For the Birds

Not unlike wine aficionados or sexual deviants, birdwatchers live in a convoluted world—one that’s governed by pretension and riddled with jargon. This esoteric world is the construct of posturing elitists who aim to fend off the weekend-warrior dilettantes that are encroaching on their turf. The barrier to entry is illusory, however, and should be wholly disregarded (as the birding elite are a categorically feeble gaggle, capable of little more than hurling whispered insults and pine cones).

Actual admittance into the birding enclave requires little more than patience and a few choice sundries. To wit: binoculars; a flask (to fend off boredom); a Gameboy (ditto); an air horn (to alert fellow birders of a specimen); parachute pants (to carry aforementioned bric-à-brac); and finally, a net (should you take a liking to a particular bird).

The first rule of birdwatching is to make sure you don’t make the critical error of confusing a bat with a bird. Bats are virtually indistinguishable from prepubescent Ravens and other smallish black birds, like Blackbirds. Despite their evil coloring, black birds are mostly harmless—preferring to attack worms and rodents, or, on rare occasion, sleeping infants. Should you encounter a bat, just freeze—as these leather-clad sky-rats are wont to indulge in a Bacchanalian frenzy at the first sign of spilled blood or motion. In fact, their only redeemable quality is the fact that they don’t defecate. Instead, they excrete guano—a tangy Mayan delicacy.

While bats are indeed extremely dangerous, their occultic powers are only a thing of legend. Bats cannot turn into Draculas or goths. If you actually believed that, then here’s another news flash for you: That teenage werewolf point-guard was just Michael J. Fox in fake fur and a jockstrap. (However, those foreign wolf boy carnies are real—but, thankfully, they prefer cotton candy to human flesh, and they can be killed with regular led bullets.)

Should you have trouble telling black bird from a bat, just revert to this folkloric maxim: If it’s not in a cave, it won’t put you in the grave. (Our lawyers insist, however, that the bird flu pandemic has technically nullified this bit of folksy wisdom. But, for the record, this so-called bird flu theory comes from the same godless knob-twirlers who think we came from walking fish and monkey men. So believe what you will.)

While on a birdwatching excursion, you should understand that it’s highly unlikely you’ll encounter any talking tropical birds (or, parrots, as they’re known in academic circles.) Hollywood’s responsible for perpetuating the myth that parrots are wisecracking pirate wingmen, so to speak. Like most myths, however, this tall-tale is rooted in truth. During the pirate heyday (circa the Olden Days), pirates commonly plied their shoulder-birds with rum and “hull wine.” This resulted in chronic diarrhea of the mouth, and elsewhere. Mimicking their fowl-mouthed owners only solidified their notoriety. But parrots are not sentient beings. Like car show spokeswomen and Alaskan governors, they have no comprehension of the words they utter.

Birds, while severely retarded, do have a highly evolved sense of animal instinct. They’re acutely aware of their surroundings and potential predatory threats. Therefore, it’s important that you don’t allow your birdwatching to escalate into bird-stalking. This slippery slope can occur when fixated on a rare bird (or a sexy, human-sized bird, like a Flamingo.) Dive-bombing can often result.

A bird’s nervous system, on the other hand, is relatively primitive. This means their pain threshold is slightly higher than the average bi-ped—comparable to that of a functioning-alcoholic on a fistful of codeine. (Owls are the one exception, however, having a level of sensitivity (and spite) that’s on par with a bubble boy.) Some fringe birders actually exploit the birds’ marginal capacity for pain with BB guns. “No harm, no fowl,” so the mantra goes. These rogues are known as “two-pump chumps”—as two pumps of the gun generally inflicts the most severe amount of non-lethal carnage. Like the skiing/shooting dynamic of the Biathlon, this sport combines passive leisure with firearms. Unlike the Biathlon, however, this sport was conceived by impotent rage and liquor—as opposed to, say, Viking bloodlust and spandex.

Lastly, it’s important that you don’t get bogged down by all the idiosyncratic details of birding. Just have fun out there! Because it’s an irrefutable fact that birdwatching can cause such a degree of crippling boredom that not even high-grade narcotics or Jesus can absolve it.

