Hedwig Recap

Lately in my theatre life, I'm on the lookout for things that are new (specifically, new to ME)  -- but more on that later.

Filed in this "new" category was Hedwig and the Angry Inch.  Hedwig is a fantastic show; I've known the soundtrack by heart for years.  The director of this current production wanted the show to be as interactive as possible, including but not limited to:  having the theatre's bar practically on the stage.  Hedwig runs 90+ minutes with no intermission, so there's not a good place for people to get drinks.  Plus, the setting of Hedwig is a dive bar, so the director decided he wanted to have a bartender "in character," so to speak, for the run of the show.  Enter Leonard.

It's been a lot of fun and a lot of work.  My bartending instincts are all about the work:  go, go, go!  Pour those drinks, get that cash, who's next in line? Move along, people, I ain't got all night!  The director said I could be a surly and rude bartender, so basically this was just me.  Bartending.  Exactly how I was when I was a bartender (my Unit can attest).

My actor instincts were at war with the bartending ones:  STFU, people, Hedwig is acting!  Why are you so loud during this intense, quiet part of the show??  Fuck, ice cubes are loud!  Get out of my way, patrons, I have to do acting things right now.

So yeah, a lot of work, especially on sold-out nights.  And trying to explain what I do in this show since I'm not in this show is also a treat.  But one of my favorite things, other than enjoying the rocking performances each night (whilst slinging drinks), has been the random shit people have said or done during this very unique show each night.  So here are The Hedwig Diaries:

The six people each night who ask "Is that supposed to be smoking?"  (The smoke machine is built into the bar; Leonard gets to push the button during "Angry Inch" each night.)  First I tried being polite:  "Yes, but thank you for noticing."
Then I started to get annoyed:  "Yes.  It's fine.  It's supposed to do that."
And finally, sassy:  "Something's smoking?  Oh, it's just me."

Patron (trying to find a seat before the show):  "Has anyone said yet that you're distracting?"
Me (with a shit-eating grin):  "Only in the best possible way."

Patron (after the show):  "You were great!  I could tell you were a woman from the beginning."
Me:  "Thank you...?"

Patron ordering a drink:  "I want a screwdriver.  Don't forget the screw!"
Me (after pouring drink):  "A screwdriver with extra screw," and I flipped him off while handing him his drink.

Patron ordering a drink:  "Do you have any fruit?"
Me:  "There's tons of fruit here.  Look around.  For drinks, though, I only have lime."

Drunk Patron in the lobby (with show still happening): "Oh, Firecrotch¹, you're awesome!"
Me:  "Thank you."
Drunk Patron:  "This is so much fun!  Are you always with them?"
Me;  "I do work often with this theatre, yes."
DP:  "No, but I mean, do you travel around with Hedwig and the band and stuff?"
Me:  (beat)  "They're all local actors who auditioned for this show and were cast."
DP:  "You mean this isn't a traveling show??"
Me:  "No, we're all local."
DP:  "Oh wow!  I'm a bit drunk."
Me:  "I know."
DP:  "And I love you!"  (hugs me and stumbles back to her seat)

It was one for the record books, doing everything from pouring drinks, headbanging to "Angry Inch," catching flying shoes, and trying not to ruin my make-up during "Midnight Radio."
No, YOU'RE crying!

I'm sorry if you missed it.

¹What Hedwig deigned to call me. Yes, really.

NPH as Hedwig performing "Surgar Daddy"
(At the 2014 Tonys, not Leonard's production)

Regarding Henry

Hardcore Henry opened this weekend.  I saw the preview for it when I went to see Deadpool not too long ago.  And while I've not seen the movie (and probably won't), I have thoughts to share just based on the preview.

The concept itself is intriguing; the film is billed as a "first-person action film," and I think we often forget in film what "first person" really means.  Even in some novels-turned-films, the first person narrative ends up being one of limited third person in the film treatment (see The Hunger Games trilogy of books/films for a recent example).  So a film really and truly shot from the first person perspective is kind of new or, at the very least, unusual.

