Getting Even for Tippi

I don’t know what the hell is going on with me and birds lately, but man, it is freaking me out! Maybe it is global warming that is knocking the sense out of them or all the light pollution in the city, but something is indeed amuck.

As I mentioned a few entries back, I purchased a nice new bicycle this summer. Daphne and I have had many a good times and we have journeyed downtown a lot. One night on my way home from the Little Yellow Bastard’s place I was very confused by the number of birds fluttering about down by the lake. Apparently, all the lights that make it safe for humans at night, prevents the birds from sleeping as they think it is daylight all the time. And let me tell you, it is taking its toll on the poor buggers.

Incident 1 – the suicide bird. I was driving CJ home one day and this bird flew into the street and landed on the road right in front of Lucy. There was no chance to swerve and all that I saw in the rearview mirror was a little cloud of feathers.

Incident 2 – as I crossed the Humber River and made my exit onto Lakeshore, a bird flew (or at least tried to) in front of me. Unfortunately for the bird, the antenna was in the way. Poor thing spun around once or twice, slapped into the windshield and that was all Jack!

Incident 3 – most recently, when the weather was nice a couple weeks ago, I again was riding Daphne along the lake on my way home. As I came off the path and onto the road a seagull came plowing down at me from nowhere and veered off at just the last minute. Now I know I am a tasty looking morsel, but really, bird food? As the bird cut away suddenly, he went into on-coming traffic and met the grill of a truck head on.

I am not exactly sure if these are warning signs or what, but something is just not right. My Italian friends say a bird crapping on you is good luck. What does it mean when they commit suicide around you or attack you? Hmmmm? If only Mr. Hitchcock were around to ask.

Halloween Good. Gin Bad.

Today I should feel like the cat that has been licking the cream – content and happy. Yesterday was the gay high holiday and my costume won a prize! Not seven meters of green velvet or seven dead dwarves or painting my body blue or an axe with a foot on it or or or….. what won was furry britches and a red scarf! I went as Mr. Tumnus from Narnia and couldn’t have had a better time if I had a bucketful of sardines.

However, my breath smells like ass and my head felt like it was hosting a party most of the day. It wasn’t a throne hugging ‘Oh my God, if you get me through this I will never drink again’ days, but I have had better. And really, it is the fault of my winning. We were having a wickedly perfect night when I found extra cash in my hand. “Double G and Ts for everyone” Mr. Tumnus shouted as we all scurried to the bar. At least what was left of us.

Our band of merry makers got spilt up. Church Street was as packed as it is on Pride – if not more so with all the big costumes about. Fauntleroy, Cell Phone Boy, Mr. Dubai and I were separated from the Dollhouse Girls, CJ, KitKat, H.B.J. and the rest. Talking on a cell phone in Woody’s was about as fruitful as lighting a match under water.

Despite this, all reports so far are that a good time was had by all. They certainly had a great turn out and there were A LOT of costumes. Some years there are so many tourists that finding other people dressed up is like finding a needle in a haystack.

Thanks to the gin as well, I have obligated myself to wearing stilts next year. Fauntleroy thinks this a ‘delicious’ idea. “How about we do the Van Trapp family?” I asked. “On stilts!” He said. No kilts is my only guideline. At the time it felt like a good idea to agree, but if I am so high up, how will I be able to reach my gin? Perhaps an extra long straw.