Crazy for the Red, White & Blue

This election year’s obligatory flag burning amendment crashed and burned yet again today, like all its predecessors.

I have some questions about what this flag burning really means.

I was just at Pride last week, and wondered, “If a diva queen sashayed around in a flag Speedo, would that be flag burning, or just flag flaming?” Is one a misdemeanor and the other not?

What if said person had gonorrhea, is it burning now?

Would Blue Oyster Cult have to add a caveat to their song “I’m Burning for You” like “No flags were burned in the making of this song; but the lead singer did scratch his crotch a lot.”

If you live in fire country, and forget to take your flag down before your house burns to the ground, would you have been cited under the amendment for unlawful flag burning? If the fire was an act of (allegedly) God, where do we send the ticket?

Most flags are now made of petroleum products anyway. Do they burn, or just unaesthetically melt over and into whatever surface you had them on? If you melted a flag over your bumper, would it be more or less “patriotic” than a Chinese-made magnetic flag-ribbon?

How does one truly express love for one’s country nowadays? Anonymously send Ann Coulter a jar of Adam’s apple polish?

Speaking of apple-polishers, I suppose we could all get together and send Bill O’Reilly a truck full of falafel with a Nobel Peace Prize buried in it. Once found, it can go on the shelf next to his imaginary Peabody awards.

Why is it that those who seem to profess their love of country the loudest and most shrilly, are also the people trying to write denials of rights into the Constitution? This is the second one, the first being the federal defense of marriage act, which also went down, sans flames (we save flaming for things we like).

Why does the right wing seem to hate our freedom so? Why do their minions do such asinine things as protest at military funerals? Good grief, these men and women died so you could be an asshole in public, so please exercise said right away from their grieving families, Mr. Phelps, you consummate jackass.

Yet, the people elected into office by nutjobs like this are innocently wondering what happened to their poll numbers. Well, Enron, troop armor, half a trillion bucks down the Iraqi drain with no end in sight, loss of focus on Afghanistan, deficit, trimming VA bennies, estate tax, and so on and so on and scoobie doobie doobie.
What we consumers get is a steady diet of Brangelina, TomKat, “cut and run” (this year’s “perfect storm” of Swift-Boatese), and now, “save the flag”.

You know, how about we save the farking country and let the goddamn flag fend for itself until it means something again?

Unhappy Anniversary

Last week, we marked the 25th anniversary of the discovery of AIDS. Yes, I know, this is a lesbian-only site. As a lesbian, I can never forget watching my brothers fall like ripe wheat before the scythe of a virus nobody understood.

I remember watching friends stitch quilt squares. I remember watching news segment after news segment filled with emaciated, dying men.

I remember people being kicked out of their houses, and being ostracized from their communities because of a prejudice against something unseen by the naked eye.

I remember Ryan White, exiled from his school, because nobody believed “the AIDS” couldn’t be caught from a toilet seat, a sneeze, a hug.

I remember watching John get sick, stop dancing, get better, dance again, get sick again, and on and on it went. I remember him raging against his eventual fate, when he still had the energy to rage.

I remember the day I heard the police scanner report a vehicle over the embankment on Kingsbury Grade. I didn’t know till I got home, that it was John’s way of telling the world he couldn’t stand it anymore.

I remember people wondering if Tom Hanks had flushed his career, by daring to star in “Philadelphia”.

Yes, I remember the 80’s all too well. It’s been twenty-five years, and the pain and anguish lurks, barely beneath the surface.

Today, the bodies are brown, many are African, and we see them irregularly. National Geographic does an AIDS story once or twice a year, ditto other publications. But I can’t forget that Africa is going through that awful bottleneck like we did. In many ways, theirs is worse. They are losing the prime of their population to AIDS; not just the gay men, hemophiliacs and drug abusers, but a huge proportion of the current wage-earning work force.

Additionally, AIDS is on the rise among the poor in America, specifically blacks, Latinos, and women. I worry about that, because without dying “stars” like Rock Hudson, who is going to care?

I listened to the radio remembrances of AIDS today, shortly followed by the minutes of silence for the troops killed. I guess that until we learn better, we will invite death on many fronts.

May those who have gone before us rest in peace. It is truly the least we can do.

In a State of Pre-Everything

The government wants all of us (of child-bearing age) to believe and behave as though we were pre-pregnant, thus to refrain from smoking, drinking, and regularly take folic acid.

Uhhh, what now? That’s like asking all vehicle operators to consider themselves “pre-accident” thus refrain from driving, boating, flying, and take public transportation at every opportunity. Except for the drivers of public transportation, who should all stay home.

The new assault on women continues. Since our only worth is as incubators, we must always consider ourselves as pre-incubation, natch. Sigourney Weaver unavailable for comment. *shudder*

Just what, I say, what the bloody hell is a-goin’ on? I firmly believe that even on the admittedly rare moments that I slept with a man, I was most certainly not “pre-pregnancy”. Unless “praying to every god I could think of that I wasn’t fertile” equals “joyously fertile and welcoming”.

I think not.

I have never wanted to give birth, and even though that coming inevitability nonetheless evokes nostalgia, I’m not willing to wrap myself in cotton wool (pun intended, Tampax Inc.) in order to escape my fate.

Shall we all consider ourselves, pre-fracture and never engage in sports, or even stand upright? You could fall down, you know!

I thought I was done with this rant, and then this headline pops up: “1/3 of U.S. adults Pre-Diabetic” Oh for Pete’s farking sake, people! If you’re really worried about becoming a diabetic, the first thing you should do is choose your parents more wisely. Zygotes should actively avoid implanting in the uteri of diabetic women, immediately.

Also, get off your fat ass and exercise, and stop drinking soda. That’ll go a long way, right there. I’m not minimizing diabetes. It’s a terrible disease. However, you are much less likely to develop it if lifestyle changes take place first.

Medicine is one place where a stitch in time really does save nine. If you’re worried about it, ask your doc for a fasting glucose measurement. If it’s questionable, start thinking that wheat germ is your friend, and learn to eat broccoli. After a while, you can even learn to feign enjoying eating broccoli.

I’m off to make some organic tacos. Are they organic because I’m a bourgeois asshole? No, it’s because the grocery store nearest my work is an organic one. Are they still greasy and good? Yes, because I can now justify fat-filled avocado lusciousness because it’s healthy, it’s local, and it’s organic!

I’m tired of living in fear all the time. I’m tired of feeling like my body is just going to manifest new problems at random -- which it will, but I don’t want to think about it so much. I’m tired of watching people blame their ills on everything else. You know what? For me, it’s not “the culture.” It’s not anything other than “I like food,” and tasty fattening food is cheapest.

However to escape all the rest of the anxiety, I have decided to just consider myself pre-imminent death. I know, it’s preternaturally precocious to predict my predestined predicament, but I prefer it that way.