the wrong song

So this morning I was awakened at 5:30 a.m.—like I have been for the last 6 or 7 days in a row—by the shrill chirping of a bird outside my window.

Now I know you might be thinking, “Wow, what a light sleeper!” but this particular feathered “friend” (possibly straight from a perch next in Satan’s aviary) and its “song” are so loud that it also woke up my wife, who can sleep through the godless racket that is my snoring. That should give you an indication of the volume. This thing puts the Harpies to shame.

As I lay there *not* sleeping, I considered what might be the most satisfying way to bring about the demise of this creature—you know, because interrupting my precious beauty slumber is a crime worthy of death.

A few ideas came to mind:

• Getting a pet owl to hunt it down, catch it and rip it apart with its razor-like talons—they are killing machines, for what it’s worth. Of course, then I might have to deal with the owl hooting all night.
• Using a flame thrower to incinerate it—it’s got to taste like chicken.
• Snapping its avian neck with my bare hands, you know, because there’s nothing sweeter than crushing the life out of another creature with your bare hands … er, or so I hear.

Even though we have a pet parakeet of which I’m pretty fond (it was that or a hairless cat—uck!), overall, I’m not a big fan of birds, unless they’ve been deep fried or covered with bacon, stuffed and roasted for hours. When I used to work at Frank’s Nursery & Crafts back in the day, I could never understand why people would regularly spend hundreds of dollars on bird seed. As direct descendants of dinosaurs, these winged pests have been for millions of years—they hardly need our help to survive. Trust me when I tell you that if you were starving to death, they wouldn’t help you. As a matter of fact, buzzards would hover above while you expire, then they and all sorts of other carrion would feast on your corpse.

In short, I agree with Buddha*—birds can go flock themselves.

[*It was in the 3rd chapter of his autobiography, I believe, after the part about “Lead, follow or get the heck out of the way!” Or was that Ted Turner? I get all of Jane Fonda’s exes mixed up.]

Anyhoo, my mother likes to feed the birds, and for years, has tried to lure hummingbirds to her feeder, but without much success. Last summer, when we were in Colorado and staying at the infamous Murder Cabin, there were a few hummingbirds around, which allowed to get me to get this kind of photo.

I’d post more, but I think that’s rubbing it in my mother’s face enough.

Speaking of my family and song birds, that is something we are definitely not: musically gifted. Actually, I’d say we are musically bankrupt, although my older son seems to be able to carry a tune and can play the piano by ear. (Freak!) For a long time, I questioned whether my younger son was of my direct lineage—his hair was on the blonde side, which doesn’t even remotely match me or my wife—until I heard him really “sing.” Although enthusiastic, the experience erased *all* doubt that he was descended from my tone-deaf bloodline.

Obviously, I have no illusions about how bad my singing is—and trust me, it’s truly putrid. When it comes to having to sing “Happy Birthday,” I can guarantee you that I’m pretty much lip-synching and letting others carry the tune. Or maybe I’m whisper-singing, which masks some of the awful. Overall, I’ve been fairly successful in hiding my horrific warbling, except for one fateful night …

[*cue rayality flashback waviness … or just flicker your eyelids a bit, thanks*]

A few of you may have heard this story already—I know my friend Milo is already giggling since he was there when this fateful event unfolded. Some of the basic details are fuzzy, possibly obscured by the mists of time or, more likely, blocked by a brain trying to forget away a traumatic moment.

Anyway, Milo and I were at this live show in a local hall—I want to say his now-wife Ivette was there also, but again, I’ve desperately tried to forget the details. (Sorry Ivette, either way!) It was a variety show of sorts, with  local singers entertaining the crowd.

At some point in the evening, one of the women got up and started channeling her inner Diana Ross, breaking out into “Reach Out and Touch”

For the proper effect, please play this while you continue to read.

If you’re not familiar with the song, it’s popular sing-along, which, if I had known at the time, would’ve sent me scrambling to the men’s room to hide. But I was completely oblivious, so I was caught up in and enjoying the moment as the singer rolled through the chorus:

“Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, and make this world a better place, if you can …”

After singing it a few times, she began to work the crowd like the supreme diva, walking around, throwing in some comments to pump everyone up and extolling others to sing along with her. Before I really could process what was happening, she was standing in front of me.

Smiling at me, she sang the lead up to the chorus and then—

[Oh. my. god. NO!]

—she took the microphone and put it right in my face.

And I mean right in my face, about a millimeter from my lips.

I froze. Nowhere to run, no time to react, no chance of dematerializing into a puddle of carbon atoms and water on the spot. Then she nodded as the musical cue came around.

I didn’t know what else to do … I took a deep breath and—

“REEEEEEEEEEAAAAACCCCCCHHHHH OUT AND TOUCH

SOMEBODY’S hand …

make this world … a better place …

if you …
… can …”

Mere words on a blog can’t convey how awful the noise that came from my throat was. It was like nails on a chalkboard + a moose being crushed in a trash compactor + Fran Drescher after gargling glass x 1 billion to the billionth power. Or worse.

Needless to say, Milo was hysterical (and even now, decades later, he still laughs—hard—about it, as well he should). The singer was a real pro, almost able to mask the shock on her face with a smile that’d make Chuck Woolery jealous. She nodded encouragement, but her eyes were pleading, “Child, for the love of Jesus H. Christ, please please please never sing another note as long as any of us live.”

The only good part for all of us is that it was only a one-time event. That freakin’ bird will be back there tomorrow … maybe I should try serenading it. Maybe that will change its tune!