Tag Archives: pigeons

Lame Adventure 247: Sleeping or Dying?

I have not been having a banner week.  I’ve overslept every day. I keep missing my regular train coming into the office. I’ve been arriving later than usual.  Once at the grind I’ve been fact checking and proofreading a 365 page tome about tile that I fully expect I will encounter again should Hell exist and I become a resident.  Completely exhausted half a page into my punishing assignment, I remove my glasses, rub my eyes, and when I put my glasses back on, what do I see but this puffy pigeon perched on the ledge outside my window.

Not looking good.

I ask my colleague, Ling:

Me:  Do you think this pigeon’s sick or sleeping?

Ling gets up and looks at the bird.

Ling:  It’s not asleep.  Its eyes are open.

She returns to her desk and the pigeon closes its eyes.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz or death rattle?

Me:  Hey, I think it’s asleep now.

Ling gets up to look at it again.  The pigeon opens its eyes.

Me:  Wait, forget it.  Its eyes aren’t closed.

Ling sits back down.

Ling:  You should quit looking at it.

Me:  You’re right.

I take out my camera and start photographing it.  Ling flashes the I-cannot-believe-this-stupidity-of-yours look but holds her tongue, her way of ignoring the situation and probably hoping the culprit will go away — the pigeon or me.

I hear Elsbeth, our boss, stirring.  She has just printed something and is approaching the copier directly across from my desk.  I resume proofreading.  Elsbeth returns to her office.  I resume my pigeon-watching and ask Ling:

Me:  What if it dies?  What do I do then?  This pigeon is directly in my sightline.  Am I going to be stuck staring at a pigeon corpse rotting on my sill for weeks?  I dread that!

Ling:  Call Jose and he’ll deal with it.

Jose is our go-to building services guy.  He’s always been someone I can count on.  I take a closer look at the Urban Wildlife on the Sill.

Me:  First, the economy tanks, and now this.  Does the suffering ever end?

Ling:  It’s a pigeon.

Me:  I know that, but I hate to see a creature* suffer.

*If it was a rat scurrying on my windowsill, I am certain that my compassion would shoot straight out that window.

Ling:  Seriously, quit looking at it.

I take Ling’s advice and resume proofreading for a ten count.  Then, I sneak another peek at the feral avian.  All that I can see is a tail feather.  It’s now moved to the corner where it’s nestled against the brick wall.  Since I have transformed myself into an Animal Planet reporter I provide Ling with an unsolicited update about the pigeon’s progress.  She distinctly looks like someone that would prefer to change the channel possibly to the Shut the Hell Up Network.  I return to my desk and proofread another half-sentence but since I can only glimpse that tail feather, I’m quickly back on my feet.  Ling looks at me.  She screams inside her head:

Ling:  SIT DOWN AND QUIT THE BIRD WATCHING!!!!!!!!!!

Then, a miracle happens.

Resurrected and refreshed!

It flies away.  I am elated.  I focus on proofreading for the remainder of the day but craving squab.  I suffer fresh guilt.

Lame Adventure 212: Life Imitates Tee Shirt

One of my remaining affordable guilty pleasures since I have zero fashion sense combined with a tight budget is tee shirts with captions from my favorite New Yorker cartoons.  I like these tee shirts even more when The New Yorker emails me a twenty percent off discount code.  They provide the perfect compliment to Jack Purcell badminton shoes.

Pictured below is an actual New York City pigeon that I encountered as it was pecking at half a toasted bagel on West Broadway on a sweltering afternoon.  I thought:

Me:  How fortuitous!  I just ordered this tee shirt!

Where's the schmear?

To anyone as skeptical as me, no, I did not toss half a toasted bagel into West Broadway to get this shot.  It was fate.

Fashion statement.

Cartoon caption closeup.

The cartoon is by veteran New Yorker staff cartoonist, Roz Chast, and the tee shirt is available online at The New Yorker Store in sizes suitable for the entire family.  It is also available as a unisex hoodie, a mug, note cards, art prints (framed or not) and the original drawing is also for sale at an undisclosed price that starts at $1,900.  One could conceivably dedicate two months salary to this cartoon alone, if one suffered a massive head injury.  I’m content with just the tee shirt.

Lame Adventure 198: Same Old Me

One of the advantages of working a day job that is slightly less captivating than the study of the shape of gum stains on the sidewalk is that it gives one countless hours of opportunity to think, especially while doing mundane tasks such as removing 1,778 images from 889 sheet protectors.

889 sheet protectors at last count.

For example, one can think about wanting to take a nap, lunch, sex, what’s the name of that song playing on the radio, is that smell Windex or a terrible cologne, sex, my foot itches, I must remember to pick up mustard, sex, pigeons have it so easy, what’s the lifespan of a pigeon, sex, is this pain in my chest a heart attack or indigestion, am I going to drop dead here at my desk with my foot itching, sex, is it going to rain today, did I bring my umbrella?

My colleagues, in particular my sidekick, Greg, are also adept at voicing random thoughts aloud.  Recently, Greg pondered the question of how long does it take for us to completely replace every cell in our bodies.  He was unsure if it was seven or ten years.  One of the things I was sure of is that my most recent batches of cells whether they are seven or ten years old are not quite as robust as earlier versions.  Once home, while guzzling a bottle of Magic Hat Wacko beer to lubricate my thought process —

Wacko beer endorsed by Lame Adventures.

I went online and Google searched, “How long does it take to renew every cell in the human body?”

According to Ask a Naturalist.com:

“Recent research has confirmed that different tissues in the body replace cells at different rates, and some tissues never replace cells. So the statement that we replace every cell in the body every seven years or every ten years is wrong.”

