Friday, April 28, 2006
Over the Easter weekend I was sitting with my door open enjoying the cool night air. (For those of you who know where I live it was well after the gunfire had ceased and the blue lights had stopped flashing through the trees. It was very quiet because all of the people with good sense were huddled under their beds in fear, not outside making noise or even with their doors open so their TVs could be heard.) As the smells of springtime wafted through my apartment I began to hear a bird singing. Well I guess you could call it singing. It sounded like someone had taught a crow to imitate a whippoorwill, and then the crow had smoked three packs of Marlboros a day until he had to have a hole cut in his throat and sang through one of those little doodads that people who have had holes cut in their throat talk through that makes them sound like a bad special effect in a cheap science fiction movie. (Diagram that sentence. It’s a long way to go for an analogy but I have nothing else to do today.) What surprised me the most was that another bird of the same type (whatever type the first one was, either that or the crow had learned the song from a whippoorwill who really did smoke three packs a day and they were still in contact) answered from across the street. It amazed me that the terrible noise I that heard coming from the three in the yard was enjoyed by another bird. Even that it was understood. It made me think again that no matter how disgusting you may think something is there is someone who enjoys it. No matter how terrible it seems to you, someone will long for it. Pickled pigs feet anyone?