On the use of Birds as some kind of post-modern hip symbol

Hipsters, give it a rest already. Birds are very cool. I know that. I’m named after one, after all. But I’m really sick of the way birds are being used to hawk (ha ha) all manner of “indie” goods, from handmade felt iPod cases to totally made-in-China “distressed” t-shirts at Urban Outfitters. Have any of these people who rock the bird ever woken up at the crack of dawn, while its still dark & chilly-foggy out, gotten in the car while still plucking the sleep-crust from their eyes and driven to a wetlands for an Audobon Society Bird Count? Ok ok, I’m sure there are a few. But I cannot abide any longer the fashion abstraction of the avian. Many birds are ENDANGERED! You want to buy something with a bird on it? Buy an Audobon Society membership. Or buy the latest issue of The New Yorker magazine with the best best best article about birding by Jonathan Franzen.

 

I’m totally going to throw away all of my bird clothes this weekend. After I wear it to that party tomorrow night, of course.

 

Designer Dreams

I had the most intense dream about a coat rack recently. I drew a picture of it so you could see. In my dream it was made of iron, and all the spindles felt like tree bark. As you can see, there are many spindles from which to hang things. In the dream I was worried that if I hung all my coats on it, the spindles would bend and the coats would brush against the floor. I can't understand why that bothered me since the normal state of affairs for my apparel is to be TOTALLY on the floor. A spindly iron coat rack would actually HELP. Well. Does any one know any blacksmiths in the Chicagoland area?

Fly Away Home

This morning, er... afternoon... as I lazed my way down the street, looking for coffee and chatting with Dad, (and after I had the shit scared out of me by a barking dog) I happened upon a tiny yellow parakeet sitting peacefully on the sidewalk. It was clear that it was a domesticated bird because it was not afraid of me, and I kneeled down for a closer look, and to make nice with the animal-kind (as nature herself is scarce in these parts). I could see that something was amiss, the poor thing's beak was all askew and a little bit smooshed, and so I said "Dad, gotta call you back -- I just found this injured parakeet," and kind of leaned in to curl it up in my hands. At first it seemed like it was going to work but just at the last moment the bird flew up into the tree adjacent from where I was, in prayer-form on the sidewalk in front of my favorite house in all of Chicago. And then I just couldn't help but cry a little. Hurt animals are my own personal vision of hell -- I walked away, hoping for the best. I called Ian then, he was in the car driving to Boise with Harris clan -- and told the story, all wobbly-voiced. He did his best to assure me that it was a cross-bill and his beak was meant to be that way, and I warbled through all that made me sad about it, how the bird was lost, and far from home, and alone, probably was missed by his family.

Sometimes life can be so self-allegorical.