Reel To Reel: The Dark Knight

Dark, indeed.

How It Rates: ****
Starring: Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Fisticuffs and Copious Explosions -- too disturbing for young children

I'm not sure people would be talking about giving Heath Ledger an Oscar if he were still alive -- it seems people want to recognize his entire body of work and they don't have any other option that's good enough -- but he is frightfully, psychotically compelling as The Joker in what people will consider his official last picture, any salvageable work for Terry Gilliam nonwithstanding.

The Dark Knight veers the new Batman saga into heavy and heady territory, turning the comic-book movie into film noir. It requires your absolute attention to digest all its nuances and social commentary, and no doubt people will see it over and over again just to make sure they get it. It clouds the definitions of heroes and villains. Victory against crime comes with a huge penalty, and even the best, most well-equipped super-crimefighters are powerless to stop the unpredictable chaos of a madman.

Enter the Joker. Save for a few gutwrenching speeches, we don't know what turned him into a clown-faced terrorist. But we do learn that he derives his control from the uncontrollable, a fierce hatred for any semblance of rationality or code of conduct. You don't play chess with a guy who sweeps the pieces off the board. Yet the Caped Crusader (Bale), tries his best, aided as always by the insightful Alfred (Caine) and R&D whiz Lucius Fox (Freeman). Love interest Rachel Dawes (Gyllenhaal, replacing the Scientology-zonked Katie Holmes) is back as well, only she has a new flame -- charismatic D.A. Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), who's trying to shut down Gotham's criminal underworld. It's laundering money through Gotham banks, one of which is hit by the Joker and several clown thugs in the opening scenes.

The mob soon finds out police are on to their operation after irradiated bills are found in the bank vault. The Joker appears and offers a solution to their problems: "Kill the Batman," for half of the mob's money, of course, which happens to be controlled by an Asian businessman trying to do a deal with Wayne's company. This touches off a series of unforeseeable, twisted crimes with Batman, Lt. Gordon (Oldman) and Dent in a precarious alliance plagued by uncertainty and distrust as they try to stop the Joker's plan to kill Gotham's citizens if Batman doesn't reveal his true identity. But the Joker's crime spree keeps growing, getting bigger and crazier and forcing the good guys to think outside of their ethical guides. The picture runs at a breathless pace, leaving you little time to muse upon its disturbing truths.

Ledger's Joker makes Jack Nicholson's 1989 version look, well, clownish. And this sequel makes the entire first Batman movie series look like Shazam. It doesn't care about catering to a kid-friendly audience, or even the comic-book geek. Director Christopher Nolan clearly made the movie he wanted to make, venturing into art-film territory. However, art films don't do $150 million plus at the box office on opening weekend. Nolan may very well have created the perfect blockbuster, combining just enough action, chills, and insight to pull in people who don't see popcorn movies.

An Oscar nomination for Ledger is a given. Perhaps one for screenplay and Nolan's direction are in the bag, too. Another given: we will see a third Batman picture, and as some on the Internet have said, please, please, keep Robin out of it.

Where Did All The Money Go?

All right, we get it: the economy stinks. But beyond that simple truth lies a mystery that has us scratching our heads, if not our wallets, wondering how dollars and cents can simply vaporize.

THE OLD GREY LADY, SHE AIN'T WHAT SHE USED TO BE. The New York Times Company's second-quarter earnings are down 82 percent compared to the same quarter last year. The company blames the usual suspects: bad economy, shrinking advertising. However, we get this curious quote from the AP:

Chief Executive Janet Robinson says business was hurt by the "U.S. economic slowdown and secular forces playing out across the media industry."

Does she mean news people aren't saying their prayers?

HANGOVER. President Bush has an explanation for the sour economy: "Wall Street got drunk." According to The Hill, that's what he told people at a closed-door fundraiser last week.

He elaborates, in true Bushian:

"There's no question about it," Bush said. "Wall Street got drunk, that's one of the reasons I asked you to turn off the TV cameras. It got drunk and now it's got a hangover. The question is how long will it sober up and not try to do all these fancy financial instruments."

Fancy Financial Instruments? Gee, maybe we should go back to the abacus.

See it for yourself:



MAKING MONEY THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY. An Orlando Wachovia Bank gave counterfeit money to one of its customers, who found out about the funny money when another bank wouldn't take it.

As WKMG-TV reports:

A Wachovia representative said it will not refund any money because it can't verify the $1,000 in counterfeit notes were the same bills [Ulises] Garcia was handed by their teller.

But weeks later, Wachovia did refund $40 to another customer with a similar story, Local 6 has learned.

Garcia is now going to the feds, who wonder if it was an inside job.

With Wachovia losing billions, you figure somebody might've gotten desperate.

DROP THAT CHANGE! Desperation will lead to criminal activity, as police in Naples, Florida cuffed a man accused of stealing 42 cents from a fountain.

As the Naples Daily News reports:

It is not unusual for police officers to arrest people who steal small items from local retail stores, [Police Capt. John] Adams said. Police officers have arrested people for stealing change from fountains before, Adams said.

“He shouldn’t be taking change out of the mall fountain,” Adams said. “It’s not found money. It’s money that’s destined for charity.”

Your Lightning Round wonders how much it will cost to prosecute this case versus simply asking the accused offender to put the money back. A good guess: it's a heckuvalot more than 42 cents.

THE $42 MILLION VIEW. At least Candy Spelling still has money, according to the L.A. Times, describing the hefty going rate for her new condo in Century City. But wait, she's actually downsizing:

After all, the 62-year-old heiress with a reputation for embracing opulence will be moving out of Los Angeles County's largest home -- a 123-room, 56,500-square-foot mansion on six acres in the Holmby Hills neighborhood off Sunset Boulevard.

Her new home will be less than a third the size of the old one -- just 16,500 square feet -- but with a killer 360-degree view spanning the horizon from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Catalina Island.

That's sort of like the government adding only $40 billion to the deficit instead of $80 billion and calling it savings.

Don't take any wooden nickels. We'll see you again when we have time... and money.

Fine Malfunction

Court sanity is putting the FCC in its place. Today an appeals court threw out a $550,000 indecency fine against CBS for Janet Jackson's infamous "wardrobe malfunction" at the hand of Justin Timberlake. This fine, I remind you, came for less than one second of bared breast in a wide shot that made it hard to see.

From the AP:

"Like any agency, the FCC may change its policies without judicial second-guessing," the court said. "But it cannot change a well-established course of action without supplying notice of and a reasoned explanation for its policy departure."

In other words, changing your mind is okay. Regulatory multiple-personality disorder is not. The FCC cannot suddenly start fining "oops" moments after letting them slide for decades.

