End-of-year memories

Yes, as a matter of fact I DID start this post on New Year's Eve and didn't finish and publish it 'til today so I back-dated it. Why do you ask?

It's been a topsy-turvy year for this birder. I've had some great highs--birding in Cape May with the Flock and meeting new Flockers Lynne and Katdoc, birding the marsh with Susan and Laura, seeing some great lifers like my first wood duck (finally)--and some crushing lows. All in all, it's been a year of evolution, of spreading my wings and taking risks.

For this last post of 2008, I went through my archives and found some moments that I thought you might enjoy reliving with me:

January--birding and observing the locals in the Big Valley of Central Pennsylvania

February--in an especially lucky convergence, a raptor lands right outside the window at work AND I have my camera with me

March--an April post covering my March 30th marsh birding trip with visitors Susan Gets Native and Laura from New Jersey, including an episode of CSI: Bird Dorks

April--in which I discover a new place to bird that yields some great sights

May--a tie between this big birding day afield and the next big birding day on the marsh, both featuring a lot of photos

June--my first-ever owl heard in the wild!

July--we all go camping and fishing, featuring lots of photos including a pretty decent one of an Eastern Towhee

August--in a non-bird-related post, we meet Dr. Matty McMatterson, best friend and confidante of the beginning birder, the Watson to my Holmes (only I'm not addicted to drugs)

September--I get my first-ever photos of an accommodating bald eagle

October--my crazy-ass trip to Cape May to meet the Flock during the Autumn Migration weekend

November--in which the vegetarian beginning birder ponders the Thanksgiving turkey tradition

December--the beginning birder finds out she's going to need a field guide for Western birds. . .

It's been a long year, and a long winter (and it's only just started!), but 2009 promises to be a much warmer and more bird-filled year. Not to mention the fact that we're getting a new president! I wonder if Barack Obama is a birder? I bet Michelle Obama likes birds. She's probably cool like that.

David Attenborough's The Life of Birds

If you haven't seen at least a few parts of David Attenborough's BBC series The Life of Birds, you're really missing something. I realize this series is years old, but you may have missed it.

Through the magic of Netflix, I've been slowly watching the DVDs of the series. So far I've seen the first two discs, which included chapters like "Fishing for a Living," "The Meat Eaters," "The Mastery of Flight," and my favorite so far, "Signals and Songs." Attenborough's fact-filled narration alone is brilliant and insightful, to say nothing of the endearingly hilarious sound of his accented voice saying, "THE Life... of Buhds." LOVE IT. I love him!

He is always sure to identify every bird he shows us (though not necessarily by specific type; for instance, he'll talk about "grebes in North America" without telling us that they're Western Grebes. But this is an anal-retentive birder's complaint). He travels through tropical rainforests in his cute little jungle khaki outfits and roams the icy coasts in sturdy outerwear, sits on the windy tundra getting his hair blown all over the place, gets attacked by a VERY territorial bird who knocks him over at one point, feeds bunches of hummers with a hand-held feeder, lies on a darkened beach watching shorebirds eat--you name it. For an older guy, he's in great shape and he hikes and climbs and crouches with the dexterity (and dirt-under-his-fingernails abandon) of a much younger man. He's like a hipper and soothing-voiced version of Marlin Perkins of Wild Kingdom fame (though I have to credit Perkins and of course Jim Fowler for kindling my absolutely psychotic love of nature and nature shows).

The birds themselves are spectacular: the lyrebird that can mimic a camera shutter sound complete with motordrive, the cock-of-the-rock and its spectacular plumage, sunbitterns and their crazy wings-out threat display, fieldfares who dive-bomb a raven and try to cover him with their poop (which could ground him and get him killed, BTW) to get him to leave their area. Attenborough covers the evolution of birds, mating, raising young, flight, eating, behavior--in short, everything you want to know about birds in general as well as specifics about a huge number of birds the world over.

If you haven't seen this series, WATCH IT. Especially if you've always dreamed of going to Peru or Costa Rica or Africa but couldn't afford it.

WARNING: the following is only for extreme bird-nerds and avian-kooks like me; You know who you are. I have to confess that I've been watching the episodes while holding my Birds of the World and both my eastern and my brand-new western Peterson's field guides; each time Attenborough mentions a new bird, I look it up, figure out specifically what type it is, note its geographical range, and read more details about it. (I warned you.)

Best yet, I checked it out on Amazon and it's only $34! Add to cart, baby. Add! to! cart!

I leave you with a completely unrelated photo: I saw these beautiful clouds while I was out this afternoon and couldn't resist. They almost look like lenticular clouds that form over mountaintops.

Note: More New River potential lifers posts coming up. Been kinda distracted of late, and my mind's just not fully on the birds.

Cool clouds on a sunny day

The temperature warmed up yesterday to a balmy 45 degrees, though it's a little cooler today. I didn't go birding, but I did find some cool clouds:

A fine example of melting butter clouds. In this next photo, I'm hoping you can see that it kinda looked like a bunch of little scoops of clouds, little swirls. My phone's camera didn't do too good a job of capturing it, but try to use your imagination and click for huger:

On this same road today at lunchtime, I saw a pretty red female American Kestrel. I loves me some kestrels.

Happy Birdday, Mary!

My sister Mary turns 43 today, so I thought I'd embarrass her by publishing this photo again:

That's her on the right, pointing to her dolly. This was probably a newly opened Christmas present, I'm guessing.

Mary had a series of dollies as a kid (surprisingly, I was not the dolly type). I'd give anything right now to have a scan of this one photo of all my siblings and me on an Easter day, waaaay back when. Mary and were probably 5 and 6, respectively. In a bunch of photos, Mary had her "naked baby" dolly, whom she held by the head in all the pics taken that day. In this one photo, however, you can see that someone has taken away Naked Baby and Mary's crying her little eyes out, holding out her hands to someone off-camera -- probably my mom.

Actually, Mary cried in almost all her baby and young tot pics -- it's sort-of a family joke. The rest of us were always smiling and laughing, even in the photo that was taken when I had German measles.

Mary, however, was always wailin'. She sings now, a benefit of all that lung exercise, no doubt.

Back to this photo--she had that blue sweater for YEARS. (We were both a size 6X for years too, saving my parents a lot on clothing, I'd bet.) I remember borrowing the blue sweater one day because I had to go outside to feet the kitty. I tipped the box of dry catfood to pour some out, and a little baby roach crawled out of the box and up my arm, into the sweater sleeve! I ran around screaming and flailing the box (catfood flying), trying to tear that sweater off. I can still remember it like it was yesterday. *shudder*

Anyway, happy birdday, Mary, aka Hairy Mary, aka Wolf Hand, aka Mareeeeeeeeeeeeeea!

Birding yesterday?

Compute the following:
Temp: 15°
plus
Wind: gusting
divided by
Precip: snow

So did I go birding yesterday morning as planned?

You do the math.

New River Wish List, Post #2: Common Raven

the not-so-Common Raven

In which I continue my series of posts potential lifers (for me, anyway) I might see in Virginia at the New River Bird and Nature Festival in April 2009. Much of the Flock will be staying the entire week of the festival; I will do only the second half of the week, arriving on Wednesday night in time for dinner, then birding Thursday through Sunday morning.

It’s likely that I’ve already seen many ravens up here in PA, but I never learned to tell them from plain old American Crows before now. I’ll frame my ID tips in terms of telling a raven from a crow.

The first ID clue is that ravens are much larger than crows, a fact that right away frightens the bejeesus out of me. I didn’t grow up with crows in South Texas; we had grackles, which are much smaller and aren’t nearly as bloodthirsty as the crows I’ve seen here. (Remember when that crow ate the starling's head?) The Common or Northern Raven is 22–27 inches from beak to tail—like a small cropdusting plane—while an American Crow is “only” 17–21 inches. Cornell describes the raven as “the largest of the songbirds.” *shudder*

Raven on top, crow on bottom (all photos shameless stolen from other sites which I am too lazy to go back and get the links for)--
The raven’s call is also distinct from that of the crow. Ravens make what Peterson calls a “croaking cr-r-ruck or prruk” or “a metallic tok” as opposed to the loud and clear "caw" of the American Crow. While I’m at it, I’ll add that a Fish Crow’s call is a “short nasal car or ca.” (Like it’s an American Crow hailing from Bah-ston?) You can hear the raven, the crow, and the fish crow at Cornell’s site.

Ravens, according to Peterson, tend not to congregate in the huge (and poopie-stinky) groups that crows do. (I suppose that’s why Edgar Allen Poe quoted but one raven telling him “Nevermore” as opposed to a whole bunch of crows screaming "caw" at him.) So I guess I won’t have much luck if I look for murders of crows and try to spot the bigger ones as ravens. Still, there are other differences.

