Kat Dog Happy Dance

Big Mac

Dr John (Mac Rebennack) is scoring our first film.

Roxy, and a couple of guys

Friend Indeed

Tonight, little Roxy, my business partner, will see Dr. John backstage at the Greek Theater to further cement our plan to have him score our first picture, a thriller to be filmed in Louisiana. By mid-October, we hope to have Robert Altman committed to be the Executive Producer on our second film.
Last year, if anyone had presented either of these possibilities to me, I doubt I would have believed him. At that time, my life was as difficult as it had ever been, and part of the difficulty was my inability to believe in myself.
Then along came Roxanne, business plan in hand, with a request to look it over that turned into an offer to take it over. That offer was the beginning of a turnaround in my life, my self image and my point of view.
Big changes are always wrapped in big lessons in my life. This one was particularly effective, as the enormity of the project allowed me some mental respite. As the project moved forward, I allowed myself to consider my life circumstance, and saw that I had put myself and my own interests second to almost everything else.
Self esteem is tricky. As a child, I was taught that deference to whatever-father-was-in-the-house was crucial. Neither bonded with me, and that's probably the seed that grew into adult behavior that put others, particularly men, first. And, regardless of the size of the sacrifice, noone was either pleased or appreciative for what I did for them when I put their interests above mine. Most, in fact, were resentful, and it has destroyed some relationships.
A very expensive lesson learned.
Yesterday, Roxanne and I were gleefully talking about finally seeing some light at the end of our project tunnel yesterday, when she mentioned that her mother-in-law, who was recently widowed, was staying with them, and had completely come apart. Her kids rushed to her rescue, taking care of whatever needed to be done, and allowing her to vent and grieve as needed.
We both noted that neither of us had ever done that - we were always expected to be the givers, not takers. Both of us had been told by many people in our lives that they thought we didn't need them because we appeared to be competent to handle whatever life gave us.
Our crazy moms, who had made us act like adults long before we were ready, had given us the gift of knowing we could, and often had to, take care of business in the absence of anyone else. It became second nature.
Still, it would be nice to be a prima donna, with people scurrying around taking care of our list of outrageous demands just once in our lives. In the meantime, we have to mollycoddle a couple of guys to get our business going.

Baron Samedi

Curses!

I have traded in my Christian religion for Vodou, and found I have almost identical, but more colorful story lines; more interesting, well-rounded saints; and a complete lack of hierarchy, in heaven and on earth.
Well, there is a "God," but he's left alone. He's too complex - we're just people and it's so far beyond our understanding, so we communicate with saints. They're more like us, and sometimes can give good pointers.
Saints are never called saints. They're spirits, or deities - archtypes of behavior whose stories teach valuable lessons, without judgement. For example, Erzulie, the female spirit of love, can turn on you, but you learn to love that part of her too. She's complex, like real women.
A Haitian woman was the central character in the latest story I've read about Vodou earlier this year, when she had a human skull with her on her flight. Eeek! A human skull! It was confiscated, of course, because...well, because you just can't be running around with used human parts. You're supposed to bury them, or burn them up. Period. God said.
This woman was likely a follower of Baron Samedi, spirit of the grave. The skull would be treated with great reverence in ceremonies honoring him, who helps us communicate with the dead. Reverence of ancestors is an integral part of Vodou.
Baron is also a raucous partier - hard drinking, bawdy and hypersexual. But, he's got a gentle side, too. He's the one to go to for help if you have a sick child.
Dr. John used to have a human skull on his piano when he played, until it, too, was confiscated a few years back at an airport. If you look at his site (link titled "Pushin' Loose on the Keys"), Dr. John's symbol is a shovel, a pick and a rake - Baron Samedi's tools in the graveyard. The skull was a dedication, of sorts, for his music.
What did the airport confiscators do with these skulls, I wonder? Were they sent to medical schools? Burned? Sold on ebay?
I wonder whether the woman whose skull was confiscated has been able to hang on to the light. There are curses in Vodou, you know. They're very hard to find, and most people absolutely refuse to talk about them.
But, like Einstein said, I'm not smarter. I just stick with the problem longer. With tenacity, you can find them.
I've only been angry enough to perform one, and it appeared to work.
Sure, it could have been this person's life was on the verge of turning to crap anyway. I understand the concept of false cause association. But, in my heart of hearts, I gleefully take credit for it.
Come to think of it, the airline business hasn't been doing all that well lately. Labor problems and high fuel prices eating away at profits, tremendous inconvenience caused by anti-terror procedures...I don't know.
Could be just a coincidence.

