The Ballerina Cat and the Funny Hat People - Chapter One

Once upon a time there was a really cool cat. Most of the other cats in the neighborhood thought he was an overly dramatic, egotistical, extremely neurotic pain in the Kominsky. But he wasn't all those things. At least, not at the same time. But he was hyper-active and could fire his behavior into the world like a big, modern machine gun. If a cat wasn't paying close attention, it could all melt together- a real Kominsky moment. Yet he was cool. His name was Nikolast. He wants you to remember that.

Nikolast didn't bother with many of the finer details of life. He discovered at a very young age that excellence was not measured by how well you performed something you loved. Excellence was measured by how well you performed something other people wanted for you, or from you. Passion was for idiots- losers with no hope of success. Nikolast wanted success. His mommy, Ms. Lovely, told him so every day. "Niko, if you study hard and choose your career wisely, one day you will be be a huge success."

But Nikolast also wanted to create new sounds, explore new plummets, and boldly go where no cat had gone before. Throughout Kitten High School, Nikolast excelled at his passionate interests and barely noticed his technical requirements. Yeah, yeah, stalk the birdie, wait, wait, pounce, kill. Whatever.

When he was a kitten, Nikolast wrote a beautiful cat melody. It went like this: "Mwar, mwar, moew, moew, meoo, moee, meowie, meow shmooey shmoo." I don't know if humans can understand how incredible and amazing this feat truly was. But you would expect cats to understand.

"Son, we don't meow like that. We meow simple melodies that humans can understand like 'meow' which means 'I would like a massage now', or 'meow meow' which means 'you should have fed me a half hour ago.' We don't want to teach the humans our language. If they discover we are as smart as they are, they will quickly declare war upon us and wipe us out. We simply do not have the skills with our paws to fire weapons back at them. Besides, we live in the United States, a free country. They believe in first strike nuclear determent. Very few cats survived Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Now embrace your freedom and do as you're told."

Nikolast listened to his father, but all he really heard was "complacency" and "conformity" and "sizzle" and a few meows that may have meant, "I would like more catnip" If he was so free, why couldn't he be free to sing sparkling cat melodies? He vowed to be different. If he could not change the world, then he would not be changed by the world either.

At this point in the story, you are probably thinking, oh I know where this is headed- Nikolast is going to become a great singer, become known all over the world, and change the world for the better. He may even be invited to write an editorial in The New York Times about Africa and all the jazz cats living in Ghana. People will 'ooo' and 'ahh' at him every time he speaks.

Perhaps you are thinking- Oh I know where this is going- Nikolast is going to become a great singer and dancer, known all over the world, make millions of kitty dollars, become isolated and destroyed by his fame, addicted to drugs and alcohol, chased by paparazzi, and stalked by fancats (also called fanaticats) who are obsessed with wearing his fur as a coat. Eventually, he will slide into a drug-induced stupor and die of an overdose of sleeping pills. Wow. You really have a vivid imagination. Go write your own story.

Perhaps, like me, you are asking yourself, "Hey! Where are the funny hat people? Exactly. They're not here yet. This is a story with plot development.

After swearing to never to be changed by society, Nikolast promptly forgot his promise. He graduated from Kitten High with great passions and average grades. He enrolled in Catalist Community College. Even though his family was poor, the government had established an excellent loan program.

By this time, Niko's mother convinced him to be a success as a lawyer. Nikolast took some lawyering classes. He learned that many lawyers are sly like foxes, and can stalk a defendant like a cat, but most were sharks. He didn't want to be the only cat in a room full of sharks.

Then he decided to become a success as a Doctor. Nikolast took some doctoring classes. One day, he went to the teaching laboratory to study anatomy. There, pinned to the surgery table, was a dead cat. Niko ran for the exit. There was no way he was going to cut open a dead cat.

Next, Nikolast tried engineering. He sat through many classes about engineering. Nikolast thought the subjects were very boring. Mostly, it semed that engineers were trying to find ways to make money by not allowing other smart people to design stuff. One day he asked his professor what it was that distinguished engineers from other intellectuals. "We have a Professional seal!", his teacher replied. No wonder bridges fall into the river, Nikolast thought.