But the whole uproar over Janet Jackson's bare bosom wasn't about the breast. The breast was merely the topping on a rotten halftime Super Bowl show which featured pelvic grinds, Kid Rock, and an American Flag displayed less than honorably. MTV's entire attitude towards the viewers stunk of hormones and edginess for the sake of cool, because boundaries aren't cool anymore. If the FCC wanted to fine something, it should've fined the entire production for being wack. But that's not an actionable offense, nor should it be.

"This Is Journalism To You?"

KTLA Reporter Eric Spillman tells people waiting for the new iPhone to, in essence, get a life, throwing in a nerd stereotype along the way. Watch as one of the crowd subtly lets him have it:



Spillman later apologized... kinda. Let's go to the tape:

More Proof Life Isn't Fair

Tony Snow dies of cancer.

Sudden heart trouble recently killed Tim Russert and George Carlin.

Harvey Korman and Sydney Pollack left us too soon.

And here's Amy Winehouse, mysteriously still alive after smoking crack and cigarettes.

We're Shocked, Shocked

SPECIAL REPORT

You know full well things have been pretty sleepy around LR's world headquarters. The official claim is high gas prices and its inhibiting factors on the commute. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We caught the layout editors sitting by the Rillito River the other day, waiting for that first big wave of monsoon water to wash downstream. We're hearing bets on whether it will contain dead trees, an SUV or a certain Tucson political figure, but that beat's for our gossip columnist -- if he'll ever get off the phone.

Otherwise, we recently came across these items in regards to your personal security... or lack of it.

FASTEN YOUR BELTS BEFORE FLIGHT. The Department of Homeland Security may be looking into a shock bracelet for airplane passengers. According to the Washington Times...

The Electronic ID Bracelet, as it’s referred to as, would be worn by every traveler “until they disembark the flight at their destination.” Yes, you read that correctly. Every airline passenger would be tracked by a government-funded GPS, containing personal, private and confidential information, and that it would shock the customer worse than an electronic dog collar if he/she got out of line?

Your Lightning Round editor already hears frustrated passengers begging to bracelet the guy in the seat behind them. And I'd be careful about asking for the whole can of soda, too.

I'LL COME QUIETLY OFFICER, BUT COULD YOU TELL THIS GUY IN MY HEAD TO SHUT UP? A new ray gun in development is supposed to make you think people are talking to you inside your head -- handy for riot neutralization.

From Gizmodo.com:

Short for Mob Excess Deterrent Using Silent Audio, MEDUSA creates the audio effect with short microwave pulses. The pulses create a shockwave inside the skull that's detected by the ears, and basically makes you think you're going [bleep!] insane. The MEDUSA can also "produce recognizable sounds" and is aimed primarily at military uses, but New Scientist revealed there are other uses in the works, too.

Gizmodo worries about possible abuses including subliminal advertising. Your Lightning Round also worries about what happens when you take a group of crazy people and just make them crazier.

ZAPPING THE OPPOSITION. A court fight is underway in Denver, where the ACLU wants to know more about hush-hush high-tech weapons planned for demonstrators who don't behave during the Democratic National Convention. CNN and The Raw Story learned about a couple of them:

Weapons such as the sonic ray gun, which emits a head-splitting frequency and deafens large groups of people. Also rumored for the conventions is the goo gun -- which shoots a gel that can coat and wrap people whole, or stop a moving vehicle in its path -- and a microwave pulse emitter -- a radio frequency device that makes one's skin feel it is on fire, previously deployed in the streets of Baghdad, Iraq.

The goo gun sounds intriguing to us. What does one do after getting "slimed?" (Somebody brought up that scene in Fantastic Voyage where sticky green antibodies wrap themselves around Raquel Welch's top-heavy figure.) We gather it won't be as easy as hosing somebody down. Maybe somebody at Nickelodeon can help; they've dealt with slimy kids for years now.

AND IF ALL ELSE FAILS... Sid and Marty Krofft may have come up with an effective crowd-control ray gun.

Step Up!

Going 4th in Victory on Independence Day with We Make History means walking and talking... and walking the talk.

From the journal of Private Christopher of the Continental Line

Stockings -- check.

Linen shirt -- check.

Waistcoat -- check.

Wooden Canteen -- leaks. All that sealing wax melted in the trip from Tucson.

Regimental coat -- check.

Tricorn -- check.

Cartridge box -- check.

Haversack -- stocked.

Hidden Gatorade bottle -- check.

Breeches -- working on it. My calves are growing or the linen is shrinking. It's 7:45, fifteen minutes before mustering time and I'm fighting the Battle of the Bottom Button on the left leg of my breeches. I just moved that button to avoid this. I suppose I could just leave it loose, but I'm not that kind of a soldier. His Excellency wouldn't tolerate any substandard dress and I won't either.

My Queen Mother re-enters the hotel room and finds me hunched over my leg.

"Could you help me with this?"

She has it buttoned up in less than a minute, and hopefully I won't cut off my circulation through myriad blocks of marching. We rush to the formation point, running behind. I jump out of the station wagon, whip my French musket from the gun sack, fumble it, and watch it drop to the ground in the much-maligned tradition.

Flagstaff's Independence Day Parade ranks as the largest in the state and one of my most exhilarating times of the year, portraying a soldier of George Washington's Army. I am under his command, accompanied by our 1st Sergeant and dutiful flag-bearer, followed by the sharply drilled Confederates of the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry and surrounded by the ladies and the children handing out fliers in hopes of enticing some new recruits. We can use some more Revolutionary War soldiers.

We form up for a group photo before arranging ourselves into parade formation. The musket wants to knock off my hat as I shoulder the weapon. Maybe I can adjust the corners --

"Quit playing with your hat," our 1st Sergeant orders, kindly but firmly.

Cameras click off and I can only hope that silver barrel looked flattering.

"Shoulder arms!" the Sergeant commands. "With the lock out," he adds when he finds it facing the wrong way, to my muted embarrassment. No detail shall escape his eagle eye. And as the only Continental infantryman besides our flag-bearer, those eyes will be planted squarely on my back.

So my challenge is obvious: stay in formation, flanking the colors, and stay soldierly fer cryin' out loud. Last year I cut loose with my displays of patriotic mirth, working the crowd but losing proper cadence with my fellow patriot soldiers. The impression I envision is akin to Archibald Willard's "Spirit of '76" minus the fife and drums.

"Forward, march!"

Left... left... left, right, left. Eyes forward. Musket shouldered. Lock out. Lined up with the colors.


We encounter spectators almost immediately, dressed in a patchwork of red, white and blue. I notice a few sparkles from glittered hats. Flag t-shirts are en vogue. Kids are up front, sitting in parents' laps. General Washington elicits responses. A few wave. A few clap. A few cheer. I spot a few characters: children from karate classes in their standard-issue white outfits, a few people wearing Viking hats. Indiana Jones is weaving up and down the sides. Indiana Jones? American Hero, we can argue.

