Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singing his song
All the little birds on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet
Rockin' robin (Tweet x 3)
Rockin' robin (Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee)
Go rockin' robin
'Cause we're really gonna rock tonight
"Rockin Robin" written by Jimmie Thomas (Leon Rene), sung by Bobby Day (1958) and Michael Jackson (19720
Spooky-ass spring so far here in the Pacific Northwest. Here's the reason why.
We have some neighbors who live at the end of our street on the corner of the main thoroughfare. I would say they were Russian or from some east European country like Pottsylvania or something. They have a couple of toddlers that they like to traipse over to our minuscule courtyard and romp about like it's goddamn central Park. There's a bigger are just a half a block down, but they like ours for some reason, mainly so that the kids can draw with their chalk. The grandmother who watches the lil' tykes encourages them to do so, but it does leave a mess.
The grandmother, who may or may not speak any or little English, just looked up and said, "Thank you."
They haven't been back since.
The next day, the crazy ass robins appeared and haven't let up. These creatures sit on the bench outside our front window or perch on their windowsill and peer in with their sick wet eyes, taunting us the entire time.
"Hey! Whatcu doin'? Drinkin' coffee? Watchin' TV? What's on? What's on Animal Planet? Is that David Attenborough I hear? Turn 'im up!"
Hitchcock missed a good bet when he didn't include these maniacal sky bastards in THE BIRDS.
But it's not voodoo. That's just silly. Somebody already has a voodoo doll of me. I know the difference I've had mysterious aches and pains for years that can only be atrributed to a doll with my likeness, prodded, stabbed and violate din various fashions. Whoever has it I'm sure is going to give it to the dog for a chew toy.
But I'm Hungarian. I know that old dame put a gypsy curse on us or at least on the robins, telling them in her best Maria Ouspenskaya:
"They hate the children. Now you hate them. Go! Attack! Fly, my robin warriors, fly!"
Then she checks the children's palms for the sign of the pentagram.
Okay. It's nesting season, sure. We had barn swallows built a nest in the corner of our porch a few years back. I asked the Audubon Society how I should get rid of them and that told me to leave 'em be. They were protected. We weren't when we tried to get out the front door. Once they flew the coop, I evicted them once and for all. These robin red breasts (not even fucking red but umber, for God's sake) have the spring crazies alright, but I think the witchy woman's tapped into their vulnerability and bent them to her will.
But what the hell do I know? Maybe it is voodoo.