A man in Suffolk, Virginia killed a fox with his bare hands when attacked. Here's the story from WVEC-TV, Norfolk:
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Sizing Up Gov. Sarah Palin
I'm still officially undecided about the Presidential race, which is great fun when push-pollsters call because the conversation usually goes like this:
"Hello?"
"Hi, I'm (name) from (partisan polling group). If the election were held today, which Presidential candidate would you vote for?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Oh, okay. Thank you for your time." Click.
I can hear the disappointment in their voices. They don't have an opportunity to hit me with partisan spin-doctored guff. But they need the independents. They need 'em badly.
Enter Alaska Governor Sarah Palin. A week and a half ago, you were thinking "who?" Now she's exploded, landing in the supermarket tabloids, talk radio, and the cable-news gabfests. Friends of mine are going crazy about her, and I can't blame them. She's got the look, the razor-sharp tongue, and the political moxie. She wants to win.
But does she have my vote? Let me go down the list.
First, the whole eruption over her daughter's pregnancy stunk to high heaven. While I agree Gov. Palin needed to come clean about what happened, this whole mess started with left-wing bloggers acting more like Hollywood gossip mavens. They raised questions about the paternity of Gov. Palin's youngest child, and then the press got in on the chase. Thankfully, the governor's handlers had the sense to avoid the John Kerry mistake of thinking some issues are unworthy of response. Kerry found out it doesn't matter once the allegations get into the 24-hour news and web cycle. (Kudos to Newsweek for debunking several rumors.)
I have sympathy for Palin after she hit that tripwire straight out of the blocks. Before she agreed to sit down with Charlie Gibson of ABC, she wasn't going to do interviews unless she was treated with "respect and deference." When I heard that phrase from John McCain's campaign manager, I thought of the scene in HBO's John Adams where the title statesman and patriot had to make three "reverences" -- low and courtly bows -- before King George III when entering the throne room. Can you imagine Charlie Gibson bending a knee before Her Alaskan Majesty?
But seriously, Palin is scoring points in her game of Beat The Press, so she has little incentive to quit. Republicans love to play the press-victim game and harp on the "liberal media," forgetting most media corporations are run by people who are anything but liberal. Dems say the media's too conservative and gripe about Fox News and talk radio rather than figuring out how to win. Both parties then complain when the press isn't tough enough on their opponents. A pox on both your houses. I'm tired of it. Bias is in the eye of the beholder. Hopefully the governor will move on before the press-bash act grows stale.
Sen. Barack Obama and Palin are now going back and forth over who's the bigger pork barrel spender. Gov. Palin claims Obama got a billion dollars in earmarks for Illinois, and Obama's people claim she's gotten millions herself. Really. If you ask a politician to abstain from earmarks, you are in for a world of disappointment. Remember that saying: "Never teach a pig to sing. It doesn't work and it annoys the pig."
So she wants to drill in Alaska. With $3 gas, a lot of us would. But I also want to see Detroit come up with the 70 mpg car so we don't have to keep having this discussion. And going back to pork again, I found this example in Time of how the colder half lives:
So she doesn't have enough foreign policy experience. Neither does Barack Obama. Neither did Dan Quayle. And George W. didn't have a lot either before he moved into the White House. Getting real again, that's why you have presidential advisers. Surely you don't expect the Chief Executive to do it all with one brain.
This takes me back to my brain and its indecision. Less than sixty days from now, I'll be ready. For the present though, I'm still undecided, with no motivation to change and every motivation to keep on digging while the partisans labor for my vote like some trophy.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I'm (name) from (partisan polling group). If the election were held today, which Presidential candidate would you vote for?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Oh, okay. Thank you for your time." Click.
I can hear the disappointment in their voices. They don't have an opportunity to hit me with partisan spin-doctored guff. But they need the independents. They need 'em badly.
Enter Alaska Governor Sarah Palin. A week and a half ago, you were thinking "who?" Now she's exploded, landing in the supermarket tabloids, talk radio, and the cable-news gabfests. Friends of mine are going crazy about her, and I can't blame them. She's got the look, the razor-sharp tongue, and the political moxie. She wants to win.
But does she have my vote? Let me go down the list.
First, the whole eruption over her daughter's pregnancy stunk to high heaven. While I agree Gov. Palin needed to come clean about what happened, this whole mess started with left-wing bloggers acting more like Hollywood gossip mavens. They raised questions about the paternity of Gov. Palin's youngest child, and then the press got in on the chase. Thankfully, the governor's handlers had the sense to avoid the John Kerry mistake of thinking some issues are unworthy of response. Kerry found out it doesn't matter once the allegations get into the 24-hour news and web cycle. (Kudos to Newsweek for debunking several rumors.)
I have sympathy for Palin after she hit that tripwire straight out of the blocks. Before she agreed to sit down with Charlie Gibson of ABC, she wasn't going to do interviews unless she was treated with "respect and deference." When I heard that phrase from John McCain's campaign manager, I thought of the scene in HBO's John Adams where the title statesman and patriot had to make three "reverences" -- low and courtly bows -- before King George III when entering the throne room. Can you imagine Charlie Gibson bending a knee before Her Alaskan Majesty?
But seriously, Palin is scoring points in her game of Beat The Press, so she has little incentive to quit. Republicans love to play the press-victim game and harp on the "liberal media," forgetting most media corporations are run by people who are anything but liberal. Dems say the media's too conservative and gripe about Fox News and talk radio rather than figuring out how to win. Both parties then complain when the press isn't tough enough on their opponents. A pox on both your houses. I'm tired of it. Bias is in the eye of the beholder. Hopefully the governor will move on before the press-bash act grows stale.
Sen. Barack Obama and Palin are now going back and forth over who's the bigger pork barrel spender. Gov. Palin claims Obama got a billion dollars in earmarks for Illinois, and Obama's people claim she's gotten millions herself. Really. If you ask a politician to abstain from earmarks, you are in for a world of disappointment. Remember that saying: "Never teach a pig to sing. It doesn't work and it annoys the pig."
So she wants to drill in Alaska. With $3 gas, a lot of us would. But I also want to see Detroit come up with the 70 mpg car so we don't have to keep having this discussion. And going back to pork again, I found this example in Time of how the colder half lives:
Alaska is, in essence, an adjunct member of OPEC. It has four different taxes on oil, which produce more than 89% of the state's unrestricted revenue. On average, three-quarters of the value of a barrel of oil is taken by the state government before that oil is permitted to leave the state. Alaska residents each get a yearly check for about $2,000 from oil revenues, plus an additional $1,200 pushed through by Palin last year to take advantage of rising oil prices. Any sympathy the governor of Alaska expresses for folks in the lower 48 who are suffering from high gas prices or can't afford to heat their homes is strictly crocodile tears.You can feel the envy from sea to shining sea.
