Thursday, March 06, 2008


I'm gonna do an emo blog post.

It's gonna consist of my "thoughts". Let's kick it off.

Mood: Torrid


Rome hit the Japanese video stores recently, so I rented the crap out of it. It took a while to get into it, and to be honest, I don't really give a shit about all the intrigue and betrayal, especially with the womenfolk.

The biggest problem I had with the series though...was that there was a cockatoo in several scenes.

Cockatoos are from Australia, and only Australia.

Some of you probably think this isn't a big deal, but this kind of shit makes go nanners and will often make me dislike a movie or a TV show.

Sulpher. Crested. Fucking. Cockatoo.

In Rome.

Are you for serious?


The missez and I got this CD with a bunch of "grammy" songs on it. Most of the songs on the CD, as well as a lot of contemporary music, sounds like it's just trying to imitate 80s music. Or pre-80s music. Don't get me wrong -- a lot of Bob Dylan lyrics are absurd -- but it just doesn't sound the same when someone born circa 1980 sings similar horseshit. Those guys my dad listen to? They were on the cusp. Makin history. They were there. Doin' it. These guys? Sheeit. It's like listening to a poorly delivered punchline set to a catchy mandolin jingle.

--Intermission part douche--

Japanese houseware stores all play house music. Ten minutes in one of those places makes me want to find the nearest piece of eurotrash in a muscle shirt and fuzzy kangol hat and punch him right in the snotbox.

--Birds part Douche--

I got a bird.

This should really come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. I've had a long history with our little feathered friends.

I got my first bird when I was 10 or so, named Blinkey. We bought him a friend soon after named Gelsey, named after Gelsey Kirkland, pronounced like G, not J, and not K. Not Kelsey Grammar. Gelsey Kirkland. Blinkey suffered a fall and lost the use of his legs, but managed to live for an additional two years. I gave that little sonofabitch physical therapy. He'd roll around on the bottom of his cage and I'd grab him and work his little legs back and forth so they wouldn't atrophe, just like the kid on my block when I was younger who had cerebral palsey. That's no-shit where I got it from. And it worked. He eventually could stagger around and sit around on his ass. Gelsey lived until I was at bootcamp. That's 11 years. She died when I was at bootcamp. I asked my dad how the birds were doing the day of my graduation. We were having a beer on Coronado Island. He said she fell off her perch. He was in the other room and heard the crash and knew exactly what happened.

Then he said he didn't tell me about it while I was at bootcamp because he didn't want me to become "distraught". That's the word he used. "Distraught". Later that day we saw Saving Private Ryan in the theater. The day I graduated bootcamp. That made me feel a little distraught too.

The most distraught I got at bootcamp was when I had to euthanize an injured hummingbird and hide it underneath a rock. I saw him on the ground and I didn't want him to suffer any more. I was with this fatbody in our platoon named Jordan. I was trying to be somber about it but he kept rushing me because he didn't want to get in trouble. No respect for the dead.

I've had to euthanize a few birds; it never gets easier. Like the time I euthanized about 12 pheasants with a shotgun. That definitely wasn't fun. Not at all. Nor were they yummy.

The best part about that bloodbath trip was that afterwards, my friend said, "You know, I wasn't sure how you would be able to handle this, what with you loving birds and all. But you really didn't have much compunction at all about blowing them out of the sky. Like at all."

I dubbed that day "Pheasant Holocaust 2004."

Truth be told I didn't know how I'd handle it. It's kinda like when you punch a man in the face for the first time. You just can't get enough of it. Until someone punches you back. Fortunately for us, pheasants do not have access to nor the capability of using shotguns. Thank the lord for that.

All of these stories are true, and the magazine "Bird Talk" is an actual magazine that I subscribed to throughout junior high and high school. I had a breeding pair of finches and a few parakeets and that magazine is fucking awesome for bird owners.

But check this out, I went ahead and bought a little parrot. A lovebird to be exact. I had one that lived with me in the barracks in Hawaii, and I've always been a fan. They're good little pets but require a lot of attention and are codedependent.


They're also pretty bright. They learn how to escape from their cages pretty quick, as seen here. They really don't like being inside their cages -- you can see him trying to get out when I close the cage door.


Goin to DC tomorrow. Bettuh axe summody.

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