The Crumpled Bird -- No One Shows Up

Anyone remember The Crumpled Bird? And how I so wonderfully vowed to Take the Plunge and do it, appear to those who were waiting and faithful. Well, it's still a thing. I had a little secret strategy in not mentioning it much, trying to sift the gold from the chaff. Not expecting, frankly, everyone to be chaff and no one gold.

The promise was, I would put up the Sign of the Crumpled Bird. Then overcome my general introversion and even disdain for being with people all-that-much. I would appear in public, to greet those who were faithful, watching the Sign for my appearing. And when I said I would "Take the Plunge," that's exactly what I intended to do, barring any change of mind or outright psychological refusal -- a complete shutdown -- that would prevent me.

Well, I had a plan. I would put the Sign of the Crumpled Bird up, then test everyone's resolve -- sifting, sifting, ever sifting -- I've been there more than a few times without revealing myself as the crowds looked at the Sign and wondered aloud about it. "Will he appear?" they asked, even asking me personally. Thinking, apparently, that I was a wise person who might know. I had a scarf up and covering the lower half of my face, looking very mysterious. Not a disguise, I should say, since no one knows what I look like. I've been careful to keep pictures of myself off the blog; I'm so mysterious, when I look in the mirror to comb my hair, I have to look twice to make sure it's me!

OK, so one day a few weeks ago, I put up the Sign, then got the hell out of there. I went around a couple blocks and came up as the crowds were looking at it. "Will he appear?" "He said he would." "I'd love to see the guy," one adoring hippie-chick said, a little young for me by about four decades. Still, my heart fluttered and I felt 18 for a couple seconds, before fainting and falling into a huge planter. They gathered around to see if I was OK. I waved them off. I pointed to the distance, and asked loudly, "Is that him!?" A guy was moving behind a car, and if I didn't know better, it could've been me. They took off that way and I ducked out the other way.

As days went on, the crowds thinned and interest seemed to wane; it definitely waned. We had a cold spell, and that kept them away. Then it rained, and no one wanted to come out. Then it actually got hot again, and more people were out, but by now the Sign of the Crumpled Bird was very weathered. Torn at the edges from the wind, holes in it from repeated flapping, the ink was fading from the rain and the sun, really looking like hell. Not the pristine poster I first printed on my printer, wasting, as it turned out, about $8 of precious toner.

I decided to leave it up. By now, though, it was simply out of defiance. You all haven't got the patience to wait for me, to gather around my sign and wait a few stinking weeks!? What's the world coming to? When I was a kid we used to wait forever; it was like a hobby, waiting, tarrying, abiding, watching the signs, watching the skies, really looking desperately for any sign that something somewhere might happen, which it never did. But did I give up? Not for a second!

Seriously, friends, it's no skin off my ass -- either cheek -- if you wait or don't wait. And I really blame modern conveniences like Google and whatnot. If you google "signs obscure writers heroes demigods," it seems like guys like me are a dime-a-dozen. We think we're Big Shit for having influential blogs and that anyone really cares. Well, a few do care. Like that hippie chick, whom I never saw again, although the whiff of patchouli I got from her hair that night sustains me. Yeah, we think we're Das Shitz, Megaturd, but the public is fickle.

Another week went by. They had hurricanes throughout the world, but none where I live. And the Sign remained up, although it had flapped in the breeze so much, it was hopelessly tattered, as you see in the photo. No one anywhere by then had confidence that I would show up. That old guy in the heavy coat, shifting from foot to foot in the cold, having to pee, that wasn't him, they thought. Just a guy waiting for him, when it was me. Awesome phenomenon, huh? The waitress across the road could be Christ and to us all she's good for is scooping pie.

I was bemused by the indignity I was suffering from lack of interest, then it rolled over into an actual angry fit. The town had some old wooden posts that held up a decaying shed behind one particular building. It was 4 in the morning one night and I went back there and kicked the posts so the shed collapsed, then I got the hell out of there. I came back the next day and the posts were cleaned up and everyone had moved on.

The Sign of the Crumpled Bird remained, very very crumpled, sad and sorry. And none of these bastard ingrates came out to see me! How you like that?