So she doesn't have enough foreign policy experience. Neither does Barack Obama. Neither did Dan Quayle. And George W. didn't have a lot either before he moved into the White House. Getting real again, that's why you have presidential advisers. Surely you don't expect the Chief Executive to do it all with one brain.
This takes me back to my brain and its indecision. Less than sixty days from now, I'll be ready. For the present though, I'm still undecided, with no motivation to change and every motivation to keep on digging while the partisans labor for my vote like some trophy.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A Few Thoughts After The Last Gavel
Things I'm musing since the end of both party parties:
* Could Sen. John McCain and Gov. Sarah Palin have filled Viking Stadium as Sen. Barack Obama did at INVESCO field? Given Palin's TV ratings Wednesday night, I'd give it a shot. GOP heavyweights have star power, too.
* You could do both conventions in two days' time by stripping the most of the pep-rally elements, thereby reducing hot-air and gas emissions.
* The rumors about who fathered Palin's youngest child are a libel suit waiting to happen. And for the record, yes, Bristol's out-of-wedlock pregnancy is fair game for the news cycle. The Republicans are a family-values party. But how it came to light -- drug out through dirt-dishing at the Daily Kos -- stinks. One of these days a campaign's gonna sue a blogger and it won't be good for anybody.
* How the heck did Code Pink protesters keep getting into the GOP convention?
* Sen. Joe Biden, repeat after me: "I am the luckiest man on Earth for getting to be Obama's running mate after that ignorant remark I made last year about him being 'the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.'"
* Ironic how Palin disses Obama for being a community organizer while McCain calls on people to serve their country. Guess helping your neighbors isn't service enough.
* Who came up with the idea to put those columns behind Barack Obama? Sophocles? And it's obvious the GOP technicians forgot about Stephen Colbert's green screen challenge during the first few minutes of McCain's speech.
* The peaceful demonstrators in St. Paul ought to march next against the splinter group of rowdies who muffed it up for everybody.
* I couldn't decide on the bigger potential party pooper: Sen. Hillary Clinton for the Dems, or Ron Paul for the GOP. The partisans have to be thanking Heaven every night that neither of them decide to run as independents -- although it might be fun to watch.
* People complaining about the press beating up on Gov. Palin don't seem to mind reporters throwing Hillary under a bus... or for that matter, Amy Goodman. Years of experience in the news biz have convinced me when most people complain about press bias, it's because the press isn't biased in their direction.
* How many guys out there want the Republicans' giant LCD screen for their next Super Bowl bash?
* To all those who complained about Palin's daughter doing the lick-and-stick with the baby's hair: how many times have you done that in public? Come on, be honest.
* I'm still glad I'm not affiliated with either party.
* Could Sen. John McCain and Gov. Sarah Palin have filled Viking Stadium as Sen. Barack Obama did at INVESCO field? Given Palin's TV ratings Wednesday night, I'd give it a shot. GOP heavyweights have star power, too.
* You could do both conventions in two days' time by stripping the most of the pep-rally elements, thereby reducing hot-air and gas emissions.
* The rumors about who fathered Palin's youngest child are a libel suit waiting to happen. And for the record, yes, Bristol's out-of-wedlock pregnancy is fair game for the news cycle. The Republicans are a family-values party. But how it came to light -- drug out through dirt-dishing at the Daily Kos -- stinks. One of these days a campaign's gonna sue a blogger and it won't be good for anybody.
* How the heck did Code Pink protesters keep getting into the GOP convention?
* Sen. Joe Biden, repeat after me: "I am the luckiest man on Earth for getting to be Obama's running mate after that ignorant remark I made last year about him being 'the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.'"
* Ironic how Palin disses Obama for being a community organizer while McCain calls on people to serve their country. Guess helping your neighbors isn't service enough.
* Who came up with the idea to put those columns behind Barack Obama? Sophocles? And it's obvious the GOP technicians forgot about Stephen Colbert's green screen challenge during the first few minutes of McCain's speech.
* The peaceful demonstrators in St. Paul ought to march next against the splinter group of rowdies who muffed it up for everybody.
* I couldn't decide on the bigger potential party pooper: Sen. Hillary Clinton for the Dems, or Ron Paul for the GOP. The partisans have to be thanking Heaven every night that neither of them decide to run as independents -- although it might be fun to watch.
* People complaining about the press beating up on Gov. Palin don't seem to mind reporters throwing Hillary under a bus... or for that matter, Amy Goodman. Years of experience in the news biz have convinced me when most people complain about press bias, it's because the press isn't biased in their direction.
* How many guys out there want the Republicans' giant LCD screen for their next Super Bowl bash?
* To all those who complained about Palin's daughter doing the lick-and-stick with the baby's hair: how many times have you done that in public? Come on, be honest.
* I'm still glad I'm not affiliated with either party.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
One And Half Arms
"I can't believe you don't have any pain!"
Oh, believe it all right. God is Great. But working with a casted right arm still gives me a few headaches.
* Typing: The weight of the polycarbonate material tires my limb as I tap out scripts in the newsroom. I can relieve it by balancing it on my knee, which involves sitting in a slightly weird position. I've taken on a normal workload since coming back to KOLD -- including last night's primary elections -- with hardly any assistance.
* Driving: I'm glad I drive an automatic. Shifting is done with my left hand since it's hard to grip the lever with all the cast material in the way. Forget about turning any keys with my right hand alone.
* Doors: Unless it has a lever, the left hand is on knob duty.
But let's be real. All of this is low-grade nitpicking. My right bicep may be hating me now, but it's gonna love me when the wrap comes off, and then I'll suddenly find I can pick up a GMC van with my right hand or some other unexpected feat of strength.
Then, I'll hear a new question: "How did you get those scars?"
Oh, believe it all right. God is Great. But working with a casted right arm still gives me a few headaches.
* Typing: The weight of the polycarbonate material tires my limb as I tap out scripts in the newsroom. I can relieve it by balancing it on my knee, which involves sitting in a slightly weird position. I've taken on a normal workload since coming back to KOLD -- including last night's primary elections -- with hardly any assistance.
