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Archive for November, 2007

“Bobby,” I say, exasperated.  “It is not a gambling game, it is a writing game. You are many fantastic things, but you are not a writer.”

His look, coupled with his “tell it to the hand” attitude, suggests I go to my FInder folder, pull up pictures, and get back to him.

“Fine.” I answer, making it clear with my retreat that he can tell it to my ass.

Well, I am busted, he gets to play.

bobby_writer_cropped.jpg

 First of all, the rules, sent to me by the SO cool Sherri Cornelius, who “tagged” me to play this game. Being a newbie here on wordpress, I have no idea what being tagged is, but I think it is a badge of honor.
Learning, immediately forgetting, learning the same thing over and over….AHH, the GREAT circle of life! (The first person who recognizes that film quote wins…something. I will figure it out later.

BACK to the task at hand.

First, the rules:

1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven random [?] people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

We are now on Rule Number Three. (Rule number 1a is the mom gets to go first).

MOM:
Sixteen years ago, when I was twenty nine, I went to the UCLA psychiatric facility to seek help for depression. I received ten minutes of interaction, and was sent home with a bag of antidepressants. I was misdiagnosed. These medications – prozac, wellbutrin, too many to list – have helped many people, but in my case, they caused my heart to stop. I was in my apartment, luckily with a sort of ex-boyfriend, as we were trying to work things out. He called 911, and the paramedics applied the paddles over and over, until one of them said, “Well, it’s time to bag and tag her”.
(Mind you, I have no memory of this – this was told to me, in great detail).
My boyfriend pleaded for them to try one more time and viola! – heartbeat.
My heart stopped again in the ambulance, but the got ‘er going again.
However, all of this insanity left me in a coma for a week, and when I came to, I had brain damage. I was a grown woman with the brain capacity of a six-year old. The family were discussing what facility I should be shipped to.
I woke up in the UCLA psyche ward with two weeks of my life absolutely blank, and it has stayed blank.
I woke up to a team of psychiatrists standing around my bead, charts in hand, asking me if I knew what I had done.
That is an unsettling question.

BOBBY:
“And you have the nerve to call me a three year old. I am going to snap at you when we are finished.”

MOM:
“Bobby, it is your turn to tell us something about yourself.”

BOBBY:
Well, besides being the real writer, I have become a vegetarian. At first I ate beef, McDonald burgers were just the best, I ate chicken, yeah, yeah, I know we are related, don’t start. But I find that I like dry cat food, cheese and egg whites. I believe the egg whites come from living in Los Angeles. I have been bombarded with donated magazines that I shred, but I do read them, and it is very, very important to stay svelte.

“Bobby, dry cat food is fattening.”
“Shut Up – your turn, Dead Zone.”

MOM:
When my father died, five years and three months ago, I divorced the rest of my family. Mother, sister, brother. I have chosen to have no family. Tomas and you, Bobby, along with the cats and Wullith the rabbit, are my family. I like my in-laws, but they are on the east coast, so whenever we get to see them it is a real treat.

“Why can’t I go with?”
“I smuggle you into the house, how do you think I can smuggle you onto a plane? I can barely get on a plane.”
“Point taken.”

BOBBY:
I love to have my head and chest scriched by the Mom. I demand it, by pounding on my condo, then putting my head down and waiting. She always complies, she cannot resist, and I make her do it until her arms hurt and she has to quit. It makes her feel guilty, but I cannot help it, it just feels so good. I think she is getting some kind of Karma for always wanting backrubs from the Dad.

“You dont even know that I get backrubs, brat.”
“Mother, you have no idea what I know.”

MOM:
I went to the DMV to renew my I.D. and was informed that I was on the suspected terrorist list. I use that fact whenever someone is working my last nerve. You might want to remember that, Robert.

“Oh puh-leeze. You SO scary when you call me Robert. See? I am shaking.”
“You are shaking because it is cold out here. Want the heat on?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
“Can I say one more?”
“NO! the game specifically says SEVEN! God!
“But how about seven for you and seven for me?”
“Honestly, I really cannot tell which one of is the most self-centered.”
“Well, everybody knows the world revolves around the bird. How ’bout hitting that heat?”

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A few days ago I took Bobby outside in the backyard, he has been with us for six years, and about eight months ago I was having great sadness about how unnatural his life was, and maybe it was time to give some fresh air a try.

