Category Archives: TV Shows

Pigeons, Mike Tyson, and me

There’s an ambiguousness to this blog.  For a whole year I think it had a tongue in cheek tone to it.  And more lately it’s been pretty personal.  More contemplative and serious even.  But something that’s remained constant in its two and a half years is pigeons–and how much I love them.

The About page has described me as “a pursuer of creative outlets with a deep love and curiosity for all things pigeon,” which I think sums me up pretty well.  If I could only tell people two things about myself, I’d feel pretty satisfied if they only knew about my creativity and my feelings for pigeons.

All this is on my mind because I’m in countdown mode for the new Mike Tyson show on Animal Planet that debuts THIS SUNDAY, March 6th–“Taking on Tyson.”

“The first day I fought I must’ve been a ten year old kid.  This is the most frightening day of my life.  The reason for the fight was because the guy ripped the head off my pigeon.  This is the first thing I ever loved in my life.”

I don’t want to get too excited for this show.  I don’t know a whole lot about pigeon racing.  I don’t know a whole lot about Mike Tyson.  But I think this show is going to be an interesting look at a sensitive, provocative man.  Probably a lot of people will tune in because it’s a little strange and funny–but that’s okay.  The things we laugh at have truth in them.  And often the things we make fun of are the things we don’t want to take the time to consider–because they challenge something we’ve always held to be true: fighters are mean, men like Mike Tyson are tough, pigeons are just stupid birds.  I don’t think any of those things are true.  And that’s why I’m excited to watch.

Mannequins and MTV

This is the best thing I saw today:

If you can’t make it out, that’s material knitted to resemble my favorite thing–a pigeon! I like that it’s a fake pigeon pecking what appears to be a real plant. This is exactly the kind of window display I would put together if that were my trade.

Here’s the first image that comes up when you do a Google search of “worst window displays”:

I was expecting something worse than that, to be honest. There’s nothing all that shocking about it. Though the mannequin on the right looks a lot like a Canadian man I once knew.

Here’s “bad window displays”:

I appreciate that the smallest mannequin’s eyes are being covered. I hate when tender-aged mannequins are exposed to explicit sexual acts.

That reminds me of a newspaper article from today’s New York Times about the new MTV series “Skins.” There have been ads ALL OVER the subways the past couple weeks. I didn’t catch the premiere Monday night, but I suspected that the show involved teenagers doing drugs and having sex. And the article confirmed that and then some, saying, “In recent days, executives at the cable channel became concerned that some scenes from the provocative new show ‘Skins’ may violate federal child pornography statutes.”  That’s because all of the actors MTV gathered are under 18, the youngest being 15, and they’re filming scenes featuring “simulated masturbation, implied sexual assault, and teenagers disrobing and getting into bed together.”

I don’t care if it is a realistic portrait of life for modern day teenagers.  It still upsets me.  It mainly upsets me because I was not this breed of teenager.  I was not wild and adventurous, trying new substances and boys at every turn.  I was naive and confused and awkward.  The kids in these ads plastering the subways are sexy and confident and know how to apply makeup so well.  Is this realistic?  Or is this just the reality that MTV wants to sell and attract impressionable viewers with?

TV! $&^%!

On CBS at 9pm every week you can watch good looking people get brutally murdered as a team of good looking people works to solve the case.  There’s violence–blood and rape and 9mm–but at the end of the episode one of the good looking people leaves you with a heartwarming quote to ruminate on, like the one a few weeks ago from Buddha when he talks about family and harmony and beautiful gardens.

I don’t have a small family or beautiful gardens to tend.  But I just watched a woman get shot at pointblank range on national television and I watched a man force a married couple to have sex in the backseat of a van while he watched.

The writers, the actors, the producers–these are the people getting nominated for Emmy’s and celebrating a great sweeps week with bottles of expensive champagne.  But what about me?  What about me who has to walk home from work at 3am and suddenly I can’t shake the idea that I’m going to get raped on the sidewalk and become the next great plot.  And don’t tell me I can just turn off the TV, because it’s my job to watch.

No really.  It is.  Except I’m getting laid off from that job, so then it won’t be my job to watch and I can just turn off the TV.  And I’ll have to turn off the TV because there will be no money to pay for the TV anyway and the Republicans are going to take over control of the House and what the hell good have I been, wasting away in front of a screen.

Even more disturbing than I described.

But this really is a great Buddha quote they incorporated 🙂 :

A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden.

