Reel To Reel: The Men Who Stare At Goats

Greetings newcomers! If you got here from a source on how to live a better spiritual life, I highly encourage you to click "CrossWalking" at the right side of this page... or read my testimony.

Here's the Truth: Praying to Earth will not save your soul. It will not help you get right with GOD or account for your sins. GOD created the Earth and all things in it. You belong to HIM, not to the planet. But you must choose whom you will serve (Joshua 24:15). I included this "prayer" (which I don't consider a prayer) as an example of the First Earth Battalion's weirdness, not to aid or abet any apostasy.

Thank You So Much! --Christopher

Make love and war -- at the same time!

Going Rate: Worth matinee price.
Starring: George Clooney, Ewan McGregor, Jeff Bridges, Kevin Spacey
Rated: R
Red Flags: Language, war violence, brief casual nudity, drug references

Yes, it's true. Your tax-supported Army has flirted with far-out psychological soldiering techniques, like training people in "remote viewing" -- a way of seeing something from afar using ESP. It got the idea from Lt. Col. Jim Channon (Ret.), who advocated a hippiesque "First Earth Battalion" where recruits walk on fire, try to walk through walls, shun calisthenics for yoga, drop acid, channel spirits, and rely on good vibes to eliminate the need for an M-16. It's not clear whether these soldiers salute or hug each other. I don't know whether they recite the Pledge of Allegiance, but they do say the "Earth Prayer:" "Mother Earth… my life support system… as a soldier… I must drink your blue water… live inside your red clay and eat your green skin. I pray… my boots will always kiss your face and my footsteps match your heartbeat. Carry my body through space and time… you are my connection to the Universe… and all that comes after. I am yours and you are mine. I salute you."

All of this is documented in the book The Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson, now adapted into a engaging if only mildly satisfying movie. Reporter Bob Wilton (McGregor) is writing for a small-town newspaper when his wife dumps him for his editor. Thinking he needs to man up, he goes to Iraq during the 2003 U.S. strike to chase down an article with guts and glory. While in Kuwait, he runs into Lyn Cassady (Clooney), who says he's an American businessman. But Wilton knows from a previous interview he's a secret psychological operative. After blowing Cassady's cover, Wilton convinces the op to let him tag along into Iraq, and we have a road picture with sand dunes. Cassady is a likable enigma: part hippie, part soldier, but all business. He tosses Wilton the manual for the "New Earth Army," the standard operating procedure for a new breed of soldier whose aura can be a deadly weapon.

The film flashes between Cassady and Wilton's trip and the trippy history of the New Earth Army, a unit of long-haired weirdo warriors which manages to live in harmony with the rest of the military given some powerful support from the top and a charismatic commander, Bill Django (Bridges in Big Lebowski mode). The only time I ever see military officers with ponytails is when I'm fighting redcoats. But Django's outfit proves themselves at least useful and mostly harmless until an experiment with LSD goes awry.

Wilton is wondering about his own mission in life, weighted down by his failing marriage and an apparent midlife crisis. (Boy, here's somebody who needs The Cool Church badly.) Sometimes he's more whiner than reporter. Ultimately, he gets a shot at redemption.

It's not hard to believe the U.S. Army flirted with exotic tactics. We found out a couple of years ago the military had researched a "gay bomb." When the film explores the origins and progress of New Age soldiering, it really works. But it's juxtaposed with a meandering story and tinges of a stoner film, like Cheech And Chong's Nice Dreams mashed up with Stripes. Could you even imagine Cheech and Chong doing covert ops in Afghanistan? No, perish that thought.

One Year Later

A lot of you were euphoric one year ago upon the election of President Barack Obama. And even if you didn't agree with his politics, you couldn't deny it marked a turning point in history: the election of this nation's first-ever African-American president. A lot of you were glad to see George W. Bush headed out the door. Heck, a lot of you would've voted for a ham sandwich than anything remotely connected to the Republican Party.

Now we're finding that we expected too much, like many in Iowa as The New York Times reports:

“I’m afraid I wasn’t realistic,” Ms. [Pauline] McAreavy, 76, a retired school nurse, said on a recent morning on the deck of her home here in east-central Iowa.

“I really thought there would be immediate change,” she said. “Sometimes the Republicans are just as bad as Democrats. But it’s politics as usual, and that’s what I voted against.”

Welcome to our world, Ms. McAreavy. Won't you come on in?

In the past year, President Obama has learned the difference between campaigning for president and being president. As I have said before, things get a lot tougher when you sit behind the big desk. That eagle on the front of the podium, the one flanked by the teleprompters, is not a magic wand. To paraphrase a thought from former defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld, you work with the government you have, not the one you would like it to be.

Still, a lot of us ignored reality. Some of us, I'm convinced, naively thought President Obama's historic election would shock the political system into line and his critics would somehow fade away, left stupefied by his surge from long-shot to winner and convinced this represented an unshakable mandate. That didn't happen. The Republicans found their footing in the health care and economic stimulus debates, and Sarah Palin didn't quit campaigning.

A few gubernatorial contests and House seat up for grabs today won't tell us a whole lot about the mood of the nation. A lot can happen between now and next year's congressional races, but I'm reminded of 1994, when Democrats lost control of the House and Senate after a prolonged debate over a massive health care reform plan. If it happens again in 2010, I wonder whether we'll have anybody willing to touch the issue again anytime soon.

But we'll remember this: we live in a Constitutional Republic, not a Constitutional Monarchy. Expecting earth-shaking, profound change from any politician doesn't jibe with the workings of this nation. You won't like this principle when your favorites are in power, but you'll love it when they're not.

May I Have A Treat.... Please!

The British authority on etiquette, Debrett's, is out with a short guide on tasteful trick-or-treating. While all of us could stand to raise our bar higher in the name of a better society, some suggestions will leave those goblins and ghouls scratching their skeleton bones:

"Trick or treat?" should be used as an ice-breaking formula, not a real threat. Halloween fun should never feel menacing.

Good luck distilling all the macabre out of the season, but at the least, I guess this rules out the opening rhyme: "Trick or treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!"

Children should not be too greedy - if they are offered treats, make sure that they don't take too many and remember to say thank you.

The easy workaround: don't hand them the entire bowl, fercryingoutloud. My system involves grabbing a handful of candies from the bowl, which is kept out of sight. I kindly deposit one in each bag held out to me. Most kids will offer a word of gratitude, sometimes at the prompting of their elders. But they at least show appreciation in their faces, even if they don't vocalize it.

Stay safe. Make absolutely sure that children don't stray beyond agreed boundaries and wander into streets where they are knocking on strangers' doors.

