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. )

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

A Quick Overview of My Brain Melting

Math. Studying. All day, all night.
Pythagoras can kiss my Western European ass,
I am stuck on factoring algebraic equations!
Oh tutor! My tutor!
Get thee to my house soon tomorrow
so you can teach me what I do not want to know.

Even decimals are fucking with me, the tiny
little bastard dots.
Integers that are positive and negative.
How can a number be negative?
How can you NOT have a quantity?
Signs mess up my mind
+ - + - + -
I feel like throwing up.
In the car, on the way to the doctor,
I spew forth geometric formulas
A2 + B2 = C2 motherfuckers!
The area of a triangel is 1/2bh.
And still, I am terrified.

I went to the doctor.
Boy was he in a bitchy mood.
All doctors to me, are nothing more than
necessary evils.
Apparently this guy is an easy mark.
Ha! Only took me almost 13 years to find someone
willing to help me.
He gave me the Ultracet; but I want to use it very, very sparingly.
Thus far, due to my father's addiction history, I've managed to go
almost 40 years, not only not becoming an alcoholic, but barely
drinking and taking pills very sparingly.
I am not thrilled to do this. But it beats the Neurontin.
I cannot gain any more weight; my health is suffering and I feel
heavy and awful in my own body. If you never knew me before,
you probably wouldn't even say I had a weight problem. But for
the formerly thin me, this sucks, to put it mildly.

Tomorrow night I'm seeing a play in Hollywood and going to dinner
with a friend. Saturday night another friend is taking me to a very belated
birthday dinner at Encounter - the cool, space-age looking restaurant
smack-dab in the middle of LAX.

Where does the time go? It's amost 11p.m. I must go to bed
to get up early and straighten this place up. I also need to
straighten my hair. Now, isn't your day complete just knowing
this? Come on, admit it.
It's amazing how I can go from profound to shallow in about 1.2 seconds.

Oh! Some really good news I alluded to yesterday - I have been OFFICIALLY
accepted into the Teacher Credential program at the university for Fall.
I received my letter in the mail today. I am excited, yet a bit nervous.
It's been ten years since I've been the student and not the teacher.
My whole life is going to change, come autumn. But this is a new chapter
and one I am looking forward to. Hell if I can pass this math monster
I can do anything!

Have I mentioned how much I hate my government today?
That's always good and cathartic.
The earth has a fever; they say it's the hottest it's been in 2,ooo
years. I don't doubt global warming for one split second, but who took
the earth's temperature 2,000 years ago? Now they're going to say
Stonehenge is a big thermometer.
I bought Al Gore's book today, "An Inconvenient Truth."
God it's all so depressing. I believe it said the only two countries
that haven't signed the Kyoto Agreement are the U.S. and Australia.
Australia? WTF?

My mother said, "I watched Frontline and this whole time Cheney
and Rumsfeld have been running the country, not Bush."
Pardon my Francais, for one moment here.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
I've been saying that for 5 YEARS!
Now she believes FRONTLINE?
I made her say "Ok, OK, you told me so."
Yeah, I sure did!
Hence, my names for the Triumvirate: Satan, the Puppet and Death.
Rot in Hell, all of you.

Picture: My friend and yours, Pythagoras.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Cry Me A River

Well, today has only been marginally better than yesterday. I am in a
serious amount of pain; 99% of it in my neck, where it almost always it.
It's funny, this whole nightmare started on December 14, 1993.
I have a strange Rainman-like quality with dates, but I think
anyone whose life is changed by illness tends to remember
the moment it happens. I remember I went out to
dinner with my brother. It was a Tuesday night.
I was in finals week in graduate school. I came home,
sat on the couch, and the back of my neck started hurting
Then it started killing me. I had no idea why.
Little did I know that would be the
beginning of an ongoing journey through the medical mill
and all sorts of life-changing experiences.

I'm not sure why my fibromyalgia started in my neck. I always think of that
silly line in one of the Church's songs, "I have anxiety in my neck." Ha! I hate that line. I find it kind of cheesy. This is more than anxiety though. This is pain that radiates down my spinal chord and out into every muscle.

Two years ago I found a drug called Neurontin that was a life-saver. It stopped the pain in my neck. For two weeks, I was totally pain free. It was a gift from God. Except the brilliant doctors neglected to tell me I'd eat like a demon and gain 30 pounds. I'm not even vain anymore. I know I'll never be the tall, slim girl I was in college. But my weight is too high for my health, and I am miserable carrying it around on my body. Around Christmas I lost 20 pounds. It was so hard. I've always been a thin person, so I never had to diet. I never understood how hellish it is to try and lose weight. Talk about getting all kinds of perspective. Now I know.

In March, my doctor and I decided I'd go off the Neurontin and try to lose the weight and start an exercise regime, slowly. That was before my darling kids gave me walking pneumonia. So much for the exercise. The pain was actually OK - until the night of my birthday. When I got home, I thought I was going to die.
I've mostly taken aspirin or some other drug like Aleve for pain over the last 10 or so years. I've never been given a true pain killer, and I've never asked for one. I saw what pain killers did to my dad. I know that when you suffer from chronic pain, getting pain killers can be a dangerous way to live. The chance of addiction is very high.

The past few months, I've struggled with the pain on and off. It seems like it's starting to become more on than off. I admit, I 'borrowed' a few Ultracet pills from my mom - they are for mild to moderate pain. They help 100% as long as I only take around two a week. If you start taking pain meds everyday, you build up tolerance and then you need more and more. Another lovely Catch-22.

Over the years, I have struggled immensely with my health, not just physically, but perhaps even more emotionally. I've been in therapy. I've been very ashamed - as if I did something wrong - as if I somehow brought this on myself.
Perhaps it was all the doctors who told me there was nothing wrong, or insinuated I was just some hysterical female. Thirteen years ago, this disease wasn't accepted like it is today; and even today, some moronic doctors still think you're just hysterical and depressed. I'd like them to live with this pain for a year and see what they have to say after that. Well to be honest, first I'd like to kick the male doctors in the nuts and then have them live with FMS for a year.

I felt if people knew, they wouldn't like me, or wouldn't want to be my friend. Let's face it, I did lose some friends over the years - because of my dad, because I couldn't go out and socialize like I used to. It's very, very rare now, thank goodness, but many years ago, I was unable to do anything. If I ran one errand a day, it was a triumph. I hid my pain from everyone, and I still do to a large extent. I don't want to burden others, I don't want to be seen as different - frankly I don't want to seem weak. I don't want pity, but I do want understanding if I can't do something. I rarely if ever back out on plans now...but every now and again, I am too tired, I am in too much pain to go out. I still feel horrendously guilty if I do cancel on someone. Hmm. Self-esteem issues anyone?

This may sound crazy, but I even felt it made me less of a woman. It's greatly affected my relationships with men. I feel I must hide it, or not let it get in the way of the relationship. I feel like no one will ever want me on a permanent basis - who's going to want to deal with this crap, til death do us part? I am, I would say, probably 95% functional now, but still...I can't climb mountains, I need to rest more than the average bear. I am NOT lazy and I think I overdo it to prove that fact. At one point I felt like I didn't deserve to even date, to have sex, anything. I felt like a fraud. As if I was offering up damaged goods. I worked so hard to try and overcome these beliefs...but it's hard. I managed to really ram them into my psyche and it's hard to let go of them.

