MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Burn

I wasn't going to go here, but this is an issue that seriously
gets me really fired up, pun completely intended.
With nothing better to do - I mean, besides watch the body
count rise in Iraq, watch the oil companies rape America
and laugh, ignore the immigration problem and watch
Israel pound the shit out of the Palestinians, Congress got bored
and decided to bring out the old "let's ban flag burning" amendment.

Thankfully, it did not pass. But this time it almost did. It was close.
Too close. Frankly, I'm surprised it didn't pass, what with this
myopic Congress full of ignorant, jingoistic, nationalistic, uber-patriotic
pussies who have already betrayed the United States Constitution in
ways our Founding Fathers could never have imagined.

I have already felt so massively betrayed by this government,
I don't know how I could feel any worse. However, amending the
Constitution to ban flag burning is akin to simply announcing
"You now live in a dictatorship. The United States is taking away
yet another of your freedoms, one that is ironically protected in
Amendent One of the Constitution. This is tyranny. Welcome to
your worst nightmare."

I really do love my mother, dearly. But this is an issue we
argue over again and again. Like Congress, I just don't think
she can see the finer points of the argument. And really, it's not
that complicated.

Burning the American flag is something I have never done,
and hopefully will never do. Frankly, I've got too much other crap
to do to just survive and try to enjoy life instead of burning
flags. When I see the American flag burning on television, it is
not a sight I particularly enjoy, although it has become so common
now, I am fairly immune to it. I have never thought of myself as
particularly patriotic. Sure, I pledged my allegiance to the flag
in elementary school, because I was young and that's what we did.
I stand up at baseball games and sing the National Anthem. I even
get teary-eyed sometimes. Certainly I do not equate this emotion,
this warmness in my heart with the evil, murderous government
of this country. Perhaps I am just fond of the idea of what America
could be. Perhaps I am dreaming of what the Founding Fathers
had in mind for the country. Perhaps I just love the vast and wonderful
geography of this beautiful country. Perhaps I am just grateful for
what freedoms we do have here. Perhaps I'm idealistic enough and naive
enough to believe that most people in this country are good. Although
the fact that Bush was voted President in the last election has convinced
me that there are a lot of stupid people in this country as well. Or
perhaps I should say, not completely informed. Narrow-minded?

The day that this government sees fit to pass an amendment to the
Constitution banning flag burning, I will go and buy an American flag,
stand in the street, and set it on fire.

Why? Not because I want to, and I certainly won't enjoy it. In fact
I will probably cry while doing it. And not because I am burning a piece
of material with stars and stripes on it. I will cry because one more
freedom will have been taken away from this country.

From the American Revolution, when men and women
died for freedom from king and crown, to World War II
when men and women died for freedom from the hideous
tyranny of Hitler and those who propped him up politically,
these two wars, as abhorrent as wars are, have been about just that:
FREEDOM.

Now I wish I could be as idealistic and peaceful as
Mr. Kilbey. I abhor war as much as he does, and wish to God
there'd never been one war on this planet. But the fact is, there
have been wars and sometimes diplomacy fails - sometimes
everything fails and men start brutally killing each other. It isn't right
and it isn't just, it just is. Indeed there are probably never any real
'just' wars - there has got to be corruption in
everything...perhaps, despite Neville Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler
it was all going to go down the way it did anyway. I believe since the days
Homo sapien sapiens (oddly enough, we are called 'wise wise men')
learned to pick up a rock and throw it, and shoot a spear at something, there
were gonna be wars. It's the worst part of human nature, but it seems to
be human nature all the same. I believe the people fighting in the American
Revolution believed strongly they were fighting for their very lives, and
for freedom to live those lives the way they wanted to, and I believe
the "Greatest Generation" believed they were fighting for freedom from
the tyranny of madmen. Whether or not those wars were just, or right,
I cannot say. From a pacifist's standpoint, no. From a realist's standpoint, shit
happens, and so do wars. But back to the those folks in the American
Revolution and WWII who were no doubt fighting for what they believed to
be...

...Freedom to govern oneself, freedom to represent oneself fairly,
freedom to be oneself, whether Jew or German or Japanese.
The American flag is a SYMBOL of that freedom. It is NOT THE
FREEDOM ITSELF. The flag, in all its glory, is material, whether cotton
or nylon, natural or synthetic; it is colors and stars, it is matter
and atoms. It is NOT the IDEAL of FREEDOM, nor the IDEA of
FREEDOM that these men and women died for.

The American flag represents freedom - including the freedom
to burn the American flag. That is what thousands of young boys
died for on the beaches of Normandy. That is what the ideal of America
is about: FREEDOM. Freedom of expression, of ideas, of politics and
religion. I believe burning the American flag amounts to expression,
speech, even political statement. It is not a criminal act, nor should it
be treated as such.

