do you want to know a secret?

When I created this blog, I told exactly one person - theMonica. At that point my total number of readers was 1, me. theMonica was not sold on the whole thing, telling me that I couldn't make her laugh in person anymore, so really, what were the chances of me being funnier on the internet? I said 3 to 1 against. She did not like the odds.

Since then, I've told an additional handful of people about it. Of those five or six, I think four still read it (plus me hourly!). Why the secrecy? Well, if you look in the "wayback machine" you'll see that the early, EARLY entries are pretty crappy and irregularly posted. Irregular crap isn't something you want to shout about from the rooftops. ("Irregular crap," I shout. "Prune juice," the masses reply.) I also wasn't sure if I was going to continue blogging or if I would give up and fail as I tend to do on most of my projects (3-week masters in psychology, I'm looking at you).

Gradually, other people happened here. I assume by "Next Blogging" (via the toolbar dealie at the top). Addtionally, I assume they were drinking that day and decided to come back again later. And then one day I'd get a comment or two and go, "Whoah. How did that happen?"

Almost a year later, here I am with ones of regular readers. There I was Tuesday at a bar when RS2 (Roger's Sister #2 [of 4] - her "real name" is Rhonda) let my secret out by calling Monica, theMonica. Ooops. The next thing you know, everyone knew I had an "on-line diary". (I contend it's not an on-line diary as I have NEVER started a post with "Dear Blog". In fact, this blog has few diarrhetic, err, diary-like qualities - yah, not sure what's with the potty humor today.)

Now, more judging eyes. I don't feel the pressure from my blogging friends, because they can't give me the cold, hard stare of disappointment in real-life. Not so with people I regularly interact with physically. How will I handle all the mocking? We'll just have to wait and see. Until then, I promise more of the same. Yah, it's not going to get any better.

Netflix: Catwoman

Guaranteed to disappoint your lowest expectations!

(It was one of theMonica's choices. And led to this paraphrased exchange:

theMonica: I'm sorry. I thought it would be bad - not that bad - but I wanted to see it anyway.
me: Yah, it was pretty ridiculous. But hey, I was watching that 1776 musical and I actually really like it.
tM: Oh sure, watch it without me.
me: What? I didn't think you wanted to. The last time you were over you made fun of all the movies I had.
tM: I always do, but you know I end up liking them after force me to watch them.)

dialogue

Girl: Oh, you went to State. Do you know Ben Courant?
Guy: Whenever I meet someone and they ask me a question like that I always tell them if I knew who they were asking about, we would already be friends.
Girl: What do you mean?
Guy: Well, at school I had a tight-knit group of friends that I hung out with. With such a small circle of friends we would have been bound to run into each other at some point.
Girl: I had a tight-knit group of friends too, but it's hard not to have a bunch of random acquaintances, people you drink with every once in a while or talk to in classes.
Guy: Maybe, but I wasn't socially promiscuous in that way.
(long awkward silence)
Guy: Ok, I was a big, unpopular dork in college.

Open Memo Department

TO: Tom Cruise
RE: public histrionics

Dude, why can't you be more like John Travolta? He's 100% as successful, 0% as crazy. You can do it too. I'm sure he'd audit you if you asked nicely.

$1.24

Afternoon snacky time was fraught with tension. I had assembled my usual middaily goodness - Peanut Buttery granola delight and one can of Pepsi One - for purchase. I had my money at the ready, $1.25 for the usual $1.24 bill. I stepped up to the clerk. She rang me up. $1.84. $1.84??? Huh? Clearly, I had made this purchase before and I noticed I DID NOT have 59 additional cents in my hand. Why the sudden increase? Had the treasury been dangerously devaluing the currency by mass overprinting of greenbacks? Was there a peanut famine that I was totally unaware of? Had the price of a barrel of Pepsi One skyrocketed in the futures’ market? All these thoughts raced through my mind as the clerk waited patiently. A Mexican standoff ensued. I don’t really do the confrontation with strangers thing, so I decided my best option was to stand there some more. Then, I gestured towards my granola bar and pop, raised my eyebrows questioningly and made that noise – you know, the one Scooby-Doo used to make that said, “WTF Shaggy?” – and maybe had a little tear in the corner of my eye. Gradually, the clerk caught on. She said, “Hmm, let’s see.” Soon she had pinpointed her error. She subtracted 55 cents (+ 5 for tax) and the shiny LCD display vindicated my courageous resilience. $1.24. That’s fucking right.

