every page in Katie's notebook ought to be hers, not her producers'. At one minute each, these spots barely fill the page. With a cadre of staffers helping her, don't tell me she can't get enough time to pen such meager copy by herself -- and with time to think about it, too.

Otherwise, we need a disclaimer: "The opinions expressed by this newscaster are not necessarily the ones found in her own head."

I'm Applying For The Village Idiot Position

If you want to work at ESPN, you don't need to know television. But you do need to know sports -- a lot about sports. Eric Gershon of The Hartford Courant shows us how much. Every entry-level applicant must past a sports quiz that can border on Trivial Pursuit Nightmare Edition. I know I wouldn't make it beyond question one, and the mini-test with the article proves it.

Reel To Reel: Meet The Robinsons (3-D)

The future, remixed.

How It Rates: ***
Starring: Voices of Angela Bassett, Adam West, Tom Selleck
Rated: G
Red Flags: NONE!

Many famous inventors didn't really invent the products they are famous for. They merely appropriated ideas from others and had more leverage to get them patented, marketed and sold. Thomas Edison didn't create the light bulb, but he improved on the idea. Italian Antonio Mucci created a prototype telephone years before Alexander Graham Bell. Meet The Robinsons embodies that spirit in its CGI-animated yarn about a boy inventor. The film becomes a giant guessing game of "Where Have I Seen This Before?" -- albeit an entertaining one. I counted ideas borrowed or modified from Dudley Do-Right, Star Trek, Robots, Flushed Away, Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius, and Back To The Future.

Lewis (voices of Daniel Hansen and Jordan Fry) is a 13-year-old aspiring inventor living in an orphanage. He's brainy beyond belief, but his inventions gone haywire are scaring off adoptive parents -- more than a hundred of them. Lewis finally decides that the only mother right for him is the one who abandoned him on the orphanage doorstep as a baby. So he puts together a brain scanner which looks like a colorful erector set of old TV parts, kitchen utensils and a few knobs and flywheels. He shows it off at the school Science Fair, only to see his hope dashed again by a sinister, shadowy, handlebar-mustached villain known only as the Bowler Hat Guy -- who looks suspiciously like Snidely Whiplash. Jay Ward's estate ought to sue for copyright infringement.

Snidely-- uh, Hat Guy, however, is more like his arch nemesis Dudley Do-Right in that he lacks enough brain cells to pull off a decent evil plot. No worries. He's got his hat Doris, something that looks like it flew in from Spiderman 2 to do the grunt work.

But also lurking is Wilbur, a self-described time-cop from the future who's after the Bowler Hat Guy, and who needs to give Lewis a healthy pep talk to save himself and the world of tomorrow. Deals are made, and Wilbur agrees to take Lewis into the future in his time-travel aircraft (with a cloaking device that surely infringes on a Klingon patent) in exchange for Lewis fixing his memory scanner. Lewis sees the future and more in Wilbur's eccentric family, featuring a frog orchestra and a super-hero pizza-delivery guy (Adam West's voice), among other things. They're fun to watch, but it's so over-the-top bizarre it overloads the picture. Here ends the synopsis, because explaining any more plot points will give away a few twists.

I enjoyed the film, especially in digital 3-D. This is not the old red-blue headache of the past, but a transparent polarized system that works beautifully. The film does not exploit the format -- no arrows into the camera -- but it does take on more depth. I only wish the story did. It does have a message about dreams and family, something kids will benefit from, but it's not at the level of a Pixar effort, which also finds something for the grown-ups.

Make sure you arrive in time to catch the pre-show feature "Working For Peanuts," a Donald Duck cartoon made for 3-D that hasn't been seen since the 1950's. It's a treat!

Tick... Tick... Tsk

Here in Arizona, we are spared the biannual ritual of springing forward and falling back. Our notoriously hot summers need not be any hotter. So we sympathize with those thrown into this ritual earlier with little reward.

WASTED TIME. Starting Daylight Savings Time earlier was supposed to save energy and money. But it just isn't happening.

From Reuters:

"We haven't seen any measurable impact," said Jason Cuevas, spokesman for Southern Co., one of the nation's largest power companies, echoing comments from several large utilities.

That may come as no surprise to the Energy Department, which last year predicted only modest energy savings because the benefits of the later daylight hour would be offset.

We remind you this was preceded by Y2K-ish nightmares of computers failing to adjust their clocks properly. We don't think a good scare qualifies as conservation.

UNHOLY ALLIANCE? Several churches in Phoenix may revive the Sanctuary Movement. The effort originally involved congregations taking in illegal immigrants fleeing persecution and killing in Central America during the 1980's. Now it may shield Mexican illegal immigrants fleeing the INS.

From the Arizona Republic:

"We are diminishing ourselves when we stand by and watch (deportations) happen to others and do nothing," said the Rev. Trina Zelle.

Says a retired clergyman:

"With hard-working poor people under threat of their families being separated, the responsibility of the church to protect them and keep them intact is very critical right now," [John] Fife said.

They have no doubt been inspired by the case of Elvira Arellano, holed up in a Chicago Methodist church since last August. So far, the feds have left her alone. She is one person. But our prognosticators at Lightning Round headquarters have been doing the math, and we wonder how many churches would be able to support five Arellanos and their families... or a dozen... or two dozen? They cannot simply live in the pews, we reason. And given the numbers, the government will not kindly avert its gaze.

Our office oracles have no dearth of doomsday scenarios when asked for an endgame. "Remember Elian," the paperclip guru said. They recommend someone kindly taking the concerned clergy aside and telling them softly, "No."

SEEING THE LIGHT. Somebody is pointing green lasers at planes landing at an airport on Oahu, Hawaii.

From the Honolulu Star-Bulletin:

"Landing is a precarious operation," said Cmdr. Chris Moss, the operations officer at Air Station Barbers Point. "To be distracted by the laser is dangerous in itself, but the eye damage from the laser can be instantaneous and permanent."

We at your Lightning Round recommend pilots arm themselves with the Army's newly-developed pain gun.

RISING DANGER. The Marines want Yuma, Arizona car dealers to put a 50-foot height limit on advertising balloons after a fighter jet had to take evasive action from a breakaway bunch.

From the AP:

The Marine base shares space with the Yuma International Airport. Yuma International Director Craig Williams said he has told dealers to take down their balloons, but they continue to be a problem. Some fly long strings of smaller balloons that Williams said may not violate the letter of the law, but likely the spirit.

"When you string a million of them together and put them way up in the air, it's a problem," Williams said.

An F-5 fighter costing millions of dollars, a weapon of high technology threatened by a low-tech, cheap, latex inflatable stuffed with helium. Now let us ask again, what is the real problem?

DOWNSIZING. A New York appeals court has ordered an insurance company to pay for surgery on a teenage boy to reduce his -- shall we say -- abnormally protrusive chest. The insurer called the condition "cosmetic." The boy and his family called it traumatizing.

From the AP:

Court papers said the teen, of Hempstead, N.Y., was teased by his peers and never engaged in activities that allowed anyone to see his breasts. They said he would not go to the beach and even refused to attend an out-of-state university, fearing dormitory mates would ridicule him.

...

The judges said it was "absurd to deny coverage on the grounds that plaintiff's son did not provide support from a mental health professional, particularly where the external review decision itself acknowledges that the patient suffers 'depression' and 'emotional distress' from this condition."