When I was but a wee lad, my peers used to see how many square blocks they could cover. That was before the Internet enabled us to see how many registered sex fiends lived in the neighborhood. Some parents would use the two-bag system: one for treats from homes they knew, the other for those they didn't. Why even take that chance?

Remember, some households may not be as welcoming as others. If there's no answer, don't repeatedly ring the doorbell - move onto another house instead.

This also means not tee-peeing the shrubbery or spray-painting "Trick!" on the garage door.

If you don't mind giving out treats, but would prefer not to have visitors, leave some sweets or chocolate on your front door step and let trick or treaters help themselves.

Now what did they just tell you about handing kids the entire bowl?

Rush, Race, And The Chain

For the .01 percent of those who care how I feel about the Rush/Rams drama, I can tell you this: for a person who admits he likes to "yank the media's chain," he seems to have an awfully hard time when people yank back.

He has a legitimate beef with those who falsely claim he once supported slavery and Martin Luther King's assassin. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But in a Wall Street Journal opinion piece, he makes this curious claim:

The sports media elicited comments from a handful of players, none of whom I can recall ever meeting. Among other things, at least one said he would never play for a team I was involved in given my racial views. My racial views? You mean, my belief in a colorblind society where every individual is treated as a precious human being without regard to his race? Where football players should earn as much as they can and keep as much as they can, regardless of race? Those controversial racial views?

I say "curious," because he talks a lot about politics and race for his professed color-blindness. Like here, when Rush takes a swipe at both the media and the Obama presidency:



And here: "[I]n Obama's America, the white kids now get beat up with the black kids cheering.."



And here: Obama "wants us to have the same health care and plan that he had in Kenya" and "wants to be the black FDR"



A Huffington Post article asserts many more racist comments, but I'm not sure whether they're racist or just more of Limbaugh's chain-yanking.

But he can't get away from -- nor did he try to discredit -- his statement that the "NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons."

Limbaugh once said during the Clinton administration, "You live by the soundbite; you die by the soundbite." His bid to be part-owner of the St. Louis Rams just died by the soundbite and he says it's not fair. Feeling that chain yet, Rush?

UPDATE: I neglected to mention that the Rev. Al Sharpton is threatening to sue Limbaugh for asserting in the WSJ piece that Sharpton "played a leading role in the 1991 Crown Heights riot (he called neighborhood Jews "diamond merchants") and 1995 Freddie's Fashion Mart riot." Limbaugh offers nothing to back up those claims -- just as Limbaugh's critics can't find anything to back up the slavery statement. If you're going to launch a counter-attack, you better go into battle with some ammunition, not blanks.

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Reel To Reel: Where The Wild Things Are

Arthouse cinema for the young and those who remember youth.

Going Rate: Worth a full-priced admission. Too deep for very young children but fine for teens and tweens.
Starring: Max Records, Voices Of James Gandofini, Benecio Del Toro, Forest Whitaker
Rated: PG (could actually be a hard G)
Red Flags: Some fantasy violence and childhood rough-housing, one mild curse word

Director Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich) immediately gets props for keeping Maurice Sendak's classic children's book from degrading into another hyperactive CGI kid flick. Where The Wild Things Are is a dark H.R. Pufnstuf, embodying childhood angst and imagination while retaining some warmth. And yes, it is wild, just like its protagonist Max (Records) -- a 9-year-old prone to fits of fatastical acting up -- as he tries to create the world of his dreams in a fantasy land inhabited by giant furry creatures.

Max is struggling for control in his life, absent a father at home and a mother preoccupied with work and a boyfriend. He gets into a snowball fight with his sisters' friends, who destroy Max's igloo and part of his soul with it. Then he learns at school that the sun will eventually burn itself out -- not in his lifetime, of course, but that's a point never made clear. Mom has time to sip wine with her boyfriend and serve frozen corn, but not to see a fort Max has constructed in his room, which eventually leads to an outburst. Max runs off into the night wearing some sort of animal suit with whiskers. He dashes into the woods and finds, likely in his imagination, a boat which takes him to an island inhabited by the aforementioned creatures.

They are a grumpy lot, a bunch of aimless, oversized dwarfs badly in need of a Snow White, or at least a few meds. Max steps in, and before anybody can eat him, he claims he has all sorts of powers and abilities. The Wild Things' de facto leader, Carol (Gandofini, still giving off that Tony Soprano vibe), quickly takes a liking to the boy and crowns him king. The coronation ceremony consists of running wild in the forest until everybody's out of breath and sleeping in a gigantic pile.

"This is all yours," Carol says to the boy. "You're the owner of this world."

Carol shows Max his plan for a huge city. Max counters with a vision of a huge fort and underground tunnels with some sort of lookout post and "our own detective agency." Actually it looks like an gigantic wasps' nest made out of twigs, but that's not really important. At first, construction hums along as the boy and the beasts feel empowered and part of something huge. But then cracks start to show, as egos and feelings collide. Max comes to realize building the perfect world isn't as easy as Walt Disney's mantra: "If you can dream it, you can do it."

All of the Wild Things in this film were designed by Jim Henson's Creature Shop and polished with CGI to help their expressions. You know people are inside of the costumes, even though they look so real. That's exactly Jonze's point: the wildness of our imaginations are still tethered to humanity, because we're thinking as humans, not animals. Max can conjure up big furry monsters, but they're just hairy grown-ups, occupied with faults and feelings and frailties. If it's hard being a kid, being a grown-up isn't any easier.

Director Jonze and co-screenwriter Dave Eggers have greatly expanded upon Sendak's book while staying respectful to it (Sendak is also one of the film's producers). At times, the picture lacks velocity, but you can say the same thing about Max. It's not a kids' movie, or even a family film, as much as a film about childhood imagination.

Persuasion

Convincing recollections of honourable people at the Pride & Prejudice Ball as presented by We Make History.

From the journal of Lt. Christopher Francis, HMS Victory
(Click any picture for a larger view!)

1809--

“My gloves!”

The realization descends upon the Lieutenant as he is barely a mile away from his temporary quarters. On other occasions, he might dwell not upon the oversight, but circumstances and courtesies extend to his fingertips. He turns about and retrieves the needed accouterments, hoping the delay will not result in a untimely arrival.


Walking into the grand hall, his gate is halted by the number of ladies in their bright gowns, all of pastel colour, milling about and seeking refreshment. The gentlemen are represented but a mere shadow in the assembled elegance.

