I have been thinking about this for a while. I always get the inspiration to write about it when I'm about a billion miles away from a computer, hobnobbing with celebrities or performing open-heart surgery. Yes - you guessed it - I'm talking about birds.
This is the time of year birds are either getting a late start on vacationing to the warmer southern weather or are hung up around Virginia thinking, "You know, it was 60 degrees here. Maybe we should just stay home and save some money this year." Every time I step outside, the sky is peppered with a multitude (love that word) of our feathered friends. They glide, meander and undulate like a giant winged serpent, shifting this way and that as if each bird was a single cell in a giant organism. It's pretty impressive, actually, and I would appreciate it more if I didn't have to see my car covered in some Jackson Pollock-inspired white polka dot disgrace.
That's something I'm not sure if I envy about birds or not. They can fly and poop at the same time. Not that I'm a fan of someone who can walk while doing that, but, I'll leave it to the great Mark Twain to bail me out here when he said, "Humans are the only animals that blush - or have a need to." I can only imagine the dialogue on the winds:
"Did you just poop?"
"You bet I did."
"Awesome."
This very thought of horror strikes me whenever I walk through a parking lot - and it invariably ALWAYS happens in a parking lot. There I am, walking to my car, with no other people within a lion roar's distance and I'll see a bird cresting over a distant floodlight. Me. Bird. About a zillion acres of open sky upon which to fly. And wouldn't you know it - that damned bird will fly DIRECTLY over me. It happens every time. I can see it play out in my head as this demon bird spies me loping over to my car and he's looking at me like a frat guy does when a ditzy freshman girl brings her own bottle of tequila to the party.
"Oh, I'm all OVER this action!"
As soon as I see him, I spring into a labored sprint, my heart pounding like a giant Japanese Kodo drum, wind whipping through my unfortunately graying hair. The bird goes into his dive. I fumble for the keys, drop them, and accidentally kick them under the car. Smooth. The bird makes a pass and banks hard. I grab the keys and with the grace of Frankenstein's monster in a slam dunk competition, hoist myself up, unlock the door, toss myself in and slam the door as a giant Superturd splashes across my windshield. I look out the driver's side window at the things I bought still outside the car, do a quick cost-benefit analysis, and peel out, leaving my goods for some other brave soul to collect.
Scientists would have us believe dinosaurs were most closely related to today's birds. I'll spare you the scientific mumbo-jumbo, but let's just say they have a lot of compelling evidence. It set me to thinking. Every year, some new prehistoric fossil is discovered, debated and hypothesized upon. It's only a matter of time before we find skeletons for a Finchosaurus, Flamingoraptor or Tyrannosaurus Duck. It makes me wonder what a robin would be thinking, as it's sitting on a branch, watching me stroll on by:
"You know, about 60 million years ago, I could take you. Probably still can."
Don't laugh. If an eagle came screaming down at you, guess who would win? Here's a hint: it wouldn't be you. Their talons are so strong, they could crush your skull like a soda can. Fortunately, we don't have a lot of eagle-on-human fatalities in this country, but I'm not about to move to the Pacific Northwest to pick a fight in the upper branches of redwood tree, either. Then again, the bird world did deliver the dodo to our planet. Pleasantly stupid, like your typical American Idol voter, when the first human explorers landed, they greeted the arrival of their invaders:
"Jolly good! I see we've got some company!"
"Let's go and welcome them to our little island."
"They have strange feathers. We should not insult them with our intelligence. Let's act dumb."
Unfortunately, the recently-landed humans didn't have access to Wikipedia, so they interpreted their welcome as, "Please hunt us! Feed us to your dogs! Give us diseases! Oh, hell, just wipe us out entirely!" Being the infinitely noble creatures we humans are, they gladly obliged, because, as we all know, we always do what's best for nature and the environment. The Passenger Pigeon used to be as abundant as bed bugs on your college comforter - you know, the one you never washed. A migration could literally blot out the sun for several days. Before you could say, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid," gun enthusiasts started mowing them down in a spectacularly impressive display of feathered genocide until they were completely erased from our planet. Good times (unless you were a Passenger Pigeon).
