MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Ruins of September

What great ruins now sleep eternally
on the broken ground of this grey city
Like souls prostrate in mighty grief
In all the world, black disbelief

Human eyes will never again see
the views to Heaven once conceived
in man's own mind
a three pound universe
the same which brought these giants down
tis now the view of Hell unbound

Who were the men, the hands indeed
that set in stone
the hopes, the dreams
birthed by Rome in concrete, stone

Of greatness built to Gods and men
and leveled in seconds by Hell's condemned
A city keens for fallen friends
Yet bent not broken in the final end.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Toto, We're Not In Suburbia Anymore

This is gonna be a short blog because it's only the second day of my full-time student teaching/school program and I'm wiped, physically and emotionally. I'm thinking this does not bode well for the future. We're at a middle school this week in the urban valley. It's got to be close to 99% Hispanic. I'm ashamed to admit this; I feel like a stranger there. Everyone is speaking Spanish. This is the new America. This school isn't nearly as bad as some inner city schools. Uniforms are required - you can't wear any colors or markings that might get you in trouble with a gang. There's a policemen and security guard on campus. EVERYTHING is locked down ALL the time. Let me put it this way...if one teacher loses one key, the ENTIRE school has to be re-keyed. I am not making this up. The teacher bathrooms are locked all the time and we don't have keys. I just realized I forgot to sign out for the second day in a row. I'm probably going to get shit for that. We have to sign in and out every day. We have to wear badges with our pictures on them. These kids are about 12 going on 35. 6th, 7th and 8th grade. Tiny kids, making out. Swearing. Could probably teach me a thing or two about sex, drugs and rock and roll. And this isn't even high school!

I had my first class today. Teaching reading. This should be one of my favourite classes but according to all former students, this professor is a nightmare. And our class is located on the middle school campus in 100 + degree heat with NO AIR CONDITIONING. I was so hot in class I started to feel sick. At 'nutrion' break' and lunch I feel like I'm going to get run over by 2,000 running, screaming kids. Middle school is definitely NOT for me. I feel sorry when I see kids eating alone. That just kills me for some reason. Maybe they're happy. But it bothers me.

We're observing different classes, different teachers. Some are great. Some you just automatically know shouldn't be in the classroom. Many of the students in the ESL class not only don't speak much English, it's pretty obvious they and perhaps their parents haven't been in the country long, and I doubt they're here legally. Is it racist for me to think that people should enter countries legally? My heart breaks for what's happening to people in Mexico, and all the other countries where corruption and fraud are so bad, and there are simply the rich, and the poor. And yet I sat there, and felt like a stranger in my own city. I know everyone wants and deserves a better life - but at what cost?

Next week we move to an elementary school. I look forward to that because I want to teach much younger kids. I had a panic attack earlier though. It's going to be a terrific grind. I'm scared. I think, what have I done? I feel like a complete failure at everything I've ever done and I don't want to fail at this.

Something so simple seems so difficult. Oh! And you should see the schedule at this school. When I was in junior high (before they called it middle school) we had one homeroom, first thing in the morning. Every damn day is different for these kids. Our entire program (all 10 of us are in this program together) is constantly confused. On regular days they have homeroom after 2nd period. On special days they have homeroom before 1st period and after 6th period. On other days there's just one homeroom before 1st period. Today we were supposed to meet our professor at 1pm. Then they changed it to 12:30. Then we realized we had no time for lunch. So we sat there in a baking hot classroom, for a half an hour. The prof showed up at 1pm.

I know I'm complaining a lot right now. I just have to vent my frustrations. I'm sure it'll all settle down in a few weeks. What appalled me was not so much the behaviour of the students as the teaching styles of some of the teachers. Some I would fire immediately. But they're in it for life with the union. I hate the union. Why can't teachers just have jobs like everyone else? Why are they exploited? Why do they need a damned union? Everything with the union is a fight. I was FORCED to be in the union when I taught college. I had to pay my union dues. Unions do nothing but make union heads rich. I can almost see how perhaps some jobs might need a union. But here we have highly educated, WHITE COLLAR professionals with degrees and education and they can't pull it together without a goddamned fucking union?

Do I sound like I'm cut out for this? Probably not today. I'm trying to accept I'm going to have bad days and good days and that the first few weeks are going to be hard. Bear with me folks. And pray for me, if you're the prayin' kind. Oh and here's a real shocker. Every morning, everyone stands up and says the pledge of allegience. They even say the 'under God' part. I'm stunned.

Photo: Back to school. Somehow I think it's going to be harder for me, than for my students.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Good Do Die Young

Even if they're doing what they love, which is apparently what Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter was doing when he was freakishly stung by a barb from a stingray in the chest somewhere in or near the Great Barrier Reef, I believe. My mom called me last night and told me. She's really taking it hard. It's odd, my mom always seems to be the one to call and tell me bad news. She told me to turn on the TV for 9/11, she called and told me Princess Diana died, she woke me up and told me JFK Jr.'s plane was missing...geez, talk about being the bearer of bad news!! Well, don't shoot the messenger as they say...

Yes, at least we can perhaps comfort ourselves with the fact that Steve went out doing what he loved. I wonder if he even knew what hit him. Hopefully not. His poor family and friends, and especially his dear, sweet children. Certainly he was in a profession with perhaps a lot more inherent dangers that some other professions...but still, it's a bitch of a loss. My mum got into him years ago. She was fascinated with him and by default, since I was back living with her, I started watching him. I couldn't believe anyone could be that enthusiastic about some of those slimy creatures he dealt with...but God love him, he was. His passion and energy were a sight to behold and his love for animals endeared him to me greatly. I'm too tired to go into any great philosophical debate in my mind, but still, the thought does always pass me by, even if I just wave at it as it goes along its merry way along my neurons and dendrites....terrorists, child molesters, rapists, murderers all live on...and Steve Irwin dies in what really was most likely a freakish accident. Apparently stingray barbs don't kill that many people. I'm 39 years old. I've been struggling with the concept of a benevolent God and the idea of fair for years. I always think I've finally grown enough to let go of it. As my dear dad would say, fair? A fair is a place with pigs and cows and cotton candy...there is no fair here. Why do I seek it then? Innate or learned thinking patterns? I don't know and I know I never will. Children will lie in St. Jude's and the bad guys will go on and on. Intellectually it's easy enough to grasp. Still, it sucks and it's not fair that someone so cool, so full of love and life, like Steve Irwin, was taken far too soon. He did a lot of good in this world, and God bless him for it. It ain't fair, it just is. Maybe that's growth.

In other less tragic news, I talked with one of my favourite people in the entire world yesterday, Mr. Thomas Irvin. It was long overdue and he was his usual charming, funny self. He's back at law school, finishing up his last year. My body and mind willing, perhaps we'll both be 'graduating' at the same time next year; Thomas with his law degree and me with my teaching credential.