One day, Nikolast was walking past a room full of female cats in tights and tutus They were balancing their paws on a railing and staring at themselves in the mirror. Now this was something interesting! The next day, Nikolast changed his college major to ballet. It was the first of many, many mistakes Nikolast would make in his life. And it made his father and mother very angry.

"Son, your mother and I are very angry," said his father, Nicodemis. "You will have to choose another major or we will end all support for your college."

Nikolast sighed.

"Dad, this isn't 'The Dead Poets Society'. You aren't paying for my education, the government is, through a loan program at a participating bank. And I have to pay the loan back. Even if the very large, nationally known bank would fold up one day like a tent at a Jesus revival, even if the Government were 100 trillion dollars in debt- issuing furloughs and I.O.U.'s to its employees and borrowing billions of dollars from China, even if the economy collapsed like a huge blimp on fire and the only jobs available were at Cat Burger, I still have to pay back this loan, and at 6 and a 1/2 percent interest. Now if you don't mind, I will choose whatever major I want, unless you are offering to pay back my loan for me." Nikolast glared at his father, claws extended.

"You will make a beautiful ballerina, my boy." Nicodemis patted is son on the head. "Oh my, look at the time. Gotta get home before the humans lock the front door! Bye son!"

And so Nikolast, a calico cat yearning to be cool, began ballerina classes.

The Ballerina Cat and the Funny Hat People -Chapter Two

Trevor Trevalin loved to fish. Not far from his mountain cottage, a rocky stream ran full with native trout. When he was a young boy, his father took him fishing every Wednesday. They would toss their lines into the rocky stream, at the sharp bend just below the Rumble’s dam. They wouldn’t speak a word, not until a fish was fighting on the line, then Joe Trevalin would utter a single phrase, “got one” and his dutiful son would reply, “uhuh”. Once the trout was landed, a short conversation would ensue, of which there were four possible variations: “She’s a keeper,” said Dad. “Uhuh,” replied Trevor. “She’s a youngun,” said Dad. “Toss ‘er back.” replied Trevor. “She’s a fattie girl,” said Dad. “Trout for dinner!” exclaimed Trevor. “She’s a pretty one,” said Dad. “Sure is!” laughed Trevor.

Trevor’s mom died when he was three years old. He didn’t remember her much, except for her framed picture on the mantle of their fireplace, maybe the memory of a soft snuggle or two, and the sound of soft singing, way back in his brain in a place he could hardly find anymore. Every year on her birthday, Joe Trevalin placed a single white lily on the mantle, below her bright smile and sparkling eyes. Trevor grew up with mom in the living room, keeping watch over her men, from her special place on the mantle, and inside her husband’s heart.

One time, when he was six or seven, Trevor asked his dad, “How did Mommy die?” Joe looked down at his curious son. Trevor witnessed a sad face of immeasurable depth, the perfect reflection of a broken heart. “She got sick,” Trevor’s father quickly looked away, hoping to hide his sorrow from his young son. “Why didn’t the doctor save her?” Trevor asked. He knew the doctor made him feel better when he was sick. “Doctors can’t save everyone, Trevor. Now let’s go fishing. I have a new spinner I want to try out on those pretty girls.”

As they grabbed their fishing gear and walked down the dirt driveway, Trevor wondered if he would get sick one day, like his mommy. But he didn’t ask his father about that. He never wanted to see that sad face again. Soon, he was running ahead, chasing chipmunks across the rocks, and casting lines in silent harmony with his dad. There they would spend the day, chasing fattie girls and pretty ones, dancing in the filtered sunlight of red oak and swamp maple. There beneath the surface, in a flash of spinning lures, serenity beckoned.

A Dying Wind at Rock Hill Camp

On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight.
-Scout Oath (or Promise)

The entrance to the 450-Acre campground is partially hidden on the crest of a hill along State Route 739 in Dingmans Township, County of Pike, Pennsylvania. We first arrived here in 2006, hired by a New York developer to conduct soils testing for a proposed 180 lot subdivision. After unlocking the main gate, we drove in on an old gravel lane- muddied in the low spots, eroded on the steeper slopes, crowded by branches, large boulders, and overwhelming silence.

