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.

You Got Anything To Say?

Please tell me, is anyone out there having good conversations anymore? I'm wondering if it's just me, but I'm not generally even overhearing good conversations anymore, let alone being a participant in them.

Maybe this is something that just requires a certain setting that's outside my lifestyle as I'm living it these days, such as a bar and several pitchers of beer. Since I don't do that, I wouldn't know if that's still happening. Still, like I said above, I'm out and around, and I'm not overhearing anyone else really into it either.

My mouth used to work. Used to. I remember it flapping all the time, with big crazy laughs and flights of imagination. I was thinking of this a while ago, some of the big ambitions we came up with in conversations, like making video documentaries. But none of it ever happened. I still think of it when I'm watching a video documentary: "We could've made this!" Big stuff, big plans. Now what is there? Everyone's snipping funny pictures of dogs and sharing them on Facebook. Conversation these days is, "Pray for me, I've got a disease."

There's work conversations, of course, as short and sweet as possible, just to get it over with. And conversations with your doctor, who's always in a great hurry and can't be held back. Beyond that, waitresses seating you, the guy at the grocery store, nothing. I got into a tiny conversation with the guy at the grocery store. It turned out that he and I were born the same year.

As for anything, though, if I'm not reading a book, nothing's getting through. Authors have a lot to say. The actual in-the-flesh encounters aren't yielding much. Leading me to think, indeed, there is really nothing left to talk about. Which doesn't sound entirely convincing.

It must really have something to do with aging. We already know, whatever our ambitions are, they're crazy, as well as our opinions. So to preserve what reputation for sanity we have, we've just shut up.