Speaking of which...tomorrow's D-day. I'm excited but nervous. And I'm surprised at how nervous I am. This is the real deal. This isn't field experience. This is my program. And these are middle school students...I'm used to dealing with the wee ones, not the pre-teen set. What do they call them these days? Tweens? I hate all this bizarre new language. We'll be observing elementary school kids at some point; I think I'll feel better there. Like a school kid myself, I'm thinking, what should I wear? Do I have all my school supplies? Do I know where to go? I have instructions...but still...now I worry about more 'adult' things. Is the car gonna start? Will I park in the right place? God, some things never change. In a way, we stay children forever. Will I make friends with my cohorts? Are they all going to be 20 years old? I need to keep reminding myself that even if I am older than most of them, that's not a bad thing. It just is. And I may be older, but there ARE advantages to this. Many of these (mostly) young girls have never had the amazing experiences I've had in business or teaching college! For them, they're going straight from school into teaching, which will be their first job. I need to remember the good times I had as a music publicist - planning an entire show at the Greek theatre! Watching bands and getting paid to do it! I need to remember the good times I had working for the rat, aka The Walt Disney Company. Actually working for Disney was the catalyst that ended up getting me my M.A. and into teaching in the first place. I saw my boss, the V.P. of marketing for Buena Vista Home Video, and she had no life. She had a huge corner office, which she was rarely in, because she was always at meetings. Or having an affair with another well-known name in the industry - this guy's name pops up too often on the big screen these days so I'm not gonna name names, but her husband would call and it was so hard for me to have to talk to him, knowing what she was up to. Once, she left on a business trip, and as I sat at my desk, sighing with relief that she was in the air, flying, and couldn't get me, she called me from the plane!!! This was about 1991 and that actually wasn't that common then. Her whole life was about this job, her status, and making money for one of the cheapest, tightest companies I've ever worked for. Now the corporate track is fine if that's what you want to do. I just knew right and then and there I didnt. I wanted a little passion in my work if I was going to have to spend the rest of my life working. So - I must remind myself that I may not be 20, but I spent 6 years teaching kids that age and did a really damn good job of it, at least according to my student evaluations, my faculty evaluations and the amount of letters I got from my students. I have things to be proud of already. But still...the physical worries are the worst. Can I keep up? Is my body going to be in agony every day? How tired will I be? And then...will I be a good teacher? College and kindergarten were two ends of the spectrum; it's the middle area that's scaring me. How many of these kids don't speak English? How many come from highly dysfunctional homes? Really, really poor homes? It's an urban school, so statistically those odds are high that they will come from broken, poorer homes. Will I relate to them? Will they like me? Hate me? Will they resent me? I admit it, and it's hard to admit, if they're mostly non-white, I thought, will they like me even though I'm white? (Do you people notice I worry a lot? The best I can say for myself is I've learned to just let the worry happen, and then let it go...instead of rewinding the tape and playing it over and over.) Anyway...I feel horrible actually worrying that race will play into this at all. I hate race sometimes. Yesterday G and I were in the car, and I noticed the car in front of me had a sticker on the back window that said "Brown Power." Now you must know G is my best friend. She's from Yuma, AZ a town that's hugely Hispanic. She is Hispanic. She said she noticed the sticker too and was embarrassed. I didn't think she had anything to be embarrassed about; it wasn't her car. But it infuriated me. If I put a sticker on my car that said "White Power" I'd be (probably rightfully so) called out as a racist and some kind of pyscho white supremacist. I've never seen a sticker that said "Brown Power" before and living in L.A. you'd think I would've by now. WTF? That kind of shit just separates us. I often fear that no matter what we try to do with our higher minds, our lizard brains will win out in the end. Race. Sadly that's what L.A. is all about, a la that anvil of a movie called Crash. Don't let anyone fool you. I know I've talked about this before. L.A. is a multicultural disaster and I fear that the rest of the country is headed in the same, sad direction. Funny, Thomas and I were talking about the city I grew up in. Glendale. Which seems to be known now for one thing only: the fact that it is almost entirely Armenian. Anywhere I go, I mention Glendale and that's the first thing people associate it with. And let me tell you, the Armenians are despised by every other race in Glendale. A black man got up and yelled at the city council that he couldn't understand anyone in the city because they all speak Armenian. It's basically true. The Mexican and Armenian gangs fight like the Crips and Bloods. The Armenians I feel, have been the true test of my ability to not become racist. This is really hard for me to admit. Many times I've made comments that are quite negative about them. They grow up in a culture so different from ours. It's highly aggressive, highly opinionated; not wrong I guess, just different. They are fast, loud, pushy and from a Western European standpoint, often considered rude. They came to Glendale, but like so many other races, didn't really integrate into the city. Instead they built their own schools, their own churches, their own stores, bakeries, markets, shops. I have know some wonderfully kind, nice, lovely Armenians. So I refuse to slag an entire culture - but it's hard for me to embrace a people who stare me down like I'm a piece of garbage in my own city. Why? I've never said or done a mean thing to these people but still, I feel like a stranger in my own home town most of the time. They insulate themselves. To marry a non-Armenian is akin to marrying a piece of trash. Is this not racism? I know this exists within many races - even within Caucasian families. I just don't get it. My brother's best friend married an Armenian woman from Russia. She is raising her two year old daughter in Glendale. The child only speaks Armenian. This woman came to my brother's wedding and complained she couldn't eat the food. The food was as American as you could get. But she doesn't eat American food. She only eats Armenian food. She's nice, but sometimes I wonder why she's here. Sadly I think I know.

This is the melting pot. No one is melting. Well, at least not the Armenians. A shame. They have great food. I didn't grow up on it, but I was willing to try it and I love it. I live on Mexican food - both the Americanized version and any real Mexican food I eat at Gena's, or the great stuff her mom makes. I feel sorry for the 'illegals' but yet I see what it's done and what it's doing to the fabric of a city that is collapsing under the weight of too many people who are either being exploited or aren't pulling their weight. I don't know how I got off on this delicate topic. I am not perfect. I've had racist thoughts. I'll admit it. But I try and remind myself not to be that way; to live with hate is not to live at all. That is not what we were put here for; to spend all of our time in hatred of others with different-coloured skin and languages and food. Half the time I feel ashamed because I am white; like I bear the burden of all the horrible things all the white Europeans did to people of other races, colours, countries. As if I alone am responsible for slavery, and colonialism. I'm not. I could not help being born white anymore than anyone else can help being born black or Asian or Hispanic. It's one thing to have pride in your background; I wouldn't deny that to anyone. But here I am, worried that I will be seen as the Evil White Oppressor to a bunch of kids when I have done nothing. I never conquered another country; I never created a colonial outpost. I never ordered the Indians to march west, I never put a "White Power" sticker on my car.

The very fact I'm worrying about this is probably stupid and sad. And so I won't worry anymore. We'll see how it plays out. And I'll be sure to let you know.

Fletcher Update: Fletcher had her fentanyl pain patch cut off her leg today - man was that thing really stuck to her fur. Poor thing was in pain, but I tried to get it off as gently as I could. She had her brekky (as those Aussies say) and had her Amoxicillin dose. She's still in the head cone, although it's breaking my heart to have to keep her in it. I want to give those stitches a few more days - and I won't be here during the day anymore. The cats are probably going to freak out about that. They're very sensitive to any kind of change. Fletchy is sleeping on her pillow now, cute as a button. Zoe is still being a territorial diva bitch cat, hissing and growling and she won't even come into the bedroom. That's fine. I'm gonna let it all just ride. Her hissing is getting old though, and everytime she does it I laugh at her. That just makes her worse.

Last but not least, new TV this week! I'll be taping most of my favourite shows....but I can't wait. New House, new Nip/Tuck...although I have to wait on that. I have three discs from the last season to get through and I refuse to watch the new season until I know everything that happens in season 3, especially who the Carver is. DO NOT TELL ME IF YOU KNOW. I will hunt you down if you do! Luckily I don't watch that many new TV shows, but there's always something fun about the start of the new season (the new fall season I should say as TV shows now have seasons throughout the summer too). Even as a child, fall was my favourite time. I loved going and buying new school clothes, fresh new school supplies...the days got shorter and cooler (yeah, before global warming made us feel like we live in a toaster oven), and the new fall TV season would start. As I've mentioned before, summer and I won't be parting ways with any tears. It can't leave soon enough for me. I still love autumn. And oddly enough, here I am again, starting school...besides, the best movies come out during fall, my favourite holiday is Halloween, and believe it or not, we actually have trees out here whose leaves change into the most spectacular colours - just like the trees in New England. Don't believe me? Well, the leaves are still green, but when they change, I'll post a piccie for ya. That's about the extent of the seasonal change. Our nights will get cooler, stores will be full of holiday stuff you don't need but want, and once again ladies and gents, all this, because of the Coriolis effect; the fact that this crazy spinning ball we're all on is tilted on its axis 23 degrees. That's just so weird to me. We get these amazing seasons because our planet is tilted. Was that an accident? Did the big bang make it happen? Intelligent design? Oh man, that's a whole other blog, for another day.



Photo Credit: CNN - Steve Irwin, RIP. You brought joy to many - the animals were better off because of you, and so were we.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Eat My Dust You Insenitive Fuck

With all apologies to a one Mr. Rob Dickinson,
I am borrowing perhaps one of the greatest sentences
in the English language to describe my current state
of mind this lousy, hot Saturday afternoon. Oh and
congratulations to me and my blog. I may not write
like Kristin, and that's a bitch of an ego blow (but
that's OK because reading her stuff makes up for
it) but this is my 100th blog. Yay me.

Rob, I tip my hat to you, as I listen to your elegant
and stunningly beautiful solo work, "Fresh Wine For
The Horses" or, as I like to call it, "Look, He's Throwing
Horse Fish Back into the Ocean." But that's only at 3am
at Canter's after a long night of being a merch wench.

Ah, was that only a month and a half ago? Jesus, it seems
like I was about fifty other people back then. Who? Who knows.
Who am I now? A very tired, hot, pissed off bitch, that's for
certain. All that concert fun seems so long ago. Reality set in,
and set in fast and hard. Summer's over.

Everyone knows (don't worry, we're not heading into
Leonard Cohen territory here) about the saga with
Fletcher, my angel kitty. Life has been one long vet trip
since I got back from Chicago and all hell broke loose with
her, and myself as well. She had surgery Thursday on her
bladder to remove 'stones' which the vet said looked more
like sand. I wanted to ask, "Really? What kind of sand?
White, fine sand? Black sand you'd find on the volcanic
beaches of Hawaii?" Because I just paid $1000 and my kitty
had her bladder and belly cut open to remove this sand.
Which has to be sent to UC Davis to be analysed. So the cats
are on a shitty, expensive new PRESCRIPTION diet.

I have to be one of the dumbest smart chicks this side of the
Mississippi. Fuck me, honestly. Zoe had a few stitches on her back last year, near her tail, and they said, "Oh she won't need a cone; she won't be able to reach around and take these out." Thank god she
healed quickly, because within a week, she'd used those tiny
teeth and that flexible body to UNTIE each stitch. Not just
chew through them, but literally untie them. And these were
small stitches. Little fuckin' Houdini. I was ready to hand her a cherry stem and ask if she could tie it in a knot with her tongue. Let's face it, we're animals too, but we're big, motherfucking clumsy beasts. And we know better (most of the time) not to take our stitches out.