Her eyes are UP HERE, Handsy-Man.

The trivia for Hardcore Henry says it was "nearly" shot entirely on GoPro Hero3 Black Edition cameras, so it truly is first-person.  You, the audience, are seeing things from Henry's perspective -- and that's a very limited perspective.  Unless the character is looking into a mirror (which he sometimes does), we (the audience) do not even know what he looks like.  We see his hands, his feet, and the various objects and body parts that go flying by.  Hardcore Henry appears to be the film version of any first-person shooter video game out there  (Halo, Left 4 Dead, Fallout, even Skyrim, etc.).  So, in theory, we know how it should look and feel.  In theory.

But here's why it doesn't (or probably won't) work:  it's too much for we weak humans to handle.  Our eyes (and brains) cannot keep up at that speed.  We cannot register the movement; it all becomes a blur.  There is a reason fight and stunt choreography for film happens at a (slightly) slower pace than real movements:  because we cannot see it¹.  In that same vein, film shot and edited from a more third person perspective allow the viewers to see all of the action and at a pace our tiny brains can register.

While all of Henry's action may be happening in real-time or at least from a perspective that looks and feels like real-time, I have my doubts that it will make for a satisfying audience experience (that doesn't end in nausea, or worse).  I find the concept intriguing since, as I said before, we rarely (if ever) get true "first person" in film, but just because something is "new" or "never done before" doesn't necessarily make it "good."  It makes it a gimmick.  And it's definitely "gimmicky" if the piece of art itself has nothing else in its favor (for a film, things like:  an interesting plot, characters who are not flat, well-written dialogue, etc.).

So far, my predictions for the film seem to have come true.  And being the feminist I am, I giggled at this unfavorable review:

"This movie doesn't just whiff on the Bechdel test; it bubbles in a picture of a penis on the Scantron and high-fives itself on the way out."

Now if the Henry producers could make something like this with a decent plot, characters, dialogue and maybe slightly less (nausea-inducing) action, that could really be something.  In the meantime, we'll have to satisfy those urges elsewhere.

I will PUNCH THIS DOOR if I have to!

¹I would add that contemporary films are starting to move even "too fast" now.  Compare something like Tim Burton's Batman to Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins.  The action of Burton's film is almost laughable compared to Nolan's (granted, Burton was going for a more comic book feel than Nolan's dark and gritty take, but still).  And I use that as a specific comparison because I've worked the fight choreographer from Batman Begins; I've learned some of those sequences.  And even then, he taught us how to slow down a bit so both the film and human eye can follow; even at that speed, the film itself is sometimes "too fast" (for me at least) to keep up.

STND by NYX

Dear Nyx:

I received your "Liquid Suede Cream Lipstick" last month via ipsy.  And holy fluorescent lips, Batman!  You must have named the shade "Pink Lust" because "Neon Highlighter Pink" just didn't have the same ring to it.  As I stated in my original review, even I (as an actor) have no use for NEON FUCKING PINK lipstick.

And then I thought Maybe I should try it in case I like the formula?  They do have other shades available.  So I did.  And it was still FUCKING NEON.  The "liquid suede cream" did feel nice, though, so I put another, much darker shade of lipstick over it.  The two made an interesting combination, and I went about my business as punk-rock-bartender for a show.

I was, at first, pleasantly surprised when the show was over, and I hadn't eaten off all of my lipstick.  Cool!  Then I got home and washed off my make-up before bed.  Or at least, tried to.  My lips were still bright pink, despite practically scrubbing them raw.

The next morning my lips were still stained pink.  In total, it took sixteen hours, washing my face three times with three different cleansers, and then exfoliating my fucking lips before I was able to remove 99.9% of the hot pink remnants.