When they are perched, ravens have what Peterson refers to as a “goiter” look on their necks, with “shaggy throat feathers” that pooch out a bit. Crows are sleeker in the neck area. Ravens also have slightly chunkier beaks than crows.

Perhaps the easiest way to tell a crow from a raven is during flight. The crow’s tail is squared across, while the raven’s is wedge-shaped. (A Fish Crow’s is also squared across.)

Again, raven on top (with distinctly curved-across tail), crow on bottom (with squared-off tail)--
Further, ravens fly in more of a hawklike manner, flapping and gliding on flat wings; crows hold their wings in a slight dihedral, almost like a turkey vulture (though not as pronounced of a “V”). Most all the crows I’ve seen pretty much flap all the time and rarely glide, but maybe they’re just all in a big hurry to go eat another starling.

I happened upon another page that discusses the differences between crows and ravens here.

Next time, we’ll look at a smaller songbird: the Blue-winged Warbler, a pair of which our host Dave Pollard guaranteed we'd see outside the Farmhouse in which much of the Flock will be staying at New River. Until then, I'm hoping to go birding this Sunday morning with Gretchen, my new birding pal Cari and her boyfriend, and perhaps Laurie--all of which (with the exception of the boyfriend) you can see and read about here on my curse-filled political bloggy.

Go west, young birder

POP QUIZ:

What do this book

and this school

have to do with this birder?

Here's a hint:
That's Dr. Matthew Callahan (aka Matty McMatterson) and our friend Christine, who lives in San Francisco, who gave me the field guide pictured above because . . .


Matty got the job at Sonoma State!

He got the call yesterday, and we'll be leaving in July 2009. It's hard to believe; it all seems so far away. But sure enough, we're packing up and moving to California.

Being the live-in-the-moment person that I am, it's hard to be sad now about leaving this place and all my friends. I'm so excited at the thought of a new beginning that I can't feel sad or wistful right now. I'm sure, however, that will come once the departure nears.

In the meantime, however, I sure do have a lot of new birds to learn. It'll be "beginning to bird" all over again! Varied thrushes, weirdo chickadees, no more Eastern bluebirds -- wow.

I'll be in the land of Earl Cootie and Matty Boy, trolley cars, and fog fog fog.

I'll be twenty minutes from Bodega Bay, the setting of Hitchcock's The Birds and an incredibly beautiful coastline, judging from the photos.

I'll see John Muir's redwoods and the Pacific Ocean.

Arnold Schwarzenegger will be my governor.

oh my god...

Check it out now, funk soul brother

Frequent commenter EHunter of The Bufflehead Birder has announced a pretty cool competition for all you birders who have bird ornaments on your Yule trees. If you have a few birdy ornaments, be sure to pop over there and let her know.

New River Wish List, Post #1: Pied-billed Grebe

And now we begin looking at potential lifers (for me, anyway) I might see in Virginia at the New River Bird and Nature Festival. First, let's look at their list from this year's fest:

Common LoonPied-billed Grebe Great EgretGreen Heron Black VultureTurkey VultureCanada GooseMute SwanWood DuckMallardBlue-winged TealLesser ScaupOspreySharp-shinned HawkCooper’s Hawk Red-shouldered HawkBroad-winged HawkRed-tailed HawkAmerican KestrelMerlin Peregrine FalconRuffed Grouse Wild TurkeyKilldeerLesser YellowlegsSolitary SandpiperSpotted SandpiperAmerican WoodcockRock DoveMourning DoveYellow-billed Cuckoo Eastern Screech Owl Great Horned OwlBarred OwlCommon NighthawkWhip-poor-willChimney SwiftRuby-throated HummingbirdBelted Kingfisher Red-headed WoodpeckerRed-bellied WoodpeckerDowney WoodpeckerHairy WoodpeckerNorthern FlickerPileated WoodpeckerEastern Wood PeeweeAcadian flycatcher Least Flycatcher Eastern Phoebe
Northern Rough-winged Swallow Bank SwallowCliff Swallow Barn Swallow Carolina ChickadeeBlack-capped ChickadeeTufted Titmouse Red-breasted Nuthatch White-breasted Nuthatch Brown CreeperCarolina WrenHouse Wren Winter WrenRuby-crowned KingletBlue-gray GnatcatcherEastern BluebirdVeery Swainson’s ThrushHermit ThrushWood ThrushAmerican RobinGray CatbirdNorthern Mockingbird Brown Thrasher European Starling Cedar Waxwing Blue-winged WarblerGolden-winged Warbler Tennessee WarblerNashville Warbler Northern Parula Yellow Warbler Chestnut-sided Warbler Magnolia Warbler Cape May WarblerBlack-throated Blue Warbler Yellow-rumped Warbler Black-throated Green Warbler Blackburnian Warbler Yellow-throated Warbler Pine WarblerPrairie Warbler Palm WarblerBay-breasted Warbler Blackpoll Warbler Cerulean Warbler Blue-headed VireoWarbling VireoPhiladelphia VireoRed-eyed Vireo Blue JayAmerican Crow
Black-and-white WarblerAmerican RedstartWorm-eating WarblerSwainson’s WarblerOvenbirdNorthern WaterthrushLouisiana WaterthrushKentucky WarblerMourning WarblerCommon YellowthroatHooded WarblerWilson’s WarblerCanada WarblerYellow-breasted ChatSummer TanagerScarlet TanagerEastern TowheeChipping SparrowField Sparrow Savannah Sparrow Grasshopper SparrowSong SparrowLincoln’s SparrowSwamp Sparrow White-throated SparrowWhite-crowned SparrowDark-eyed JuncoNorthern CardinalRose-breasted GrosbeakIndigo BuntingBobolinkRed-winged BlackbirdEastern MeadowlarkRusty BlackbirdCommon GrackleBrown-headed CowbirdOrchard OrioleBaltimore OriolePurple FinchHouse FinchPine SiskinAmerican GoldfinchHouse SparrowArctic TernMandarin DuckGreat Crested FlycatcherEastern KingbirdWhite-eyed VireoYellow-throated VireoCommon RavenPurple MartinTree Swallow

Holy mishmash, that's a lot of birds! Too many to format into a single-column list. Sorry! Anyway--you get the idea. We can pretty much expect to see everything but an emu down there!

So let's start with a water bird: the Pied-billed Grebe

Weird-looking duck, in my opinion. Not a whole lot of field marks, save that stubby little bill. Let's see what Cornell has to tell us: "A small diving bird with a chicken-like bill, the Pied-billed Grebe is common on lakes and ponds across North America. It is rarely seen flying and prefers to sink out of sight when danger threatens." Interesting. So we're likely to see this guy on the water. Good! Easier to spot with a scope.

Wait a second! "Although it swims like a duck, the Pied-billed Grebe does not have webbed feet. Instead of having a webbing connecting all the toes, each toe has lobes extending out on the sides that provide extra surface area for paddling." So it's not a duck! A quick check on the Animal Planet site for this bird tells me it is not a duck. The toes are weird-looking--but I can't find an illustration on-line.!

You can hear the call on the Cornell link above; it's described as "kuk-kuk-kuk, kaow, kaow, kaow, kaow, kaowk, kaowk, kawk." Check. It's on my fabulous BirdJam software on my Ericsson-Walkman phone. Sweet!

My Peterson's guide notes that the little stubby chicken-like bill is different from the longer pointy bills of the grebes; it also has no wing patches like the other grebes do. So why the differences? Why is this even called a grebe? DNA, I guess.

Peterson also notes that the breeding birds will have "a black throat patch and a ring around the thick whitish bill[s]." Good to know. Here's a photo by Jeff Foott/DCI showing both the black throat patch and the black ring about the little chicken-beak:

Seems like this bird ought to be easy to identify in the field. What looks like a smudgy brown duck could be a female mallard, for instance, unless it has the little stubby beak of the pied-billed grebe. Grebes are also smaller than the mallards, about the size of a pigeon.

That's one bird down, many more to go! If you see anything about these Wish List posts that can be improved, please let me know in the comments. I'm trying to pack as much info on here as I can, commenting on the things that stand out in my mind as ID tips.