* Driving: I'm glad I drive an automatic. Shifting is done with my left hand since it's hard to grip the lever with all the cast material in the way. Forget about turning any keys with my right hand alone.
* Doors: Unless it has a lever, the left hand is on knob duty.
But let's be real. All of this is low-grade nitpicking. My right bicep may be hating me now, but it's gonna love me when the wrap comes off, and then I'll suddenly find I can pick up a GMC van with my right hand or some other unexpected feat of strength.
Then, I'll hear a new question: "How did you get those scars?"
Friday, August 29, 2008
Up And To Arms
A few updates on my fractured right arm after this morning's visit with the doctor:
* Those nasty surgical staples from the incisions are gone, baby, gone -- removed today. I still have a lot of healing to do on the wounds, but things are definitely better.
* New x-rays reveal bone is filling in. This time I took a closer look at one of the break sites and cringed when I saw how badly part of my upper arm splintered. I still haven't looked at my original x-ray.
* My doctor says he wants to keep me in a cast for two more weeks and then get me into something removable. "You're kidding me," I said. He wasn't. I was expecting to be wrapped up through through the end of September.
* Physical therapy will probably start in another two weeks. I still have partial numbness in my thumb and the top of my hand, and I still can't curl my thumb. "Give it time," my doctor advises. I will.
* Pain? None. Medications? Zero, unless you count multivitamins and Citracal. God is Great!
I thank everybody who has been praying for me. It is working. Please know that I am praying for all of you too, dearest friends and relatives, that God may watch over and protect you as He has been doing for me.
Huzzah!
* Those nasty surgical staples from the incisions are gone, baby, gone -- removed today. I still have a lot of healing to do on the wounds, but things are definitely better.
* New x-rays reveal bone is filling in. This time I took a closer look at one of the break sites and cringed when I saw how badly part of my upper arm splintered. I still haven't looked at my original x-ray.
* My doctor says he wants to keep me in a cast for two more weeks and then get me into something removable. "You're kidding me," I said. He wasn't. I was expecting to be wrapped up through through the end of September.
* Physical therapy will probably start in another two weeks. I still have partial numbness in my thumb and the top of my hand, and I still can't curl my thumb. "Give it time," my doctor advises. I will.
* Pain? None. Medications? Zero, unless you count multivitamins and Citracal. God is Great!
I thank everybody who has been praying for me. It is working. Please know that I am praying for all of you too, dearest friends and relatives, that God may watch over and protect you as He has been doing for me.
Huzzah!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A Scotsman Always Gets Up
Sorrow and redemption on the dance floor after the Big Bad Break.
Photos by M. Cynecki
Light rain from a dark sky sprinkles upon my face as the medical technicians wheel me outside the ballroom on a stretcher and into a waiting ambulance.
"Huzzah!" I cried to my friends before I left them.
"Huzzah!" they replied in unison, perhaps a few in tears.
Now it's as if the sky is crying, distressed at the unfairness of a slip and fall that ravaged my right arm in the middle of a joyous Highland Fling. Morphine deadens the pain from the damaged limb, but I can feel my heart breaking.
Water flows from my eyes as I ride through the streets of Flagstaff in the back of the medical transport, still wearing my kilt, puffy shirt, sash and diced hose. The party is over for me much too soon, and now I lay trapped in a nightmare I cannot end. All I want to do is dance again.
The sadness festers through the surgery and two days in the hospital. My parents arrive, and visitors offer their words and kindness. I grow tired and angry of my gown and the tubes and the needles and the oxygen hoses. I long to sleep. I long to turn back time. If I had only worn those other shoes or danced less fervently.
"I will dance again!" I tell myself and my friends. "I will not wait until next August! I will put on the kilt and finish what I started!" I will dance with every lady I can.
I pray to God for help. Please, O Lord, get me through this. Ease my sadness and suffering.
I will not carry the baggage around for 15 or 20 years, like memories of my rotten 8th Birthday Party, where I slipped at a skating rink and broke my arm before the presents and the cake.
Future balls with my history-loving friends will come, I remind myself. Wear your kilt to this one or that one, a friend tells me. It won't come soon enough to keep my broken heart from festering.
A week passes. The arm is mending but the heart needs help.
A new opportunity emerges as I sift through several websites Saturday morning. Round The House is playing tonight’s Contra dance at the usual place in Tucson. It’s a Celtic band. I know the steps. I know the crowd, sort of, and they won’t mind if I come in the full Highland regalia. The idea excites me. I have to do it.
The words of the Highland Ball's host ping through my head: "A Scotsman always gets up."
Anticipation builds throughout the day and ramps up as I change into my plaids. On go the checked stockings and kilt with sporran. Another puffy shirt and my Stewart Royal tartans follow -- and non-skid shoes.
We're off to the ball! I get there at 7:15, 45 minutes before start time, long enough for me to explain myself. The lady at the door looks me over with a surprised grin.
“I know I’m a little early, and I know I’m a little overdressed,” I say to her as the Happy Highlander, eager to get back on the floor. I explain why I’m here, pointing out the cast on my right arm and what led to it. I explain the story again to the caller.
I hope to go through a few refresher moves beforehand with some other newcomers. There aren’t any. Everyone shuffles in a few minutes before 8:00, bypassing the refresher course at 7:30, leaving me to go through a few moves with the caller, who’s convinced I know the figures. She cautions me I may want to simplify some moves, given my healing arm and the directive to “give weight” when turning your partner in some situations.
“You might want to substitute an arm swing,” she coaches.
Contra’s spin-happy, centrifugal style is still a challenge for me, having come from the tradition of graceful bows and courtly movements with a light touch, always showing gentility to the ladies and treating every one of them as a queen.
The crowd of eager dancers pays little mind to my kilt and tartan and colorful socks. One of them is excited to see me in one of my historical outfits.
“We need to put some swords down for you!” he jokes.
I very well might have to dance a solo, given the mathematical hurdles. Normally, I don’t have to worry about finding unaccompanied ladies. But it seems I’m the only one here tonight without a partner. Two teenage girls are here, but they’re alternating between reading in the other room and dancing.
Ladies in need of a partner go fast. They don’t look about, standing wistfully on the floor. The men scoop them up, and without bowing for crying out loud!
Not me. It’s time to turn to the seated few. I approach a lady and ask in my Scottish brogue, “Are ye in need of a partnah’?”
It works, and we are soon circling left and right in figures, chaining the ladies back and forth, swinging our neighbors and partners and performing all the moves up and down a long set of dancers. Figures flow into and out of another and the caller’s words fade into the music of Round The House. My eyes connect with every lady as we spin through swings.