So I bought the same bill of goods AGAIN yesterday when the
vet said, "Cats don't usually take their stitches out" and even as
I heard myself explaining the story of Zoe, I STILL didn't ask for
a head cone for the cat. I must've subconsciously thought, "Well,
this is Fletcher. She's different." Or I'm just a dumbshit lately.
I'm gonna vote for the latter.

Last night, G came over and Fletcher had been licking her tummy
raw. Then she wasn't peeing. She was making bi-hourly visits to the
kitty loo but nothing was happening. So Icalled the vet earlier and
you guessed it, we took our third trip in as many days to the vet.
Poor cat. She had another X-ray, more strange hands feeling her
bladder. And this time I DEMANDED a head cone. I wish you could
all see Fletcher now. She can no longer hide under the bed. So I lifted
her up on top of the bed. She's got two front 'arms' shaved. She's
got a fentanyl pain patch wrapped around her rear right leg, which
I'm about to rip off and start licking myself. I'd like a fentanyl pain
patch for my soul. She's got a plastic cone around her head, tied
with a torn piece of an ace bandage. Her belly is shaved, and stitched. She's got the reminants of the pink Amoxicillin anitbiotic
on her face from this morning's fight to get it in her mouth. She
closes up her jaw when I try to give it to her. Her back has big areas
where I had to cut off patches of fur, because she tends to get these nasty knots and I don't know why and the only way to deal with them is to cut them out. No amount of grooming seems to help. She looks like punk rock kitty. I'm ready to just stick a safety pin in her ear, put a "Pretty Vacant" T-shirt on her and call it a fuckin' day. I can barely stand to look at her. She looks so sad, I'm about to cry.

Mom is tired. And this isn't even a kid. This is why mom doesn't have
kids, haha. Life is just a series of going from one minor crisis to another sometimes, and we must thank these capricious gods that
they're only minor crises, right? I would do anything though, to keep
my furry babies happy and healthy. Wish I could say as much for
myself. I'm still fighting this brutal sinus infection. Good thing I had
that $10,000 sinus surgery four years ago. Just once, ONCE, it'd be
nice to have a problem, and have it GO AWAY. FOREVER. Ah, but
that would be too easy. And easy's never been a real big part of my
life.

I never got to write about Chicago. And then I didn't want to write about it. I'm listening to one of Rob's songs though, and I remember
sitting at the Park West, my eyes filling with tears as his somewhat
tired, rhaspy voice sang it. Some guy made fun of his lyrics, specifically these, on the song, "Intelligent People." Funny, I didn't
get to really hear Rob sing in L.A. or Santa Barbara. So when I finally
did in Chicago, and when I heard this song, I insantly started to cry.
And I don't know why. Probably because I think it's a gorgeous song,
and I find the lyrics to be so sweet and so apt. I wish I was back at the
Park West, sitting behind S, watching Rob, watching the male fan
whose story I wrote about on SK's blog watch Rob, his face rapt with
attention and his eyes glossed over with bliss. Meeting S and H was
fabulous, seeing Rob was so great. He's one of the kindest people I've ever met, and that includes people in and out of 'show business.' To
find that kind of decency in a human being anywhere, anymore, is rare. People rarely have that kind of class. Funny. That's what this
song is all about. "Seek out good souls because they will be the ones...to hang around and prosper from" he sings to his son. Does he
really have a son? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I don't, and this makes me want to play this song for my future classes.

Which brings me to Tuesday, when my life is going to change so
drastically. Each morning, I'll be observing middle school and elementary school students. Observing, interacting, helping. These
schools are quite different from the one I was at last semester. WR
was a rich, white suburban school. These are urban schools primarily full of many ESL students and those who didn't win the
socio-economic lottery, or possibly even the parenting lottery. What's the saying? You need a license to fish but anyone can go out and have a kid.

Reminds me, my friend Jill just got back from a camp where she worked as a counselor with abused foster kids. The things she told me these kids go through and have been through pierced the core of my soul. The abuse these poor souls have had to endure at the hands of monsters is indescribable. 10 year old kids in diapers, fighting, hating everyone. Kids screaming all night from nightmares. Kids who were never socialised properly and cannot get along with anyone. And those are the happy stories. Seriously. I don't believe in the death penalty, but those who abuse children and animals deserve to
die a slow, painful death and burn in Hell for eternity. I know it's usually a vicious cycle, but the desire for vigilante justice is strong when you listen to these stories. How could anyone ever, ever, ever hurt a child? And not just hurt, but starve, burn, beat, verbally turn
to ash these children's little souls. I cannot think about it anymore. I am lucky I don't have to.

Reminds me of last night when I was bitching about the idiot kid at
Blockbuster who put the wrong Nip/Tuck disc in the DVD case. I kept wondering why it seemed the storylines had jumped ahead. Well, because I missed three episodes. This was after I told G I'd ordered a Catherine Wheel CD over a month ago and the post office lost it, as usual. And after our dinner delivery was missing a pizza and I called the restaurant and gave the manager a verbal smackdown because this was the second (and last) time they'd fucked up like this. This
goes back to a blog I did months ago on why no one can seem to do his or her job properly. From simple things, like delivering food, or mail, to things like getting onto the right plane and taking off from the right runway. G said, "D, you have the worst luck with this stuff."

And I got really angry. For the first time in my life I got angry. Because that's something the old me would've said. I grew up thinking and believing somehow I had bad luck. Blame it on what you will; alcoholic father, getting the big mystery disease, shit luck with men, dealing with the nasty suicide - you name it. Whatever. I was angry at her and I made it clear I did not have bad luck. I made it crystal in so many words that it wasn't me, it was people who couldn't do their jobs properly. I'm not buying that bad luck bill of goods anymore. I really don't think I believe in luck anyway. And if I did, bad luck is being born to a parent who sticks your hand on the stove or sticks you in the closet without food or water for days. Bad luck is getting on the wrong plane, with pilots who don't have a clue, and going down a runway that's wrong and too short, with one tired air traffic controller who's busy doing paperwork while you crash and burn. That's bad fucking luck.

So listen up, that line don't work here anymore. That scene isn't welcome in my little psychic diorama anymore. I can't see my pain
therapist anymore because her schedule sucks, and I'm going to be busy during the day. So I have to be my own therapist now. Maybe it's about time. I'm sick of the coddling, the bullshit. I'm sick of feeling like the only damaged doll at the store. Eat my dust you insensitive fucks. I may not be entirely sure of who in the hell I am on a day to day basis, but I'll tell you who I'm not anymore. I'm not the simpering, scared little girl who's afraid to rock the boat, or speak out to family or friends when something's not right. My mother constantly tells me what a mouth I have on me. She is I believe, mostly referrring to my swearing, and she's goddamn right. I swear.
But I think she also refers to my ability to verbally take down anyone anywhere, anytime. It's true. I could probably verbally make a flower wither on the vine. So if you don't like it, don't piss me off. Don't tell me I'm unlucky. Because I'll show you unlucky. Once I had a friend actually warn MWP not to get into it with me, verbally, because I'd win. I would. But sparring with pseudo rock stars is so yesterday. I've got kids to teach and great songs to listen to, and kitties to love. I've got some good luck to deal with.

Photo: Fletcher, in better days...with better days to come.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Life,
the Way They Said it Would Be

I could love even these gods
so grand and final in their cruelty.

You want the silence of worlds unknown
the memories of lives unlived
black hole universes and womb-like salvation.

I lost so many hopes in this darkness
and so many days.

I try to hang on. At stoplights and street corners
but this grind is a beastly creature
so insistant with its coffee spoons and cocktail voices.
And smiles, long and lovely across crowded, lonely rooms
here is infinity it says;
memento mori.

What will the silence of eternity sound like?
Like shadows long and warm and falling slowly
to caress the pale facades of buildings at dusk...
the smoky, yellow leaves shifting in the chilly autumn
breeze...
and snow that drifts down to balance lovingly
in the aching arms of trees?

It will sound like trees that sway in lonely colonnades
between flickering street lamps and brick-faced bars;
it will sound like the last and final highway in the desert night
the stillness of nowhere after the whoooosh of the last, solitary
car

It will sound like the smooth, velvety voice of the singer
that you never knew
who sang to you sad lullabyes through so many years
from a place somewhere far and deep and wide
the watery depths
of your very final tears.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Narcissus Redux

You were never a chrome hero I begged to follow
Merely a divine and tantalising shadow of an elegant beauty
Oh but you were as a God; a mesmerising form I longed to make love to
You were some twentieth-century icon created for fun

I suppose that I shall make some
sufficient payment for it
(not unlike all the rest)
Ecclesiastical wishes fall by the wayside
when you command them to undress

Shall I hold the utmost honour of becoming
the sweetest taste of the vile and bitter fruit
that is you
Your concupiscent self plucked carelessly
from the crowd?
Or just another entrance point for your manhood
Another mirror to reflect your fading beauty

When it is over
this white-hot penetration
will you even stoop to pretend
that I meant something more
than a woman of no importance
who posessed no difficulty
lying down and spreading my legs wide
and accepting the God that was you?