OXFORD UNIVERSITY: Just publish whatever the fuck you want

Shite Magazines of Oxford Part 1: (OH) Magazine
"Because if I'm blogging then at least some good is coming out of the crap that gets released every term"

(OH) Magazine was formed in 2008 by some students, apparently to fill the aching creative vacuum in their CVs caused by the fact that they hadn't been allowed to edit anything yet in their Oxford careers. As far as I can tell, the magazine's main remit is to serve as the backup 'sexy arts magazine' in the few times when there isn't a copy of the Isis directly to hand; I imagine that there was once a tragic incident when a student was having a stroke or something, but could have been saved if only there was a brightly coloured edgy student publication filled with unreadable opinion pieces about drugs or sex or indie music, but all of the copies of Isis were taken so the student tragically died; and so to prevent such a tragedy every happening again, a few brave undergraduates from Oriel College took it upon themselves to produce an emergency backup magazine and charge JCRs £100 for it; kind of like how nuclear power stations have an extra layer of lead-sealant on all of the radioactive chambers, just on the off-chance that the first breaks open, spewing white-hot chemical waste over the countryside and melting the tissue off any living organism in a 10 mile distance.

With such noble aspirations, it's difficult to imagine how (OH) could fail. After all, they cover all of the key bases of student life - with segments such as 'Music, Books, Film, Fashion, Art, Gay, and Misc' - it is safe to say that whatever your hobby is, there will always be something to interest you. For example if you are particularly into your music, you can read the section on the history of Reggae, if you like fashion you can check out the photos of girls wearing Topshop dresses in a field and if you were interested in being a gay you could read the gay section, specifically written for YOU (wow!) which includes such highlights as 'Tinsel Flakes', an article written by somebody who has recently read Irvine Welsh's 1993 novel 'Trainspotting': mop up the remnents of pish on an already urine encrusted lavvy seat with the last two sheets of wafer thin toilet paper. Shaking away last night, I gave a bit of thought to words and...eh...language. At least, words that a cannae say. Don't get me wrong, it's not like etc, for two pages.

Reggae. Topshop. 'The gays'. As you can see, (OH) Mag is adept at hitting the marks with the kind of inyerface no-nonsense, no bullshit journalism of the type that made Russell Brand such a popular MTV presenter in September 2001. (OH) takes our standards of what to expect of a student magazine (in terms of content, presentation and readability) and throws them right the fuck out of the window. You want edgy? How about AN ARTICLE ON PORN told from the POV of somebody having a wank!!! How about a 'Introduction to (OH)' Section that on one hand offers you the chance to Have Your Say by casually inviting readers to 'drop us a line' before metaphorically Pulling The Rug Out From Under Our Feet by adding 'But we think its fucking brilliant' !!! How about printing the word 'shit' in a title. Twice. SHIT. IN A STUDENT PUBLICATION. WHAT IS GOING ON. Hey guys look at this. It's the line.

--------

and Look at what (OH) is doing

----(OH)----

That's right IT'S CROSSING THE FUCKING LINE. I read somewhere that at (OH) HQ (which is probably some awesome den filled with fetish gear and bongs and vintage typewriters) there's just a huge rasturbation of Hunter S Thompson and Banksy and Kurt Cobain and other people that anti-conformist idiots idolise charging into riot police with FUCK YOU, SYSTEM spray-painted underneath and stuff. I have also read that one of the editorial practises is to take all articles and add the word 'fuck' or 'bastard' somewhere in the central paragraph. The result is sentences like this: 'The frames that resemble camera-work only make it clear how much closer to an aesthetically powerful film this is than most actual films. Basically, it's fucking brilliant'. woahhh, were you knocked for six by the cussing at the end there? I know I was when I first read it. My thought process was like "Hmm, frames, interesting, aestheticism, interesting, basically, hmm, OH MY GOD THEY SAID THE F WORD'. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Because that's how people talk in real life, isn't it? Swearing and that. It brings it closer to MY demographic and makes me understand and sympathize with it as an article. Clever work, (OH) editors. People say 'What's the point?' or 'It's a lazy crutch to be 'down wid da kids' and inject shock value' but to those people I say chill out, niggers! Are you retarded or something? It's the goddamn (OH) magazine! You know why its called (OH)? Because that is the shocked sound that you make when you read it (in parentheses). The shoehorning of swearing and stupid popular culture references into Every Single Article is an unorthodox editorial decision and while some may call it irritating and patronising, I do as well.

Apparently other unorthodox editorial decisions involve making up words - "the plainly repugnanty", more-or-less disregarding the concept of grammar or consistent orthography, repeatedly spelling the names of the contributors incorrectly (sorry, non standardly), neglecting to credit whole segment editors and generally aiming to make the whole thing as UNDREADABLE AS FUCKING POSSIBLE. The result of this is that actually reading a copy of (OH) magazine is a strange, often unsatisfactorily frustrating battle against the English language. Reading an article is like wading through a strong wind, walking to a distant house that may or not be filled with angry bees. That's in the highly unlikely case that somebody actually reads an article. Flicking through it, the urge to Not Read is almost overwhelming. You look at the pictures. You read the headlines. You admire the pretty colours. Maybe-JUST MAYBE- you'll read an opening paragraph, say 'oh', then drift off into a catatonic coma, pass out, keel over and accidentally stab yourself in the eye with a fork. It's physically impossible to continue. It's like the literature equivalent of staring at the Sun or listening to The Kooks or drinking a gallon of listerine.
But of course that isn't the point is it? The point was never to produce anything interesting. The point is have something to look at, to admire as an Object, place on the table, absorb, lean back and then slowly, loquaciously, masturbate slowly over its matte finish and street styling, ejaculate over the five-page cartoon about the evil teddy bear, smear the resulting sticky mess all over your face and upper body and then lean back gasping desperately as it dries into a waxy dandruff-like scale and flakes off all over the double page about the Voynich Manuscript before hurling it into the nearest roaring wood fire and slinking off to read something better, like Atlas Shrugged or the safety instructions that came with the kettle.

I can't pretend to be Objective about this, by the way. I admit that I know three people who write for this magazine, and I produced a cartoon to go in it, and it wasn't included in the final press. My main excuse is that I was specifically sought out and asked to produce the cartoon, which I obligingly did. I say 'obligingly' because I'm not going to lie, I've already reached the point when I know that writing things for most publications in Oxford is more or less beneath me. And I was giving them a break, to be honest, I really thought they'd be grateful. I was dragging the average quality of the rest of the magazine, kicking and screaming, up. There would be at least two pages that would be worth reading. And they blew it, to be honest, an action that was confirmation more than conception of my disregard for this magazine. It's just the perfect confirmation of my theory that students shouldn't be allowed to produce anything. Reading it is plain painful. Like your dad rapping at a funeral. Your mum's funeral.

I know that this post is controversial and is probably going to lose me some friends. I mean, I'm not blind, it's obvious how meteorically popular (OH) magazine has become in its first two issues. One of my friends from home saw it and said 'Hey is that a picture of some guys wearing tshirts on the front cover? Jesus this thing looks amazing I wish I went to Oxford!' and he was so impressed he dropped out of Cambridge and applied here for next year JUST so he could read it. It's already gotten so big and popular the wikipedia entry for 'Oxford University' automatically redirects to the (OH) page. In the weeks leading up to the release of a new issue of (OH), the tension in Oxford rises to unbearable levels. Fights break out. Women go into labour early. The night before an (OH) is released, the air crackles as though anticipating a thunder storm. The common room is abuzz with people who simply cannot sleep, such is their excitement at the thought of a fresh new copy of (OH) sliding through their letterbox. They drink cups of cocoa and speak of their hopes and dreams for what the new magazine will bring - possibly four pages devoted to samey doodles of farm animals by some girl who doesn't even go to Oxford any more, possibly an article on Slagsmålskubben, possibly a page with just the word 'GAY' on it in big letters. Who knows?

So maybe I'm wrong. In the wake of such overwhelming public support for (OH), perhaps I should give them another chance? Perhaps, if what I've just said is true, they truly represent the dawn of a new level of student journalism? If THIS MANY PEOPLE love and adore (OH) and think that it is the best thing to ever be released ever then maybe I should just shut up for once

...

(oh) wait

Finally, an application I like!

I just got on Facebook about two months ago, I guess. Matty McMatterson convinced me that it wasn't just for the younguns anymore, and that I'd enjoy it. He was partly right. I have enjoyed reconnecting with old friends, seeing what current friends are up to, and so forth.


What I hate is the application. You know--the "pass a drink" or "throw a snowball" or "I nominated you as the cutest person on Facebook!" or "little fish" or whatever. I just don't have the patience for all that.


HOWEVER.... today, I saw an application that instantly caught my attention! Mybirdingplace.com has a bird ID quiz! And check me out:

I had to ID the following birds (one at a time, multiple choice),

I must confess that I just guessed on the Green Hermit and the Spruce Grouse, never having seen nor heard of either bird. The grouse one was fairly easy to guess, as the other choices were Willow Ptarmigan and some other smaller birds. The hummer one, however, was tough. Still--good guessing!