The Host greets the young seaman, “Captain in His Majesty's Navy.” The gold-trimmed bicorn certainly conveys that impression. The Lieutenant is of the persuasion not to make corrections this evening, owing to his own aspirations of commanding the ship, the HMS Victory, beyond carrying out the orders of his superiors.

So many ladies, he wonders to himself. His eyes drift towards a particularly fashionable group seated to his side, dressed in sparkling satin, a few adorned with stylish plumes. The Lieutenant wastes no time bowing to them in a regal manner, chapeau in his arm.

“A fine display of beauty,” he remarks.

Yet he seeks another.

“Has anyone seen Madame Noire?” he inquires.

“Yes, she is here,” a lady replies.

Searching a few moments more, he finds her wearing a bright white gown topped in a lace wrap. She is elegant and yet protective of her modesty, admitting to the Lieutenant that her best labours are still in need of correction. He does not care. He persuades her not to dwell upon any errant stitches. She is mannered, kind and honourable towards him, and that is what he desires most.

Gradually, the multitudes drift from the grand hall into the ballroom, some a bit anxious, others laughing in anticipation. A scattered couple practices a few stately steps. In a corner, couples pose in front of a mechanical picture-making device recently developed in Germany, handled with precision by the Hostess, who persuades one and all to let the curious device record their glowing countenances.

Across the room, a lady tends to the flowing locks of a naval officer in a blue-and-gold uniform. He sits with trepidation, perhaps a bit distressed over the scene, but smiles as his attendant ties a ponytail to compliment his huge and fashionable bicorn.

The Host calls the gathered forth to pay tribute to Our Nation, and then invites all to join him and a young princess in the Grand Promenade. He parades barely the length of the ballroom before the eager guests join in, a bit premature but not dishonourable in the least.

“They do not need to be persuaded to dance,” the Lieutenant remarks.

Indeed, the Host reminds the gentlemen to do their duties when ladies are in want of a dance, not “standing about stupidly” in the manner of a certain Mr. Darcy.

The line of couples envelopes the perimeter of the room, and the Host executes a few naval maneuvers in leading the procession into a spiral and out again. As the couples loop around one another, the Lieutenant and his superior meet face to face.

“Admiral,” the young officer greets.

“Captain,” the other corrects with a smile of friendship.

Indeed, everyone is dressed above themselves. A group of enthusiastic young players, desiring to improve their art in the theatre, show their desire for elegance as they step forth.

One circle, then two, then three are formed for the first dance of the evening, a mixer by the curious name of “I Care Not For These Ladies.” The Lieutenant and Madame advance to the most inner circle – “Peers only!” -- and prepare to make merry.

The Host explains the steps, and the gathered walk through them, leading up to an elegant but complex figure: a half-turn with one hand to the partner, followed by another half-turn to a partner beyond, followed by a full turn with two hands to another partner beyond that. Many are unsure of the progression, and the Host leads them through it several times.

Even the Lieutenant, himself a veteran of both battle and ballroom, finds himself a bit confused. He follows the motions, arriving face to face with a lady who also reveals her unease. “Do not worry, My Lady,” he reassures. “We shall learn together. Enjoy the dance and each other's company.”

A few more rehearsals, and the Lieutenant and Madame are satisfied they are ready to progress. Yet the Host is unconvinced that all are comfortable with the figures. He is persuaded that perhaps the evening should begin with something rudimentary yet elegant.

“A different dance,” he announces. “Hole In The Wall!”

Disappointment of not completing the dance disappears at once for the Lieutenant and his lady. “I love ‘Hole In The Wall!’” she smiles as the couples rearrange themselves into long sets.


The sailor persuades himself to volunteer for head couple of one set, sensing experience is in need. A ragged line of couples forms behind them. When the Host calls on the young sailor to assemble his “crew,” he turns in shock to find two long sets of couples both trying to share him and Madame as head. He hastily waves and gestures down the line, straightening the dancers as best he can while realizing many have never danced in a set before now.

Once again, the Host leads through the figures: first couples casting off around the second couples, second couples casting back around the first, and then some changing of places before a circle halfway round and another cast-off by the first couples to progress. This time, the motions take root with the gathered, and soon they are dancing to music in happy elegance. Most every available space for dancing is occupied. Couples casting off carefully squeeze between others with as much courtesy as possible.

They progress all the way up and down the set, learning the mechanics of their journey as the Host steadfastly announces every move over the melodies of the flute and violin. No one shall be lost or in need of a prompt. When he accidentally skips a figure, the dancers continue on with the correct step, to the delight of the caller: “You are smarter than me!”

The Host offers up another set dance, “The Doubtful Shepherd.” Not wanting to neglect his gentlemanly duties, the officer seeks out a young lady. The prospective dancers are not hard to spot, standing on the side of the ballroom, eyes wandering back and forth yet showing no hint of longing or desperation… at least, not yet.

“Would you honour me with a dance?” the Lieutenant offers with a bow, sweeping off his bicorn and hoping the strands of hair upon his head do not fall over his face. His new partner accepts graciously, and they are soon cavorting in a three couple set, the gentlemen and ladies taking turns prancing around each other in a line between stately turns.

During a pause for refreshments, the Lieutenant locates the Captain to pay him regards.

“So glad you are able to join us for this diversion given the battle versus that scoundrel Napoleon!” the young officer greets.

The Captain pays him regard, noting that he shall be victorious, “if they don’t sink my ship.”

They feel little persuasion to share tales of epic sea battles as they stand near several admiring ladies.


“Is there a vicar of the Church of England here?” the Host asks, having announced the engagements of two young couples. Seeing none -- as Mr. Collins is nowhere to be found -- he proceeds to honour them with the next dance: “Haste To The Wedding.”

The Lieutenant and Madame spring to the head of a set, the officer warm with anticipation of a dance he learned long ago in the former colony of Virginia. The couples link into stars of four and circles, then passing around each other before clapping hands and casting off down the line. Some continue clapping to the rhythm as others cast off.

“Come, Let’s Be Merry,” is the title of the next dance, although one of the honoured couples suggest that title be changed to “Come, Let’s Be Married.” Here, the Lieutenant is torn. He wishes to offer a dance to other ladies but his heart persuades him to share another of his favourites with Madame. They head up a set of three, soon to be joined by the two honoured couples in what promises to be a quite lively arrangement. The Host notices a set of experienced dancers is before him, and he encourages them to come onto the stage.

Madame and the Lieutenant exchange glances. He knows she is a bit uneasy at the notion of demonstrating her moves before the entire ballroom, but she offers no protest and trusts in her partner’s skill to lead her through.

