Yo mothafucka Meow

My pal Val died yesterday. Pulmonary hypertension, a lung condition that she'd had for a year probably contributed to her death. She wasn't yet 50. She'd refugeed out of New Orleans ahead of Katrina; she'd only moved to New Orleans a few years before to be with friends.

I adored her. We shared the same deeply perverse view of the world. We were sarcastic sisters of St. Skeptic. She made me laugh every time I talked with her.

She talked about coming to New York periodically but she never quite made the trip. She was aghast at how much apartments cost here, and always told me what she got there in Texas for about what I paid here in New York (two bedrooms, living room, dining room and a garage for starters). I always said "yea Val, but it's in TEXAS" and we'd laugh.

She told me one of her cats was from New York. I said "how can that be, and besides, how would you know?"

Val said "cause this cat has attitude. I pet him and he looks up at me, yawns, and says 'yo mothafucka, meow'". Well I was on the floor of course, and forever after when she called, I answered with that phrase.

Val wasn't an important writer. She didn't do lifesaving work. She herself would have said she was just ordinary.

Well, Valerie wasn't ordinary at all to those of us who knew her and loved her. She was amazing. She was funny and smart, and fun to be with. What is ordinary now is the world without her presence.

She will be deeply missed. I only hope that when Saint Peter sees her at the Pearly Gates he knows to say "yo mothafucka, meow."