I am trying to get ready for calendar season. We went to a Sunday night "tooth fairy" benefit show at Shea Stadium. They were raising money for somebody to get dental work done, I guess? I was there for The So So Glos, and to show myself that going out a Sunday night is still okay.
The first band was called Krill, which is a pretty funny name for a bunch of delicate-looking young white dudes. Name notwithstanding, they were pretty good -- yelped, plaintive singing over trebly guitar -- although they committed the venial sin of not introducing or outtroducing themselves. They didn't say much of anything at all, in fact.
Juan Waters was up next. He's small; got a neat haircut, dresses conservatively in a collared shirt and sweater. Behind him, someone had erected a kind of stand-up canvas painting of a luchador that had fairy lights exed across it, and fairy lights spelling out "N. A. P.," which, I think, now that I look it up on the Internet, stands for North American Poetry, the name of his new album. The lights flashed in time to his strumming. There was also a caged utility light attached to a stand in front of him and angled up at his chin as he perched on a stool, giving him the appearance of a camp counselor at a campfire. Aside from that, the stage was dark, and he was the only performer. His songs are on the long side, and his vocals are a mix of talk-singing and his earnest -- if not always pitch-perfect -- tenor. The songs are up-tempo but also sad and meditative. He's a bit snaggle-toothed, such that his face has a mournful caste. "It's a shame," he sang, toward the end of his set, "that everybody wants to look the same."
In between sets, Patrick Stickles was DJing, looking gaunt, not quite clean-shaven but not quite William Tecumseh Sherman, either. He played some Clash, I think, and a song off the forthcoming Titus Andronicus album. Later, he took the microphone and came down from the engineering booth, soliloquizing as he walked around the half-empty room. "I moved to this city to follow my dreams of becoming a rock star," he said to no one in particular. "But now that I'm here, nothing is real and everything is bullshit." I agree. It's worth saying. Eric Harm was working the bar. Nina and I stepped outside for some air. It smelled sweet on the balcony, whiffs of maple syrup drifting from the north or maybe from Newtown Creek to the east. We watched the bouncers frisking people outside the shitty club right across the street. There's a furniture store next door to the club, and sometimes some old guys that work there sit in front of it and talk. Sometimes they start a little fire in an oil drum and cook things on it. No one was there that night.
The So So Glos took the stage a bit after 11. Adam Reich was subbing in for Elkin, who was absent from the lineup. I'd wanted to watch them, but I was pooped and apprehensive about getting to work on time the next morning, so we only stayed for a couple of songs. "It's up to all of us to keep this place safe," Alex Levine said as the band was tuning up, explaining that people live and work at the Stadium. "This is a fragile thing. It's a..." They launched into "House of Glass." They sounded great, as usual. We discarded our beer cans, did bathroom. They started to play "Diss Town," one of my "best faves" from Blowout, but it was bed time, and I wrenched myself away. Stax was pacing in the stairwell as we left. "Good night," I said. He looked understandably confused.
Kitty update.
When Mer and I adopted Kitty back in 2003 (?), we were the first people we knew to adopt a pet, and, believe it or not, it felt kind of bold -- maybe even transgressive -- to make a fifteen year (median) commitment to a five-year-old cat with a scabby tummy and a dirty bottom. Kitty was a conversation piece, especially when she'd eat a cockroach or throw up mouse parts into the Elizabethan collar we were making her wear for some reason or another. But so is Prez, now, and Bug, and Sam and Sasha. Everybody has a cat. What are the accessories and events that provide real emphasis to the hours of our lives? People get married and have babies. People get new jobs or phones. I bought a new laptop that inexplicably has a touchscreen.
So what of Kitty? The Rase sometimes emails to make sure Kitty's not dead. She's not dead. But she's visibly old. She smells more like the litter box more often, and her meowing is louder and more frequent. I took her to Animal Kind, where they diagnosed her with hypertheroidism. Treating it will make her kidney disease worse. Otherwise, they said, she's in pretty good shape for a fifteen-year-old cat. Nina's begun a habituation regimen of picking her up, holding her 'til she reaches peak fussiness, then returning her to earth and rewarding her with a bit of dehydrated chicken treat. Me, I just superman her up and down the length of the apartment, which she tolerates surprisingly well. One day I'll probably have to have her put down. Right before that happens, though, we're going to feed her as much fish as she wants.