Occasionally I get lost or stuck after progressing to the end of the line. “I think I did that wrong,” I mumble, often before a lady reaches out to swing me again and catch me up to the next figures. The sweat flows after only after one dance. I hold my breath as ladies take my healing arm.
If people are oblivious to the kilt, fewer notice the hard casing on my right hand, half-covered by an 18th Century work shirt.
“Oh, you’re in a cast,” a lady notices sheepishly after wondering why I can’t grip her on a swing as tightly as the rest. Another kindly indulges my desire to balance with one hand rather than two, trying to keep unnecessary force off my right fingers.
That includes clapping, too. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” I shout after each dance, unable to bring both my palms together.
Many ask what happen to my arm, and I explain how I’m making up for what happened a week earlier.
“You look good in a kilt!” a lady compliments.
It's not the same as dancing with We Make History. It can never equal the fellowship I enjoy with my most cherished friends who share my enthusiasm for the dance. However, others watch out for me. A few ladies have seen me here before, and they inquire how I’m holding up. Quite well, thank you. I need some more water.
I only sit out three or four dances, either because I’m without a partner, or because I need my breath. Yet standing still is not an option, and while the rest of the room whirls and circles, I jig off to the side, lightly, arms at my side rather than over my head.
When a final waltz plays, the lady who greeted me at the door joins me as her partner. As usual, the lady is a much better waltzer than I am, and I look down at my feet to maneuver into the proper steps.
“Don’t worry about your feet,” she encourages. We waltz on.
I try a progression step with her. I know it, mostly. She doesn’t. We revert back to the two step, eyes to eyes.
The music slows to a close and I sink into a deep bow, my left hand still joined to her right. I silently cherish the warmth of the moment for several seconds, knees and head both giving honor to my partner. I slowly rise and thank her.
Round The House plays one more waltz: an Irish lullaby. This time, the lady and I dance solo, but beside each other. I glide into another improvised minuet, a freestyle, freeform ballet of stepping and twirling around the floor with hands outstretched in a graceful position. She proceeds beside me in her own inventive figures. I keep thinking we might end up back in each other’s hands, but we don’t. It’s all right.
When the last note expires, I breathe deeply with an enormous sense of thanksgiving, feeling my sweat-soaked shirt again, my head tilted towards Heaven and my eyes closed. Thank You, O Lord, for helping me find another opportunity for joy in a kilt.
“You heal that,” the caller tells me after the dance.
“I will. But my heart needed healing too, tonight.”
“I’m so glad I could be a part of it,” she replies, hugging me.
I fall into bed exhausted but happy. The painful memories shall fade. Happier thoughts shall take their place. Any day I can dance in a kilt is a good one.
Dancers form up lines again, shaken but prayerful, desiring to honor the wishes of the injured Highlander led off the floor in a stretcher to the cries and responses of “Huzzah! Huzzah!”
The band plays a reel, an enthusiastic reel. Inhibitions against joy dissolve away as the dancers merrily spin themselves around and around, up and down each set.
“You know, this is a Christopher dance,” a lady observes.
“Huzzah!” another dancer cries.
“Huzzah!” others respond.
Across the hills, the Highlander longs to be with them again. In his prayers and dreams, he is.
Photos by M. Cynecki
Light rain from a dark sky sprinkles upon my face as the medical technicians wheel me outside the ballroom on a stretcher and into a waiting ambulance.
"Huzzah!" I cried to my friends before I left them.
"Huzzah!" they replied in unison, perhaps a few in tears.
Now it's as if the sky is crying, distressed at the unfairness of a slip and fall that ravaged my right arm in the middle of a joyous Highland Fling. Morphine deadens the pain from the damaged limb, but I can feel my heart breaking.
Water flows from my eyes as I ride through the streets of Flagstaff in the back of the medical transport, still wearing my kilt, puffy shirt, sash and diced hose. The party is over for me much too soon, and now I lay trapped in a nightmare I cannot end. All I want to do is dance again.The sadness festers through the surgery and two days in the hospital. My parents arrive, and visitors offer their words and kindness. I grow tired and angry of my gown and the tubes and the needles and the oxygen hoses. I long to sleep. I long to turn back time. If I had only worn those other shoes or danced less fervently.
"I will dance again!" I tell myself and my friends. "I will not wait until next August! I will put on the kilt and finish what I started!" I will dance with every lady I can.
I pray to God for help. Please, O Lord, get me through this. Ease my sadness and suffering.
I will not carry the baggage around for 15 or 20 years, like memories of my rotten 8th Birthday Party, where I slipped at a skating rink and broke my arm before the presents and the cake.
Future balls with my history-loving friends will come, I remind myself. Wear your kilt to this one or that one, a friend tells me. It won't come soon enough to keep my broken heart from festering.
A week passes. The arm is mending but the heart needs help.
A new opportunity emerges as I sift through several websites Saturday morning. Round The House is playing tonight’s Contra dance at the usual place in Tucson. It’s a Celtic band. I know the steps. I know the crowd, sort of, and they won’t mind if I come in the full Highland regalia. The idea excites me. I have to do it.
The words of the Highland Ball's host ping through my head: "A Scotsman always gets up."
Anticipation builds throughout the day and ramps up as I change into my plaids. On go the checked stockings and kilt with sporran. Another puffy shirt and my Stewart Royal tartans follow -- and non-skid shoes.
We're off to the ball! I get there at 7:15, 45 minutes before start time, long enough for me to explain myself. The lady at the door looks me over with a surprised grin.
“I know I’m a little early, and I know I’m a little overdressed,” I say to her as the Happy Highlander, eager to get back on the floor. I explain why I’m here, pointing out the cast on my right arm and what led to it. I explain the story again to the caller.
I hope to go through a few refresher moves beforehand with some other newcomers. There aren’t any. Everyone shuffles in a few minutes before 8:00, bypassing the refresher course at 7:30, leaving me to go through a few moves with the caller, who’s convinced I know the figures. She cautions me I may want to simplify some moves, given my healing arm and the directive to “give weight” when turning your partner in some situations.
“You might want to substitute an arm swing,” she coaches.
Contra’s spin-happy, centrifugal style is still a challenge for me, having come from the tradition of graceful bows and courtly movements with a light touch, always showing gentility to the ladies and treating every one of them as a queen.
The crowd of eager dancers pays little mind to my kilt and tartan and colorful socks. One of them is excited to see me in one of my historical outfits.