In other words, buying him a bra is not considered appropriate medical treatment.

Even In The Darkest Hours...

It is 1862.
Union forces are on the Peninsula.
Yankees advance towards Richmond.
Yet Virginia’s finest ladies and gentlemen find reason to celebrate and hope for the future in a glorious ball presented by the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry and We Make History.

Adapted from the journal of Private Christopher Francis
1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry
Photographs by 1st Sgt. Michael C.
1st New Mexico Volunteer Infantry

“Be ready to gallop. Be ready to reel,” Captain Scott advises the gathering before him -- soldiers and commanders of the 1st Virginia and the awaiting Virginia Belles.

Color pours from the ladies’ gowns, hooped and ruffled, fitted to perfection, evidence Union blockades are failing spectacularly in any attempt to efface the beautiful dressing of the fairer ones. The recruits stand proud in their powder-gray wool uniforms, buttoned in gold, decorated with lace cravats, kepis removed as social graces dictate.


Flags and tri-color bunting enliven the spacious ballroom, outfitted with a new wooden dance floor just in time for the festivities. The guests arrive from all over the country, southerners and northerners filing through the doors. A few Federals join in, setting present hostilities aside. An Austrian ally arrives to a warm welcome. A soldier from the modern world finds a room full of Americans grateful for his service. He leads the gathering in the Pledge of Allegiance and the National Anthem.

“Three cheers for the United States of America! Hip Hip…”

“Hurrah!”

“Hip Hip…”

“Hurrah!”

“Hip Hip…”

“Hurrah!”

The nation may be divided, but on this night, it is unified.

A contemplative Virginia recruit from Tucson stands among the crowds as they pair off for the grand promenade about the hall. Rested and renewed from skirmishes out West, he turns his attention to finding a partner. He does not have to look far. A young lady standing not three feet away graciously accepts his invitation -- a gracious bow - - as the couples line up.

All about, couples are greeting and exchanging names as their anticipation builds. The recruit smiles at his companion, but utters not a word. They both feel a little shy in this moment, preferring to enjoy the music of the Privytippers -- bass, guitar, and banjo.

The parade flows into the customary mixer, where couples meet and share a swing and a smile before changing partners as they circle around one another, stepping in and out to the side, simple steps intimidating no one.

Set dances might intimidate even the most stalwart Virginian, but not on this occasion, and especially not through the skillful direction of caller Miss Becky.

“They seem to build on each other,” one dancer notes.

He is right, for the first set dance incorporates familiar patterns from the mixer, and the second one incorporates moves from the first. Change up the chasses, stir up the swings, add a new move, and a new dance is born. The newcomers grasp it with ease. The more experienced and lively Virginians look forward to each new set with the anticipation of showing off their polish and poise.

“Do you have a dancing companion?” the recruit asks, quick to catch a lady alone on the floor, eyes searching.

“No, sir,” she answers, smiling.

“May I be yours?” he offers with a cavalier bow, one foot out front, perhaps dating him back one-hundred years to his time as a Continental soldier, or perhaps a nobleman. He cannot help it -- not that the ladies mind.

They are with the finest of gentlemen tonight, and a generous number share a special honor as Virginia Belles, that title bestowed on young women of paragon character who represent the best of society to come, each representing a county of Virginia in what will hopefully in a fully liberated Confederate States of America. A gallant member of the 1st Virginia escorts each one. With so many counties and so many ladies, the odds are quite in the gentlemen’s favor, necessitating more than one escort per soldier!



“Find your partner for the Virginia Reel!”

Start the pocketwatches… but not so fast. The Captain informs his guests this is merely an appetizer for the feast yet to come -- a marathon reel. Stonewall Jackson, he notes, was known to lead his men in short marches before the longer ones. Surely the same logic shall suffice on the dance floor.

He takes command and calls the dance with precision, getting the various newcomers acquainted with the steps they will be cavorting through in their sleep… lines in and back and in and back... first gentleman, last lady honor… first lady, last gentleman, honor… first gentleman, last lady, right-hand turn… first lady, last gentleman, right-hand turn… first gentleman, last lady, left-hand turn… first lady, last gentleman, left-hand turn... first gentleman, last lady, two-hand turn... first lady, last gentleman, two-hand turn… first gentleman, last lady, do-si-do… first lady, last gentleman, do-si-do… top couple chasse down and back… reel along the lines… chasse back, lead the lines through an arch of hands… reform the lines… start all over again.

Somewhere in this progression, the Tucson recruit’s set disjoins from the call. The couples fall behind. But disaster does not even wink at them. In a ballroom miracle, they continue on without missing a step, leading themselves, dropping hints for each other at the next steps, proceeding without trepidation and making nary an error. They are true Virginians, dancers for all their lives, unfazed at a few new steps or a few old familiar ones.

The recruit stands bedazzled at the set after the final notes fade.

“That was a fine job,” he compliments in breathless admiration. “That could have been a disaster! Everybody did wonderfully!”

Captain Scott relays a dispatch from the battlefield. The Army of Northern Virginia is pushing those Yankees back. Richmond is spared. It is not something the two Federals in the ballroom desire to hear, but encouraging developments nonetheless. Victories end wars. Stalemates lengthen them.

A rousing anthem from the 1st Virginia fills the hall.

“Then here’s to our Confederacy,
Strong we are and brave,
Like patriots of old we’ll fight,
our heritage to save.
Rather than submit to shame,
to fight we would prefer
So cheer for the Bonnie Blue flag
that bears a single star.
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag
that bears a single star.”

With such a rousing battle cry, how can any man resist the urge to enlist? But suppose an irresistible bonus was offered for those stragglers and doubters. Suppose a dance with a fine Virginia lady? All it takes is one of their shoes.

The new recruits line up behind the battle-hardened soldiers.

“Present arms!”

“Fix bayonets!”

“Charge!”


In a matter of seconds, the 1st Virginians storm the floor, grabbing their prize as if it were running away from them. Hands clasping shoes rise in triumph, the victors clutching their spoils as they seek the ladies who fit the footwear. As fate would have it, the Tucson recruit finds himself rejoined with the young lady he escorted in the promenade. She radiates spirit and thoroughly enjoys the next set with him.

Dancing produces many animated companions and a few unexpected ones. One mixer involving three-person sets starts out promising: a gentleman flanked by two ladies, with the gentleman passing on to other sets. Mathematics knows no ballroom decorum, however, and the mixer often produces sets of three gentlemen. The Tucson recruit sees it happen to himself three times in a row, most dramatically in a troika which finds him dancing with his Captain and Sergeant.

“You are quite lively!” the most superior officer observes.

“Is it possible for me to be any less?” the recruit responds, relishing the awkwardness like the next battle.

More amusing combinations emerge in the cookie dance, that highly anticipated, highly entertaining, simple to learn, impossible to forget mixer variation where ladies and gentlemen line up before three chairs. One in the middle holds a tin of cookies. Two others fill in the outside seats. The person in the middle then hands the cookies to one person flanking him before chasseing off with the other, preferably of the opposite gender. Then again, probability and ratios lack the proper respect.

The Tucson recruit ends up surrounded by the modern-day soldier and another gentleman, but the solution is not difficult.

“Let’s go.”

“All three?”

“Yaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

They roar their battle charge, plunging down the center of the lines, a cry guaranteed to drive even the bravest Yankee clear to Maine.

