Hookers or Cake

Where the self-obsessed get serious about silly
I'm too wacky to be hip.

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      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • October 6, 2012 11:59 pm
            A bird or something flew right smack dab into the big window in the living room. My mother let out a little shriek and I went outside to see. It was a little bird, lying behind the rose bushes. It looked like it was dead but it still seemed to be breathing so I ran back inside and found a little shoe box, put some toilet paper in it and then went back outside. The bird hadn’t moved. I covered it in toilet paper so I didn’t give it my scent. I’d read somewhere that if a bird has the scent of a human on it it would be shunned or killed by the other birds. Doesn’t make much sense now that I think about it, maybe that was just something adults told us so we weren’t handling wild animals. Anyway, I picked up this little bird and placed it gently in the shoe box. I put the box in my room and drew the shade. I came in a few times during the day to check on it and to leave it some water and seeds and fruit. When I went to bed the bird opened its eyes and began whisper to me.Bright secrets about the things that no one knew about. How if you listen real close you can hear the stars singing old Animal Collective songs and how Hitler had actually been a robot made by the sun gods to keep us in line. Also how all little birds are all incorrigible drunks. Thankfully birds are so little it only takes a thimble full of whiskey to get them hammered. The Professor, that was my little birds name, well his full name was Professor Nigel Kendricks, but I always called him Professor or sometimes Nigel if I was overcome by drink and being sentimental. Well, the professor only drank half a fifth of Chivas the whole time he was here. And some nights he’d get tore up, singing about the old country, and when he first learned to fly. How he’d lost his wife and was all alone now… and then he’d get sad and fly around the house banging into shit until I’d open a window. He’d fly off to God knows where but he’d always be back in the morning, passed out on the front stoop. Then one morning the neighbors cat got him and that was that. Luckily he was out cold and hopefully didn’t feel a thing. So yeah, I guess I miss him sometimes, he was a good bird.


            A bird or something flew right smack dab into the big window in the living room. My mother let out a little shriek and I went outside to see. It was a little bird, lying behind the rose bushes. It looked like it was dead but it still seemed to be breathing so I ran back inside and found a little shoe box, put some toilet paper in it and then went back outside. The bird hadn’t moved. I covered it in toilet paper so I didn’t give it my scent. I’d read somewhere that if a bird has the scent of a human on it it would be shunned or killed by the other birds. Doesn’t make much sense now that I think about it, maybe that was just something adults told us so we weren’t handling wild animals. Anyway, I picked up this little bird and placed it gently in the shoe box. I put the box in my room and drew the shade. I came in a few times during the day to check on it and to leave it some water and seeds and fruit. When I went to bed the bird opened its eyes and began whisper to me.

            Bright secrets about the things that no one knew about. How if you listen real close you can hear the stars singing old Animal Collective songs and how Hitler had actually been a robot made by the sun gods to keep us in line. Also how all little birds are all incorrigible drunks. Thankfully birds are so little it only takes a thimble full of whiskey to get them hammered. The Professor, that was my little birds name, well his full name was Professor Nigel Kendricks, but I always called him Professor or sometimes Nigel if I was overcome by drink and being sentimental. Well, the professor only drank half a fifth of Chivas the whole time he was here. And some nights he’d get tore up, singing about the old country, and when he first learned to fly. How he’d lost his wife and was all alone now… and then he’d get sad and fly around the house banging into shit until I’d open a window. He’d fly off to God knows where but he’d always be back in the morning, passed out on the front stoop. Then one morning the neighbors cat got him and that was that. Luckily he was out cold and hopefully didn’t feel a thing. So yeah, I guess I miss him sometimes, he was a good bird.

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