I like a comfortable, long-lasting lipstick as much as the next person, but I cannot foresee an instance where I need my lip color to last for almost twenty-four hours.  Needless to say, I will not be purchasing any "liquid suede" in the future, no matter the shade.

Before the Lip Stain Incident of 2016, Leonard had considered giving this one to a drag queen friend (maybe she has use for such a color?), but even I'm not that mean.  I will, however, hold onto it in case all of my highlighters mysteriously dry up the next time I need to mark my lines in a script.  Or I need to write something down that I don't want to ever fucking fade away EVER.

Actual color, but not Leonard's actual lips.

Cysts, Cancers, and Colons

This week's post is brought to you by the letter "C"!  And yes, it is all about bodily functions, so consider this your TMI warning.

 I know I have written about my battle with chronic pain and ovarian cysts before, but there's more:  almost two years ago, I went to the doctor because, in the course of approximately two months, I had lost 13% of my total body weight, unintentionally.  And while it was fun for a bit that some clothes I hadn't worn in a decade suddenly fit again, any medical provider will tell you that losing even 5% of your body weight in under a year (unintentionally) is cause for alarm and, at the very least, a doctor's visit.  And it became less fun when the majority of my clothes literally fell off me.  So I went to the doctor.  And she began a series of tests after checking me physically for lesions and asking about my family medical history because, hey, unexplained weight loss is often a sign of cancer.

What followed were several blood tests, an X-ray of my chest, and a combination endoscopy and colonoscopy, among other things.  Leonard did not have cancer of the colon or even polyps, as originally suspected.  But the pain and bloating were increasing.  So we moved on to other parts of the body -- namely, the female parts.  Leonard's cysts were back in action, one ovary was larger than the other, and there was that pesky polyp (named "Ted") still hanging out.

The new OB/GYN conducted more ultrasounds, and a new (to me) procedure called a hysterosonography, and did I mention that Leonard was doing a show throughout all of this?  A showing  on a moving fucking bus??  So yeah, that hurt.  A lot.

Then Leonard had surgery to remove "Ted" (and his previously unnoticed roommate), check for endometriosis, and look for interstitial cystitis (cysts in the bladder).  There were no ovarian cysts at the time of surgery (they had probably burst or been reabsorbed), and surprisingly, no endometriosis.  My bladder was "okay but not great."  I was just barely at the standard level for number of mL my bladder could hold.  The photos taken showed lots of teeny tiny broken blood vessels, but nothing bad enough for an "official" diagnosis (just something to watch).  She did notice that my sigmoid colon "seemed enlarged," which can happen if one is often constipated.

Removing Ted & Co. made a huge difference in my quality of life.  I no longer have to call off of work because of my period and the pain it causes.  I no longer throw huge, dollar-sized clots or have to change a tampon at least once (sometimes twice) during the middle of the night because of the amount of blood I'm hemorrhaging.

After the couple of weeks it took me to fully recover from outpatient surgery, I felt good.  Really good.  I don't think I had realized how much pain I had been in until it wasn't there anymore.  I would put off certain chores like cleaning the litterboxes and taking out the trash not just because they're gross, but because they would exhaust me.  I could do them (and other things) now without feeling completely spent afterwards; I could bend and move without pain.

A few months after that, some of the pains came back.  And the bloating.  OH THE BLOATING.  Painful bloating where Leonard's clothes couldn't fit.  Pain and bloating associated with (painful) ovulation shouldn't last more than a day (often not even that).  The OB/GYN suggested a new GI doctor.  The OB/GYN also pointed out that a clean colonoscopy just means there aren't polyps in my colon; it doesn't necessarily mean my colon is working correctly or any number of other things.