“We need to put some swords down for you!” he jokes.
I very well might have to dance a solo, given the mathematical hurdles. Normally, I don’t have to worry about finding unaccompanied ladies. But it seems I’m the only one here tonight without a partner. Two teenage girls are here, but they’re alternating between reading in the other room and dancing.
Ladies in need of a partner go fast. They don’t look about, standing wistfully on the floor. The men scoop them up, and without bowing for crying out loud!
Not me. It’s time to turn to the seated few. I approach a lady and ask in my Scottish brogue, “Are ye in need of a partnah’?”
It works, and we are soon circling left and right in figures, chaining the ladies back and forth, swinging our neighbors and partners and performing all the moves up and down a long set of dancers. Figures flow into and out of another and the caller’s words fade into the music of Round The House. My eyes connect with every lady as we spin through swings.
Occasionally I get lost or stuck after progressing to the end of the line. “I think I did that wrong,” I mumble, often before a lady reaches out to swing me again and catch me up to the next figures. The sweat flows after only after one dance. I hold my breath as ladies take my healing arm.
If people are oblivious to the kilt, fewer notice the hard casing on my right hand, half-covered by an 18th Century work shirt.
“Oh, you’re in a cast,” a lady notices sheepishly after wondering why I can’t grip her on a swing as tightly as the rest. Another kindly indulges my desire to balance with one hand rather than two, trying to keep unnecessary force off my right fingers.
That includes clapping, too. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” I shout after each dance, unable to bring both my palms together.
Many ask what happen to my arm, and I explain how I’m making up for what happened a week earlier.
“You look good in a kilt!” a lady compliments.
It's not the same as dancing with We Make History. It can never equal the fellowship I enjoy with my most cherished friends who share my enthusiasm for the dance. However, others watch out for me. A few ladies have seen me here before, and they inquire how I’m holding up. Quite well, thank you. I need some more water.
I only sit out three or four dances, either because I’m without a partner, or because I need my breath. Yet standing still is not an option, and while the rest of the room whirls and circles, I jig off to the side, lightly, arms at my side rather than over my head.
When a final waltz plays, the lady who greeted me at the door joins me as her partner. As usual, the lady is a much better waltzer than I am, and I look down at my feet to maneuver into the proper steps.
“Don’t worry about your feet,” she encourages. We waltz on.
I try a progression step with her. I know it, mostly. She doesn’t. We revert back to the two step, eyes to eyes.
The music slows to a close and I sink into a deep bow, my left hand still joined to her right. I silently cherish the warmth of the moment for several seconds, knees and head both giving honor to my partner. I slowly rise and thank her.
Round The House plays one more waltz: an Irish lullaby. This time, the lady and I dance solo, but beside each other. I glide into another improvised minuet, a freestyle, freeform ballet of stepping and twirling around the floor with hands outstretched in a graceful position. She proceeds beside me in her own inventive figures. I keep thinking we might end up back in each other’s hands, but we don’t. It’s all right.
When the last note expires, I breathe deeply with an enormous sense of thanksgiving, feeling my sweat-soaked shirt again, my head tilted towards Heaven and my eyes closed. Thank You, O Lord, for helping me find another opportunity for joy in a kilt.
“You heal that,” the caller tells me after the dance.
“I will. But my heart needed healing too, tonight.”
“I’m so glad I could be a part of it,” she replies, hugging me.
I fall into bed exhausted but happy. The painful memories shall fade. Happier thoughts shall take their place. Any day I can dance in a kilt is a good one.
Dancers form up lines again, shaken but prayerful, desiring to honor the wishes of the injured Highlander led off the floor in a stretcher to the cries and responses of “Huzzah! Huzzah!”
The band plays a reel, an enthusiastic reel. Inhibitions against joy dissolve away as the dancers merrily spin themselves around and around, up and down each set.
“You know, this is a Christopher dance,” a lady observes.
“Huzzah!” another dancer cries.
“Huzzah!” others respond.
Across the hills, the Highlander longs to be with them again. In his prayers and dreams, he is.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Introducing A New Member Of The Cast
My first follow-up with the doctor since I broke my arm has brought good news and a new cast.
Before: Filling out paperwork at UPH with my left (non-writing) hand. Underneath that sling lies a massive splint of plaster, cotton, gauze... and my healing right hand. But not for long.
New x-rays reveal the healing continues (Praise God!), and in the cast room, technicians cut away the wrapped behemoth, leaving me to face the staples left in two sides of my arm after the plates went in. Truth be told, things didn't look as bad as I feared, but my skin's got some more healing to do. The staples should come out next week. For now, it's time to move up to a new cast.
After the gauze and the main layer goes on, my technician cuts notches to allow me to bend my elbows. He says he has "angel hands." Each touch feels like a hug.
"What color would you like?"
"Blue," I say. Patriot Blue. Blue like that of Heaven and God's Favor. Sky blue like the trim of my 1st Virginia uniform.
"Do I have to wear a sling?" I query.
"No," my technician answers. "In fact, we recommend you don't so you can move that arm."
I have conquered the sling. Huzzah! Huzzah!
God Is Great!
Thanks to Dan for the photos!
Before: Filling out paperwork at UPH with my left (non-writing) hand. Underneath that sling lies a massive splint of plaster, cotton, gauze... and my healing right hand. But not for long.
New x-rays reveal the healing continues (Praise God!), and in the cast room, technicians cut away the wrapped behemoth, leaving me to face the staples left in two sides of my arm after the plates went in. Truth be told, things didn't look as bad as I feared, but my skin's got some more healing to do. The staples should come out next week. For now, it's time to move up to a new cast.
After the gauze and the main layer goes on, my technician cuts notches to allow me to bend my elbows. He says he has "angel hands." Each touch feels like a hug.
"What color would you like?"
"Blue," I say. Patriot Blue. Blue like that of Heaven and God's Favor. Sky blue like the trim of my 1st Virginia uniform.
"Do I have to wear a sling?" I query.
"No," my technician answers. "In fact, we recommend you don't so you can move that arm."
I have conquered the sling. Huzzah! Huzzah!
God Is Great!
Thanks to Dan for the photos!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Ultimate Surgeon
Some of you are expecting a story from last Saturday's Highland Ball. However, I do not have a story for you, at least not one of the sort you're used to reading.