I had been holding off on this, as a crow may have a broken wing, but they have legs like pistons, and Bobby is fast on his feet. But I took my courage in hand, as the “backyard” is a cement slab with a falling down fence and a neglected mixture of ivy, bougainvilla, two types of pine trees, both weird….However, upon studying it with eyes that were not irritated with the landlady’s neglect of the place, and our fruitless attempts to make it into something pretty, I felt fairly certain that Bobby would not be able to navigate too far, fast or not.

It all worked out, and I try to get him outside at least once a week, as he seems to enjoy it. I stay with him, and usually one of the cats is out, as is the rabbit, everyone just kicking around.

The yard is right off of Tomas’s studio, and the sliding glass door is open, as we don’t want to miss the elusive breeze that might pop by.

Tomas was inside reading the news, I was sitting outside watching Bobby poke around in the ivy, Vinnie the cat was relaxing on a chair, Wullith the Rabbit was hanging in the cool dirt under the ficus I planted. Don’t harsh my mellow, man.

“Oh, so they caught the priest that was stalking Conan O’Brien” Tomas remarks calmly.

“What?” I yelp, causing an immediate chain reaction. Vinnie pops his head up, Wullith sits up, ears back.

Bobby goes apeshit and starts running down the side of the house. I get up and start after him, he is hopping away from me at a very brisk pace, flapping his wing and a half, and making his signature quacking noise that indicates total upset with the whole situation.

I am torn between chasing Bobby and my virgin ears hearing more about a priest stalking Conan O’ Brian????

Now, I like Conan, but Tomas and I are die hard Craig Ferguson fans. I could understand the reaction if it were Craig, but the twisted part of my brain finds it horribly funny that a good Irish boy like Conan has a priest stalking him. I must know more!

But, the maternal instinct kicks in, winning by a nose hair over the sick celebrity addiction, and I have to get to Bobby before he dives into the ivy, and I have to battle whatever is living in that overgrown mess.

We avoid that scene, as he goes roaring back out into the cement circle, (sorry, yard), deciding that jumping up into the bamboo is the best choice.

Now, crows do not roost in bamboo. Especially a thin, half dead stalk bamboo plant such as ours. But he has done it, and is flapping wildly, getting stuck, this is not good.

I try talking to him calmly, unfortunately, this news about Conan O Brien has freaked him out so intensely, that my soothing voice telling him that Conan is unhurt, everything is okay, is falling on deaf ears. I have no alternative but to grab him, which I hate to do. The best way to get him back into the house is to get him on my arm, and we both waltz inside with our dignity intact.

Not this time. He is in trouble, and I have to get him out. I grab, he struggles, and dear lord no, there is blood. He managed to get his bad wing up around a dead stalk of bamboo, and poke himself just hard enough to draw blood.

I am a bad mom. My child is bleeding. I can only imagine what parents of human children go through when they cut and scrape themselves.

We make it into the house, into the bathroom, where I wet a paper towel and gently push it under his wing, putting easy pressure for a few seconds. It comes out soaked with blood.

I know enough to be able to stay calm, because bird blood coagulates very fast, and this is not a gushing wound, he simply got a little scrape. He is going to be fine.

I keep asking him why is he so distressed? Is because he does not feel like a good Catholic bird, and if a priest could stalk a celebrity, what terrible terror awaits a Catholic Crow, clearly living in sin?

I remind him that he takes communion every day, even though it is not a blessed wafer, it is a Ruffles potato chip. I console him that although we have not had a priest bless the bag of chips, that he is receiving God’s love through the mom, and not to worry, he is not in trouble with the Church.

He seems to settle down, and we went back to his condo, where more consoling goes on.

It must be hard when one does their best within their chosen faith, only to hear that some of their spiritual leaders are total nutcases.

It is certainly a surprise to find out that one’s child is deeply faithful.

I guess I am going to have to find Bobby a cheap Merlot to offer him with his Ruffle, as I have clearly been remiss in taking the important steps in guiding my child in his spiritual quest.

C’mon, spiritual leaders! If you choose that calling, don’t do these things that let down your flock. Especially a crow. They are extremely sensitive.