After a series of three tests, the GI doctor diagnosed Leonard with SIBO:  Small Intestine Bacterial Overgrowth.  We've since learned that it's not all that uncommon.  2 weeks of antibiotics, 4 weeks of probiotics.  She also gave me a list of the "low FODMAPS diet."  (Don't ask Leonard what "fodmaps" stands for; I have no idea.)  The GI doctor cautioned that said diet must be followed strictly for at least four weeks in order to see if it's helping (it doesn't always help everyone).  As this was now November 2015, she recommended waiting until after the New Year so I didn't "ruin my holidays."  (Without even telling her, she seemed to know that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday just due to the food.)  Funnily enough, many of the low fodmaps foods are things I already eat, so I didn't have high hopes for that.

Fast forward to just last week:  the pains (on the left side) are back.  I'm not ovulating.  Maybe I'm just constipated?  I'm a little constipated?  Why would constipation cause a pain in that particular spot?  I wondered.  And then I remembered what the OB/GYN had said about my sigmoid colon.  So I did a quick Google search of female anatomy:  where is the sigmoid colon in relation to the ovaries?

Copyright Amicus Visual Solutions

Jesus fucking Christ, it's right there!  LOOK AT IT!!  The pain I've been having, on and off, for the greater part of three years may have been caused by needing to poop.

Okay, I'm sure there have been other factors; the OB/GYN was sure to point out that because so many things have similar symptoms and overlap (sometimes literally physically), that we have to peel back the layers one by one, dealing with each issue singularly.  But FUCK!  Couldn't someone have searched like I did and said, "Hey, look at that!  Those two organs are touching.  That probably hurts!"

A dear friend, in response to something else, recently said, "That's why they call it 'practicing medicine.'"  Indeed.

So those are my bodily functions for the past 18+ months in a nutshell.  I have gained back all of the weight I lost due to exhaustion and surgery, and I'm not happy about it.  Exhaustion is setting in again, and it may be time to reevaluate my schedule of back-to-back-to-back shows/projects in addition to a 40-hour work week.  But I won't be able to do that until my schedule is free again....at the end of September 2016.

Feminist Friday

Happy Good Friday!  It feels weird to say "happy Good Friday" because the holiday -- in case you're not up on your catechism -- is "celebrating" Jesus' long walk up the hill at Golgotha and subsequent crucifixion.  Needless to say, not a lot of presents are given out on Good Friday.

Now if you're Catholic, the "celebration" is even extra-special.  Because Catholics are such gluttons for punishment, Good Fridays are celebrated with a special Mass that includes "the Stations of the Cross."  And it's just as fun as it sounds.

It should come as no surprise that Leonard is a feminist.  And Leonard has been a feminist since she was a little Leonard.  And little Leonard went through 12 years of Catholic school.  During grade school (1-8), we had religion class everyday.  The lessons were made up of things like our Catholic sex ed (called "New Creations," deserving of a blog post all its own), creating masses (once you were in 5-8 grade), and once a week one of the parish priests would come in.  In our parish, the priests were like the Sith:  there were "always two, a master and an apprentice."  Usually the apprentice got stuck with job of religion classes.

What kind of things can a priest (even the young, "hip" ones) say to grade school children for an hour?  I have no idea; I'm pretty sure I blocked most of it out.  But I do recall that little Leonard made things quite difficult for both priests and teachers by asking annoying questions like, "Why can't women be priests?"
"Why can't a woman be the pope?"
"Why can't girls be altar boys?  I saw another church in Colorado, and they had girl altar boys?"
"If Jesus says to love everyone, why can't [X] people do [blank]?"
"If a pope has to approve an annulment for a couple to get divorced, does that mean there's still a chance my parents are married?"
and then later "Doesn't an annulment just mean the couple never consummated their marriage?  My brother and sister and I are clearly proof they did, so is the annulment no longer valid?"  (My parents divorce and Leonard's dad's subsequent remarriage to the step-monster psycho bitch from hell made up a large part of my contention with the church.)

But over and over again, little Leonard continually called the Catholic Church on their misogynistic bullshit, much to the consternation of authority figures all around.  So when the time finally came that a female acolyte (because we can't call them "girl altar boys," naturally) could be chosen for a Mass, everyone offered up little Leonard's name in hopes that she would STFU.

