FOWL PLOTS

It struck me that regular readers are probably at ease with what they think they know about me, but probably don't know very much. Oh sure, the milk tea, the pipes and tobacco, the pigsty that has been my bed for the past seven years, the fondness for hot sauce, and the stuffed animals.
Did you know I have a large metal bird perched on the telly?

No, it's not a penguin from a Monty Python sketch.

And it isn't likely to explode.

It just is.


It is no more peculiar than the vicious little nursey christmas ornament, or the fat flat frog. Or the two racing nuns.


What IS peculiar is the calendar from over a decade ago on the wall, given to me by a grocery store which no longer exists. The picture is of a mama panda and a baby panda in a forest with a lot of bamboo. Two months, July and August, during which I lost interest in flipping the page. Which means that for at least six months prior to that I maintained chronicular correctitude.

There has been scant reason for calendars for a long time now. You just turn on your computer, and it will inform you what the day and date are.

I never bothered to take the thing down.

On the other hand, I did not endeavor to hang the picture that is leaning against the wall below it. Other than out-of-date calendars, there is absolutely nothing on these walls.

There are good luck scrolls on doors, however. Both on my apartment mate's bedroom door, and on mine. They're in Chinese, which she can't read, but I can. She's Chinese, I am not. They are eternally aplicable, in a sort of optimistic kind of way, meaning that they are near-meaningless.

I do have much better stuff to hang, if ever when.

One of these days I'll get organized.


I need an exploding penguin.




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