12 Days of Christmas - Day 8: meow bless us every meow

Another Thursday, another snowstorm. The commute this time out was a breeze, as everyone took the lessons of the previous Thursday to heart and stayed home -- an idea I could totally get behind, if it wasn't for my wife's troubling work ethic. As it was, we made better time getting home last night than we do on a snow-free evening commute, meaning that we got back to Mt. Misery with time to spare...time which was spent shoveling out the driveway and steps from the foot of snow dumped since we left yesterday morning, but still...

I was clearing off the path down to the backyard when Scraggly mysteriously appeared at my feet. Scraggly (a.k.a. Mr. Scraggles) is a solitary soul who belongs to none of the local feral cat colonies, but chooses to go it alone. He's a frequent enough visitor to our house, as he knows we can be relied upon to provide him with a heaping bowl of dry kibble, chicken, and Fancy Feast whenever he turns up.

Unfortunately he's a cagey bastard with an intuitive knowledge of when the folks who spay and neuter ferals make their rounds, though that has been mitigated by our success in getting the female feral population in our vicinity successfully spayed (but not before he put Nubby, our feral-turned-house cat, in the family way a couple of years ago. CooCoo the Marshmallow Ninja is a dead ringer for her deadbeat dad. Jem, not so much.)

I was surprised by Scraggly's appearance last night because he tends to lie low during bad weather, especially when the snow blocks the gap in the back fence he uses as an access route. (We try to keep it clear, but it's difficult to do during ongoing storms. The other day my wife had to walk around the other side of the block to guide one of our lost and crying feral colony members home.) He watched me shovel out the path while waiting for my wife to bring him out his dinner. Once he was finished filling his belly, he turned and headed off down the hillside, leaving behind a trail of footprints in the snow (but no pregnant female cats, thank Providence -- or rather "Thank the Woburn Feral Cat Coalition").

Stiff Little Fingers - White Christmas (Live) (from a 1980 single; collected on Punk Rock Christmas, 1995) - The first time I tried to buy this compilation (at the late, lamented Disc Diggers in Davis Square) I opened up the case in the Papa Gino's down the block only to discover that the disc inside was a Mariah Carey holiday single. A chunk of coal would have been preferable.

My first experience with SLF's material came from an import compliation of live punk tracks. I can't remember the name of the album, but it was pressed on what was intended to be multicolored vinyl, but instead looked like someone puked a mass of half-digested gummy bears on the turntable. While most of the material on the collection was of pretty lousy aesthetic and sound quality, the live version of "Alterative Ulster" included on it was nothing short of outstanding -- rip-snortin' agit-prop punk that held together beautifully in a live performance (a sad-rarity, I hate to say). I shortly afterward picked up the band's Hanx LP, which offered more in-concert punky goodness.

I eventually located a copy of Inflammable Material, the band's debut LP. I expected the world of it based on my previous experiences, but it sounded oddly flat to me; overly produced and studio laminated, possessing none of the jagged yet focused rawness that originally attracted me to SLF. It wasn't that the album wasn't good, but my frame of reference for hearing the songs was centered around the live renditions, and couldn't be budged.

So in honor of Irving Berlin, Mr. Scraggles, and the ghost of Punk-mases past, here's a bit of live holiday cheer for your seasonal enjoyment. It starts rather shambolically, but pays off in spades by the song's end.