And so, the Host directs the attention of the assembled to the demonstration set, namely the first gentleman, the “one with the hat,” as the Lieutenant faces upwards and takes hands with his lady, backing up to turn her around to face the other couples. They give honours, bowing and curtsying before facing up again, and then turning around and backing up once more to repeat the honours.

“Cast off to the middle,” the Host directs, “and then to the bottom.”

The Lieutenant and Madame follow through and prepare for the next stately step up the center: either a graceful lead with inside hands joined or a sashay, or perhaps a waltzing round. The young officer chooses the first method, and his lady learns the steps with little difficulty. They cast off again to the middle of the set and circle round with the others before turning with two hands back to place, leaving the dance to begin anew.

The Host calls for the music, and soon all are following the leads of the dancers on stage.

“Let us pick up the tempo,” the Host directs to the pair of musicians.

Once more the couples turn and bow, cast and lead, circle and turn.

“Let us pick up the tempo a little more.”

The Lieutenant and his friends in the dance concentrate on their moves, tarrying not to study the efforts of those on the floor below them. They are setting the example, and it is successful, as the Host calls for another increase in tempo until all are satisfied and merry beyond measure.

A waltz follows, as does more merriment. Some students of the dance practice their box step. Others favour the round and twirl about. A few choose two steps and no more. The sailor and his lady decide to offer a symphony of close steps and twirling capers, turning round about and setting to each other before drawing towards one another for a graceful coda.

The Lieutenant lets no dance pass him by, seeking more young ladies for “Christ Church Bells” and “The Fields Of Frost And Snow.” One partner displays an almost acrobatic skill of turning and casting off, leaving the officer to twirl about to mirror her liveliness all the way down the long line. Gentility may be in fashion, but youth begets exuberance, and he strives to recall that time of his life when he could cast all worry to the wind.

Indeed the wind might be carrying off some of the assembled, as several names drawn for prizes of chocolate and literature have not a claimant in sight. The Host wonders if the “Press Gangs” of His Majesty’s Navy are forcibly persuading a few more conscripts in the ongoing fight against Napoleon.

“I push, I don’t press!” the Lieutenant replies aloud.

All are present for the Pumpkin Dance, however. The standard calls for a lady or a gentleman to pass the pumpkin off to someone by his side before sashaying off. In practice, many choose to pass the pumpkin to those waiting in line before skipping off in groups of three. It matters not to the Host, who at last enjoys an opportunity to partake of a dance.

As the ladies and gentlemen catch their breaths, the moment of the final waltz is upon them. Their energy is not muted, and many of the young continue to prance about even as the music suggests otherwise. They could dance all night, the Lieutenant observes. They would if given the opportunity, eventually slowing into the last figures of genteel charm before streaming back into the world they know  a world that has failed to notice them in many ways, failed to take note of their honour. And yet, it is there, and it is offered as a gift for others who wish to receive it. No British officer can instill it; it must be desired.

The young officer thinks of this when a group of modern-day ladies spot his uniform and approach him in the night during the journey to a post-ball feast.

“Can we take a picture with you?” they persuade.

He thinks for a moment.

“Let me retrieve my bicorn.”

Click here for more impressions from the elegant and merry group!

NEXT: The Free And The Brave

An Evening With Miss Austen

My Dear Friends, I have given you tastes all week long of a night in the Regency life.

Now, how about a main course?

Here is a montage of the 2005 Jane Austen Evening, presented by the Society for Manners and Merriment, and recorded by Walter Nelson:



See you at the Pride And Prejudice Ball!

Sur-prize, Sur-prize

One week after President Obama lost his bid to bring the Olympics to Chicago, he's getting a heckuva consolation prize: The Nobel Peace Prize.

According to Reuters:

The Norwegian Nobel Committee praised Obama for "his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples," citing his fledgling push for nuclear disarmament and his outreach to the Muslim world.

Obama has been widely credited with improving America's global image after the eight-year presidency of George W. Bush, who alienated both friends and foes with go-it-alone policies like the 2003 U.S.-led invasion of Iraq.

And here the article points us to the real reason: the Nobel Committee is saying 9 months of President Obama have been better than 8 years of President George W. Bush.

I am more than willing to give President Obama the benefit of the doubt, but every award I know honors people for their body of work, not the environment of hope they create. Think of all the awards we could give ourselves based on great expectations. Imagine all the prizes the George W. Bush Administration would have won in the months after 9/11 based on the sympathy the world had for us. Bono of U2 has done more than Obama over the course of his career, if your only criteria is setting an atmosphere of good feelings.

At least President Obama recognizes the stakes just got higher:

"I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments but rather an affirmation of American leadership," he said in the White House Rose Garden. "I will accept this award as a call to action, a call for all nations to confront the common challenges of the 21st century."

Just to remind you, he's still got Iraq on his plate, along with troop-strength decisions in Afghanistan, a nuclear crisis in Iran and North Korea, nuttiness from Venezuela, and whatever Russia's doing these days.

My friend Peter says this about Obama's Prize: "I compare it to giving Lindsey Lohan an Oscar in anticipation of some future comeback."

A lot of us don't really care who wins an Oscar anymore, as evidenced by declining ratings for the Academy Awards. The Nobel Peace Prize is now losing that luster. The awards for medicine still have some of my personal respect, and hopefully that will continue.

Baile, Baile!

Dearest Friends, I am hopeful that some of our Spanish friends from the Old Pueblo might be joining us at the Pride & Prejudice Ball. If they do, I certainly desire this dance be called in their honour: "The Spaniard."

Here it is as performed at The Netherfield Ball in Pittsburgh this past April:



As you can see, it is a dance with few figures. I especially enjoy the first few moves, in which you "set" to your corner. Put simply, you get to do a little dance to one side and then the other before turning back to place. This is where it is wise to leave some room in the sets between couples to accommodate as much liveliness as possible. Notice also how the lead couples walk down the set and back. Technically, you're supposed to walk down and then skip back. I have done this with my free hand raised, which has led to some period-incorrect high-fives down the set in the past. One might expect that from contra dancing, but not from us -- ahem -- refined English ladies and gentlemen... or merry Russians:



How do you say "Huzzah!" in Russian?

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Oh, Well!

Dearest Capering Friends, I gather many impressions of Regency dancing come from the Pride & Prejudice features, but they are a pittance compared to this: a great hall filled with happy ladies and gents in period attire, as far as the eye can see, stepping to music and guided by a caller so that none are confused or lost.

Of course, we don't have to dream. Here is "Well Hall" as performed at St. George`s Hall, in Liverpool, England.