I do more physically than some of my friends, but that still doesn't make me feel better. I still feel like I have a big mark on my forehead. The scarlet letter of Having Something Wrong. Perhaps it would've been easier if it had been, God forbid, something more well known. Lupus, MS. God knows I DO not want those diseases; they are progressive and I have seen firsthand the horrible damage MS does to a person. But I never felt legitimate having FMS. I always felt like I had to explain myself. Hello, I am not some hysterical, depressed, neurotic nut who managed to create all this made-up pain. Yes, this is real. No, they can't find it on a lab test yet. But yes, it IS real.

In exchange for going off the Neurontin, the doctor put me on something called Topamax. I am NOT fond of putting all these drugs in my body, but I want to function. I was on Topamax for a week and thought I was dying. It is the single worst drug I've ever been on. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow and telling him I am convinced the Devil created that drug. It fucked with my brain in ways that were so frightening I can't even explain it. It made me forgetful beyond belief. I couldn't grasp certain words - even the PDR said it would do this. I literally sat there, struggling to speak. It does something fucked up to the language center of your brain. It made me beyond tired, beyond fatigued, beyond weary. I can't even explain it. I told my friend "This is what end-stage cancer victims must feel like." Moving from room to room took all my energy. I felt like every drop of my blood had been drained from my body. I could barely make it upstairs. Needless to say, after a week, I took myself off the drug. Within a day or two, I was Ok.

I may do something tomorrow I've not done in almost 13 years. I may ask the doctor for some Ultracet. I do not want to go back on Neurontin. I can't afford to gain more weight. Will he give it to me? That's the $64,000 question. He hands out pills fairly easily. He wanted me on sleeping meds. I tried them for a couple of nights. No good. I don't want to be on sleeping pills. I don't want to be drugged up to the gills. But I don't want to live my days like today, paralyzed in pain.

I'm trying to study for the math exam, and it's hard enough to care about quadratic equations when you feel good! I found out some good news; I'd already been accepted into the University I applied to - but I was also accepted into the Credential program. So this fall, I have to be functional. I need to work and take classes, pain or no pain. I want this Credential more than anything. I finished my M.A. when I was quite ill, so I know I can do it.

I feel weak asking for something to reduce the pain a few days a week. Who knows what will happen. I have refused to go down the road my dad did. I will not use alcohol as a drug, and I will not get on 20 different types of pills. That being said, getting on one pill scares me enough.

No picture day. You really wouldn't want to see me now. :)

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Apparently, Today is About Me, and My PMS

Yes, it's come. How can I tell? Because I'm like a fucking clock.
10-12 days before my period, I start becoming REALLY unglued.
I don't just have PMS, I have that DISORDER...where the PMS
makes my life Hell. I've just recently been trying to deal with it
in different ways. Knowing when it arrives helps me understand
why I am SO FUCKING ANGRY AND UPSET!

I have read about the refugees today, and reading about the way
those two missing U.S. soldiers were found makes me want to vomit.
It had to be a vicious revenge killing for the U.S. killing al-Zarqawi.
And when I mentioned how horrible it must be for the families' of these
two soldiers, to know how their children were killed and mutiliated beyond
all appearances, my friend said, "Well al-Zarqawi probably had a family too."

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! Of course he did. And for anyone innocently connected to that madman, I am very sorry for them. I did not condone
bombing al-Zarqawi. I never condoned starting this fucking nightmare of a war in the first place.
But in fairness, come ON. al-Zarqawi was a MONSTER on the level of SATAN
compared to two young soldiers who, as far as I know, didn't behead civilians, or dedicate their lives to the cause of wiping out every last Muslim.
This war sickens me. And death begets death. But I will not EVER compare a man who killed Muslims, women, children, babies, HIS OWN PEOPLE - to two young kids who probably never dreamt they'd end up fighting a corrupt, immoral war and who died, desecrated and mutiliated.

So now we see. And we will kill them. And they will kill us. And when will it end?
When will it END?

I also found out the Big Pharma Co. near my house lets its employees stay at the Ritz-Carlton on a business trip. THE RITZ-CARLTON! Even their corporate rates are outrageous! How do I know this? My friend's husband works for them and managed to make it impossible for them to stay anywhere else. Don't ask me how this works. When your Rx meds go up and up and up and up...whether you take the Pill, anti-depressants, cancer drugs or blood pressure meds, remember what Big Pharma is doing with all its profits.
FUCKING CORPORATE WHORES. I am so angry about this, and I know I shouldn't be because there is nothing I can do. It's not like I didn't know the pharmaceutical companies were in bed with the Devil. It infuriates me though to even think I know someone who would manipulate the company into letting them stay at the most expensive hotel in the city. I hope they all rot in hell with their profits.

And no, I am no saint, I am not pure, I am not perfect. I have lived a life of some material wealth but I have seen that it gets you fucking nowhere. I have had the most precious things stolen from me - my health, my father, my peace. I would give everything I owned away for a life without anymore pain and fatigue. I am studying to be a teacher. I have been a teacher. I should be smart enough to not regress to the level of a 10 year old who stomps her feet and says "The world is not fair! The world is not fair!"

But that's how I feel today. My dad would say, "Fair? Fair? A fair is a place with cows and pigs and chickens..." I know there's no fair. Hormones make me want to cry over it.

Maybe I won't even have to worry about it, seeing how this North Korean missile thing is going. So we're mulling shooting down their missile. Ah yes, good times!

21,000 more troops notified for Iraq deployment. The world had gone stark raving mad. I hate myself for getting so emotional. I hate myself for being so naive sometimes. I know I will be better tomorrow. I am just in a lot of pain today, and the hormones are raging.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like some friends I have, and not care about these things. They seem to lead an easier life. Less tears, less depression. Less sadness.

One friend jokes about my 'goat' for Christmas. Last Christmas I asked my friends to get me something from Oxfam - a charity where you can buy food, trees, goats, etc. for people in villages who desperately need this stuff. I know it's a joke to her, but I don't want anymore gifts. I can't seem to get that through anyone's head. I have enough crap to last me three lifetimes. It's just a joke to some people.

No one spent more money on more shit growing up than I did. But I saw in the end that none of it made me happy. None of it could get me the things I really wanted. Love, health, family. You don't have to be Donald Trump to realize that all the gold in the free world isn't going to solve all your problems. I want enough money to be comfortable, enough to give some away to charity, enough to buy a few books and CD's and any medicine I need, and keep my cats happy.

My friend told me to go to Africa and teach. You know, I just might do that.
Because what if the whole world fell apart and no one gave a shit?

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Today is World Refugee Day

Today is not about me, or you, or even Angelina Jolie.
Today is about the millions of displaced persons, the millions
of starving children, desperate fathers and mothers and families
who feel the world has forgotten them.