We journeyed for almost a mile before we reached the camp buildings. A few were boarded up, but many were wide open to the summer wanderer, the squatter, the young lovers, the boisterous teenagers, and profit scavengers.

Here was an invitation to all trespassers: Explore here to ease your boredom of life. We have abandoned this camp. Kick down the doors, smash the windows, our oath has no residual force. Be irreverent, immorally crooked, enjoy the pleasure of your contempt. We have left this community behind. It is hidden and unclean. We have too many camps and too few scouts. We must turn a hard ground into a revenue stream. Let it fall, let it flow.

Remnants of childhood memories lay scattered around the buildings, like trash, like Rome in ruins. We drove on, passing by outhouses, sleeping sheds, and empty fields of baseball and rifles. The dirt and gravel lane ended on top of a small plateau. From here, we looked out over a most beautiful majesty. We had found the lake.

On the subdivision maps, wetland biologists identify it as a "Glacial Bog". Upon these waters young boys once fished, swam, camped, and watched innumerable falling stars trace fine lines in reflection across dark waters.

Inside the dilapidated guard tower, lifeguards wrote their names in permanent ink- as if that alone would guarantee serenity forever. But land can die as youth fades. When there are no more scouts sent to explore, the campgrounds will decay, they will die.

Then the vultures descend and pick clean more than just the bones of man's construction, but all Nature that stands pristine before the rotting cabins. The Scouts have gone away and the woodlands are lost without them.

The woodlands are lost.

We hear the land's lament with every test hole we dig, with every gallon of water we pour. We know the sound of bulldozers, we are intimate with macadam roads, we nod approval at fence-wrapped detention basins, we follow trucks of concrete and block, we listen to rock and roll radios of the house-framers, we chuckle at the slick-talk of the macabre Realtors. The economy wants all of this- banker's greed, builder's profit, home owner's dream, built on the foundation of a natural destruction. All roads lead to the glacial bog.

The woodlands gasp for breath, branches reach for the sky, in search of light, in search of voice, of defiance. This is Rock Hill Boy Scout Campground, where the laughter of a thousand young Jersey boys dance in the prescinded wind. Their child-ghosts sit around campfire stones, telling old tales of honor, reverence, respect, and community. Their voices are carried high on burning embers of our own youthful memories. This is Rock Hill Estates and we are the vultures descended.

Rukie is Free!!!!!.....(for now)

We are very happy to report that Rukie Paputchi has been freed from prison and reunited with her family in Sciota, PA. There are many legal challenges ahead but with the assistance of determined friends, family, public opinion, some clever and pugnacious lawyering, local, regional, and national attention she has received and with the political guidance of U.S. Sen. Bob Casey, D-Pa, Rukie was released from PIke County prison.

For more about this please read today's Pocono Record article.

We wish Zack, Rukie, and their two children all the blessings of love in their reunion. The fight to bring U.S. citizenship to these two wonderful Americans will continue!

The End of Wanting Things

I think it started with the cell phone. Maybe not the practice of not wanting things, but the realization that it as time to stop wanting. My cell phone broke and Waterbunny brought me a new one. My old one was a black, stubby Nokia phone that flipped open. It was a sturdy, useful phone- mostly because I learned how to make it useful.

The new phone was a sleek Samsumg red phone with lots of bells and whistles. But the buttons worked different and I had little patience for learning a new phone. An added irritation was a volume button on the side that I was constantly bumping during phone calls. The phone wasn't working for me.

Then I remembered that Sweetie Angel had a Nokia just like mine. I proposed a simm card switch and she ended up with the Samsung and I ended up with the same old Nokia phone. I am still using it today. The realization had hit. I didn't want more bells or whistles or cell phone internet or blackberries or tunes or television or movies. I just wanted a telephone that worked.

It spread to other things. A wall-mounted wide screen TV would be nice, But I can see the picture just fine on the 27 inch television I bought a few years ago. I know I needed a new truck that could do everything my work required. If that wasn't the case, I would buy an old, cheap truck and drive it into the ground. Again and again I would do this. I don't need things anymore.