Apparently, the number of brain cells you enter the world with are all you get.  When they die and they will, that’s it, you regress into an even bigger dolt.  They’re not replaced and their loss probably helps explain why I keep blanking on getting mustard, even though I recently looked directly at the mustard shelf while in the store, but then went to the meat department and picked up a steak, something I had not intended to purchase.  What is even more annoying is returning home, then recalling I still need mustard, going back to the store and momentarily suffering a brain freeze about why I have made this second trip.  Fortunately, the voice inside my head screamed:

Voice Inside My Head (screaming):  You need mustard you moron!

Ask a Naturalist.com also claims that fat cells are replaced at a rate of 10% per year in adults.  I find this rather ironic since those are the cells I most wish would go away and never return.  They also seem to be the ones that are quickest to multiply, especially in the vicinity of the abdomen and hips while parked at one’s desk pulling hundreds of images out of sheet protectors as the mind wanders.

Heart cells are also replaced at a reduced rate as a person ages, so basically over time, we go completely downhill, but there are always people out there that probably should be dead, but continue to carry on quite nicely like one of my favorite musicians, Keith Richards.  That I find encouraging.  Pigeons on the other hand live on average 3-5 years in the wild, but up to 35 years in captivity.  Maybe they don’t have it that easy after all.

New York City pigeon in Bryant Park in July 2010, possibly already a goner in June 2011.

Lame Adventure 80: For the Birds

In my next life, I want to be a bird, specifically a New York City based pigeon.  Some might scoff, “Why in the world would you want to come back as a rat with wings?”  Please note that “rat with wings” is a name for our feathered nemeses Woody Allen coined in 1980 in Stardust Memories when perchance, actually per script, a pigeon flew into his apartment via an open window.  Just another typical bit of forgotten WA-style urban neurosis, but that phrase has deservedly entered the lexicon.

I want to return as a pigeon in the Big Apple because there’s always plenty to eat lying around, there are millions of other birds so I’ll never be without a date, I can roost rent-free in the toniest neighborhoods, flying beats riding public transportation, and best of all, I can crap wherever and whenever I want, including on annoying New Yorkers like the short, fleshy young woman in her early to mid twenties that I noticed on my way home from work Monday evening as I walked up Broadway in the West 70s.

"Hurry up, take your picture. It's been almost a minute since I last ate. Hey! Do you have a pretzel on you? I'm in the mood for one."

The street was crowded with rush hour pedestrian traffic, as well as vendors selling their wares lining one side and the jazz musician I see every weeknight playing his saxophone on the other.  A tall, slender bun-head, fresh from ballet class, wearing iPod headphones, who was about the same age as the short squat woman – a woman that bore a distinct resemblance to the fruit of an illicit romance between a fire hydrant and a table leg, brushed against each other.  Fireworks exploded.

Short Squat One:  You bumped into my bag!  Don’t you know how to say ‘excuse me’?

Bun-head (removing headphones):  Huh?  What?

Short Squat One:  You’re so retarded!  Forget it!

Short Squat One furiously stomps on as Bun-head stands bewildered asking, “What’s her problem?” If I were Lame Adventures Pigeon, I would have dive-bombed SSQ’s head with my Mickey D-bagel-pizza-Dunkin’ Donuts lunch.  Pigeons have the power.

A bit powerless here but ...

Flaunting power atop William Earl Dodge statue in Bryant Park!

Lame Adventure 45: Encounter with the Pigeon of Fortune

On Saturday night, while Milton was waiting to board the cross-town bus to transport him to my place so we could head downtown together to attend Albee’s birthday party, an incontinent pigeon disrupted our plans and dropped its load on his shoulder.  Instead of following Plan A, we followed Plan B; Milton arrived at my place, we laughed like two pre-adolescent girls while photographing the mess, and then he proceeded to vigorously scrub the turd off his jacket with Palmolive and a sponge (which was immediately discarded).

Ew.

One of the guests at the party, a very personable woman whose name I unfortunately did not grasp for I am nearly deaf as a post and the venue was rather loud, told us that when she was residing in Venice many years ago, a bird dive-bombed her in the headscarf.   She whipped it off, crumpled it up, stuffed it in her satchel and went about her day.  Afterward, when she went to launder the scarf, a giant hole was now where the fallout had landed.  This sobering revelation made us ponder what toxic ingredients must be swimming in those storied canals.

Milton and I figured that his turd primarily consisted of standard discarded Gotham City food fare – pizza, pretzels, bagels, maybe some Mickey D’s, a Dunkin’ Donut, etc.  I am sure if he woke to a hole in his jacket’s shoulder, I would have been immediately notified of this development.

Something else our delightful fellow partygoer mentioned is that being pooped on by a bird brings good luck.  Why is this so?  According to Wiki-answers, “Somebody came up with the idea that it’s good luck because it’s so disgusting that there MUST be something good about it.”  Elsewhere on the web someone referred to this as a “bird blessing.”  We both failed to ask what unforeseen fortune the Poisonous Pigeon of Venice bestowed upon our fellow partygoer, but having the quick reflexes to tear off that scarf before that vile turd could eat a hole through her head could have been the prize.  She seems to be happily married to a great guy and their offspring is about to graduate college.

As for what luck the Carb-filled Pigeon of the East Side could have delivered Milton’s way that remains to be seen.  Possibly it’s something as simple as only being pooped on by a bird, as opposed to a drenching of dung from a flying rhinoceros, or maybe he should immediately buy a lottery ticket, and see if the odds of winning big are now suddenly in his favor.  The first thing he might do with his windfall is buy a new jacket — and frame the old one.

Vessels of luck congregating.