Energy and joy consume the crowds. They clap as much they can, the thunder of hands reverberating and piercing the air, leaving no bystander unimpressed. Even the bunting on the walls longs to join the assembly as it peels away from its stiff upright stance.

“The Virginia Reel!”

Now, start the pocketwatches.

For the Tucson recruit, it is more than a test of stamina. It is a chance for redemption. The last time he preformed this dance, he erred greatly on a crucial step in front of his commanders. Standing in the set with them again, he would show them he could dance it like a true Virginia gentleman and earn the respect of the lady who approached him as a partner.

Each corner honors… promising.

Right-arm turn… flawless.

Left-arm turn… good.

Two-hand turn… perfect.

Do-si-do… no hitches.

Chasse back and forth… and now let’s reel!

With the lady leading him just a little, he reels along the line with no mistakes, no offside moments, no red-faced embarrassment. Relief flows through him as he chasses back to the head of the set and leads the lines into the arch of hands, his task accomplished.

Minutes tick by and the dance intensifies with the heat of revelry. Exhaustion taunts. Yet the dancers pounce and stomp with escalating vigor in each repetition, shouting and clapping. They unleash myriad rebel yells and bellows of encouragement.

“You show ‘em how it’s done!”

“Yeah!”

“Hair flip!”

“Woo-hoo!”

“Long live Virginia!” the recruit shouts with half his wind as he reels through the line of ladies once again, buffeted by the fierce fire of clapping and stomping about.

Winded, another recruit yanks off his jacket, tossing it aside for the saving embrace of fresh air. It defies ballroom convention, but it keeps him in the dance.

When the last note of the Privytippers sounds, 27 minutes have expired. The point is proven, and the crowds have yet to see a ballroom full of Yankees top that.

The intensity of the reel dissolves into the grace of a waltz. The Tucson recruit chooses a partner who shows him how to twirl a lady, for which he is grateful.

“I would rather dance a thousand waltzes than anything on a modern dance floor,” he confides to her, even though he admits only a basic waltzing ability.

The Captain draws the evening to a close with words of thanks and an observation on how the arts have the overlooked ability to inspire us.

“Who here has been inspired?”

A confident cheer rises from the crowd.

Many continue the celebration with a hearty meal at a nearby establishment of modern-day treats. Good food meets good company, and the clash of centuries does not go unobserved by the establishment’s modern-day patrons who smile in amusement. Even in the darkest hours of war, joy prevails, follows us, and dwells within us back to where we came.

More fond memories, recollections and stunning beauty -- our Virginia Belles, of course -- found here!

STILL TO COME: A New Ball For A New World

Soldiering On

A new recruit of the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry takes up arms at Picacho Peak during "Civil War In The Southwest" and finds himself dogged by an enemy whose force he underestimated.

Adapted from the battlefield journals of Private Christopher Francis
Photographic assistance by
Rosemary W. and
Michael C., 1st New Mexico Volunteer Infantry

The fresh recruit from Tucson stood in the morning Arizona sun, blue skies matching the trim of his new powder-gray uniform, a kepi barely containing his bushy brown hair as he wondered how the Confederates could shoot and move with all their accouterments. A cap box and slinged bayonet hung from the black leather belt around his waist. He fiddled with it several times before sliding it into the right position. His Sergeant had instructed him on the proper way of fixing the haversack, cartridge box and canteen looped over his shoulders. The belt needed to snake around the straps a certain way to let one haversack strap hang free.

Two new recruits to his side hastily acquainted themselves with their gear, fresh from the sutler and in need of adjustment. Leather punches and cutting tools reported for duty. Arrangements for cartridges and musket caps followed where needed. Nobody would go unarmed or unloaded.

"Line up by height!" commanded the Sergeant.

The men of the 1st Virginia formed up, minds girding for battle, the mood jovial and anticipatory. The Sergeant could tell a more soldierly demeanor and discipline were needed, and thus began the drill.


Three basic commands to carry arms, and the recruit from Tucson found himself having trouble with all of them. The shiny new 1861 Springfield in his hand defied his wishes as the trigger ended up facing the wrong way when he shouldered the weapon. After each command his eyes flitted to the privates on either side of him, checking and verifying and adjusting his fingers, hurrying before his seargent adjusted them by force. The rifle weighed on his arm with nagging fatigue as he held it around the trigger. He did his best to ignore it. He needed the strength.

He anticipated some difficulty, remembering his service several months ago, in different uniforms and hats -- as a Yankee Doodle and then simply a Yankee -- but with a determination to master the order of arms or at least avoid scrutiny.

Marching came naturally to him, propelled by the rhythm of the young company fifer's rendition of "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and the unison crunching of brogans against sun-baked earth. The recruits wound a path through the camps to the admiration of civilians in the waning stages of breakfast. Ladies sat around camp stoves, smiling for their warriors, enjoying the morning and the promise of Confederate victory.

Despite the rustiness, Colonel Scott was impressed as he addressed his troops and greeted the new recruits.

"I know you will enjoy this," he said to the Tucson soldier.

With allied units falling in and a few words of inspiration and duty from their leader, the 1st Virginia marched off to battle.

The Yankees stood in wait for them this morning, cannons primed and ready to take out a few rebels. Their adversaries would announce their presence with a thunderous volley.

"Double charge!"

The Tucson recruit snatched two cartridges from his pouch, ripping the ends off with his teeth and pouring each down the Springfield barrel with the hurried urgency of a newcomer desiring a suitable first impression. He dug out a musket cap and pressed it into place as the firing lines came to the ready. Rifles from the rear rank lowered over his shoulder as he raised his own to his chest.

"Fire!"

White smoke blasted from the twin rows, not nearly in unison, but enough to scare a faint-hearted Union conscript. Yet their numbers proved formidable and their positions a serious challenge. They had calvary with pistols. They had cannons. They had plenty of willing men. The Tucson recruit did not concern himself with the odds, however, as he kept reloading and firing and advancing with the lines.

"Fire by rank, from the right!"

The Sergeant had warned them about this command. In theory and in practice, rifles would fire from one end of the lines to the other in a chain reaction, each man not firing until the man beside him fired or at least popped his cap. It seldom happened correctly. Yet remarkably, it happened on this occasion with a convincing result -- not perfect, but convincing.

Aside from a few rebel yells, the soldiers of the 1st Virginia had little time to admire their combat skills, loading and unleashing volley after volley, advancing on the Colonel's command. In front of them, the Union calvary took shots anywhere they could find them. Cannons fired at Union targets but failed to knock out any of the line.

"What the heck?" the Colonel wondered aloud as a few rebels from another unit ran for the Union lines. Deserters? Daredevils? Turncoats?

The fresh recruit found himself puzzled as well. Why aren't those Yanks going down?

A Federal cannon blasted out the center of the 1st Virginia line -- just as expected. The men collapsed in a painful display, but retreat did not even cross the mind of those still standing. If the Yanks were going to profess some sort of immortality, by golly, so were they.

"Charge!"

The men in gray ran them down without bayonets, securing a quick surrender after at least 25 volleys. The Tucson's recruit's rifle barrel smoked and blazed with heat. He wondered if he would have enough rounds to make it through the rest of the day.

