I have a google alert set for “Sue Katz.” One of the benefits is that I find out when my journalism has been published – or stolen. I also hear inadvertently what’s up with all the other people named Sue Katz – at least those with any sort of public profile.
In another part of my own state lives a Sue Katz who is a painter and I always imagine that she’s pissed off that I own suekatz.com. She seems quite an accomplished artist with frequent showings, according to our shared goggle alerts. Oddly enough, a friend of mine was on the west coast at an artists’ conference when she met this Sue Katz. “Oh,” says my friend, “I know a writer named Sue Katz.”
“Yeah,” responds the painter Sue Katz glumly, “I guess you mean the pornographer.”
It’s not really one of my biggest identifications – I’d put activist, union girl, wordsmith, rebel, short story lover, smooth dancer, and tea addict before pornographer, personally, but that’s just me. I feel for her. Did I mention that I own suekatz.com?
I wonder if she experienced the same shock as I did when I opened my google alert today only to discover: “Sue Katz Obituary.” In my personal opinion, and perhaps it’s just me, I feel even less like a dead person than a pornographer or, for that matter, a painter. I won’t be attending the services or the interment, but I’m thrilled to see that this particular Sue Katz and I are on the same page: she’s asked for donations to be given to her local public library in Ohio. Cool.