Pigeon

It has been a very, very long time (four months) since I wrote about the assault of the pigeons on the West coast of this great land, and in particular on the light well outside my kitchen, and no doubt many of you have wondered about the status of this epic battle for the soul of America. My sense is you have all been holding your breath, terrified that these pernicious monsters were winning and that the end was near, yet also hopeful that somehow we had been saved through a certain modest person’s heroic efforts. I sensed all this because not one of you has mentioned the subject to me on this blog, email, tweet, Facebook posting, phone call, letter, or in person. (I will not stoop to making the joke about carrier pigeons.) I assume you have all been rendered speechless by a potent mixture of anxiety and hope.

And so I come to you today to set your minds at ease—but not too much at ease. The pigeons have retreated. No more do they taunt me from their perch across the street atop Hoover Middle School, where they waited for me to leave so they could have their way with my house. No more do the males twirl and dance for the females in their sordid mating rituals. No more do they coo from the neighbor’s roof. No more do they poop on my roof.

But note that I did not say “nevermore.” For while you have all gone on with your lives of work and play and fun, raising families and forming gigantic, unstable financial institutions, I have remained ever-vigilant, scanning the skies and sidewalks for signs that the pigeons are again on the move. For alas, I do not think the Great Pigeon War will be the last—or the greatest—such conflagration. I know they are out there, waiting, watching. I see them on the sidewalks downtown, strutting about with their beady little eyes. The pigeons will attack again. And although San Francisco, and California, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the Unites States, and the whole world sleeps, I will remain vigilant. And when they come, I will be ready.

You are welcome, America.