emigrant's suitcase

in 2008 I will:

enjoy my art more and stress about it less.

I will not apologize to my friends who are full time moms for working full time,or to my working friends/poets for being a mom whose kid has to come along sometimes.

i will not settle for less than what my art is worth monetarily, not out of greed, but out of respect for the love and effort that I pour into my work. I am not talking about times when there is a cause I believe in, or when I am with artists I love, for which I would perform until my vocal cords would bust; I am talking about times like when people hire limousines to drive their guests for 500 yards but do not even provide water for the headliners.(true story... freaking city of Roswell art council, one of the richest suburbs of ATL)

I will be ok with being a grownup.

I will publish that chapbook.

I will write the lyrics for that album in Albanian.

I will give a fair shot at writing that memoir.

I will reach out to my other brother whose silence has been a stone in my heart.

I will talk to God more.

I will listen more.

I will be kinder to my body.

Yes, I know - I need new promo pics. Well, hook a sister up!

Hi everyone!

First, I apologize for the negligence of the last few weeks - most of my life was swallowed by a "black hole" of a show called "Love, Johnny" - a musical I designed costumes for for Georgia State University in Atlanta.

I guess it would be a good time to mention that I have gone back to work, and I am a full time costume designer/ costume shop manager for Emory department of Dance, and cutter/draper for Theatre Emory.

That aside, I am really happy to have been inivited to feature as a as a poet at the Bowery Club/ Urbana Slam on dec 4, 2007; as well as at the White Plains Public Library on dec 5, 2007. For dates and times please check the calendar on myspace.
I am hoping, however, to pick up at least one more feature, whether dec 2, or 3d, or 6. I am really flexible in terms of space and environment, play well with bands, and am a great benchwarmer for real artists.

Above all, I would love to be able to perform for an albanian audience, since I do not have that opportunity in Atlanta- there are very few of us here and very scattered. If you know of anyone that can make use of me, please help me get in touch with them.

Also, Albanian artists, musicians, and bands, if you have a gig in town that week, I would love to see you and support you from the audience.
that goes for the ones within a few hours of distance, reachable by public transportation. I love my people and miss being around them; you tell me where you will be and I'll be on the front row for you.

American folks, you know I love you too. Holla at yr grrl.

Let me know yall!

Retrospect is overwhelming so this will sound like ADD fog, but what the heck.

I love my boys/men and the way they take care of each other and me.
Basik holding my daughter though he is allergic to kids.
Jon being the favorite poet and uncle.
bryan shinning goodness like a full moon.
meeting Danny Solis and being overwhelmed by his genuine appreciation and care for poets.
seeing danny solis standing up at the end of my poem. Twice.
drawing two in every bout and making semi-finals none the less.
loosing two years in a row to the national winning team.
ranking 5th in indies after the first bout and 30th after the second by a time penalty.
reviewing the tape of our second bout and finding out that my time for girls get cut was 3min 10sec and 35 splits.
Being a grownup about it and accepting that it's the nature of slam, and we embrace it as it is, with its flaws, unpredictability, and beautiful devastation.
Retiring "Girls get Cut" from 3 minute slam officially. Potentially retiring it from features as well for a good chunk of time.
having a story to tell my grandkids about how for 35 splits of a second I would have tied Danny the national champ for the seventh spot.
shannon being the only girl and our champ.Couldn't think of anyone else more deserving.
being asked to feature in the finals showcase and being deeply touched and honored by it.
Meeting Amanda who babysat my kid and opened the closet of her vintage store to let me borrow a dress and shoes.
Waiting in the wings wrapped up in Chris August's arms.What a beautifl soul!
A standing ovation I didn't see but I was told about.
Selling cds during intermission and finding out that a few were stolen and the cases were empty. Both flattered and angry.
Paul D's alien poem. Dang I wish I wrote it.
Teresa's Saturday mornings poem. Dang I wish I wrote it.
Bluz' I wanna be I love You poem. Dang I wish I wrote it.
Shannon's I lost my father poem. Dag I wish I wrote it.
Copasetic smile.
Red's wide arms and the best hugs in the world. Ema remembering her and dropping into her arms.
Oneonta's spirit of slam award.
Jerry H. Alabama sweetheart.
Being Jon Goode's baby mama.
Stephanie and Bright, Kodak's friends that opened their doors and their hearts for us. Who let my daughter wreck their house and terrorize their dog.
Not getting a chance to talk to Buddy Wakefield.
Missing Beau Sia.
Women who spit at lunch open mic. Ema pulling on my earring during the poem.
Super motel eight and my husband holed up in the room the first two days.
sharing the motel with mostly mexican construction workers and their nighttime female visitors.
Atlanta's love for its own that made everyone else jealous.
being emptied out on the stage and coming back home full again.
I both love this and I hate it. I love performing, I love soaking up words, I hate competing, I am addicted to it. Each time I ask myself why I put myself through the torture, and each time I can't wait until I do it again.
I am doing it again.
Watch out.