Crumpled Bird -- Take the Plunge

It's not too late to change my mind, let me state that right now as an absolute fact. I said the other day I was putting up The Sign of the Crumpled Bird, with the possibility that I'd then be having real world meetings with people around town. I've been sick ever since I said it, but you'll notice, I haven't deleted the post. I could be sick from anything. Look at me in Pocock's artwork, I don't know whether to dive in or throw up. That's truly how things stand.

I like the looks of the tub. We didn't have a tub at hand, actually, when Pocock was sketching me. So he either drew it from memory of what tubs look like -- in which case I'm impressed -- or more likely he copied it from a tub catalog. It brings up an interesting thing in my mind about drawing circles. When you draw a circle from the side it becomes more of a football-shaped thing. Meaning, one could theorize, that if you looked at a football standing over it and looking down, it ought to be a circle. But it's not.

That'd be a good thing to talk about in one of these real life meetings. Say I do put up the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, indicating I'm somewhere near at hand, in the vicinity, then I see a group of people milling around wondering if I'm going to show up. I edge in, let's also say, and peel off the most interesting looking guy from the periphery, and take him somewhat privately to get away from the crowd. Really, do I want a bunch of people who crowd in to see my sign, some guy who's close to it, like an investigator, trying to discern more about the author of the sign than he otherwise should? Or do I want the guy who's wondering but is more skeptical, even dismissive of the whole thing?

Good question, huh? I believe I can confess it, I've always been something of a profiler, finicky, nit-picky, selective. That guy at the edge, he's more my cup of tea (or soup) than the closer guy, who barely gives me room to breathe. I need room to breathe, that's key. And if I need a quick escape, to get the hell out of there, I don't want the guy pressing in, breathing down my neck, but, hey, that's just me.

Maybe the Crumpled Bird is a mistake, a bad idea. But I'm not giving up quite yet. No, I take that back, it's a great idea, separate the wheat from the chaff. I've always been good at that. I can be selective. The sign means I'm in the area, not that I'm necessarily going to swoop in and select someone. And I really feel for that guy at the edge. Maybe he's a real iconoclast. Just wants the crowd to disperse a bit so he can draw a mustache on my bird, or deface the sign in some other way, knowing it would very likely lure me out to choose him immediately on that account.

Life is hard, ah yes, they used to teach us you can't win. But I'm sure you can win. If you really pay attention, read the signs that life puts out there, etc., etc. Life's own version of the Crumpled Bird. Gotta take that plunge!

SPECIAL THANKS to E. Nubbi Pocock for today's artwork. I appreciate it very much, and the price was definitely right, zero. Thanks again. As an aside, though, no offense intended, If my pocock was nubbi I don't think I'd be parading around like E. did, making it my name! Am I right?

The Sign of The Crumpled Bird

It's a thing that probably happens with every guy like me with a popular blog, different ones want to "meet up" and, I don't know, pick my brain about the latest topic du jour. Usually I put them off with some flimsy excuse, or dismiss them with a conceited "You couldn't handle me, honey." They're looking at an average guy who doesn't look even vaguely interesting or dangerous, and while they're trying to reconcile the contradiction, I slip quickly from the scene. Fact is, at 60+ I still follow what my mom taught me, Run From Strangers.

But I know how it goes -- you read a blog and you think it has to be made up by a genius -- yes, a tortured genius -- or by someone who's so popular and such a people-person, he probably has a million decent contacts you could exploit for sales, marketing, or pyramid schemes. I don't entirely know why anyone would want to get together with me. I sit around, take a shower once in a while, apply deodorant when I have it, I'm actually a mess. If we were to talk politics then, you might get mad and beat the crap out of me. Then where would I be? Bruised, battered, barely able to function, worse than usual, smelly armpits.

Another thing that makes me so reticent is something that happened between 8 to 12 months ago. I met a guy in the park a few years ago, an old gnarly dude the same age as my dad would've been if he hadn't died, 80-something. He talked my leg off; because he literally had sexual ideas in the same vicinity. Then within the last year, maybe longer, hard to say, I was in the park looking at the river close to flooding that day. This guy was sitting in his car or truck and motions me over. I'm standing there -- I know his name, I know his background from talking to him those years before -- but this time he wants more than talk, he goes for pay-dirt, reaching down quickly and grabbing my crotch. I wasn't even thinking of anything sexual, so I thought maybe he was swatting at a bug, I didn't know. Till he had a quick grip on my [junk] and I pulled away, saying still innocently, "What are you doing?" Soon as I got the question out, I knew what he was doing. So I said my final pleasantries and got the hell out of there. He was 82 or 83 at that time, old enough to know better. Dirty bird.