You must know your cruelty
far outweighs whatever beauty is left
in that angular, hard facade you possess
Your words like arrows
Your eyes contain a darkness only
you will ever understand
Though I doubt you even have the ability
for profound introspection
Maslow would find you a sad case study indeed

You must know your reign is slowly ending
Your knighthood stripped away
Your servants are building your tomb my Lord
You've given your secrets away

You use and use without care or concern
Scorn is the currency of your day
You toss us away like yesterday's news
You open your mouth and perform the ugliest of plays

Your throne is ash now
Your soul has set like the sun
And your delusions keep you company
when all is said and done.

Photo: Who in the world could this be???

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

A Prayer for the Grey Season

The Madame has been very sick. She still is.
She lies in bed, doing her best Camille impression.
The fever brings delusions and dreams.
Her life is in flux; she is possibly changing her
entire credential program and her kitty is
having surgery on Thursday morning.
The Madame feels as if a vampire has bled
her dry. To sleep, to sleep, perchance to
dream.

The Madame would like to take a moment
however
and remember
all those souls who were victims of both Hurricane Katrina
and the absolute inexcusable treatment by this tyranical,
insanely inept and callous government.
God bless those souls who were taken to the other side.
God bless those souls still stuck in some living Hell.
God bless those souls who survived and who struggle to thrive.
The Madame prays for you all.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Wisdom Is A Useless Currency When Your Heart Is Breaking

I want yesterday back and tomorrow in my arms now
I want positive test scores and negative
medical results
I want the freedom of ignorance, oh sweet Jesus
how I long for this bliss
I want the ignorance of youth, the
innocence of years not yet lived
I want my old body back
The one that didn't hurt 24/7
The one that wasn't always tired
I want to stop feeling this awful ache
This long, deep bitter want inside of me...
For what I do not even know.

I want movies to be real and reality
to be an illusion
I want to stop asking the questions
and be content with few answers
I want my three pound universe to
slow down
I want a wall between myself and the
world
I want to stop crying everytime I see
the news
I want to bring back ghosts
I want to hug my father again, I want
to smell him, and hear him say my name
I want to take away the 15 years of agony
he went through
I want to change the fucking rules of the game

I want to go back and undo so much
I want to scream, don't split the atom
Don't ignore that invasion, pay attention
to men who taking flying lessons but never
want to learn to land
I want to scream until my throat is bleeding
I want to evacuate the innocents
I want revenge on the perpetrators
I want to stop feeling everything for just
one lousy day

I want songs inside of me; I want to
be the music itself
I want to turn back the clock and go
back in time
I want to say Dad I love you
just one more time.

I want to visit my grandma, now 11 years gone
I want to hang on to the flow, but it's gone before
I know
I want to heal myself and love myself
I want someone to tell me "Everything's going to be OK"
And God in Heaven, I want to believe it again.

I want to know the men whose hands built those
glorious buildings
I want to know why all my heroes are dead men
I want to take away the sadness, the pain, the grief
from everyone I've ever met
I want to stop asking the questions
for which there will never be answers
I want to stop the desire
the root of my suffering
I want to love my animals and never
ever have to bury them

I want all my yesterdays back
I want to know it can be better
than this
I was told by a friend there's a whole lot of hurt
before you get to the bliss

I want to know the bliss is real
I want to know I won't disappear
I want to know what this place is
A school? An illusion? A veil of tears?

I want my sweet 6 year olds to stay 6
I want to climb inside paintings
and sneak inside books
I want the inside scoop
I want the hidden looks

I want things I don't even know yet
And I don't know why I want them
I want to stop wanting
I want to be a child again.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

And There Is Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

That FDR, what a wise one he was. I've been struggling
with this concept since 1988. Probably struggling my whole
life, but it all came into brutal focus in 1988. A long story which I
don't feel like talking about or writing now. So tomorrow
morning at the ungodly hour of 5am I shall be whisked off
to LAX for my flight to Chicago. All excitement seems to
have been replaced by trepidation, insecurity, and yes,
fear. Fear of flying, mostly. I think the only plane ride I
wasn't afraid of was the first one I ever took, in 1976 when
I was 9 and my parents took me to almost all the islands
of Hawai'i. After that I adopted my mother's fear of flying.
Fear is contagious...not a good thing to pass down to your
kids, whether by genes or example. Or course, the engine
blowing out in 1996 coming back from Hawai'i didn't help
that fear any; that flight was between ValuJet and TWA
800. Ugh. I feel for Catzy and her back; I woke up in a LOT
of pain today. Although I'm not in a conscious panic mode,
I'm sure my body is stressed and so comes the pain. I hope
we both feel better once we're in Chicago.

Part of my brain is screaming, "What the hell are you doing?"
and the other part is saying calmly, "I'm trying to live my life
you motherfucker. Go away." Seems it's been that way for
as long as I can remember.

I'm actually anxious about a lot of things. Next Monday I will
get my CSET scores...the closer it gets, the worse I feel I did.
And the inherent fear of starting a whole new life...starting
school again on the 29th for my credential. Wow. It's really
happening. I'm not an art history teacher anymore; I've been
living in this netherworld for a year and now I shall be a student
again and oh boy do I prefer being the teacher! I cannot wait to
have my own classroom. I have signed up for four classes - is that
too much, considering I haven't taken 4 classes in anything since
college? I didn't even do that much in grad school because I worked
so much and the classes were so intense. I don't know what to
expect.

I expect that gnawing pressure of always having homework
and studying hanging over me, for certain. But I know I have to do
this to get where I want to go.

SK wrote a sad and yet thought-provoking bloggy about his
baby girl losing a tooth. Completely took me back to my own
horrific experience losing my teeth. I didn't tell the whole story -
how I also broke my nose, fractured my jaw, how the school
aides at lunch sent me to the bathroom ALONE and I looked
in the mirror and saw this bloody, terrifying apparition looking
back at me. How my dad almost fainted when he saw how bad my
teeth were. But I did tell the truth regarding the most important
part - my teeth were shoved back into their little spaces, my mouth
wired shut and oh youth, great youth, how their little strong, young
roots regenerated themselves. I don't have the most stunning teeth
in the world, but they're mine, they're straight and they work. I hope
good news comes for A. as well.

I am getting my hair done today and by that I mean the whole
9 yards. Colour, highlights, lowlights, cut - ugh. I'll be there for
at least two hours. I'm essentially done packing and hopefully
have not put anything into my carry on that will be deemed
unsafe in this now even-crazier world. Thank you, fucking
terrorists who should all just be shot for causing all this madness.

SK's blog was interesting because after he spoke of A.'s tooth
he spoke of maya and life and illusion and while I probably
couldn't explain it to anyone if I tried, I understood every word
so implicitly it was like he took the very words and thoughts from
my soul and I felt a oneness with him, with the world when I
read it. It's as if he opened the door to his own being and I peeked
inside for a moment and said, "Ah hah, I recognise myself" and
then the door was closed. Are we not all truly, essentially the same
on some profoundly fundamental level?

I am bathing Zoe in kisses (Fletcher is too busy walking around
hunting for nothing to stay still for kisses) and she seems to have
no idea why. I do this every time I go on a trip - my babies, my sweet
angels. They are so lucky to have Aunt Gena taking care of them and
they don't have to leave the luxury (and I mean luxury) of their home.
The funny thing about me - I'm living my life in future tense now, almost
wanting the trip to be over with so I can come home. Then when it's over
it'll be like it never happened and I'll want to go back to it. God it's so
easy to live in the moment when you're 6 years old; your brain is not
hard-wired for this kind of thinking. You can't really comprehend the
past or the future. Why can't I hold onto this lesson, to stay in the
present moment? It's like trying to catch water in your hands....it just
falls right through them. And my brain is not 6 years old, is it?

Catzy said blogger is not allowing pictures. I'm going to test it out now,
though I do believe her. I'm wondering why though. It is highly
annoying. Wish me luck kids...I'll be back Saturday night, with great
Churchy Chicago tales...so stay tuned!

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Lemon Drop Dreams, A Full Moon and Zwack Unicum

Having troubles with the bloggy lately, don't know what's up
with that shite. Took my mom out to dinner for her birthday
tonight at Citizen Smith - one of the hip, faboo new restaurants
in Hollywould. It's off H-Blvd. on Cahuenga and it's so popular
that if you're more than 15 minutes late they'll give your table
away and there's a 2 hour limit on your table. Normally I don't
like that kind of bullshit, but I've been there before and the food
is spectacularly good, and the place looks like Dracula's bedroom.
Very dark, candles all over the place, all over the walls, Gothic
ambience, cool chandeliers....they even have this bad-ass looking
sliding door that leads to the outside patio - my mom even called
it Dracula's door. Let's just say a vampire would do well to stop
in and have one of their delightful Lemon Drop martinis. Hell, we
had everything and now I'm so full I feel weird! I don't normally
eat that much. Special occasion and all. My mum, who is turning
67, is ultra-hip and cool. She looks 10 - 12 years younger than she
is, she's gorgeous and she didn't even mind the blaring music
that much. I was like a rambling DJ, announcing every song.
They surprised me by playing a really odd array of music.
But what really blew my socks off wasthat they played The Cult.
Oh mother of God. That just set me off. And what's even better
is even my mom said, "Isn't that kind of old?"