I hope you can come out and enjoy the best and most unique mix of spoken word and live music as we release Barnstormers debut album. Oh yeah, and the best indie poet in the country, Jon Goode will be in the house. I do not suck that bad myself either. Come on out and play!

Please come out for my show and new CD release on the 20th of April at Mocha Match Coffee Bar in Decatur. Barnstormers, an amazing bunch of musicians will be playing with me. If you don't have a great time, I will refund the 10.00 bucks you give at the door when you come in.
I will perform something old, something new, something borrowed, and even maybe something blue...
Last, but not the least, Mariangela Mihai, the reigning Southern queen of slam, will do me the honor of being my special guest.

This night means a lot to me. Please come out and be a part of it. I appreciate everyone's support.

 

 

Which Tori Amos song are you? Silent All These Years You may want to be someone else for awhile, but your voice is still there.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

my happiness is a sore arm where my daughter’s head rests easy
I’m her favorite pillow and blanket too
They say that every desert was once an ocean that someone forgot to love
So I will rock you like a storm, girl
I will toss wishes down into the wells of your eyes
I will rain stars over your soul
For 40 days and 40 nights to drown the wickedness of doubt
so that your dreams may never run dry

For there are little girls in this world who walk alone
Their lives so tiny, almost invisible
Like grains of sand trapped inside the hourglass of time
And no matter how hard they try to climb
They always end up at the bottom

Others are swept from dirty streets by evil hands
Under the promise of a golden beach
Just to end up thrashed in the dark
Stripped of their pearls
Torn limb by limb
With souls hollow like the seashells washed ashore
And if you place them next to your ear
They say nothing

And some are struck by lightning so many times
That they coagulate into glass
So translucent at first glance
Seemingly perfect and strong
But all it takes is just one scream in the right pitch
And they are cracked open, shattered, and gone

They say that every desert was once an ocean that someone forgot to love
But here is so much sand in this world, girl
And so much dirt in this world, girl
And , oh, so much beautiful glass…

So when it is time for you to walk
Throw me on your shoulders like a blanket
Pull the threads of these lullabies and stitch with them wings
Make a boat with my limbs
And float above the malice and sadness of this world
My arms will be your lighthouse
You can always call me home
Learn how to swim against the current
Sail safely to your shore
Up up
Climb climb
Learn to make castles with the sand
And if you see a little girl
Walking alone on the sidewalk
Run and hold her hand

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.
Philadelphia
Boston
The Inland North
The Midland
The West
The South
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

oh...the irony...

here are some pics of Ema.

Dear Adva
By the time you get this letter it will be fall
And my firstborn will land on my hands like the first soft rain
And I will whisper welcome to her in my tongue

I write to you
To remind you that I loved you like a child
We were two one way streets of opposite directions
destined to collide
our intersection no woman’s land Alabama
you were headed towards a romantic war in search of a country
while I was leaving mine behind , ravaged and lost.
My past soon to be your future
I already knew what you didn’t
But could not keep you ignorant
So I was left to mourn the loss of your innocence
Circumcised at the foreskin of its idealism
While mine was in recovery
Defaced and stitched up
Gang raped from hate.