Battle of the Band

While attending a college football game in Illinois last fall, I had the distinct displeasure of sitting directly behind the marching band. My proximity was such that I was a mere acne outbreak and Sgt. Pepper suit away of being numbered amongst them. Oblivious to everything but my immediate environs, I sat there inundated with a barrage of collegiate fight songs (composed primarily of Queen ballads from their ubiquitous taunting sports anthems era, namely "We Are the Champions" and "We Will Rock You"). Amid one of these spirited renditions, a cymbal clash exploded like 12 gauge buckshot into my skull. And like the Apostle Paul's blinding-light epiphany, I came to suddenly recognize the paradox that has plagued band members since the dawn of The Brass Age: They're forced to cheer on their most ardent tormentors.

While the disparity between the band and the football team is considerably more polarizing in high school than in college, the basic stratagem still persists. Several years of maturity can only do so much to erode the monolithic partitions that have so stringently divided the opposing social castes. Therefore, to the average incoming-freshman-tuba-player's dismay, the aggrandized utopian ideal that is college never quite lives up to the Promised Land lore that he and his ilk have so heavily relied upon for perseverance while marching aimlessly through four years of barren adolescence. That’s because social standing is a salient thing. For historical evidence I point to the unsuspecting Tri-Lambdas from "Revenge of the Nerds."

Unlike Hollywood's hyperbolic depiction, however, the outright mockery and bullying that once prevailed, now more likely exists as a deluded animosity—taking the form of peripheral contempt, if not indifference. This, however, can be equally detrimental, as some individuals strive for attention no matter if they're the resident butt of the joke. Samuel "Screech" Powers, for example, was the embodiment of this self-flagellating phenomenon.

Band members—once resigned to weekends consisting of no more than Jolt-fueled toilet-papering escapades, youth group bowling, and/or clandestine "Magic: The Gathering" benders—are now suddenly exposed to the coming-of-age taboos that had formerly eluded them. Because it's common knowledge that those of a more prominent social standing are the default pioneers of the venerable vices (with possible exception to the black-leather-jacket-clad-cigarette-smokers of impending meth connoisseurship who mutter darkly about everything short of Metallica's pre-Load lyrics). But band members—once emancipated from the social stigma and parental scrutiny that high school proffers—naturally gravitate toward the vices long deprived of them. This Pavlovian response, when compounded with their preconditioned misfit proclivity, cause band members to seek out a subgenre that falls under the overarching Marching Band Umbrella. Prominent subgenres include: emo, neo-hippie, electroclash, punk, cowpunk, trustafarian, Norwegian death metal, twee, lesbian vegan, indie, goth, Wiccan, riot grrrl, ska, or—in extreme cases—rockabilly.

Barring this subgenre phenomenon, cloves would be all but nonexistent. And Morrisey would still be wallowing along the piss-laden curbs of London Town instead of reigning supreme as the Asexual Godhead of Heartfelt Misery. Affiliation with these subgenres—whether born of true affinity or mere convenience—provides a sanctuary of camaraderie and commiseration that serves as a formidable defense mechanism against the cutthroat realities of social hierarchy. Fraternities and Elks Lodges similarly serve the same purpose, despite existing on the opposite end of the spectrum.

When considering the unforgiving and hostile order that nature operates within, it's conceivable that the Football/Band dynamic is just one of the many symbiotic relationships that coexist in nature—one which ultimately helps foster and condition the various components essential to achieving both of their respective objectives. Opposing forces are at the core of our existence, after all: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, gravity's pull vs. Earth’s push, etc. And beyond the physics of it, there is also an epic rivalry to account for. What would Batman be without the Joker? Or God without Satan? Or Gallagher without Watermelon?

Above all else, the football team's success is dependant upon competitiveness—the animal aggression waged to defeat its foe. Whereas the band's success is dependent upon its ability to perform in concert—the refined precision in pursuit of harmony. Given the essential qualities that each faction requires to optimally perform, I'd deduce that the football team—though likely unaware of it—extracts its competitive sustenance by exerting its physical dominance over the most visibly feeble peers (which can often be found in band, for whatever reason). This reflex allows them to exercise their aggressive nature and reaffirm their superiority complex, which is of no little importance come game day. Such displays of dominance can take many forms. The swirly is a perennial favorite, as is the incapacitating kidney shot and the shaming rib eye.

