I have no idea what’s going on with my little camera. There seems to be a weird magenta glow on everything.

Anyway: the Person Dressed in Black and her daughter, waiting for the school bus this morning, in mother/daughter flowered shoes.

Today is one of the high holy days of my personal religion. Today is Bob Dylan’s natal anniversary…birthday for those of you too illiterate to figure out the first phrase. Yep, the Bob is 67 years old today. I’m celebrating in my own way, going out yarn shopping with Star and then dropping in for dim sum in Miami’s finest dim sum joint. And then, for desert, more yarn shopping. All the while playing the Bob on my car cd player.

You celebrate in your own fashion, OK? I have, as I do every year, made plans for a fabulous home-cooked meal, in case he’s in the neighborhood and wants a little nosh. One year he was down in Miami on tour, and I even sent a formal invitation to his label. I don’t think they passed it on, because he never showed up and I had left over brisket for days. This year I’m going to make potato pierogis. In other years I’ve made kugel. Maybe it’s the chopped liver that he wants?

I mean, I figure, how often does the man get a nice, home-cooked Jewish meal? His mom’s still with us, or she was when he won the Kennedy Center honors, because she was his date, but who knows if she’s still cooking for him. And who knows if Mrs. Zimmerman was much of a cook to begin with? Still, the Bob sings about kitchens and food a lot, so I’m counting on sooner or later, hitting on the menu that will bring him to my door.

I walked outside the other morning, and found two lizards makin’ sweet, sweet love on a slice of mango tree out by the koi pond. Lizard Sutra, anyone?

Way, way back in the day, when I was president of the Dade County Young Democrats, and Joe Kennedy was running for his first term, we held a fund-raiser for him down here. I decided to prep myself for the after event, a private dinner for the organizers and Joe, by calling my father. Daddy grew up in West Palm Beach and played basketball in the church league. His was the only Jewish team, and they held their own, he said. He also said that he’d played against those Kennedy boys, and I figured that this would give me something to talk about with our guest. My daddy, his daddy (Robert), our uncles, all dribbling in good natured, young male humor on the courts of Palm Beach. I thought.

I called my father and asked him to tell me everything… the name of the church they played for, the location and name of the courts, whether his team had ever beaten their team. He told me everything I asked. Except he became very reticent about the outcomes. I pressed.

“Come on, Daddy. Did you guys ever win?”

“They were tough competitors.”

“Oh. Did you even come close?”

“They were very tough competitors.”

“They smoked yer asses, huh?”

“Oh, all right. They cheated.”

“Great. Daddy, I don’t think that that is going to go over real well when I tell this story to Joe. Yeah, your family beat the crap out of my father’s team because your sainted father and his brothers cheated.”

“It was only Jack.”

“Oh, that’ll be even better. Your sainted uncle Jack cheated. Great. Thanks a lot, Pop.”

So. The cocktail party went off fine. The Kennedys breed, I can safely say, having been in their presence, for teeth and charisma. There is nothing like it. I can’t explain it. I’m not easily impressed with people, and particularly not impressed with people whose reputations precede them to such a degree, but damn. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since. And The Person Dressed in Black, back when she was at Conde Nast, once met John-John, and says the same thing. The charisma was a physical presence, and she is totally disdainful of the Kennedys and their mystique. But I digress.

I find myself at some point between the cocktails and dinner, alone at the hotel’s front desk with Joe. I begin to tell the story of how, when they were just lads, his father and uncles played basketball with my father and uncles. And then I get into the delicate matter of the punch line to my tale. I stutter to a halt, somewhere around the part where my father has just told me that the Kennedy boys were Very Tough competitors. I look up at Joe and say, you know, maybe I should just stop here. He tells me to continue. I do. I get to the part where Daddy said it was just Jack who cheated. Joe looks down at me and says, “That doesn’t sound right, kiddo.”

My stomach drops to my ankles. I break an immediate flop sweat, and he gives me a huge toothy grin, and says “Hell, they ALL cheated!” and roared with laughter.

I’m so sorry to hear of Teddy’s diagnosis. I send my prayers (such as they are) and best wishes to the family.

We open with a lovely montage of Rome and highlights (or lowlifes) of our time there with the bitches and the hos, and end in the limo with the final four. Big Whitney is all twitterpated because she’s been in the bottom two twice now, and usually the second time means an exit interview. She is both stunned and relieved to find herself still here and Katarzyna gone.