God love her. She remembers my obsession. And I mean OBSESSION.
If people think I'm obsessed with the Church, well they're right.
But I also became utterly and totally and obsessively fascinated with
Ian Astbury and the Cult not too long after I discovered The Church.

I will NEVER forget it. I was home from college - and I had a really
nasty cold. I wasn't feeling well and I was walking around the house
sniffling and sneezing. I walked into the den of my parents' house
and my brother was sitting there watching MTV. Remember when
MTV wasn't some ho-hideous pimped out crackwhore nightmare
and actually played MUSIC and VIDEOS? Well, I walked in and
the video for She Sells Sanctuary was on.

Christ on the Cross in Golgotha, that was IT. I mean, I don't THINK
I fell to my knees, but everything in my 18 year old brain stopped cold.
I took one look at Ian Astbury, so young, so cool looking, so beautiful,
all decked out in scarves and shit, and I was GONE. Gone, gone, gone.
I listened to the song and thought I'd never heard anything so fucking
amazing in my life. I was taken to a whole other place in life. I absolutely
credit The Cult with getting me even MORE obsessed with music, and
determined to work in the music industry (what music and the music
industry have to do with each other is very little actually,
but at 18, I didn't know this).

Oh sweet Mary, mother of God, I had it bad. I went back to school,
determined to find this album, and find out who this man was.
Now you have to realise, I was in my first semester at a really
conservative Christian university and while I was practically an
atheist because of that, haha, I still dressed very much like a sweet
little good girl going to a nice, Christian school. I remember going to
the record store (yeah, remember those too?) and buying the Cult's
LOVE cassette (!) and the guy behind the counter kind of looked
at me a bit oddly. I had on a long skirt, some cutesy sweater and pearls.
I got back to my dorm and listened to the cassette and my whole entire
life changed; I'm not exaggerating. Oh Billy Duffy, wheverever
you are now, you sweet guitar god, I still love your licks baby. I became
beyond fascinated with Ian. There was a small picture of him in
Vogue magazine (of all places) and I remember I cut it out and kept
it for years. In fact, I started cutting out every article, interview, picture
I could find of the band, and especially of Ian. Today, 21 years later,
I think back, I look inside myself and I wonder, what was it? What
fascinated me about him so much? It wasn't even sexual. I'd tell you
if it was sexual. Believe me, there have been a lot of musicians I just
wanted to wham bam thank you ma'am. But not Ian. Did I want to BE
Ian? Perhaps. Even though I was a woman! I loved everything
about him. I loved the way he dressed. I loved his fascination with Native
American cultures. I loved his voice. I loved his words. I thought he was
beautiful the way you might think a painting or a statue is beautiful;
you don't want to sleep with it, but you feel like you can't take your eyes
away from the beauty of it. His long black hair was amazing; his eyes
dark and penetrating. He was intense. He had an amazing presence on
stage. He was wild. He was everything I wasn't, that's for sure. I felt
like I'd stumbled onto Mount Olympus and fell in love with a God.
Ian wasn't even HUMAN to me. I elevated him to a place so high in
the stratosphere it's scary now to think about it. Hey, I did that a lot
with musicians when I was a teenager and in my early 20's.

I started collecting all the records I could (actual RECORDS people!)
Southern Death Cult, Death Cult, anything Ian had done before The
Cult. I even had a video of them. God where is that video now???
Gone. Damn. All of this stuff is gone. Don't you hate when you
want to go back and revisit shit and it's ALL GONE!

On April 19, 1986 I went down to San Diego State University and
stayed with my friend Jeanne, who was a student there. The
Cult was going to play at the SDSU amphitheatre. By this time I'd
managed to lose my pearls and started dressing in black, turning
into some strange hybrid Gothic-university chick. The opening band was
The Divinals (sp?). That chick was wild. Whatever happened to them?
I remember thinking though, I hate her! She gets to tour with The
Cult! Oh I thought touring was so fucking glamourous. Yeah yeah
yeah. I know all about it know. But come on, I wasn't even 19 yet.
That concert re-arranged every neuron and dendrite in my brain.
I stood there in total and complete rapture. I was mesmerised. It's
funny they were called The Cult; it was like I had joined one. The
music made me feel things I'd never felt before and I couldn't describe
it then, and I'm frustrated as hell now, because I still feel like I can't
properly describe it, two decades later. I felt free listening to it. I felt
freed from being the good little college girl. And I was such a good girl.
I felt free, I felt wild, I felt like I wanted to do things I'd never done
before. I felt like I owned the whole free fucking world. The universe
was mine. The stars supernova-ed and rained down their fire on me.
Duffy played the guitar so madly and it made me feel things inside and outside
and everywhere and I stood there in the dark, cigarette and clove smoke
wafting all around me, the smell of spilled beer and I remember it like
it was YESTERDAY. I wanted to die, to become totally one with the music.
I wanted to be those guitar strings, I wanted to merge into the very sound
itself. It was primal for me. I wanted to fuck, I wanted to drink, drug,
leave myself, my body. I felt like my whole consciousness was being
transformed song by song. I watched Ian like he was the last man on
earth. I wanted to become him, become his voice, I wanted our atoms
and molecules to merge; I wanted a symbiotic mind-fuck with it all.
The music had power over me like nothing else in my life ever had.

I must have listened to the LOVE album more than any other album
I've ever owned. The only other album that comes close is The Church's
Heyday album and the two albums could not be more different. Every
song, every lyric, every guitar lick, every beat of the bass and drum was
burned into my psyche. How times change. I can't even find it in my
apartment now. It must be in storage with a ton of my other CD's.
I lived and breathed that album. It was the soundtrack to an entire
period of my life. The period where music became the penultimate
obsession of my young life. My friend Heather and I became equally
obsessed. We both started hanging out at Hollywood clubs to watch
bands. One of the first things we did that involved a lot of music was
go to the L.A. street fair. This was back in '85 or '86 when they actually
had a street fair. All kinds of bands played. We saw punk bands - Agent
Orange and even the Ramones. We climbed on top of a Ryder truck
and a riot broke out right after we left and two people were stabbed.
They never had another L.A. street fair after that. Living out in Malibu
in the 80's wasn't terribly glamourous. There was essentially nothing to
do, unless you went to a beach party, or to someone's house, or hung
out at Carlos N' Pepe's, THE local Mexican restaurant where all the
students and Malibu celebs hung out. But we were too young to drink,
too naive to get fake I.D.'s and besides it wasn't about the liquor. It
was truly about the music. We started going out every weekend, then
on weeknights as well. We started hanging out at the Roxy, the Whiskey.
Local bands became more and more interesting to us. We stayed far
away from places like Gazzarri's and hair-metal bands (although sadly
I got to know Warrant much better than I ever wanted to - but that's
another story.) We hung out at the sleaziest club in town - the Cathouse.
God what a whorehouse! We saw Faster Pussycat, L.A. Guns, Guns N'Roses
(they weren't huge yet), Jane's Addiction, Electric Angels, Kill for Thrills
(Gilby Clarke and Jason Nesmith were in this band - this was our
favourite local band. And yes, Nesmith as in the Monkees! That's his
father - Michael Nesmith). Damn I thought Jason was the sex! Ha. By
this time we'd morphed into mini-skirt wearing rocker chicks. I am not
gonna lie, I had a fucking awesome body back then. I miss that body
so much. I wore thigh high black suede boots and bustiere-type tops.
I have no idea if I spelled that word correctly; but I remember the outfits.
I can't believe I ever wore any of that stuff. I'd be mortified today. But then
again, I'm not 120 pounds anymore with legs that went on forever.
Good God. We scoured Melrose for clothes and then came back to school
and morphed back into good little girls. But the weekends were really ours.

We lived at the coolest fucking club ever, Scream at the Park Plaza Hotel
in downtown L.A. Here's a funny story. Every band played Scream. Jane's
Addiction was the house band; I remember seeing so many bands -
Faith No More, Soundgarden, L.A. Guns, Social Distortion - you name it,
any band promoter Dayle Gloria liked played there. She could talk
Jesus Christ himself into headlining that place. One day, for reasons
I honestly cannot remember now, I remember Heather and I were
driving around, and we drove by Scream. I know it was the weekend
and I want to say it was a Sunday. We saw all these people mingling
outside of the club. We pulled over and asked what was going on.
What was going on? Why would people hang out in front
of the Park Plaza on a Sunday afternoon? Well, the news blew my mind.
The Cult were going to play there that night. A special, secret show. We'd
just seen The Cult at the Long Beach Arena (Guns N'Roses opened for them)
and we couldn't believe our luck. Now I was wearing a skirt for some reason.
But Heather was in shorts and tennis shoes. And Scream had a dress code.
They wouldn't let her in the way she was dressed. So we freaked out and started
walking up and down Wilshire Boulevard trying to find something for her to
wear before the show.