The band, on the other hand, garners its requisite vitality in an inverse manner. The cruel actions confronting various band members cause them to circle the wagons and retreat to their safe place, be it the mother ship of band or the divergent subgenres therein. This reaction inevitably strengthens peer bonding and edifies their ability to perform harmoniously. As Bob Dylan so eloquently put it, "It's strange how people who suffer together have stronger connections than people who are most content." And it's only a minor coincidence that Dylan's band was, in fact, named "The Band." Though I imagine the only kidney shots they ever took were from Jack Daniels.

In conclusion, that the whole of a band's existence is to cheer on the very souls whose rage is the bane of their existence is a tragedy of Grecian proportion. But only when this visceral dynamic is observed from a removed and objective vantage can we come to recognize the synergetic aspects by which both the band and the football team ultimately benefit.

As ever, I turn to Bette "The Divine Miss M" Midler to sum it up best:

From a distance
There is harmony
And it echoes through the land
It’s the voice of hope
It’s the voice of peace
It’s the voice of every man

Jazz Reductio

A corona of sun is blistering on the otherwise black horizon as my Japanese fighting fish engage in the ancient art of war. An ornamental pair of weighted cloisonné balls, idyllically painted with the mythical Phoenix Dragon, rotate harmoniously in my palm as I channel the eternal resonance of the chi (a thing of vital import when suspended in midair by one’s diametrically stretched out legs which bridge the span of two petrified stumps spaced approximately five feet in distance). It is in these moments that I’m most clairvoyant.

Suspended here I listen to NPR, moreover Fresh Air with host Terri Gross. She currently lobs softballs to a lackadaisical Branford Marsallis: one of notable jazz and Leno lineage. It’s an acquired taste, this jazz - like martinis, or Harpo Marx. It’s a sound I’ve not been able to wrap my generally ajar head around. It’s a sound I regard with the same fervor as long division. And I’m not referring to the readily damnable whitewashed redux jazz of the Kenny G’entrification genre. I’m talking about the origin cool. The rim-shot fueled blue fire of bohemians, hipsters and literati alike.

Perhaps ignorantly I regard jazz to be overly emphatic on function over form. I find it to be calculated background static; unlyrical and solo-strewn drum and bass and saxophone drones of cacophonic desolation, instilling the marginal passion and sullen void of barroom ghosts and junkies. While I’m all for a little smoke-lit, back alley Beat romanticism, this musical vehicle of general association leaves me with a sense of a nonplussed collapse, much the same as a convertible stalled along an open stretch of American highway. Potential energy in a kinetic funk. Pendulums rusted by the drizzle of rains.

The esoteric equations, guised as melding collisions, are more effective, and subsequently affective, when sparsely entwined amid an emotive harmony in a movement like, say, Astral Weeks. For in the celestial words of Freidrich Nietzsche, you must have chaos to give birth to a dancing star. (rim-shot!)


Jefferson’s two cents: Ain’t nuthin’ funny ’bout that one.

Click Click, Bang Bang

Since its inception, Internet marketing has managed to eclipse all other forms of media in terms of insulting our collective intelligence. But rarely has this condescension been so blatantly evident as it is with these “shoot the target” banner ads – the ones which transform cursors into cross-hairs with which to draw beads and fire upon whatever target they’ve elected, be it fowl, fauna, or floating Screech heads. Now, this shooting gallery exercise would be a reasonable ploy if there were the slightest modicum of skill required. But these myopic marketers are so dead-set on having us click through to whatever site they’ve concocted, that merely shooting anywhere within the banner’s confines is sufficient enough to ostensibly win a free iPod or Xbox or whatever new-fangled contraption they’re baiting you with in a Faustian exchange for your infinite subscriptions.