Netflix: Play Misty For Me

Play Misty for Me = (Fatal Attraction - 25 years) + Sweet Hairdos * Clint


The face of crazy! Here is Clint's fanatical fling hatcheting his funny, funny housekeeper. Check out her hair! Woot. It was totally notCool for her to do that to the housekeeper as she threw out the euphemism "juiceheads" for alcoholics. Her 4 minutes on-screen were the highlight of the movie.


This is as close as I'll get to the porno on this blog. (Well, besides this.) After Evelyn tries to hatchet the housekeeper to death, Clint takes his girlfriend for a walk and they enjoy some skinny-dipping action, all to "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face." Even though he knows Evelyn is a crazy stalker who's crazy. The best you could hope for out of the skinny dipping scenario is that your clothes are stolen. Worst case? Evelyn unleashes a team of trained killer alligators.


And then they went to a jazz fest and it was like 3 more minutes of music videos. Not since Rocky IV had I seen so many music videos in a movie. I was all, "Less music videos! More murderous rage!" And check out Clint's girlfriend's hair. Moisturize sweetie, moisturize.


Wait, which part am I supposed to read?


Kids, Only Punks Run With Scissors.
This Public Service Announcement brought to you by Clint Eastwood.

overheard

Woman in too-high heels walking up stairs: Are you going to stand there and watch me?
Woman at bottom of stairs: Yes, I want to see if you're going to slip.

Can you feel the love?

age = 30 - 1

Friday was my birthday. Thank you, thank you. None of you sent anything. So much for all the buzz of the internet showering me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. Yah, it was totally in the brochure.

I'm 29 now. In Logan's Run years I'm as good as dead. Of course, I wouldn't know that and I'd be living in a giant Biodome, not unlike the hilarious Pauly Shore. That's beside the point though. I used to consider 30 kind of old. Like, not yet wearing diapers and whatnot, but a good chunk of the game was played. Now I've decided that 45 is the new 30. (I would have made it 40, but I wanted to give myself an extra 6 years to make the next change. You wouldn't believe the paperwork.)

I went out Saturday with my friends and I swear somebody roofied me. I was swearing this Sunday morning as I was doing my best hydrant impression. I pulled it together in time for theMonica's surprise trip to the Indians game. The tickets were awesome - right behind home plate. There were about 7 foul balls in our vacinity. theMonica bought me some rassberry sorbet stuff and I was stupidly eating it when a foul ball came screaming towards my best girl. I was distracted by the sorbet guy relaxing in the aisle, but I saw it in time to reach out with my left hand in a futile attempt to catch it. Fyi, baseballs are hard. I got most of my paw on it, deflected it to my right where it fell into the waiting hands of some freeloading punk kid. Really, shouldn't I get the ball? My hand was numb for about 5 minutes, but fortunately I had that damned sorbet to ice it down.

At any rate, thanks to theMonica for her unbelievable willingness to do my bidding this weekend. She just went out to get me ice cream. God Bless her.

woke up this morning

Woke up this morning – you were on my mind. Yah, you were on my mind. Sorry, I started the post then thought of that song (please hold, googling) – well, it’s called, You Were on My Mind by the We Five. No typo. It’s "we" as in us, not "wee" as in petite. On reflection, the "Wee" Five would be a better name. It implies the meaning of the first-person plural pronoun with the added bonus of being a cute play on words. "Oh, I didn't know they were the WEE Five." Kind of like They Might Be Giants. (They're not.) But maybe they were in reality small dudes and "wee" made them feel self-conscious. For instance, you don’t see Tom Cruise going around calling himself Wee Tom Cruise or Tiny Tom or anything like that. Sure you see him going around acting like a madman, spouting off about Katie Holmes and scientology and Katie Holmes "digging" scientology, but never at the end is he like, "And she’s taller than me because I’m a tiny, tiny scientologist." Anywho, that first sentence is about 80% of the total lyrics. There’s a bit about "ramblin' whoah-oh" and so forth, but that’s about all.