I remember it must've been a Sunday because nothing was open. It
wasn't like there was a special dress shop open where Heather could buy
club clothes either. It was getting late. We went into some kind of shoe
store - like a Footlocker or something. I swear to God, Heather bought
BLACK soccer cleats. Then we went across the street to some hotel, and
went in their gift shop. While I bought cigarettes, Heather looked for
something to wear - and the only thing she could find was a black T-shirt.
Well, she already had a black shirt on. So what did she do? She wore the
T-shirt as a skirt. I kid you not. Black soccer cleats and a hotel T-shirt
as a skirt. But it did the damned job! And we got into the club and went into
the main ballroom and got really close and watched The Cult play a fucking
awesome show.

A few weeks later, we were at The Palace; we'd just gone to a movie premiere
and this is where we met Steve Jones, formerly of the Sex Pistols. For some
reason rockers were everywhere at this movie-premiere after-party. We saw
Billy Duffy talking to Steve Jones and Heather just went right up to Billy and
we all started talking after that. Billy had two drinks in his hand. Ian wasn't
there. I gotta say, Billy was really nice and so was Steve Jones. I couldn't
believe I was shaking hands with a SEX PISTOL! I used to do a radio show
at our radio station at the college, and so did my friend David; in fact we ended
up doing one together called "From L.A. to London" and damn if we didn't play
the shit! LOL! Seriously we played some awesome music. So David had Heather
and I on his show to tell our story of meeting Billy and Steve. I still have the tape;
often we'd tape our shows for our bosses to listen to, or just to listen to ourselves.
I don't even know if the tape works. I'm afraid to play it to be honest. I haven't
talked to Heather in 13 years. I don't know what I'm afraid of. I feel like I might
crack in half if I listen to it. Or maybe I'll have no emotion at all and somehow
that might be even worse.

Heather and I used to see Ian all over the place but I never spoke to him.
I gotta say, after The Cult's second album came out, I was really disappointed.
Fuck that Rick Rubin! He ruined the Cult! Electric whatever my ass. They all
got obsessed with this weird arena-rock Led Zeppelin vibe and it did NOT work.
They shoud've stuck with the LOVE sound. I remember once seeing Ian on Melrose
with his then-girlfriend Renee. They were like royalty. And once he was standing
behind me at Scream while we were watching Soundgarden play. Once Heather
and I went to a club in Long Beach called Bogart's. In February of 1990 I saw
Marty Willson-Piper do a solo show there and to this day that had to be the best show of
my life. Steve Kilbey appeared from out of nowhere and ended up playing
with Marty. This was when MWP was really fucking beautiful. Not that he
doesn't have some of the charm and beauty still going on; but he was the
absolute sharpest dresser in the 80's and this was early 1990. He was in
his early 30's; he regaled us with witty remarks, stories, spoke in different
languages and I was smitten. But I digress. Back to The Cult and Ian.

In the late 80's Heather and I went to Bogart's to see a ridiculous band
called The Fuzztones play. Rudy Prodtrudi was the singer. Oh God, Rudy.
He had this crazy Prince Valiant haircut. What a kick. We were sitting in
the lobby area, killing time, and the club had pinball machines and who
was playing one? Ian Astbury. I just sat and stared. I also remember that
night I stole enough Fuzztones flyers and I pasted these flyers all over
the entire top portion of my bedroom walls. What stupidity! Can you imagine
having the desire or energy to do that? Ah youth. I had a great poster
of The Cult in my dorm room for a couple of years at Pepperdine too.
The first year I was at Pepperdine I had a roommate who was a serious hardcore
Christian. She really thought I was going to Hell for listening to The Cult. Once
she took down all my Cult pictures. I was furious, needless to say. I still
hate religious fanatics to this day. Always have, always will. If music is Hell,
let me burn baby.

I saw The Cult so many times, in so many different venues. Often my
brother went with me; Steven and I shared two bands with equal passion
then - The Church and The Cult. We still share passion for The Church.
I don't know what happened to The Cult. Every album after LOVE seemed
to suck more and more. Sonic Temple? Ick. Were they one-album wonders?
I guess for me they were. I guess in the early 1990's I lost track of them.
I'd hear about Ian doing something but I'd totally lost interest. It was hard to believe,
considering I practically built an altar to the man. All my albums are gone,
all the pictures, and interviews. I have to credit The Cult however with
igniting my passion for music - igniting a fire that to this day has not gone
out, despite my working in the music industry and hating it and finding out
it was nothing like I thought it would be.

Today, if I hear She Sells Sanctuary, I stop and remember the girl
who was mesmerized by flickering images, stunning sounds and paralyzed
by a man she never knew, never even wanted to meet. I remember the
moment I walked into the room and my life changed forever. Hmm. I
wonder where Ian is now; I know he was touring with what's left of The
Doors, which just seemed wrong to me and of course, even he has a MySpace
site. Man, that seems even more wrong. Then again I wonder about a lot of
people and places and as long as I live, I don't think I will ever, ever
really get over the love affair I have with music. There is no band that
has a hold on me, except the Church, and even with them, I have grown
up enough to know they are human and my interactions with them have
been as equals; adult, and quite normal. The little girl who built her altars
to rock stars and papered her room with flyers is gone and I'm glad.
The music though, is still a drug that I'm never going tostop using. That's
an obsession I can live with til the end of all my days.

BTW, went to get my mom some ice wine for her birthday today at
this place called BevMo. They sell every type of liquor on God's green
earth. I collect those tiny liquor bottles and I was looking to get a new
one, and I found SK's fave liquor - that crazy Zwack Unicum! So I bought
all 7 tiny bottles because they didn't have any big bottles. Now, I'm just
wondering, can I take liquor on the plane to Chicago? I'm gonna!
Hey, I'm also getting fingerprinted for the 3rd time tomorrow. Yeah, the
Department of Justice must get tired of getting my badass fingerprints.
Maybe they might want to spend some time looking for those missing
Egyptian students - yeah the ones they've reassured us, are NOT
terrorists. Well how in the hell do they know that? Psychotic, murdering,
war-mongering morons - that's our government now.

On the way home from my mom's I finally listened to Rob Dickinson's
solo CD all the way through. I crack up every time I look at the cover
because the night after the Church show at the Henry Fonda, G and I went to Canter's
to get something to eat (thanks to the starvation merch diet). It was after
2am and I was so fucking tired I was punchy as hell. On the cover of the
CD Rob is shown throwing seahorses back into the ocean. But I was so
loopy I said to Gena, "Oh look, he's putting horsefish back in the ocean."
Horsefish. I thought that was so funny I almost peed. Guess you had to be
there.

Oh sweet Rob! I hope I can finally see and hear
you in Chicago. I missed your shows before! Damn, he is one talented
mofo! I mean, you can hear that in spades with The Catherine Wheel,
but this is a sweet CD. He's cute too. I'll take another hug please! Hee.
So that's the story morning glory. BTW, I didn't know Jeff Caine was in
Remy Zero. Why am I SO SLOW? It's better not knowing these things.
Then you don't act weird around people. I just thought he was some
little friend of SK's. That hottie.

Picture: Ian Astbury, God of my past. So beautfiul.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The View From Within

"So it's 3am I'm out walking again
I'm just a spot on the sidewalk in the city of Sin...
Still in Hollywood...I thought I'd be out of here by now."

-Johnette Napolitano, "Still in Hollywood" - Concrete Blonde

Last October I was on an Air France flight coming back home to Los Angeles from a long, long, but very lovely and tiring European trip. The trip was glorious but at times it felt as if we were on the Bataan Death March, moving from royal residence to royal residence (even including royal kitchens!) in England, marching from museum to museum to monument to monument in Paris, flying to Italy to bury ourselves in the ancient ruins of Rome, the Eternal City, driving north to breathe in the bright blue skies of Tuscany and revel in the Renaissance miracles of Florence.

After 14 hours of flying (one flight from Florence to Paris, a trip through the airport in Paris which must have riveled one of Dante's circles of Hell and 12 1/2 hours on Air France), I was beyond tired and just wanted to go home and suddenly home was beneath me, in all its brown, flat, unremarkable glory. Where were we? Bakersfield? The only hint our French pilot gave us as to our position was when we flew over Las Vegas – Babylon revisited in a desert landscape so barren it was like looking at a toy town that some little boy had arranged in the dirt.

We flew over a high school football field; it was in Crenshaw, a somewhat seedier and dangerous city in Los Angeles, but I was so happy to see it because it meant I was getting closer to the ground, closer to this place I call home. I turned to my mother and said, “I never thought I’d be so happy to see the word Crenshaw.” I've never even been to Crenshaw.