I figure this can be another way for me to get more practice IDing birds. If you haven't tried it, check it out!

Blackburnian orange sunset

Last night, the sunset's colors reminded me of the flaming orange on a Blackburnian warbler, my favorite warbler.

photo taken with my phone cam, while driving about 65mph. so pardon the poor quality.

The coolness to come

So the Flock -- let's see if I can remember to include everyone here --

Lynne

Susan

Laura

Susan

Mary

Kathi

Nina

Ruthie

Jayne

Tim

Beth the Lurker

is busy sending emails to each other, coming up with silly nicknames, and in general cluttering up the Intertubes with flockiness about the New River Birding and Nature Festival in West Virginia in April 2009. What with all the talk of overpacking, shortstacking, lipsmacking, Zickattacking, needleclacking, talkbacking, nutcracking, superstacking, and paddywhacking, we're getting ourselves all a-flutter for the excitement of the spring migration!

I've decided that I'm going to do a series of posts over the coming months highlighting the potential lifers and other birds of note we'll likely see in West Virginia. I'll try to get these going in the next few days. I want to feature a bird, show a photo of it (probably not mine, because let's face it -- my photography skills are lame), and link to a recording of its call. I'm hoping to learn more about the birds we're likely to see so that I just might be able to get some decent looks and photos of them.

Birding's "first family," if we may be said to have a birding first family, Julie Zickefoose, Bill Thompson III, their kids and Chet Baker will be there!

If we're lucky, we might even get to see the strikingly perfect hair of ace birding guide Jeff Gordon!

If you're interested in the festival, click on the link on my sidebar. There are even different registration packages for almost every budget, including "dirt-poor" like me!

New Niblet Photos!

We haven't seen the Nibble on the bloggy for a while, and last night he was posing ever so winningly:
Love that badonkadonk! He's been so relaxed and happy lately, binkying around the apartment like the king of the world.

I sometimes wonder if I should get him a companion, but I worry about them not getting along. And about how it might change his personality. And about how his self-esteem might be bruised by an eared bunny. So I probably won't get him a friend. I'll just have to give him as much lovin' as I can! But then--that's not hard. Who couldn't just love him to pieces!?

Thanking the bird

Turkey photo shamelessly stolen from Lynne's Hasty Brook

Tomorrow is an interesting day for a birder. Many birders are meat-eaters, and thus will eat the Thanksgiving turkey as is traditionally done in this country. However, some of us (like me) are vegetarians -- for all kinds of reasons, personal to each of us.

Some of the biggest reasons I'm a vegetarian are ecopolitical, but some are just personal preference and my own emotions. Here are a couple of my reasons for going veg:

1. the mass production of meat and meat products strains our environment in many ways. Perhaps you've heard of CAFOs, or Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations. These are your factory farms like Tyson Chicken or your large beef producers. You can find out more about them from the EPA, the CDC, or a more politically minded organization like this one. In short, it is my belief that CAFOs are bad news. Others may disagree, and they're free to do so.

2. I love farm animals. They're furry and cute, and their little lives are just as precious to me as those of birds, rabbits, cats, dogs, and other animals. I know that I couldn't slaughter an animal for food, so why would I ask someone else to do it for me and then package it in a nice little plastic tray to assuage my conscience?

3. I don't buy that whole predator/prey thing. I realize it's the law of nature, and raptors have to kill songbirds to survive, etc. But I have free will. I choose not to kill anything with a face just so I can eat, especially when there are plenty of plant-based foods I can eat instead.

Anyway, those are my own personal reasons; I don't try to convince others to believe as I do, because eating is a personal decision. Still, I must confess that I think it's weird that birders would eat chickens, turkeys, or other fowl. Once again, as is common on the bloggy, my naivete is gonna show here, but when I was growing up, I guess I never connected the "duck" in a dish like Peking Duck with the little mallards, wood ducks, and canvasbacks that I love to watch through my binocs. And the geese! Poor brants and Canadas, their lonesome honks silenced, end up on people's dinner plates? How could a birder watch a songbird or a wild turkey, noting field marks and marking the bird on the lifelist, but then go eat one for dinner?

Sheesh. That's just weird to me. Still, I guess my hope is that tomorrow, when you're being thankful for life, love, family, and other such things, you'll remember to thank the little guy (or gal) on your table too. Do it for me, okay?

My favorite bird songs and calls

1. Wood thrush
2. Spotted sandpiper
3. American widgeon
4. Wild turkey
5. Virginia rail

Brought to you by the grippingly exciting Magical Typing Fingers.

Lolzing the dayz awayz

Baldies abound!

I saw another bald eagle last night near work, but I didn't have my camera with me. That's twice lately that I've seen a baldie on Rt 220 near work. Cool! Here's the first time, in case you don't recall.

"Life forward" update: Matty has an interview on December 5 at Sonoma State! He's one of five candidates being interviewed. They've asked him to stay the weekend as well so he can look around--which means they really want him! He's very excited, and so am I! I'm not out buying a field guide for western birds just yet, but this could really happen!

I was checking the weather there this morning, after coming into work in 22-degree cold:
Not bad, not bad at all! I could certainly deal with such mild winter temperatures. (Actually, I really don't mind the cold as long as it's snowing. If it's gonna be wintry and cold, bring on teh snow!) It's probably not very humid out there either. Wonder how hot it gets in the summer--any West Coasters out there?

Meanwhile, a friend of mine is suffering a bird-related problem: a mockingbird has taken up a perch right outside his bedroom window. And the mocker sings all night. Poor David looks sleepy all the time now, and he's threatened to buy a gun. When I looked aghast, he claimed it was "just to scare him!" Uh-huh. Any suggestions?

I just got invited to a winter birding trip with my atlassing friend Roana and her birding parents as well as some other people in the State College Birding Club. We'll be going to Ocean City, MD, and the Delaware area. It's not until February, so I'll be able to take some vacation days (mine for this year are all used up!) and relax, leaving Friday and returning sometime late Monday. Maybe I'll even be able to hook up with my friends Liz and Jeff Gordon in Delaware! However, I don't think I'll be driving, so it'll be a matter of where we are and when. More about this trip as it gets closer.

Meanwhile, not a lot of bird action, but we've definitely been having the cold. Here's a snowcloud snowing at sundown onto downtown State College, as seen from near my workplace in Pleasant Gap:
I took this with my phone camera from my moving car, so pardon the quality. Right at the base of the snow, you can see the lights of Beaver Stadium.

I tried to pull over for a better photo, but a bunch of cars were behind me and they didn't seem to get that flashers mean "go on by!" I didn't want someone to stop behind me and come to my window and say, "are ya broke down there, little lady?" (I HATE being called "little lady"--that's the fastest way to a swift kick in the crotch from me), so I slowed down a little, opened my window, and shot a couple of photos. Still it was a cool scene, watching the snow in the sunset. It almost looks like a huge tornado, doesn't it?

Life forward

Don't know whether I've mentioned it or not, but come August '09, I'm leaving State College. That would've been the time I left with Kat, and it's when Matty McMatterson will be leaving for his job (wherever that may be), and I feel like I should leave then--so Matty and I have decided to depart this little burg together. It'll be like a couple hire, only we're not a couple! I don't really belong in Central PA, having come here only as Kat's partner, so in the waning days of the summer of 2009, I'll be migrating to another (hopefully boreal or shoreline) habitat.

So this week, Matty got the first bite on his hook: Sonoma State in sunny California! (Hope I'm not jinxing him!) The idea of living in California is exciting -- a whole new field guide full of birds to learn! Wine Country! A year-round growing season! I've never been in that part of California, but I'm sure it's nice. Anyone have any info to offer, just in case?

Our other possibilities are also along the "edges" of the country; neither of us will live anyplace in what Matty calls "the fly-over states" in the middle. Here are the states/cities in which we might live, depending on Matty's job offers:
Atlanta, GA--interesting, but HOT
any number of places in Massachusetts--which would be lovely
San Francisco, CA--which would RAWK!
Chicago, IL--which I've heard is a great city
Buffalo and any number of other places in New York, but not in NYC--which would also be lovely
I think that covers the apps he's sent out so far. One job posting was rescinded due to budget cuts and the economy, which is scary. Still, I hope he gets a sweet job in a neat town with some good schools in it.

Right now, our plans are to pack up and move to wherever and find an apt or house where we can both fit for a while. By springtime, we'll know where we're going and whether I'll be able to continue my education (depends on schools available), so I'll apply for financial aid and apply to a school, etc.