So, yah, I woke-up this morning only to "see" my alarm clock time blinking. I say "see" because I didn’t have my contacts in and everything was kind of blur-a-riffic. Oh alarmie – you cad! Did you unplug yourself, go out on the town, replug yourself and then couldn’t remember what time it was? Yah, I wasn’t too worried because it wasn’t completely light out yet. In fact it was about 7, a good 20 to 30 minutes after I normally wake up. That kind of sucks. You would think my body would capitalize on an opportunity like this and sleep in. That’d be fine. I really couldn’t feel guilty if I didn’t get up until 10 because my alarm didn’t go off. I mean, really, it couldn’t be MY fault. And it would be even better if I had slept through the WHOLE work day. "Sorry, power went out," I would say at 5 p.m. "Alarm clock with battery back-up? Really? Something you can get here in the US? And another one that resets itself. Wow," I would add, seemingly shocked. But instead of massive amounts of glorious sleep, I get in just late enough to make it seem like I drank too much at the Indians game on Wednesday night and needed a couple extra Zs. Alarmie is a cruel appliance.

cool/notCool

Ok, new feature. This is a game I like to play. Originally it was hobo/notHobo. The point of the game was to determine if a panhandler was actually a hobo or was just some guy looking to supplement his income. It's inspired by the "Good Idea/Bad Idea" bit they did on Animaniacs. Yes, I'm a grown man who watches cartoons.

Anyway, I've modified the game a little bit for the purposes of this blog. Here's the first installment so you catch the drift of these things.

cool: Commenting on my blog.
notCool: Being funnier than me. Let's aim for sub-mediocrity people.

bloggin' here boss

I was fiddling with the copy of Cool Hand Luke I purchased. (See it, really.) And it had saran wrap, stickers, "anti-thievery" tape and some razor wire wrapped around it all in the name of "anti-theft" protection. I said to theMonica, "This isn’t anti-theft protection, it’s anti-open protection." And she said, "You should put that on your blog." Sadly, I can't make her laugh anymore. theMonica now shows approval by passing judgment on the blog-worthiness of my comments. So, you can blame her for the poor quality contained henceforth.

dialogue

Guy1: What ever happened to that girl you were talking to?
Guy2: I don't know man. It was a quick end. It doesn't matter. I was only interested cause she was hot. Other than that she was all the things I don’t look for in a girl.
Guy1: Especially the thing where she didn’t like you.
Guy2: Yah, thanks.

private eyes are watching you

According to this story blogging at work can get your ass canned. I read it and was particularly struck by the title, "Warning: Your Clever Little Blog Could Get You Fired." Not only was it disparaging, but also seemingly directed at my blog. I mean what better way to falsely compliment me than by saying, "Clever little blog you have there," by that meaning, "Not only does your blog suck, but it's also meaningless."

Now, I rarely blog at work, but if you do, be sure to include such ass-covering tidbits as:

• I only like blogging during work on my lunch hour. Blogging at any other time harms productivity and would cause decreased throughput. And that would be bad and upset co-worker morale. I would never do that.
• My company, which shall remain nameless, is the finest organization I have yet heard of. I know this from all the internet research I do on other companies while I'm not at work.
• My boss is super-handsome AND smart. Talk about a deadly combo!

The story also says that more than 8 million adults in the US have created blogs. Man, stop wasting time here. You need to get reading.

Netflix: Bird

If you like jazz and heroin (and who doesn't?), you'll love Bird. Bird is the story of jazz sax-a-ma-phonist Charlie Parker. I don't know much about jazz, but I have it on good faith that Parker is one of the most influential jazz musicians ever (if not top dog). Unfortunately, he was also a juicehead and a junky. And not the, "he's-trying-to-beat-his-habit-and-maybe-he'll-make-it-work-out-this-time" kind of junky. He's more of a "how-much-can-I-get-for-this-Charlie-Parker-saxophone" junky. It was actually kind of depressing, watching such a creative person stumbling towards his inevitable destruction.

A How-Not-To Guide

I was out with theMonica and two of her lady friends. We made for quite the handsome group (sun-burned albino male excluded). We were having some snacks and drinks, shooting the breeze on a lovely, albeit swampy, evening when I noticed a guy at the bar . . . staring at me.

I thought: He must be staring at one of the girls, but it does look like he's looking at me . . . it still looks like he’s looking at me. His buddy is definitely checking out the ladies and not me. I feel unloved now. . . oh, he's leaning in to call dibs. Formulate a game plan like the cool guys in the movies. “I’ll take the blonde. You take the cripple.” Ha ha, no cripples in the movies – ever . . . unless you count Miracle Worker, but the whole thing point was being handicapped and such. But good god damn that Helen Keller was smart. Couldn’t see, hear or talk, couldn’t find a decent teacher until she was like 7, but ended up smarter than most people. Talk about triumph of the human spirit. Too bad Anne Bancroft died. She was a good miracle worker, but I wasn’t a huge fan of the Graduate. Dustin Hoffman was too whiny for me and – HOLY SH1T! He’s still staring over here!!