What is Congress thinking? You cannot desecrate the ideal of freedom.
It remains, as long as you do not take it away from the people. That would
be the true desecration of the symbol of the flag.
I could burn a million American flags, and yet freedom will still reign.
If I cannot burn one flag, freedom has been taken away, and our country
is worse off for it.

Why is it so hard for some people to see what is essentially so simple?
Allowing me, and others, to choose to burn the American flag, if we so
desire, is to honour all those who fought, were injured and even died so
that we could RETAIN this freedom. These men and women did not die
so that the government could, little by little, start taking our freedoms
away from us.

I hope I never have to burn an American flag. But if I do,
I will see it as an act of freedom - the very freedom the flag
SYMBOLIZES. For you can desecrate and destroy matter and material,
but you cannot ever, ever, ever destroy the idea of freedom by
burning the very thing that symbolizes freedom.

You cannot destroy the idea of freedom, the symbol
of freedom, and that is what the flag ultimately is: an idea, a symbol.
The flag, in its symbolic nature, gives me the right to burn it.
Long live freedom, and my ability to express that freedom.

Photo: Old Glory, long may she keep freedom alive.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Blah Blah Blippity Blah

Or as the great Holly J would say
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!
Yep, that about sums up my Tuesday.
Today was supposed to be a day of
hardcore science studying...

...and speaking of cores, did you hear the one
about the core of the earth? It's supposed to be
10,000 degrees in there. I say, well how do you
know? Has anyone actually ever been to the core
of the earth? I thought not.

Science is more interesting than math, but
not by much. I've entered the extremely dry
world of organic chemistry today. Yawn.
Had an argument with my mother, whom I'm
convinced has been abducted by space aliens.
Ever see the movie "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"?
Seriously. I'm like, woman, who are you?
Bring back my mother, and then we'll talk.

I haven't gotten out of my pajamas all day.
I'm sorry to frighten all my blog readers this way.
But what's the point? Between science and another
flare- up of PMS (I told ya it started earlier and would
haunt me for days) I see no reason to get dressed.
I see no reason to live.
Haha!

I have my registration appointment to register
for classes for the Fall. I just need my tuition money.
Money, money, money. It's always about fucking money.

Zoe must be as bored and full of ennui as I am,
for earlier she was on the living room carpet,
literally twirling her plump little body in circles, chasing her tail.
I said, "Oh Zoe, are you doing an imitation of mommy?"
I broke down and took an Ultracet. I feel like I'll
be shooting heroin by 10:00pm tonight.
Next I'll be featured on that "Intervention" show.
Except when I walk into the room, only the cameramen
will be there.

Ba da-dum. Oh yes! I do self-pity too! And well!
Seriously folks, I'll be here all week.
Pop in any time for a possible shot of
me on the proverbial pity-pot.

I have it really good, but right now
my brain says, "Poor you."
Poor me. Why is everything such a struggle.
Why am I in pain, why am I alone, why do I have to
take these fucking inane tests!!!!!!
Oh! I am Sisyphus, pushing that rock up the
damned hill again.
I am nothing, if not dramatic. I wanted to be an actress
when I was in Drama in high school
but my parents nixed that idea. My audition for Drama
was a scene from The Diary of Anne Frank.
Even then, I was a serious little chick. Yeah well, I'm
still an actress...I just don't get paid for it. And ya still can't
take the drama and trauma out of me yet!
Running all this week: Camille!

My poor sister-in-law slipped on her porch stairs
in Atlanta and broke her ankle. So she and my brother
aren't coming out tomorrow. They were coming to visit for a week.
I'm bummed. Earlier in the summer I was thinking of
going to visit them; I'd still like to go....of course I could
always time it around the Church show, haha.
Yeah, there's always an ulterior motive, isn't there.
The plane fares are nuts though. Money again!

I got my hair done yesterday people.
It looks awesome. I'm just so sorry you can't
see how truly awesome my hair looks. I have
more hair than about 4 people combined. Really,
if I had a dime for every time a stylist said,
"You have SO much hair" I wouldn't be bitching
about money. It's a hassle, really. But my stylist
is a goddess who manages to straighten it, tame it, and
highlight it until it just looks well, awesome.
So here I am, dragging around the house, my face a wreck
(SK said no make-up - and this is what you get - would he
want to see THIS every day? Methinks not), my will to live
waning with each passing hour, trying to accept the fact my
mother's brain has been hijacked by aliens, my great fear of
running outside in my pajamas trying to score some crank
because I took an Ultracet...
but I have really frackin' awesome hair.
If you see me on Cops, thrashing about, swearing, in a yellow
floral nightgown, trying to bite a cop's hand, yelling and screaming
"I had no idea that place was a meth lab!" make sure and note
my totally awesome hair.

