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Posts Tagged ‘memoir’

Hello my fellow crow fans and assorted others, human and higher beings,

Again, my apologies for the delay, but there was a terrible legal hassle I had to go through with my boss.  I do not consider Sarah Palin’s book, “Going Rogue, An American Life” a book.

The Bird reviews books, both fiction and nonfiction, magazines, blogs, anything that is literature, and is interesting, informative, funny, factual, emotional – everything that true writers are supposed to give to their readers.

Sarah Palin does not qualify as a writer.  I refused to review her book, and the Parents were one hundred percent behind me, but it took some serious legal arguments to back up my decision.  In the end, we won, the courts ruled that Palin’s pieces of paper do not qualify as fiction, nonfiction, literature, factual, anything.  This waste of what was once a live tree is not considered a book by the High Court of Trees. As crows, we know what is and is not a book, from all of the time we spend with the original paper source.

It qualifies as a 44 year old woman writing a “Dear Diary” with all of the ability of an angry fifteen year old.

The Bird does not review “mean little girl” diaries.

Read and see more here:

Bobby’s Bi-weekly Book Review

Although, the picture below pretty much sums it up.

[image by ‘flyinureye’ via themudflats.net]

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About six years ago, my husband, Indie film composer Tomas Hradcky (He went by Tomas Hart back then) and I were stuck in five o’ clock traffic in Santa Monica, hot and hungry and tired and inching along so slowly that at one point I closed my eyes and imagined the future, right on 26th and Arizona Ave, looking just the same, except with all of the cars hosting mummified corpses a la Stephen King’s “The Stand”. We were just trying to get to Quizno’s, the entrance to the parking lot was a mere ten feet away, but we were going to die of hunger before we got there. (Los Angelinos, you KNOW I am not exaggerating).

Out of the corner of my right eye, as I was sliding down towards an ugly death, I noticed a crow on the ground, rummaging about in an overturned garbage bin, then stalking away, his left wing dragging at an unnatural angle.

I had once tried to catch and help a hurt crow – their wing(s) might be hurt, but their Lance Armstrong legs are formidable. I was alone when I tried to catch the first one, and he could outrun Jackie-Joyner-runner-lady.

(No, I do not watch sports, shut up).

He was dashing across very busy Venice Boulevard, and nearly got hit twice. I gave up, with great regret. I was just making the situation worse.

So, when I saw this Santa Monica boy, I just felt sad and helpless and didn’t say anything.

Tomas piped up.

“Did you see that poor guy? We should – ”

I shook my head, explaining that it was impossible.

“But there’s two of us,” my normally worst-case-scenario husband said hopefully.

All the while Mr. Hurt Crow was marching west down Arizona Ave., away from us.

“Any ideas about how to get out of this mess and down to Santa Monica Boulevard, make a right, then another right, to come up Arizona, and do you really think he is just going to be walking down the street?”

Tomas’s eyebrows lowered, but strangely, not at me.

“Yes, I do,” he said, teeth gritting.

Before I could make another tired, semi-sarcastic remark, we were driving on the sidewalk.

My always-on-his-best-behavior-driver husband was on a mission. His quiet insanity had finally exploded.

I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut for a change and see what was going to happen.

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