But a disturbing absence sinks in. This crowd doesn't have enough juice. Maybe 9am is still too early. Walking past them, it's getting harder for me to restrain the urge to crank up their patriotic fervor. Mere waves are not enough, so I finally capitulate to habit.

"HUZZAH!" I cry, lifting my tricorn to the crowds. I don't care if I have to wear the "Insubordinate" sign later. I'm going to get these people into the spirit.


To the right and left I look, scouring the crowd for cameras and making sure people are getting the desired shot.

"HUZZAH!!! HUZZAH!!!"

My Mother and Father have staked out their spot. She's got the Nikon. He's got the Sony. And both of them should get the money shot.

We make frequent stops as vehicles make turns and participants in front of us pause. The recruits of the 1st Virgina show off their drill, turning to face one side of spectators and going through a few routines from the manual of arms before marching on.


"HUZZAH!! HUZZAH!!"

"Huzzah!" a lady to the side responds. "That's the right word!" she replies to a girl with her. "When somebody says 'Huzzah!' you're supposed to respond 'Huzzah!" I'm not taking you to the Renaissance Festival!"

His Excellency wants us looking good as we approach the first reviewing stand. He commands me to fix my bayonet. It slips on with hesitation, but it's there to glisten in the morning sun and intimidate any redcoats. It rattles as I march.

My fellow patriots are picking up on the need to stoke fervor. "A cheer for General Washington!" the Sergeant commands, drawing out more applause and cheers from his side of the street. Our flag-bearer calls out the occasional Huzzah, but they leave the boisterous call-and-response duties to our commander and myself.

"Huzzah to the people on the top row!" I call to the crowd lining the balcony of one of Flagstaff's historic hotels, the people with the best vantage point in town. As is custom, the men of the 1st Virginia pause and drill for them, saluting them with another display of precision.

"He's drilling them hard," our 1st Sergeant observes of his Confederate counterpart.

We round another corner to discover a massive crowd staked out in the generous shade of downtown's tallest building. Their enthusiasm needs little assistance. My feet will need it climbing up the last hill of the march like the British Regulars at Bunker Hill. We pass two more reviewing stands and at least two TV news crews. And at last, the people are pumped up to my satisfaction.

The crowds thin. Our part of the parade is over. A look to the left reveals groups and vehicles still waiting to start the journey. I dig into my haversack for a large, long swig of Gatorade out of the sight of any spectators when a fire engine from the parade rolls by, inhabitants waving.

"Huzzah!" I cry, one last time before returning to the mustering point for some post-parade thoughts, and a Prayer of Thanksgiving for Liberty... from tyranny and from our own sins.

* * *

"Do you want to go back to the room?" my father asks as Mom, Dad and I reassemble at the car.

"I think he wants to go to the tree," Mother interjects.

The short journey to Northern Arizona University's Old Main takes mere minutes. My family is the first to arrive. I waste no time finding the Washington Oak, the tree born of a sprig from the original oak under which General George Washington assumed command of the Continental Army in 1775. It is tall and sturdy, oh so green and beautiful. I stand silently gazing at it as the other We Make History families arrive. My parents encounter the people they've heard so much about, but have barely seen.

I pose for a couple of pictures, hastily wiping away a few tears, an emotional response I still struggle to understand but refuse to suppress.

Our commander asks me to call the group of mingling adults and playful children to order.

"Attention!" I command in my best attempt at a Sergeant's voice. "Gather at the tree!"

"Which tree?" someone snickers.

"If you have to ask..." I say to myself as everyone aligns themselves around the beloved NAU Washington Oak

"Private Francis," our leader says. "Perhaps you'd like to share a few thoughts."

I walk up to the tree again, surveying it and letting my heart spill out of my mouth.

"It's hard for me not to become emotionally involved as I look at this tree," I begin, launching into a discourse of where the tree came from, of how people planted sprigs from the original all over America. I feel the connection to George Washington every time I see it, I say. It's a connection I can't get from books.


"I have to feel it here," I say, pointing to my heart. "Reading history simply doesn't do it for me."

Under Washington's leadership, I remind people, the Continental Army improved disciplined and learned how to win, and they learned to win in a way that would earn them the respect they needed to win independence.

"You may have heard the expression, the Revolution was won by hiding behind rocks and trees. Not true!"

But His Excellency was more than a good soldier, I add. He was a man of honor, penning rules of civility now attributed to him, "a great self-help guide for lack of a better word. He was a great dancer as well. If you want to model yourself around somebody, why not pick Washington? As you look at the tree, think about the man who assumed command under it. Think about the kind of human he was. Think about the leader he was. Think about the kind of leader you can be and the way you can live, because Washington was all of those things. You can be, too."

I silently stroll away from the tree, hoping my words have penetrated a few hearts. Applause tells me I have.

Our commander offers his thoughts next about General Washington, challenging us all to use our imagination and picture Washington taking command of an army with very little organization.

"He had every expectation that the likelihood was that his reputation, not to mention his fortune, would be destroyed, and that was true of all of the Founding Fathers, who pledged their lives, their liberties, their fortunes. They stepped up to the plate, and they didn't go for a bunt. They swung for all they were worth. They put everything on the line."

After all, Britain was both an economic and military superpower. Nobody beat the British, except for that one day at Yorktown when the French bottled up the Royal Navy.

"If you don't believe in Providence, you need to ponder just that one fact."

Now, our commander challenged us, it's our turn to step up for our families and our country. We have to be the leaders, even in reluctance. God's Providence will be there for us if we answer the call to serve.

We close with more prayers of Thanksgiving before dismissing to our cars.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to make a speech?" Mom asks, noting she only caught a bit of it on video.

"I didn't know I was going to make one... until then."


My entire talk on Washington was unrehearsed, unscripted, and unexpected. But I'd heard the call and stepped up, somehow pulling words and sentiments from the attic of my mind. And it reaffirmed my belief in Providence. I gave thanks to God on the trip back to the hotel to change out of my uniform. I still have much to learn about history, about Washington and the myriad others who wove the fabric of this nation. But after all those prayers for guidance, God just delivered.

"Do you all study history?" a parade watcher asked me, placing a dreary vision of bookworms into my head.

"We live it!" I replied.

And thus, we make it.



More from the happy marchers here.

NEXT: The White Cockade

Reel To Reel: Wanted

The Matrix unplugged.

How It Rates: **
Starring: James McAvoy, Morgan Freeman, Angelina Jolie
Rated: R
Red Flags: Copious and INTENSE bloody violence, Numerous f-bombs, Two sex scenes -- definitely not for the kids!

I liked Wanted. But all through the movie I kept thinking back to the first chapter of the Matrix trilogy and how it blew my mind with its defiance of physics and its nightmarish take on virtual reality. Wanted bends bullets and creates its own nightmare universe, right down to Angelina Jolie playing Fox, a riff on Matrix's Trinity. Although it's exciting and gripping, it's not particularly original, save for a few scenes.