I am now considering eating the entire planet
as I am that hungry.
And so, these are the days of my sad little life
right now.
Someone knocked on my door, but eerily, no one was there.
I'm not making this up. I mean they used the knocker, and knocked
really loudly and I was at the door within 10 seconds and nothing
and no one was there.
Maybe it was my dad. He blew out the bulb next to my bed the
other night. Maybe he's discovered a new way to say "Hi!"
Hi ho, from the Other Side. Knock knock knockin' on D's door...

Is that fucking World Cup STILL going on?

Photo Credit: Hitlercats.com - Yes, someone had to do it. Find cats that look like Hitler. It shouldn't be funny, but damn it is REALLY funny.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula
(Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels by the River of Porciuncula)

The great expanse and glittering hills
the low valleys, and concrete jungles - no,
it was never meant to be called "The
City of Angels" - indeed this place was named after
the Virgin Mary herself.
The irony is inescapable in this hedonistic
paradise; are there any virgins left?

To this day, having lived 39 years,
2 months and 28 days in this geography
I have yet to see a river; the Los Angeles River,
or any other. I imagine it's on a backlot somewhere.
Maybe over at Warner Brothers or Paramount
and I've taken the wrong tour.

Suburbia is sound asleep; all good
citizens tucked away in warmly lit
tin box heavens. Zoe and Fletcher have
turned in for the night; their excitement
at seeing mommy come home early
faded and they are curled up like
little cotton balls, dreaming of
only things cats can dream of.


I left the glaring neon lights of the city behind;
my foray into temporary insanity always
leaves me weary, stunned, sad, and
full of strange regrets.
Last night, Hollywood, or Hollywoodland
as it was first christened. We ate at a fanastic
Gothic-looking restaurant called Citizen Smith.
Comfort food and spectacularly expensive martinis;
there's a two hour limit at the tables - it's definitely one
of the current hot spots. Gorgeous inside, candles
adorning the dark walls, lush curtains, the familiar
glow of lives long lived and past.
We walked to the theatre (walking in the city? what a concept!)
and of course, there is no adjective great enough
to describe the decadent, gorgeous Pantages Theatre.
Thank God for gilded, carved wood work; the musical
was such a hideous nightmare, my friend and I couldn't stop
laughing. We paid a fool's fortune for good seats but during
intermission actually moved to the back of the theatre so
we wouldn't disturb the obviously mentally insane people
who were actually enjoying the freak-like circus on stage.
I have not laughed so hard, in so long. It was immature
laughter; forbidden laughter - the best kind. The kind
of laughter where stifling it feels like you're going to burst,
your stomach hurts and you can't breathe
and that alone was worth the fool's gold.

After our 'escape' we went next door to a
restaurant called Hollywood and Vine, located strangely
enough, on Hollywood and Vine. Lovely, dark,
elegant and beautiful. Was this what Hollywood
was like in the Golden Era? I walked up
Hollywood Boulevard, announcing the name
on every star on the sidewalk like some
crazy tourist. I squealed "Elizabeth Taylor!"
as if I'd just discovered the raven-haired beauty
myself.

Anyway, back at Hollywood and Vine,
which is famous for its banana cream pie...
We were forced to sit at a table in the back of the bar
as we weren't ordering alcohol. We ordered tea
and it came it tiny silk bags. Silk! The flavours
were terribly exotic; mint verbena, pink grapefruit
citrus magic something or other. I sat there wondering
how much it cost to use silk to wrap loose tea as
the denizens of the night glided past us outside.
The most gorgeous women - thin and beautiful
and bodies to die for - I laughed and thought how I
wasn't even looking at the men - I said, "My God,
the beautiful people really do live here."

Apparently there was a club next door;
I'm sure I exceeded the weight limit by a few pounds
or 20 or 30 or 150.
Behind us, on velvet couches, the most obnoxious, loud,
crass French customers sat, doing their best imitation
of Eurotrash. The woman wore a long-sleeved top,
her midriff showing, and cut-off jeans shorts so short
I felt like my own grandmother in my disapproval.
She also had these long black platform boots on. The
working girls down the street were wearing more.
Oh they say "How rude and obnoxious Americans are!"
whenever we go to Europe. Well, I've got news. The French
can be just as bad. For some reason, they were speaking in English
and with filthy mouths they loudly yammered away.
I admit though, the way they say 'fucking' sounds so much
more romantic. Ha. Finally they left and we left and followed
the city's morose, lonely, lost, sad, souls back to our car.
A homeless man lay curled in the fetal position on the sidewalk,
a black plastic bag over his head. My friend and I almost stopped,
and yet I didn't know what to think or do. We walked on, past
huge, swarming crowds of people just beginning their evening, as I
used to, a good 20 years ago, milling about outside various clubs.
Clubs whose names I did not recognize for this is not my city
anymore, these are not my peers, these are not my streets.
I was afraid. Another homeless man slammed a pay phone down,
looking for change. We wound our way in and out of bare bodies
and doors opened briefly as we passed, the pounding of various
songs blaring into the street, the smell of smoke so pungent and
the shadows so familiar I almost called out to myself. One door
opened, and the interior glowed red, a crimson memory, a place
I'd never been to, and yet had been to a thousand times. Music
I did not know, and music I'd heard my whole life. The mix of
liquor and perfumes and smoke and nostalgia and memory and
that scent - oh God - what is it - that one specific odour all clubs
seem to posess - oh, it took me back so fast, I almost collided
with my sweet young self. I stopped dead on the sidewalk, my friend
looking at me strangely - I said, "this is it, oh god, can you smell it?"
This is my past, it's still hidden here, it's still alive, it has a different
name, it's a different look, a different game, and it went on without
me, all the same. I don't smoke, I don't even like cigarette
smoke, I didn't even think smoking was allowed inside any
building in Los Angeles, but god it was a sweet reprieve,
a little kiss from my distant past, a whisper in
my ear, "My dear it wasn't meant to last."

