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Saturday, June 9, 2012

An Open Letter to Mama Kat, Who I Knew in Another Life

Dearest erstwhile Mama Kat (or Ma-Ka for short, which is Swahili for ‘One who scrawls with mighty pen and cuts through chaff with incisive levity’):

Let us pause to reminisce about a bygone forgotten time, waxing so nostalgic that one could place a wick on me and start a flame. Like a faint voice from a distant past, yours echoes through the catacombs...

We met during the Mesozoic Era, as it was, so you’re certainly forgiven if that has slipped from your memory. Sometimes I mistake a few details from that period as well, like confusing Cro-Magnon with Magnum P.I. ... it could happen. But ah, those were the days, weren’t they? There certainly aren’t many good volcanoes these days anymore, but back then you couldn’t walk three steps without bumping into one.

Your ponytail was so much in vogue back then that the other Neanderthals were envious enough to become what was later known as kopykats. I remember how you used to blog on the cave walls, and even back then you could charm people with your rapier wit, not to mention hunt prey — curiously all with the same writing tools. Pontificate via hieroglyphics by morning, then gouge a sabertooth in the afternoon. Piece of cake for a maestro. Modern day blogherama has got nothing on its predecessors, you being chief bloghero among them in the classical sense.

Historians will likewise note that while proper video had not yet been invented at the time, you improvised by simply carving out a square in the cave wall and then placed an arrow on your nose for people to push whenever they wanted to watch. Cave dwelling moms from all over the western hemisphere were intrigued by your live stoic delivery coupled with random spurts of funneled energy, a phenomenon which has carried on in perpetuity. This was the Ma-Ka they came to know and love, the stuff of prehistoric legends. You were promptly inducted into the cave wall of fame, alongside the likes of Olaf, Og, and Thag. Talk of a possible Mt. Blogmore monument goes on even today. Chiseling your heightened eyebrows has apparently set the project back numerous times, unfortunately. But then what do they know, eh?

It was you and you alone who adopted the signature maneuvers of the swoosh, the twirl, the consigned smirk, the industrial deadpan, the sideways glance, the tomahawk handshake/death grip (later banned in thirteen territories), of course the patented lip pursing, the nonchalant gandering, finger on the chin, and a host of other machinations that have gone down in primitive lore. Indeed, at the primordial museum of fine arts they have more wings for you than pterodactyl takeout.

Through your inspired shenanigans, we hearken back to a time when all was simple, when a person’s duties were well defined, when people otherwise respected your basic deft hunter-blogger extraordinaire. A time when you didn't have to lock your dinosaur when you parked it for fear of it being stolen... Essentially it was the Kat's meow as far as epochs go.

For old time’s sake, a re-enacting hush over the savannah as all observe the mama with the Kat name, in her element as we see her take down big game Kat. Watch her as she expertly uses neon wig decoys to distract the hapless woolly mammoth and lulls it unassumingly into her very snares, much the way she captures her readers. Unparalleled tactical subterfuge from the master right before our very eyes. No one could do it with such finesse before or since.

A tribute to you as the prototypical blogactress par excellence, evolving over generations into the consummate cyber scribe. And through this missive, the hope is to bridge the gap between the two worlds of the past and the just past, so that they occur in virtual unison, so that we appreciate origins of the classic Kat aura, so that the universe forever maintains its equilibrium.

And so I know that I knew you then because I still know you now, and those familiar upturned eyes were engraven as if in stone. Your ruling charismatic air that bushmen would trade in their spears for all speaks for itself. Thankfully for us, volumes and volumes in every post. In the end, the ancient cosmic deck dealt a one-of-a-kind, and as a consequence everybody won. Translation: I paper. They scissors. You rock.

Rusted in Ruminations

Editor's Note: To see the real Mama Kat in action, go here:


Bill Lisleman said...

so glad you didn't lock your dinosaur on this one. Very enjoyable.

Jeff Crandall said...

I feel the need to be a hunter-blogger too. So awesome! You never fail to amuse!

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