Remember that whole forensic science thing I wanted to do? I think I've changed my mind. I would much rather do something outside and bird-/nature-involved, so I will likely get some sort of environmental resource management degree so that I can work someplace where I can restore/maintain habitats for animals and plants. I'd be Delia Gets Native!, working (probably for the government) to make sure that birds and other species are able to live well.

Or I'll stick with forensic science. Depends on the school. And who knows? Maybe there will be soooo many jobs available wherever we end up that I'll just decide to work someplace and be a townie! That's the positive "Obama = Recovery!" thinking there. Work with me.

Life sure can have its ups and downs. Things are going well right now, with the help of my wonderful friends (both here and out there on the intertubes), and work is -- well, it's work. I'm busier than ever there, which is a good thing.

Next year holds quite a few unknowns and "depends on..."s for me, but I'm strangely optimistic. And if these plans don't work out, I'm sure my parents will take me in... at least for a little while! But I'd rather not go back to Texas; it would seem like going backward in my life, you know? So while I'd love to live near my parents, we'll just have to see what happens.

I'm hoping to scrape together some savings here in time for the move, so that I'll be able to eat. Otherwise, those of you I know in the area of wherever we move, you might find you've been invaded by a little-known but rather larger-than-usual pest that doesn't eat too much, is fairly neat, and likes to watch birds.

Maybe I’ll be asked to speak at the Union

I was ambushed last night. I was walking along the road, contentedly gazing into the abyss, when I passed a group of students, amongst them a few acquaintances. Now you know me, all social interaction terrifies me (eg: my college mother described me as ‘borderline autistic’ last week), so I sort of murmured ‘Hello’ as quietly as I could and scurried towards my den; but before I was five feet away a voice yelled my name. I turned round to see a stylishly-dressed man I didn’t know sprinting towards me with a manic glint in his eyes. I was in the process of deciding whether to turn and flee or kickbox him in the throat, and I had just about reached my decision when he leapt upon me, enveloping me in a tight bear hug. I literally didn’t know what to do. Attractive strangers were throwing themselves at me in the street; this was a new experience. The thought ‘This must be how Russell Brand feels’ floated momentarily through my brain.

“I’m sorry, that was probably inappropriate,” sang my attacker jovially, releasing me. My response was to take a big step back and squint suspiciously at him.
“Tom, James is like your BIGGEST FAN!” enthused one of the girls. “He’s like obsessed with your blog. He linked it on his site. He gets 600 visitors a day.”

Right. Firstly, I’ve seen ‘Misery’. I know what happens the moment you meet your ‘BIGGEST FAN’. You wake up tied to a bed with a three hundred pound woman smashing your ankles with a sledgehammer. Secondly, the fact that random people are now coming up to me in the street calling themselves my ‘biggest fan’ forces me to confront the fact that has been staring me in the face for weeks now: I am now a Minor Internet Celebrity. Naturally it’s not a complete surprise. I’ve known for a while that I’m a bit of a hero-figure amongst a wide subsection of the Oxford community (and beyond!). People look up to me. People read this blog and take it as gospel. In many cases I am become a beacon of light in the dark and cold existences of the people that fill this earth. I mean last night wasn’t an isolated occasion; in the past months a number of people – some friends, some complete strangers – have begun conversations with ‘Tom, your blog is so good’ or ‘Tom why haven’t you updated the blog’ or ‘Tom why haven’t you blogged about me/my party/the American election’ yet?’ or ‘Tom you are literally the coolest guy I have ever met’. Now usually I don’t trust people who bring stuff from The Internet up in real life. I still sort of think of this blog –and really the internet as a whole- as a guilty secret to never be discussed out loud, like masturbation or incest. I mean last night one of the girls said ‘blogged’ and ‘Chainsaw Zombie’ out loud and I physically winced – but the strange thing is that not all of these people are morbidly-obese-basement-dwelling-neckbeardy-goon-types. In fact very few of them are. Indeed, some of them are – dare I say it – ‘cool’.

For example it turns out that I may have met ‘my biggest fan’ at a house party held by his girlfriend (one of the girls) the other week; I don’t know for sure I was p drunk. Now this was a Party with a capital P. You know it’s going to be good when the Facebook invitation comes mass-mailed from a future ruler of one of the larger democracies on Earth (although the ruler in question wasn’t actually anywhere to be seen at the party itself which was a bit of a letdown). Anyway I showed up wearing a pink shirt and trakkie bs and everyone was dressed in suits, eating birthday cake with spoons, listening to music I didn’t know, and hanging out in a tent that had been set up IN THE LIVING ROOM. That’s how cool it was. Some serious Skins shit. I ended up talking to some dude in the living room who had to stop what he was doing to rub cocaine in his gums at which point I nodded into space, slipped on some imaginary sunglasses, and said ‘I.have.made.it’. Later on I was pushing stoned students onto the floor in a futile attempt to find my ipod which had fallen down a crack in the sofa when one of the girls wandered into the room, absolutely fucked on horse tranquilisers, saw me, hugged me, then cried ‘TOM I LOVE YOUR BLOG DO ONE ABOUT THIS PARTY’. Which leads me to suspect that this blogspot address and the words contained herein is the only reason I got invited to the Cool Party in the first place.

Not that I care about that. I mean in person I’m average at best. Many of my fans are far more likely to succeed in life than I am. Indeed it seems this blog is opening doors for me more than all of my aborted attempts to interact socially have thusfar. It gets me invited to parties and lets me hang out with the cultural cream of Oxford society. It gets me hugged in the street. It makes me new friends and reaffirms old relationships. And I’m sure that I could probably use ChainsawZombie to seduce a young starlet if I wanted to, in a kind of ‘Sure I’ll blog about you baby, I’ll make you INTERNET FAMOUS TOO letshavesex’. But I don’t really feel the need to. So it’s cool. The future ruling cultural elite of this country think that this blog – and probably me by extension – is literally the greatest thing since sliced bread. I shall try not to let it go to my head.

But before you start thinking ‘Man I wish I was like Tom’, be warned: there’s a drawback to being as internet popular me. The thing is, now that I HAVE all the fame and power I could possibly want I don’t know what to do with it. I’m reminded of the Spiderman quotation ‘with great power comes great responsibility’. I just don’t think that I’m responsible enough to bear the weight of the massive social kudos that has fallen upon me.

The thing is, I always wondered what it would be like if I was famous and well loved like my heroes Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Ricky Gervais. I mean, despite the occasional bouts of self-loathing and the whole crippling insecurity thing I kind of assume that I will be when I grow up. I’m just too talented and clever not to be. But I also realised the other day that in my imaginary picture of myself as a famous man, I am a completely different person. In my imagination I’ve suddenly metamorphosed into being about 18% more handsome, being the defi-defi-ition of a bad-boy, rocking an ice-dry wit and being able to seduce famous women (aim: whoever the Alexa Chung equivalent is in five years time) with a raise of an eyebrow. Other factors of Imaginary Famous Me include: wearing a trilby, sweet Nikes, constantly swinging into rooms on a rope. Whereas I realise now that if I do suddenly become a living legend my reaction to screaming fans and girls approaching me in the street will not be to wink casually, grin, sign book covers/boobs and then bed them. It will be to react exactly as I did when hugged by My First Biggest Fan – freeze solid like a rabbit in the headlights, rictus grin, narrow beads of sweat down the back of the neck, chattering teeth, immediate verbal constipation/diahhrea. I mean here was my perfect chance – a young man, a COOL INTELLIGENT YOUNG MAN, was staring up at me with love in his eyes, the love of somebody who has just met his own personal hero. He was expecting me to be wise and what did I do? I croaked ‘I write things on the internet yay’ in a silly voice and stared at him. “It is dangerous to let the public behind the scenes,” said Maugham “They are easily disillusioned and then they are angry with you, for it was the illusion they loved” and I worry that my underwhelming personal presence absolutely disillusioned little James’s faith in the world – and worse – his own faith in himself. Who knows what the repercussions of meeting me might be? I can see him going home and just tearing up all his books and slashing his wrists. Which would suck. Oh god I used my presence massively irresponsibly. Should I have been wackier? Should I have made a quip or something? Should I have been cool? Oh God being mildly internet famous is so hard no wonder Kurt Cobain shot himself. DAMNIT JAMES you have caused me to reinterpret my entire existence you fucker

Oh shit I just realised that my biggest fan and co will probably read this post. Well I guess it’s nice to have your personal hero writing 2000 words about meeting you. He’ll probably print this out and frame it and put it on his wall and tell people who wrote this post about him and then they will say ‘who?’ and he’ll try to describe me and completely forget what I look like because I am so nondescript. But this p much sums up the problem I have – I completely disassociated the Tom On The Blog with the Tom In Real Life. Which is a problem because people expect to see BlogTom (you know, cool sophisticated ladykiller) when in reality they get RealTom (quiet moody sarcastic borderline autistic). But how can this problem be solved? Do I change the blog to suit who I am in reality? No because then it would just be a few mumbled full stops and me typing ‘its fine Its Fine ITS FINE’ like the guy out of the The Shining. Or do I change myself to suit how I am on the blog? But surely that is worse!! It brings to mind the Updike quote ‘Fame is the mask that eats into the face beneath’. Or perhaps the Mel Brooks quote about being disappointing in person because ‘you can no longer be the edited essence of yourself’. See, I know quotes. I know quotes on the internet. But if you asked me for a quote in real life I would look blankly at you. Do I not really know any quotes? Am I just a quote blog poseur? oh fuck

I worry too much.