I wanted to hide you in the cleft of my rock
Preserve you in the lifeline of my veins
Until the storm and leaden rain would pass away
But you wanted to fly to the desert
The ashes of your ancestors sifted thru the ovens in a distant Europe
Calling you like nymphs with irresistible lament
Toward the only wall of their past
left standing

Dear Adva
By the time you get this letter it will be winter
The settlements in Gaza will be emptied out like pockets before laundry
The frozen desert breath will sigh thru the walls
Like sore abdominals after a hysterectomy
Kosova is up for autonomy review
But both the UN and the EU are reluctant
Something about the proposed flag is not esthetically pleasing

I fold your memory in my pocket
When I stand in crowds so I don’t feel alone

I remember how among people
We always looked white and normal
Camouflaging our longing to baptize a piece of dirt with our own name
To plant on it a garden
To Grow there children
And bury there our men
Our appearances always so betraying of our tragedies
Our pain
Our loss
Never validated

Because we resemble the privileged

Dear Adva
By the time you get this letter
It will be spring
I keep holding on to your fleeting image
With the tenacity of a green sprout
Breaking up and out of the cold frozen ground
Reaching for the sun
You are on a tower in Haifa quoting Shakespeare to your gun
On your watch
I unfold your memory out of my pocket
Look at it as if it were a mirror
And sigh at the sight of worry wrinkles around my tired hopes
I will never get my land back
My grandfather’s house has collapsed like your grandmother’s deck of cards
On your kitchen
As she recalled all her people she never got to bury

My brother the communist
Resents me for our friendship
I don’t blame him
He was swaddled in a basket when we left
Never got to walk on our dirt
So he doesn’t feel its gravity
His ideology is his security blanket
He sees people like fractions of classes
I am an opportunist who doesn’t lean left enough
And you somehow, a mechanism in the complicated machinery of the enemy of the masses
I tell him
If we cease to love everyone that ever got caught in the wheels of alluring
But unjust wars
No solider would ever return home

Dear Adva
I have nothing to go back to
I will not get back either my country
Nor my youth

I have decided to grow roots here
Whisper repentance in the wind
Find my peace in the form of a dream
With my daughter’s face

Best of wishes to you

I hope you, too find your rest

Pretty boys of privilege
Cruising in their drop top cars and their jacked up jeeps
Drinking their pimp juice energy drinks
Because it takes so much energy to do

nothing

Constantly consulting in their rear view mirrors
Their Johnny Bravo hair with Kent doll highlights
Nervous narcissi
Worshiping what they see in front of mirrors
As much as their female counterparts
In a world of look good or die trying

Because it takes fistfuls of gel to keep
“rolled out of bed” hair
and so much preemptive planning to look like you don’t care
in jeans that lend blue collar street cred
delicately distressed by sweat shop hands
fitted faded t-shirts that cling to muscles “naturally” enhanced

it's the measure of a new man, y'all
the measure of a new man

Emo Goth punk pop nursery rhyme poets
with deliberately asymmetrical haircuts
aiming to suggest meaningful mystery
while diverting attention
from a persistent absence of personality
punctuating their passions for pain
with metal piercing and ink stains
that horrify their mothers who sign the release forms anyway

for is better to have a stained child than a runaway

it's the measure of a new man, y'all
the measure of a new man


Eminem wannabes with basketball jerseys dripping to their knees
covering insecure masculinities
noosed on “growing up Gotti” chains
hooked and high on stolen slang
talking ‘bout “gonna stick it to the man” but still living under his roof
50 cent blaring from 50 dollar headphones
fantasizing water pistol gangsta wars
east side west side of the same subdivision
plasma screen ambitions of MTV cribs
where Jacuzzis parade like lifetime achievements
where they preach consumption and glorify looks
subscribe to glam magazines but own no books

they want to beat your identity out of you to sell you another
and as long as you got money they don’t mind the color

it's the measure of a new man, y'all
the measure of a new man

so congregate religiously at the mall
never mind denomination: hot topic Hollister footlocker FuBu
we all answer the same call
and pray to the same god
social acceptance
we fear the same evil: social rejection
because trends are commandments written in stone
and being different means being alone
and it is easer to conform to the non-conformist norm
so get your daddy’s credit card and join the sing along….