The Downfall of the Building

I was away from my apartment building for five or six days.  Just got back late last night, and this morning I noticed some changes.  First thing, the building had two black benches outside by the front door.  They were great.  People were always using them.  There’s this one older woman who has a dog that looks even older than she is, and they sat on that bench for hours each day.  And then there’s the smokers who came outside and had a nice place to rest their lungs.  And I liked the benches, too.  One time I saw a big cockroach on the brick wall right behind one of them, so after that I got weary of sitting on the benches, but I still did and appreciated it.  But now they’re gone!  You’d never even know they were there except for one screw protruding from the concrete. 

Thing is, there’s not much reason for me to complain because I’m moving at the end of August.  I had the longest conversation I’ve ever had with the man behind the counter at the convenience store this morning and he said, “Oh no, bad news for me.  I will miss you.” 

My apartment building is nice.  It’s six floors and I live on the third floor.  And I feel bad about this–I don’t know a single one of my neighbors.  I’ve never talked to any of them.  I’ve never heard their stories.  When I moved in, one of my roommates mentioned that there’s a lot of people who have lived in the building for decades and they seem to resent the younger people, the transplants to the neighborhood.  I don’t know about that. 

OH!  But this is what I’m getting at.  So, months and months ago management posted a sign in the basement where we all do our laundry.  It read, “No Dogs Allowed in Basement! Thank you! -Management.”  And some jokester took a pen and wrote, on all three of the signs posted, “Tenants, mice, and roaches ONLY.”  And it was funny.  And someone thought it was so funny that they wrote “LOL” on one sign. 

I liked these signs because they made me feel united with my neighbors.  I felt like we could all identify with those signs.  Like it was Us versus Management.

But this morning I was walking out to the street and I noticed a handwritten sign posted on the second floor’s garbage room door.  The garbage room has a chute for trash and a big metal can to put recyclables in.  A lot of time, though, there will end up being trash on the floor of the room instead of down the chute.  And the handwritten note addressed this problem:

Yeah.  It says, “This apply to the fucking pigs that lives on this floor, throw your garbage in the chute, not on floor.  Yours nieghbors.” 

I don’t like this sign as much.  I understand being frustrated.  But come on.  This kind of sign doesn’t implore any one to care about their neighbors.  If I were someone who was neglecting the trash chute and I saw this sign, I’d be more likely to continue using the floor out of pure spite.  And the anonymous nature of the sign means that anyone could have written it.  I don’t live on the same floor as the “fucking pigs”, but still, they might see me in the elevator, or the basement, or the space outside where the benches used to be, and who’s to say I didn’t write it.  Or who’s to say I’m not one of the fucking pigs!  This sign marks the start of an Us vs. Us culture in the building instead of an Us vs. Management, and this saddens me.

Moral of this blog post is the same moral as a billboard I’ve seen around lately.  So I leave you with that–

Freaking out. (#$*%*#$*!!!!)

I’m forever indebted to the man behind MonkeyBlogMonkeyDo for sending me the juiciest bit of pigeon news perhaps in the history of pigeon news:

Animal Planet is making a show about Mike Tyson’s quest to become a champion pigeon racer!!

Thank God.  And about time.  I don’t own a TV, but I’m going to find a friend with a DVR and live at their house, watching episodes over and over again, until I slowly disintegrate into their couch.

I remember the day I learned that Mike Tyson loved pigeons.  And one day I will be telling my grandchildren about this day, the one when the MonkeyBlogMonkeyDo guy sent me this link.

My favorite part of that article is that I can now steal one of the commentors ideas of framing this magazine cover in their house:

New Year, Same Auld Blog.

It’s 2010.  You know what that means…


A new season of The Bachelor with a man named Jake.  I plan to watch last night’s episode online as soon as I hit the “publish” button on this post.  At which time I will laugh, cringe, cry, and masturbate.

I’ve been incredibly productive this year.  One highlight: I cleaned my room.  I found $20.  So far that money has bought me an egg and cheese sandwich and a coke.  Updates on the remaining $14 to come.

I also found my mini microphone.  I plan to hook it up to my laptop and record myself singing in the laundry room basement of my building.  I may even share some of these recordings on this here page.  The acoustics are pretty clean down there (pun intended).

AND LASTLY, I found the memory stick to my digital camera.  I went on my first photographic romp of the new year.  Here are the results:

It's 2010. You know what that also means.

Hate when buildings force me to consider things.

Dog in pink bonnet. You're not fooling anyone. You may be wearing a hat intended for a human, but you're still not allowed.

Still Life with Surgical Mask

Melissa Joan: Ready for all that Mario jelly?

Forgive me.  I don’t want to get too contentious or topical on this blog, but…

I just watched the ABC Family original romantic comedy “Holiday in Handcuffs” from 2007, and I just find it difficult to believe that these two people could ever have a healthy, mutually satisfying relationship together:

Not buyin' it.