Killer Dude

I'm Strong to the Finish 'Cause I Eats Me Spinach

For most of my mealtimes with my sweet little Meema, there was a little mound of green vegetable with a little pat of butter on it. It was what Popeye ate, and his bulging forearms proved it.
I liked my spinach because it looked so pretty on Meema's Franciscan Apple designed plates, with its reds, greens and raw sienna borders. Yum, she'd say. Yum, I answered, hoping that my spinach wouldn't make me look like Olive Oyl.
It didn't, it turns out. Other than big feet, I'm no Olive.
But now, when all the spinach hit the trash - the Popeye brand spinach - I thought, "This is it." Officially, now everything can kill you. Killer cow poop on her spinach took out an old lady in Wisconsin, where people are tough, like their Green Bay Packers. Their football team is named after meat packers, for Christ's sake. Cow poop is an integral part of their lives, and some little microbian particle on her spinach killed this Wisconsin lady.
So, the choice is simple: worry, and let the effects of stress kill you; or don't worry, and let some weirdo random atomic bizarro scratch you from the race.
Not a simple choice, this. I was born to worry, or more acurately born into worry. The women in my family, other that sweet little Meema, worried and lived their lives in fear of an unsuccessful pursuit of a man.
Fun fact! Popeye's 1934 screen debut was with my mother's idol, flirty little Betty Boop. That act didn't play with mom's men, and kept my life lively, and my place, secondary. The goal was clear - get a man. I was as good as my contribution to the goal.
Look good to get a man, act sweet to get a man - but when you get the prize, he'll yell and get mad and leave and go bitch about you to his mother. Those were the problems of my beautiful mom and sister. Being a dorky little kid who got good grades, this all seemed completely unattainable, so I tried my best to stay out of the way.
Now, I'm a girl who eats tons of raw spinach - Popeye brand, baby. A little rinse, and I plop it between my garden burger and whole grain bun. It didn't kill me AND I didn't worry about it.
Plus, I married a nice man who doesn't yell and get mad and leave. So, I invite you to laugh very hard when a bizarre little molecule climbs into my body and stops my heart. I hope it gets in on a tainted multi-vitamin.

International Symbol

for a mad man

The Angry Inch

The man's rage is not
Measured in pounds, or
Mass of any kind.
It's in inches that
His anger spews forth -
Less inches, more rage.
He trembles inside,
Size and whispers in
His mind say, "Too small."
He can't understand
Why Me? Woman laugh
In his mind, but he
Treats them like dirt. Whore.
The man's rage is just
Too much for his soul.
The angry inch fuming.
He hates those women
For the laughter he
Sees in his mind's eye.
It stands before him
Like a tiny wall
That he cannot scale.

Kitty Lights Up

Score

Mii Amo, LLC, an independent film company in formation, is in discussions with Dr. John to score its first picture, an interracial thriller set in Louisiana.
Mii Amo's Chief Operating Officer is said to be very happy.
Very, very happy.

Pass Protection

Nasty Sport

Yesterday, bored to tears watching Notre Dame get mauled by Michigan, I realized that, with the picture off and some bongo drums, this football game had a running narrative to a porno movie. Listen in, won't you?

"Look at that penetration!"
"He's running it right up the middle."
"He's completing almost all of his passes."
"Backfield is in motion..."
"He's IN!"
"Dead ball foul.."
"Two minute warning."
"That was defensive holding."
"Bump and run..."
"He got in because of double coverage..."
"False start."
"No doubt, a hot receiver."
"Going to hurry up offense."
"..the best wide receiver.."
"Offensive holding."
"He's third and long. Again."
"Time out for a substitution."
"Illegal motion."
"He's opening up HUGE holes..."
"Oooo. Roughing the passer. That'll cost you."
"Offensive pass interferance."
"He has possession."
"It's a live ball!"
"Uh oh. Too many men."
"He was in the neutral zone."
"Illegal shift."
"And the point after is GOOD!"
"They're piling on..."
"There's an open receiver!"
"No pass protection."
"Offensive line."
"Excessive time outs."
"He's going wide.."
"Illegal shift."
"Intentional grounding."
And, because Notre Dame is a Catholic college, throwing the "Hail Mary."

I think women would like football more if they just listened.