And he KEPT staring. Not only had he undressed everyone, but he was already not calling us back for a second date. It was decidedly creepy. Real creepy. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t circling the rim of a glass with your finger or twirling the hair or even the sexy nod. It was a grade school stare down. And he won. Easily.

Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m no expert in women. Aside from theMonica, my history with women has been one huge embarrassing failure after another and sure these eyes have probably lingered too long on a woman or two but then I stop learing or go over and speak. Egads man! You're sick!

This is just a little fyi to let everyone know that this method of flirting has very little success. It would never work with me. I guess it’s going to be weird when this blog makes me famous – all those prying eyes.

p.s. I should admit that some would have you believe that this is how I picked up theMonica:

dialogue

Guy1: Wow. These cigarettes are so smooth it's like you're not even smoking.
Guy2: But you still LOOK like you're smoking and that's the most important thing.

thought . . .

I write a good deal about celebrities and their wacky antics. I admit I find them interesting. I'm actually more interested in other peoples' fascination with them - why they care so much. I think it's pretty sad. Although, at least they're fascinated with famous people while I'm fascinated with the insignifcant, meaningless and probably stupid mega-fans of famous people.

Open Memo Department

TO: Celebrating Michael Jackson Supporters
FROM: King of Pop Booking Agency
RE: Availability

Mr. Jackson is inquiring as to the availability of your young son for an all-night sleepover at Neverland Ranch! Your son's stay will include: free llama rides; flannel, tarzan-style pajamas; beer!; porn!; and snuggly accommodations in Michael's bed - right next to Michael! (Of course there's nothing wrong with that!) Your son will be Michael's special friend for one whole day. And if Mikey likes, he could be a special friend for life! Please reply at your earliest convenience.

Open Memo Department

TO: Canada
RE: trade agreements

It has come to our attention that Canada is in violation of the North American Free Trade Agreement. Alanis Morissette is now a citizen, in good standing, of the United States of America.

According to NAFTA:

"Canada shall work to increase exports to the United States of the following: lumber, bacon, hockey, cool south-easternly breeze (summer only), Michael J. Fox and comedians. Conversely, Canada shall prevent the export of: hairstyles, universal healthcare and pop singers, especially those of the screechy, faux-angst-ridden variety."

Canada is clearly in breech of the NAFTA agreement. The US has strived to prevent the importing of Canadian pop singers since the aftermath of the 1984 hit "Summer of '69". The United States has demonstrated specific harm from Bryan Adams seminal hit single, as his entry into the US paved the way for such unbearable Canadian performers as Barenaked Ladies, KD Lang and the horror that is Celine Dion. The United States must demand that Canada cease and desist its practice of dumping undesirable musical acts onto our soil.

The United States recognizes that American demand for the product is largely responsible for Morissette's exportation. However, the government would like every assurance that corrective action is being taken to prevent this from happening again. Avril Lavigne, we're looking at you.

piano lessons

Nearly everyone is infused with sufficient self-worth to think themselves good enough to try new things. Well, learning most new things is hard. Learning the piano is no exception. Difficulty leads to disillusionment leads to indifference, leads to lack of practicing. Why? Well, it's frustrating to take hours and hours to learn the first 8 measures of Menuet in G. Why can't I be some sort of late-blooming prodigy? Or a less-idiotic savant? Discouraged, I slack. But, how long can a guy feel sorry for himself? My bouts pass quickly enough and I'm back on the bench, ready to bang the keys -- and my head against the wall.

thought . . .

I do my best work at night. Unfortunately for GDP it's like 11 in the morning.

Adventures in Spam Email Senders V

Hello from the bowels of my yahoo email account! I'm here to explore actual sender (display) names from the hundreds of spam email messages I (and I'm sure you) receive every week. I swear, these are actual spam email "senders". (Previous Editions here: i,ii,iii,iv.)

Kick G. Skinhead	Sure. Kick the skinhead. Then run like hell. Skinheads are mean and they're fast.
Disparages O. Sidekick	Sad is the superhero who bashes his own sidekick. Shame on Batman for saying, "Robin? I don't know. Seems kind of gay to me."
Lamebrain H. Jewel	Hey don't kill the messenger.
Glen	Not a good name, but the subject made me laugh, "Do it". (If you don't know the movie, get to know the movie.)
Rogelio	If I ever become an Italian pop star, this is totally my stage name

thought . . .