Wesley (McAvoy) plays a wimpy, beleaguered, panic-pill-popping cubicle slave at an insurance company. His obese, ugly boss cuts him down every day. His best friend is hooked up with his cranky girlfriend and rubbing it in his face. He's nearly broke and living in a grungy Chicago flophouse until one day when he's caught in a gunfight at a store. Scooped up by Fox, Wesley learns assassins took out his father, who was a member of a super-secret cult of killers led by Sloan (Freeman, playing yet another variation on the same role). Furthermore, he has abilities with a gun a sharpshooter would envy. Sounds like Neo, uh, Wes is "the one."

Invigorated by the knowledge of who he really is and longing to take control, Wes trains to become a killer, looping bullets around people's heads like Venus Williams delivering a killer serve. He gets orders from a "loom of fate" that spells out the names of victims in woven binary code -- no stinkin' computers needed in this matrix. But Wes is eager to take out the man who killed his father, although it will lead him to uncover a devastating truth.

Wanted is unapologetically bloody and profane. It enjoys its violence in a cathartic, escapist way. The Matrix had depth and questions about the technological world we created. Its violence was mostly virtual, not physical. It's not correct to call Wanted a poor imitation, because it's not poor. But even though the movie evolved from a series of comic books, it's still an imitation.

OldTube

Ratings people and media analysts say young people don't watch TV news.

Now Variety tells us a lot of 'em don't watch TV, period:

According to a study released by Magna Global's Steve Sternberg, the five broadcast nets' average live median age (in other words, not including delayed DVR viewing) was 50 last season. That's the oldest ever since Sternberg started analyzing median age more than a decade ago -- and the first time the nets' median age was outside of the vaunted 18-49 demo.

That notion of a "key demo" may (hopefully) be on its way out in favor of "anybody we can find."

Treasured Moments

Pirates! Privateers! Corsairs! Buccaneers!
They're all forming a boarding party in Prescott with We Make History -- and throwing in a few twists.

As Recalled By Captain Bartholomew Burgundy
Photographs By Jack Tar

EDITOR'S NOTE: Earlier in the log of the Wayward Star, Captain Burgundy notes his supplies of ink and parchment are running low, undoubtedly from a long hunt for Spanish vessels. This explains the following entry from his adventures in Prescott, which appears to be a collection of highlights rather than a conventional narrative. Once again, I have labored to preserve his native English dialect.
--Christopher

21 June, The Year Of Our Lord 1708

Me companion for th' evenin' ganders h'self in the great mirror. She be th' terror of th' Pacific, Buccaneer Jane (which, I tell ye, be not her real name, shoul' this log evah fall into 'th hands of me enemies, 'specially th' Span'yids.)

"Do I look intimidating?" she says of her black attire.

"Wi' that pistol," I say, "ye intimidatin' no matter how ye look!"

* * *

Dred Cap'n Scott once again' declares there be a truce 'mong us. No swordplay, whatsoever!

But, however, he be enactin' a new rule. He 'as learned many of us are quite adroit a' dodgin' cannonballs with this' move call th' Twist. So t' keep us ready f' battle, anytime someone cries, "Twist!" all of us be twistin'. Savvy?


All hands on deck! The good Cap'n recognizes us all by th' countries of our home ports -- including th' French, th' Italians, th' Span'yids (avast!), th' Russians, an' the Japanese, but he be a bit puzzled when I stan' wi' the English.

"I thought you would be with the French," he observes 'a me.

"Froinch?" I wonder. Me poppa, maybe. Ah' heah' rumours 'bout me surname, how Poppa was' nevah born into some fam'ly of esteem, but rather, developed a peculiah taste for fine spirits ovah th' course of sev'ral raids, spurnin' th' rum completely. Thus 'is crew, in a bit of indignatious jest, dubbed him "Cap'n Burgundy."


When ye' called to jig, ye jig! Step lively into th' circle when' the good Cap'n calls ye out!

"All wearing red!"

"All wearing black!"

"All wearing feathers!"

"All from England!"

"All gents!"

"All ladies!"

"All mmmmmmphmmh..."

Wha' was tha'? Wha' was th' order? The music of Bahama Becky an' The Plankwalkers be fillin' th' spacious hall an' drownin' out th' good Cap'n. Or maybe it be saltwater in me ears?

At leas' I hear the' call fer a broadside. All join 'ands and rush the' centre!

"YAARRRR!" we cry as we storm into th' middle. A pity fer ou' beloved photo artist Jack Tar. We nearly run 'im down twice!

* * *

I say anythin' worth doin' once is worth repeatin, even a year apart. So how happy I was to once again' dance th' Pirate Polka: slidin' an' slappin' an' tappin' an' clappin' and shakin' fingers an laughin' wi' the ladies as we mix 'round in a circle. I admit, it fulfills me ulterior motive to dance wi' every lady a' the ball. I don' wan' to bail out on me lady friend, savvy, bu' I have my gentlemanly obligations.

Speakin' a such, I insist on dressin in me finest t' impress me lady Buc, but alas the winds be not in our favor, an' th' savage heat of th' desert withers me through my coat. I be grat'ful for the windmakin' devices and the gen'rous grog, along with the concern of me companion, who notes time 'an again that I got' to be burnin' up. She and I stand together before th' fan' of relief.

But finally, th' sweat and scourage of th' temperature forces me t' do wha' many've ye would consider ungentlemanly: shed me coat. I feel a bi' odd dancin' about wi' me weskit plain as day. Th' ladies, Bless Them, don' think less'a me.


Ev'ry year, we pay tribute t' Noah, tha' first sailor, remem'brin 'is adventures wi' a ship fulla animals... oh, an' three sons who had to help repopulate th' earth. An' me crew thinks they're busy!

We pick 'ot someone t' represent Noah, prefer'bly with t' beard 'an all like. An' he chooses a wife. An' we need 'is three sons, Japeth, Shem, an' Ham. So ou' Noah follows orders from the Dread Cap'n and chooses two young lads fer Japeth and Shem. An' he chooses a youn'-a'-heart one fer Ham. That be your humble cap'n.


Now his sons nee' wives. So now the' pick from th' fine ladies of th' party. Ye think fer a minute I'd choose anybody besides Buccaneer Jane? Didn' I tell ye she carried a pistol? An' everyon' else -- they be th' animals!


So wi' th' family all togeth'r, standin' at th' front of the crowd, we all pay honour wi' a shanty, recounting Noah's righteousness 'n triumph throu' th' great flood, 'till 'e released th' dove an' discovered th' waters be recedin', an' everythin' could begin again' anew. Land ahoy!

Every'un twist!

* * *

Ye up for a game of ninepin? Nay, not bowlin' -- the dance, me mates!