Anya is riding high on her multiple challenge wins and assures us that she is not worried, and knows that she “brings it” on set. Brings what, she does not say. Coffee for the crew, perhaps? Donuts for Mr. Jay? Back in Ca Trya, the artwork on the walls has been switched to all Salacious D, all the time. Perhaps to remind us who won last year? Or perhaps to give Dominique-inique-inique the segue to this monologue: “I knew as soon as I laid eyes on her last year that she’d be the winner. She had it all. I’m the Salacious D of this season.” Uh, no. Unless you mean saddled with an unfortunate make-over. In any event, Dominique-inique-inique says she has a headache (She says that a lot. Maybe she actually listens to herself talk, because she sure gives me a headache.) and wanders out of the room. The other three take the opportunity to play the how-do-we-dislike-Dominique-inique-inique? Let-us-count-the-ways game. She’s a tranny. She’s a know it all. She’s delusional. She’s a secret eater. She eats off other people’s plates. She eats candy in bed in the middle of the night. She’s annoying. She also thinks that she is the most improved “girl” in the house. Well, if by that you mean…no. There is no way that can be true under any circumstances.

Next we have Fatima confessionalizing her own mission on this planet, which is to win this competition. To which I say, meh. If I were you, my first mission would be to find a dermatologist and follow her instructions to the letter. And bringing up the rear of the praise be to me train in Anya, who says she is so impressed with herself and her multiple wins. And I’m either getting used to her weird ass speech impediment, or she’s secretly been practicing her elocution, because I understood what she said. Not, of course, why she would say it, but what she said.

Finally and at last, the long dark night of the soulless models is over and we come to the next morning and Tyra Lisa mail. “Take a picture, maybe you’ll last longer.” Hmm. Sort of the whole plot of the series, right there in seven words. The hamsters squeal, a little half-heartedly and haven’t a clue as to what this might mean. Katarzya was the brains, wasn’t she? Off we go to a park. Trees. Grass. Paulina. Paulina posing for photographer Francecso Licata. His job today will be to teach the girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) how to take shoot with an SLR. Paulina says that this knowledge of photography can be helpful when one is on the other side of the lens. I wish Lauren were here for this. She’d kick the other hamsters’ asses to the curb. I mean, have you seen her artwork? Fierce. And I say that with all sincerity.

To begin, the FinalFabFour all shoot each other, but alas, there are no bullets in the cameras. Dominique-inique-inique and Fatima spend most of their time tearing each other down. It is boring and lame. Ann Shoket and her nose arrive to tell the hamsters the nature of this challenge. They will each get five minutes to shoot Paulina. The winner of the challenge will get an extra 50 frames at the next photo shoot. We know from past seasons how great a prize that is. It usually ensures a win. Fatima says that she absolutely has to win this and get those extra 50 frames. She goes first.

Anya says that Fatima was good at giving direction. Paulina says that Fatima was strong, and led her along by the hand toward a vision and that she (Paulina) wanted to go on that trip. Dominique-inique-inique is next and takes advantage of the fact that Paulina is a pro and tells her to do what ever she wants. What she wants is to stand there and make Dominique-inique-inique give her direction. Unfortunately for all concerned, this leads to posing in front of a random cactus. Actually, it looked like a Spanish Bayonet, and those have some wicked sharp points. I hope Paulina wasn’t hurt. Anya says that Dominique-inique-inique had no vision. Paulina says that Dom wanted to do something great, but was clueless as to what or how.

Whitney gave Paulina direction while keeping in mind that Paulina is a judge, and a pro and can make or break her career. Or at least her time on ANTM. Dom opines that Big Whitney came across as professional. Paulina says that Whitters was fun to work with, and didn’t hesitate to take control of the shoot.

Anya has ideas, all of them awful. One idea involves Paulina throwing a pile of leaves in the air and watching in wonder as they fall around her. Another involves Paulina looking at a flower and tugging on its leaves in wonderment. I feel that a lot of Anya and her childlike wonder of the world around her is coming through here. I’m just saying. Well, you know what I’m saying. Big Whitney says that Anya was all over the place. Paulina is more delicate, suggesting that perhaps, just perhaps, Anya might want to try to focus.

Ann Shoket and her nose return to give the final critiques and announce the winner. Whitney’s beauty shots were perfect and Paulina liked working with her. Anya was the most fun to work with, even though a lot of her ideas didn’t work. Fatima gave the most options, and Dominique-inique-inique had lousy compositions, i.e.: lots of cactus hats. (snork) The winner is Fatima. I don’t know why, since everything sounded like it would be Whitney. Fatima, naturally, assures the world that she deserved the win. Gracious in victory, that one.