Silence can speak volumes, but sometimes it's just breathing.

blog update

I've updated the profile picture at right. Why the red face? Well, I'm essentially albino and it's been 90+ degrees for the past two weeks. You do the math.

dilemma

What do you do when you find out someone you think is kind of creepy shares some of the same interests as you? If you're like me, it doesn't make you reassess your opinion of the creep, but it makes you hate yourself a little for unwittingly liking the same things. Come to think of it, you're kind of creepy too. Weirdo. Maybe you shouldn't come here anymore. (I'm just kidding - please don't go!)

oh my golly

I never realized it until last night, but I speak Spanish. Si. Although my Spanish skills are limited to the Spanish found in Pixies's lyrics. You'd be surprised to find that this particular skill is almost never applicable in life.

This occurred to me last night. Last night was glorious. As part of CMJ's Music Fest the Pixies played TWO shows at different (albeit nearby) locations. One at the Rock Hall and shortly after, the second show at Scene Pavilion. At this point I can say, with all sincerity, "Been there; done that; got the t-shirt (and the live CD)."

After I got home I called theMonica. There was a time, dear friends, that my sortof-drunkdialing was met with a shy smile, giggling and assurances that my calling so late was "not a problem". Last night, I got, "I'm sleeping." It was stupid of me, but I was on such an emotional high I wanted to chat with my girl. In an effort to recover, I said, "I just called to say I love you." There's nothing like a little unintentional Stevie Wonder to soothe the awakened girlfriend. Works every time.

It's not all sunshine and lollipops however. Today I'm paying the price for yesterday's musical gluttony. The ringing in my ears is not at the same frequency as my alarm clock so I was out of bed after less than 5 hours sleep. I can't hear; I have no voice to speak of (hurts so good to write such stupid things) and my foot is killing me. I was hurting before the show and jumping around on it all night seems to have had no curative effects.

silky smooth

I bought some hand lotion the other day (typing all day leaves my hands dry and damaged!). Anyway, the lotion says that it's made with "Natural Colloidal Oatmeal". I'm glad they're not using artificial colloidal oatmeal. If the good Quaker doesn't fill his tiny cardboard silos with it, I want no part of it. Honestly, I'm not sure what colloidal oatmeal is but my skin's feeling good, with the added bonus of smelling like a feedbag.

let's get bogged down in semantics

I don't like the verbal prefacing of a question with the word "question". Such as, "Question - when did Lincoln die?" How about instead of prefacing the question with "question" we use the 5 Ws and H to indicate a question? Or we construct our sentences in a fashion such that the question is obvious? Like, "Why do dweebs write about such things?" Or we furrow our brows in confusion when posing a question. Or we could change the inflection of our voices so that the listener discerns we are indeed asking a question.

What causes this behavior? Did the asker once ask a question and the person he was asking stood their staring at him in silence? "How are you today?" *Long awkward silence* "I mean, question - how are you today?" And then the person answered and the asker never wanted to suffer that awkwardness again.

To people that do it often, I will sometimes preface my answer with "answer". "Question - when will you be done with that assignment?" "Answer - details are fuzzy. Ask again later." Unfortunately, prefacing with "answer" doesn't seem to indicate the proper level of annoyance and the asker will continue to preface questions with "question". Maybe I need better prefacing. Instead of saying only "answer", I could be more specific. It would go like this. "Question - did you look into that job posting?" "Indifferent bullshit - yah, I think that'd be a great opportunity." Or "Question - you're still working on that math puzzle I finished hours ago?" "Annoyed sarcasm - I bet you're the smartest person ever." Or "Question - why is your face greenish?" "Nauseated - I think I'm gonna be sick." (I know that one's a stretch.) Better yet, we could all talk monotone and tag our speech frequently. "Loud screech - I love David Cassidy," (roll with me here) or "Guttural drone - Luke I am your father," or "Creepy falsetto - what we have here is a failure to communicate."

Conclusion - let's take all the nuance out of commmunication and talk to each other like machines.

Cleveland Forecast

Temperature: 90°F
Humidity: 40%
Pressure: 29.88 in.
Dew Point: 63°F
Swampass: 100%

thought . . .

