Starving Cat Chronicles, cont.; Retro Revue

Good news on the kitty front. All Pavlov's tests came back fine. No diabetes, no thyroid or kidney problems. Hopefully the medication will settle his innards down so that he can digest better and put on some weight. I'm going to call the vet later today to ask about supplementing his kibble with some favorite people foods. The thing he seems most attracted to is cheese. Any kind, but the smellier the better. If we open a package of feta or sharp cheddar, he will race to the kitchen from wherever he is, plant himself at the edge of our counter, and rock back and forth as he breathes deep draughts of cheese funk. You'd think there was catnip up there. I'm not going to feed it to him if he can't handle it, but if he can...maybe I'll treat him to some Iams provolone or Science Diet au gratin in hopes of bulking him up.

Kristine had a hard day at work yesterday and spent most of the night collapsed on the couch. She as wathching TV, and one of the shows that came on was NBC's Hit Me Baby One More Time, where pop stars of the 80s or early 90s trot out their greatest (or sometimes, only) hit for a studio full of manically appreciative fans (many of whom weren't born when these songs were first released). I saw a couple bits of it while passing through the living room, and had watched part of the first episode last week, and have mixed feelings about it. I did like some of the artists back in their day, and don't mind hearing their music now. But I like to think of them as they were then, and maybe of myself as I was when I first heard them. If I hear, say, a Howard Jones song on the radio, I might think back to the time I was starting college, the friends I had then, the odd satisfaction of hearing people I didn't like declare that Howard Jones was a stupid faggot. Music by itself can allow you to slip out of the present. But when you're between household tasks, sitting in a living room you note is badly in need of renovation, watching Howard Jones perfom an old hit today (and a song I thought marked his loss of cool, no less), looking like an overworked banker more than twice as old as most of the people in the audience (some of whom resemble the people who called him stupid 20 years ago), it's hard to think of much except that fact that you're getting old. Instead of evoking pleasant memories of youth, the spectacle impresses on you that past a certain point, you shouldn't try too hard to reclaim it.

Not that I really disdain any of those musicians for trotting out their old hits and striving for a comeback. It's got to be a better way of making a living than, say, telemarketing. Or teaching English.