Outside of hunting them for food or sport, poisoning them and eradicating their living environments, humans and birds have found a way to coexist for many thousands of years. Chicken is the most popular meat consumed in the free world. People eat duck, goose, ostrich, and if I had my way, Sylvester would have long ago chowed down on Tweety. It's only a matter of time before the tables turn and turkeys are shoving breading up our keisters and giving thanks every fourth Thursday in November.
But, they won't get me! I'm flying south.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
43
I turned 43 today.
Now, for those of who have already seen this birthday come and go, it's no big deal, I'm sure. To be honest with you, there really is nothing significant about being 43. I'm already old enough to legally drive, vote, drink, see an R-rated movie and rent a car without someone older than me being present. I suppose I am rather ambivalent towards my 43rd year, as if I had just received a piece of mail addressed to "Occupant" or found a dollar bill in the pocket of an old jacket.
When I was younger, I always used Elvis Presley as my barometer for aging. Many a time I would play this game with my friend, Jim Anderson, where I would say, "Do you realize we are closer to Elvis's age when he died than we are to when we were 21?" Jim would fire back with, "Do you realize there are kids in college who weren't even born when we were at school?" This always elicited a shoulder-slumping "Whoa" that would make Keanu Reeves envious. I realize now that I have outlasted The King, thank you very much, but my contributions to society are just a hair shy of what he accomplished. This is where the proverbial rubber meets the road:
"What have I done in my life?"
The short answer is: not a damned thing. The long answer would read like a resume that pumps up your middling achievements so much you stand back and say, "Hey, I'm fairly incredible." We all know the truth, of course. We are greater than we think and yet not as great as we think. We tend to look at ourselves as the sum of our potentials and not what we have actually achieved; likewise, when we are self-critical, we favor looking at what we achieved short of what we have not yet achieved. Follow that? If you need a few minutes with a Rush record and a Rubik's Cube to figure it out, be my guest.
I'm not sure of what the average life expectance is today, but by the time I get there, it will be several years beyond where it is now, if all goes according to trends. I suppose by the time I am 80, the average person will live to be 100. Who knows, maybe some day people will look at Methuselah and cluck their tongues, saying, "Shame he died so young." Then again, there was no junk food in Antiquity, so perhaps Methuselah wouldn't have made it much past his teens if Cheetos, Ring Dings and Pizza Hut merchants were cluttering up the halls of the temple. It set me to thinking. Who have I outlasted? What great minds and artists failed to answer the bell of Round 43? How would I stack up with those people? Thought you'd never ask:
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Died at 35. Wrote a few tunes, had a movie made of his life played by Pinto from Animal House and had more musical talent in his ear wax than 99.9% of the people making alleged "music" today. Me: I've had a bass guitar since 1982 and did the Snoopy Dance when I finally was able to play the opening of Pink Floyd's "Money" last year. Advantage: Mozart.
Edgar Allen Poe: Died at 40. One of the greatest modern writers in history, invented the mystery, wrote classic macabre poems, knew stuff about ravens and pendulums and stuff. Me: I can barely read. Advantage: Poe.
Bruce Lee: Died at 32. Played Kato in The Green Hornet, had a famous son who also died young, knew a few karate moves. Me: I can't sneeze without throwing my back out. Advantage: Lee.
Jean-Michel Basquiat: Died at 27. Graffiti-artist-turned-great post-modernist/neo-expressionist painter, influenced a whole generation of self-taught artists, had the Lenny Kravitz look stone cold before anyone new who Lenny Kravitz was. Me: I don't even know how to write cursive anymore. Advantage: Basquiat.
I could go on and on. History, both recent and not-so-recent, is chock-full of people who probably accomplished more by the time they could pee straight than I have up to this very moment - or ever will. I guess not all of us were destined for greatness, except for maybe me, but maybe it's the reaching, the grasping, that makes us great. Think on this: everyone considers their children to be special. Your parents considered you to be special, too. If all of us were special as children, then it stands to reason we are special as adults. If all of us are special, then none of us are special. If none of us are special, at which point in our lives did we cease being special? Think about that for a while.