Such a grand display deserves an encore. So here is "Auretti`s Dutch Skipper:"



Note all the laughter through the number, as some couples find themselves a bit out of sorts. It is no matter. We are not here to judge but to dance! So it shall be at the Pride & Prejudice Ball!

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Dance, Darcy, Dance!

Dearest Friends, I believe we must have some conversation about the dancing in the BBC Pride And Prejudice miniseries. No doubt the DVD will be viewed many times this week by those anticipating the upcoming ball.

So let us turn to a favourite scene of many, in which Mr. Darcy ventures a caper:



I am sure a few fancy the 2005 movie version, which does not want for liveliness:



And here is a montage of dances from both versions, which you must venture to click because the poster desired not to let me embed it.

You might want to comment on the size of the hall... or perhaps the number of couples...

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Black Is Beautiful

While you size up that pair of leggings, we continue our countdown to the Pride & Prejudice Ball with another of my favourites, "The Black Nag," danced by Regency Rejigged at the 2009 Chippenham Folk Festival:



It is another dance I have found easy to learn. But, Dearest Friends, I must admit this dance dates back long before Jane Austen's time. In fact, you might find it in that book by John Playford. A few of my Renaissance friends know it quite well, and they are quite happy to demonstrate:



Now I have heard real Regency dancers, ahem, would not have even approached anything in the Playford book, but as for my historical friends and myself, we tend to think a little broader on the timeline. Otherwise, we would often deprive ourselves of some of our favourite capers, not to mention the waltz!

So come now, let us not be too fussy. I am willing to wager more than a few of Austen's contemporaries had a wistful desire for the oldies but goodies. Elegance never goes out of style, no?

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Let's Get This Soiree Started

Greetings once again, my friends!

The Pride & Prejudice Ball is less than half a fortnight away, and faithful readers of this continuing epistle know what that means: time once again to immerse you into my dearest diversion. So all this week, I will be presenting for your pleasure some of my favourite dances from the Regency era, that time of Jane Austen, Thomas Jefferson, Beau Brummel and that scoundrel Napoleon.

Dearest Readers, I do know that many of you find the longways set a bit intimidating, threatening even. Oh, but fear not! I will begin with an easy yet elegant dance that is close to my heart.

From the Emerald City Regency Ball, here is the Duke Of Kent's Waltz:



Bravo! Now here is another rendition from the Society for Manners and Merriment, and please forgive the darkness.



And finally, a brief snippet from the The Quadrille Club, who throw in a genteel promenade:



Your humble servant is especially fond of the balance (pronounced "Bal-uh-say") step in the middle. It has a certain courtly charm, even if notions of liberty are running wild through this world...

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Why Chicago Lost

Before the spin doctors completely fold and mutilate the analysis of why Chicago lost the 2016 Olympics bid, here's my analysis:

* This isn't about Chicago losing as much as Rio winning. I believe the International Olympic Committee was stoked about bringing the games to South America for the first time ever. Rio's carnival atmosphere also plays right into that multicultural look and feel the Committee is looking for. You look at the pitch reel for Chicago (which was shown during the selection show as broadcast on CNN) and it looks like the Windy City is selling the Blues Brothers Olympics. It sounded too, well, American. The IOC just doesn't dig that beat.

* We've had plenty of Games. The U.S.A. has hosted Olympics four times in the last three decades (Lake Placid, 1980; Los Angeles, 1984; Atlanta, 1996; Salt Lake City, 2006). You can't say the IOC hasn't thrown us some love.

* I don't believe the theory of lingering resentment against the U.S. dating back to the Moscow Boycott. Where was that resentment when we landed the Games in 1996 and 2006? If there's any resentment, it may be more for the U.S.'s heavy dependence on corporate sponsorship, which a lot of people see as tacky.

* For all of the above reasons, this is not a referendum on President Obama. Flying to Denmark for a last-minute pitch, however, looked a little desperate.

All things considered, Chicago losing is not a bad thing at all. Support for the Olympics was less than solid in the first place, and we haven't even touched the gigantic cost factors. Ask somebody in Montreal about The Big Owe. As for publicity and tourism, why not stick with the Blues Brothers?

Lady Power!

To all the teenage girls: it is high time you demand to be treated like ladies.

I kept thinking that as I read through Rhonda Bodfield and Carmen Duarte's story in the Arizona Daily Star outlining the prevalence of sexual harassment in schools. I won't repeat the specific cases the Star found, but they push into the realm of criminal activity, and in most cases, the perpetrators honestly didn't think they were committing a major offense.

What's worse, the harassed girls often brush it off:

"Some girls have low self-esteem and are embarrassed to say anything or to stand up for someone else," said Renee Valencia, 17.

Vanessa Gonzales, 17, the former manager of junior varsity and varsity volleyball teams, said sometimes it's best to ignore it. "Because if you tell them (the harassers) anything, then it just leads to them calling you a [female dog] and others giving you a hard time," she said.

The disrespectful mentality comes from all over:

And, [Wellesley Nan College researcher Stein] said, kids see it in the larger culture. At sporting events, players often do a quick bum-pat as a nonverbal expression of "good job." "They've seen this behavior as being very acceptable," she said.

"Everything is so sexualized now that it's hard for kids not to pick up on it," said Susan Fineran, who co-wrote the report that ran in Sex Roles.

Which leads to a question the article never asks: Where are the parents?

Every teenage boy needs to hear and understand a form of this statement before entering puberty: "Girls deserve to be treated with respect, regardless of what I see on TV or in the movies, or among my friends, because that's how real men treat ladies. It is not appropriate to touch them in their private parts, no matter how they're looking or what they're wearing or what my hormones are doing."

I never remember Mom or Dad having a talk with me about treating ladies with respect, although I do recall a rule posted in every one of my elementary school classes: "Keep hands, feet and objects to yourself." That was enough. Nobody felt the need to bring the things your bathing suit covers into the discussion. This was at least a decade before the Clarence Thomas-Anita Hill hearings brought sexual harassment to the forefront. We also didn't have significant numbers of young women appearing underdressed like Madonna in her teeny-bop phase.

Nowadays, we can't pass this lesson in character development to schools anymore, if we ever did.

Jim Fish, TUSD assistant superintendent for middle schools, has told all of his principals to take a preventive approach to sexual harassment.

"You need to sit down with kids and be clear about what is acceptable and what is not," he said. "We make too many assumptions about what kids should know."

Or worse, we abdicate the responsibility with an excuse: "Boys will be boys." Sometimes, it's "Girls will be girls." Hey, if the guys can act inappropriately, why can't we?