Back at the apartment, Fatima practices her walk while Dominique-inique-inique tells her that she sucks and doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Fatima replies “I’m rubber, you’re glue; whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.” And also, “neener, neener, I won and you didn’t you big old secret eating loser.” Dominique-inique-inique goes off into the confessional to drone on and on about herself in the third person, while Anya interviews that Dom sucks all the energy out of a room and then clutches her head and says “I’m melting…” It is one of the high moments of this season.

Salacious D has her moment of life as a Cover Girl. It involves walking in a Tibi fashion show.

Back in Rome, there is more Tyra Lisa mail, and the requisite squealing (albeit somewhat half-hearted at this stage of the game) ensues. Blah, blah, blood, blah, blah, fame. Blah, blah, no clue. But wait: here IS a clue. Dominique-inique-inique interviews that she isn’t sure if Big Whitney is going home this week, but better Big Whitney than Dominique-inique-inique.

The shoot this week is a night shot. The hamsters will be dressed up like movie stars from the 50s. They will be paired with a random Italian male model and the concept is that they are ducking down a staircase in the dead of night, only to be surprised and shot by the paparazzi. Nigel (swoon, drool) will be their photographer, and he’ll be shooting the whole thing: paparazzi, movie stars, stairs. The word of the day from Mr. Jay is “cinematic”. He should have explained what that meant, because none of the hamsters get the concept at freakin all. Anya assures us that she can take direction and give energy. She can also look like a wax copy of Gwen Steffani. Mr. Jay resorts to calling her name and distracting her in order to get a decent shot. Actually, her best shot is one where she is stepping out of her shoe and slipping. Luck be a lady.

Fatima comes to set with her usual stank attitude and says that she has a huge advantage because she won the challenge and has 50 extra frames. After 11 weeks, the girl still has a hard time facing into the camera and/or the light. She hears, but does not take, Mr. Jay’s and Nigel’s directions. She needs all fifty of her extra frames, and still sucks wind. Nigel snarks at her “Honey, that stuff isn’t inspiring.”

Big Whitney takes the set and echoes of Tyra’s “play down the hootchie” still ringing in her ears, she plays down the glamour. No one is impressed. She interviews that she didn’t do her best, but hopefully she looked pretty?

Dominique-inique-inique is ghastly. She’s stiff and stagey. Mr. Jay keeps telling her to move it around. That this is supposed to look like a still frame from a movie. Crickets. Mr. Jay interviews that the whole evening was awful, that nobody got the concept or took a decent shot and that Dominique-inique-inique even took steps backward. All the hamsters pick up on this vibe and are nervous going into panel. The guest judge is Ann Shoket and her great honking nose.

Anya gets the first critique. She looks good, but didn’t bring STAR! Big Whitney looked stunning, but also a little stunned. Paulina says she looks gorgeous, but stiff. Dominique-inique-inique arrives dressed like a cheap cocktail waitress on a morning run to Wal-Mart for diapers. Paulina takes one look at the photo and cries “TRANNY” then backtracks and says, but beautiful tranny. Miss Jay rolls her eyes. Fatima took a romantic shot, a Cover Girl shot, which is fine and dandy, but not the assignment. She tries the old, “I don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout having a boyfriend” schtick and Tyra calls foul. Oh, no, says Tyra. Don’t even go there. As a model you are paid to do and be things that you have never done and never were. Nice fucking try, beeyotch. Back to your place in line.

In the judging, Anya is credited for lucking into a great shot. But she wasn’t in control of it. Ann says that Anya oozes glamour. As opposed to say, Fatima who oozes stank and Dominique-inique-inique, who just oozes. In her photo, Fatima looks beautiful, but not startled. She came off snotty on set, and everyone agrees that she doesn’t listen. Ann thinks that Whitney isn’t using enough hootchie. Tyra neglects to mention that this would be because she’s been telling Whitney to play down the hootchie for 11 weeks. The whole make up contract thing is seen as problematic for that big old snout-nosed tranny Dominique-inique-inique. Miss Jay gets the best line of the night by saying (in a basso profundo) that that’s why it’s called Cover Girl, because it covers up the man in you. Bwahahahahaha.

