Posted in Almost Dorothy, The Potty Mouth Interviews

Jada Roth Casella: Pussy Power


Jada Caselle Roth

I tried to interview Megan Casella Roth for this Potty Mouth Interview, but her goddamn cat ate her–fo’ real! Nah really. In fact, Megan , which rhymes with Megan, was on vacation in New Mexico, snowboarding, or whatever the hell it is people do in New Mexico. Personally, I love Old Mexico where life is a more authentic and the mole is real motherfucking mole. Jada Roth-Casella, Megan’s cat, who wasn’t on vacation and is totally way cooler than Megan, sat for an interview. Kids, put your pants on. This kitty cat has got a rough tongue and whiskers that’ll whip your ass into a frenzy. Plus, this damn cat has her own Facebook page.

Almost Dorothy: So you’re writing a book called, The Green Fried Lemonade. What would you say to a fireman who lives recreationally daily or the mortician forever in black-magic sky-high tease-me heels?

Jada Roth Casella: It’s all about letting go of your inner Carolyn Burnham. Once you do, life is a giant orgasm/crisp-sandwich. The idea that we are gathering our materials for future possibility is only valid if we are canceling our subscription to the magazine called Success in Normality Yorker. Nobody is normal, especially the people who try so hard to seem to be, with their you-statements and Capri pants and lovely argyles. Can we get some tuna in here? I was promised Chunk Light and Zephyrhills.

AD: Is green the impossible dream?

JRC: Green is the impossible drone. The impeccable drain. The dry drizzle, the guild of doula living rooms. Green is a number. Green is seven, eight is orange. Blue is four.

AD: You do stuff in ink & paint, digital, video, pen & paper, t-shirts too, what are you smoking and how does smoke influence your art?

JRC: Smoked salmon, smoked oysters, smoked almonds. Substance abuse as a romantic ideal is so cliché. Sweet potatoes are so good though! If I was going to abuse a substance, it would be the sweet potato. I would write on my Facebook status, “Unghhh…too many sweet potatoes last night. So behind on everything. Never having sweet potatoes again!”

Big dirty rough sweet potato in a martini glass. Sweet potato I’d like to fuck.

It’s all about getting the left brain to shut down for enough time to make something and not screw it all up with a bunch of deletion and translation. The best stuff is the stuff I find lying around in the litter box, filed under “word hoard” or “free write” or “bone pile.” You bury it under a bunch of piss and litter, and you find it later. There is an urge to make it make sense, but that relies on the assumption that it doesn’t make sense yet, in it’s raw form, which leads to the idea that I’m fucking insane. And that’s just not possible. Meow.

AD: Jada, I get the sense you are sniffing way too much piss and litter. You may want to try the new Pine Fresh cat litter. Anyway, if you could be the hand of any artist—writer, painter, performance, etc.—whose hand would you be? And why?

JRC: Yoko Ono because her hands always know what to do. My hands never know what to do. So they take rings off and put them back on and drop them in the crevices of diner seats. They tuck hair behind ears and zip and unzip zippers compulsively. They nevermind. They anyway. Yoko is blue and four point five.

Yoko has an agenda for peaceful things. I would like my hands to do more for peace (or piece of salmon), and I have no money, only cat food (blargh!!!) and various miniature stuffed animals, so my contributions toward peace happen in the small-scale, the pressure on the judgmental J. Crew catalog crowd to be more accepting, to feel less armored in khakis and more open to art, to the unknown, to the absurd and beautiful and ultimately more-close-to-reality reality than the inside-Matrix one fed to us all by cell phone commercials and copy machines and Fancy Feast commercials, as though if you’re not some exotic form of yourself who eats salmon vomit from a glass dish, you’re a mutt cat from nowhere who will never do nothin’. Or, if you’re a plain gray cat without front claws (aka total cracker), you must be some pampered suburban cat with no culture whatsoever. Everybody just needs to make their art and not be Carolyn Burnham, who can come disguised as Amiri Baraka or Martha Stewart. Always keep one eye open.

AD: What are your doubts about ‘becoming’ a cat writer?

JRC: I doubt sometimes that I’m really seeing what I would see without all the insecurity, the need to be accepted, the need to hang on to the big raft, the impulsive need to bat at string and chase ribbon because it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. That may be if the raft disappeared, and I had three minutes before the sharks came and gnawed off my ankles, there might be some kind of awakening that I’ll never find sitting at my laptop inside my litter box.

Or, zzzzzz   snnnnnnnnsheeeeewwwwww……….snnnnnn….zzzzzz….

AD: Doubts about becoming a human being?

JRC: More doubtful than becoming a “writer.” There is too much. Too much TV, too much corn. What I write is probably a large part corn. When I pee, there is corn. When I open my mouth, what comes out is corn, quickly running off to turn itself into fuel and computer chips and IKEA furniture. I don’t know. What was the question?

AD: Do you ever want to scream and if you did what would you say?

JRC: INFJ. INFJ. Rufff! Rrrrrrrrrufff!

AD: Dog, pantomime, sloppy joes, salmon, snark: make us a poem.

JRC: Portrait of a Dog in a Manwich Sandwich, or, There’s So Much Beauty in the World

I

am a dog.

Where are my new sloppy

joe shoes?

This snarky salmon equation

is shriveling my pantomime, under

the cool blue skid marks,

Lester, don’t be weird –

it’s just

a sofa.

AD: Last Question: If you were a seahorse, what kind of shoes would you wear?

JRC: Fuck-me flip flops! Just kidding, hiking boots of course. All terrain. I’m headed to New Mexico with my litter box on wheels. I’m in it to win it. Red and green chilies, no more elevators. RRRruffff!

Megan Casella Roth is not a cat, is newly married, and currently lives in Miami, Florida. She is a James M. Michener Fellow in Creative Writing at the University of Miami. She is generally well-educated and claims to have a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Birmingham Southern College. She’s really cool, but not as cool as her cat. Check her out.

Author:

I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

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