At its basest level these ads are blatant lies: You don’t have to hit the target to win the prize. But propagating lies is nothing new to this enclave. What’s curious, however, is that there coexists a dilemma on their own behalf that these marketers have either failed to recognize or neglected to address. While this pseudo-videogame gambit may have initially piqued the interest of the more playful of the web-browsing patronage, the device immediately loses its luster due to the dawning realization that one’s marksmanship is completely irrelevant. In essence, playing a game in which all competition is drained of it is about as rewarding as candy cigarettes or dry humping. Their de facto message is comparable to that of the Special Olympics, in that we are all of us winners.

Which brings me to my next point: If one is incapable of hitting a veritable throng of targets moving at a glacier’s clip, then there can be no plausible explanation other than that the person is radically handicapped (And even then, you know what they say about a room full of monkeys with typewriters and Shakespeare and whatnot). But if the individual is indeed handicapped—or disabled, if you prefer—then any transactions that may transpire can be decreed null by law. And I can only assume these website provocateurs are privy to this loophole, given the astronomical amount of porn site subscriptions retracted by special ed. parents and caretakers since the dawn of the Internet.

And so the question is: If the average citizen is wise to this “shoot the target” contrivance, and the mentally-hindered populace is exempt from its trappings, then who’s responsible for sustaining its existence? In order to uncover this phantom demographic I adopted methods long practiced by marketers themselves: I hit the pavement for some guerilla research and data collecting.

For two weeks I frequented an assortment of locations, including bowling alleys, Ross Dress for Less, the DMV, Taco Bell, actual shooting ranges, and parking lots. What I discovered was nothing less than extraordinary. Without fail, every last person who frequented these banner ads was found to possess at least two of the following traits: They either read Soap Opera Digest, bought lottery tickets, watched Wheel of Fortune, ate Cheetos (or imitation cheese puffs), listened to Nickleback, collected commemorative plates, bow hunted, and/or preferred sweatpants to pants. An extraneous portion of my polling also found that these same individuals who partook of the “shoot the target” ads also habitually tried their luck with the equally inane “Who is this?” banner ads. I’m referring to the ads that show a celebrity’s face and provide you with three names to choose from. For instance, it may show Tom Cruise and then list the following options: a) Hulk Hogan b) Ludicrous c) Tom Cruise. Regardless of the fact that you would have to be either blind or Amish not to answer this correctly, these ads are calibrated so that even if you do believe that Tom Cruise is in fact Ludicrous (which some would argue), you’re still entitled to win a prize. God bless America.

These findings have led me to believe that a considerable amount of society’s paradigms are dictated by the lowest common denominators of our populace. Unbeknownst to them, the powerless are holding the reigns of our nation's industrial machinations. How else could one explain Keno? Or for that matter, Reno.

And so it would seem, for better or worse, that in our plodding march toward Armageddon, at least one Biblical prophesy is already in its nascency: The meek shall inherit the Earth.

Songs of the Apocalypse

Feeling a bit self-righteous, Jefferson asked me to make this proclamation for him:

Diane Warren is the henchman of the Devil himsewf. [sic]

And upon viewing the extensive list of “artists” who've summoned her evil powers, I can’t help but agree with him. It reads like a who’s who of schlock: http://www.dianewarren.com/

To further add to Jefferson's revelation, I'd posit that the mark of the beast of some of these recordings can be found within the first few seconds of the song’s intro - in which the melody is melodramatically hummed before the lyrics begin. Oh yeah, Jefferson also wanted me to holla at his boo.

Fleet Weak

This weekend I had the fortune of witnessing the majestic spectacle that is the Blue Angels. Yes, Fleet Week fever infected our otherwise passive city once more. These sky-scarring birds staked their stratospheric claim upon the horizon in all of their usual blue and gold glory. (Caution: I’m on the verge of busting out some iambic pentameter). I’ve intermittently seen the high-flying hijinx of our nation’s aerial elite over the past twenty or so years. And over this time, to my dilettante eye, it seems their repertoire has remained virtually stagnant. Sure, like the Stones or Dylan, or any other venerable touring act, there’s an unsaid expectation to perform the time-honored classics. I’ll grant them this - as we can’t all be of the avant-garde Navy fanboy variety.