I don't like to put my politics and beliefs on others. But today
I will. I will say, please, please remember these people. Somehow, some way. Please go to the link below and at least read about what their reality is like.
It's no TV show.
We've seen these images for so long we are seemingly immune to them;
don't let that happen.
My prayer is this: God, do not less us become so immune, so fatigued by
images of death and dying that we become too cynical, and think, I can't
do anything. If we cross over into cynicism, we have committed the worst act
of all - we will have abandoned these people.

Who said, 'the worst thing in the world is for a good man to stand by and do nothing'?

The same blood runs through our veins. It bleeds red. Put yourself, your child, your parent in their place in your mind for one minute.

Do not forget those whose very lives depend on our ability to have hope for them, even when they have understandably lost all hope.

Link: Please click here and do what you can. Photo Credit: CNN - Children in Chad

http://www.usaforunhcr.org/?code=P020

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Happy Trails To You...

Well, here it is Monday and I still haven't really processed my
last day with the kids. It was kind of a crazy day, with all the kindergarten (morning and afternoon) classes meeting at 7:45am so we had lots and lots
of wild kids running around. We played on the 'big kids' playground, and read a book about dinosaurs, and they had lunch, and we watched a video someone took of one of the kindergarten classes throughout the year.

When I arrived at school, there were already two gorgeous bouquets of flowers
waiting for me...and more gifts than I could've ever imagined...all in pretty pink
bags. Gift cards, beautiful bookmarks, a beautiful pink satin robe - I mean, these moms really went overboard - I know they can afford it, but it was slightly embarrassing. I was only doing field experience - I wasn't even the teacher!
These teachers, what they don't get in salary, they must make up for every year in gifts! But I had to remind myself, this is a very wealthy community and a very wealthy school.

That is certainly NOT why I did this. For me, the absolute, most special gifts were the cards that the kids made. They were all hand-made, and all so adorable. Marla gave me a lot of pictures of the kids doing things on days I wasn't there, to fill up my scrapbook. The end came far too soon, and as 11:00am
rolled around, the kids gathered up their backpacks and got in line, just like it was any other day. Each day a child picks a song to sing as they're leaving. Sometimes it's "Happy Trails." That's what we sang on Friday.

I'd held it together pretty well, considering what an emotional, blubbering cry-baby I am. I asked each little girl for a goodbye hug and they gave it to me; it's so sweet and sad - obviously at this age they don't realize this was a permanent goodbye. One little girl was crying and crying - she didn't want to leave kindergarten. I felt for her!
I asked the boys if I could shake their hands and I did.
Debbie, Tanner's mom walked in as most of the kids walked out, and she looked so strange. She had her sunglasses on but she looked angry. For a moment I was scared - until she just burst into tears. Well, that did it for me. Debbie and I were probably the closest - and I admit, her son Tanner was a favourite of mine, despite his stubborn Taurus-like nature (he was born the day after I was in April). She, as a mother, I guess, was just really emotional at seeing her little boy leave kindergarten, basically his last 'fun' year behind. We hugged and cried together. Tanner is so lucky to have such an amazing mom.

After everyone had left, Marla was kind enough to invite me to lunch with all the other K teachers; she had to help me to my car with the flowers and boxes and bags. I need to write a LOT of thank-yous. We had a fun lunch and then I came home, and bawled. I was exhausted.

Today, Monday, it really hit me that I'm not going back.
It also has been weighing on my mind lately the difference between a school like this one, and say, a school in South L.A.
The opportunities these kids have, as opposed to the lack of opportunities so many children have...whether it be in the areas of parenting, food, clothing, shelter, a stable family environment, books, decent teachers...the inequality is heart-breaking. And then to take it a step further - I read about Darfur, the Congo, Sudan....I see how so many children don't even make it to 5...I feel so utterly helpless to do anything. Fate has such a hand in your life...where you're born, who you're born to....it's amazing. Whenever I would feel sorry for myself my dad would say, "Be grateful for what you have. You could've been born an untouchable in India." How true.

I hope when I student teach I am put somewhere I am really, really needed. Because it's not about me, being in a cushy rich environment. Certainly I don't want to have to dodge bullets to get to class, but I want to go where the true help is needed next time.

So, happy trails to you, my cupcakes. I'm not sure we'll ever meet again. I wish you health, peace, joy, love, and gratitude for all you have. I'll keep you in my heart, always. Thanks for the cards, the memories, and for being your wonderful selves.

Picture: Claire and Rama mugging for the camera at the Mother's Day Tea.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons
A Short and Happy Blog

Well, after the last two semi-sad stories, I feel like I'm
depressing my readers.
And my other wittle kitty, Fletcher (she is a she, because we
made a mistake and thought she was a he) is jealous that Zoe
got so much publicity.
So I'm showing you Fletcher...or Fletch...or Fletchie or Fletcherama
as I like to call her. She was the runt of Tamarin's litter - but she's
made up for it now with her obsessive need to eat every 30 seconds.
She was born with a little crooked tail...I always say she didn't have
enough room in the womb.
She is chubby and loving and loves to groom her sister, Zoe.
She loves belly rubs and she adores my friend Gena...and Gena's shoes.
She doesn't like to he held, but she'll sit on your lap and 'make muffins' on you forever.
Her face looks like she dunked it in a bowl of milk or white paint.
She HATES the camera - she's oddly afraid of it. Maybe she thinks having her picture taken is akin
to stealing her kitty soul, like the Indians.
She's quite annoying as she gets up at 5:00am on the dot every single day for breakfast and is relentless until she's fed.
She was my dad's cat for a year before he died, but she's been mine
for 10 years.
She likes to lick your skin - I think she enjoys the salt.
She's not nearly as afraid of strangers as Zoe. She'll come out to greet people eventually. Her shoe fetish is a bit worrisome, but I'm going to pass on therapy.
She's my snuggle-bunny and sleeps about 26 hours a day.
And now....for your viewing pleasure....Miss Fletcher!

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons
An Angel in a Cat Suit

This is the story of a little cat who knew where she belonged and a young lady who was saved by the pure, sweet love of that cat; a cat named Zoe.

When I was 26 and in graduate school, my dad lived alone and was very ill. I thought he might like a cat, since he'd had one before - but it died. A friend of mine had a cat who'd just had kittens, so I took a female kitten to my dad. I named her Tamarin.

Frankly, Tamarin was not the most friendly cat. But she loved my dad, and my dad was no longer alone. Unfortunately, my dad accidentally let Tamarin outside one day before I could take her to get fixed. This 'accident' would have both sad and wonderful repercussions for us all. Tamarin didn't waste time finding a tomcat, and on March 28, 1995 she gave birth to 5 beautiful kittens.

The only problem was, what were going to do with these darlings? My dad agreed to keep two, and I fell in love with a little black and white kitten I named Moo Moo, because to me, she looked like a little cow. We decided to give the other two to one of my dad's friends who worked in a pet store.

I took Moo Moo home and we fell madly in love with each other. She curled up next to me in bed, and suckled on my earlobe - a ticklish and funny little feeling. I hope she didn't think milk was coming out of that ear! She was a feisty little girl, like all kittens, exploring every tiny aspect of my apartment.