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From Bobby D

“Please do not confuse the mother’s sister Shannon Mahan with the Photographer Shannon Mahan who lives in Arlington Virginia and is a man who works for the government.
This could get all of the humans involved either in trouble or just plain confused. Although the mom’s sister Shannon Mahan is a fine amateur photographer, she does not live in Virginia. However, as far as her working for the government, we really do not know much about her. And she is much to smart and mean to be a man. Hope that clears things up.”

Caw! Caw! CawCaw! Caw! Caw!

“Excuse me. On a different topic, I would like everyone to know that I have decided that Ruffles potato chips are ‘da bomb’, as I guess some of the humans say. Don’t ask me how a reference to a bomb translated to ‘it tastes great’ – but, hey folks, you’re people. You are very, very weird, but I have to say, you make great chips.”

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I know I have never finished the first post on the story of how Tomas and I became the parents of a crow, it may just have to go into the memoir section of my web page. Bobby has lived with us for six years, and every day he is up to something new to drive me insane with love or a desire to strangle him. And Tomas, being “The Dad”, never wanted children because deep down, he always knew music would come first. We both knew we would not be good parents to a human, albeit for different reasons.

HOWEVER, as I write this, Bobby is cawing like a madman, I think he is trying to find his girlfriend, and Tomas is wrestling with a difficult cue. But he loves the Bob, and luckily he can tune him out, and Bobby has no interest in marching into the studio and demanding attention.

With all of the disagreements we have, The Bob and I are both in agreement on one issue:

We despise Ann Coulter.

This does not make us unique, but I have an extra added bonus. Ann Coulter looks like my sister Shannon Mahan, and uses her blond leggy sex appeal in exactly the same way as Shannon, whom I am also less than fond of. But I have to kind of feel sorry for my sister, because all of my personal feelings about her aside, she is in with the majority of Americans who abhor this administration. AND SHE LOOKS LIKE ANN COULTER!!!
That is just the Universe being mean to my sister, but the bad devil side of me gets a bit of a kick out of it sometimes. Poor Shannon. How do you reconcile finding something funny, but feeling bad about it? Chocolate?

However, this is not about Shannon, again, our relationship will be covered in memoirs, down the line. I have some great memories of her, and often wonder what happened to her to cause her to be a certain way later in life. A certain way that, from my perspective, was unkind. I have my own responsibilities in our break from each other, which I chose to do, and I will be owning up to them. I will not do a hatchet job on my sister, as much as my anger at her wants me to.

This post is about Bobby the Crow and how politically proactive he is. I was changing his papers the other day, and happened upon a picture of dear old Annie Coltie, she was speaking somewhere, the L.A. times reported, “to wild applause”. Gee, do you think it was her legs and hair, or her putrid spew that was causing such enthusiasm? Go fellas!
Everyone knows that most men (and this is not a bash, even they admit it) hear very little of what women say when they are flashing you with whatever “come-hither” ammo they have at their disposal, and Lord knows, Annie the Republican Stick Chick has LOTS to work with. Very pretty, very smart, very hateful, and very wily.
She is not special, either, and she has every right to laugh at us. But someday, poor Ann Coulter will have cellulite, saggy breasts, crows feet, (sorry Bobby, it’s just an expression, your feet are cute) all of the swell stuff that happens when we get OLD!
Ann will have enough money to plastic surgery away much of this, but then she will look weird, as everybody does when they try too hard to stay young.

I have nothing against a little here, a little there, to make one’s self feel better, but when a person relies on her beauty to get the attention he or she needs, they usually go too far, and just look odd, sometimes kind of scary.

I have the sense that Ann Coulter is smart enough to know that if she wants to keep this nonsense up, she has to stay beautiful, and she will most likely go overboard with the plastic surgery. Then what she says will be in the spotlight, not her body and her hair. She will fade into the sunset, and be forgotten before the finale, where she gets to talk to her particular brand of Jesus.

I probably won’t live long enough to see it, but……let the silly twit enjoy her time. In the big picture, she is as meaningless as Paris Hilton.

SO, speaking of silly twits, here is how Bobby and I are proactive in our beliefs. I put the picture in the paper of Ann Coulter down right where he poops the most, and enjoy watching her image slowly fade away under a pile of bird shit.

Totally petty, totally silly, but dammit, I make myself laugh.
And to quote Craig Ferguson, “If it makes me laugh, that’s half the battle.”

Bobby D., Political Crow.

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