Which brings me to the solution to this idea of people "meeting up" with me, and remaining at least at arms length. I won't actually say where I am at any given point, and I won't give the time I may be anywhere, OK? But I will give you a sign: The Sign of the Crumpled Bird. When you see the Sign of the Crumpled Bird -- I may have it stuck on someone's antenna, or taped to a store window, or on a parking meter, etc. -- then you will know I am somewhere near. Got that? I will be looking in the general direction of the Sign of the Crumpled Bird. But you won't be sure if I'm the guy or if I'm just another guy looking for the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, hoping to get in touch with me.

When I see you, I will check you out, mentally computing a whole bunch of stuff as quickly as I can. Whether you look interesting, whether you look worthy, and especially whether you look safe. You should not be reaching down and doing the motions of grabbing something in the air. At that point all bets are off, the Sign of the Crumpled Bird will remain till I can circle back and get it. But I'll be gone like the "Summer Wind," a song that is in the Top 5 Frank Sinatra songs I like.

How did I come up with the Sign of the Crumpled Bird? It's an interesting story -- not terribly interesting -- that I might tell someday. Be that as it may, when you see the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, that's the critical thing, that's when I may be found, when I may be known. You don't need to know anything more about it than that.

Does That Make Sense?

I hate to say it, but I'm addicted to the phrase, "Does that make sense?" Which is crazy, I know, since I usually have pretty good control. I don't smoke, drink, or sleep with people who eat crackers in bed; obviously I'm not just careful, I have high standards. Sometimes I do think I could be easily addicted to stuff, but it's also balanced out with an ability to go cold turkey. But this "Does that make sense?" phrase might be too much for even me. Does that make sense?

Of course it isn't new to me. I've heard it a number of times in the last few years, but those times it was in one ear and out the other. I didn't toy with it. And that's the key thing to getting addicted, for me, picking up something and toying with it. Like a new, fascinating toy. I allowed it to get the best of me, as it turned out simply through foolishly toying with it. Does that make sense?

It happened at a conference I attended, "Public Affairs." I was hoping for some cool gossip on people caught in affairs, but it turned out to be a dry as dust give-and-take on public policy, "The Role of Women in Society -- Keep Them on a Short Leash or Let Them Go?" A senator was there briefly, long enough to swoop in and make some pronouncements on the ignorance of women (I'm in a Republican district), then it was up to us to break into groups and come up with our findings. By and large, the Democrats, including me, insisted that we loved, respected, and valued women. While the Republicans thought we needed more restrictions on them, GPS tracking devices around their legs, etc.

Then there was this one bastard, who didn't know what he thought, pro or con. He was the lone voice trying to hew a middle path. He went into a big old convoluted speech, all off the cuff, where he went this direction, then that. Hard to follow. On the one hand, he respected women; his mother was a woman. On the other, he pointed out we've never had a woman president and none of the five star generals of the World War II era was a woman. Then he was back to being pro woman, then anti, finally ending with the reiterated fact that his mom was a woman, and most of his aunts. At the end of it, in a higher pitched voice, he asked, "Does that make sense?"

Here's what happened next. It was 10 minutes till the lunch break, at which point I dashed out the back door, never to return. Then I ran into a woman I know, very smart as most of them are, with no crackers on her breath, and I was telling her the whole thing, focusing in on the phrase "Does that make sense?" I started saying it in jest -- toying with it -- but ended up saying it the rest of the day, and I'm still saying it two weeks later! Beware what you ridicule, there might be some gene in you -- operating sort of like the phenomenon of projection -- that means you're drawn to it! Meaning you need that very crutch! Does that make sense?