So the kids are left to make up the rules, thinking that grabbing private parts and asking for sexual favors is a normal part of growing up. You can't blame that on MTV or the radio. The media is not in charge of drawing the lines.

But what angers and saddens me the most is the air of resignation among teenage girls who feel it's better for them to shrug off the boorish behavior than stand and yell "STOP!" Perhaps they don't feel like they're real women if they do. They don't feel like they're real women if they're wearing a skirt that comes down below the knee or a cleavage-free top. Don't even get me started on high heels. Ladies don't feel they have options because our culture doesn't reward modest, moderate people anymore. One of my former co-workers had a button in her cubicle: "Well-behaved women rarely make history." Maybe. But I'm willing to bet you most women who made history at least didn't sell out their standards of decency.

Dearest Ladies -- and I mean that term in respect, not patronization -- you are worth more than the going rate. Demand respect. Do not be culturally conned. Live in the world, but don't be of the world, as the Bible tells us. And do not be afraid to draw the line, because everybody else is expecting somebody else to draw it for them. You don't have to demand men bow to you -- although it looks nice -- but you must insist your body is not a toy.

Barnstorming!

What is a Missouri boatman doing in Arizona? What is he doing as a marshal? And why is he doing a Highland Fling? All is explained at We Make History’s Tucson Barn Dance… more or less.

From the journals of Christopher Francis.
Daguerreotypes by Madame Noire and your humble servant.

Tucson, 1879 --


“They’re going to tire themselves out before the first dance!”

A ring of young ladies prance in a circle as our fiddler warms his strings. It started as a line of lasses linked arm to arm, parading through the hall like proud stallions of the Tucson Rodeo. Then the music hits their ears and they are off to the races.

Now I should be the tired one. The journey from Kansas City to Tucson is long enough to drain a man’s strength without him moving a muscle: part by train, part by stagecoach. I meet a prairie schoolteacher, and she wonders how I survived the trip through Indian country.

“We were outnumbered,” I say. “But six in the chamber and a good shot tends to do a lot of convincing.”

Nearby, my dear lady friend is seeking fashion advice. She has this beautiful lacy cream-colored frock, which I’ll say is a welcome sight to everyone. But it’s no big secret that she’s intrigued by the pretty hoopskirts surrounding her. I can tell she’s looking for a talented seamstress. I wouldn’t think it would be so hard to find one in St. Louis.

Then I see a soldier entering in his woolen blue uniform with this green-ribboned medallion of a harp dotting his chest.

So I say, “Are you in the band?”

“No,” he responds with kindness. “I’m Irish.”

Doggone it. Been a long time since the war, long enough to scramble my memories. I have to be honest with you: If he could be mistaken for a musician, I could be mistaken for a parson. I’m wearing this black frock coat, black vest and a string tie.

“I don’t think they wear the hats,” a lady says, referring to my Stetson.

“Those cowboy priests of the Rio Grande Valley do,” I remember. “The Padres Oblatos.”


We’ve got a hall full of ranch hands standing among us in blue jeans and work shirts mingling amongst the ladies sporting bright prairie dresses and bonnets. The cattle business in Cochise County is a right fine moneymaker. Our host, the Colonel, isn’t above wearing some faded denim below his white jacket and bow tie. All of us get to admire each other’s duds as we make the grand procession through the hall and into a circle for a little bit of fun. This is where the Colonel gets to call us all out and such so we can do a little bit of showing off. He calls out the ladies, and then the gents, and like so with the blondes and brunettes, all the short and tall folks, and the people of bad manners who keep on dancing with their hats on. That would be me. That would be a lot of us. But I say if a man’s mop of a top needs a little bit of taming, that’s what the hat’s for.

I like the set dances. A gent doesn’t have to do a whole lot of fancy steppin’, just a whole lot of walkin’. My lady friend and I do this first dance -- I think it’s called the Gallopade -- and everybody gets to sashay down the middle, but that’s as fancy as it gets. Our caller Miss Becky comes up with these numbers that everybody can learn really quickly without having to think too much. It’s not hard to get caught up in the dance, with all the swinging and do-si-doing and sashaying going on.

The same goes for the square dances. I never cared too much for them when I was a boy, but the ones Miss Becky is teaching us are the simplest I’ve ever learned. Even so, they have a few fancy parts. She teaches this one where the couples go round about the ring, taking hands in little circles. “Dive for oyster!” she calls and one of the couples steps forward underneath an arch made by the other two. “Dig for clam!” she calls next, and then the other couple does the same.

We also get to do this square she taught us some time ago, “Birdie in the Cage,” where one lady jumps in to the middle of the ring and we all circle round. Then Miss Becky calls, “Birdie flies out, crow flies in!” and the man’s partner takes her place in the middle. I see this one gent dive into the center, and he’s flappin’ his arms and cawing just like the real bird. We’re all lucky nobody got pecked!

It doesn’t take a whole lot to work up a sizable amount of sweat, so all of us are quite pleased the Colonel has provided for cookies and tea and orange-flavored punch. That punch has to be the best refreshment in Arizona, as it doesn’t take long for it to disappear from the bowl.

During one of these breaks for socializing and catching our breaths, a lady inquires of my trade, probably wondering why I’m all dressed up.

“The riverboat and barge business is doing quite nicely,” I tell her. “With the trade picking up with the South, I’ve gone from working on the boat to owning the boat. The South is diversifying now, branching out beyond cotton. Doesn’t matter if you’re shipping cargo or yourself -- if you need to get something up and down the Missouri and Mississippi, I can take care of that.”

I lean towards her in confidence and whisper. “And if you fancy the dice, that can be arranged too, although I don’t like to talk about that much in front of the ladies.”

All right, so maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part. But I’m still a businessman, and I have to seek out opportunities where I can. That’s how I got myself out of those overalls I once wore and into something more becoming of a gentleman.

Along the way, I learned a few things -- like how to charm a lady or at look like I’m tryin’. A fine miss whom I know from a few previous dances invites me to try a twinkle waltz with her. Lucky for her, I know what I’m doing. It’s a really pretty dance to look at, when you’re stepping forward to face each other and touch hands and before turning away and then turning back. It looks a lot like one of those old Colonial dances. I bet you my great-grandparents would’ve loved to see it.

Some of these cowboys and cowgirls look like they’ve been spending as much time in the dance hall as they have out on the range. I’ll be a Missouri mule if I didn’t see so much fancy steppin’ around during the waltzes, like it was a ballet in New York City or something. Mind you, some folks like to take it nice and easy, but you see these young ones with more grace than the birds soaring through the air.

