People — musicians, authors and the like — take a big risk when they decide to go on hiatus.
For a while their audience waits in eager anticipation for the next album, the next words. But eventually, the audience can lose interest, and maybe even resent the silence a little. If enough time passes, nothing short of utter genius and strong moves upon re-emergence will satisfy the audience.
Sometimes the break is just long enough, and we rejoice at reacquaintance; other times it’s too long.
It’s a real pity when a fan waits all that time, only to find that once the hiatus has ended, he or she no longer cares about what the musician or author has to offer.
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I had a perfect Sunday.
It started fairly early with a visit to the vet, who deemed young Simon healthy enough to receive but one dose of Prednisone a day. His hematocrit was a robust 32. Barring any anomalies on his full blood panel, we should be able to keep him at 5 mg for just a little while, and then we can wean him off even more.
Naturally I’m happy for what this means for my social life, which has in part revolved around the little one’s medical care. But mostly I’m just ecstatic about his recovery. Nine months ago I thought our time together was about to end, and now he’s so much better, albeit a bit thin. He’s a good boy.
A little later in the day I met a friend at the movie theater. We briefly considered going elsewhere to watch a German movie but quickly determined that we didn’t want to read subtitles at that particular moment. We agreed to see the Sex and the City movie, even though my friend was born without girl parts.
The movie was long and at times horribly predictable. I’d gone in with high expectations, given how much I’d liked the series. “Meh” pretty much sums up my opinion of it. It had its moments, but it was still more or less meh. My friend said his man parts fell off within the first half hour and he’d grown a vagina by the end of it.
After the movie we walked in my neighborhood for a while. We saw my friend’s old apartment building and flirted with the idea of having a margarita nearby. But then good sense prevailed, and we headed south and west to the old standby, El Azteca, home of the best frozen margarita in all of Manhattan, where we sipped and talked television. I got some insider insight about actors and their love lives. The whole thing fascinates me much more than it probably should.
And now, I am here. Simon has received his Fancy Feast and is resting comfortably and lazily upon the dresser.
This week I will start packing and getting quotes for movers, for Brooklyn will soon be my home.
American Shad 