it's the measure of a new man, y'all
the measure of a new man


in world of raise to the top there’s no room for no
so they don’t say it
and they don’t hear it

expect their credit card to clear it

and after picking up his outfits
picking up his date
picking up the tab for the movie dinner, gas
he expect to get what he paid for

because no means failure

so he won’t say it no
and he won’t hear it no
even as her body writhes beneath the weight of his frustrated rage

and she can scream it no
but he won’t hear it no
for once he’s on top
and he’s not going to stop no

until this blood constricted in tight jeans
meet satisfaction

and she will plead it no
but he won’t hear it no

because only quitters quit
and he is hasn’t got his money’s worth yet no

and she can beg it no
but he won’t hear it no

as he peals off the layers of his purchase self
and unleashes his primal instinct
the need to dominate
the need to understand what it means to be a man
those faint glimpses and shreds
like building something with your hands
like sealing something with your word
like living up to your hearts worth
and being beautiful and loved

even when naked

Tomorrow there will be a national effort to boycott businesses, schools and institutions nationwide to show that immigrants, illegal or legal, are an integral part of this country. There will be peaceful rallies and protest across the country. The boycott includes every aspect of everyday living: going to the bank, talking on your phone, spending money in any form or fashion.

do as your conscience bids you to do.


Deuteronomy 24:14
"Thou shalt not oppress an hired servant that is poor and needy, whether he be of thy brethren, or of thy strangers that are in thy land within thy gates"

Deuteronomy 14:29
"And the Levite, and the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, which are within thy gates, shall come, and shall eat and be satisfied; that the LORD thy God may bless thee in all the work of thine hand which thou doest."

JAVA MONKEY SPEAKS


Featuring Gypsee Yo on April 30th, 2006, 8:00pm


at Java Monkey Cafe in Decatur, Ga

something old, something new... come out and play!

If you read the previous entry, all instances where the word "son" appears should be substituted by "child".

apparently, IT IS A GIRL!

I hope you find it as amusing as I did....

Last night I felt you move
Like time
Like a spiral staircase in the eye of the storm
and I stood still and listened in the dark
to a peculiar thing
5 inches above my belly button
there’s a heartbeat
3 inches below there’s another one
tied up to my belly button by a cord of hope
my son

my son
you come from a long line of against all odds
you were conceived on your grandparents bed
in our old country, Albania
at a time when wars had ceased to be fought
but the wounds still oozed dark blood
beneath cracked foundations of pyramid scheme hopes
and your father and I took a brief flight back
to be reminded of what still hurts us
and haunts uswhat was lost

it was a bitter winter

one night there was no electricity or heat
so your father and I went to bed early
and we sparked
like stone striking against stone
till the flame bursts into light
and we rested content in the heat
that unraveled from our souls
and cocooned into you
by the time I flew back to the states
my womb was the size of a grapefruit
so I smuggled you in through customs
like a rare and precious seed
tucked safely in the pink folds of my flesh

I came home and took a home pregnancy test
It said to wait 3 min but I had no watch
So I spoke a slam poem to my image in the mirror
While awaiting the scarlet thread of my hope
To appear in the little plastic window

When it did
I believed in God and grace

For you are not what I deserve for my past

It is a peculiar thing
to have wrestled with words
all the days of my existence
And to suddenly find rest
When you move
Like time
Like a tide
tied up and carved out of my womb
A poem of flesh and bones
Perfectly woven in two tongues
With nothing lacking in context
No language barriers to overcome
A manifesto and a sonnet
An anthem and a psalm

My son,
I pray you live a life of words well kept and truths unbroken
Earn a name that is not misspelled or misspoken
Love all souls the same and owe nothing to none
Know its power but never use a gun
Judge people like a blind man
By the shape of their speech
Than smile to the ones with accents for they are your kin
Pilgrims and strangers in this world not worthy of them
They all were once just like you
citizens of the womb
so never despise hands that work and brows that sweat
to the orphan be a brother
To the widow be a son
Speak up for who doesn’t speak English
Stand up for the weak in the playground
be blind to fear and bold to shine
may your lip quiver at the sight of beauty
and your eyes not blink at the face of tyranny
may your virtue be fierce and your honesty and unmoved
may your anger be barren and your grace abound
Pray when you lack wisdom
Sing when you’re afraid
love at all cost
Listen to prophets and poets
Love books and beauty
abhor evil and lies
Always remember to be a child
Answer the door when God knocks in your heart
When in doubt the blood will lead you home
Trust in it
and you’ll stand approved before the righteous throne

live for what matters
die for what is right

be a poem
they all inspire to write

be a poem
that all will know by heart

when you are gone

and your three minutes are up.



