Pigeowned

So we were at Boudin's earlier today eating lunch. Of course, there were a whole bunch of pigeons hanging around, hoping for scraps. One of the pigeons, which I will call the freaky pigeon, was, well, a little freaky. Different coloration, which made him look strikingly different from the other pigeons, none of that boring gray you always see on pigeons, and his feathers were a little ruffled. I decided that I was going to give him some of the bread bowl in which was our soup. So I tossed a piece down at him, but another pigeon totally beat him to it. Well, I wasn't having any of THAT, and I grabbed another piece of the bread bowl and held it out for him. He started to walk to me, but another pigeon started shoehorning in. "Begone," I said to the non-freaky pigeon, "this is for the freaky pigeon, not you," but he didn't listen. I flicked my hand at him a bit, which made him ruffle his wings, but he didn't back off at all. So I smacked him.

Yes. I smacked a pigeon. Backhand, right across the side. Pow.

It was a surreal delight. The satisfyingly meaty contact of my hand with his side, a fluttery touch of wings, the inexplicable feeling of victory. Pigeons are notoriously hard to catch, and I had actually *smacked* one.

Somehow, the freaky pigeon knew that the piece of bread was for him, because when I smacked the one non-freaky pigeon, all the other non-freaky pigeons flew away, but the freaky pigeon stayed behind. I fed the freaky pigeon several more scraps off my bread bowl. The non-freaky pigeons all tried to shoehorn in several times, but I had them thoroughly cowed - all I had to do was point at them and they would back off.

As I walked away from Boudin's, to traipse along Fisherman's Wharf in touristy tourism and other things that begin with T, I felt a little warm glow in my heart, because I had smacked a pigeon, and I had fed the freaky pigeon.

May we all feed the freaky pigeons in the New Year!

Apparently Allison is still awake. Hi Allison!

EDIT: Apparently Allison's computer is asleep, although Allison herself is awake. Hi Allison tomorrow morning!

Okay, I had to share this. Quote of the Night from Letterman:
"As much as I'd hate to see them eaten by coyotes, a nickel a kitty is just too steep."

I'm really going to bed now.

Look, Spencer's on blogspot now!

See, Allison texted me saying that her blog name was "creativity escapes me", but her myspace is called Two-Point Bonus, so I couldn't figure out what all this nonsense was. Turns out that not only is Michelle on blogspot, and not only is Allison on blogspot, but so are Jeremy and T.R.! We should form a choir cadre and take over the world, with singing so exquisite that when we threaten to stop unless people give us full world domination and/or governmental authority, they'll totally give it to us. And then we'll stop singing anyway, because hey, everyone has to sleep sometimes, and we'll be in charge of the world, so there's nothing they'll be able to do about it.

You see I've thought about this rather a lot.

The esoteric username will be explained to your satisfaction as soon as I get home from here in San Francisco, which should be sometime Sunday. A few cryptic hints: ghosts, sugar, heat waves, Henson, and honey roasted peanuts. Unfortunately, several of these hints have actually nothing to do at all with the choice of username, but you'll have to guess which ones those are, because I'm *so* not telling.

Anyway, I'm here because the bowl game was here on Thursday. It was pretty awesome. I'd say that we owned Georgia Tech, but half their team is black, so that sort of comment simply wouldn't be politic. Suffice it to say that their defense, supposedly 10th in the nation, apparently missed the flight, because Travis LaTendresse simply ran all over EVERYONE assigned to defend him.

Well, I guess I'm going to go drag the crappy freakin' matress off the crappier freakin' sofa bed and put it on the floor and sleep and enjoy my back hurting as a result thereof tomorrow morning. This sofa bed is pretty much the crappiest piece of crap that was ever crapped out of a crap.

Farewell, and may the fish not eat your brains,
Spencer