The photos go to Anya (strongest in a weak bunch, and then only by luck) and Whitney (quit trying so hard). This leaves our protagonists, Dominique-inique-inique and her best enemy Fatima in the bottom two. Who stays? The tranny who started out bad, then got better and finally sucked so badly even the judges couldn’t ignore it? Or the pimply-faced egotist with the dreadful past and a total inability to take direction? Hmmm. Hard call, and they can’t send two girls home tonight, so Fatima gets to stick around for another week.

Next week? A Cover Girl commercial and a muthafuckin walk-off.

I have to admit that I’ve never much cared for Tim Robbins as an author. I thought he was, at best, sort of a recycled, lesser Richard Brautigan. But an old friend sent this to me, the text of a speech Robbins gave last month to the National Association of Broadcasters, and I was so impressed with it that I present it to you in its entirety.

Subject: Tim Robbins

Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2008

The following is my opening keynote speech for the National Association of Broadcasters Show in Las Vegas, which I delivered Monday night.

Hello, I’m Tim Robbins. I’d like to thank you for the invitation to address you here at the National Association of Broadcasters. When I first received the invitation I was a little confused because the last time I had contact with the national media I seem to remember them telling me to shut the hell up.

I would like to start with an apology. To Rush and Sean, and Billo and Savage and Laura what’s-her-name. A few years ago they told America that because I had different opinions on the wisdom of going to war that I was a traitor, a Saddam lover, a terrorist supporter, undermining the troops. I was appealing at the time for the inspectors to have more time to find those weapons of mass destruction. I was a naïve dupe of left wing appeasement. And how right they were. If I had known then what I know now, if I had seen the festive and appreciative faces on the streets of Baghdad today, if I had known then what a robust economy we would be in, the unity of our people, the wildfire of democracy that has spread across the Mideast, I would never have said those traitorous, unfounded and irresponsible things. I stand chastened in the face of the wisdom of the talk radio geniuses, and I apologize for standing in the way of freedom.

So when they asked me to come speak to you I said, ‘Are you sure? Me?’ And they said, ‘Yes.’

And I said, ‘You know, I have a tendency to say things that I believe at the time to be well-intentioned but that are actually traitorous.’ And they said, ‘Sure, cool.’ And then I read the press release and it said, ‘Mr. Robbins will be speaking about the challenges of new media and delivery systems.’ Oh, OK. But I just want you to know I’m not sure I know what that fucking means.

But it is an honor to be speaking to you here at this years National Association Broadcasting convention even if I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

I owe a lot to broadcast media. I got my start in radio in the early 20s. In my early twenties. And it was television.

But these tremendous inventions have benefited us all.

Radio has come a long way from the early days when family’s gathered around the trusty old Philco to listen to such programs as Superman, Sherlock Holmes and Amos and Andy. Thanks to music and sound effects, this magical medium was able to transport families to a place where a man could fly, a brilliant detective could solve the most perplexing of crimes, and two white guys could portray ridiculously offensive black stereotypes for the amusement of millions.

The first broadcast occurred on Christmas Eve in 1906 at Brant Rock, MA, when a man named Fessenden played his violin, sang a song and read Bible verses into a wireless telephone of his own invention. His goal was to find financial backers, but no investor of the day believed that radio could ever replace the most popular leisure activity of the day; listening to the hoot owl while playing the zither as your 14-year-old niece bounced on your knee. Some of you may remember. It was all the rage in the early century.

But soon broadcasting over the radio caught on and zither playing and child molestation were a thing of the past. Radio reached a boom time during the Depression as people begin to listen to and depend on radio to lift their spirits during that catastrophic economic crisis. Shows such as The Bickersons taught people life is not so bad as long as somebody has got it worse.

President Roosevelt became the first ‘radio president’ and his ‘fireside chats’ set the stage for later presidential weekly addresses such as; ‘chew the fat with Ike,’ ‘LBJ’s bull session,’ and George W’s ‘Hooked on Phonics and Strategery Hour.’

Radio continued to expand and soon, the public turned to their radios for news, which began to mature during World War II with the regular reports of the bombing of London by Edward R. Murrow, with his ‘London After Dark’ series, where Murrow coined the famous phrase: ‘Good Night and Good Luck’ as well as the lesser known phrase; ‘Die, you Nazi cocksuckers.’

In the post war years, the radio business exploded when 90% of all American’s claimed radio was their primary source of news and entertainment. To meet this incredible demand Philco built 6 million radios in 1947. And to provide content for those 6 million radios, we were introduced to some of the greatest drama, comedy and musical entertainment this country has ever seen.