That said.  It’s a great film (by ABC Family original movie standards).  Find the time.

Sticking it to the waiter man.

Not all that much makes me angry enough to vent about it in a public forum, but something happened earlier tonight that really rubbed me the wrong way.

Okay, I’m at this restaurant.  There’s an open mic going on, and my turn to perform is coming up.  I leave my seat to order a drink, only I don’t know where the bar is, so I look lost.  And this waiter sees me.  He’s at a table of patrons taking their orders.  And he’s young–no older than mid-20s.  So he looks up, and in a pretty loud tone that lets the whole restaurant hear him, he goes, “You trying to order a drink, sweetie?”  And I go, “Yeah, I just want a Coke.”  And he’s like, “The bar’s downstairs, sweetie.

Like I said, not all that much ruffles me, but MAN.  That just felt really crappy.  It’d be a totally different story if this waiter was a few decades older, or if the restaurant wasn’t in supposedly one of the most progressive cities in the world.  It seems like such a small thing, to be addressed as sweetie, but it’s huge.  It knocks the wind right out of your “I’m equal” sails.  And this is a restaurant that regularly hosts improv and other comedy shows–why you gotta be a douchebag?  I don’t know.  It caught me so off guard that I didn’t do anything.  I just walked down the stairs and ordered my soda.

I’ve got a few theories as to why this dude did this condescending thing, though.

  1. He’s stupid. He simply has no idea what effect his using this form of address has on the majority of women.  And I do think it’s fair to say the majority of women.
  2. He’s mean and bitter in his ripe young age. He’s a waiter at a place where other people regularly come to live out their dreams and make other people laugh and bring joy to the masses and themselves.  And he feels like he should be somewhere else…which leads me into my final theory…
  3. He’s been watching a lot of “Mad Men” and has delusions that he’s either an ad man in the 1960s, or as desired as Jon Hamm. It’s funny because every time I hear one of the male characters on that show address one of the female characters, one of the secretaries, as honey or sweetheart, I’ve been thinking to myself, “Gosh, I’m so glad men don’t do that anymore.”  And this really gets to the heart of the matter–status.  When you use one of these words to address someone who’s basically a stranger, you are, in a very obvious way, letting her know she’s beneath you.  And that feels crappy.

That said, I got my drink, got on stage, performed, and felt pretty fucking empowered.  So fuck you, waiter.  Use your tips to buy some class.

Musical Theater Sans Pretense.

It’s Tuesday–time to Labor and then watch young stars with blossoming drug and alcohol problems hump.

One of my favorite things about being alive is meeting other people who are alive and finding out what it is about life, their life in particular, that inspires them to continue living it.  Sometimes it doesn’t seem as though there’s much at all that’s inspiring them to continue living  it, and that’s sad. 

Two nights ago I met a really, legitimately sad looking man.  I’d seen him on the subway on my way home from work once or twice, but I’d never talked to him.  He has this distinctive look about him–extremely curly (Kenny G curly) gray-white hair down to his shoulders, gray-white stubble on his face, and some kind of red splotch surrounding one eyebrow.  He looks interesting.  But more than anything, he looks sad.

Anyway, he struck up a conversation with me.  But he did it in a pretty awkward way–he posed a question to me, waited for my response, and then revealed that he had known the answer to the question all along.  It was along the lines of, “Hey, do you have any idea what time it is?” Then upon hearing me apologetically say I did not, he responded, “Because I do! It’s five minutes ’til noon!”  And then he delved into an in-depth history of time itself, followed by an explanation of the process of watchmaking, and finished it off with some personal anecdotes about his experiences relating to the time-space continuum. 

It was sort of like that. 

I’m not sure where I’m going with this.  I guess I’m just thinking about how it’s great when people reach out to other people.  It’s nice when strangers become acquaintances and acquaintances become friends.  Even if it’s only on Facebook.

In other news, the new “Melrose Place” is starting today.  And along with Ashlee Simpson-Wentz, they’ve got these inspired taglines!  One reads, “Tuesdays are a bitch.”  Another goes, “Tuesday’s the new hump day.”  And another still, “Ménage à Tues.” Provocative, eh? I’m pretty sure that if I watch this show I will learn things (sexual, lewd, nasty, terrible things) that I have no business learning–and I’m an adult.

Still, part of me is curious.  Also, I noticed that the Greek love interest from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is in the cast, so it’s pretty guaranteed that I’ll tune in.  At least once.  At which time I will learn all about bitches, humping, and threesomes involving bitches, humping, and (a desperate woman can only hope) this Adonis:

Have you seen my pants?