Some of the Angels’ crowd-pleasing standbys included: “The Smokey Loop d’ Loop,” “The Smokey Corkscrew,” “The Inverted Flip-off,” “The Smokey Inverted Flip-off,” “The How Slow Can You Go,” as well as a more esoteric aerial shout-out to their roller-rink pro brethren on the ground: “Shoot the Duck.” (Apparently there’s a mutual respect shared between these two groups - what with them both being the respective leading practitioners of totally kick-ass moves and all). That bit of flamboyance was a welcomed surprise. I found it disarmingly quirky – no matter how tenuous their hot-shot flyboy affinity may be (I can only assume that grazing the outer reaches of the thermosphere at Mach 3 is akin to skating backwards under the glorious void of black light). But beyond that dalliance, it was a virtual carbon copy of their ’89 Portland performance – or virtually every other show for that matter. Have we really reached the creative apex of our aeronautical grandstanding?! Come on! There’s a war on! They could at least make an attempt to awe us (if not shock surmounting rogue nations) with an inverted Loop d’ loop-flip-off-twirly-smoky-plume-gyrator-surprise or something. Better yet, why not light up our habitually neglected neighbors in the East Bay and drop a daisy cutter on Jack London Square (and maybe even get a little al Jeezera coverage as an added bonus). At a young age I learned that nothing scares the opposition like a little preemptive self-inflicted masochism.

To put things in perspective, in the past twenty years even Paul Hogan has exhibited more aesthetic dexterity (And he didn’t even know he was being filmed during the shooting of the original Crocodile Dundee. True story). But alas, I should give credit where credit is due: the Angels’ perennial felicity once again manifest itself in an ear-piercing and veritably seamless, pitch-perfect synchronicity - the likes of which I’ve not encountered since The Police’s magnum opus. No, not really. I just wanted to turn synchronicity into a pun. Puns are arguably the highest form of comedy, you know. You can’t teach it. And please excuse the sycophantic purple prose describing the royal splendor of the Angels. I was just compensating for all the jaded criticism – because, you know, in reality, they’re pretty decent pilots and most likely pretty okay guys and junk like that. And after all, what have I ever done to defend our nation and/or support the snow cone industry? Well, actually, upon returning from IstanbuI two years ago, I did turn over to the Feds some 350 Polaroid shots I’d taken of suspicious looking characters I’d come across while there. I wasn't being prejudiced or anything, I just snapped shots of guys with that unmistakable, swarthy terrorist look to them. U! S! A! U! S! A!

But behind the artifice, behind the surreptitious recruiting methods, and behind the hackneyed pandering of Fleet Week, there lurks a much more pressing concern. A recent study in The New England Journal of Medicine found Fleet Week to be a primary transcontinental courier of venereal diseases (second only to the African Osprey). This epidemic is of a scale not seen since the Latin lover conquistadors plundered the virgins shores of the "East Indies" in the 16th century. The armada’s migratory nature, compounded with a pervasive frat boy mentality that encourages incessant drunkenness and rampant sexual promiscuity is a volatile combination. The epidemic can also be attributed to the less acknowledged, though still time-honored secret of the sea: homosexuality. Scandal arose in 1979 when The Village People’s seminal hit, “In the Navy,” blew up the airwaves, shedding light upon this clandestine activity and threatening to mar the global prominence of our nation’s fleet. A sub-rosa emergency meeting was held by the Joint Chief of Staffs during which they drew plans to sabotage the band at the height of their powers. Their ploy was manifest in one simple catchphrase: Disco Is Dead. This shrewd turn-of-phrase soon became the mantra for the growing number of disaffected youths who were fed up with the excesses of hairspray and polyester and Travolta. And so shortly thereafter, disco did indeed meet its demise. And so too did The Village People, with each member relegated back to their respective day job (All except for the Indian. He managed to strike it rich in the gaming industry).

