or could it all just be me

Last night, Maura was feeding the outdoor cat colony when she noticed that one of the cats, Sioux, had an ugly, suppurating puncture wound on his back. I cleaned it out as best I could with peroxide and a topical antibiotic, but because it was so deep and nasty looking we called the vet’s office to have it looked at. The appointment was at 9:30 this morning, so we figured that we’d take Sioux in, have the cut cleaned out and sutured, then drop the poor guy off at our house before heading into work. If only it turned out to be that simple.

The wound turned out to be a fight injury, which means that we’ll have to crate Sioux up for a minimum of forty-five days. (If we hadn’t gotten him vaccinated for rabies already, we’d have to quarantine him for six months. Being proactive and conscientious pays.) As the pus pocket and scar tissue formation were on the severe side, Sioux also required minor surgery to drain and clean the wound. Maura didn’t anticipate that it would come to that, so didn’t think twice about feeding Sioux this morning, which meant that the surgery had to be delayed until the early afternoon (and we weren’t sure until a half hour ago if we’d even be able to bring him home tonight).

Taking into account the commuting times to and from our jobs and the possibility we’d have to drop everything to pick up Sioux, our plans to at least clock half a day’s work were scrapped and we decided to get some things done around the house instead. In my case, it meant mowing the lawn, a task I happen to love immensely. It’s especially enjoyable when the mower blades come unscrewed while the motor’s running full-bore. Getting to the underside to bolt them back on involves flipping the infernal machine over and flooding the carburetor, thus killing the machine until it dries out. I employed the wait time wisely, watching The Guru on USA -- or more precisely, watching five minute segments of the film (which wasn’t that terrible, to my surprise) intercut with ten minute blocks of commercials.

I did finally get to complete the job, though not without loudly announcing “This will end in either victory or the utter destruction of both the machine and myself….Hopefully not myself,” within earshot of my neighbor who I didn’t realize was out in his own yard. (Eh, if my wife’s singing to the feral cats hadn’t already clued the neighborhood in to what kind of people we are, I’d be more embarrassed…) Because it was still early, and I had nothing else on my plate apart from waiting for the vet’s office to call, I even broke out the weedwhacker and pruning shears and added some finishing touches to the yard. It’s very impressive looking at the moment, although my pride in a job done well is tempered by the knowledge that we’ll back to Crabgrass City by the weekend.

Afterwards, I crashed out for a while and watched Trevor Nunn’s 1996 version of Twelfth Night, featuring Grant Morrison Barry Andrews Patrick Stewart Ben Kingsley turn in a decent performance as the fool, Feste. I’m not so keen on the whole anachronistic setting/costuming trend when it comes to things Shakespearean, but my love for the play (my favorite of all the Bard’s work) kept me from getting too distracted by the faux Victoriana vibe. The idea that anyone could mistake Imogen Stubbs in drag for Steven Macintosh did stretch my suspension of disbelief to the limits, though.

I came away from Twelfth Night with hankering for more dramatic art of the highest caliber, which I was able to find in the form of Mark L. Lester’s 1979 classic attempt to address the problems of post-industrial capitalism, love across class lines, and which leotard looks best with red-sequined roller skates. Shakespeare may not have written Roller Boogie, but he damn sure wishes he had:

Alas, poor Bobby James! I knew him, Jammer: a fellow
of perfectly feathered hair, of most excellent satin hot pants: he hath
done the eight-wheeled cha cha with me a thousand times; and now,
what a major bummer it is! my buzz harshes at it.

(Not many people are aware of this, but Xanadu was based on an early Folio draft of Coriolanus. The Japanese-only laserdisc featuring the original ending where Gene Kelly eviscerates Michael Beck during an elaborate tap dance sequence goes for big bucks on eBay.)

In the time since I began putting together this post, poor Sioux has come home from the vet’s. He’s a bit groggy and depressed, but doing well otherwise:

So there you have it, my day so far – an epic tale of mundanity, otherwise known simply as life.

Here are two relevant tracks by two bands whose fairly impressive bodies of work were overshadowed by the public awareness singularities called the “signature hit.”

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Simple Minds – Life in a Day (from Life in a Day, 1979)

Modern English – Life in the Gladhouse (from After the Snow, 1982)