He and his fellow volunteers reformed in front of the spectators behind the safety ropes, casualties brushed off, the dead resurrected and smiling for the crowds camped out on the base of the rocky cliff with their cameras and wide-eyed wonder. After a few words of explanation from the Colonel, the questions commenced.

"How long does it take you to load those rifles?" one person asked.

"About 20 seconds," a recruit replied.

"But for some of us, it takes a little longer," the Tucson recruit added, slipping into a Virginia drawl.

He was grateful to have survived the battle, relieved his rifle had performed as expected, even if those Union scoundrels would not go down. But within him and above him, two other aggressors -- the building heat and a latent cold -- plotted a sneak attack, hiding out just as the Confederate forces did in Picacho more than a century ago.

They launched their charge, and the recruit found lightness invading his head. His insides groaned. His hands fell to his knees in a crouch signaling an imminent collapse.

"Can you make it back to camp?" a fellow recruit inquired, taking him by the arm.

"Yes," the Tucson recruit advised, his voice unsteady and weak. He stumbled as his rescuer guided him back through the tents and civilians, back to the shade of the 1st Virginia Headquarters, where the ladies instantly came to his aid. They peeled off his coat and gear, setting it aside while a nurse placed a series of cold rags over his head and neck. At times they wrung out water down his back as they offered bottles to him. Drink. Drink.

"You need to feel like you're drowning in it," a nurse advised him.

He had heard the warnings earlier in the morning, the advisories to keep drinking water, to stay hydrated, to take off the thick wool coats back in camp. He had brought Gatorade powder with him and offered it to his fellow soldiers. He had taken sips from his canteen as directed. He had heard of the Yankee recruit who had fallen before even stepping on the battlefield. And yet he couldn't understand his illness.

"You feeling better?" a fellow private asked.

"Yes, sir," the new recruit responded, trying his best to convince himself the worst was over.

Yet the skirmish was not finished. The latent cold made a charge from the center of his internal battlefield, launching a volley manifesting itself as a dishonorable discharge.

"What is wrong with me?" the recruit wondered aloud, saddened nearly to tears at his plight, embarrassed at all the witnesses observing him with a bucket below his head.

The Colonel offered him a choice. "Do you want somebody to take you home, Christopher, or do you want an EMT?"

"Get me an EMT," he said without hesitation, choosing the option that would not require an immediate surrender.

The ladies of the 1st Virginia continued to attend to him, cooling his weakened body with cloth after cloth, his legs now shivering from the cold water drenching him. The emergency medical technician soon arrived, and he complimented the nurses on an excellent job as he examined the heat-felled recruit. The young soldier warned his blood pressure might be low. Indeed it was, but not serious.

"Did you collapse?"

"No."

"If you had collapsed, I would have recommended you go to the hospital."

Fortunately, no ambulances would be needed. But on the advice of the EMT and his commanders, he would fight no more this day. It's not such a bad thing to remain here among the beautiful women of the 1st Virginia, they advised him.

True, he acknowledged. But he came to fight, not to play the wounded soldier, not to leave others worried for him. Despite his willingness to take up the rifle, and confidence he could return to the lines, he remained in the shade of the tent fly -- Colonel's orders. He sipped Gatorade water as the crackles of musket fire and cannon blasts teased his ears.

All through the day, the ladies and recruits inquired of his condition, taking comfort in seeing his color and spirit return.

"You did the right thing," said the recruit who had escorted him back to camp. "Heat exhaustion can sneak up on you."

The words comforted him, but the nature of the injury still gnawed at his heart. A bullet, a cannon blast, a slash of a sword -- those all seemed like more honorable injuries, things truly worth confinement to camp. He had worked through illness before in his other life and time. But perhaps that was foolish bravery, dangerous fortitude.

He joined his fellow soldiers for supper, determined to show his fitness and appetite.

"We were praying for you," another member of the 1st Virginia told him, relieved in his recovery.

He vowed to return the next day, stronger and wiser and well hydrated.

"Make sure you drink plenty of water tonight," his Sergeant advised. "No soda. No coffee."



He arrived early the next morning, resuming his place under the tent fly but determined not to remain there all day. His fellow soldiers trickled into camp, all inquiring about his condition. Much better, he told them, ready to fight on.

The Sergeant inspected weapons as the men stood in line, taking each rifle and shaking it for the reassuring clink of a ramrod in a barrel. The tinkling of metal upon metal signified a clean gun. When he came to one of the newer recruits and his loaned weapon, the rod emitted a dull thud.

"We forgot to clean this one," the commander acknowledged. "You'll go down in the first volley."

The unforgiving sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the Colonel recommended a light drill this morning. Again the troops marched off, and the Tucson recruit felt more at ease this time, satisfied he was making progress with the commands. Some of the others found themselves out of step on commands to turn, which brought some minor frustratation to the Sergeant.

"You should know your left from your right!"

The recruit spotted a familiar face and lens to his left. A photojournalist from that modern-day dispatch of news and information, KOLD, had arrived to capture the soldiers preparing for battle. Now came the time to show the rest of the world what Virginia gentlemen were made of.

The 1st Texas and 8th Louisiana joined the gray-uniformed volunteers on the brushy, thorny battlefield. Yankees hid in the bushes, behind the cacti, taking shots. On the Colonel's command, a few of the allied men ran forth to take out those "pests."

Once again, the Confederates found themselves surrounded by blue coats -- on horseback, in formation, loose in the weeds. Drive them back! Drive them back!

Volley after volley jetted from the 1st Virginia rifles, and those Yanks refused to fall. They were as stubborn as they came, provoking questions about the aim of the rebel forces. The Tucson recruit took a hit he didn't expect as he advanced through the desert grounds. He marched straight through a cactus bush, and a needle lodged in his leg. But the Battle of Wounded Knee would have to wait as long as Union troops stood before him.

More shots rang out amid the blasts of heavier artillery and crackling of pistols. The recruit worried about his cartridge supply, but the solution presented itself. A cannon blasted him and two other men to the earth.

"Pull that cap over your face if you're dead," a post-mortal private advised from the ground. "Otherwise they could come back and shoot you."

Do these Yanks have no shame? the recruit wondered.

On the command to resurrect, he brushed himself off and fell back in line with the rest of the troops, marching to the rope separating soldiers from spectators. Before him stood a journalist from KOLD displaying a grin as wide as the Potomac.

"Private Francis, are these friends of yours?" the Colonel inquired.

"They do look a might familiar," the recruit replied in drawl. "They have come up from Tucson to celebrate our victory."

He expected the reporter to fire away with questions. He did not.

"Aren't you goin' to hit me with a question?" the recruit prodded. "That's what you're here for!"

"What's it like to re-enact?" the reporter opened.

"Are you asking me?"

"Yes."

"I will defer that question to my comrades."

The journalist found a father and son of the 1st Virginia and a colorful character of the 1st Louisiana, and the recruit hoped his compatriot in his modern-day world would have enough time to use as much of their words as possible.

* * *

At least two dozen people sat on wooden benches under a tent canopy, the wind blowing the canvas like a sail. The Tucson recruit held the center pole tightly, preventing it from falling onto another person, as it had an unlucky woman in the front row. She sat with an ice pack and a bump on her head. Colonel Scott, chaplain as well as commander, offered prayer for her before he began his Sunday service.