IN CONCLUSION What I have learnt from this experience is that Fame Is Hard. It’s really difficult to juggle artistic loyalty to yourself with a personal life while still respecting the wishes and dreams of your fans. Especially when you have Great Fans like this:



This is Tom who is my rowing pal. He always asks me when the blog will be updated. Last night at the bar he looked sadly at me for five minutes with his big puppy eyes because I hadn’t yet given him a little mention. So to please him I have included his photograph at the end of this post. I hope that he will be happier now.

Hey Guys If You Want Me to Include A Picture Of You On One Of My Posts Then Please Get In Touch Via The Comments Section. Also If You Have Any Requests For Things For Me To Write About Then Please Let Me Know And I Will Get Right On It!!!!!

Oh Fuck!!!!!!! i can’t believe I’ve started doing requests.. I always tell myself ‘don’t do anything that the fans ask you to do, they are all morons’ but no the taste of fame is in my mouth, now I just want to be loved regardless of the consequences. Please love me. Love me love me love me. Oh no Already I’m selling out artistically. Im like ricky gervais in the extras Christmas special. shit SOON I’LL BE DOING ADVERTS FOR NESCAFÉ AND WRITING WHOLE POSTS ABOUT THE GREAT TIME I HAD AT MACDONALDS this sucks

Ok time to go out and buy some milk. Holy shit I hope I don’t get mobbed on the way there *slips on dark sunglasses*

* * *

P.S. guys there’s news I HAVE A NEW GIRLFRIEND that’s right suckaz tom is hooked up that’s your news for today ☺ oh god I hope she won’t read this blog and think that fame has changed me and say ‘Tom it used to be about the blog’ and I’ll say GET OUTTA MY FACE and hurl a bottle of whiskey at her and she’ll run crying from my dressing room. Because that would be awful

Crazy bird dreams!

Well, I may not have gone birding lately, but the birds are still with me. Last night, I had a crazy dream in which birds were a big player:

I dreamed I was in Manhattan, and I was sitting in a little cafe. I looked up and saw, on the outer wall of the cafe, a big white cockatoo. I walked outside and somehow managed to get the cockatoo to perch on my arm. Once I did that, I suddenly realized that the bird belonged to Judy Garland, and I had to get it back to her!

Somehow I knew the general whereabouts of Judy Garland's apartment building, so I walked over there. On the way, I recruited someone to help me--a woman, someone I don't know. She was tall and blonde, though, so maybe it was just a weird version of Kat. Anyway, we went into the building and discovered we were in the lobby of a huge old-time theatre, complete with concession stands, girls in Moulin-Rouge-type outfits swinging on giant swings suspended from the ceiling, and huge staircases. We negotiated our way through this hubbub and went upstairs.

We wandered all over the place for the next few minutes of my dream, which seemed like hours in the dream. We were inside hallways, outside in parking lots, looking through hotel rooms--you name it. FINALLY, someone helped us: a huge Mafia-type guy who was getting a massage in a big room with a pool in it. He told us where to go, and we found Judy Garland!

Only when we found Judy, the bird turned into a bald eagle! Somehow it didn't claw the flesh off my arm, and I was able to hand her the raptor. After just a little prodding, she sang the chorus of "Swannee" for us right there in her doorway, and then we were off. Then I woke up.

Bird-flu? Birds flew? You decide.

Well, all my best-laid plans to go birding Sunday were dashed when I woke up with a sore throat and saw that it was kinda rainy and very cold outside. So--no birdy news there, sad to say.

I feel like I'm not even a birder anymore--I never make it out anywhere to see birds! The starlings and crows around my place are laughing at me, I just know it!

Birding posts to come!

I'm going to bird with some members of the State College Birding Club on Sunday, so I promise I'll have some real beginningtobird birding stuff to talk about soon!

In the meantime, I've taken to using the blog search tool and typing in random words like "feather" or "nibble." Try it on this or on your own blog--it's a cool way to take a trip down memory lane, bloggy style!

I'm an alien?

What Kind of Monster Are You?

There were a few questions where I didn't like any of the answers, so I just picked the one that amused me the most. So am I really an alien?

Look out--it's another cross-post! Don't Stop at the Top!

I submit to you the rare cross-post between here and the angry impeachment bloggy, because I think this is an important issue. Hope you don't mind the brief political rant here at beginningtobird. Back to the birds soon, I promise!

Today I'm participating in Write to Marriage Day, a blogswarm against Proposition 8 in California. I hope any Californians out there in birdybloglandia will VOTE NO on Prop 8. Just remember--vote all the way down the ballot, because the propositions are at the bottom of the ballot.

As you all know, my own attempt at marriage didn't work out so well, but I will always support the right for two consenting adults to get married--whether I ever decide to go there again or not. "Civil unions" are merely the latest example of our country's propensity for trying to foist "separate but equal" institutions on us.

Perhaps the solution is to keep "marriages" in a religious context; if you get hitched in a church, we'll call it a marriage. If you want to be legally joined, with all the legal benefits (and drawbacks) therein, we'll call it a "civil union." Period. That would certainly uphold the idea of separation of Church and State, which is a separation I believe in.

Whatever the eventual solution to what is, in my opinion, a non-problem--I hope you'll join me in recognizing that the marriage of two people of the same sex does absolutely nothing to "weaken" the institution of marriage or any other silly right-wing talking points. I think enough straight couples weaken that institution all on their own without any help from the gay side of the aisle, thank you.

So vote no on Prop 8 -- unless you believe this:

Cape May!

The female half of the table (minus Laura, who hadn't gotten there yet, and minus me who's taking the picture)--L to R: Susan Gets Native, Birdchick, Beth the Lurker who owned up to her lurkiness AND positively ID'd lifer Lynne as Hasty Brook, said Lynne of Hasty Brook, and KatDoc of Katdoc's World (all links in the sidebar).

The male half of the table, joined by Birdchick who's everywhere that birders are!--L to R: John of DC Birding Blog, Birdchick, and Jay Davis of Birdjam.

Well, my whirlwind trip to Cape May included getting lost on the way there AND on the way back, but I made it there and back again in time to have my breakfast with The Kid. More on that later; first, the birdy roundup.

I should go ahead and confess that I got ZERO pictures of birds, even though I did end up with two lifers: a black-crowned night heron (spotted by KatDoc) and a lesser yellowlegs (spotted by me, and confirmed by the Hawkwatch Platform person). Both were too far away to get decent pix of.

I did get some pictures of these lifers, however:
Lynne, doing a Lifebird Wiggle (TM BOTB) after seeing her first black vulture:Kathi, rolling up her Ohio State sleeves and preparing for what would turn out to be a Penn State victory--sorry, KatDoc!:and John from DC Birding Blog! (not John Riutta, who didn't attend--my bad)Sweet sweet birders, all of them!

I also saw a life reptile, a black/rat/something snake that no one could ID with any certainty:He was very zig-zaggy: Here are Laura from Somewhere in NJ, Jay, and Susan outside the Grand Hotel:and lest you think I only got pictures of others, here's one that someone took of me and a certain nerdy Birdchick:Wow!

So--I made it back Saturday night/Sunday morning, in the rain and the fog, getting in at about 1:30 a.m. On Sunday, I had breakfast with Em (whose pic doesn't go on the blog or it would be mobbed by her fans). We had a great time, and she thoroughly approved of my new digs and my new wheels. It was, however, a bittersweet experience for me; I loved seeing her and talking with her about how her life is going, but I was reminded of how much my life has changed in just a few short months. My sense of loss was palpable. Still, she told me I'd always be her "other mother," and it felt good to know I'd see again in her just a few weeks (Thanksgiving). And, ever the wise one, she told me that life just goes like it goes, and we can't change things once they've happened. That's one smart kid.

Cape May update coming tomorrow!

