Another reason why I won’t be a crazy cat lady.
January 24, 2006
For one, there is that whole cat allergy. Oh, and I’m a guy. Kinda crosses me of the eligibility list for being a Crazy Cat Lady™.
Anyways, this post is intended for you cat people.
Some British scientists from the Imperial College (London) believe schizophrenia may be caused by cat feces. They have found strong evidence for a link between an increased risk of schizophrenia and a parasite common to cat feces and undercooked meat.
They tested the connection by administering anti-psychotic drugs to rats infected with the parasite. The anti-psychotics were found to be at least as effective at treating the rats as the usual anti-parasite drugs. This study backs up several others that have made the connection between cat feces and schizophrenia.
So there you go. Cook your steak to Medium, and throw your cat(s) away and get a dog before you go batcat-shit crazy.
‘Cause you come from out of nowhere…
January 24, 2006
Drama begets drama. It’s weird. Just by typing this entry, I am getting involved, somehow. Perpetratin’ the Hate™, as I like to say.
The odd thing is, these two recent bits of “drama” (they’re not, really – just examples) seemed to come out of nowhere. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to stir the pot. Sometimes I’ve gotten swept up without doing anything. It happens.
Anyways, Item the First:
I’ve been seeing a bunch of those petitons on myspace lately to shut down Bonsai Kitten, a hilarious site that’s been around since at least Dec. 2000. I’ve seen a number of these bulletins now.
Anyways, every time I see one go around, I comment on it saying that it is a comedy/joke site, like the Icy Hot Stuntaz – except those guys actually went so far as to make a song. Rock.
So I leave the following comment: ” uhhh, thats a known satirical site… ” That’s it. It’s enough to get this person all pissedd off. I dunno. I guess they are just overly-sensitive about animals. I dunno. Outside of this post, I’m letting it drop.
And now, Item the Second:
A good friend of mine today wrote a post about New Orleans Ex-Patriate-ism. Ex-Patriatism? eh. Screw it.
Apparently there are those that felt it was antagonistic or mean. I think she hit the nail on the head. Perhaps that is what got people all in a huffy. Hit a bit too close to home, perhaps.
Her post (reproduced with permission): 7 random notes on nola
- I do not regret moving from New Orleans. I moved – I didn’t leave. I could never leave New Orleans. She owns my soul. I’m a spiritual serf, bound to the land and its people by birth. I *will* move back, and I *will* move away again, and so on. It is certainly my intention to die gardening in my backyard on Magazine St., a withered 100 years, cold Abita in hand, old photos of my adventures hanging on the walls.
- I have friends and family who lived in nola their entire lives, and can’t find a place to stay, can’t find a job, and haven’t seen some family or friends since last August. They commute for hours every day just to rebuild their houses, salvage their lives, or see faces they know. Still, after five months, they are desperate. Some locals are committing suicide, unable to face a future in some neutered place devoid of their people and culture. And in all honesty, I’m hurt that some people who had so few ties to NOLA get to stay and “enjoy” it, while people who have bled, sweat, and cried for it have to beg on the sidelines. I get so angry when I hear some cultural freeloader contemplating the art they could create in this environment while my old Cajun daddy is breaking his back gutting/rebuilding the houses of everyone he ever met.
- New Orleans is not a place where you find your soul. It is a place where you surrender your soul. She will take it from you, and whether she does good or bad with it, you won’t know until your life is almost over. The longer you stay, the worse it gets. It is her curse, and her gift. You have to decide if she’s worth it. (reference: every book/film/song ever written about nola).
- Dear reporters, artists, students, contractors, (not all, but some): You are not on some kind of damned adventure. While it may seem cool to you that someday you’ll be able to tell your kids you were in New Orleans during “the big one”, take a pause. When you giggle and take pictures in front of a house with a boat sticking out of it, just remember, not only did that particular person lose a boat, and a house, but he also lost his life. THINK. When you see a destroyed building you might lament the architecture, but when I see it I can vividly recall sitting there on the bar as a kid while my grandpa had a beer, or helping my aunt set up her sewing shop there in the 80′s. Memories are the difference between our experiences, and I don’t expect accidental tourists to understand. Don’t dare try to trivialize the extent of our pain by thinking for one moment that you could relate to it.
- As I told a friend “not a day goes by that I don’t cry inside for what I left, and ache with this useless feeling – wishing I could be there helping again – my friends, my family, my city, my community. I feel like a traitor.” And although that stands, I don’t regret being here in Seattle. I needed to do it. I would do it again. I had my reasons. I am doing things here that I was unable to do in New Orleans with a dozen people in my house, and a dilapidated infrastructure. After busting my ass for 4 months gutting houses, cleaning up, drying tears, and being strong for my family I realized I was at a standstill, and had to make some hard decisions. My home is theirs for now. As for the guilt, it still lingers, but I feel I will be able to bring more back with me to NOLA by doing this.
- If you see me around Seattle, or wherever I may wander, do not make the mistake of saying “You’re from New Orleans? Wow, you must be glad to be outta there.” I will take one of your limbs and mount it on my New Orleans wall.
- Beware of Re-Entry Syndrome ( yeah, it’s real). If you are in NOLA and plan on leaving, be prepared to feel like you just left a warzone in Sudan, only to attend a cocktail party in Paris a day later. Mind, body, and spirit are not meant for such jolts. You will be depressed, and you’ll have to rationalize your way out of it. To know that such despair exists, and to live in a place where they either know or care very little is simply unsettling. You want to shout about injustice, but no one will listen. You’ll just have to sip your cocktail and pretend like their Seasonal Affective Disorder is interesting to you, all the while dreaming of being back where things make sense…
There are things she and I have in common that alot of you don’t have here. It’s history. Our families have been living in this area for generations.
And while my family was not devastated as hers was, I still had much to lose. I’m not talking about a house my parents bought 30 years ago. Or an apartment someone got 2 months before the storm. I am the fifth generation of my family to grow up in the same house. We built it. I’m not saying that I’m more important or whatever, or that I have any more posessions to lose.
This is my heritage. Hy history. My life. My great-great-great-great grandfather’s life. Many people who have moved due to the storm have a different connection to this city. It changes peopple. I understand, I have seen it. This city _is_ me. It is who I am not because I moved here and fell in love with it, but instead because of things like the fact that I got tired of Mardi Gras when I was in 6th grade. Because I do my laundry on Mondays, grew up on Dixie Beer, have to-go cups at my house, my grandfather had a Jazz Funeral and a second line, etc.
I know what it means to miss New Orleans.
We didn’t just (potentially) lose out wardrobe, or car, or job. It was our past. It was who we are.
Ok, now I have to stop. I’m starting to ramble and feel a bit antagonistic and tangental and “New Orleansier Than Thou”. Dammit.
Again, I don’t mean to minimize or de-prioritize or whatever some people’s apparent lost grip on reality or what-have-you, but I am just tired of reading about it. And yes, I know I don’t have to read it. And I don’t usually. I guess what I meant to say was that I’m tired of skipping/skimming over it.
I will relay to you what I told her this evening regarding her new “drama”:
Me: you know what i find is best about being “callous”?
Her: what is that…
Me: I don’t really care.
I have more to say on the subject, but Drama Begets Drama, and I’m going to leave it at that. I have work to do, anyways.