Another poem written for the same child by one of the godmothers - Valerie Wynn . My cup runneth over with love...


Her first word was "moon"
stretching upwards with
little girl fingers
little girl face bathed
in the silvery light of some
jagged, jarring, moonlit
somewhere
her country
less a place than an idea to me,
a foreigner in her stories of home
Her first word was "moon"
and now, swelling forwards with
gestation and cultivation
of little kid fingers
and little kid toes
her woman face a window
pale and clear
her eyes full and calm and wise
dreams and fingers reaching inwards
bright and mysterious
she is lunar
waxing towards maternity
in my country,
more than a place, an idea
to her, a wandering pilgrim
in her home of stories
a house that stretches over
seas and mountain ranges
You see, because the road is long
and the elements cruel,
she decided to stay indoors
and built her way over
the borders and the broken tongues,
a house of poems and rusted nails
gentle and obtuse and rough around the edges
And if you stick around long enough,
you wander into old hallways
that wander back East,
creaking with bones and
the whispers of ghosts in an ancient language
clear windows leaking moonlight
and the promise of a child
over rough waters and the myth of political boundaries
over ancient mountains and the Walmarts we have built atop them
over disenfranchised cotton fields and dismantled AK-47 factories
she is lunar
waxing towards the birth
of an idea, bigger than two countries
and small as the word that names it
conceived of love, subzero temperatures, and an energy crisis
a miracle in two languages
with little kid fingers
and a little kid face
a gift of grace
beloved of poets and gypsies
of tomboys and matriarchs
of a hundred scattered saints and one urban country girl
born into a house built across the wide waters
whose hallways span nations and generations
whose fires are always burning
and whose windows are open and look upward,
towards the moon

Well, the final slams for the ATL teams to the nationals in Austin are over. I know that most people read it as me being overly modest, but I did not expect to rank first in both of them. Granted, my expectations were high to make the teams,although I was hoping I would make only one so I wouldn't have to make a decision, but now I have to, and though it is not without pressure, it is not a bad problem to have.

I am really happy that, whatever the turnout, the Art Amok Slam team it is going to be all women- I hear that's a first in the national level.

My decision (which has to be made soon) depends on several issues. First and foremost, I am not able to predict my physical state at the time of the event, considering I will be 8 months pregnant. Assuming it would be good, I still have to figure out a convenient way to get to Austin - I will not be able to fly that far along in my pregnancy. On the other hand, the prospect of having to drive up there in the summer heat, including the frequent stops dictated by the bladder, is not appealing at all. My best hope would be to get there by train, though it might take longer, it may not be as exhausting.
Though certain poets find the idea of me going into labor on the nationals final stage very "poetic", I certainly hope it will not be the case. So I have to check with my insurance company and get in contact with a local doctor there, just in case.

When all this is sorted out, I still have to pick a team. Wish I could split in half. I have strong reasons to want to be in both.

I will decide soon, I promise...

thank you to all who supported me in both slams, specially last night at Java Monkey. Also to all the poets for raising the bar and performing outstanding work in every round. Like iron sharpening iron, verses got fierce as the night went on.

love you all.

Sllobodan Milosevic, the butcher of Balkans is dead. He was found lifeless in his cell. He was standing trial for 66 accounts of war crimes against humanity, a decade of genocide, and an unmatchable arrogance that brought about the death of many and the derision of his own country. While being tried he refused a defense attorney and took that role upon himself, interrogating war victims that suffered the consequences of his leadership and mad nationalist dream with the utmost disregard and defiance.

My best friend was one of those witnesses.

He downplayed the size of his atrocities in Kosovo, claiming that they were exaggerations of the UN, as if the loss of 10 lives is less grave than that of 100. Under his leadership, among many others, 8000 bosnians died in two hours holocaust style, at the end of the 20th century in the heart of Europe.1.5 million albanians were flushed out of their land in 10 days, crossing borders where they lost lives, livelihood, documents of identification, education, and property, down to the systematic removal of the tags of their cars, as to erase any trace that would prove thier origins.

