My Fine Feathered Friend
I don't remember it, but it must have happened.
There must have been a day years ago when The Lord (or more likely one of the archangels) came to Young Matt Preskenis and asked him a fateful question.
"Young Matt Preskenis, we know you're talking about being an astronaut or a marine biologist or something like that.
"Now we don't normally do this, but we're going to make you an offer: how would you like to lead a fucked-up life, where nothing normal can ever happen to you?"
And I'm sure I paused for a minute, thrown off by an angel dropping the f-bomb.
"When we say it, it's not cursing," I'm sure he then added, invoking one of the many benefits of being a member of the Heavenly Hosts.
"Would I still get to be an astronaut?" I may have queried.
"No.
"And you're not going to be a marine biologist, either, whatever that is.
"You're going to have all kinds of random jobs, each leaving you with a vague feeling that you're missing the point.
"Every day, you'll feel a small tinge of pain, mixed with a crushing existential fear that you're avoiding your true destiny.
"But you're not. That's just it. Your destiny is not to have one, although you'll want to pick up a few twelve-packs to fight off the creeping sense of dread every day.
"I can promise you this, though--not a day will go by without something truly bizarre happening to you."
Apparently I accepted his offer, leaving both Sea World and Young Matt Preskenis vaguely aware that they missed out on something.
Now it may not have happened exactly like that.
It may have been ole Lucifer himself, a talking unicorn with a soothing voice, or a whimsical gnome named Buddy.
But I am 100% certain that somewhere along the way, Life-with-a-capital-L decided to start fucking with me, all because I was "bored."
Fucked up shit happens to me every single day. I guarantee it.
Before you zip off your hate mail, I want you to know, I'm not bragging.
I wish I could have a mundane day.
I'm going to walk into the office on Monday, and people are going to be talking about watching the football games, eating pizza and maybe having a few beers.
Maybe they did all three at the same time, because they have friends or something.
Sure, the bunting is a bit much, but you know what? I'm willing to bet they sleep well at night and don't scratch at invisible bugs every day.
As for me, I'm going to be sleepless and frazzled on Monday, telling everyone about my new roommate...
I've lived with roommates before. It's not bad.
My college roommates had a delightful bunch of idiosyncracies. From desk-drawers full of cum-stained socks to shotgunning six Coors Lights before getting in bar fights to fucking their best friend's girlfriend, they were a laff-a-minute bunch.
Niki and I live together now, but obviously that's different, as I use Kleenex instead of socks.
But, as anyone who gives two shits about me knows, Niki's on the road for the next couple of weeks, selling her car and seeing Our Great America with her mom. It'll be a hoot.
I miss her tremendously, but I figured I'd be hanging out, doing my thing. My plan for the weekend was to have a few beers, get back into writing, and watch the Zab Judah fight.
Meeps, our infernal beast of a feline, was going to give me an excuse to talk to myself, as everyone knows that if there's a an organism with ears or green leaves present, you're not really talking to yourself.
Suffice to say, things didn't go as planned. For me or Zab.
What I didn't plan on was our new roommate.
Oh, he's got his good points. Like his bubbly singing. But his penchant for conjunctivitis and shitting in my bathroom sink are definitely two strikes against him.
I knew it was going to be a strange day when I walked in the bathroom and the sink was covered in feathers. Scrolling up the wall, I saw a collage of birdshit streaks and muddy paw prints. Intrigued, like any sane man, I climbed up on the toilet seat, craned my neck uncomfortably, and looked at our skylight ledge, twelve feet above.
And there was my new roommate, Carpodacus mexicanus.
The aptly named "house finch."
I'm not going to give you the "and then I tied my other shoe" play by play, but rest assured I looked into this.
And from what I can piece together based on Meeps' filthy paw prints and the spray of feathers throughout the apartment, there was some bona fide Tom & Jerry shit going on while I was sleeping off the second bottle of wine this morning.
Columbo wasn't picking up his phone, but based on my own home sleuthing, the cat must've surprised Carpy while he was eating tiny pebbles on our fire escape. The bird's inefficient digestive system was most certainly his undoing.
From here the bird made a fateful error, bolting into our kitchen through the open window that allows Meeps to walk around the rooftops like Heathcliff every night.
Fucking mayhem ensued, and now he's holed up in the bathroom skylight, shitting on our sink every time I try to flush him out of there with the big extend-o-pole that we used to paint the ceilings.
This was supposed to be a low-key weekend.
I should have been at brunch, drinking Bloody Mary's and reading Chomsky or whatever the hipsters do at the campy place across the street from me.
Instead, I'm chasing a bird with a pole while my cat claws my leg, licks his lips and drools.
Now, now, before you start calling Ranger Rick on me, I've got a plan.
I'm hoping he just leaves.
My dad came up with the same plan, independent of me, so it should work.
As an aside, if you really want to get your relationship with your folks on track, a story involving birdshit is one everyone can relate to.
So where does that leave me?
I was going to pen a delightfully high-and-mighty blog about organized religion, hypocrisy and Moon Pies.
It was going to be a riot, and it was going to make you think.
Instead, I'm sitting here, trying to devise a way to catch a finch if he's not out of my bathroom by Tuesday.
My dad suggested two poles and a towel. Niki suggested a trail of food. I'm kind of hoping the cat gets to him and I don't have to deal with it myself.
It's about time that cat pulled his weight around here.
As for the finch?