Our plane was full of French tourists, all of whom seemingly knew each other.
I think they were on a tour. And just a note: Americans are NOT the only loud,
obnoxious tourists in the world. These French had taken
over the entire plane as if they were having a private
party. Yelling, screaming, laughing, blocking the aisles
and basically driving me nuts the entire time. But I digress.

As we flew into Los Angeles, I stared down at the spider web of freeways (the brutal crush of almost constant rush hour traffic just beginning) and wondered what these increasingly excited Frenchmen and women thought of the concrete jungle below them. There was no lush green landscape; no English countryside, no Tuscan fields of sunflowers, no Arc d’ Triumph, no Eiffel Tower. There was Inglewood and Compton and Crenshaw. There were tall, bland glass and steel buildings, hundreds of miles of freeways and sidewalks; dirty streets and the neon glow of the ever- present fast food franchises. It was ugly. I mean really ugly. I tried to imagine what these people were thinking as they looked down at their destination. I wondered where they were going to go. Disneyland? Universal Studios? Hollywood Boulevard? Would they step into Gary Cooper’s shoes at Mann’s Chinese Theatre? Would they get their picture taken with a Star Wars storm trooper? Would they marvel at the freakish and desperate nature of Hollywood Boulevard itself? Would digital cameras click click click at the Hollywood sign, nestled comfortably in the brown mountains above, one of the few large ‘ monuments’ Los Angeles can claim as its own. A monument to fame, glory, greatness, fantasy, mystery. A monument to Tinseltown. Would they go to the Pacific Ocean, walk the pier at Santa Monica? Would they ride the Ferris wheel and stare down at the boardwalk? Would they go to Rodeo Drive and have some strange sense of déjà vu as they recalled their own streets, the Rue Montaigne, and Champs d’Elysees, that held the same high-priced stores?

For a brief moment, I felt embarrassed. I felt I had just come from a continent of historical riches, back to the colonies – worse yet – back to the wild, wild west where these culture and history- rich people were going to deplane, and suddenly become horrified that they’d ever wanted to come to this barren, desolate place with such a brief, somewhat violent history, and so few great artistic achievements.

And then…and then…I had a thought….perhaps it was nostalgia, or my intense longing to just be home. Home, this place I was born and raised and loved and hated and hated and hated. And yet how I longed to be back on the terra firma of the City of Angels. It was then I realized sadly, that these tourists would indeed probably do all of the touristy things one does in Los Angeles….just as we’d marched down the Champs d’ Elysees and the Rue Montaigne.

This city is my home, and it will always be my home. There is normalcy here, normalcy these tourists will no doubt never see. I grew up in an upper-middle class beautiful suburb that seemed as regular and normal as any city in the country. We were children who played in the streets at night with other children; in the summer, water balloon fights and running throught the sprinklers....in the autumn, football, baseball. We rode our skateboards during the '70's and roller-skated on neighbours' driveways. We did cartwheels on our lawn, and somersaults and our parents called us in at night for dinner, where we all sat together and ate and talked about the day. We went to school; sometimes we walked home from school and stopped to get a soda. We were in plays and recitals, we took piano lessons and ballet and softball. I took oil painting and tap dancing and mum was our chauffer. We ate snowcones in elementary school and went to football games in high school. We had crushes on guys that never knew we existed. We went to movies and had sleepovers and I got my license at 16. Whatever normal is, we were just like any other kids I think, in any other suburb in the country. We just lived in an infamous place called Los Angeles. People here walk their dogs, pick up their newspapers in the morning, and don't spend all day lying by a David Hockey- styled pool with a fruity drink in one hand and Variety in the other.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels. A funny name that for a place that can so often feel like Hell on earth. As I wondered about those who’d never been here, I wondered what they saw. I would never be able to see this city with new eyes. I will never be able to see this place as others who've never been here do. For some reason that bothers me. I want to see it like a stranger. I've never be a stranger here, and yet still feel like I am, in so many inexplicable ways. The dichotomy of my love-hate relationship with the city began in college, when I was released from the confines of the beautiful suburb I’d grown up in. I was free then, to explore every street, every city, and every seedy and beautiful spot that caught my eye. And I did. I met Los Angeles in all its glory and all its nastiness and I fell in love - or perhaps I became addicted to it; the angels caught me, cursed me, showing me Heaven and Hell in one place, a place I would love and hate with the intensity of a mad, crazy love affair. My friends and I scoured every nook and cranny of the cities around us - Malibu, Santa Monica, Brentwood, Westwood, Beverly Hills, Venice, Marina del Rey, downtown Los Angeles.

The French tourists would probably not find much beauty here. Flying over the city I’d have to agree Los Angeles is really not beautiful; at least not from 10,000 feet. The highly talented and lauded film director Michael Mann Miami Vice, Heat, Collateral) has managed to make this city look like a glowing, radiant gem in his movies, especially Heat, and when I watch them, I marvel at the magic of cinematography. How beautiful the black velvet night looks in downtown Los Angeles. How gorgeous the twinkling lights of the valley. Is it really there? Or is it just an illusion?

Michael Mann and cinematography notwithstanding, I have sped over the 405 past midnight, cresting over the hill from the Westside to the valley, and I’ve seen the glittering lights in front of me, spread out like a million stars fallen to earth. It is no movie, no film, and no illusion. The sparkling desert lies before me, the sky the blackest blue and starless; the city itself giving off too much light to reveal any celestial objects above. It’s fine though, because it truly does look like Heaven and it seems to go on forever, even though in reality, they are just cities, one after another, Burbank, Studio City, Van Nuys, Sherman Oaks, Encino, Chatsworth, Granada Hills, Northridge, Reseda; valley cities that are mostly ugly, some rich, some middle class and some wretchedly poor, and most looking more like the other side of Hell at high noon rather than Heaven at midnight.

The beauty of Los Angeles is often found while driving; this is a city that could not exist without cars; car culture rules here, we live in our cars, for our cars and they are the vehicles that often reveal the hidden loveliness of this seemingly desolate place. The best drives here are also the most dangerous: Pacific Coast Highway. Sunset Boulevard from Hollywood straight down to the ocean. Topanga Canyon. Malibu Canyon.

I have driven down Wilshire Boulevard, leaving the drug-filled nightmare of MacArthur Park downtown, heading straight to the end of the line where the cliffs take me down to the Pacific Ocean and Pacific Coast Highway, where the ocean air is clean and cold and the water even icier. I have run the beaches of Malibu at night; I have lain on cold sand and stared at cobalt skies, half-drunk with youth, liquor, laughter. I rushed into the black, cold waters, laughing, screaming, one of the handful of times I was high on miss maryjane. I have looked up at the full moon; I have walked the empty streets of Santa Monica at 3am, the shops full of shadows and the sidewalks full of ghosts. I have walked Melrose Avenue more times than I can remember, shopping, people watching, young and dumb and convinced that velvet jacket from Retail Slut was the One, the one thing that would make me look oh so incredibly cool.

I’ve driven the asphalt maze that is downtown Los Angeles; if there is a ‘city’ anywhere in this place, this would be it, although I am convinced, after living here 39 years, that the buildings and street signs switch themselves around at night for I have never gone downtown without getting lost. Never! I used to go to the symphony almost weekly with my friend Dawn many yers ago to see my favourite conductor, Esa-Pekka Salonen, and hear my favourite classical music, and hell if we didn't get lost every. single. time. We even lost our car in the parking structure of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion (this was years before the Philharmonic moved to the hideous Gehry-styled tin can of the Walt Disney Hall). God we laughed that night. I don't know why it was so funny. I thought we'd grow old in that structure until some kind man with one of those little carts came around and drove us at high speeds around every level of the garage until we found Dawn's car. Naturally, the minute we exited the parking lot, we turned the wrong way and started going towards some really, really scary areas of downtown.

I remember my father taking me with him to work in downtown one day when I was a child; oh all those years ago, for a little girl, the buildings were like great, magical monsters leering down at me. It was a claustrophobic jungle of concrete and glass and for all I knew it was a real city – New York, Chicago, San Francisco. It was beautiful. I was small; it was huge and lovely, busy and manic and the energy inspired me, even then. It’s not New York by far, or even San Francisco, but it’s the downtown the angels gave us. It has skyscrapers and hotels and condos and artist's lofts and banks and history and businessmen and women bustling about; it has a symphony and restaurants and art museums and shops and jewelry marts where gold glitters for blocks on end. It has a fashion district and Skid Row and drunks and homeless people – more homeless people than you’d ever want to see. It has old, abandoned theatres, because truly, we are a city that does not value history, and how that breaks my heart. We tear down Hollywood’s Golden years for a parking lot or a Jack in the Box. We don’t look back; commerce and the almighty dollar rules this land. I can’t stop looking back. It has a train station that has not been abandoned; one of the few places in Los Angeles where history remains. Union Station is a magnificent piece of architecture that has been in so many movies, most notably for me, my favourite film of all time, Blade Runner.

