“Are you having a pussy riot?”

I actually asked this, out loud, directed to my dog, a cocker spaniel, spayed, 14-years old, blind, deaf, who keeled over at the kennel when Terry and I were in Kona, but then made a miraculous recovery — although we’ve been on a sort of modified hospice for almost a month now — dear Frida, on our walk, in our driveway, after chatting with my neighbor, Marjorie Ford, who is writing about bhagadivita and picked my brain (“Joseph Campbell?” “Stephen Mitchell?”) whose daughter Maya Ford was a founding member and bassist for 2nd or 3rd gen riottgrrls The Donnas (formerly Ragady Anne) — I was telling her about “60 Minutes” report on the Russian arts provocateurs with the saucy name – I thought their guitar player, a computer programmer and lady-cop-kisser and youtube star reminded me a bit of Maya — and Marjorie said she had not yet heard of these girls, or activists. “Pussy riot?” I’ll look it up.”

Then I went to pull Frida gently back the final thirty yards of our journey, our daily or thrice daily little ritual — productive, this one — I call them “Manhattan”, “Las Vegas” or “Lawrence Welk” my code for the actual, um, output — and Frida would not budge.

I wrote about Pussy Riot in August, 2012 on my campaign blog, “Svayambh-PA…” here.