I love to play guitar. I met a musician awhile back who was a guitar collector of sorts. He knew every guitar ever made and each guitar's worth. His collection of guitars was impressive and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. He would play at the bar with a Taylor guitar or a Martin D-38, and we would all salivate. He was an OK guitarist too, but nothing special.

Meanwhile, a good friend, recognized as one of the best progressive metal guitarists in the industry, sits in his recording studio, cradling a mid-priced guitar and making musical journeys that most only dream about. He doesn't need things, he needs music.

Even the computer I own is getting old and stubborn and could use replacement. I downloaded some virtual reality program earlier this week and was eager to play the game. When I tried to load it, an error screen popped up- insufficient video driver for the program. Ten years ago, I would have ran to the nearest computer store, pulled out a charge card, and upgraded my machine to match the game. This time I just smiled and closed the program. I don't need new things.

It all sounds so foolish on so many levels. We have been conditioned, through the pervasive and persuasive presence of television to want things. Just prior to the Academy Award show this year, there was a BMW commercial. There are many, so many of us who have never been able to afford that luxury. BMW is a status symbol we think we need. But we don't need new things.

Is the American dream to one day become successful enough buy the luxury car, live in the luxury home, and live the luxury life? That dream is the wrong dream. There has to be an end to wanting things. There should be a different American dream to believe in.

To build a better world for our children, to promote peace and harmony between cultures, to be a living example to those around us- that is the American dream I want to believe in. To live our lives with grace, honor, and dignity and to share our vision of freedom with others- that is the American dream I want to believe in. The words aren't empty if you believe in their meaning. We must end our wanting of things and begin the wanting of something more from within ourselves.

Can we fulfill such a dream? Will it require the restructuring of our capitalistic society? How do we get to the end of wanting things and keep our democracy strong? I wish I knew. Let's just see where the dream takes us. I'm ready.

Welcome the Wind~~~~~

It's blowin' up a gale outside tonight. A strong gust blew our recyclable container across the deck, scattering empty cans of Coke zero and bottles (also empty) of Corona Extra. I thought the cat knocked something over-shooed her down the hallway. Sorry kitty.

I ran outside in my tee shirt and jeans and into a driving wind and a temperature of 10 degrees. I was outside less than 2 minutes but had to be rubbed warm by the girls. I bet Barak Obama doesn't have these problems.

Water Bunny hates the wind. I remember when she lived in Texas. One day, a tornado approached her town. We watched it together on the doppler radar-she in her tiny apartment in Fort worth and me in my safe (or so I thought) Pennsylvania house. I felt helpless to protect her. She felt the same way. I suppose that's how everyone feels when the warning sirens go off and the Devil arrives. Whenever tornadoes are predicted, I say a prayer for those who are in its path. Afterwards, I say another prayer for those who were in its path.

Mother Nature has some powerful weapons: wind, water, quakes, rain, snow, floods, heat, sun, cold, ice. Every day someone, somewhere is a victim to her natural whims. No wonder whole nations prayed to Gods of Earth and Sky. Now we watch the weather channel before going to church. And the wind drives our prayers up to heaven and our Coke bottles down the street.

Oh, it's blowin' hard tonight, the house shakes and the roof groans, and the world outside seems larger than it should- so violent, so unforgiving. Yet we trust enough, we believe just enough and settle in for the long night's sleep. Where just outside our warm, wooden walls, Hell is chasing profanities to the top of a wild sky.

The Media Spin Cycle and Cows

Written by A. Holstein

The media pounds away at the message, leaving us convinced that the slice of the apple they show us is a whole apple, delightfully waiting for us to eat right it from the tree. Even if we can't reach the upper branches, we still want that media-created apple. Even if thr apple isn't full and ripe, and almost touching the ground- the media wants us to drool over the little green thing.

This guy doesn't have a chance, they say. Even though this guy won more states than that other guy. This guy's religion is his albatross, the press inform us. Then they run over to us and ask us our opinion of their slanted stories-and we, the cows in the field, are sure to answer.

"How is the field today?", they ask.
"Quite good, thank you", we reply.
"Do you like the sun today?", they ask.
"We like the sun very much", we reply.