One day, the time came for me to take the other two kittens to Michelle, at the pet store. I came to my dad's house with a carrier. We got one kitten in, but try as we might, we could NOT get the other kitten out from under the bed. It turned out that this kitten was my Zoe, though I didn't know it yet. She knew. She knew she belonged with me, and she wasn't going anywhere. She had actually torn a hole through the mattress and was hiding inside the mattress. I tried everything to coax this cat out. I couldn't fit under the bed, and she was too far inside the mattress for me to reach in and pull her out. In the end, we had to literally pull the mattress off the bed, stand it up and I had to forcibly remove this crying, wailing kitten. It was breaking my heart, but we had to do it. She cried like I've never heard any cat cry before. She looked at me like she couldn't believe I was taking her from the place she belonged. I put her in the carrier, drove to the pet store, and dropped the kittens off. It was hard, but it was over.

Life can give you the most blessed gifts, and also take away those gifts, cruelly and without warning. One night in May, I'd gone to the movies with a friend. I came home, and saw my precious Moo Moo literally hanging from one of the wrought iron chairs in the dining room. The horror of what was in front of me was indescribable. Moo Moo, my sweet angel, had tried to climb inbetween the bars and had gotten stuck. She'd broken her back; her spine was crushed. I gently pulled her out...she'd wet herself and could only crawl on her front paws. I rushed her, crying hysterically, to an all-night emergency vet, knowing the whole time there was no hope. And indeed, the vet told me - she was going to have be put down. I wept as if it were my own biological child. I held her and told her I was so, so sorry. I told her how much I loved her, and how happy she'd made me. And then she went to sleep.

The next month was brutal. I was already living a hellish existance....I was in graduate school, but I'd taken the year off as my health had deteriorated to the point where getting out of bed was an effort. I'd been struck down in late 1993 with what we now know is probably fibromyalgia. I was terribly sick; I was fatigued beyond measure, doctors couldn't help me, or didn't believe me, and on top of everything, I was taking care of my sick father. Some days, I didn't think I'd make it at all. I cried and cried for Moo Moo. I lived in chronic pain, I'd lost my beloved kitten and I wanted another kitten - but not just any kitten. For some odd reason, I only wanted a kitten from Tamarin's litter. My dad generously offered to give me one of his; but I couldn't take it.

One day in late June, I was driving over to my dad's to help him and for reasons that only the Universe knows, I swerved my car to the right - and parked right in front of the pet store where I'd dropped off the extra two kittens a month earlier. I have no idea why. I hadn't looked in any pet stores; I didn't want a kitten from a pet store. And yet I was compelled to walk inside. Once I did, I immediately saw our friend Michelle. She walked right over to me and said,
"Denise, isn't this one of your dad's kittens?" She was pointing to a cage, with Zoe inside. I was stunned. I said, "Yes!" And there was Zoe, screaming her little lungs out. To this day, I'm not sure why she ended up back at the pet store; according to Michelle, a woman adopted her, and then brought her back. Michelle told me she was a screamer. I didn't care. I wanted her. Although I have to admit, and this seems like such a shameful thing to admit, that I was afraid I wouldn't love her like I loved Moo Moo. I didn't like her face like I loved Moo Moo's. I felt shallow and awful, and yet I still wanted her.

I've had cats my entire life. All the crazy quotes about cats are mostly true. Cats don't have owners, they have staff. You don't own a cat, it owns you. Yet this was not true with Zoe. I brought her home, and named her Zoe, after the Greek word meaning "life." She was new life for me.

She also became the most loving creature I've ever known. I don't think she knows she's a cat. I think she thinks she's a dog...or maybe even a human. She stuck to me like glue - and she started suckling on my earlobe just like Moo Moo. She settled in like she'd always lived at that apartment - as if she was finally home. She didn't scream - unless I left the room. Then she wailed. She followed me everywhere. She became my shadow. And in no time at all, I fell in love again, and hard.

My dad used to call Zoe pure love. That's what she is. She is the most affectionate, loving cat I've ever had. She is terrified of strangers, but clings to me like I am her life. She curls up with me in bed and kept me company all the years I was sick. She is hysterical - she meows and makes all these sounds that actually sound like words. She is a riot! She gets so jealous when I talk on the phone and she lets me know it! She has a distinct personality and makes these funny little grunts if she doesn't like something. She sits on my chest and gazes into my eyes. She rolls on her back, waiting for her belly rub. She suckled my earlobe for years. She lets me hold her like a baby and gazes up at me with her beautiful green eyes.

Today, when it's time for bed, she lets me know by getting on my spot on the bed, curling up and going to sleep. She adores my spot on the bed. She won't sleep anywhere else. It feels a bit silly to be so in love with a cat. I know I'll never be able to explain how loving and sweet she is.

I know now why she didn't want to leave my dad 's house. I don't believe in miracles really. But I cannot explain why I stopped at the pet store that day. I cannot explain why Zoe seemed so determined to stay with me. I hesitate to believe in gifts from God, or the Universe, but I know this for sure: Zoe was a gift. An angel disguised in a little cat suit. And yes, I love her as much, if not more, than Moo Moo and I think she has the most beautiful face in the entire feline world. She has been with me for 11 years and I know someday she will not be here - it's a thought I can barely tolerate. But for now, she has been my best friend and I wish everyone could know such love from an animal. It is truly a miracle.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Happy Father's Day, Dad

This has been one of the most emotional weeks of my life.
It began wonderfully as I met Anderson Cooper, but as the week
wore on, I became more and more tired and emotional. I've
been helping a friend who had surgery, and I've gotten very little sleep.
I've been in and out of the hospital, doing two sets of errands, going to school and meeting with the tutor.
My kindergarten class graduated on Wednesday and today I said
goodbye to them for good (more on that later).

I've been waiting this week to hear if I made it into the Credential
Program for the Fall; I think I may have...I'm just waiting for the official word.
And Father's Day is Sunday....and exactly a week later is my Dad's birthday.
I've been happy, and up and down, and crying and not sleeping and worrying
and laughing and all over the place.

Oddly though I've really been missing my Dad this week; more than ever
and thinking about Father's Day more than I ever have since he died. This
will be my 11th Father's Day without him and really, I don't like these contrived
Hallmark holidays anyway, so Father's Day was never that hard for me. His birthday, which usually falls about a week after Father's Day, was always another story, because it was HIS birthday, and he died so young, at 53, and so
tragically.

My life is busy and honestly, I don't dwell on my dad that much. I've integrated
his memory into my life the best I can and every now and again, I'll cry (usually around PMS time) because I miss him. The first Father's Day after he died, my mom and I went to the cemetery and it was mayhem! I mean, there was serious
traffic and gridlock. And to prove how much I hate traffic, masses of people and no privacy at the cemetery, I just said, "Forget it. I'll come back on his birthday."
And I've never gone to the cemetery again on Father's Day.

