Birthday Week Homage #1: Patty Hearst

I was watching the Sopranos, Season Two Episode 11 or 12, and one of the FBI Agents (Skip) mentioned Patty Hearst. He says she was the most severe case of Stockholm Syndrome ever, so I decided to look her up.

It so happens that we share a birthday. It also happens so, that she seems pretty rad.

So everyday of this week I shall post an homage (pictures, words, whatever) to cool things that are, in whatever way, associated with Feb. 20th.

I know, pretty self-indulgent but isn't that the point of blogging...?

The picture above is of Patty Hearst (aka Patricia Campbell Hearst aka Patricia Hearst Shaw) wielding an M1 carbine while robbing a bank in Sunset District, San Francisco.

Below are some more badical pics of Patty during her "I was just bein' rebellion'" years and you can click here to read about her crazy life on Wikipedia.

Oh, celebrity sagas, how us U.S. Americans have always and will always love you...

Hottest celebrity mug shot ever...? Perhaps, perhaps.

"Was last seen wearing black sweater, plaid slacks, brown hiking boots, and carrying a knife in her belt." Yes, please.

Sick collage made by someone (not me). Epic Celebrity Saga...

I'll bet you anything that she just got through shouting, "Everybody be cool, this is a robbery!"

Below is Patty (at age 53 in 2008) with a French Bulldog that she calls Shann's Legally Blonde. The dog earned a Red Ribbon at the Westminster Kennel Club for "Best of Opposite Sex."

Is it me or does she look better wielding a high-powered machine gun, with bangs and/or a hat? Perhaps she looks better wielding this inbred Frenchie, perhaps.

You'd have never guessed it, but, apparently Patty got over the Revolution and started...? You guessed it! Breeding French Bulldogs.

Bullshit, right? Nah, more like BullDOG (muahahahahaha, lolzing all the way to the (robbed) bank with that one)...

This brings up the age-old question:

Would you rather be a revolutionary/member of the Symbionese Liberation Army or a breeder of champion pedigree French Bulldogs...?

Nu Beats, Nu Yeats...

Stimulate your sorrows until beauty is born

And on its deathbed that beauty shall bore more sorrow and scorn…

Scrutinize the system and pinpoint your symptoms until saltwater taffy streams down your

cheeks and makes sticky your chin. A salvo of Chinese torture routines, dripping drops, a sieve

that muddies the seeming memory into a saline sea-section of infectious cerebral reflections.

Meanwhile, in the misty shade of my mystical misery sit Madam Moon and the Sonoran Sunshine. Yellow is the girl

who once spoke sermons like snakes, such a hellish harangue! In a ship sails sincerity, she now drifts out to sea

and with cement in her shoes, she finds love underwater. Where storms and sighs are sentimental supplies for a

pathetic fallacy that falls from harmonious skies.

We wore the masks of lonely lovers while the patience of the tide and the time wore thin. We waited in the face of

fathomless fears, talking in codes in black and white books,

Feigning proclivity in the name of philosophy.

Now, in my mind’s private paradise, she appears as Persephone.

Tragic and ancient, white-armed and fertile…

A Cowering catastrophe and such towering blasphemy.

A cri de coeur from a bipedal hominoid with an australopithecine, swaggering daydream.

Gnawing at his carbon-dated discernment are nightmares of a naked ape in the sky, weeping in tongues, its tears are

arrows, scions and spears, scribbling the sunset onto a Mercator projection.

Still I say, "Ahhhhhhhh..."

For massaging my mind is the kindest of lions,

His compassionate oration calmly careens through my cavernous concerns,

Softening the callous while removing his skin,

The Locust Lambada and the Larva Limbo,

We dance a new beat revolution older than age…

These ideas are the trees outside my window,

They grow as the wind blows its hot air balloon zephyr through tiny squares in the screen.

Adjective precedes noun in negotiations where Bonobo’s barter for gold…

Now I freeze the sunrise with speech before it wanders into the patterns of a quilt, never to be found.

Specks of sand support the ocean, the center cannot hold, a life suspended, sustained incessantly

in stony sleep…

Her Right Hand Man...

Yoked By Moonlight...

10 things Shazam...

1. In My Dreams- Dokken

2. The Fish- Yes

3. You Don't Mess Around With Jim- Jim Croce

4. Ain't No Woman- The Four Tops

5. Whatcha See is Whatcha Get- The Dramatics

6. Saturday in the Park- Chicago

7.Baby Now That I've Found You- The Foundations

8. Hush- Deep Purple

9. Breathe & Stop- Q-Tip

10. What Can I Do?- Ice Cube

Madonn'-A-Mia...!