I've walked the streets of New York city, a place
of which I am not a native, and felt less fear.
There are ghosts and beggars, fools and frauds,
cops and robbers and dirty dogs, lovers and drunks
and kids with more than time to kill in these streets,
hidden in those Hollywood hills.

Tonight, a belated birthday dinner at Encounter,
the space-age George Jetson restaurant at LAX.
More martinis and feeling slightly off-balance even
before the Ketel One, the iconic building built long ago
and yet the kitsch, the catch, the future, space-like decor
was so yesterday, and so tomorrow. The observation deck was
closed; it's been closed since 9/11. A memorial to 9/11
is on the ground floor between the spidery legs of the
building. My friend, ironically, was at LAX the morning
of 9/11 and in my horror I remember her telling me
they were evacuating LAX and she had to walk on foot
down Century Boulevard forever.

So we sat and ate and looked at the runway and
talked about how wonderful it would be to just
walk up to a ticket counter and buy a ticket to some
far-off distant, exotic place...to just up and leave
everything behind...at least for a little while.
Planes took off and landed and seemed to hang
in midair, circling, waiting for clearance to land.
Driving home, I've never seen so many planes
seemingly hovering in the night sky; even the
runways have traffic in L.A.

The Encounter lights glowed blue and purple
and red and green and space-age music played
along with traveler's dreams.
I asked the valet if the building had always served
as a restaurant; he told me it was initially built to be
an air traffic control tower but was too low - it's a stunning
piece of late mid-century architecture...the ground floor
still original, that early 1960's flooring with silver stars.
I've always loved the mid-century modern look; so futuristic
and streamlined. I gazed at the floor and remembered when;
but I knew in my heart this place I'd never been.

I don't really believe in reincarnation or past lives -
but why then do I miss so many things I've never done,
so many places I've never lived, so many people I've never met?
No, I was never a queen in Egypt (only on SK's blog), or even
a cat goddess...or a peasant on a lord's manor land...I don't know where
this longing comes from for distant worlds...how can I miss what
I've never known? How can I pass buildings and think, oh I'd love
to go back, when I've never been?
How can I remember the scent of jasmine in a desert dusk?
I have not lived these lives, but god I miss them so much.

All the faces and lives I've passed, all the looks unmet and
unknown, all the hands unheld, and words unsaid,
I wonder, I wonder, where will this energy that is me
go next?

For my birthday my friend gave me a gorgeous book
called "Hemingway's Cats" - a book I very much wanted
but probably wouldn't have bought myself. It's an illustrated
history of Papa Hemingway, and his great loves, his cats.
(Okay there are few women and dogs in there too.)
To see pictures of this 'macho' writer letting a cat drink
out of a crystal goblet on the table, or this big, burly older
man, gently holding a cat who'd suffered a heart attack,
gives you a whole new perspective not simply on Hemingway,
but on the magical, mystical love man and animals share.
According to the book, by 1945 Papa had 23 cats and 5 dogs.
He was a crazy cat man! He and his love Mary called the cats
"purr factories" and "love sponges" - the cats were treated as
royalty (as I'm sure they'd trained Ernest to this task well).
They slept in the guest bedroom and later lived in a room
built by Hemingway especially for his pets. Hemingway believed
cats had souls and that he would see his beloved 'love sponges'
in Heaven.

I hope and pray he was right.
Today would have been my dad's 64th birthday, my own papa,
who also loved cats. I really do hope there is a Heaven, with two big, burly
men, surrounded by meowing cats, and more love than we on
earth, could ever, ever imagine.

Photo: The "Theme Building" at LAX, built in 1961. Architect: Eero Saarinen. (It currently houses Encounter Restaurant. )