I really cannot remember the last time I went to the cemetery. I don't go much because I don't really feel he is 'there' - I don't know where he is, if he is, although I pray to whatever gods there may be that he is at peace, one way or another. I do think of him whenever I see things that remind me of him; when meeting Anderson Cooper I noticed he was wearing a gorgeous and no doubt expensive watch; I immediately thought of my dad as my dad adored expensive watches and had quite a few himself. In fact, I think I have about 12 watches (though none that expensive) and I always joke I got the "watch gene" from my dad. My dad loved so many things in life, even when he began to live his life, at the young age of 38, in constant, chronic, horrible, pain.

He was an emotionally flawed man, there's no doubt about it. He lost his own dad when he was 12; I believe that scarred him for life. He was an only child, raised by a lot of neurotic women. His own father had been a violent alcoholic and sadly, my father succumbed to that role as well. So I have never sainted my father, or shied away from the truth that he had many problems. As a human being, he was flawed, mixed up, and troubled. He was dealt a shitty hand with his health. As a father, he made some mistakes, but by and large, he tried and succeeded with us more often than not.

On and off I've dreamt of my dad for 10 years. The last words he said to me, in anger, desperation and rage, were "Fuck you." He was desperate beyond belief. He spent his final weekend trying to get out of this life. I would not help him. By Sunday night he had succeeded. I know that he did not mean to hurt me, and that he loved me. And yet in all my dreams, he has always been angry. For ten years, he's been angry. Sometimes he's alive in my dreams, and sometimes, eerily enough, he survives the gunshot wound to his head and lives on. It's creepy. I had my years of anger, shock, guilt, numbness. I have told him I forgive him. I know he just wanted out of the nightmare that had become his life. I am still waiting for him to come to me, one way or another, and not be angry. I want to tell him, it's OK. It's not that I condone what he did, or would encourage it, but I understand it. I'm so sorry that that's how his life had to end, and so, so sorry about the damage it did to our family. But I long for peace with my dad, and I am still waiting for that...from him.

When I was doing bereavement counseling for survivors of suicide, we told people, 'first you concentrate on the way they died...then you concentrate on the fact that they died...and finally, you concentrate on the fact that they lived."
It's especially true of someone who takes their own life; you have a tendency to focus on that for a long time - and it takes great effort to move beyond it. But it is possible. It is possible to share the life of your loved one without focusing on how that person died. Anderson Cooper said this about his 23 year old brother, who leapt from the balcony of their 14th floor penthouse - you really keep thinking about how they died.

But I want my dad and everyone to know I really only think about how he lived now. My dad and I had a lot in common. We both loved to read - voraciously. We both mainlined Pepsi like it was heroin. We both loved fine watches and I also joke I got the 'magazine' gene from him, as his house was always filled with every kind of magazine possible. I'm a little more picky, but still, I love magazines. We both loved sailing and watching the America's Cup. We adored our cats. My dad was a brilliant man, and I don't just say that because he was my dad. He truly was so very smart. He was the best salesman I ever saw; his ability to charm people was infamous. He was an incessant talker. THAT we don't have in common and I have to admit, it embarrassed me sometimes. I mean, the man could NOT shut up! He loved animals, and practically cried when he accidentally hit a cat in the road. He was a hard worker and was never really sick a day in his life until he hurt his back at 38. He took me to Indian Princesses, he tried so hard to help me with my math homework. I think it confused him; as bright as he was, algebra was just a bitch!

We grew a lot closer when I went to graduate school. He supported me whole-heartedly in pursuing my dream of studying art history; I knew why. It was because he had wanted to do so many other things with his life - but hadn't been able to. He married, and struggled with two jobs to make ends meet, and within 9 months had a baby daughter and wife to take care of. His dreams of astronomy and sailing and designing furniture went on the back burner.

I remember he adored Shakespeare and would often be in bed, going on and on about the latest play he'd read. He loved architecture and art, films and poetry, cars and planes, sports and Victory at Sea on the History Channel. The only thing he loved that I hated were guns. He collected so many guns, and never used one, except in the end. When he brought out a gun, I left the house. He and I would fight tooth and nail over the NRA. We would never see eye to eye on that issue.

He also started to love vodka, and when he hurt his back, got on a lot of pills. That was really the beginning of the end. Fifteen long years of suffering. Still, he came to all my plays, my events, my graduations. He bought me cars and he took us on grand vacations. He helped us carve pumpkins for Halloween and swore like the devil when he couldn't untangle the Christmas tree lights. I used to be so afraid of him; now, when I do the tree myself, I understand what he went through with those $#@#!!! lights.

As with other survivors, even after all these years, I am sometimes shocked when I think about what happened. It still seems surreal. I'll think to myself, "Did that really happen?" It did.

In the beginning, I didn't know what to do with the memory of my father. Was he a sinner or a saint? A monster or a good man? Should I demonize him or lionize him? It took me years to figure out - neither. Like everyone, he had flaws. Some were major. But basically he was a good human being. There is no either or or with people. We're all a mix of good and bad.

I just want him to know that all is forgiven. I want to tell him, please don't be angry anymore. I know you didn't mean what you said to me in the end. I hope and pray he knows this. Pain can make you say and do terrible things. Throw in drugs to the mix and it's even worse. Sadly, I understand that.

So this Father's Day, you won't find me at the cemetery. Maybe on his birthday. No matter, I know, if he is somewhere, he knows I love him, despite everything. And I'll celebrate his *life* and the life he gave me, instead of focusing on how he left life. That's what true healing is all about.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

It Is Indeed A Wonderful Life

Yesterday my precious little cupcakes 'graduated'
from kindergarten. I have to admit, this is all new to me, this graduation
ceremony business for such young kids. In 1973, they just sent us off for the summer and on to 1st grade.

Now they've got cards for Pre-school graduations, kindergarten ceremonies;
of course they've also got cards for the death of your cat, new jobs, new houses,
divorce, remarriage, new apartments, joining the military...cards for your clergyman, card to wish your loved one well in rehab. I'm not kidding. Hallmark must be raking it in.

Nevertheless, I succumed to consumerism, and searched out 18 cards specifically stating the word 'kindergarten' and wrote an individual message to each of my ducklings; no doubt their parents will have to read it to them as it's currently a bit beyond their reading capabilities, haha. I filled coloured bags with 'magic' bubbles and candy and stickers and fun coloured pencils and erasers and all sorts of things that send 5 and 6 year olds over the moon.

The day was very emotional for me; it's been an amazing, glorious, eye-opening
experience working with and getting to know these little souls. They all brought their dad's white shirts, which we used as their gowns, and the teachers made the caps. They looked as perfect as any graduating class I've ever seen.

I brought my camera and pretty much took pictures throughout the day. We helped them get dressed, put their caps on and never a more precious sight have I seen. I couldn't have been prouder if they were my own children!!

There were three or four afternoon kindergarten classes graduating and they walked into the auditorium to "Pomp and Circumstance" and damn if I didn't feel the tears start to well up. The place was filled with beaming parents, restless siblings, smiling grandmas and grandpas. The kids had practiced several songs, which they sang perfectly...showing off their wondrous new abilities...counting the ABC's, counting by ones and twos and fives and tens...singing America The Beautiful while doing it in sign language as well.