In the ‘70s, radio took a serious nosedive when Edwin Armstrong invented FM to eliminate the static and noise associated with AM and unwittingly provided a home for easy listening jazz rock, overly dramatic disco songs and 20 minute psychedelic sitar jams.

In the ‘80s and ‘90s the FCC, under pressure from the Reagan and Clinton administrations, changed the rules limiting the number of radio and television stations a business entity could own, paving the way for such conglomerates as Infinity broadcasting and Clear Channel to buy up local stations and put them under the umbrella of their larger corporations. Again the community benefited because due to Clear Channel and Infinities’ conservative approach, listeners no longer had to be subjected to perplexing controversial subjects, or confusing varied opinion, or alternative rock. And as a bonus these large companies, with the help of Mr. Reagan and Mr. Clinton got rid of that annoying Fairness Doctrine, freeing its listeners from the burden of hearing equally from all sides of the political debate. What a bore.

This new world of conglomeration also brought us back to a simpler, more exciting time with regard to natural disasters and calamities. Your local station would now be broadcasting from a city many miles away and should there be a tornado coming your way you wouldn’t know about it until the funnel was in full view. Exciting times.

In the 1950s, television began to replace radio as the chief source of revenue for broadcasting networks. It quickly became apparent that talking about ‘Old Sandusky Lager’ on the radio didn’t quite have the same impact as watching a buxom flaxen haired temptress in a skin tight dress play pool in a bar while she drank ‘old Sandusky Lager.’ Beer sales skyrocketed.

In the ‘60s, American television networks began broadcasting in color bringing a new vibrant reality to the content of the day. Suddenly it didn’t seem unusual that an astronaut was dating a scantily clad genie that lived in a bottle in his living room.

Television also brought the horror and reality of war into our living rooms airing footage of the war in Vietnam. Building on the mistakes of the past, war is now televised in an easily digestible sanitized version. The current administration has proven that war doesn’t have to be upsetting, or sacrificed for, or even reported on at all. We have come a long way, baby.

But what is the state of broadcasting today? Some critics have noted that there is a dangerous lack of diversity and opinion. That may be true, but imagine the nightmare of having to rectify that situation.

I propose a much simpler solution, which I’ve separated into three prongs, or a Satan’s trident if you will.

First, erase all diversity. Thankfully the majority of what is broadcast over television and radio is of two opinions and that feels good. That’s simple. But unfortunately there is a tiny minority out here on the airwaves expressing a different view outside of the Democrats and Republicans nexus trying to confuse us all. Can we please shut them up? How expensive could it be to buy Pacifica Radio? These people are driving us apart.

Secondly, let’s stay focused on Sex Scandals. Stop with the in depth reporting that gets outside of the sound bite. More sex scandals! Surely with a little more prying, a little more effort we can find more sexual deviants. And trust me, sexual deviancy is something we can all agree on. It’s deliciously intoxicating to watch unfold. It’s titillating.

The absolute zenith of news, the perfect storm of reporting, the shining city on the hill in news coverage was Lewinsky v Clinton. Now that was fun. We couldn’t get enough of that. There were salacious details, semen stains, oral sex. And the president lied. He threatened every notion of marriage and the sanctity of family. He put our country at risk. And when he did lie we held his feet to the fire. We reported on every angle, every permutation of the story. We held hearings, appointed an independent council, led off every newscast for months about the lie, played it until there was no hiding from it, and then held him accountable by impeaching him. It is our moral responsibility to report on the sex lives of the powerful. It is the only thing that kept our country alive at that point. It righted our ship of state. It saved our collective soul. And it was great, juicy fun. Imagine what would have happened to our country’s soul if the president lied and nothing was done about it, if impeachment was off the table. Where would we be today if we did not hold our president accountable?

Third, find more racially divisive news and play that constantly. As long as we hate each other we will never be bothered with this gnawing lefty obsession with information. Let’s make the purpose of the media salacious entertainment, not information. The more our news outlets and talk radio can distract us the better. We love distraction. When the nattering nabobs of negativity tell you that the economy is falling apart, that gas costs four dollars a gallon, that they are foreclosing on your home, that there is chaos in Iraq, when these propagandists spread this ‘information’ it is our moral responsibility to distract. I don’t know about you but show me a starlet without panties getting out of a car and suddenly the world seems like a better place. Show me Knight Rider drunk on the floor eating a hamburger, and I won’t ask why my kid has no health insurance. Let’s stop burdening people with facts. I bet some of you are saying; ‘Sure Tim, there’s no question, sex scandals, race riots and drunken TV stars are a lot of fun, but shouldn’t broadcasters see themselves as part of the larger picture? Isn’t there an obligation to honestly report on what is going on, to pursue stories past their headlines? Haven’t criminal acts occurred in government? Shouldn’t there be accountability for inept policy decisions? Shouldn’t someone be fired?’ And you know something? I didn’t hear any of that because I’m still thinking about that starlet getting out of the car without her panties. You see, that doesn’t take any energy. I know exactly what to think about.