“Keeping the peace, Marshal Francis?” the Colonel says to me while I’m helping myself to more punch.

“Well, between the riverboat business and law enforcement, I kinda have a divided workflow,” I respond. “I’ve hired a Pinkerton or two for help.”

Okay, so I admit I didn’t tell you everything. I took a job as deputy marshal in Wilcox. I was out this way exploring a shipping deal with the railroads when I saw the need for more security.

“I hope to be coming out this way often,” I explained to the marshal over dusty, day-old coffee. “I can’t stick around here, but with all the rustlers and robbers and Indian attacks, it’s to your benefit if you know what was coming your way, and chances are I’ll probably run into it between here and Kansas City.” It wasn’t a hard sell.

A few ladies, meanwhile, were cornering the Colonel with their own offers. Please, oh please, can we persuade the gents to show off some things they learned during the war? He hadn’t planned it, but he quite generously obliged.

So the Colonel steps back into his duties as a commander and orders the gentlemen to a line on one side of the room, facing away from the ladies. The young girls squeal and giggle with delight and quickly remove one of their shoes. They toss them into this pile in the center. The Colonel asks another lady to mix all those shoes up, as it seems some of them like to pre-arrange what should be all spontaneous and such.

“Count off by twos!”

Most of us still remember our days as soldiers, so the drill of splitting one long line into two shorter ranks isn’t hard. And thankfully, all of us can count.

“How do they look, Sergeant?”

A large man in a Union overcoat agrees we look a little rusty but good enough for the purposes of snagging some footwear.

“Fix bayonets... CHARGE!”

The saying goes like this: lead, follow, or get out of the way. I reckon I can still fetch myself a shoe without fallin’ all over somebody else, so that’s what I do. My shoe happens to belong to a pretty lady in a charming green frock. Both of us have plenty of energy left for “Chase The Squirrel.”

My lady friend is finding herself plenty attractive to all the gents and cowboys. I see her enjoying dances with several different people, the way it right oughta be. And I’ll be a Mississippi River toad if she wasn’t the happiest thing after winning a door prize: a gift certificate for some fashionable patterns. She was seeking some fashion advice, and by golly, she found it!

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Colonel calls, “choose your partner for the old Virginia Reel!”

He loves calling it, even though many of us -- including myself -- know it by heart, from the lines forward and back through every honor and turn and swing. It’s tempting for some of us to dance faster than he can call it, but he insists otherwise: “Wait for the call!”

However, something seems missing: this seems too ordinary for the Colonel’s tastes. He has got to have something up his sleeves. We find out soon enough: “We’ll go through it one more time, in double time!”

He’s not kiddin’. All these ladies and gentlemen rush through that last reel like they’re dancing on hot iron or runnin’ through the Arizona desert. It’s a race with each set trying to beat the others to the end. I’m amazed somebody doesn’t get thrown clear across the room with all the fast swinging going on. A set right in front of the Colonel finishes just before my set does, and they’re proclaimed the winner. Pshaw, if I’d only known it was a contest I would’ve had a few more sips of punch.

The evening is drawing to a close, and a lot of us are worn down like an old set of boots. But the Colonel, he knows a lot of us still have some fire burning in the furnace.

“Are there any Scottish cowboys out there?” he asks.

“Aye!” I answer.

Didn’t I tell you I’m the proud descendant of Scottish parents? They’re working the mines in Kansas. I may have never set foot in the mother country, but their blood is still in me, and if I love a good reel, a good jig goes together with it quite nicely.

So the Colonel calls all of us Highland Cowboys to step to the center of the hall, and we all start doing a jig. Me, I seem to recall this other dance… I think it’s called the Highland Fling.



Ladies come in and tap me on the shoulder to relieve me, and I kindly step out only to step back in and continue dancing for the enjoyment of the fair ones and anybody else who cares to see me kick up my heels. Even the Colonel joins me for a wild swing or two.

After all of that, we have time for one final waltz, where I rejoin my lady friend, who has quite enjoyed all the dancing with all the ladies and gents, as I have encouraged her to do. We try a two-step, and then we both attempt a box step before falling back into the two-step. It’s nothin’ fancy. We don’t mind. Our lives have enough fancy steps.


HUZZAH! I mean, YEEEEE-HAW!!!!

Y'all see more pictures of the festivities here.

NEXT: Persuasion

Reel To Reel: The Informant!

He can expose bad all by himself.

Going Rate: Not more than matinee price, even if you like director Stephen Soderbergh's films.
Starring: Matt Damon
Rated: R
Red Flags: Language

It's puzzling to see how a man like Mark Whitacre made it as an executive at agricultural powerhouse ADM when he talks like the annoying guy two desks down from you. Boy, does he talk -- about anything: about corn, chemistry, a Renaissance fair, indoor pools, and polar bears in spurts of voice-over that more or less connect to the pictures but chiefly serve to remind you that his brain is as hyperactive as his mouth. Still, during the early '90's, this guy had just enough focus to take down his bosses in a price-fixing investigation by wearing a wire for the FBI. I must've missed the story during my formulative years in the news business.

Maybe it's because Whitacre, as portrayed by Damon, isn't a cut-and-dried folk hero. He seems to perceive right and wrong in terms of what's less burdensome to his mind, which we later find out is bipolar, although a lot of you will probably deduce that in the first five minutes. If only the FBI could've figured that out from the get-go. Whitacre leads agents down a twisted road of corporate intrigue while getting caught up in corruption himself. It has to be frustrating not knowing if your cooperating witness is taking out the garbage or on the take, and that's where the movie obtains a lot of its dynamics and satire.

Otherwise, it's a dry movie about a dry subject with a principal character unconducive to any emotional investment, despite the best efforts of director Stephen Soderbergh (Oceans 11) and a cheeky score from composer Marvin Hamlisch. It has several good plot twists, but they lack intensity and surprise given the cloud that is Whitacre: quirky and a bit zany but not really likable. I didn't root for him as much as wonder how he made it through without ending up in a straitjacket. A comic story about a man who takes down massive corporate corruption shouldn't be a hard sell in post-Madoff America. This one just doesn't have the goods.

The House Will Be In Order... Maybe

The U.S. House voted 240-179 along party lines to formally admonish Republican congressman Joe Wilson of South Carolina for his "You lie!" outburst during President Obama's health care speech last week.

But it should have been 434-0.

Many of your congressmen and women had a chance to stand for something more than ideology and partisanship, and they blew it. Miserably. At least now we know the truth: rules of decorum only apply when they're convenient. Rep. Wilson had plenty of opportunities to criticize, cajole and condemn before and after the speech, but he just couldn't wait. At least he didn't throw a shoe.