This was probably the best graduation I've ever been to, because there was no speaker, no BS about setting the world on fire, or how horrible it's all going to be. I mean, what are you going to say to a kid going into 1st grade? After the kids finished singing, they walked off stage and shook the hands of the principal and vice principal and I took pictures as fast as I could.

I'd already taken pictures of them in class while they were getting dressed...everyone loved mugging for the camera.

Once everyone came back into the class, Marla handed them their 'diploma' which was a green certificate of accomplishment and the parents and families wandered in for pictures, cake and punch. It's funny, somehow they saw all my bags on the shelf with their names on them and just started taking them once they saw their names...not even knowing who they were from or what they were! Ah, kids. They just saw colourful pressies and so I grabbed them and started handing them out.

I hugged each child and told them I how proud I was of them, and how much fun I'd had with them, and how much I'd miss them. The only down side was Isabella. Poor sweet dear. I guess her parents came to the ceremony, but had to go back to work or something...so she was the only kid in the class without family, and she was wandering around looking for them...I found her and she was crying. Oh my little chick-a-dee! I whispered to her, "Bella, I know I'm not your mommy or daddy but I want to tell you that you are one of my favourite little girls in the whole world and I will stay with you." Once she saw her bag of goodies, she perked up.

So everyone had cake and punch and took lots of pictures and even though I will see them one last day Friday, today really seemed like the end. A couple of times I had to really hold it together - during the ceremony and in class. I never, ever dreamt I'd become so attached to these sweet little beings. I'm the last person in the world who thought I'd connect so well with children.

So thank you my sweet ducklings, for helping me find my bliss. Thank you for sharing your beautiful, open, creative souls. I can't help but wonder...what will they be like in 5 years? Ten? They will still be so, so young. I know I'll always wonder what happened to them...it's just the way I am.

I don't know what we're doing Friday. That will truly be my final goodbye. And off they go into the blissful summer....I know how blessed I was to do my field experience in this school. Let's face it - it was easy. Every child spoke English, so there were no immersion issues. There's money galore there - they've got everything they could want and need for the students. I know all schools are not created equal. I know this school is not representative of the majority of schools. This was easy. But I am ready for whatever challenges lie ahead of me.

18 little people showed me that I am capable and I am good at this. They need me, and more importantly, I need them. No, I do not look forward to the crap - the low salary, the bureaucracy, the corrupt unions - all things I had to deal with teaching college. But I finally know what I was meant to do. Jesus, it took long enough.

So congratulations class of '06! May you live long and be happy, healthy and always keep a little of the six year old inside you.

The picture, BTW, is Griffin, in class before the ceremony, being his usual crazy self. I adore him beyond words. He's a sweet, kind, gentle, energetic boy. And he loves the camera.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Phantasmagoria

There's a whole world out there...alive, breathing, sighing, heaving, pulsating like some giant monstrous heart...a hundred worlds, a thousand worlds, a million worlds of late-night coffee shops with fading linoleum floors and desolate truck stops on highways I have never travelled. I can hear the laughter echoing between worn-out bar stools, formica counters and lonely weeping willow trees.

I can hear footsteps crunching across the gravel in the dead of night and soft weeping fading down hospital corridors in the still, eerie sadness of 3 a.m....morgue doors closing, the sirens wailing, the keening of the bereaved, the wolves in the hills howling and the scent of some great despair filling the black and desolate cold air.

I can see it all, smell it all, the jasmine in the pre-summer winds, the stale cigarette smoke from dark and lonely alleys, from the darkness of my bedroom
the flickering blue TV the simultaneity of life assaults my senses and the sheer magnifent multiplicity of events....simply, ordinary events, brings me to my knees in refuge. The prayers begin to gods unknown and even unbelieved in, please release me from this wicked, aching, screaming din.

I hear the spoon delicately stirring the hot tea, the undulating motion of rhythmic fucking flashes before me, the screaming, thundering guitar solos in clubs in Amsterdam and London and far away lands, the bitter stench of hair dye and foreign cigarettes, cloves and pot and cheap cerveza bars, the drenching odor of stale beer and the stinking memories I can't can't can't ever ever ever forget.

Oh yes, they all come to me now as I rot between these four walls...I hear the distant echo of cars speeding down the street outside my front door and think, this is my story, this is all there ever was to tell....six o'clock shadows and the promise of eternity, the magical pink cotton candy sky bruising to deep violet, azure, gunmetal grey. I made the sun bleed and turned away; I caught the stars trying to escape and chaos is no great reward for believing with all your heart and soul in the great, grand theory of entropy.

I commanded the Gods and they did their part, but now...now it all lies broken and sallow, in sharp-edged shards and fucked-up compassionless regret, this ridiculous circus, this party of one, this lost girl of cruel neglect.

No man is an island unto himself, how wrong can one man be! I dream of lives unlived and lives forgotten and in the dream it is never really me. I hear the music, the notes come through the window and like feathers alight on shadows against the walls...have you ever realized how the whole of the world, the entire universe and every baby universe after that can exist in one tiny song?

I mean, did you ever listen to music that simply states the simple, long, deep, bitter want and nothing more than the whole of all your sad desires, all your crazy, pathetic needs and failings, and base animal wants....oh they all can be found between the first and last notes of one little song.

There are worlds out there...that beat and pulsate like strange attractors, strange and distant heartbeats that haunt me to no end...who are these people, where do they begin, where do they end?

The measure of time and rain-soaked streets, the measure of loneliness and faces you will never, never meet...yes, sometimes I think about all the faces I will never know, all the streets I will never walk upon, all the books I will never read, all the hands I will never hold, all the eyes I will never look into. These are the heartbeats that forever elude me, strange beasts I dream of and die for in dark bedrooms and on kitchen floors.

And I wonder, when the lights are on, when did it begin to go so wrong? How memories haunt and recollection stings! But neurons will not release the things I want so badly gone. I think about my best friend and how I have not spoken to her in 14 years, about how I walked away one day and never looked back, oh but that is not true, I have looked back again and again and the ghost is still there.

I am undefinable now, or am I? I remember the days when we defined ourselves by the kinds of clothes we wore, the kinds of shoes we wore...buying identities like groceries down on Melrose; a cross here, an earring there... a three hundred dollar leather jacket and all was well. Oh we could figure out how to get to the top of Maslow's triangle, to get to the bliss, meet the hierarchy of all our needs. We could call Heaven and Hell at will; we owned the world.

We built lives out of ink, paper, ash, who is to question, who is to ask? I do not travel those streets anymore; I am afraid of the streets and sidewalks and storefronts...the cruel spell of geography, the ugly call of topography. It only exists to remind me I no longer belong in that world, I have passed it now, and it has passed me. I do not want to slip by phantoms and ghosts and catch the reflection of a woman looking for a girl now long gone, for I am not good at making small talk with the dead.

I cannot find salvation anywhere, in any world, in any one, in any pill, in any glass or bottle or book or song. I lie in bed in the dark and dream of all the other worlds and wonder who is living, who is dying, who is eating, fucking, working, crying? Where does it begin, where does it end...?

I miss this girl who died inside; I never really got the chance to say goodbye. There was no funeral, no Sunday mass, no memorial or even scattered ash...she stayed with me because she did not know, she died so very long ago.