Now some of you are concerned with that unrelenting pesky competition. You know, the new technologies; the Internets and satellite radio and television. The problem is there are too many people in this country that take the notion of creativity and invention too damn seriously. Just when one technology is centralized, conglomerated, monopolized, along come new technologies and delivery systems to threaten the good work born of deregulation. Just when we were getting close to a national playlist for our music, satellite technology is threatening to provide music that people actually want to hear. Just when we were close to a national news media, providing a general consensus on what the truth is, along comes the Internets that allow its users a choice on the kinds of news it watches. And the You Tube. My God we’ve got to stop them. Recently when we were about to enjoy our great national pastime of ‘tearing apart a presidential candidate with relentless repetition of ugly things his friend said’, You Tube provided the candidates reasoned response and millions watched and responded positively.

Well you here at NAB have the power to stop this dangerous technology. The question is, how? I respectfully suggest that you do what others have done when facing the competition of new technologies. Get compromising information on your enemy and expose them in a sex scandal. Or call them a racist, or better yet a traitor. That not only undermines your competitor, but provides the public with fantastic entertainment.

Of course you can do that. And no one in this current world would fault you for it. It is, after all, where we stand today. In all seriousness folks, let’s face it. We are at an abyss as a country and as an industry. And I know that saying we are at an abyss isn’t the stuff of keynote addresses but all sarcasm and irony and rude pithiness aside, we are at a critical juncture in this nation’s history. This is a nation divided and reeling from betrayal and economic hardships. And you, the broadcasters of this great nation have a tremendous power, and a tremendous potential to effect change. You have the power to turn this country away from cynicism. You have the power to turn this nation away from the hatred and the divisive dialogue that has rendered such a corrosive affect on our body politic. You can lift us up into a more enlightened age. Or you can hide behind that old adage; ‘I’m just a businessman, I provide what the audience wants.’ Well, I’m here to tell you that we don’t need to look at the car crash. We don’t need to live off of the pain and humiliation of the unfortunate. We don’t need to celebrate our pornographic obsession with celebrity culture. We are better than that.

Some of you are trying. Some of you are inspiring people towards altruism and compassion with your programming. Some of you are trying to lift the civic dialogue into a more responsible and adult arena. But I know you do so against the odds of ratings and job security. It is really up to the leaders in this room. It is up to you, the scions of this industry to leave behind formulas and focus groups and your own fears of job security. Only with your courage and your vision can we begin to imagine a world of broadcasting where the general consensus of those with real power say ‘Enough is enough. Now is the time to move away from our lesser selves. Now is the time to stop making money on the misfortunes of others and the prurient and salacious desires of the public. Now is the time to admit and recognize that we aren’t just businessmen but the guardians of the human spirit, with a responsibility to the health of this nation. That we can lift this country up with our programming, that instead of catering to the gossips and the scolds and the voyeurs we can appeal to the better nature in our audience, the better nature of what this country is all about.’

This is a country filled with people of great compassion and tremendous generosity. This is a country that has survived dust bowls and depressions, that united to defeat Hitler and fascism and communism. We are a resilient people and a tenacious people. And we are ready for change.

Imagine a new broadcasting industry aesthetic, that respecting the better nature of the American people, produces shows that promote strength instead of fear. That does not divide, but inspires, that does not promote hate, but unity, that will not tear the weak down, but build up their strength. Imagine a world of broadcasting where the American people are encouraged to reject despair and distrust. And when they turn their TVs and radios off at night and go to sleep they possess strength, and unity and compassion for those they disagree with. That’s not out of the question. You can make that happen. It will be difficult, and will fly in the face of conventional wisdom, and standard operational procedures. But do we have any choice? The road we are on is leading us to a corruption of our former selves. We are better than that. You can help us reclaim our better nature, our perfect union. It isn’t necessarily a matter of country before profit, or of patriotism and truth before personal comfort. There could be money to be made in appealing to our better selves. Wouldn’t that be great?

And if there isn’t and we came out of it a little less rich but more unified and healthier as a nation wouldn’t that be something we could all be proud of?