While I was dancing a spirited Highland Jig or Highland Fling, I slipped in my buckled shoes, fell onto the floor, and shattered my right arm. After four hours of surgery, two steel plates, and two days in recovery at Flagstaff Medical Center, I'm back home in Tucson, learning to type with one hand. I can wiggle all my right fingers and thumb, and I have feeling in all of them. And miracle of miracles, I'm pain-free in my right arm. This is not due to heavy medication or sedation.
One of the best surgeons in Northern Arizona wired my limb back together, and I strongly suspect he learned a few new things on the job. He told me he'd never seen anything like what the x-rays showed him. I haven't seen those x-rays, and I don't want to see them. But for the recovery I am now making and the healing I am experiencing, that credit goes to God, the Ultimate Surgeon.
Dozens of people have been praying for me since the accident. They prayed as I was led off the dance floor in a stretcher. They prayed after the dance and the next day after that. And they continue to pray. I am grateful to all my friends beyond words, as those prayers are being answered in remarkable ways. Only one explanation will suffice for my pain-free recovering status so quickly after the accident: God's Healing Touch and Love. Romans 8:28 (NASV) tells us: "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." That power of massed prayer certainly worked together for good.
Let me leave you with another communal moment of good. When Flagstaff's EMT's were carrying me out of the ballroom in the stretcher, as they were pumping my arm full of morphine, I gathered the God-given strength within me to shout words of jubilation for which I have become well-known:
"HUZZAH!" I shouted with all my might.
"HUZZAH!" returned my friends and family of We Make History on the dance floor in unison.
"HUZZAH!" I shouted again.
"HUZZAH!" they returned with equal enthusiasm.
I begged the dancing continue, and it did, after a pause. Joy emerged from shock and sadness, happiness from sorrow. Now my joy emerges too from the pain of the injury and the sadness over missing out on part of one of my favorite dances of the year. I shall dance again in full Scottish attire, and I won't wait a year to do it. For God has Blessed me with so many gifts, and to Him I owe my happiness and healing.
While I was dancing a spirited Highland Jig or Highland Fling, I slipped in my buckled shoes, fell onto the floor, and shattered my right arm. After four hours of surgery, two steel plates, and two days in recovery at Flagstaff Medical Center, I'm back home in Tucson, learning to type with one hand. I can wiggle all my right fingers and thumb, and I have feeling in all of them. And miracle of miracles, I'm pain-free in my right arm. This is not due to heavy medication or sedation.
One of the best surgeons in Northern Arizona wired my limb back together, and I strongly suspect he learned a few new things on the job. He told me he'd never seen anything like what the x-rays showed him. I haven't seen those x-rays, and I don't want to see them. But for the recovery I am now making and the healing I am experiencing, that credit goes to God, the Ultimate Surgeon.
Dozens of people have been praying for me since the accident. They prayed as I was led off the dance floor in a stretcher. They prayed after the dance and the next day after that. And they continue to pray. I am grateful to all my friends beyond words, as those prayers are being answered in remarkable ways. Only one explanation will suffice for my pain-free recovering status so quickly after the accident: God's Healing Touch and Love. Romans 8:28 (NASV) tells us: "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." That power of massed prayer certainly worked together for good.
Let me leave you with another communal moment of good. When Flagstaff's EMT's were carrying me out of the ballroom in the stretcher, as they were pumping my arm full of morphine, I gathered the God-given strength within me to shout words of jubilation for which I have become well-known:
"HUZZAH!" I shouted with all my might.
"HUZZAH!" returned my friends and family of We Make History on the dance floor in unison.
"HUZZAH!" I shouted again.
"HUZZAH!" they returned with equal enthusiasm.
I begged the dancing continue, and it did, after a pause. Joy emerged from shock and sadness, happiness from sorrow. Now my joy emerges too from the pain of the injury and the sadness over missing out on part of one of my favorite dances of the year. I shall dance again in full Scottish attire, and I won't wait a year to do it. For God has Blessed me with so many gifts, and to Him I owe my happiness and healing.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Not Cute Communist Enough For Prime Time
That beautiful little Chinese girl who sang "Ode To The Motherland" during the Olympic Opening Ceremonies wasn't singing at all. She was mouthing it. Apparently the original young singer wasn't pretty enough for the ChiComs, according to AFP:
People who use children as political tools chap my hide, as they say here in the west. On one hand, we have a dazzling, colorful, beautiful ceremony which also happens to be a very carefully-engineered publicity piece designed to divert our bewildered eyes away from China's various human-rights abuses and that little incident in the Square nearly two decades ago.
Film critic Roger Ebert noted on his blog:
As for the girl who really sang, the London Telegraph reports:
[Music Designer Chen Qigang] said the final decision to stage the event with Lin lip-synching to another girl's voice was taken after a senior member of China's ruling Communist Party politburo attended a rehearsal.And how much you want to bet they ordered red for the color of Lin Miaoke's dress? Did she also get coaching from Milli Vanilli? I hope Miaoke's too young to understand how she became a human propaganda poster.
"He told us there was a problem that we needed to fix it, so we did," he said, without disclosing further details of the order.
People who use children as political tools chap my hide, as they say here in the west. On one hand, we have a dazzling, colorful, beautiful ceremony which also happens to be a very carefully-engineered publicity piece designed to divert our bewildered eyes away from China's various human-rights abuses and that little incident in the Square nearly two decades ago.
Film critic Roger Ebert noted on his blog:
The closest sight I have seen to Friday night's spectacle, and I mean this objectively, not with disrespect, is the sight of all those Germans marching wave upon wave before Hitler in "Triumph of the Will.""Triumph of the Will" portrayed the Nazis in a sympathetic light. The Beijing opening ceremonies tries to make us think maybe Communism isn't all that bad... and that's not good.
As for the girl who really sang, the London Telegraph reports:
Yang Peiyi is said to have reacted well to the disappointment. "I am proud to have been chosen to sing at all," she is reported to have said.Perhaps the ChiComs chose those words for her, too.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Reel To Reel: WALL-E
An inconvenient truth for kids -- and adults.
How It Rates: ***1/2
Starring: Voices of: Ben Burtt, Elissa Knight, Jeff Garlin, Fred Willard, Macintalk
Rated: G
Red Flags: NONE! (unless you're one of those wingnuts who can't stand any form of ecological message in your films)
Pixar has a track record that leaves Hollywood moguls slobbering. Not one of its films has failed to crack the $100 million mark. They also do well in the critic-sphere. The studio once helmed by Steve Jobs has yet to produce a flop. Other computer-animation factories have sprouted, including PDI, DreamWorks Animation, and Disney's digital unit.
