Letters Are Expectation Packaged In An Envelope.

Between The Two Poles Of Whole-truth And Half-truth Is Slung The Chancy Hammock In Which We All Rock.

Until Quite Recently Dance In America Was The Ragged Cinderella Of The Arts . . .

Ours Is The First Society In History In Which Parents Expect To Learn From Their Children, Rather Than The Other Way Around. Such A Topsy-turvy Situation Has Come About At Least In Part Because, Unlike The Rest Of The World, We Are An Immigrant Society, And For Immigrants The Only Hope Is In The Kids.

The Rich Plankton Of Pop Heroes And Pop Villains On Which We Americans Are Accustomed To Feed, The Daily Media Soup Of Sports Figures, Ax Murderers, Politicians, And Rock Singers, The Ever-running River Of Celebs, Heavies, And Oddballs That We Use To Spice Up Our Own Relatively Humdrum Lives Has Of Late Become A Very Watery Gruel. Where Have All The Good Guys And Bad Guys Gone? Why Does Everyone Out There Look So Gray?

The Federal Building's Large Ceremonial Courtroom, Reserved For Show Trials, Is Veneered In Executive Teak. Bench, Counsel Tables, Jury Boxes, Entrances, And Exits -- All Are As Formally Arranged As An Elizabethan Stage. Only The Drama Is Shapeless, At Least To Those Of Us Who Have Never Seen A Trial Before. We See Only Random Movements, Sequences, Comings And Goings, No Form Or Agenda Apparent. To Us The Action Is Less Like Watching A Play Than Watching An Aquarium.