"Welcome to Hardsell. I'm your host, Chris Ratchews. Latest polls show the sun is well ahead of the clouds. We have our team of experts right here to discuss this latest development...Frank Fullofit, what does this mean?"

"The clouds should drop out now and let the sun in."

"Tina Noknows, do you agree? You've had your head in the clouds for some time now."

"Well, Chris, the clouds did well in the Northwest, but they need to get those Southern cows in line and they have been trying to do just that, but those cows are very, very conservative and just won't follow the clouds, not as long as the sky stays in the race."

"Frank Fullofit, what about West Virginia? On the first ballot, the majority of cows chose the clouds, so the sun tells its delegates to throw their votes to the sky and then the sky opens up on the clouds and they cant get high enough to reach the sky. Isn't this the type of politics we are all tired of seeing?" Isn't this a backroom deal to let the clouds cover the sun, and then later the sun is going to burn the clouds off the field and out of the race? Then what happens to the cows?

"No Chris, that is the beauty of caucuses. The cows have to have a clear majority and this is how it gets done. The clouds may have more delegates than the sky, but simply can not compete against both the sky and the sun. And the word coming from our sources close to the clouds is that they are going to have make some tough decisions in the coming days - it may be time for them to let the sun shine in."

And on another channel, the popular program Cowline picks up the spin.

"Good evening, I am Randy Field and this is Cowline. Despite winning 6 states in last night's elections, it appears the end is in sight for the clouds. They have spent millions of their own money, but now it is nearing the end. The numbers are against them, they are running a distant third, despite being second overall in the delegate count nationwide. Our polls show they cannot win against the sun and the sky."

And the following day on every news channel,

"After a night of deep disappointment, the clouds have announced they are suspending their campaign."

It would be a better election if the idiot press would leave us cows alone and just report the news. Because, as Iowa and New Hampshire clearly showed, polls only tell you what the cows are feeling on the sunny day. They may feel different on the cloudy day. The sky is always nice to look at too. Sometimes clouds makes pretty shapes, like that one over there- look! It's a woman Senator from New York!

The national press have become great manipulators in the race for President, pushing their own agenda and ultimately limiting our choices. And we, a nation of cows, are left out in our field-getting ourselves milked the entire time.

Racing on the Changing Course of Time

It's a fracturous race, this life we live. We are motocross riders, hitting jumps and flying, landing in the mudholes and powering through to the next bump in the dirt road. We lurch towards the finish line, clutching all our prized belongings, then we die and possesions fall to the ground like useless, wasted leaves.

I remember moving into our rental house, full of panic and fear, tears streaming down my face, damaged son and compassionate daughter safely in tow, but for how long? -and we weren't putting up walls-we wear tearing them down. Our home would be the house of love and serenity. And we made it so, Number one.

The work was hard, the margin slim, the credit debt impossible to resolve, counting pennies for milk and bread, eating tuna helper night after night. We discovered that adding Boca vegetarian ground soy to the hamburger helper meant less grease and same taste. The veggie son needed to be fed too. We didn't mind it at all.

Time heals all wounds, but it also deadens our resolve. We are growing and changing with time. A new person, Water Bunny, enters the serenity house with dynamic changes. My son, with the constant help of his sister, heals some wounds, as much as time and his deep-seated feelings of betrayal will allow. More money trickles in and the finances improve enough to breathe slightly easier.

My son (TD013) moves out and a new team takes over, and we race now as R3 (R-cubed)- the two girls and I have names that start with an R. We race and change positions while the weather improves, our lives improve, but weather can change and the course can get muddy as hell. I still can't see the finish line, perhaps I don't want to, but I can feel it.

TD013 falls in love. She is a lot like him, twin racers- damaged, healing, scrappy tag-teamers. They'll need to stick together on this race, overcome their singular dysfunctions, rely less on others to stay on the course. Which way? he asks, then goes his own way. We're lost, she says and we say turn right, avoid the hole, take the ramp and fly. then dejectively watch as they turn the opposite way. Own the course we say, or it will own you. Own the course...