Outside our metal cages that speed along the highways, the beauty of the city is soft, and sweet and reveals itself in small, seemingly inconsequential ways.

I used to walk the still, quiet sidewalks of Brentwood at dusk in the summer, breathing in the sweet jasmine, the warm air cooling quickly as I passed houses and apartments, glowing with golden interiors. The warm summer day dying, lights flickering on, cats sitting in windowsills to catch the dying of the day. The occasional aroma of dinner would float past me as I caught myself staring into these houses and apartments. I gazed at living rooms, and paintings and people walking from room to room and I wondered, God I wondered. Who are they? What are they thinking? What do they do? What do they wish for, in their deepest heart of hearts? What are they longing for? Are they living lives of quiet desperation? Are they content in their warm little golden palaces? The breeze shifted the leaves in the trees and the sun disappeared into a soft glowing pink and orange…until finally gunmetal grey skies took over and the day was done.

I’ve run down Hollywood Boulevard at one a.m, 20 years old and full of the grandest of all illusions; screaming with laughter, the street so beautiful as I raced past neon lights and bars and closed souvenir shops, stars literally under my feet as my youth fled over history and into a glorious, unknown future. Everything was beautiful, when I didn’t know what lay before me.

Los Angeles is dotted with palm trees swaying in lonely colonnades, night falling fast at the Hollywood Bowl as fireworks explode forever above us, 80 degrees in December, the Hollywood Christmas Parade on the Sunday after Thanksgiving…Santa Claus always appearing, no matter the odd heat wave. Winter is ours on television; we hang icicle lights in lieu of snow- the illusion of a season that will never be bestowed upon this landscape. It does not matter. We live in the land of make-believe and we do so with grandeur and glory.

Ah yes, there is great beauty here, in quiet moments on Ocean Avenue as the burnt sienna sun slides silently into the sea, in silent nights on empty streets… and even though you know those palm trees are full of rats you can’t help but marvel at their beauty; no they do not possess the grace of the Ionic column, or the elegance of a lithe Corinthian, but they are ours, they are our landmarks, they line the streets with dignity and pride and they seem magical as they sway gently back and forth.

There is no Arc d’ Triumph, but there is the Happiest Place on Earth, a few miles outside the boundaries of Los Angeles. There is no Eiffel Tower, but there is the desert and the sea and the mountains all in one place. The flora and fauna that call this place home…most are not native to this city, yet there were brought here and they flourished, they grew, they learned to put roots down in a wild and hard place, like so many of this city's residents. They are strong and fierce and like the settlers who built this place, they have made it home.

There is no Tuscan sun, but there is the Sunset Boulevard drive, long and winding through Hollywood and Beverly Hills, through Bel Air down to the Pacific where the waves crash ceaselessly against the sand. There are grand hotels, and grander homes, there is the beauty of the azure sea and the sparkling white caps that carry sailboats across a pointillist landscape.

There are memories that are not yours and yet you have them; there are lives that were lived, not yours, but you feel them, there are streets you have never been on but you know them as if you lived on them forever. This is a fantasyland, a magical mystery tour of Heaven and Hell and once you’ve lived under the city’s spell you will never be the same again.

I am defeated in the knowledge that no stranger to this place will ever feel what I feel; that they will never see this place as I do. At 10,000 feet, I stare at an ugly landscape. I once described Los Angeles as death disguised as geography. But at ground zero, I am home, and the beauty reveals itself to me in bits and pieces, here and there, perhaps only beauty I can see. But my God, it is so beautiful, this view from within.

Photo: The City of Angels

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

This Too Shall Pass

Oh I was so looking forward to writing a happy blog,
a blog with a story, a blog with a point (ha), a blog that
was interesting and informative, like my friend Catzy's
blogs. But today just isn't gonna be that kinda bloggy day
sorry to say.

My pain therapist wants me to write a letter to my pain.
I think today would be a good day to do that. Two or three
times a year, I have such a bad flare up that lasts for days,
I can barely function. This is one of those times, sadly. I want
to be up and out and doing things, because I cannot stand
lying around. I cannot stand this motherf***** getting me down.
I fight the good fight and I usually win. But I'm going to
Chicago in 9 days and I need to get better fast. So I'm forcing
myself to be good, rest, take vitamins, do yoga, stretching,
think good thoughts. It's hard. I had myself my Official Good
Cry earlier. Crying really hard when the pain is this bad seems
to be my only real release. I gave in and took enough pills to
try and knock down the Beast a bit. You know, after all these
years, I should be used to it, but damn, it's so hard.

My apologies to all those I owe emails to, and actual real
snail mail...I promise to get to it as soon as I feel a little
better.

I talked to my brother Steven yesterday before he went
to the Church show in Atlanta. I never, never, never said
a word to him about the Asshole who has taken to occasionally
ragging on me really hard on SK's blog (for reasons I don't know
- it could be a psycho I used to know, it could be someone
that just doesn't like me - whatever). Anyway, Steven
actually mentioned it to ME! I was stunned he'd noticed.
I feel embarrassed on SK's blog now. I shouldn't give a damn
one way or another, but I do. I admit it. I don't want SK to think
I am causing any trouble, so I'm ignoring this dick and I told
my brother to please do the same. But I guess he felt he just
had to say something - and he did. At first I was like, Steven,
you shouldn't have done that. But then I found it sweet, because
my brother and I are close, but sometimes have had some serious
differences. I see though when it counts, he'll be there for me, even
if he's just swearing on SK's blog, haha.

I bought my textbooks online (how cool is THAT!) today for
two out of my four classes (two classes had no textbook info.)
Get this peeps....one textbook for my Psychology of Teaching
class is $175. ONE BOOK. If I had the energy, I'm sure I'd
be outraged. I'm just numb. The grand total for two classes:
$342.00. I could go to Chicago twice! Waddaya gonna do? You
can't fight it. Now I know what all my poor students were going
through at the colleges I taught. I mean, I knew, but now I really
KNOW.

I went to Ilkka's graduation at Pepperdine. I thought it would
be emotional but strangely it wasn't. I felt totally detached. God
graduations are BORING. Even if you're the one graduating.
It was a GORGEOUS day in Malibu. I can't believe how much the
university has grown since I graduated there 17 years ago. I
looked around, but it was like another person went there, all those
years ago, not me. It was like I was getting flickers of someone
else's memories but they didn't affect me. I was glad I was beyond it.
Getting older isn't easy, especially with health issues, but you
know what? I don't want to be 22 again. I have no desire to go back.
They were great days, but they're gone. My job now is to create
great days for me NOW...and I plan to...especially in 11 days!
God it was beautiful though. I've can't believe I used to LIVE there,
and see the ocean everyday. The sad thing about life is, you acclimate
to everything eventually. Despite the fact I saw that gorgeous blue
Pacific everyday, I think I actually stopped seeing it afer a while.
It was good to see how amazingly beautiful this planet can be,
especially with all the sadness and ugliness going on in the world
now.

So I'm really happy for SK and the boys and the good show in
Atlanta. MWP sounds better - that must've been a freaky
experience. Eek I am soooooooooooooooooooo jealous you
get to see the band so many times, and yet I realise I am
being GREEDY! I mean, this is my all-time favourite band
in the world - for the last 23 years! And I got to eat dinner with
them, and hang out with them, and talk with them, and
help them, and see things I never would've seen....two
soundchecks, a thousand T-shirts folded...I met so many
great people...Rob D. that sexy and funny and sweet man,
and Robert Rankin Walker (my husband in another life),
and Jeff Cain (a riot, a sweetie) and Peter and Tim, who I'd
never really talked to before....and Tiare and I even saw a
side of MWP I'd never seen before...ahem...heee heee and
all the great fans I met while manning the
merch tables....it was a dream come true and it all came out
of an errand I agreed to do for SK....really all because of the Senior
Siren of Antenna! Thank you my sweet for that gift. So I
ok, I'm not jealous....YOU of all PEOPLE deserve your trip
and I hope it is all you imagined and more. I can't wait to
see you guys in the Windy City.

Zoe's doing great after having two teeth extracted. She
wants to eat all my food as usual. Fletcher's only hissing
at her about twice a day now, haha.

What is chi gong? Is that how you spell it? SK always
talks about that. I must Google it.

Well, that about sums up life in Madame's household today.
The goal is staying positive in spite of everything. These are the
times I am severely reminded that money means nothing; it
cannot give me the things I really want and need...relief from
the Beast....and I realise people mean everything. That's where my
true blessings are. Thank you to all who've brought me joy and
laughter...Eek, Catzy, Sandy, Steven, SK, RRW, Sue C, Daniel,
Thomas, Jill, Veleska, Tamar, Gena, Ilkka, Mary, Ellen, my
two furry true loves...and Bucks Burnett, who I really don't
know but who makes me laugh my ass off and that's worth
all the money in the free world. Friends who are near and friends
who are far. Doesn't matter. You guys keep me going in the darkest
days and nights. Thank you. I love you all for that.

Photo Credit: Corbis Free Royalty - Chicago....in 9 days baby, it's gonna be MY kind of town!