Today's the day for ol' Cape May!

this photo shamelessly taken by and stolen from Laura at Somewhere in NJ; this is some of us last year at the 2nd Avenue jetty in Cape May. From left to right, Susan in the water, me and Birdchick digiscoping, and Jay Davis from Birdjam looking cold and pensive as he walks down the beach

So I'm squirming in my seat at work, trying not to watch the clock as the day slowly moves on. I'm all packed up and ready to hit the road after a quick gas-up. Last night, gas was down to $2.85, though it may have gone back up for the weekend, as it often does. I sure hope not, because I'll be kicking myself if I have to pay more pennies today because I didn't feel like gassing up last night.

Such are the concerns of today's driver. When I started driving in tenth grade, gas was 79 cents a gallon. What was it was you first started driving?

Tomorrow morning, I'll be birding with Susan Gets Native, Laura H in NJ, KatDoc, Lynne from Hasty Brook, and -- thanks to my high school bud Liz Gordon--her hubby Jeff Gordon! Pretty exciting! I tell you, birding here in PA, usually on my own, is always fun. I get to walk around some of the prettiest woods Nature ever made and see and hear birdy magic all around me. It's the most exciting and yet calming thing, a paradox you fellow birders probably all understand.

But going to these festivals is such a blast; birders from everywhere come together, share their knowledge, joke and laugh and drink and eat, spot and help others spot birds of all sorts, and pretty much just have fun. There's nothing like it. This will be my second Cape May trip, and my third festival overall. I know that once I get there, I won't want to leave.

more silliness from last year, with Laura helping me take my own self-portrait for some weird reason

Meeting people whose blogs I've worshipped from afar is a real charge; birding with them is like... well, let me put it into a literary context. Let's say you've read Shakespeare's plays all your life and you just love him. One day, you find a room in a library you've never visited, and in the room, sitting at a table, is William Shakespeare himself, just hanging out and reading a book. You walk into the room, sit across from him, and talk about books, plays, movies, and what have you.

That's what birding festivals are like for me. I read these people's blogs and admire their photography skills and their birding field craft; I learn about their lives, which are all just as crazy as mine; and I realize how much alike we all are, no matter where we live or what we do. So when we get together, we're already like old friends who've travelled together and hung out at home with crazy kids and pets together, and gone out and birded together. They'll all laugh when they see themselves described in an analogy as the birding equivalents of William Shakespeare, but hey -- they're being modest, just another thing that makes them so cool.

I probably won't get to blog again until next week, so have a good weekend: see some birds, hang out with friends, and read a good book by your favorite author.

What would you write about?

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Are you thinking of writing a 50,000-word novel? Can you finish it in 30 days?

If you could (or are!), what would you write about?

P.S.--this is a rare double-post, here and at the Impeachment blog. It's not often that the worlds of backyard birding and political turmoil collide, so try to ignore the resulting sonic boom. I can't wait to compare and contrast the comments from both sites!

The loneliness of the long-distance flyer

Last year, when I was driving back home after experiencing my first Fall Migration at Cape May, I remember being overcome with sadness as I watched a flock of cormorants winging their way south over the highway. I told this story here. Prior to that moment, I had just never thought about how many birds die during the migration. Beginning to bird, indeed.

Photograph: Eric Hosking/Corbis

Well, this morning, I found this story of a migrant that reminded me of the happy fact that most birds DO make it, and they make it FAR.

I won't see a bar-tailed godwit in Cape May this weekend, but I know I'll see two lifers, Lynne and KatDoc, and I'll again see some of my favorite birds: Susan Gets Native, Laura H Somewhere in New Jersey, Birdchick, Patrick Belardo from the Hawk Owl's Nest (aka Mr. Thousand-Watt Smile), and John Riutta the Born Again Birdwatcher. I'll be checking these gems off on my lifelist, playing in the waves, watching some birds, and thinking about that bar-tailed godwit.

A flight with the flock

I'm doing a little fall migration of my own this Friday. I'm driving to Cape May on Friday after work (trying to get out early!) to meet up with some of The Flock! I'll finally get to meet Turkey-Vulture-fan Lynne and vet-to-the-stars Katdoc, and I'll get to see Susan and Laura again! I was hoping that Matty McMatterson would make the drive with me, but he's got some business to attend to here in town, so it'll just be me. I'll spend Friday night having pillow fights and prank-calling people with The Flock, and then after a full day of birdy nonsense, I'll drive back to PA. I've got a breakfast date with Em on Sunday morning, and I'm really looking forward to seeing her. It'll be the first time since--you know.

Anyway--getting excited! I'll finally have some good birdstuff to post about. The Bew River fest (in April 09) seems so far away right now, but this little trip will be just what some doctor somewhere ordered for me.

I needz to see some bewds!

Stayin' alive

I know it seems like I've disappeared, but I've been kinda swamped in political and journalistic pursuits (I volunteer for a local community paper, Voices of Central Pennsylvania) lately.

I'm still on the fence about whether to go to Cape May (just drive up for a day or something, just to hang out with The Flock when they're not on guided walks). But that's the first weekend Em will be in town since--you know--and we have a standing date at the Waffle Shop (a great locally owned place). So I just don't know if I'll make it.

As for birding around here, chances are pretty rare right now. There are some upcoming hawk watches, but while that last one I went on was cool--I think that was only because I'd never been to one before. Other than that, the local bird club and other birdy pals aren't planning any other field trips. I think we'll start to get some good ducks in November, but in the meantime--the bird pickins are slim.

I'll try to wander around outside soon--I'm definitely missing it.

OH MY GOD I’M SO FUCKING AWKWARD

I started thinking about this writing this post a few days ago when I had a really terrible stop-and-chat street conversation with a vague acquaintance. As soon as I saw him I was like ‘shit’ as I knew that he’d seen me and that we couldn’t just ignore each other (which is my standard procedure), so as we approached each other I sort of waved and said ‘Hello’ unenthusiastically; he returned the greeting. We looked at each other. I thought that was it – what else did he want from me? – so, without bothering to stop walking I played my power-card of ‘Well, see you in the bar later on!’ and started to walk off. LITTLE DID I KNOW THAT HE STILL WANTED TO MAKE BANAL SMALL-TALK and so he started talking to me when I was already well on my way out of earshot. ‘So, when did you move back?’ I clenched my fists in utter fury, stopped, turned round, nearly bumped into an old man, and yelled down the street – ‘Mid September.’ He pulled a face (?). I sort of stood there in space feeling awful, then pulled history’s most aggressive grin, gave him a thumbs up (?) and then ran off down the road.

So the post in question was basically going to be a humorous retelling of the above conversation, perhaps with some funny pictures of myself looking angry and it would have been serviceable and forgettable, but then TODAY came a revolution in social awkwardness that basically confirmed my suspicions that I must be borderline mentally defective when it comes to meeting new people; either that or a brain tumour. It was during a ‘get to know you’ tea-party for the new English Freshers in one of the third year rooms. This was pretty much my best and only chance to make a positive and lasting impression on the new year of English Students, who were all infuriatingly perky and passionate about poetry, but frankly it didn’t go so well. For one thing I was hungover and tired (and seeping blood from my thumb following an unrelated washing up accident) and thus wasn’t my usual sparky self; for another I don’t really know how to make conversation. I have like four questions I can ask in rotation and then I just say ‘well that was nice’ and then zone out, stare into the middle distance, start playing with the mechanical corkscrew, whatever means I don’t actually have to interact with another human being.

So I was standing there frowning into space wondering if it was possible to sleep standing up, when a nice-enough looking fresher girl wandered up and said something like ‘Hey, can I get you a drink’. I was surprised, panicked, blacked out, and made a snap decision with my answer. I mean, what was going through my head was that, as a member of the second years who were meant to be hosting the party to make the freshers comfortable, I should have been the one offering to get her a drink, maybe pour her some nice wine, sit her down and in a non-predatory way soothe her fears and anxieties about moving out of home for the first time and assuage her worries about the reading list, lectures, become her friend, offer her a friendly face to talk to, etc, etc. What I actually did was yell ‘DON’T SMILE AT ME I’M NOT A FRESHER I’M A SECOND YEAR’ and take two or three steps away backwards looking fierce. Apparently. ‘Apparently’ because I don’t even recall saying or doing that, all I remember is staring at a confused looking fresher, wondering what the hell was going on. This is worrying because it means that I must have literally just blacked out for a few seconds and allowed my subconscious to joyride my response, which is kind of depressing once you think about it. I mean when other people black out, their ids turn them into serial killers and rockstars; mine is just borderline rude to people. Luckily I soothed the situation over by gabbling ‘Oh, sorry, I’m Tom, hello’ about fifty thousand times and trying to shake her hand; she sort of backed away looking scared and then sat on the other side of the room shooting accusatory glances at me. I heard later that the phrase ‘serial-killer eyes’ was being bandied about. I was thinking that I’d go and apologise for being a borderline-autistic weirdo but then I reasoned that there are lots of other new freshers who haven’t even spoken to me yet, I might as well persuade them that I’m not a complete psychopath and accept that trying to salvage a friendship with this girl is a lost cause. Anyway sorry, girl.