I don't know where I am going with this. I feel like somehow I am missing something, something real and tangible. I thought I was there, but now I am here and it could be just before the bump and I will soon be flying or it is just after the flight and I am landing in the mudhole.

The race goes on, the work piles up and the pressure increases. The rental house has been tarnished, we learn that walls are needed to keep out the crazies, the demented dropouts who don't respect our house, who have abandoned a race they can not win. They try to knock us off our bikes- if only for a second, if only to make a point. Life is fractuous, and the race never changes, even though our time here does. Own the course...

Tonight, all I want to do is daydream about buying a portable music recorder and driving from one open mike to another, playing and recording my old-fashioned music and then, releasing an Open Mic -live CD. Tonight, I want to ride the bike slower, on pavement straight and smooth.

I must be going crazy, all covered in bruises and mud yet still wanting to ride- no longer caring about winning, just wanting to finish the race.

The First Honors Mountain

We approach the mountain. My eyes narrow, squinting into the morning sun. There is snow all around. I adjust my gear and my aging body: unbuff, bloated, aching shoulder, chronic cough, overweight, tender toe

Sweetie Angel stands at my side, young and ready, determined to conquer. She adjusts her gear and her youthful figure: unbroken, slender yet fierce, chronic achiever, jazzed, huge smile

The deal - she makes first honors, she receives one free ski day in the Catskills, one day per each semester of first honors. She has responded with 8 straight semesters of first honors and I am past due with payment. I owe her 7 days.

This is going to hurt.

Restaurant Nicknames

Sweetie Angel started it. She had a terrible meal at Cracker Barrel. As we were leaving, she said, "This isn't Cracker Barrel, it's Crapper Barrel." The name stuck. Now every time we drive down the Interstate and she sees a sign for Cracker Barrel, she says, "Look Dad, there is a Crapper Barrel 15 miles ahead." Makes you want to stop and use the facilities.

Then we had one of the poorest quality dinners ever and it included the worst service ever (what a gift, huh?) at T.G.I.F. With an indignant look on her face, Sweetie Angel declared, "You know what TGIF stands for? Totally Gross Inedible Food!"

One afternoon, we were discussing how Friendlys used to have great sundaes, but now all you get are these mini-scoops of ice cream. I mentioned that the Chocolate scoops looked more like little balls of poop- and Friendlys soon became Pooplies.

And more chain restaurants earned new restaurant names so we decided that we should post our list for all to enjoy. Here it goes:

Ruby Tuesdays - Ruby Ewwwwwsdays

Burger King - Burger Thing

Texas Roadhouse - Texas Roadkill

Perkins - Pukins

Applebees - Crapplebees

Chilis - Smellies

Don Pablos - Don Pukos

Jack Creek Steakhouse - Jackchit Pukehouse

Wendys - Lil Red's Squaremeat

McDonalds - McRonalds's Fat Farm

IHOP - I-SNOT

Waffle House - Waffle Arse

Pizza Hut - Pizza Slut

Outback - Spoutcrack

T.G.I.F. - Totally Gross Inedible Food

Cracker Barrel - Crapper Barrel

Bob Evans - Hog's Heaven

Friendlys - Pooplies

Arbys - Slarbies (we also like to call it Barfies)

KFC - Krunchy Fried Cats

Dairy Queen - Hairy Queen

Subway - Scumway

In'nOut Burgers - In'nOut urge

Dominos - Vomitnose

Quizznos - Quizzblows

Hardees - Hardlys

Pappa John's - You shouldn't poke fun at your father. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you.

Of course, we haven't restricted ourselves to food chains. A few years ago, the W blew out on the Walmart sign. We've been calling it Almart ever since.

There is a Chinese restaurant near us with the name Wah Shing. We don't think the food is very good. The place is a little rundown. Some folks in our neighborhood refer to it as Wah Shing Your Arse. The name has a certain appeal to it even if the restaurant doesn't.

We had a dog once who would eat the kitty litter-covered excrement out of the litter box. We called it Kittified Crunchies. Or Kitty Krunchies. Or our favorite nickname, Krunchy Kitten Krap. We couldn't keep that dog's face our of the box. Probably what killed him too. Just like we love all that delicious fast food we eat month after month, year after year. Probably kill us too.

There you have it. Any moment we expect the legions of attorneys who defend the fast food conglomerates to contact us and demand we remove this post. And we will, right after we enjoy a few Rooburgers from the Fat Farm and some Slarby fries.

We know other people make up names too. What about you? Have you got a few restaurant nicknames to share?

Where is Our Atonement?

On Saturday, we did the double feature. First we enjoyed the action comedy romp National Treasure, then we followed it with Atonement. We were stunned. Atonement was not just a great movie, it is THE great movie. This type of experience comes along once every 10 years and reminds us of our own humanity, the frailty of our existence, the blessings we have and how quickly and easily they can be taken away from us. Usually at the end of a good movie, some folks applaud, but at the end of this thoughtful masterpiece, there was only silence. Quiet crowd silence.

Atonement has stayed with me since then. The images, camera angles, acting, pacing, story, rumbling through my head, and challenging my heart. My mind turns to Iraq and our soldiers there and Atonement whispers to me. They are doing a job, fulfilling a mission that no one would ever want. They are there because we can be an awfully stupid country. They are there because we believe what our leaders tell us to believe. We wouldn't want to appear unpatriotic, especially in the shadows of 9/11. We all know the war in Iraq is wrong but we've screwed that country and hurt those people so badly that we need to stay and try to atone for our terrible mistake.

I watch the MSNBC report on Britney Spears' non-attempt to attend her custody Hearing, and Atonement rings like a bell in the old tower. Those 300 reporters, photographers, and paparazzi need to be somewhere else. She will never be able to seek treatment while followed by a large pack of flash-popping bulbs attached to hungry, money-grubbing wolves. We need to turn our collective backs on her everyday life- for her kids sake, we need to do this. There will be atonement for our poor, media -driven assumptions about her mental state. I feel the same sadness, like atonement, like watching a train wreck in awfully slow motion.

We need to move ourselves to a better place than this. We need to leave this girl and her family alone. Justin Timberlake placed it in proper perspective when, after leaving a restaurant, he said to the horde of paparazzi surrounding him, "Hey, I just want to get to my car."

I watch the Presidential race turn into a clash of minorities, gender versus color. Since when did it matter? Why should it matter? We are a better people than this. If our leading candidates are willing to speak to the lowest common denominator, then we need to vote for someone else.
If race/gender has a bearing on this election, it will be because the candidates and the publicly divisive media machine has placed it there. This is their deck of cards and the ones they are choosing to play is to our detriment. One day, there will be atonement for this. Our candidates must elevate the debate to the issues alone, and leave our color and gender out of the election.

In our own hometown, our local pizza parlor has been operated for many years by a husband and wife from Bulgaria. When they emigrated, in the early 1990's. Bulgaria was a repressive state. They both applied for political asylum. They filled out the paperwork, waited and waited, for years upon years, for our government to make a decision. In the meantime, they built a popular business, served good food, treated everyone with equal respect, got driver's licenses, and began raising a family. They bought a home. They settled into a good life in a great country- they embraced freedom and the culture of America.

Last week, the INS agents arrested his wife, and she now sits in a jail waiting deportation. It seems that Bulgaria has settled down in the past sixteen years and my friend's reason for seeking political asylum is no longer valid. Go home, says the United States to these fine citizens of our community. Go back to your own country. Never mind that the administration of our immigration law is beyond incompetent- after all, behind every government desk is a citizen of the United States, so that should amount for something, right? Bullshit. We screwed up and we should make it right. This is government at its worst- repressive and abusive to the extreme-ruthless bureaucrats - arresting people on assumptions and tossing them out or even worse, tossing them into jails in foreign lands, torturing them, and placing a label on their heads that classifies us as well - we are enemy combatants of justice and the rule of law. We are at odds with ourselves, with the values that made this country great.

We are in a fine mess, our assumptions about others, our inability to leave people alone, and our incompetence leads to the abuse of decent people trying to live a decent life. We don't need change, we need vision to inspire us to change ourselves and our perception of the world around us. We need to stand up and take responsibility for our actions. We need atonement for what we have done to ourselves, our neighbors, our government, and our world.