His homily turned back the pages of history to a connection uniting the leaders of the North and South, even in the height of war. They were men of God, true believers, faithful to the end. General Robert E. Lee, upon hearing chaplains had prayed for him, started to cry and said, "I sincerely thank you for that, and I can only say that I am a poor sinner, trusting in Christ alone, and that I need all the prayers you can offer for me."

The words pierced the young recruit. All weekend long, people had offered their prayers for him, he realized, prayers for his health and strength in his imperfect and sometimes miserable state -- a sick solider, a weekend warrior, determined but infirm and nursing a bruised heart. Yet friendship and camaraderie overrode all that, and the thought of being worthy of someone else's prayers left him humbled.

One billion people inhabited the earth at the time of the Civil War, the chaplain noted.

"All of them are gone."

Gone... and many forgotten, except for a handful of lives the history books have found worthy of remembering. One billion people gone, the recruit thought. An inexplicable sadness blossomed within him as he pondered the unstated void of such a massive departure of souls.

Many of them lived through one of history's darkest chapters and yet they're not even a footnote on the page, he thought.

No towns named after them, no statues bearing their likeness. No dates on the calendar, no words on a plaque. Here lived someone deserving of our praise, selfless and loving, who made the world around them better in a way you shall never know.

When I'm gone, I'm a footnote too. I've got to matter while I'm here. Nobody remembers you when you're gone.

Col. Scott noticed something amiss with the young recruit, and asked if he needed to get back to camp.

"I'm just a little emotionally messed up right now," the recruit replied, rubbing an eye. "A lot of things to think about."

"The preacher's words got to you," his Sergeant comforted.

* * *

The second battle of the day found the 1st Virginians outgunned and in retreat. Yet even in retreat they attacked, turning and firing as they fell back to safer grounds, the inevitable no distraction for their will to win. The Yanks might have this round, but victory would be theirs.

Marching towards the gathered spectators for questions, the recruit spotted another familiar face -- one of the lead anchormen from his other life in time. He held a camera, but he was not there for a story. He smiled and waved, and the recruit replied with a discreet yet joyous acknowledgment.

I hope he's not just here because I'm here, the recruit thought.

* * *

At ten minutes after ten o' clock that evening, viewers of KOLD in Southern Arizona took in a sampling of the Civil War in the Southwest through the reporting of Mark Stine and photojournalist Edgar Ybarra.

"Here's a little history trivia for you. During the Civil War, where was the westernmost battle fought?" anchor Teresa Jun queried to introduce the piece. "This might surprise some of you. It was actually just north of Tucson, at Picacho Peak. That's where some dedicated volunteers re-created the Battle of Picacho Pass this weekend. KOLD News 13's Mark Stine takes us back in time."

Union soldiers marching and the sound of drumbeats flashed across screens.

"To the beat of the drum, soldiers march to war," Stine narrated.

A line of Federals launched a volley. "As soon as shots ring out, the battle begins."

Two confederate cannon blasted.

"It's kind of an experience, you almost think it's a real battle," recounted a member of the 1st Louisiana.

"This battlefield clouded with smoke was created in the name of living history," the reporter continued.

Major Anderson and his father of the 1st Virginia appeared on screen. "It's living history," the elder Anderson said. "It's giving history the humanity that it really had."

"Re-enactors re-recreate the Battle of Picacho Pass and others fought in New Mexico back in the 1860's," the reporter explained over video of more skirmishers.

"I have a love of history and I want to share that with people and help them understand what our history is, what our heritage is," the younger Anderson said.

"A love of history that takes men and women to the field of battle," the narrator continued, illustrated with the waving Stars and Bars and more battlefield action.

"Fire!" a commander shouted.

"Some able to dodge bullets. Others are not so lucky."

"It's exhilarating when you have the cannons going off and musket fire to the right of you and the cavalry coming through," Major Anderson recalled to the camera.

A quick shot of the Union calvary and pistol fire bridged into the next soundbite.

"Playing Cowboys and Indians when you were a kid -- only you get to shoot a real gun," the 1st Louisiana re-enactor grinned, a delight to the camera with his long white hair and beard looking to his side where his comrades stood. "We're all grown up men getting to play like we was boys again."

It takes hundreds of dedicated volunteers to pull off a re-enactment like this," the reporter noted.

"It takes about $1,000 for a feller to get outfitted completely to come on the field with his uniform and gear," said the 1st Louisiana man.

"Fore the re-enactors, the dedication of time and money is worth it, as long as the thousands of spectators take a little piece of history away from the performance," the narrator said, showing the spectators sitting to the side of the cliff.

"When you see other people care and come out it's very gratifying," the elder Anderson said, patting his heart. "I just get warm all over when I see the folks come out."

Mark Stine appeared on screen, walking through a camp and bending down before a tent. "But it's not just the battle. These men and women re-enacting live, eat and sleep the Civil War era all weekend long."

"Not take a bath for a weekend, cook on the campfire and eat dirt," the Louisiana soldier said with the pride of authenticity. "Sleep on the hard ground."

The picture changed to a hand rubbing against tin.

"Scrubbing on a washboard," the reporter described. "Laundress Colleen Gilliem shows there's much more to the Civil War than just fighting."

"It was more than just the war," the laundress noted. "It was the life and the home fronts back East that everybody left behind and the families they left."

"No matter if the re-enactor is living in camp," the reporter concluded, hyphenated by a burst of gunfire, "or firing a gun on the battlefield, it's all to keep this time period fresh in our minds."

His closing image displayed a sign in front of the peak, one arrow of the wooden post pointing to the battlefield, the other pointing to camp, the guidepost to history for those willing to follow.

The Tucson recruit had asked for the exclusion of his face and words from the story, even though he had pushed for a crew to make the journey to the battlefield in the first place. This wasn't about him, he insisted, and they understood.

Let's Talk To The Animals

Your humble staffers at Lightning Round headquarters usually steer as clear as we can from animal stories. We have regular shots to protect us from Skiing Squirrel Virus, that irresistible urge to lump in a cuddly tidbit from the kingdom of snouts and fur. But this week, several stories zinged down our wire that go beyond back page grinners, for they reveal much about ourselves if you read between the paws.

FRANKENMUTTON. First they cloned a sheep. Now scientists have come up with a sheep that's 15 percent human. The hope is that they'll soon grow organs human enough to be used for transplants, alleviating a shortage.

From the London Daily Mail:

Animal rights activists fear that if the cells get mixed together, they could end up with cellular fusion, creating a hybrid which would have the features and characteristics of both man and sheep.

We already have such a species. They're called Scientologists.

DEATH IN BLACK AND WHITE. The Berlin Zoo is denying allegations its beloved panda Yan Yan died because of crowds and stress related to her celebrity neighbor, polar bear cub "Cuddly Knut."

Knut, you may recall, was abandoned by his mother despite his infectious cuteness. But he didn't become a superstar until an animal activist said he was better off dead than being raised by humans -- to which millions said, "Oh yeah?"

Apparently Yan Yan thought she was the one deserving of mortality with the overflow visitors spilling her way.

From Reuters:

"Lots of people gave up on seeing Knut because of the long queues, so they went to see Yan Yan instead. She seemed intimidated and anxious," wrote the paper [Bild], suggesting Yan Yan could have had a heart attack.

The final chapter in Yan Yan's life ends with a cipherous tragicness, according to a zoo spokesman.

"Our keepers were stunned. The sad thing is that because of the excitement around Knut, she died alone and no one immediately noticed that she had passed away."