[ninja edit: turns out that the 'fresher girl' was in fact a Third Year who everybody knew but I had just never seen before in my life. That does explain a number of things, including the expression on her face when I said 'How you finding Oxford?' and asked her what subject she was studying. I am not sure if that makes things better or worse. Anyway, sorry Third Year girl]

So anyway after that debacle I was walking home glaring at pigeons and I realised that even though the party was pretty much a confirmation of my complete inability to converse (I spend much of the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor and squinting at anybody who tried to speak to me), it really was just a standard example of my ineptitude with people. That shit happens every day (52% ranking for my customer service at the Wine Shop woop). Because when it comes to awkward conversations – and when I say ‘awkward’ I mean ‘welp I guess I can Never Speak To You Ever Again’, I am a master. A terrible terrible master. For example who wants to hear about

The Time That I Told A Girl That I Had A Manageable But Incurable Disease In Order That She Would Let Me Go Home
So through some pure fluke I managed to meet a female, talk to her, buy her a drink or two, take her to a club, and be taken back to her room, all within one night, without accidentally insulting her appearance, kneeing her in the eye, letting her walk into a lamp-post, sending a text message about her to her, calling her sister fat, or any of the multitude of terrible things that are well within my social capabilities; anyway after being in her room for a bit I was tired and bored and kind of wanted to go back home; she turned out to be a bit creepy and kept saying things like ‘I’m fucking gorgeous’ and ‘You’re so lucky’ (no). So anyway the following conversation occurred.

Me: So, I think I might head back now.
Her: What? Why. No, stay, stay stay here, you can go in the morning.
Me: No, no. I have to get up early to do an essay.
Her: Stay here! *sits on me*
This continues for four or five more minutes until I decide that the truth won’t work on this crazy broad
Me: No, I need to go back you see. To get. My. … medication.
See I’d had like four glasses of wine, I pretty much thought that this would be fine, she’d accept my excuse and I would be on my merry way.
Her: Medication? For what.
Me: diabetes
Her: Diabetes?
Me: … yep.
Her: My grandfather died of that last week.
FACEPALM but yeah right so how was I supposed to know about that. I mean at this point the romantic mood was gone and she was glaring at me and I couldn’t be like ‘ho ho ho just joking japes’ and I just had to keep digging.
Me: Oh. What sort of diabetes did he have?
I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT DIABETES
Her: Type two. But I assume that you have Type One.
Me: yep
Her: So you’re going home to get your INSULIN?
Me: Yes. *leaves*

Yeah that was pretty awkward. But still not as bad as

The Time That I Tried To Win Back My Ex By Quoting A Speech From Rocky IV
There had been a somewhat messy breakup and I’d decided that that wasn’t working for me and that I would seduce her back using the power of Clever Rhetoric. So I dressed in a nice suit and I showed up unannounced on her doorstep and I took her into an empty room and I poured out my heart and soul in a Speech. I was semi-convinced that as I spoke, passionate music would suddenly fill the room and angels would sing and she would tear up and towards the end she would just passionately throw herself at me and all would be well. Well that was the plan. The first part went ok, like I got her alone in the room and she was listening to me expectantly. Then. I made my main error.

Basically, in the film ‘Rocky IV’, the hero (Rocky) is forced to travel to the USSR to fight Ivan Drago, the huge soviet super-boxer trained on drugs in a fancy gym (Russia!!) who killed his best friend. In one scene Rocky is lying in bed with his son (not gay) and his son is all ‘Oh Dad don’t you get scared that you are gonna die in the ring’ and then Rocky breaks out this tasty speech:

When I'm in that ring, really getting hit and my arms hurt so much I can't lift them, I'm thinking, "God, I wish this guy would hit me on the chin so I don't feel nothing anymore." Then there's another side that comes out that isn't so scared. Another side that wants to take more... that wants to go that one more round... because by going that one more round when you don't think you can… That's what makes all the difference in your life.

So I’m not entirely sure why I thought that this bit of macho father-son bonding would be an appropriate way to win back the affections of an eighteen year old girl. This was about three weeks into my campaign of winning her back through making a nuisance of myself so I guess I was running out of inspirational wooing metaphors but as soon as I said ‘Have you ever seen Rocky IV?’ I realised that this was probably the worst idea I'd ever had. But at this point I was more or less locked into the speech and I just kept speaking. Words kept coming out of my mouth. And as I said ‘we just always have to go one more round’ I realised that I’d been mistaken; this wasn’t the stupidest thing I’d ever said this was the stupidest thing that ANYBODY HAD EVER SAID IN THE HISTORY OF ORAL COMMUNICATION. Like even if some primordial cavemen who just knew the words for ‘mammoth’ and ‘rape’ had been watching me through the window, they’d still be all ‘Damn that’s one inarticulate motherfucker’. It was so bad that I trailed off halfway through, staring slackjawed into space, random vowel sounds dribbling pathetically out of my still-moving lips. I kind of tried to fill the cavernous silence by half-heartedly misquoting some Mint Royale lyrics but at this point I think the game was more or less lost. Girls just don’t get turned on by quotations in the same way that men do.

The Time That I Actually You Know What Let’s Go Back And Talk About The Rocky Thing Some More Because Seriously
I just thought about it and I honestly thing I’d never realised how monumentally terrible that conversation was until now. Like at the time I was running entirely on adrenaline and so I didn’t particularly realise the fallacious nature of using the rhetoric of a punchdrunk brain-damaged ex-bodybuilder as primo seduction material. And I didn’t pick up the non-verbal communication that the lucky object of my affections was sending – a worried expression when I mentioned Sylvester Stallone, slight pity when I tried to compare our relationship to an organised fight, a shying away and a glancing for the nearest exit as my voice grew shrill and tinny when I started to realise that maybe not everything was going to plan. All of these clues as to the true awkwardness of the conversation were instantly lost in the sullen and icy hush that fell over the room when I’d finally run out of steam with my boxing allusion. I mean bless her she tried to save me some embarrassment by halfheartedly saying ‘but um I don’t want to go…one…more…round’ so perhaps I interpreted that as being ‘Job Well Done On The Metaphor Front’. And for some reason when I finally got up and left the room I ended up STILL thinking to myself ‘Well that wasn’t the worst conversation I’ve ever had’. No. It was.

To be honest I suspect that what happened was that my subconscious mind took a step back, examined objectively the outcome of the conversation so far, said ‘Hmm’, piled all of the memories into a metaphorical dustbin, doused them in petrol, flicked a match onto them and nudged the burning mass off a ledge into a dark and forgotten corner of my consciousness. It was such an awful terrible abomination of a social interaction that my brain didn’t even try to process it. It’d be like if you opened a bottle of milk one day and found out that it was full of pustulant maggots and mewling bat-babies with the heads of snakes. You’d just hurl that bottle into the nearest tarpit and never ever mention it again. This is what I think happened to that conversation. I’ve never even thought about it up til this night and I had to actually crawl under my desk and moan in shame and horror. Seriously it was like two years of self-loathing an embarrassment reversed over my spine.

Do you know what I think that I might have repressed post-traumatic stress disorder. Could it be possible that the Rocky Incident is responsible for of my complete inability to form a coherent sentence in the presence of somebody I don’t know? I mean I went from being a happy-go-lucky little elf, merrily telling girls that they looked like newts and speaking at political rallies to shouting at freshers who startle me and making up pathetic lies about diabetes. And the tipping point may well have been about the time when I said “and its like, you have to always go on for one extra round, if you get what I mean”. It was as though my brain was like “Well we gave you the ability to enunciate long speeches and look what you did, you made us all look stupid. This is why you can’t have nice things.”

Fuck I’m going to take a vow of silence.

SERIOUSLY THOUGH.
ROCKY FOUR.
ROCKY. FOUR.
NOT EVEN A GOOD ROCKY FILM
THE ONE WHEN ROCKY ESCAPES THE KGB THEN RUNS UP THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN.
DRAAAAAAGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
THERE WERE LIKE SIX MUSICAL MONTAGES.

JAMES BROWN WAS IN IT


IT WAS THE ONE WHEN ROCKY ADOPTED A PET ROBOT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE