This post is number 2260, hence the title. Why didn’t I call attention to a more “rational” number, like 2250? Frankly, I did not notice. Why I noticed that my last post was number 2259, I have no idea. But all of that is beside the point, isn’t it? Well, yes it is. Because the point is as follows:
I am semi-carless. See, a friend needed to have some body work done to her car, but could not be without transportation (she must visit her husband in the hospital, among other things equally pressing). So, we offered to let her use our car while hers is being repaired. Under normal circumstances, I would have applied for sainthood after having done such a selfless, heart-rending thing. But the fact that it’s not a sacrifice suggests I might want to wait on that. And I’ve been thinking of ways I could recoup “payment” for my good deed, especially in the form of food and wine. You see, though I might have done it anyway, I can’t help but question my motives. As one of my writer friends might ask: were you a good guy, or were your motives revealing that you’re a bad guy doing good things?
There’s more to my tale. But I cannot reveal the rest, because you matter to me; if I were to say more, your very existence might be in danger. So I will button my lip on the subject. But I can continue revealing other, less sensitive, information. Like this.
I was visited this afternoon by a cedar waxwing; a family, actually. Or perhaps they were just friends; I’m not sure. What I AM sure of is their state of inebriation. Have you ever watched drunk cedar waxwings? Well I have. And I can tell you they could be well-paid film stars; they are entertainers in the most impressive way. They sway. They teeter. They look drunk and semi-disorderly. They do. I leaned again the deck railing this afternoon (a bad deed, considering the rickety railing) and watched a dozen or so cedar wax wings swallow big red berries from the holly bushes. And, not long thereafter, they began behaving like drunks. They danced on my deck railing. They got close to me and sang. They ignored the danger of my presence and wandered along the outside dining table. In short, they were snockered.
One of them even spoke to me, his voice slurred and almost incoherent, and said, “Say, pal, got any happy smokes? These berries are cool and get me higher than a kite, but I feel a need for happy smokes. Got any?”
Unaccustomed to birds speaking to me in English (Norwegian is much more common), I flinched and stepped back.
“Calypso! Be cool! Talk to me, Blood!”
I responded in Norwegian: “I only wish I had happy smokes. They are illegal here and one is taking a risk of being locked away by fat, moderately stupid deputies if they catch you. But I have to ask, do you have any?”
The tenor of the conversation changed at that point. I can’t say it was femininity or masculinity that won the day, but it was definitely something.