Me? I'll be playing with my Rubik's Cube.
Now, for those of who have already seen this birthday come and go, it's no big deal, I'm sure. To be honest with you, there really is nothing significant about being 43. I'm already old enough to legally drive, vote, drink, see an R-rated movie and rent a car without someone older than me being present. I suppose I am rather ambivalent towards my 43rd year, as if I had just received a piece of mail addressed to "Occupant" or found a dollar bill in the pocket of an old jacket.
When I was younger, I always used Elvis Presley as my barometer for aging. Many a time I would play this game with my friend, Jim Anderson, where I would say, "Do you realize we are closer to Elvis's age when he died than we are to when we were 21?" Jim would fire back with, "Do you realize there are kids in college who weren't even born when we were at school?" This always elicited a shoulder-slumping "Whoa" that would make Keanu Reeves envious. I realize now that I have outlasted The King, thank you very much, but my contributions to society are just a hair shy of what he accomplished. This is where the proverbial rubber meets the road:
"What have I done in my life?"
The short answer is: not a damned thing. The long answer would read like a resume that pumps up your middling achievements so much you stand back and say, "Hey, I'm fairly incredible." We all know the truth, of course. We are greater than we think and yet not as great as we think. We tend to look at ourselves as the sum of our potentials and not what we have actually achieved; likewise, when we are self-critical, we favor looking at what we achieved short of what we have not yet achieved. Follow that? If you need a few minutes with a Rush record and a Rubik's Cube to figure it out, be my guest.
I'm not sure of what the average life expectance is today, but by the time I get there, it will be several years beyond where it is now, if all goes according to trends. I suppose by the time I am 80, the average person will live to be 100. Who knows, maybe some day people will look at Methuselah and cluck their tongues, saying, "Shame he died so young." Then again, there was no junk food in Antiquity, so perhaps Methuselah wouldn't have made it much past his teens if Cheetos, Ring Dings and Pizza Hut merchants were cluttering up the halls of the temple. It set me to thinking. Who have I outlasted? What great minds and artists failed to answer the bell of Round 43? How would I stack up with those people? Thought you'd never ask:
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Died at 35. Wrote a few tunes, had a movie made of his life played by Pinto from Animal House and had more musical talent in his ear wax than 99.9% of the people making alleged "music" today. Me: I've had a bass guitar since 1982 and did the Snoopy Dance when I finally was able to play the opening of Pink Floyd's "Money" last year. Advantage: Mozart.
Edgar Allen Poe: Died at 40. One of the greatest modern writers in history, invented the mystery, wrote classic macabre poems, knew stuff about ravens and pendulums and stuff. Me: I can barely read. Advantage: Poe.
Bruce Lee: Died at 32. Played Kato in The Green Hornet, had a famous son who also died young, knew a few karate moves. Me: I can't sneeze without throwing my back out. Advantage: Lee.
Jean-Michel Basquiat: Died at 27. Graffiti-artist-turned-great post-modernist/neo-expressionist painter, influenced a whole generation of self-taught artists, had the Lenny Kravitz look stone cold before anyone new who Lenny Kravitz was. Me: I don't even know how to write cursive anymore. Advantage: Basquiat.
I could go on and on. History, both recent and not-so-recent, is chock-full of people who probably accomplished more by the time they could pee straight than I have up to this very moment - or ever will. I guess not all of us were destined for greatness, except for maybe me, but maybe it's the reaching, the grasping, that makes us great. Think on this: everyone considers their children to be special. Your parents considered you to be special, too. If all of us were special as children, then it stands to reason we are special as adults. If all of us are special, then none of us are special. If none of us are special, at which point in our lives did we cease being special? Think about that for a while.
Me? I'll be playing with my Rubik's Cube.
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