But Pixar has the one thing they've never captured: a universal appeal to both kids and adults. WALL-E takes what could've been a standard kid flick and gives it emotional depth and dimension. It may be the best love story ever conceived for robots, and I'm not counting 1981's pathetic Heartbeeps.
The story begins on a garbage-buried run-down Earth, deserted and dead of mass consumption enabled by superstore behemoth Buy 'N Large (poke, poke, Wal-Mart). Humans have long jetted off into space, leaving all the trash behind for droids to collect and stack into neat junkyard cubes. As the environment decomposed, and dust storms ravaged the planet, the junk-collecting robots ceased operation, save for the title character. We're not really sure if he knows he's the only functioning droid left on earth, but we do know he likes to collect cigarette lighters, kitchen utensils and bobbleheads. He's also an obsessive fan of the musical Hello, Dolly!, playing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" over and over in his built-in digital music device as he cleans up other people's messes. A VHS tape of the Barbara Streisand movie version runs every night in his pad. I guess all the DVD's rotted away in landfills.
One day, a probe lands in the middle of this trash-heap Earth, deploying an egg-shaped droid named EVA. She's got that shapely body inspired by Apple and a blaster inspired by Han Solo. EVA immediately catches the eye of WALL-E's lovesick processor and he's set on interfacing in some old-fashioned way. EVA has a different mission: to find signs of life.
And that's WALL-E's overall charge to us, as we see humans of the future strung out on virtual reality and consumerism and bloated from sedentary lifestyles. They interact through computer screens, blind to natural beauty and the power of touch. No need for exercise when you've got a hoverchair and robots catering to your every desire aboard a galactic cruise ship with a virtual sun that also gives you the time and temperature. Aren't computers cool?
The movie draws from or channels a smorgasbord of sci-fi flicks, including Short Circuit, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Matrix, Blade Runner, Silent Running, Minority Report, and E.T..
WALL-E is a film you see with the kids and then talk about in the car ride home. You can talk about the cute robots, or you can talk about what happens when people spend too much time in front of the PlayStation or trash the environment. And adults, you can try to remember the last time your eyes watered over a pair of droids in love. You can try.
How It Rates: ***1/2
Starring: Voices of: Ben Burtt, Elissa Knight, Jeff Garlin, Fred Willard, Macintalk
Rated: G
Red Flags: NONE! (unless you're one of those wingnuts who can't stand any form of ecological message in your films)
Pixar has a track record that leaves Hollywood moguls slobbering. Not one of its films has failed to crack the $100 million mark. They also do well in the critic-sphere. The studio once helmed by Steve Jobs has yet to produce a flop. Other computer-animation factories have sprouted, including PDI, DreamWorks Animation, and Disney's digital unit.
But Pixar has the one thing they've never captured: a universal appeal to both kids and adults. WALL-E takes what could've been a standard kid flick and gives it emotional depth and dimension. It may be the best love story ever conceived for robots, and I'm not counting 1981's pathetic Heartbeeps.
The story begins on a garbage-buried run-down Earth, deserted and dead of mass consumption enabled by superstore behemoth Buy 'N Large (poke, poke, Wal-Mart). Humans have long jetted off into space, leaving all the trash behind for droids to collect and stack into neat junkyard cubes. As the environment decomposed, and dust storms ravaged the planet, the junk-collecting robots ceased operation, save for the title character. We're not really sure if he knows he's the only functioning droid left on earth, but we do know he likes to collect cigarette lighters, kitchen utensils and bobbleheads. He's also an obsessive fan of the musical Hello, Dolly!, playing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" over and over in his built-in digital music device as he cleans up other people's messes. A VHS tape of the Barbara Streisand movie version runs every night in his pad. I guess all the DVD's rotted away in landfills.
One day, a probe lands in the middle of this trash-heap Earth, deploying an egg-shaped droid named EVA. She's got that shapely body inspired by Apple and a blaster inspired by Han Solo. EVA immediately catches the eye of WALL-E's lovesick processor and he's set on interfacing in some old-fashioned way. EVA has a different mission: to find signs of life.
And that's WALL-E's overall charge to us, as we see humans of the future strung out on virtual reality and consumerism and bloated from sedentary lifestyles. They interact through computer screens, blind to natural beauty and the power of touch. No need for exercise when you've got a hoverchair and robots catering to your every desire aboard a galactic cruise ship with a virtual sun that also gives you the time and temperature. Aren't computers cool?
The movie draws from or channels a smorgasbord of sci-fi flicks, including Short Circuit, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Matrix, Blade Runner, Silent Running, Minority Report, and E.T..
WALL-E is a film you see with the kids and then talk about in the car ride home. You can talk about the cute robots, or you can talk about what happens when people spend too much time in front of the PlayStation or trash the environment. And adults, you can try to remember the last time your eyes watered over a pair of droids in love. You can try.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Back For More
The last edition was a warning.They crawled into the newsroom, waves of agonized staffers unable to cope with the layoffs, the downsizing, the outsourcing, the gas prices, the mortgage payments, the campaigns, the Iranians, the Chinese, and the current season of "So You Think You Can Dance?"
They slithered up to the editor's desk, each raising a stapler in their right hands and pledging allegiance to the noble cause of smart-aleck journalism, whatever cause that might be, vowing to get back to work taking low-cost pot shots at anything rolling off the teletype. Of course, they forgot we ditched the teletype about the same time people started asking, "What's a Macintosh?"
"You don't understand," I tell the aggrieved masses. "We don't have a budget anymore."
It doesn't matter. The cause is important enough to warrant its own version of Skunk Works. So we shall carry on, laboring when we can, striking while the inspiration is hot. As for a paycheck, Larry's Sub Shop is hiring down the street.
GO DEPORT YOURSELF! The INS has got a deal for illegal immigrants: turn yourself in during most of August, and avoid arrest and detention. As always, you have to read the fine print, as the Arizona Daily Star explains:
The program doesn't offer any monetary compensation or a path to legalization.With a lack of discernible benefits other than a clear conscience and a shame-free return, your Lightning Round wonders if illegals will opt instead for the government's repatriation program, which includes a free flight back to Mexico.
"The benefit is not being detained and being allowed to make arrangements for their families and themselves to join them or to schedule their departure," [ICE official Jim] Hayes said. "But there is very little chance with an individual who has a final order of removal, that they are going to be eligible for any other type of benefit."
(No, wingnuts, you can't self-deport Isabel Garcia. Please get real.)