A necropsy -- that's an animal version of an autopsy -- is planned.

RUFFLING FEATHERS. An animal shelter in Seattle has found new homes for 110 parakeets rescued from a one-bedroom apartment. Their owner had been collecting them for five years, according to police.

From the AP:

The owner told the officers he previously tried to give the small birds to another shelter, but said he had been told only five would be kept and the rest would be euthanized.

We sense echoes of Monty Python... "These parakeets are no more! They have ceased to be! If ye hadn'ta gassed them they would be pushin' up the daisies!"

By the way, the bird-loving apartment dweller won't face charges because he cooperated with authorities. Given the alternative, can you really blame him for creating his own sanctuary?

DOGGONE AMAZING. Debbie Parkhurst of Calvert, Maryland says she owes her life to her golden retriever Toby, who knocked her over and jumped up and down on her chest when she was choking on an apple.

From the AP:

That's when the apple dislodged and Toby started licking her face to keep her from passing out, she said.

"I literally have pawprint-shaped bruises on my chest. I'm still a little hoarse, but otherwise, I'm OK," Parkhurst said.

I'd like to see a cat do that.

BURNING LOVE. We turn from animals now to animalistic behavior. A housewife in Brazil faces a 19-year prison sentence for killing her husband, chopping him up into more than 100 pieces, and frying him. The remains of Jose Raimundo Soares dos Santos turned up in plastic bags beneath a staircase in his home.

From the AP:

[A police spokesman] said the killing was either part of a black magic ritual or an attempt by the wife to collect life insurance worth about $34,000.

Only in Brazil, you may think. Well, no. Ask people living in Houston's Red Oak apartments about that strange smell coming from the unit of Timothy Wayne Shepherd. He had a hot girlfriend. Police say he was cooking her on his balcony grills.

From the AP:

A leasing agent at the apartment complex also noticed the thick dark smoke and the intense flames and asked Shepherd what he was doing, Evans said. Another neighbor, 18-year-old James Hebert, told The Houston Chronicle that he often cooked out with Shepherd, and even left his grill at Shepherd's apartment. When he wasn't invited over, he asked his neighbor what was going on. Shepherd replied that he was cooking for a wedding, the newspaper said.

No mention of fava beans or a nice chianti. Supp, supp, supp.

And Now... "The News!"

The guys at jibjab.com strike again with this biting statement about TV news channels. Play, laugh, and hopefully -- if you're an aspiring producer -- learn. (Rated PG for some mild adult humor.)

Dead Air

To die in the sky -- the image is poetic and heavenly. It rhymes, too. But some flights nowadays are barely fit for the living, which makes our lead story all the more ironic.

THE LAST UPGRADE. A crew on a British Airways flight moved a passenger from coach to first class after she died on the flight. Her family was moved with her to give them some privacy to grieve.

But the real shock came for a sleeping first-class passenger who woke up with the deceased next to him.

From the AP:

"I didn't have a clue what was going on. The stewards just plonked the body down without saying a thing. I remember looking at this frail, sparrow-like woman and thinking she was very ill," the newspaper quoted [Paul] Trinder as saying. "When I asked what was going on, I was shocked to hear she was dead."

And likely still earning frequent-flyer miles, too.

LOADED BEHIND THE WHEEL. Bernadette Houghton Headd of Detroit faces road-rage related charges after she shot out the tires on a truck tailgating her. She was licensed to carry a concealed weapon and a crack shot.

From the Detroit Free Press:

When she was arrested, she told police, "I'm tired of people tailgating me."

But her mother said Headd was fearful during a trying and turbulent time in her life. She had been caring for her mother, who had a kidney transplant in December, and for her 18-year-old son, who had surgery in January for scoliosis, Del-Marie Headd said Saturday.

Your Lightning Round thinks Headd could've saved herself a lot of trouble with a carefully worded bumper sticker: "I'm stressed. I'm packing. Need I say more?"

RADIOACTIVE. Debbie Bird of Bowden, England, is so sensitive to electromagnetic radiation, she can break out in a rash when somebody answers their cell phone.

She tells the Daily Mail:

'I don't own a microwave. I don't use mobile phones at all. I can't even use a cordless phone. We have a plasma screen TV because the old style one gave out gamma rays, which brought on my reaction.

'I can't even get in my friend's BMW. If I do I immediately start getting a headache and my head starts tingling.

'Even shopping is a problem. I can't go in places like Starbucks where there is Wi-Fi broadband and always have to be aware of my environment.'

Mrs. Bird and her husband had to electrically shield their home.

The house was completely re-wired, had clear protective film put on the windows and every wall was painted with black carbon paint, which cost £250 per tin, to deflect the harmful rays.

All the couple's bedroom curtains are also silver-plated and they sleep under a silver-plated mosquito net, which also protects against radiation.

Given the FBI's recent transgressions involving electronic surveillance, some of us may want to do the same.

UNHAND THAT BALLOON... WAIT... NO! In our continuing search for Totally Unnecessary Legislation, your Lightning Round stumbled across a bill in New Hampshire that makes it a crime to release a balloon. Get caught and you get slapped with a $250 fine.

From the Concord Union-Leader:

Those who favored the bill said the balloon materials, including the attached strings and ribbons, pose a serious threat to wildlife. Whales, turtles and seabirds that live along New Hampshire's coastline mistakenly eat floating balloons thinking they are food, and then are unable to eat real food.

"Do we now get balloon police?" Rep. Randolph Holden, R-Goffstown, asked.

My grandfather's dog used to eat anything that wasn't nailed down. Where's the law to protect him?

TALE OF THE TAPE. A new study finds duct tape, contrary to an earlier study, doesn't cure warts.

From the AP:

[The finding] does not surprise Dr. Amy Paller, chairman of the dermatology department at Northwestern University's Feinberg School of Medicine, who was not involved in the new study.

"I have plenty of patients come in having tried duct tape. That's why they come in, because it didn't work," Paller said.

And while we're at it, our staffers remind you it's no substitute for Nair, either. Don't ask.

Reel To Reel: 300

Come back with your shield or on it!

How It Rates: ***1/2
Starring: Gerard Butler
Rated: R
Red Flags: Ye Olde Graphic Bloody Battle Violence, Two Sex Scenes, Nudity

300 is the perfect example of making a CGI movie without letting CGI become the star of the show. It is here to transport us back to ancient Greece, fill in the deathy beautiful backgrounds of massive armies and cloud the skies with swarms of arrows. But all the CGI in this picture is no match for the charisma of King Leonidas (Butler) and his 300 battle-hungry Spartan warriors, greatly outnumbered by the Persian army of King Xerxes at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 B.C. Challenges to the film's historic accuracy have emerged, and Iran has charged it with insulting Persian culture, but we'll leave those arguments aside. As a film, 300 is as exciting as it is visually dazzling and brutally bloody. It's the same sort of demented excitement I got from 2005's Sin City, which like this film is based on a graphic novel by Frank Miller.

The picture works because it instantly gives us an underdog to root for with patriotic overtones. Think of the bedrocks of democracy in B.C.-Greece and many will think of the Athenians, of Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato. Those Athenians could philosophize and write great drama, but the Spartans were the real fighters, the film argues, the true defenders of liberty in their red cloaks and battle-dinged shields. Spartans live to fight and fight to live. They feast on pain. Death be not in peace, but in the height of war, going out in a glorious stand. Can you imagine anybody willing to die with such anticipation and vigor? Yaaaaaaaah!

That sort of dedication is what makes the Spartans so mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Strategically, they're no slouches either, as Leonidas comes up with a plan to even the odds, forcing Xerxes' army into trap after trap. When strategy fails, that Spartan warrior culture takes over -- and look out. At times, it's like Clash Of The Titans merged with The Matrix, as scene after scene of slowed-down, sped-up battles plays out, if you don't mind the blood.

Hey, Teacher, Leave Those Kids Alone!

Going away to some boarding school shouldn't feel like incarceration.

THIS IS A SCHOOL, RIGHT? Oprah Winfrey's Leadership Academy For Girls in South Africa is so strict, parents can only visit their children once a month, according to Gavin Prins of News24.com.

From the article:

Cellphones and e-mail correspondence are out of bounds during the week, and girls are only allowed to phone their parents at weekends.

The maximum number of visitors per pupil is four, and visits have to be approved by the school at least two weeks in advance.

And watch what you eat, says one parent:

"The poor children are not even allowed to have any treats. Their diet is fruit, yogurt and sandwiches. When they go on holiday for a month in April they'll be stuffing themselves with sweets and chocolates in any case."

Who's running this school -- Oprah or Sheriff Joe Arpaio? At least Miss O's kids don't have to wear pink underwear and stripes.

Oprah, naturally, says people have it all wrong. A statement posted on TMZ.com says:

"Our goal is to protect the health, welfare and well-being of the students at the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy. As with other boarding schools, we provide a structured, safe and nurturing environment in which the girls can learn and develop."

Jail can be pretty safe and nurturing, too, depending on your perspective.

THEY'RE BACK. That was fast. Sen. Hillary Clinton is once again playing the "vast right-wing conspiracy" card long before the first GOP attack ad hits. Clinton bases her conspiracy theory on accusations of anti-voter actions, including phone jamming by Republican operatives in 2002.

From the AP:

She also said the government should do more to end unusually long lines at certain polling places.

"It just so happens that many of those places where people are waiting for hours are places where people of color are voting or young people are voting. That is un-American, and we're going to end it," Clinton said.

We only hope she means ending the lines and not the voting.

BAD HAIR DAY. When police in Memphis booked Anna Clifford for DUI, they nearly had to use a wide-angle lens on the mugshot. Her ghastly-large spiky hair took up most of the frame.

From a police spokesman quoted in the London Daily Mail:

"When we pulled her over she had been driving with her sunroof open to allow room for her hair. I don’t know what she'd do if it rained."

Perhaps flatten it down into an umbrella?

BAD KID. A 13-year-old Ohio boy is charged with more than 100 felonies. The rap sheet against Andrew Riley includes burglary, theft, vandalism and intimidation.

From ONN:

His stepfather said Riley had a rough childhood.

"He's our oldest, you know. He's our first born and he's been through a lot," said [James] Blake.

The stepdad doesn't elaborate on what "a lot" means, but we're guessing it's nothing compared to what the boy has put others through.

TOO MANY SECRETS. You have no excuse to stash a key under your doormat anymore, not when so many other alternatives exist. We're especially fond of the "lettuce safe."

THRILL OF THE FEET. We have seen the rollercoaster of the future, and you pedal it. But where are all the loops?

CAT-ASTROPHE. Authorities in North Platte, Nebraska put down two stray cats and checked them for rabies after they got into a house and attacked three people.

From the AP:

When investigator John Stadler arrived and opened the bedroom door, "he saw a gray and white cat baring its teeth in attack mode," Gutschenritter said. "He shut the bedroom door and returned to his car for a dart gun."

Both cats were shot, tranquilized and taken to the animal shelter, where they were euthanized.

And to think you laughed when it happened to WJW's Kathleen Cochrane.

Civil War In The Southwest -- The Video

KOLD News 13 covered this past weekend's re-enactment at Picacho Peak featuring the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry among hundreds of other historical volunteers.

Here's the story, as reported by Mark Stine. No, your humble servant is not in it, at my insistence to avoid a conflict of interest.

Embedding Windows Media Player isn't working very well on this page so please click the link below:

http://members.cox.net/cfrancis21/PicachoPeak.wmv

Cat Handcuffs, Anyone?

From WJW in Cleveland comes this painful live shot. When a cat doesn't want to be held, it will not be held, as Kathleen Cochrane found out.

Voted Out

Your vote is your voice, but too many people have suddenly gotten laryngitis at the ballot box. The new technology hailed as the savior from dangling chads has created a new set of problems.

UNPLUGGED. Diebold appears ready to ditch its electronic voting machines, riddled with problems and bad karma which could end up hurting sales of the company's mainstay products in the financial world -- including ATMs.

From the AP:

Diebold indicated it still is "vulnerable to these types of challenges because the electronic elections systems industry is emerging." The report also mentioned inconsistency in the way state and local governments are adapting to federal requirements for upgrades in voting technology.

Pencil, paper and a lock on a box sound better all the time.

IN THE RED. One hundred million dollars in marketing and Bono do not a successful charity campaign make, as evidence suggests from the Red efforts. The AIDS-fighting project designed to let people give while they buy red cell phones and trendy fashions has only raised $18 million so far.

From AdAge:

Trent Stamp, president of Charity Navigator, which rates the spending practices of 5,000 nonprofits, said he's concerned about the campaign's impact on the next generation. "The Red campaign can be a good start or it can be a colossal waste of money, and it all depends on whether this edgy, innovative campaign inspires young people to be better citizens or just gives them an excuse to feel good about themselves while they buy an overpriced item they don't really need."

One critic nails it:

"The Red campaign proposes consumption as the cure to the world's evils," said Ben Davis, creative director at Word Pictures Ideas, co-creator of [a Red parody] site. "Can't we just focus on the real solution -- giving money?"

We would, if we hadn't spent it on our Red American Express card already.

WITCH HUNT. Lauren Berrios is a former Catholic who converted to Judaism. But to the Hampton Bays school district in New York City, she's wicked, and she's suing them for $2 million. Berrios says she was fired for using literature to entice people into witchcraft.

What literature, you ask? Oh, the usual suspects -- the Harry Potter and Goosebumps books. Great corruptors of youth they are.

From WCBS-TV, New York:

She believes books that didn't mesh with principal's religious values, even including African-American literature, were taken out of her curriculum.

[Her lawyer] admits that Berrios' appearance didn't help her cause either, especially when she was teaching her students about the Salem witch trials. "Mrs. Berrios has long fingernails, wears dark make-up, wears black," he said.

At least the school didn't throw her in the harbor to see if she floated.

RECORD NO EVIL. If a man beats you to a pulp in the street, and a reporter wasn't there to photograph it, did it happen? France is banning the filming or broadcasting of violent acts unless you're a "professional journalist."

From IDG via MacWorld:

During parliamentary debate of the law, government representatives said the offense of filming or distributing films of acts of violence targets the practice of “happy slapping,” in which a violent attack is filmed by an accomplice, typically with a camera phone, for the amusement of the attacker’s friends.

The law was approved exactly 16 years after a home video camera captured the LAPD beating of Rodney King. Remember, France does not have a First Amendment. But even without the letter of the law, the spirit of the law is infectious.

The journalists’ organization Reporters Without Borders, which campaigns for a free press, has warned that such a system could lead to excessive self censorship as organizations worried about losing their certification suppress certain stories.

If you love your freedom, thank a veteran. And then go enlighten a Frenchman.

NEXT TIME, WE'LL JUST LET IT BURN. Mexico is upset with U.S. Border Patrol agents in Arizona for crossing south of the line to put out a brush fire after it crossed the line, too.

From the AP's account of a Mexican government news release:

"While the department recognizes that the incursion may have been a response to an attempt to deal with an emergency, as the U.S. Embassy states, it has reiterated ... that even during emergency situations, it is required, without exception, to immediately notify the Mexican authorities."

You work the hose, I gotta make a phone call.

Where the heck are the Minutemen when you need 'em? Their fences have problems, but they oughta be at least capable of a bucket brigade. As for Mexico, why get all bent out of shape over a good deed?

The Golden Rule model for handling such incidents goes to Liechtenstein, which recently dealt with an accidental incursion by members of the Swiss Army who got lost.

From the AP:

Officials in Liechtenstein also played down the incident.

Interior ministry spokesman Markus Amman said nobody in Liechtenstein had even noticed the soldiers, who were carrying assault rifles but no ammunition. "It's not like they stormed over here with attack helicopters or something," he said.

Yeah, but those knives they carry are something else.

One commenter on Newsvine still sees a diabolical plot:

This was the first phase of their plan to conquer the world. In 10 years we will all be armed, building clocks, eating swiss cheese and chocolate.

Nut tu menshun ve-a veell ell be-a speekeeng leeke-a thees. Feer zee Sveess. Zeey ere-a cumeeng tu teke-a oofer zee vurld. Meesteke-a my heeeny. Furst Leeechtenstein, zeen vurld. Merk my vurds. Bork Bork Bork!

More Power To You

Our nation's voracious appetite for energy has the former veep urging all of us to diet. Yet in the quest to go electrically lean and clean, some pay to play.

BEST NON-ACTOR IN A NON-SUPPORTING ROLE. Al Gore could set a better example for himself, according to the Tennessee Center for Policy Research.

From the TCPR's press release:

Last August alone, Gore burned through 22,619 kWh-guzzling more than twice the electricity in one month than an average American family uses in an entire year. As a result of his energy consumption, Gore's average monthly electric bill topped $1,359.

Since the release of An Inconvenient Truth, Gore's energy consumption has increased from an average of 16,200 kWh per month in 2005, to 18,400 kWh per month in 2006.

But hold on. The Tennessean has the proverbial rest of the story, which shows Gore is trying to make amends through the wallet.

Electric bills obtained by The Tennessean, however, showed that Gore is paying a premium on his bills to be part of the “green power” program. Gore purchased 108 blocks of “green power” for at least each of the last three months, according to a summary of bills from Nashville Electric Service.

That’s a total of $432 a month spent to pay extra for solar or other renewable energy sources. NES power – outside this program -- is derived largely from coal, which emits carbon, a green house gas.

We're glad Gore can afford to be green. Does he desire the rest of us to cough up more, too?

IT'S NOT NICE TO FOOL WITH MOTHER NATURE! Petmedsonline, of all places, lists several examples of man messing around with nature, including Killer Bees:

Thirty five years after it was introduced into Brazil and escaped from a breeding experiment, the killer bee arrived in Texas, and was spreading north. During its migration the bee has killed hundreds of people and has caused a falloff in honey production.

But it did help Killer Bee Guy Reed Booth of Bisbee.

FORGET PARIS. In mid-February the Associated Press declared a press blackout on Paris Hilton, according to the New York Observer:

“Next week,” entertainment editor Jesse Washington wrote in an e-mail memo obtained by The Transom, “the print team is planning an unconventional experiment: We are NOT going to cover Paris Hilton.

“Barring any major, major news, we are not going to put a single word about Paris on the wire,” the memo continued. “If something does come up, big or small, we encourage discussions on whether we should write about it.”

The results of the experiment, naturally, will be fodder for a future A.P. story. “Hopefully we will be able to discuss what ‘news’ we missed,” read the memo, which could have used some stern copy-editing, “the repercussions of our blackout for AP both editorially and business-wise, and most importantly the force that cause the world to be fixated on this person who, despite her shallow frivolity, represents an epochal development in our culture.”

The Lightning Round has adopted a similar policy towards Britney Spears, and we encourage others to do the same.

IN-TERROR-GATION. Fort Huachuca, located not far south of your Lightning Round's home base, is where many military interrogators hone their craft. Others are learning from the anything-goes style of Jack Bauer on Fox's 24, according to Newsweek:

The Pentagon told NEWSWEEK last week that it didn't know anything about the tactics used on "24," nor had it heard the allegations of their impact. "Humane treatment of detainees is and always has been the [U.S. Department of Defense] standard," said Lt. Col. Mark Ballesteros. But former U.S. Army specialist Tony Lagouranis, who left the military with an honorable discharge in 2005 and has since spoken out about the abuse of Iraqi prisoners there, says the use of tactics like those featured on TV was common during his 2004-2005 Iraqi tour. According to Lagouranis, his unit tried out similar tactics after watching torture scenes on television and DVD. He has since teamed up with Human Rights First, and recently met with the producers of "24" as part of an effort to have them be more "responsible" in their portrayal of torture scenes.

How does one torture responsibly? We sure as heck wouldn't leave it to Fox.

NOTES ON A SCANDAL. The husband of celebrated late classical pianist Joyce Hatto revealed he played listeners by releasing CD's which contained slices of other keyboardists' work.

From the AP:

"It is self-evident that I have acted stupidly, dishonestly and unlawfully," William Barrington-Coupe wrote in a letter acknowledging the fraudulent recordings, which he said he produced without his wife's knowledge while she was dying of ovarian cancer.

Barrington-Coupe says he inserted the other bits to mask the grunts of his wife, who was suffering from ovarian cancer at the time she made the recordings. The fraud fell apart when a listener with iTunes noticed one recording by Hatto was misidentified as another's. Turns out, the computer was telling the truth.

A record company executive who oversees one of the lifted recordings plans no legal action against Barrington-Coupe:

"The guy is 76, he has a heart condition -- well, he says he has a heart condition -- and I can't see what, apart from revenge, it would give anyone," he said.

We recall what it did to Milli Vanilli.

SHE'S CURED! In our last episode, we detailed the hiccup histrionics of Jennifer Mee -- the larger problem being the media attention, not the hiccups itself. We're pleased to report the hiccups have stopped. And so, we hope, have the calls from talk show bookers.

One of our colleagues suggested Mee was faking it. C'mon... she's no Meg Ryan.

Ready For Battle

We have seen the enemy, and they are ours.

We await their advance, to dispatch them with all speed and necessary force.

And you shall know it is us by our tartans and sabers. Bring a sword to a gunfight? That's the way the heroes clash -- ho, ho, ho!

Even when all hope is lost, the numbers lopsided, victory dissolving like tears in rain, we refuse to surrender, submit, yield to those who shall shackle and diminish us, minimalize and render us irrelevant.

For we are warriors in a just and noble cause, and we have only begun to fight.

Fetch my armor and pass the haggis.

(Above photo from the Mesa Highland Games, February 24, 2007. Thank you, Rosemary!)