Went to a play, and finally a little good news.
Well, Mystie and I (and Best Friend and Marvamillion) went to the Centaur to see Life After George to-night, and I have to say that I enjoyed it immensely. I wonder if my generation's children will look back on us with anything resembling the disdain that GenX-ers feel towards baby Boomers? Will it be because we buckled under and became corporate automatons without even *trying* to change the world? Will it be for something else? I don't know. It's not going to keep me up nights, though.
But a thought did occur to me while I was sitting in the audience just before showtime. I looked about and saw a field of grey heads, punctuated here and there by the stark, severe sex-appeal of a young artsy type or two, and realised that theatre is in very real danger of becoming as irrelevant as, say, opera. Theatre is not affordable for the common Joe. Hell, movies are going that way too, I guess, but there is a very distinct line above which the common person can't afford to go, and theatre is being increasingly priced above it. You won't see just anyone sitting in the seats at teh Centaur because tickets are priced out of the common Montréalais' range. Just like there are no real New Yorkers sitting in the audiences on Broadway (by which I mean actual New York people: the bus drivers and mailmen and garbagemen and high school teachers, not the scintillating upper crust of Manhattan. They match the same crust of any north American city, or whatever. I know because I've rubbed elbows with some.) Theatre these days is mostly being packaged and marketed to the same ever-shrinking and ever more exclusive group of patrons and socialites, ripping it out of the beating heart of honest culture. I don't want it to be this way. Theatre should be allowed to shriek its way through the experiences of everyone, everywhere, not just those of the self-appointed Upper Crust.
Mystie and I also went to visit Tarot at the vet to-day. While Mystie continued the book I'd been reading to Tarot, the vet took me aside and showed me some new X-rays and told me that they absolutely *had* to do some exploratory surgery -- fast. Partly to relieve some of the pressure in his poor, bloated stomach before something ruptured, partly to find out what the fuck was wrong. She told me that, after a week of this, the intestines might have deteriorated past the point of no return, that some organs might have started to give up, and that it would be better for her to euthanise him while he was on the table, rather than bringing him out of the stupor just to put him down. I signed the paper, though I could hardly see through the (yet more) tears. Then she told me to be contactable all day, and that she'd call me as soon as she knew anything.
At about 16h30 or so, the vet called me to say that the operation was a success and that the whole ordeal was Tarot's own fault: a piece of a string he'd chewed had blocked the intestine. she took it out and set it aside for me to look at.
He's not out of the woods yet; some enzyme or something is so low that it's possible his intestines will disintegrate around the sutures and he'll bleed to death over night, but she thinks he'll be fine. They're keeping him until Monday.
But they haven't told me what the final rice is going to be. I have decided not to worry about it right now. I deserve to be happy that my cat is still alive right now.
||Gods save the Queen,
One last little note... - 09.21.2006
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Mildly stressed... - 05.29.2006
More crime stupidity - 05.28.2006
Scary stuff - 05.25.2006
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