1. Barrett School
2. Pancreatic Enzymes
3. LAD v. OAK
4. Pretty Feet
5. Iranian Elections
6. Barry the Barber
7. Closing Doors
8. Sonnet 50
9. Socialism v. Communism
10. Mixtapes

The Pagan Clouds...

You Can't Love (ME) and (The God of Love Descends from the Machine)

Shots and sex and cigarettes

And a smile as fathomless as the flame of Hephaestus

Aphrodite in retrograde makes his Vulcan knees weak

Of lust does she wreak, of vengeance he speaks…

 

The moon shall not betray their confidences

And he shall no longer recall his mistress

To the ocean no longer shall he utter her secrets

The remorse shall now sit at the heart of his conscience…

 

The rapt relinquished into a kaleidoscope of futility

The indulgent adoration of Venus’ Beauty

The mischief held in her sparkling brown orbs

The insufferable song which now spews from her pores…

 

Love is Holy Hell

Eternity its Holy Healer

Heaven hides behind the Sun

Heating suicidal fevers…

Purging by Moonlight...

A Kiss for the Strawberry Moon (The Courtship of Wat Poornima)

EXTRA! EXTRA!

Enhanced medical imaging confirms that love can be quantified by meticulously following the scientific method…

 

And yet (in spite of this breakthrough),

I often make feeble attempts to summon the Moon and harness her powers. 

But away from the harsh eyes of Helios

We all turn into bats and owls. 

 

A traveler at heart-on-sleeve,

Circumnavigating the sun,

All the while carrying her negative presuppositions on my back. 

 

A willful suspension of disbelief allows me to steal steps.

Sedulous strides suspended in the shadows of Arlington’s bones.

Treading thin air up on the steely, solid, Potomac stream.

My dream?

Strung out on the gallows of her dancing rooftop balance beam…

 

Entrails, Disappointment, and Failure.

I hid my face,

Disguised my voice,

Buried my body,

Eradicated Truth & Love…

 

Left for dead, yet lying (inside of a black and white book),

Are my prosaic memories,

Once the loveliest brides,

Now spinsters, not wives,

All veiled in lexiconic clouds,

Of jargon fleece,

And double-talk hides.

 

So, why should we tell each other secrets? 

So as to relive heartbreak?

So as to relieve the plate tectonic pressure before an earthquake?

 

Wondering,

I let my mind wander

Into the murky green and blue

Cellophane sea. 

When suddenly

A snake dressed in cat’s clothes

Stands on a soapbox and calls it theatre.

 

A cunning actor once told me that acting is not like lying, it’s more like sleight of hand.

 

With that in mind, I cannot help but admire the power of bold, black hair,

Bleeding its sable ink through sandy brown skin. 

 

Behold the black chaos of the world in our souls.

And behold the black majesty of tranquil, teacup tears.

 

An orphan's hopelessness homogenized with the helpless heat in this deserted summer,

Erupts into vapor.

A sweaty smog that beats my heart

And fills to the brim of my brain.

So that my brow belches blood. 

 

Are you amazed?

Surprised?

That my madman rationale is found in your Byzantine canal,

And was born of your blind haste.

A faithful, foreboding brood fuels your frenetic, phobic pace.

 

Sweet sleepy sighs,

I fear thine eyes…

A saccharine sentiment,

Caught between your cold thighs

No alarm, no surprise.

 

A tragic cessation,

She paints it by number,

She takes it in stride

She yawns like my brother.

Her secret is ancient,

A well-known lover.

 

She loses her lust

And by sundown yet another,

Hath come,

Hath gone,

Hath lost like my father.

 

Her youth doth dote on idolatry,

Forgetting that her rose too,

Doth wither gently.

 

Her mother weeps,

Her sanity swept,

Under so many rugs

Lie semen and sweat.

 

And dreams of days

Gone far, far west,

And dreams of love

And dream-filled rest.

 

A catch in California,

A Virgin’s stately Vernacular…

Some feeble attempts

To fornicate forever.

 

Now blown is my mind

And 7 seasons since,

The rise and the fall,

Of a jet-fuel romance.

 

My crop-duster heart now beats no more,

But the world’s holy Rhythm

Is found in Rhyme’s lore.

Sonia, Summer Fridays, Fireworks...!

Summer Retreat...