Ere's how't goes, more'r less: Ye take four couples standin' in a square, an' then ye add one more person 'n the middle called the ninepin. So then th' couples go back and forth with the ninepin standin' there, dancin' around th' ninepin. And then one person from each couple dances wi' the ninepin 'n a circle 'til they get the call to break off and find a partner to swing. If ye ain' quick, ye get left with no partner an' ye end up as th' ninepin.

I remember dancin' this 'n schoo' as a wee one, yet I 'adnin't learned th' part about endin' up as th' ninepin if I didn' swing some'un quick enough. They all laughed 'a me as they danced 'round me.

Yet now, ev'ryone wants to be th' ninepin -- includin' meself! Me dancin' mates intentionally don't find somebody t' swing, an' they offer t' take turns bein' danced around, as if t'were a dance 'n their honour. Most of th' ninepins stan' in place. But I dance a jig, 'appy to be th' centre of attention.

An' I adore gettin' trapped by me mates when we play "Catch The Pirate."



The Dred Cap'n feels 't necessary t' honour a few more brave bucs. He sings a shor' shanty of an Irishman who sailed t' Portugal, where 'e found 'is true love. An' now they 'ave a brave and lively son, an' a beatiful an' graceful daughter. Ah, dubloons and pieces 'f eigh' be not th' only treasure.

An' a few of us be puttin' candles on th' cake this month an' next. What do we do wi' em? Make 'em walk th' plank? Nay. Keelhaul them? Maybe 'in some primitive time, aye, but not this evenin'. Twist? Aye, a little. But we join hands' an' dance aroun' them -- singin' "Fer they're such jolly good fellas!" It seems not a lot 'f us be havin' birthdays 'n June or July. I wond'r why.


Maybe ye not up for a polka or a refin' country dance. But if ye can't danc' a jig, how 'in blazes can ye call yeself a sailor?

Buccaneer Jane an' I 'ave the pleasure 'a bein' the firs' t' demonstrate it. Ye really don' need t' be fancy with ye' feet, jus' lively. Some like ta' hop about 'n point their toes, an' some jus' hop about. It doesn't mattah a wee bit as long as ye have somethin' of a rhythm 'bout ye. But ye better hope ye 'ave enough stamina to go a few rounds until some'un kindly cuts in on ye', meanin' tappin' ye on the back wi' a hand so ye c'n bow out gracefully. I mus' admit, 'tis bettah th'n the method I seen in some taverns of ill repute 'n me travels, where ye might get a tap on th' neck wi' a cutlass instead!

An' gents, just as ye got t' do ye duty in askin' a lady to dance, ye also got to thow 'er the rope when she be in distress. A couple of ladies dance an' dance so sprightly, they nearly lose th' wind in their fair sails! Lookin' at 'em, ye might be fooled inta thinkin' they're not to be disturbed. But, they be overflowin' wi relief when another cuts in t' relieve 'em.


"Oh, thank ye," I heard one gasp.

Speakin' for meself, I keep losin' the wind. But, I couldn' let 't show around th' ladies. So I jig on and on, throwin me hands up into th' air an' shufflin' me feet. If I be dyin' on this' floor tonight, I shall die kickin' and screamin' for joy! Hizzah!


Th' Dred Cap'n be delighted! Such a knowledg'ble crew! He offers plunder in exchange fer piratical facts, and everyone, save for only one soul, has one at hand. Buccaneer Jane an' I discuss piece'a wisdom we shall offer 'f we be drawn from th' hat, fer she didn' know 'bout the fact requirement, 'an blow me down if I'm gonna see 'er have t' jig to claim her prize.


In th' end, it be me among th' lucky ones, an' I share an' insider's tip fer every pirate who doesn' want to 'ave to bury treasure:


"In 1652, Samuel Sewell establish'd a free mint in Boston, givin' pirates a place t' drop their booty without gettin' caught!"

Me prize? Dutch cookies -- tasty! Try gettin' such'a treat from th' Span'yids.


Bahama Becky an' The Plankwalkers get 'round. I spot 'em playin' a tango durin' an' interlude fer a waltz, an later, durin' the' Pineapple Dance, they fiddle wi' this dance tune from Hungary! I 'alf expect to see our Russian' mates dance th' Troika. I be tempted t' break out wi' me rendidion of a Ukrainian Hopak, but alas, me dancin' legs aren't tha' strong.


So I sashay about wi' th' ladies -- an' a few gentlemen Bucs -- throwin' in a twirl 'ere an' there wi' a kick -- Hey!


Now twist!

* * *

Thar be’a sayin, “Dance wi’ th’ one tha’ brung ye,” but I cannot, for th’ life’a me, stan’ to see a young lady on th’ dance floor, warnderin’ abou’ like a lost ship, durin’ a waltz. Buccaneer Jane be engaged ‘n conversation wi’ an ally about her nex’ plunder, so I seize th’ opportunity to sail to th’ lost lady’s rescue.

I run halfway across th’ the ballroom, full sail, me coattails’ flyin’, until I make a full stop in fron’ of ‘er an’ bow as if she were th’ Queen! Th’ wee one graciously takes me han’, and we dance a variati’n of th’ Minuet, steppin’ gracefully across th’ ballroom. Me partner, she be a lively one. She smiles as she prances abou’, complimentin’ me more reserved moves an’ givin’ her buccaneer mother grea’ pleasure, I do believe.

* * *

A' the end of th' evenin, we share a feast 'n a nearby tav'n, an' it takes three pints'a lemonade to replenish me. Me lady Buccaneer Jane insists I chow down, an' I be happy to oblige 'er before I bid 'er farewell an' Bon Voyage as I make me way back to the Wayward Star.

An' as I sail fer home and thin' back on 'er smile and her prettiness, a query interrupts me reminiscin': Eh, where be me cookies?

Aye, she not be called Buccaneer Jane for naught, savvy?


More from this motley yet friendly crew of seafarers here.

NEXT: Go Fourth In Victory!

One Way In

A newly-released survey [PDF] from the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life gives me pause. It finds 70 percent of Americans with a religious faith believe there are several paths to everlasting life, and Jesus isn't the only way there.

However, as CBS News and the AP report,

• 92 percent believe in God


• 74 percent believe in life after death


• 63 percent say their respective scriptures are the word of God

Taking that last stat into mind with the 70 percent who believe in several paths, I have a hard time figuring out how Christians can rectify an open mind about salvation when Jesus makes it clear in John 14:6: "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."

The CBS & AP article gives a hint:

Others emphasize the wideness of God's grace.

The Catholic church teaches that the "one church of Christ ... subsists in the Catholic Church" alone and that Protestant churches, while defective, can be "instruments of salvation."

I believe in God's grace, but I also believe that grace is expressed in His ultimate gift to us in Christ The Savior. I believe we can't have God's grace unless we admit our sins and accept Christ's sacrifice for us.