His arrogance was partly fueled by the special favor he has always received from the russians, as well as a lot of clueless westerners who saw him as the protector of Europe from the modern "muslim invasion", a total invention of expansionist serbs. While a great number of the victims were affiliated with the muslim religion, the massacre campaigns were entirely ethnic driven. that is why they are called "ethnic cleansing campaigns". A great number within this "muslim population" are non-practicing ( as many american catholics) or their practices differ significantly from the east. The religion argument has been used shamelessly when those conflicts did not exist within Yugoslavia less than 20 years ago, when Tito was the union's leader, and all ethnicities enjoyed peace and equality.
Even if the argument was true, the lives of thousands of men, women and children of any particular religion are by no means less fit to continue that that of another - IT IS STILL A CRIME.

As someone who has witnessed first hand the consequences of his madness, I took a sigh of relief to know he is gone, hoping that it might provide some closure to the millions of lives affected. The walls of Sarajevo are still scarred by sniper bullets that took away civilian lives. The fields of Kosovo still hide landmines that continue to claim lives. There are thousands still missing, and graves over which seasons camouphlage the terror.
Milosevic is dead, which upset most of the European courts, that were hoping to set a precedent of a leader of his rank being tried and sentenced for genocide. However, seeing that Europe has abolished capital punishment, at worst he was only facing consecutive life sentences in a very comfortable european cell for his crimes.
He is now in a place where he has given an account for each life he took away, facing the righteous judge, and taking what he brought upon himself by his own choices. That's right, you cannot go on forever without your sin catching up with you. Specially when each life he took was precious in God's sight, so precious that he had died for them already.

Let it be a lesson to all the leaders in this world who ride upon their power with similar arrogance, assuming that some lives are worth more others,simply because they are of a certain nationality or religion,thus justifying the death of many as merely collateral damage for "holy preventive wars". Yeah, there is nothing new under the sun, just new terminology.

And there is always a day of reckoning....

Last night I had the good fortune to participate in the first Southern Women Slam, and it was a heck of an evening.Twelve women from 4 states competed in the first round, then 6, then 4. It was an electric night poetically, with a very engaged audience, and the most bizarre set of judges I have encountered in my entire experience of slamming. When you have some of the best female poets in the southeast in the same room, you do not expect to see 3.4s and 5.0s CONSISTENTLY all the night. There was one particular judge that kept doing that to all except for one of the poets, and that was a little fishy. And they did not catch on to the fact that the high and low score was being dropped till the third round.
Nevertheless, the best poet did win, though she drew number one in the first round. Jerry Harvesty is the Southern Queen Slam! woot-woot, bama girl! Witty, funny, charming as get out, I appreciated her for her poise and for not lowering the bar with cheap winning gimmicks of both choice of subject and manner of delivery, which unfortunately was an enticing combo that some other poets did not resist.
I guess that is what I found most frustrating during the evening. Poets that go shamesly out for the points - there must be more we women have to say than just graphic pieces about domestic abuse or incest - and I say that with all due respect. If you are going to go there, do it truthfully, have something to say, do not just simply give an oral account of a lifetime television movie.Do not manipulate the audience into thinking that due to the subject matter, thay have to give you good scores cause they are good guys, regardless how un-invetive and boring your creation was.
The race card was played shamelessly as well, and it split in half both the poets and the house. shame...
But there were great things happening too. To have two eastern-european poets go back to back in a southern slam is a beautiful thing. Mariangela from Romania drew number 3, and I drew number four in the first round. Her work was fierce, and I was glad to be next to her.
Teresa drew number two, went after Jerry and still kicked butt, while Stacie was number 6. I performed my poem about my mom's struggle, and the house absolutely loved it, but I got 8s and upper 8s throughout. Weird... Jerry Harvesty started screaming " did you guys hear the same poem we did?"
I appreciated her for that...
I missed the second round by .2. It is the nature of the stinking beast. One of the most unique and inventive poems I heard all night long landed Stacie in the last spot - although it was well received by the audience. I think the judges were aliens, and not of my kind either.

overall, it was a great experience. I am glad I went. I look forward to what it will become in the future, and big props to Kimberly and her team for running a tight event, holding it together all night long, and doing so with grace, professionalism and kindness.
I will attend again. And I will stick to my same approach. I will not lower the bar for points. I refuse to simplify for shock effect, and I refuse to treat an audience like sheep.

I am proud of all the ATL gals for doing the same. It is after all, all that really matters....