A Mass!  I can do a Mass.  I've seen the [altar] boys do it all the time.  It doesn't look like that hard.  Walk in with the group, walk out with the group.  Hold up some books, hand some stuff, the hardest part will probably be tying that stupid rope around my waist.

So my thoughts went.  And a typical Mass isn't that hard to serve in.  And the boys (as I was the only "acolyte" a.k.a. girl altar boy for Mass that day, and probably ever in that parish's history) helped me with the white robes and stupid rope.  And then they instructed me that I'd be holding a candle.  A candle in a large earthenware bowl, to be exact (our current "apprentice" had just come back from his mission in Bolivia and was all about handmade items from the people there).

Okay, I can hold a candle in the bowl.  No problem.  Oh wait, today's Friday?  Today's Good Friday??

I was not serving in any ordinary Catholic Mass (which runs about an hour long, by the way).  It was "Stations of the Cross" day for Good Friday, so a normal Mass, plus the stations, is around 1.5-2 hours.  But it wasn't just the length of the ceremony, oh no....

There are fourteen different "stations" (the "traditional" ones can be found listed here).  And the priest and his entourage walk to each. and. every. one.
Because, yes, they are physical stations, each commemorated with a plaque or painting or, in the case of this church, stained glass windows, depicting each of the (increasingly gruesome) scenes of Jesus' (supposed) final hours.

So we had to traipse around the length and breadth of the church for the fourteen stations and at each. and. every. station. a prayer is said.  The "leader" (priest) says something; the congregation gives their monotonous and poorly enunciated reply.  Fourteen times.

All while carrying my burning candle inside a heavy earthenware bowl. 
The bowl felt heavier and heavier with each passing minute.  8th grade Leonard weighed all of ninety pounds and had no muscle mass whatsoever, let alone upper body strength.  Arms and hands began to shake.  I swore the congregation was taking more and more time with their stupid responses.

I tried to breathe through my nose, to find some inner strength, but that only made the scent of church incense that much stronger, so now I was tired and nauseated.  But I couldn't stop.  I couldn't drop the candle.  If I failed in any way, I just knew they'd never let another girl altar boy help again.  I was carrying a candle and the weight of thirteen-year-old feminism.  As we matched the steps of Jesus struggling and carrying his burden (as much as white Midwestern people can match the struggle of a middle-aged Jewish man in the desert on the verge of death), I, too, was struggling with my burden.  At least Jesus had help along the way (see station #5, Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry the cross); scrawny little Leonard had no one. 

So, shaking, sweating, nauseated, and exhausted, I made my way through the ceremony.  I didn't drop the candle; the flame didn't go out.  The earthenware bowl didn't fall and break.  I didn't stumble, trip, or faint (ha!  Take that Jesus! [see stations 3, 7, and 9]).  Feminism would not fall on my watch!

They did not ask Leonard to help again; Leonard did not volunteer.  During my freshman year of (Catholic) high school I realized the bullshit and stopped participating in Masses all together.

But as you celebrate your Peeps and chocolate bunnies this year, fellow feminists, remember that I did it for you!

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Quacks Your Story?

I was driving home from work.  I had just gotten onto the Interstate, and I was directly behind a metro bus when an object came into my lane.  As it so often happens when driving, several thoughts all occurred simultaneously in just a few seconds:

• What is that?  Is it bag?
• I should swerve to avoid it anyway.
• There are two pieces, wait
• Is that a wing??
• OH MY GOD IT'S A BIRD!!!

Just as my brain realized the "object" was a large bird, an explosion of grey and white feathers happened between my car and the bus, and they didn't clear out of air for another quarter mile.

It was a bird, a large bird.  It must have been...a duck?  It was too small for a Canada goose and too large for any of the regular avian suspects, so I'm going with duck.  How did it get there?  Did the bus hit it first, and that's why it was in two parts?  Oh my God, was there duck blood on the front of my car??  With feathers stuck to it?!???

