3: January 2002 Archives

I saw a great show at the Cactus this evening, performed by Richard Shindell, a folk songwriter who's obscure enough that my seats were spectacular. I was literally spitting distance away.

There's a connection you can have with an artist, when he's that close, that you can never have in a rock concert. Rock concerts are about a group feeling, about that rush that you get for being part of something so much bigger than you, part of some synergistic crowd whose hearts beat in time. And that's a great thing, a great expression of emotion to have. But in a tiny venue, one where the worst seats in the house are 30 feet away from whoever is on stage, there's something very personal, very vulnerable between the artist and the audience.

When I go to see a show at the Cactus, I'm always reminded of the minstrels and bards of centuries past, who were gifted with a story to tell, which they told in song. And it's always seemed magical to me, the way music and phrasing can create something far more powerful than the story itself might ever have been.

I love the Cactus. It's by far the best way to be introduced to an artist you aren't familiar with. The audience is friendly, the beer is good, and you learn something from the musician that you could never have known just by listening to a CD.

And I found three or four upcoming shows that I fully intend to attend.

...and the thing I missed, when I came home last night drunk on music and fine cuisine, was a call from my aunt Susan asking me (the family rescue expert, it seems) for help. She and my uncle Marty found a tiny kitten hiding in the grass near the freeway when they were out walking. His eye was goopy, and he scratched the hell out of her when she picked him up to put him in a carrier to take him home.

A trip to the vet revealed that little Max had a great deal of trauma, all on the same side of his body. In fact, his injuries are consistent with being thrown off the freeway. His eye will have to be removed, and his leg will need mending. Poor thing -- I hate people sometimes.

In fact, there's been someone here in town throwing kittens off the upper-deck of I-35. True sociopathy, if you ask me. I mean, if you're just trying to get rid of a cat, you can take it to someone's house. You don't leave it on a freeway fifty feet from the ground.

So I sent a note to the rescue group I work with, telling them about this little kitten and asking for help finding him a foster home. It took seven minutes to get four replies, one of which offered the home, if the surgery could be done before that. And several people offered to contribute money.

And it all goes to show how funny life can be -- how you can oscillate between hating and loving mankind, being awestruck by both its cruelty and its kindness.

What a juxtaposition that is.