And another thing. The phrase always does involve a step up in pitch, and delineates a clear end of a train of thought, so that might be why it's so addictive. We crave not just variety but finality. The higher pitch is like singing (1), and (2) it's a natural end to one subject, giving time to think what's next. With one other key quality, keeping others on your side. Because if they're not, they could always answer with a resounding "No!" The fact that they don't, while not being conclusive as to their agreement, gives you some assurance (perhaps false), that you might be right. Does that make sense?

Yes, of course I know it's annoying. But you can't tell me you don't do one single annoying thing yourself. At least I know what I'm doing, especially if I see someone rolling their eyes. I'm intuitive like that. They can tell me to stop if they want. They just haven't yet.

The Last Serious Thing -- I Fire Mark!

Anyway, the last serious thing I shouted at Mark was, "Your ass is seriously fired, and don't come back -- you or your beard -- if it's the last thing you do!" He stormed out of the garage, thankful he wasn't soaking wet, and seriously slammed the door behind him.

I shot a look at his brother Trade, still sitting there like he meant to continue as a team player, but I knew he'd be torn in his loyalty to his brother. I resolved never to hire siblings ever again for the blog's Board of Editors. But for the present he still remains. Along with Dale and Delilah, our only lady member.

My serious take on Trade, maybe not the last thing I'll say, is that he knows he could lose his position, too, at any time. And having started as one of only two on the second tier, right below me, his is an enviable position. Dale and Delilah are still on the bottom rung. And look at it this way, with Mark out, Trade has the entire second tier all to himself, in the sole position as my immediate underling. The last thing, probably, he'd seriously want to happen is to lose that.

I've now alluded to the issue that came between me and Mark. It's ridiculous, really. There was even a compliment in it for me, but the way he chastised me made me feel he would soon usurp me at the top level.

Mark said this, that he envisioned "our" blog (his word) as the world's "Last Serious Thing." I thought, Whoa! Has the world slid into the mud -- Nazism or whatever -- that fast again? Were all the great blogs, which I'd just read minutes before, already given over to the dark side? Were the libraries all gone? Maybe so! Their policy of restricting 17-year-olds to the Children's Room was certainly evil. Then of course we had the Republican party "governing" based on a philosophy of vandalism. Maybe I was "The Last Serious Thing!" Thank you, Mark.

But then he lit into me. That I was throwing it all away, and that only he seemed to know what we needed. And that if I didn't get the job done, someone else would step in and do it! I was seething, but asked what he meant.

He scolded me for not posting for two days earlier in the week, two days off -- calling that "abdication." Then he declared how "repulsed" he was that when I posted again it was a "frivolous" post on men with beards not going out in the rain. He questioned that as being "inaccurate, a lie," and pointed to his own beard as all the evidence he needed that he knew better. If I'd wanted to do a story on beards, he said, I should've asked him or his brother!"

Of course this was a personal attack on me. Just because I didn't have a beard! Well, I'm sorry, but I like walking in the rain!

Then I turned his Original Sin against him: "You want 'The Last Serious Thing', Mark? How about this? You never deserved a second tier position! I only gave it to you because of your brother! How's that for serious? And what did you do? You went both ways! You saw me just above you, very easy to knock off, and you saw Delilah right below you, right where you wanted her! I thank God Dale is still on her level, the last serious defense against a predator like you!"

He was about to erupt when I accused him of seriously desiring a filthy three-way with him, his brother, and Delilah on my kitchen table. When he said he couldn't even "imagine" such a thing, I had him. "You're imagining it right this second, your brother getting her good and worked up, then you pulling him back to finish her off yourself! And it's a terrible picture, the thought of you, pasty white in the nude with that hideous beard!"

This was almost more than he could stand. And I knew we were in for the last serious showdown. He pulled out his beard-trimming shears and moved me back, back, back, as far as I could go in the garage. He meant to cut me down to size, when I reached over for my own weapon, stashed there just for a scene like this, a bucket of water!

Mark immediately dropped the shears and backed up, knowing a bucket of water to the beard would be his end. That sucker would mat up and instantly strangle him! I kept it up, sloshing it around, and glared at him, saying, calmly but threateningly, "Your ass is seriously fired, and don't you come back if it's the last thing you do, you or your beard!"

With him gone, and only nervous Trade, Dale, and Delilah, and me remaining, I thought I'd end the board meeting on a friendly note: "If any of you have any other good ideas for the blog, please feel free to share them with me."