My poor brain was trying to keep up with everything that had happened in the span of seconds (while still driving 65+ mph down the highway), when I registered that my iPod was still playing:

Who lives?

Who dies?

Who tells your story?

That's right.  Hamilton:  An American Musical was giving last rites to the dead duck via the last track of Act II.  I took that as a sign that I needed to tell this duck's story.  Unfortunately, I only knew the duck for those few, gruesome seconds.  Nevertheless, I present to you:

The Lamentable Tale of Qularence the Duck

Qularence straightened his tie in the mirror.  He grabbed his hat and briefquase and headed to work.  Just another day, beak to the grindstone, at P. King Enterprises, LLC.  Qularence hadn't even reached his queuebicle when his quo-worker Donald waddled up with the latest office gossip.  "Did you see the new mallard?"

"No.  Who is he?" Qularence didn't really care, but it was impossible to shut Donald up.  Ever.

"His name is L'Orange.  Must be from the international office."

We have an international office? thought Qularence.  "Oh yeah, must be.  I'll, umm, keep an eye out for him."

What would an international duck look like?  Does he have an accent?  Maybe a tiny duckstache?  Does he smoke?  Smoked duck isn't allowed in the office.  And so Qualarence's mind rambled through the possibilities as he headed to his desk.

The morning went by swimmingly, if slowly, as Qularence pecked at his keyboard, crunching numbers.  Daisy the office manager came by around noon.  "Hey Qualarence, we're ordering lunch from that new place around the corner, 'Wings & Such.'  You want anything?"

Qularence paled a bit at the restaurant's name.

"Oh, I forgot.  Are you a vegetarian?" Daisy asked.

"Umm, no," said Qularence, "But I already brought my lunch, thanks."  He nodded towards his Thermos of soup and package of quackers.  Daisy nodded and waddled to the next cubicle to ask Donald for his lunch order.  Qularence was not a vegetarian, but something about eating wings just seemed wrong to him.

In fact, a lot of things seemed wrong to Qularence:  eating wings, wearing a tie to work, doing the same thing in the same queuebicle every day, earning only bread crumbs.  He was beginning to feel quite down in the mouth as the afternoon wore on, when an unfamiliar voice greeted him.

"Bonjour, Qularence!  It is I, Monsieur L'Orange from zee international office!"

Qularence stared at the foreign duck in amazement.  He did have an accent AND a tiny duckstache!  And he spoke in all exclamation points!  All the time!

"Umm, bonjour, Mister L'Orange,..." Qularence was an odd duck and a shy one at that.  He couldn't imagine why someone from the international office would want to speak with him.

"I like your tie!" M. L'Orange complimented him.  "It is very...plain."

"Thank you!"  The use of exclamation points was catching!  "I like your --" then Qularence stopped.  "You're not wearing a tie!?"

"Oh no, Monsieur Qularence.  We do not wear ties in zee international office!" M. L'Orange gave a small international-sounding chuckle.  Qularence joined in.  Of course they don't wear ties in the international office!  How silly!

"Mister L'Orange, how does an ordinary mallard like me migrate to the international office?  Is there a test to take?  Should I just wing it?"

"Oh, Monsieur Qularence, you seemply have to apply yourself!"

Qularence started to slump a bit in the shoulders and wings.  So far his hard work at P. King Enterprises, LLC. had done nothing except expand his collection of "very plain" ties.

L'Orange quacked at him quietly.  "No, I mean zere iz leeterally an application.  You just feel eet out."

Qularence squawked -- actually squawked -- aloud in the office!  That was "zee best" news he had heard all day!  His feathers felt a bit lighter.  Maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel after all.

During his flight home, Qularence kept thinking about the application M. L'Orange had mentioned.  An international office!  And no ties!  What else might they do differently over there?  Do they eat wings?  I bet international ducks are too smart and fancy for that!