But now it is time to let her go, to bury her and send her on her way. There are worlds for her to haunt and roam, but this I know...I am no longer this girl's home.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

If You Listen Carefully, the Night Will Give Up All Her Secrets

It's 12:15 am
I have to get up at 3:30am
to take my friend Gena to the hospital
for surgery.
She has to be there early because she has some strange blood/bruising disorder
and has to have a slow IV drip before the operation.

Tomorrow I am going to be Cranky Denise.
I also have the math tutor coming at 5:30pm
and I still haven't done 18 gradution gifts for my ducklings.

It's all going so fast.
I always knew it would happen like this.

The Man on The Moon Knew How Soon It Would All End

Tonight I met Anderson Cooper, he of Anderson Cooper 360 fame on CNN, and now he has written a book called Dispatches from the Edge. Although I've been watching him for over a decade, and adore his intelligent, witty, emotional reporting, I didn't feel like going to his book signing. But my best friend Jill talked me into it. We waited about an hour and half outside Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard, where a strange old woman stood in line behind me, talking my ear off. Then she suddenly stopped, pulled out a red rosary and started praying. She was definitely a different type of Cooper fan than I expected.

Finally we were allowed into the back room of the bookstore, where one of the employees was mixing her drink with a bottle of Jack Daniels hidden on the floor. In fact there was a lot of booze on the floor. I felt like walking up and asking her for a Cosmo. Drinking on the job; wow, is it that bad? Or were they planning a party afterwards?

I have, in my 39 years living in Los Angeles, and such celebrity 'hot spots' such as Malibu and Brentwood, seen, run into, eaten with, stood in line with, sold books to, passed by, driven by, more famous people than I can count. I've never spoken to any of them.

Tonight though, something really strange and surreal came over me and when it was my turn to have Anderson sign my book, I think I completely took leave of my body. He was so sweet, such a gentleman. He shook my hand, and said "nice to meet you Denise." He was so kind to everyone. He signed my book and I told him "Thank you for being a voice for the voiceless." We stared into each other's eyes; my god his blue eyes are even more beautiful than on TV. He seemed geniunely touched. He said "Thank you so much. That means so much to me." I said, "Your book is beautiful, thank you for writing it." And I was ushered out. I couldn't even stay to see Jill meet him. Security was tight.

The minute I walked outside, I half jokingly said, "I have no memory of that experience" to two men standing there. They laughed. I do not know what came over me. I have never felt that way in the presence of anyone, not even my beloved Church members. Let me tell you, Anderson could teach celebrities a thing or two about being gracious. He was so polite, so modest, so real. I felt as if I could not come back to this world. It was strange. It wasn't so much that I was startruck; I cannot even explain it. Perhaps it was the fact that I was in the presence of someone so real in a city full of so much fakeness.

It was the most other-worldly experience I've ever had. Ha! And he is my age and I am so intimidated? Is that the right word? No. I am grateful. I am moved beyond measure by the fact that he has taken the time to remember those who would be forgotten....in Rwanda...in Bosnia...in Iraq...in Darfur...in New Orleans and Mississippi. It was an honor to meet him and I will never forget how he looked at me when I thanked him for truly being the voice of the voiceless and forgotten. Yes Anderson, you have made a difference and for that, God bless you.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

A Nightmare on Celebrity Street

My nightmares are getting worse.
I dreamt about Lindsay Lohan.
And now, I'm off to Book Soup in Hollywood
to go with my friend Jill to see Anderson Cooper
and have him sign his beautiful book

This is only the second book signing I've ever attended.
Normally I have a "don't feed the celebrities" policy.
I will break it for Anderson, who's made me believe in
journalistic integrity again

And of course, for SK, who makes me feel alive
and happy and sad and glad to be.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Fly Me to The Moon

Tonight whilst I was studying science
(geology and rocks and minerals to be exact)
the movie "Fearless" came on TV.
I seem to actually study better with the TV on
so I just left it on, recalling so clearly
how I'd seen this movie at a theatre in Pacific Heights
in San Francisco with my brother in 1993.
God I love Peter Weir; he is definitely one of my favourite directors.
The Year of Living Dangerously one of his masterpieces I think.

Anyway, the movie is about this man, played by the oh so gorgeous
Jeff Bridges, who survives a horrific plane crash and afterwards
becomes 'fearless' an goes into a profound state of denial about the crash.

The scenes of the crash were so realistic and so horrifying;
yet I could not look away now, as I could not look away 13 years ago
despite my deeply entrenched fear of flying. In fact, it dawned on me
that it was yesterday, June 10, 1996 that my mom, brother and I
were returning from Hawai'i (a trip my mom thought would do us good
as we'd both just finished grad school and we wanted to get our minds
off my dad's death - as if that were possible).

And naturally, a little over 4 hours into the flight, I'd just
finished eating - a major feat for me as I'm usually too nervous
to eat on flights - though I've gotten better. Too bad the food hasn't.
And the credits were rolling on some Al Pacino movie called "City Hall" and
we were flying over the Pacific Ocean with about 45 minutes left
when I heard the loudest sound - it was like the plane had hit a building
but the plane itself was still intact. It is indescribable how loud this sound was; it drowned every other noise out and immediately we all knew it was BAD.

It was simply deafening. Immediately all the electricity went out
and I remember looking down at the floor lights going up the aisle
and thinking, this can't be happening. What was happening? The most
frightening thing is no one seemed to know...even the flight attendants
were running up and down the aisles looking out the windows - really
not the most reassuring image. I distinctly recall one getting on a phone -
no doubt talking to the pilot. I felt like screaming, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Is this your idea of a disaster/emergency plan? LOOKING OUT THE GODDAMN WINDOWS!???" I mean, why didn't they just have the passengers do it and make a game out it. "Oh I'll put $100 on the tail."
"No Bob, I think it's the hydraulic system."
"Hey put me down for $500 for the left engine."
"No, no, I think the wings fell off."
MY GOD.

I remember I was sitting on the aisle, and I looked across at an older
couple sitting in the window seats and said in small voice, "What was that?"
They just smiled wanly at me, and didn't say anything.
Inside, I was frozen. I was gone. My mother grabbed my hand. She leaned over to tell us she loved us. My brother kept saying we'd be OK, we had two more engines. And Delta, those fucking assholes, never told us anything.

My mother says a woman behind me was crying. I didn't hear this.
I didn't hear anything. I kept thinking, oh who will take care of my babies,
my cats....and dad, I'm coming to see you a lot sooner than I thought.

You know it's never like you picture it will be.
I always imagined, with my panic attacks and fear of enclosed
spaces, 30,000 feet up, I'd be screaming. But I wasn't. I sat
silently in my seat, looking straight ahead. I did not pray.
If I said any kind of prayer, it was that it would end quickly.
Please God, just let it happen. Don't let us sit here and suffer and wonder. Let it happen now. Please God. I can't take the waiting.