Always laugh at your own jokes because probably no one else is.

blog update

Please notice the sidebar. As a service to you, I have added some blogs under "Read 'Em! No Weeping Required" - kinda clever huh? Anyway, I intend for them to be the lesser-known blogs that I read on a regular basis. Visit these sites; love these people; we all need human attention.

Wow, that sounded really serious. They're cool blogs. Check 'em out.

born to be wild

I was driving on the highway and saw a guy riding a motorcycle with earplugs in . . . and no helmet. That's an interesting choice of protective gear. I guess the stuff between the ears doesn't matter so much.

nothing's for free

Saturday night I was out celebrating theMonica's birthday. We were walking down the street and some pseudo-hobo/entreprenuer was handing out newspapers, free ones (the kind you get from a newspaper machine, but they require no coinage), to passersby. Well, I grabbed one because, hey, free paper and walked right on by. This guy says, "There's a suggested monetary donation sir." And I shrug, arch my eyebrows and kind of nod as if to say, "Suggested monetary donation noted and declined. Thank you." At this point, he's following me and yells, "SUGGESTED MONETARY DONATION SIR!" As if to say, "I want to make it seem like I'm not panhandling even though I'm handing out free newspapers and trying to get money for them and I probably have a razor blade in my pocket so give me some damn money!" I turn around and say, "You want money? For this?" And kind of open up the paper in a "we both know this is worthless and readily availabe in metal boxes citywide" kind of way and then hand him back the paper. But I totally read like a paragraph - for free . . . sucker.

Burn! from the beyond.

Often, after I've blogged, I sit around and wonder why I bothered to do that. I mean what's the point? Isn't it time that would have been better spent Netflixing or being less fat? And then I read these words of encouragement from Dr. Johnson. "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money."

Thanks Dr. Johnson for killing my dream of blogging as its own reward 230 years ago.

News You Can Use

Today’s lesson, pigeons. Being that I work in an urban area, I know a lot about pigeons. Pigeons are ubiquitous downtown and I’ve always been an observer of things. Therefore, I’ve watched a lot of pigeons in my day. Heck, one summer I was even able to train some attack pigeons. Those were some mean pigeons. And if there were pretzels around, you didn’t want to fuck with them; they’ll cut you. But anyway, that’s beside the point. Here are some key things I’ve learned about pigeons:

• Pigeons are birds, it’s true. But pigeons, just like television’s legendary B. A. Baracus, hate to fly. It’s an odd quality considering they are birds with wings and feathers and the ability to fly and all, but hey, it wasn’t very convenient for Mr. T to drive that conversion van to Ecuador for some pay-for-hire vigilante mission, but he did what his nature dictated, just like pigeons. If you approach a pigeon leisurely (caution! see above about attack pigeons), he will invariably start WALKING away from you. He will not fly away unless you make noise or start running at him yelling, “I am the pigeon king!” Unlike most other wild animals, pigeons require very little personal space. In this way, you could probably follow a pigeon for the rest of its life. (Assuming you would be able to snack on the same foodstuffs the pigeon happened upon.)
• When forced to fly, pigeons overfly their destination and then walk back. It takes a while to notice this. I trained my attack pigeons by enticing them with pretzel bits. I’d throw out a few bits on the ground and eventually a pigeon would catch on to what was happening. (Don’t ask me how. Pigeon intuition I guess.) Here comes the pigeon; there goes the pigeon; goodbye pigeon! Why did you fly 10 yards past your destination? You wanted to stretch out your legs? Not sure what this is all about. A guess – my eyes aren’t on the side of my head, but I gotta imagine that messes with your depth perception. Fly past, walk back – that’s how pigeons roll.
• Pigeons don’t know how to bite. Pigeons have beaks which would seem like an ideal biting apparatuses. Pigeons disagree. Pigeons swallow things whole. And anything they can’t swallow whole, they don’t eat. But man, will they try to choke it down.
• Pigeons are greasy. How do you think they keep their stylish, slicked-back hair?
• Pigeons are mostly gray. But there seem to be a lot of brown pigeons around lately. The browns must be better at foraging or something. Or maybe they learned how to chew or they get it on more than gray pigeons.
• Pigeons walk like Egyptians.

Well, there you go. I’ve distilled a lifetime of pigeon research into 6 bullet points. You’re welcome.

thought . . .

I didn't care much for the Grapes of Wrath, but the grapes of lunch were delicious.