The infection rate left in the Fleet Week’s wake has been on a steady decline since the tragic events of September 11, however. I can only speculate that this decline is somehow attributed to the fact that we’ve beefed up our global military presence considerably in the aftermath of 9/11. In doing so, our nation’s more formidable sailors have been deployed, in turn leaving the Fleet Week contingency with a crew mostly comprised of those deemed unfit for combat. And as a result, our port cities are now seeing an unprecedented influx of inept B-team-poop-deck-swabbers with sub par skill-sets (be it physical, social, or otherwise). They uniformly lack the threatening swagger, virility, and the fist-fighting mentality that has historically made the docked sailor a notorious breed to be reckoned with. And thus, their collective inability to find willing partners with whom to conjugate has considerably stunted the spread of STDs.

In light of these findings, there is now talk of sending these same Fleet Week sailors to Asia in an effort to deter the looming threat of a massive bird flu pandemic. Initially, elite military units were slated for deployment, but with their higher susceptibility to disease transmission, our nation now turns its lonely eyes to you, dear Fleet Week seamen.

So sayeth Jefferson

I just got off the phone with Jefferson and I told him about this new blog of mine. He wanted to know if it would be all right if he could chime in from time to time. And so I relay his inaugural message:

Love hurts. But not as much as getting hit with a sock full of nickels in juvie.

~Jefferson

Blog Prologue

After considerable prodding from the local cognoscenti, I too have joined the innumerable ranks of the unread blogger. Having finally succumbed to this prevailing mode of self-expression (lest it be self-indulgent narcissism), I feel it necessary to say a few words about the content you may happen upon herein. I don’t intend these sporadic scrawlings to be more than a haphazard exegesis on daily instances I encounter – call it an attempt to catalogue my observances: like skeletal photography.

Yes, I could save you, the reader, the time-burning burden and opt to write in a journal or little-girl diary, but the whole ordeal seems apallingly Anne Frank-y or Bridget Jones-y in nature, if not sadly onanistic (you’ll have to look that one up). But more importantly, simply writing to one’s self is devoid of the motivation required to put forth the noble effort (unless, of course, you’re hopelessly misunderstood or gothic in nature). But when it comes to blogging…if I can touch the heart of just one soul, or provide a glimmer of hope to just one starving child with an Ethernet connection, why, that’s all the impetus I need to carry on, regardless of the exertion and anguish involved.

France’s resident optimist, Jean-Paul Sartre, once noted, “I think there is a big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you’re always looking for something.” This much is true, and there’s an even stronger impulse to elaborate upon the banality of one’s daily existence if it’s laid bare before the discerning and jaded public eye. That said, I’ll indeed make a valiant effort to avoid any overt tall tales or fabrications (unless, like on-screen nudity, it's necessary to the storyline and tastefully rendered). Taking certain artistic liberties is a habit of mine, but I have no problem reserving that tendency for my other creative outlets – such as my weekly correspondences to Jefferson, a convicted murderer pen pal I’ve got up in Sing Sing (he's under the impression that I bench 340lbs, and have a dimpled chin, and somehow have Lou Diamond Phillips for a cabana boy.). The S.O.B. just loves a good yarn. That and his L. Ron Hubbard literature.

If you're still with me, you should also be forewarned that it’s unlikely I’ll stumble upon any breaking news, divine illuminations, or cosmic profundities over the span of these chronicles (but I’ll surely parlay them if so). No, it’s more likely that I’ll come across something such as a gasoline puddle in a parking lot and expound upon the intrinsic beauty of its rainbow tint or some such nonsense (much to the delight of any of you ten-gallon-hatted-oil-tycoons, and/or gays, leprechauns, Hawaiians, or Noah’s Ark aficionados out there). Because, you see, these scarcely-read rhetorical exposés aim to encompass the full specrtrum of our nation's divergent socio-economic parameters. This wide berth is made possible due to the fact that I’ve not been commissioned by any insidious entities, intelligentsia, marketers, or Spanish queens. This is an independent endeavor free of any hidden agendas. So whether you’re a blue-blooded neocon or just a run-of-the-mill commie pinko queer, I hope you find this literary embarkation to be as I intend: just an unbiased, light-hearted romp for the whole family - like Uno; or bumperboats. But I digress...