AND YOU THOUGHT MORRIS WAS BIG. "Princess Chunk" is turning into the new poster-cat for the foreclosure crisis. The story of the 44-pound cat has bubbled up from the kicker block to the first segment now that its owner has come forward, saying she abandoned the cat because she was losing her home.
The obvious question: Was the cat eating her out of house and home? Even Garfield had to go on a few diets.
We don't know, but now the cat will surely get a new home in light of all the television exposure... and possibly a lap-band.
BIPARTISANSHIP George H.W. Bush accused future President Clinton of trying to be on both sides of an issue. Might he say the same about California Governator Arnold Schwarzenegger, who's backing John McCain but praising Barack Obama?
As the AP reported:
"I would take his (Obama's) call now, I will take his call when he's president—any time. Remember, no matter who is president, I don't see this as a political thing. I see this as we always have to help, no matter what the administration is," he said.Even if that call came at 3am?
GOING, GOING... It's looking less and less likely that Sen. Hillary Clinton will be Obama's running mate, killing any hope of a dream ticket. She'll have to settle for a convention speech, according to a message from Hillary backers disclosed by the Boston Globe:
"We hope you are as pleased as we are that he has tapped Senator Clinton to deliver one of the most important messages of that crucial week—the very role that Barack Obama had four years ago," the message says. "Regretfully, this means that Senator Hillary Clinton is no longer under consideration as Senator Obama’s running mate."Pleased, maybe, but still grumbling under their teeth and driving a bus with Bill's name on it. We'll let you figure out where they're going with it.
SEX, LIES, AND THE OLYMPIC SPIRIT. The Fellowship of the Interlocking Rings will be checking the gender of athletes at the Beijing games using lab tests, because looks aren't enough.
From The Guardian:
The International Olympic Committee (IOC) introduced sex testing in 1968 at the Olympic games in Mexico City, after the masculine appearance of some competitors, many pumped up by anabolic steroids, had started to raise questions about the gender of athletes in female events. Unsurprisingly, gender-determination tests were seen as degrading, with female competitors having to submit to humiliating and invasive physical examinations by a series of doctors. Later, the IOC decided to use a supposedly more sophisticated genetic test, based on chromosomes. Women usually have two X chromosomes; men an X and a Y chromosome. So, according to the rules of the test, only those athletes with two X chromosomes could be classed as women. However, many geneticists criticized the tests, saying that sex is not as simple as X and Y chromosomes and is not always simple to ascertain.And in the age of the "meterosexual," that's the understatement of the year.
Conduct yourselves as ladies and gentlemen, dearest readers, until we return... whenever that may be.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I Hope He's Not Expecting WMD
The following actual email scam letter arrived in my box tonight. I've stripped the sender's name and address, but the body should tip you off.
- With due respect,
We desire to purchase the below lited products in large quantities,for use in all over our 18 governorates provinces) as the task of re-building Iraq covers every single sector and facet of our society.
We'll submit your products information to the agency for internal development in charge of Iraq economic governance control IEG of the Iraq Development Program. They will examine the propriety and neccessity of your product and approve the purchase of your product for bulk supply and contracting relationship.
With my connections in the corridors of power, we are quite confident of securing approval. Also of note is the issue of different financial regulations between my country Iraq and your country. What is acceptable mode of payment from outside your country? We prefer to send you 100% T/T from our own side.
When you've received payment, we would be expecting a monthly supply; as the sum budgeted for product may be quite enormous as to outstrip your capacity and capability to supply.
A consideration also is that your quotation must be CIF Port of Umm Qasr (or the Jordanian Port of Aqaba). I will reveal more procedural information to you upon your re-confirmation.
Best regards,
[name redacted]
President
Consultant Iraq
Al Thawrah Street, [redacted] Al Basrah, Iraq.
Monday, July 28, 2008
God, Gunfire And "Dem Lib-ruls"
Police say the man who opened fire in a Knoxville Unitarian Universalist church had plenty of blame to go around for not being able to find a job, as Reuters reports:
My fear now -- and I am praying for this not to happen -- is that right-wing, neo-con Christians will use this incident to take cheap shots at the Unitarian Universalist church, which is known for liberal beliefs. You may not hear it in public, but I have no doubt some hard-liners think God lifted His protection from the UU church because of liberalism. That's just as ridiculous as Pat Robertson's assertion that God lifted His protection from the U.S. before 9/11. (Incidentally, I was raised in the Presbyterian Church U.S.A., which isn't known for being hard-line conservative, either.)
R.J. Eskow at The Huffington Post points a long angry finger of blame back at the right:
Suspect Jim Adkisson, 58, who was being held on $1 million bond, had previously worked as a mechanical engineer in several states. He described his violent plans in a four-page letter found at his home, which also explained that his age and "liberals and gays" taking jobs had worked against him.On the other hand, he would've made a great talk-radio host.
My fear now -- and I am praying for this not to happen -- is that right-wing, neo-con Christians will use this incident to take cheap shots at the Unitarian Universalist church, which is known for liberal beliefs. You may not hear it in public, but I have no doubt some hard-liners think God lifted His protection from the UU church because of liberalism. That's just as ridiculous as Pat Robertson's assertion that God lifted His protection from the U.S. before 9/11. (Incidentally, I was raised in the Presbyterian Church U.S.A., which isn't known for being hard-line conservative, either.)
R.J. Eskow at The Huffington Post points a long angry finger of blame back at the right:
Who really killed those Unitarians? Was it the preachers who spread hatred and intolerance? The politicians who court and flatter them instead of condemning their hate speech? The media machine that attacks liberals, calls them "traitors" and suggests you speak to them "with a baseball bat"? The economic system that batters people like Jim Adkinson (sic) until they snap, then tells them their real enemies are gays and liberals and secular humanists?Kindly resist any temptation to throw stones. Many more people could have been killed in this unbelievable act, and the fact that so many survived is proof to me God protects His Own.
If you ask me, it was all of the above.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.Garcia is now going to the feds, who wonder if it was an inside job.
But weeks later, Wachovia did refund $40 to another customer with a similar story, Local 6 has learned.
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.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.
“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.”
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.That's sort of like the government adding only $40 billion to the deficit instead of $80 billion and calling it savings.
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.
Don't take any wooden nickels. We'll see you again when we have time... and money.
Monday, July 21, 2008
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:
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
"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:
Spillman later apologized... kinda. Let's go to the tape:
Saturday, July 12, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 7, 2008
We're Shocked, Shocked
|
| SPECIAL REPORT |
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.
Friday, July 4, 2008
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
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
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