That being said, I know God sometimes uses people of little or no faith to do His will. In Joshua 2, the pagan prostitute Rahab gave shelter and protection to a pair of spies sent into Jericho. However, she had heard of God's mighty deeds, as Joshua 2:8-11 (NIV) points out:

Before the spies lay down for the night, she went up on the roof and said to them, "I know that the Lord has given this land to you and that a great fear of you has fallen on us, so that all who live in this country are melting in fear because of you. We have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea for you when you came out of Egypt, and what you did to Sihon and Og, the two kings of the Amorites east of the Jordan, whom you completely destroyed. When we heard of it, our hearts melted and everyone's courage failed because of you, for the Lord your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below.

So, she at least had the Fear of God in her... or respect for Him.

What worries me is that many Christians don't have either this fear or respect. God gives us free will and latitude in many things, and we are all commanded to love our neighbors and our enemies. However, how is this love defined? Is it defined as unconditional acceptance of what others do, or caring enough about somebody to straighten them out if they're on the wrong path?

Christ had a famous moment of righteous indignation as recounted in Matthew 21:12-13 (NIV):

Jesus entered the temple area and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. "It is written," he said to them, "'My house will be called a house of prayer,' but you are making it a 'den of robbers.'"

Jesus wasn't subtle with people who had a reputation for ripping off the faithful. We shouldn't let others spiritually rip us off by watering down our obedience for God in the name of tolerance -- especially if they are believers.

1 John 2:3-6 (NIV):

We know that we have come to know Him if we obey His commands. The man who says, "I know Him," but does not do what He commands is a liar, and the truth is not in him. But if anyone obeys His word, God's love is truly made complete in him. This is how we know we are in Him: Whoever claims to live in Him must walk as Jesus did.

It looks like we have a lot of work to do as believers. And as I've learned in the year since my baptism, being a devoted Christian isn't easy. I'm far from perfect, and please don't ever let me give you the impression of being the proverbial holier-than-thou person. A fellow believer gave me this verse to commit to memory -- 2 Timothy 2:15 (NIV):

Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.

History-Making Wedding

Mark the date. Ben Franklin is marrying Betsy Ross on July 3 in Philadelphia. Actually, it's historical interpreters Ralph Archbold and Linda Wilde, but don't tell them we told you that.

From gophilla.com:

Fitting for such a ceremony, Archbold and Wilde will exchange rings engraved with a kite and key and stars and stripes, symbols representing the historic characters they play.

After the ceremony, the couple will head to the historic City Tavern, one of Benjamin Franklin's favorite restaurants, for a private reception with family and friends.

Your humble servant would love to be there for the nuptials, but he is slated to march in Flagstaff's Independence Day parade, in full Continental Army uniform.

So Huzzah to Ben and Betsy! As Franklin himself said: "Marriage is the most natural state of man, and the state in which you will find solid happiness."

Strange Justice, Eh?

The next time you hear Canadians snort about how much better their justice system is compared to the U.S., you e-mail them this decision from a Quebec court which overturned a father's decision to ground his daughter. The offense? Logging on to Internet sites he tried to block and posting inappropriate pictures.

As AFP reported:

"I started an appeal of the decision today to reestablish parental authority, and to ensure that this case doesn't set a precedent," [The father's lawyer Kim Beaudoin] said. Otherwise, said Beaudoin, "parents are going to be walking on egg shells from now on."

Your Lightning Round staffers find it interesting that this girl used a court-appointed lawyer that had been involved in the parents' ten-year custody dispute. Ten years.

We don't believe in karma, but any set of Mommies and Daddies who argue over possession that long is bound to get slammed. And it looks like the daughter has learned to play the system like a piano... much like American kids.

Unbe-leave-able

This is not a Photoshop gag. An Indonesian man started turning into a tree. (Warning: disturbing images)

It's because of the virus we're all supposed to get a lecture about sometime in our young lives.

Now if he fell in the forest, and nobody saw it, would he actually fall?

Sometimes, You Gotta Drill

Speculation aside, the price of oil isn't going to drop in this country until we start finding more of it. That means we're going to have to suck it up and start drilling offshore.

You don't like looking at oil derricks? Fine. Understandable. But I know you don't like looking at gas station signs either, and there's far more of them.

What do you know about oil drilling? I hope it's nothing like you saw in There Will Be Blood. The gusher days are over, replaced with much more efficient, cleaner, environmentally-friendly ways of extracting oil. But that's right, you didn't think the oil companies were capable of being environmentally friendly, did you?

I wouldn't dream of driving a Hummer. Ferraris aren't my style. Oil hogs belong in the pig sty. But until we get an electric car that's capable of taking me from Tucson to Los Angeles without a long recharge, I'm sticking to something that runs on gas. So let's go out there and find it.

About Tim Russert...

The three-day period of television mourning over the death of "Meet The Press" moderator Tim Russert proves two things: 1) TV journalists love talking about themselves and 2) journalism has lost a heavyweight champion.

I know a lot of you don't understand why NBC and all the cable news networks have devoted hour upon hour to this story. As I asked on Friday, what about all the people evacuated from their flooded homes in Cedar Rapids and Des Moines, Iowa? Aren't they worthy of a little airtime amid this wake?

But as a sign in Tim Russert's office said, "Thou Shalt Not Whine." Russert didn't. He didn't turn a weekly hour of television into a partisan gripe-fest with guests -- as is the standard for the cable shows. Russert didn't work off of party talking points. If you imploded on his show, it was because he used your own words against you or hit you with the question you were dodging. And if you wanted to be somebody in Washington, you didn't dodge him.

I hear the phrase "tough but fair" uttered consistently in his obituaries. It is like TV political journalism is writing its own obituary, wistful once again for the days of Walter and Edward and Eric. It knows it's too chummy with the insiders, but it can't be a player unless it has the key to the clubhouse door.

Tim Russert's chair is too big for most people to fill. I have two candidates who I think would be right for the job, but I know neither one of them would take it. Whomever NBC chooses to sit there next needs to realize, above anything else, that the moderator is not the star of the show but the advocate for the viewer.

The Father, The Son & The Upgrade

How Dad's love survived a pain in the ASCII.

The job was supposed to take a couple of hours, a steady hand, and minimal mileage. One day later, we were frustrated but hopeful. Two days later, we were frustrated and capitulatory. Three days later, it was finally done, leaving me flummoxed at why my PC upgrading experience failed so spectacularly.

I'd upgraded my father's PC before, a couple of years ago, taking him from an aging Dell Pentium II to a cutting-edge AMD 3200 system. Now, after looking at an electronics-store ad and talking about it, we agreed to move him up to a top-line system for a dirt cheap price by swapping out the motherboard, processor, and memory. Gathering the parts required an hour-long journey from Upland, California to Industry in the usual Los Angeles traffic.

I cleared a space on Dad's workbench and got to work on New Years' Eve. And then, as I noted in my journal:

When I got all the parts together this afternoon and started to put the new AMD quad-core processor into the motherboard, it just wouldn't drop in like it was supposed to. Thats when I took it out and noticed a pin was bent in the middle. Rather than try to unbend it myself, Dad and I took it back to [Store X], where they exchanged it for one with no bent pins, no questions asked. We inspected it and left satisfied.