Booing has been around for ages, just like applause. The line, however, should stop there. We expect better from leaders who address each other on the House floor as "The Distinguished Gentleman." Maybe they just don't want that responsibility, as Rep. Barney Frank indicated: "I think it's bad precedent to put us in charge of deciding whether people act like jerks. I don't have time to monitor everyone's civility."

I also saw Rep. Frank telling Rachel Maddow that heckling is fair game in the British House of Commons: "Oh, I don't think it's a big deal. Look, I think free speech is (garbled), you know, heckling is a tradition, obviously, in the British Parliament. They even have mics that come down to hear the heckles." Somebody please remind the congressman where he's working.

Then I saw Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords shrug it off in a Twitter message: "Voted against official disapproval of Congressman Wilson. What he did was unacceptable but POTUS accepted apology. Time to move on."

Yes, it's time to move on, but after taking a stand for character. Congressman Wilson did his part. I hoped Congress would do theirs. But there I go again, expecting too much of our leaders, even on the basics.

The House Rules Committee just released an updated guide for criticizing the president, as reported by Politico:

Under section 370 of the House Rules and Manual it has been held that a Member could:

• refer to the government as “something hated, something oppressive.”
• refer to the President as “using legislative or judicial pork.”
• refer to a Presidential message as a “disgrace to the country.”
• refer to unnamed officials as “our half-baked nitwits handling foreign affairs.”

Likewise, it has been held that a member could not:
• call the president a “liar.”
• call the president a “hypocrite.”
• describe the president’s veto of a bill as “cowardly.”
• charge that the president has been “intellectually dishonest.”
• refer to the president as “giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”
• refer to alleged “sexual misconduct on the president’s part.”

I read these guidelines and recall that scene in the summer-camp movie Meatballs where Bill Murray's character subtly tears up a list of rules he has just been handed and deposits them in a trash can.

Your House voted to slap Rep. Joe Wilson on the wrist with a nail file. I'll try not to laugh the next time I hear the words "The Distinguished Gentleman" on C-SPAN. And I won't mind a bit if President Obama and future presidents handle hecklers the same way Ronald Reagan did in 1980, as his Presidential campaign was drawing to a close:

(Facebook readers, please click "Show Original Post" to see the video)



"Aw, shut up!"

Arizona's 11

From the Long-time-in-the-making Department comes a proposal to create a new interstate highway linking Phoenix and Las Vegas, tentatively called I-11. It would be made up of new and upgraded highways. As the Arizona Republic reports:

Supporters envision smoother Phoenix-area traffic and closer trade and tourism links between Phoenix and Las Vegas. With a major bypass around Phoenix, from I-10 near Casa Grande to U.S. 93 just north of Wickenburg, I-11 would become a prime freight route from Mexico to Las Vegas and beyond, promoters say.

But the project faces daunting hurdles.

The Phoenix-area bypass alone might cost up to $5 billion, and with no money in sight, a toll road is already being discussed. Decades of planning, studies and government approvals would be required. Even early decisions are years away.

My thoughts: why not a toll road? You place the burden of paying for the highway directly on those who use it. And if you're heading to Vegas, what's a dollar or two given all the money you'll likely be dropping at the blackjack table and poker slots?

As somebody who's made the drive several times up U.S. 93 through Wickenburg and Wikieup, on narrow and often-dangerous two-lane road, it's not a hard sell. But environmental concerns and desert preservation are sure to be the next major issues besides cost, so I'm betting against this road getting built in my lifetime.

Biased And Loving It

Record numbers of people say they don't trust the news media, according to a fresh survey by the Pew Research Center.

From the survey:

Just 29% of Americans say that news organizations generally get the facts straight, while 63% say that news stories are often inaccurate. In the initial survey in this series about the news media’s performance in 1985, 55% said news stories were accurate while 34% said they were inaccurate. That percentage had fallen sharply by the late 1990s and has remained low over the last decade.

Similarly, only about a quarter (26%) now say that news organizations are careful that their reporting is not politically biased, compared with 60% who say news organizations are politically biased. And the percentages saying that news organizations are independent of powerful people and organizations (20%) or are willing to admit their mistakes (21%) now also match all-time lows.

The survey also points out that Republicans are harder on the press than Democrats, although that figure is narrowing.

My line of work gets one of the few roses:

Views of local TV news continue to be less partisan than opinions of other leading news sources. As was the case in 1985, there is very little difference between the views of Republicans (79% favorable) and Democrats (77%); somewhat fewer independents (67%) rate local TV news favorably.

The Pew survey doesn't address the why of declining trust, but let me offer you an educated guess: talk radio, particularly conservative talk radio, which has been growing as trust in traditional news media has slid.

For years, right-leaning talkmeisters have been telling you how rotten and biased the "liberal media" is. And when people tell you that for years, you're eventually going to believe it. Not that we don't deserve the lumps (and last week's big boo-boo involving a security threat training exercise in New York City was a big one), but the pronouncement of bias from those who have a less-than-objective agenda reminds me of that journalistic maxim, "consider the source."

Glenn Beck has been digging into the backgrounds of President Obama's czars. His exposure of Van Jones as a 9/11 conspiracy nut with a foul mouth played a major role in Jones' recent departure. He's also dug up FCC Diversity Chairman Mark Lloyd's head-scratching sympathies for Ceasar Chavez. Here are two people who don't need to be advising the president, but let's be clear: Beck isn't conducing this investigation out of an overwhelming desire to tell people the objective truth: he wants these people gone. It just so happens the facts support his cause. And he, unlike the traditional news media, gets to select only those facts he likes. But nobody's going to accuse him of bias. He's biased to the bone and loving every minute of it.

People don't mind. Beck is near the top of the cable news ratings, up there with Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity (minus Alan Colmes), Lou Dobbs, Rachel Maddow, and Keith Olbermann. To be sure, Katie Couric's ratings are still better than O'Reilly's, but the trend shows cable opinion news shows growing and network news shows declining.

We just buried Walter Cronkite and offered him our tributes as the embodiment of what journalism should be. We might as well have buried that concept with him. Let's quit kidding ourselves. People complain about biased newscasts, but guess what they're watching and listening to? I will offer my thesis once again: Bias is in the eye of the beholder. Many complaints of bias on the part of mainstream news organizations are in fact complaints that the news isn't biased in their direction.

And Pew, if you're going to do another of these press trust surveys, start asking more questions. You may find the answers revealing.