The housefinch, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the rusty ledge of skylight, just above my bathroom door
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the sunlight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
There must have been a day years ago when The Lord (or more likely one of the archangels) came to Young Matt Preskenis and asked him a fateful question.
"Young Matt Preskenis, we know you're talking about being an astronaut or a marine biologist or something like that.
"Now we don't normally do this, but we're going to make you an offer: how would you like to lead a fucked-up life, where nothing normal can ever happen to you?"
And I'm sure I paused for a minute, thrown off by an angel dropping the f-bomb.
"When we say it, it's not cursing," I'm sure he then added, invoking one of the many benefits of being a member of the Heavenly Hosts.
"Would I still get to be an astronaut?" I may have queried.
"No.
"And you're not going to be a marine biologist, either, whatever that is.
"You're going to have all kinds of random jobs, each leaving you with a vague feeling that you're missing the point.
"Every day, you'll feel a small tinge of pain, mixed with a crushing existential fear that you're avoiding your true destiny.
"But you're not. That's just it. Your destiny is not to have one, although you'll want to pick up a few twelve-packs to fight off the creeping sense of dread every day.
"I can promise you this, though--not a day will go by without something truly bizarre happening to you."
Apparently I accepted his offer, leaving both Sea World and Young Matt Preskenis vaguely aware that they missed out on something.
Now it may not have happened exactly like that.
It may have been ole Lucifer himself, a talking unicorn with a soothing voice, or a whimsical gnome named Buddy.
But I am 100% certain that somewhere along the way, Life-with-a-capital-L decided to start fucking with me, all because I was "bored."
Fucked up shit happens to me every single day. I guarantee it.
Before you zip off your hate mail, I want you to know, I'm not bragging.
I wish I could have a mundane day.
I'm going to walk into the office on Monday, and people are going to be talking about watching the football games, eating pizza and maybe having a few beers.
Maybe they did all three at the same time, because they have friends or something.
Sure, the bunting is a bit much, but you know what? I'm willing to bet they sleep well at night and don't scratch at invisible bugs every day.
As for me, I'm going to be sleepless and frazzled on Monday, telling everyone about my new roommate...
I've lived with roommates before. It's not bad.
My college roommates had a delightful bunch of idiosyncracies. From desk-drawers full of cum-stained socks to shotgunning six Coors Lights before getting in bar fights to fucking their best friend's girlfriend, they were a laff-a-minute bunch.
Niki and I live together now, but obviously that's different, as I use Kleenex instead of socks.
But, as anyone who gives two shits about me knows, Niki's on the road for the next couple of weeks, selling her car and seeing Our Great America with her mom. It'll be a hoot.
I miss her tremendously, but I figured I'd be hanging out, doing my thing. My plan for the weekend was to have a few beers, get back into writing, and watch the Zab Judah fight.
Meeps, our infernal beast of a feline, was going to give me an excuse to talk to myself, as everyone knows that if there's a an organism with ears or green leaves present, you're not really talking to yourself.
Suffice to say, things didn't go as planned. For me or Zab.
What I didn't plan on was our new roommate.
Oh, he's got his good points. Like his bubbly singing. But his penchant for conjunctivitis and shitting in my bathroom sink are definitely two strikes against him.
I knew it was going to be a strange day when I walked in the bathroom and the sink was covered in feathers. Scrolling up the wall, I saw a collage of birdshit streaks and muddy paw prints. Intrigued, like any sane man, I climbed up on the toilet seat, craned my neck uncomfortably, and looked at our skylight ledge, twelve feet above.
And there was my new roommate, Carpodacus mexicanus.
The aptly named "house finch."
I'm not going to give you the "and then I tied my other shoe" play by play, but rest assured I looked into this.
And from what I can piece together based on Meeps' filthy paw prints and the spray of feathers throughout the apartment, there was some bona fide Tom & Jerry shit going on while I was sleeping off the second bottle of wine this morning.
Columbo wasn't picking up his phone, but based on my own home sleuthing, the cat must've surprised Carpy while he was eating tiny pebbles on our fire escape. The bird's inefficient digestive system was most certainly his undoing.
From here the bird made a fateful error, bolting into our kitchen through the open window that allows Meeps to walk around the rooftops like Heathcliff every night.
Fucking mayhem ensued, and now he's holed up in the bathroom skylight, shitting on our sink every time I try to flush him out of there with the big extend-o-pole that we used to paint the ceilings.
This was supposed to be a low-key weekend.
I should have been at brunch, drinking Bloody Mary's and reading Chomsky or whatever the hipsters do at the campy place across the street from me.
Instead, I'm chasing a bird with a pole while my cat claws my leg, licks his lips and drools.
Now, now, before you start calling Ranger Rick on me, I've got a plan.
I'm hoping he just leaves.
My dad came up with the same plan, independent of me, so it should work.
As an aside, if you really want to get your relationship with your folks on track, a story involving birdshit is one everyone can relate to.
So where does that leave me?
I was going to pen a delightfully high-and-mighty blog about organized religion, hypocrisy and Moon Pies.
It was going to be a riot, and it was going to make you think.
Instead, I'm sitting here, trying to devise a way to catch a finch if he's not out of my bathroom by Tuesday.
My dad suggested two poles and a towel. Niki suggested a trail of food. I'm kind of hoping the cat gets to him and I don't have to deal with it myself.
It's about time that cat pulled his weight around here.
As for the finch?
The housefinch, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the rusty ledge of skylight, just above my bathroom door
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the sunlight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
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