Late this afternoon, I tried again. It still wouldn't go in. Maybe something was blocking it in the slot. But the slot looked fine. I looked at the chip.

Not again, I groaned. I saw another bent pin -- this time on the outside.

Neither Dad nor I wanted to make another trip to [Store X]. I decided to try to bend it back, using a steady hand, a small screwdriver and a magnifying glass. Dad held the glass while I did the ever-so-gentle bending. After a couple of tweaks, I finally got the chip in the slot with no forcing. With that settled, putting the fan on the processor was a snap, literally. I installed the memory, mounted the motherboard inside the new case we got Sunday and screwed everything in solid. I connected the case wiring and mounted the extra hard drive Dad just bought. It still awaits a smoke test, but that can be done tomorrow.

I thought the hard part was over. I was wrong. Here's my chronicle from the next day, New Years' Day.

I'm still trying to get Dad's computer upgrade to work. This morning started out promising. I had the motherboard set up in the machine, and all I had to do was put in the hard drive and the DVD drive (one of them, anyway). I get it all wired up, turn it on, and I get nothing. Not even a POST.

It may be the power supply, we figure. It's one of the older types that has only a 20-pin connector instead of a 24-pin connector. So we head over to [Store Y] and spend $40 on a nice new one with plenty of cables and wattage and pins. I install it, wire it up, and turn it on again. Again, nothing. No POST.

Not wanting to go out all the way to [Store X] again, we take the board in the box to [Store Y]. They look at it, and they think everything's okay, but they want $80 to do a diagnostic. They also tell us that ECS motherboard we put in there is a cheap motherboard and prone to flakiness. Looks like we're going back to [Store X] again. So Dad and I go back there for the third time now in four days.

Our first stop is their service department. After making us stand in line (not telling us we had to stand in line in the first place, or showing us where the line was), they again wanted money just to do diagnostics on the board. After talking with them about it, they said why not just exchange the board and the processor again. So I pick out a better motherboard, and we go to their exchanges department, where they part out the motherboard we're exchanging and take back the processor.

More waiting, more people punching things into sales computers, more paperwork to sign. But the process is moving forward. Then we have to go to the checkout line to claim the new processor. First, the wait is long: at least fifteen minutes with the gargantuan line. Then we get to the register, and the guy behind the counter first takes the paperwork back to do the exchange, then comes back and says we need to go back to the computer department to claim the processor, contrary to what we were told by the exchanges guy.

I'm getting tired of being shuffled like a deck of cards. "We've been sent three different places already," I said.

Dad is getting tired with the waiting, and he pulls rank.

"This guy," he says, referring to me, "is with 60 Minutes!" A bit of a stretch, but the guy got the hint. He went back and got the goods himself.

Then another guy, presumably a supervisor comes back and says we can't upgrade to the better motherboard, even if we're willing to pay the difference in price, because it's being sold as a bundle.

I'm ticked. "We have done everything you have asked us to do," I said. "We have been here three times in three days."

My Dad's willing to go with another ECS motherboard, if I'm not. Finally, to my chagrin, he exchanges the motherboard with the same model and talks to another supervisor, telling her all we've been through in the past few days. She says we can get the processor tested out before we leave, and we take her up on that offer.

More waiting. The guy in the exchange department tests both the processor and the motherboard. Both check out okay on the bench. Finally, it looks like we're getting somewhere.

We get home around 6:30, three hours after we ventured out again. I put the processor back together with the motherboard, rewire and remount everything. I flip the switch.

Nothing. The darn thing just refuses to POST. Darned if I know why.

It doesn't matter to me that the thing POSTed on the bench at [Store X]. I need it to POST in the case, screwed in, like it's going to be in the real world. Maybe it's shorting out in the case. I unscrewed it and tried to boot it with out it making case contact. Nothing. But I have a feeling that this is a poorly designed motherboard/case combination and I wouldn't want it for a system.

After much venting and frustration with Dad on this, we've decided to go back to [Store X] again, with the board installed in the case and get them to either make it work or give us our money back -- and with no charge for the diagnostics, either.

One day later, we finally had it working, only because my Royal Father took it to a place down the street from our house, with service people who knew what they were doing. He shelled out $120 and the system booted up, justifiably fast. I added a few other drives and cards to the case to finish the upgrade. Somehow, after this labyrinth of headaches, Dad figured he came out ahead in the deal.

This is not the father-son bonding I wanted over the holidays. The Queen Mother was not amused, advising me that I needed to enjoy my time off from the stress of the newsroom rather than trading it in for stress over a computer. The Royal Father didn't hold a grudge, thanking me for all my futile efforts. I've repeatedly fixed mysterous PC issues before, usually within an hour or less, so overall my track record proves I'm no hack.

He continues to depend on me for tech support, and I know in a couple of years, he'll eye another upgrade. I pledge I will carry it out and get it right this time.

"Good Evening. I'll Be Doing This Job Solo For Awhile."

Be careful with pronouns in news scripts. KPIX-TV's Ken Bastida, or his writer, was not:

A Few Steps More

Taking my dancing skills forward with the Tucson Friends Of Traditional Music.

My colonial, three-cornered, black-and-white tricorn lay next to me in the passenger seat like a good friend cheering me on.

I sit in the car a few moments, thoughts flashing back to the night two-and-a-half years ago when I nervously stepped through a side door and into another century wearing breeches with an oversized colonial officer’s coat, head topped by the same tricorn. I say a prayer, take my hat, and walk out into the warm Tucson evening on the last night of May.

Three people stand inside the door of First United Methodist Church, one at the cashbox.

“Is this your first time?” the lady taking admissions asks.

“Yes and no,” I say. “Not here.”

Contra dance is a derivative of English Country Dance, the dance of the 1700’s colonists, of Washington and Pride and Prejudice. I’ve stepped though them many times before, in the full period attire. This night I wear dress shorts and a brown plaid button-down shirt with sneakers, putting myself in line with the advisory on the society’s website: “Casual.”

Inside the sparsely lit ballroom I tally a half-dozen couples in street clothes, tennis shoes and lightweight skirts. No knee pants, no ruffled ball gowns, no wigs or cocked hats, except for the one I brought in. I am not stepping into an antique painting. I feel underdressed. I am not sure why I am here, pushing myself into a group of dancing strangers. I could say I’m curious, and that would be most accurate.

“Newcomers, over here!” our caller announces. She waves a few ladies and gentlemen over for a demonstration of basic steps. A woman in a casual red-laced skirt stands next to me. She’s 20 years my senior, if I have to guess.