Later we found out the engine had exploded and caught fire.
The only thing those fuckers said to us, about 20 minutes after it happened
was that when we landed (ha, if we landed) we'd see a lot of emergency vehicles
on the tarmac. Waiting no doubt, to see what kind of landing we would make.
And in my head, the chant went on. I don't want to die I don't want to die
I don't want to die I don't want to die.
But still I was silent. I'd moved to a place deep inside myself.
The same place I went to after I found my father dead.
I was practical and efficient; waiting for the coroner, signing his papers, talking to the police. Oh I'm a peach in a crisis. It's daily life that's a bitch.

I also thought what everyone must think, at one time or another.
This can't be happening to me. This can't be happening to us!
This kind of thing only happens to other people. True.
Until one day you become The Other People and it is happening
to you.

No one on the plane screamed I was told; it was very quiet.
And the scariest thing I thought was that it doesn't happen fast;
it probably rarely happens fast.

Pan Am 103 probably happened in an instant, pray to God.
And you always think, well, if I go, it'll be quick.
Not always. In fact sometimes there is an eternity of agony.
And so when those images from inside the crashing plane flickered
across my television set tonight, I sat and watched them, mesmerized
and I started to cry and I didn't know why.

I have, like so many people, thought so much about the people on the 9/11 planes...we know some of what happened on United 93. But what of the other planes? How much emotional and psychological terror did those poor souls
go through before oblivion blessfully took them away?

When we landed, I could see the flashing red and yellow lights of the fire trucks
and ambulances and the entire plane burst into spontaneous applause.
And I have never seen an entire jumbo jet full of people get the hell out of their
seats so fast. They stood up, ignored all the rules and the only thing that made me smile, was seeing a guy standing behind me, a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, waiting to get off. I thought, "Oh fuck it buddy, just light up!"

I grabbed my things and left my mom and brother behind and as I left the plane
the flight attendant went back into Robotic-Perky mode, saying goodnight, thank you for flying Delta. I said "Thank you for taking ten years off my life and scaring the shit out of us." Seriously, they acted like nothing at all had happened out of the ordinary.

I was never so happy to see LAX in all my life. I was even happen to go into the bathroom. I went into the stall and just leaned my head against the door. But I did not cry. I never felt more alive. Everything was illuminated. Everything held some kind of strange inner glow to it.

We got our bags and got in the shuttle to take us home.
Ha - that's what you should really fear. The airport shuttles. This was the time when they were working on the new 105 freeway and it was dark and our shuttle driver was driving like he was in the Indy 500 and I leaned over to the driver and said, "Are you sure this freeway is finished?"
I don't think he thought I was serious. I was.
Because in the dark, it looked like we were going to sail off into oblivion.
And the lights in the San Fernando Valley glowed and glittered and everything
was a miracle. Stoplights, road signs, drustores, houses, apartment buildings, everything I looked at - it was like the first time I'd ever seen anything in my life.

We made it home and I joked about it to my friends.
I've told the story many times, but without much feeling.
The first time I flew after that Ride From Hell was January of '97.

I took a plane to San Francisco to see my brother, my mom and her boyfriend, who were visiting up there as well. I flew alone. Luckily going up, I sat next to a pilot. He was sweet, and I told him my story and he helped keep me calm.

Going home was another matter.
We took off in a nasty rain storm with a lot of turbulence.
I was having an anxiety attack on the plane; I could feel it.
I fucking hate turbulence. I don't care how 'normal' it is.
A woman across the aisle must have noticed my white face and my shaking hands. She kindly leaned over and said,
"Is this your first time flying honey?"
I almost laughed. What was I going to say?
I literally grabbed the flight attendant's arm and said, "Is this normal? Should the plane be shaking so much?"
She tried to reassure me, to no avail.
I turned to the woman and said, "No. I'm just not a good flyer."

What was I going to say? No, this is just my first flight since I had engine explode and catch on fire over the ocean coming back from Hawai'i. Why get everyone all upset?

Oddly, when I am scared, I start saying Hail Mary's and I am not even Catholic. Somehow, it comforts me. Mother Mary, who will take me into the abyss ....or into the light. I just don't want to go alone.

A month later TWA Flight 800 blew up leaving New York...for France I believe. All sorts of conspiracy theories abounded about that; missiles shot it out of the sky, etc. A while later, I saw a Dateline episode that focused on a woman who lost her husband and son on the flight. Her name is Anne Allen. Her family was traveling to France. But for some reason I can't recall, the father and the brother took an earlier flight, and Anne and her two other children, a boy and girl, would meet them there. It was heart-wrenching to see what this has done to the family.

I believe they did a follow-up story on her later...they were doing OK. What can you do? But I have never forgotten her. I have never forgotten her and her family. As Grant McLennon said (RIP)...funny how some people manage to stay with you, even if you've never met them. So ten years later I still wonder about Anne Allen and her family and how they are doing. I will always remember her.

So I don't know what happened tonight.
Reading SK's blog on flying was reassuring.
Sometimes I feel like the only idiot on earth who's afraid to fly. I know people who adore flying and it makes me sick! It's like somehow they're morally superior to me. But most of these people have never had ANYTHING happen on any plane they've been on. Wait until your engine blows up, wait until you're told emergeny vehicles are going to meet you on the ground and you are 29 years old and you've just buried your father.

Wait until you become The Other People.
So tonight, I think I cried, for the first time, over what happened.
I watched the scene inside that plane and I wept at how lucky we were.

I love travelling, so I will not let my fear cripple me. I take drugs, get philosophical about my own demise and just keep getting on those big tin cans
filled with jet fuel going 500 miles an hour. I still approach every flight like it's going to be my last - haha. Drama queen. My will is here, my cats will be taken care of, please bury me here. It's all worked out.

Flying is a lot like life. Hours and hours of tedium interrupted by brief moments and sheer terror. My advice? Bring tranquilizers and a lot of magazines.
As for the possibility of being taken hostage? The brave souls of United 93 taught me one thing. I may go down, but goddammit, I will go down fighting those bastards. That is one thing I'm sure of. I will not sit passively. At least I've made some progress, sad as it is.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

BREAKING NEWS

This just in:

Shocking news!
Violence persists after Al-Zarqawi's death!
Yeah, that's the thing about cockroaches.
You step on one,
ten more come out of hiding.

I watched the Lewis Black special on HBO last night.
It wasn't as funny as the one I saw in January but still
I loooooooooove Lewis and want to marry him!
Any man that can make me laugh.....
He was riffing on Dick "I am Satan" Cheney and his quail
hunting 'accident'
And talking about how tiny and helpless quail are.

It would've been funnier had I not started thinking about
how this fucking war criminal, this monster
had paid to go some rich bitch's ranch in Texas
with his rich corporate whore friends
and use buckshot to take down small birds for fun
while he and the Puppet (GWB) have sent our troops
into Iraq to be hunted by I.E.D.'s and to use 500 pound
bombs to hunt
innocent Iraqis.

His tour is called "Red, White and Screwed" and that
pretty much sums it up.
I'm going to see him live in August and I can't wait.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned
And all we can do is laugh while our leaders
have turned our country into a killing machine.

Well let's see I've managed to screw up my blog
Steve Kilbey has disappeared
I think we've finally annoyed him off his own blog
And I've still got insomnia.

Time for the drugs.