The possibilities seemed endless.  As Qularence was daydreaming about his possible migration, he stopped paying attention to his quommute.  He quaught an updraft right underneath his briefquase and was knocked off-balance.  He struggled to regain his proper flight path, but it didn't seem to work.  He dropped his briefquase, and the air currents knocked his hat off his head.  Momentarily blinded by the setting sun and dazed with quonfusion, Qularence couldn't see!  Or navigate!  He barely registered the loud sound of a diesel engine when he was suddenly sucked underneath a massive metal bus.  He briefly tasted exhaust fumes and smelled burnt feathers before he suffered another blow to the head and all went blaque.

Epilogue

Who lives / who dies / who tells your story?

The song lyrics were still playing in my head when I hit the Bluetooth button on my car/phone and called my Unit, distraught.  "OHMYGOD, I think I just ran over a duck!!!  There were feathers EVERYWHERE, like a bird exploded on the Interstate!"

Fin.

Flag Frenzy

Let's talk about the flag, shall we?  Yes, the American one.  The ol' red, white, and blue.

I know people, some very good friends, who get all riled up when they see damage or "disrespect" being done to the American flag.

And I have to admit:  I don't get it.

I don't understand.  It's a piece of fabric (well, several pieces, sewn together).  It is an object.  Maybe a story will help here:

My grade school flew a U.S. flag and a state flag outside on its flag pole everyday.  Once you reached 7th or 8th grade (can't remember which), it was the students' job to go each morning, unfold the flags, clip them to the flag pole, and hoist 'em up.  Don't ask me whose job it was to take the flags back down; I don't know, but it wasn't us.  And while it was impressed upon us in some way to NEVER drop the flags, to be careful when unfolding them and hanging them, it was never explained why.  

And I was terrified.  I hated doing that fucking job.  Was I going to be arrested if the flag touched the ground?  There's a proper way of folding and unfolding, you say?!?  Well, I'm fucked.  It was a very stressful job, and the adults in our lives just seemed to assume we knew the importance of it and the consequences (if any) of doing it incorrectly.

So now XX years later, I still don't get it.  Objects only have the importance you give them.  A symbol is just an object on which you have placed a meaning, and few symbols are truly what one could call "universal."

I don't have any plans to go around burning or tearing up flags; I also don't have any plans to smash chalices, tear down crucifixes, burn books, or melt menorahs for scrap metal.  But they are still things.  If the image of the American flag is so important, why don't people go to pieces over shirts, jackets, and hats with the same image?  What happens if your American flag shirt gets a stain on it?  What if your American flag jacket (probably made in Taiwan, by the way) touches the ground?  How is that not the same?

Okay, another story:

When I (briefly) taught an Acting 101 class for a college, the "classroom" we were assigned was called "the Chapel."  The space was used for many things, including some religious things, but of multiple religions.  As such, there was a large table ("altar"), some slightly fancy chairs nearby, music stands, candlesticks, a cross on a wall, and a Star of David elsewhere.  There were also regular office chairs, others tables, some sofas,  a piano, bookshelves, a desk, and restrooms.

Occasionally, my students and I would have to move the large table and fancy chairs and tall candlesticks out of the way in order to use the playing space. And they would hesitate.  Some students outright refused to move them; others would shy away from the furniture during acting exercises intended to get people to use all of the furniture and architecture in the space.  One student actually complained to the Dean that what we were doing was sacrilegious, but that's another rant story for another time.   

I would tell the kids, "It is a table.  It is a chair.  You can touch it.  You can move it."  The objects were not magical.  Moving them around was neither disrespectful nor hurtful to the furniture; touching them would not hurt the person doing the touching.  They are things, and treating them as such does not mean you're treating them like garbage; you simply aren't imbuing them with supposed magical properties.

So again, I repeat:  I don't get it.  I don't see the big deal.  And if it is a "big deal," why is the same principal not applied equally?