Everything is to an eight-count, our caller explains. That’s familiar. We walk back and forth in a few circles to get the hang of it. She demonstrates a swing, and the familiarity ends. It’s not hoe-down swing, elbow to elbow or even a graceful turn of your partner with hands at shoulder level. This is a waltzing swing, taking hold of the lady in your arms and spinning with gusto for as long as you can, perhaps as fast as you can, until the eight-count ends.

You can get dizzy, our caller advises. “Pick out a part of your partner’s face. If you don’t want to look into her eyes, look at her nose.” I’d rather look at her eyes and hold my breath.

A do-si-do is no mere back-to-back maneuver, but another whirling spectacle as you and your partner circle round each other. My partners can whirl for now. I practice swinging my partner.

“I think that’s right,” I say after ending up with her to my right as is proper.

I try a balance with it, stepping forward and back, hand in hand. She smiles. She neither discourages or encourages me. We are learning together.

“You want to dance with as many partners as possible,” says our caller -- another rule not amended from century to century.

The caller announces the first dance and I seek a partner. Men casually approach the women: “Wanna dance?”

This is what passes for honors? As long as that tricorn is on my head, I cannot follow a suit of such inelegant queries. I approach a lady in a t-shirt and skirt, sweep off my hat, and bow with outstretched leg, the Williamsburg way.

She accepts with gusto, and we line up in a longways set. Soon we launch into a centrifugal rollercoaster ride of circles and swings and left-hand stars, progressing up and down the line, gaining just enough breath between figures to continue on for the full dance. I bow to my lady and find another partner, and the next dance feels much like the first, with the moves jumbled up and the whirling and circling just as intense.

The spinning hurls the sense from my brain, and I sometimes lose track of what figure comes next, thus the need for patient and forgiving dancers and a dutiful caller: “Circles!” “Ladies!” “Do-si-do!” “Swing!” The sweat pours down my forehead. This only after two dances. My tricorn is a fan when the music halts.

It may be the lack of air conditioning in the church hall, or the residual warmth of a scorching Tucson afternoon, or my underhydration for such happy exertion, but I desperately need a break. It puts me in the minority of dancers, most of whom are craving more.

Two jugs of spring water stand at attention outside the ballroom, and I graciously down a cup, enjoying the replenishment as I strike up a conversation with one of the men at the door who saw me enter. I note again this is my first time with the group.

“I’m with a group called We Make History,” I say, something I’ll repeat a few times through the night. “We do different dances from different time periods.”

I talk about the different balls and the styles, from seventeenth-century through the Civil War. I mention dancing a stamina-challenging 30-minute long Virginia Reel.

“You know where the reel comes from, don’t you?”

No I don’t. But I’ll take a shot at it.

“Scotland, I think.”

“A lot of reel music is from Scotland, but the reel is from France.”

So the next time I drain my energy stripping the willow or swinging my way up and down the set, I can praise the French for my consumption.

I replenish myself enough to rejoin the other dancers. After taking my place in the set with a new lady, I see my practice partner in the red skirt ducking out the door. She hurries off without any goodbyes. Perchance she was late for another appointment. Maybe two or three whirls around the set fulfilled her need for diversion. Hopefully the gentlemen were not ignoring her.

The experienced contra dancers stand out in every figure. They spin with the grace of ballerinas and frenzy of dervishes. Ladies’ skirts spin up to an immodest degree. The seasoned women pull you to them with a fisherman’s strength, stare straight into your eyes, and silently demand you give them focus during a hearty swing.

“I noticed your eye contact,” one lady says to me. “That’s very contra.”

Other ladies notice what’s above my eyes. They snicker at my three-cornered hat and shake their heads back and forth as we turn together.

“It’s like I’m dancing with somebody on Masterpiece Theatre,” one partner interjects.

Some mistakenly compliment me with a “yaarrr,” to which the Standard Correction follows: “It’s not a pirate hat; it’s a patriot hat!”

I explain why I’m wearing it: bridging the gap between English Country Dancing and its sibling. Lights flick on between their ears -- “oh!” -- as they recall the connection.

The fiddler and pianist play a waltz, and a lady approaches me. “Wanna waltz?”

I merely bow to her.

“I’m not the greatest waltzer,” I repeat, wondering to myself how many times I’ve said that to ladies. “Perhaps you should lead.”

She does. She knows how. I reluctantly look down at my feet to make sure the music and steps line up. I look up, and for a moment, I’m somewhere in the eighteenth century.

“I prefer to give my attention to your face,” I say with a light British tone.

“Oh no! Not the accent,” she grins.

Oh yes, the accent. Viscount Christopher or Christopher the Patriot or Christopher the Colonist fully emerges. Part of him is there through the rest of the evening, as others compliment me on my hat, glance at it or break a smile. They forgive me for my foul-ups and lead me where I need to go. I’m exhausting myself but know my presence is appreciated and welcomed.

The crowd thins as the clock ticks on. The experienced dancers draw from a deep well of energy, but even that runs dry eventually, as couples quietly disappear. By eleven, the hall sits nearly empty, and I find myself without a lady to take in my arms.

I retreat into the past with a freestyle minuet, walking in graceful three-quarter time about the hall. I pivot and weave amongst the couples with hands held open. Somewhere on the sparsely populated wooden floor I picture a lady in full gown, turning with me, a ghost of the past.

“You’re more graceful than a lot of newbies,” the caller compliments.

Those who are left, including me, help reset the tables cleared out before the dance began, and I assist with packing up the sound system. The evening isn’t over until we are all on our merry way.

“We could follow you all the way down the set in that hat,” the fiddler tells me.

Once again, I talk to the man who greeted me at the door and his wife, who I now know as the organizers. They thank me for coming, and we talk more about the dances I’ve done and who’s stepping back in time in Tucson.

“I have full colonial attire,” I say. “Blue satin with breeches and a jabot and a gold-trimmed tricorn.”

They encourage me to wear it one evening, should I so desire.

I’m stunned. “I didn’t want to intimidate anyone,” I explained. “I thought about it, but decided not to.” In the Tucson heat, I’m not sure if I would want to, anyway. But I’m tempted to come back as the unabashed colonial gentleman. I envision the ladies snickering once again over that.

My shins throb. Sunday morning will ache. I need a caffeine fix. But I’ve taken care of the curiosity, and I shall return in my own grace and borrowed time.

Two days later, my right ankle still abhors me. I limp all over the newsroom.

“What happened to you?”

“Saturday night,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

“Did you dance?”

“Oh, yes.”

And They Didn't Spell My Name Right, Either

A courtroom sketch artist had to re-draw a picture of accused 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed after he complained his nose was too big.

From the AP:

"I heard he said I should compare it to the FBI photo of him," [artist Janet] Hamlin said, clutching a copy of the much-publicized capture photo that showed Mohammed in a T-shirt looking disheveled and unshaven.

Your Lightning Round stringers have since learned that big nose came from the latest Guantanamo bay torture interrogation method -- schnoz-boarding.