A Supremely Bad Idea: Three Mad Birders and Their Quest to See It All

I imagine you've been wondering how long it would take me to finish this book. I've been wondering the same. Two weeks! I'm kind of behind schedule now - although not disastrously behind - 40 weeks left, 38 more books to read. That doesn't sound behind schedule to you, I realize, but I like being ahead of schedule so I'm a little stressed.

I don't know why it took me so long to get through. Part of the problem may have been the 12-hour days I worked last week. Have I mentioned that I read for a living? Not just any reading: my days are jam-packed with page upon page of emotive statements like "based on our regression analysis," and "industry sources indicate the trend is (pick a direction)." Take those days and lengthen them and then, just for kicks, add a little stress-induced insomnia to the mix, et voila! I become a Slow Reader.

The subject matter didn't help. A Supremely Bad Idea concerns three birdwatchers (excuse me, birders) and their travels around the United States to see as many species as possible. Long passages discuss the nuances of identifying various species - I am yawning just thinking about it.  

Apart from that, though, I enjoyed the book. It's essentially a travelogue in the style of Bill Bryson - sharp observations permeated with a gentle sense of humor. The author, Luke Dempsey, is  aware of the nerdy reputation the hobby has and so never takes himself too seriously - and there is ample compensation in the travel narration.

The descriptions of run-ins with inconsiderate others are flat out hilarious: obnoxious, shouting birding tour guides and groups of men called "The Pregnants"; at these encounters, the author's superhero alter-ego, Small Injustice Man, unfurls his cape and holds his ground.

One of my favorite sequences involves a trip they took to Texas, where they attempt to avoid "The United States of Generica;" that is, they will not eat or sleep in any Motel 6's or McDonald's. The hotels run the gamut from a stellar bed-and-breakfast to a place so disgusting I felt skeevy just having read about it.

Like birdwatching, the book took me places I would not have gone otherwise, and I confess a newfound regard for birds and birders (although I reserve my right to poke fun at them, since they evidently have a sense of humor about it - mostly).

12 books down, 38 more to go.

Stray Cats and Suet Cakes

I’m still working on A Supremely Bad Idea, and if anything proves that I am not, and never will be, a birder, I think my slow progress with this book does. I’m also not having much success with my attempts to be an armchair birdwatcher: not a single bird has been seen nibbling at the new birdfeeder.

Now, although it’s possible that the birds don’t really like suet cakes, or that they’ve heard a rumor that my house is occupied by an Alfred Hitchcock devotee, I think there is another possible reason for both my lack of success with both the book and the birds: There’s a giant CAT in my backyard, yellow and Clifford-sized; much too big for my dog to chase off.

We live next door to the local vocational school. Our little street has eight houses on it, and it is surrounded by the college. A little suburban island in a sea of … well, not quite academia … more like motorcycle maintenance. But apart from the occasional late-night donut drivers in the parking lot, the school is generally a good, quiet neighbor.

Several weeks ago, we got a letter from the school, addressed to “Our Neighbor,” alerting us to the school's upcoming expansion: an 83,000 square foot building. I didn’t think too much of it until the giant yellow CAT earth-moving machines showed up outside my house. I had the idea that there would be noise, jackhammering like woodpeckers, off to the side of my house – in the background somewhere. Instead, my house began to shake like an earthquake, accompanied by a constant background screeching – not unlike the music in the shower scene in Psycho, or a very loud, angry mouse, or perhaps a large family of mice, being driven from their home by the giant yellow CAT.
 Now, I’m thinking maybe some WD40 is in order, but if you saw how big this CAT is, you’d understand: there’s not enough WD40 at Costco to take care of this squeaking.

It should come as no surprise then, that I’ve found it a wee bit hard to concentrate on reading … and that the birds have been scared off. Of course, they might have left simply because winter is approaching; in fact, there are icicles on the bottom of the birdfeeder. Granted, they formed from the melting suet cake, but still, they are icicles, and that means winter.

So, I’m trying not to worry too much about the implications of all this. After all, we like cats, and winter means Christmas. I’m just going to play some Christmas tunes on my iPod and hope the birds come back in the spring.

Suet cakes? For me? You shouldn't have

In the evenings, I sit in my reading chair and read, at least for a bit, and glance (okay, glare) over the top of the book, at the birdfeeder.

The birds won’t come. They don’t seem to want the suet cakes. I can’t imagine why: Seeds encased in solidified slime. Yum. It reminds me of that stuff they used to sell in health food stores in the 1970s, which my mother insisted on feeding me instead of Wonder Bread and Pop Tarts and all the yummy stuff that emerged from my classmates’ lunchboxes.

I like birds and I’m enjoying this book about birding (note the use of correct terminology), but the birds clearly don’t like me very much. I think they may have heard there’s a Hitchcock fan in the house. Either that, or the birdhouse people up the street actually do put seed in all those houses. There is one other possible explanation, of course: My husband might, maybe, could have been a teensy bit right.

But I think they just don’t like the suet cakes.

Have you ever seen so many birds?

We went out to buy a birdfeeder yesterday. (Also, school supplies – no time like the last minute.) I have a brilliant plan – why travel to see birds when you can bring the birds to you? I have a couple of hooks on my front porch, I can hang birdfeeders from them, and then watch them from my reading chair as I read A Supremely Bad Idea. The cat usually sits on the back of my chair, and it’s something we can enjoy together.

My husband points out that it’s September and although we may get birds now, we won’t for much longer. He also points out that what I’m proposing is an awful lot like bird watching … which it isn’t. It’s somewhat similar to birding, but just barely.

Okay, I admit he may have a minor point here – I do have a small fixation on birds, evidenced by odd bits of decorating here and there. Bird plates, bird bowls, bird tchotchkes … I used to have a bird coffee table, but my ex-husband took it in the divorce, just to be spiteful; and to be spiteful, I let him take it and took the 35mm camera instead. That worked out well: I’m sure his current wife appreciates having a unique bird-themed coffee table as much as my husband appreciates having another film camera taking up storage space in the garage.

But back to the birds. How did birdwatching get such a sorry rep? Seriously, Alfred Hitchcock had a total bird fixation. I took a class on it once, in college. Apart from the movie “The Birds,” which I’ve always found more comical than suspenseful, Norman Bates’ hobby was taxidermy – his house was full of stuffed birds. And mother, obviously.

Anyway, we bought a birdfeeder and some suet cakes. (I don’t know how the birds can eat that stuff, but maybe they think that about my food too so who am I to judge?) Then we had lunch at Red Robin – chicken, if you must know. If I see any birds, I’ll be sure to tell you. And of course, I’ll keep reading.

The Quest for Quiet, and the Occasional Tufted Puffin

I recently David Ulin’s article in the LA Times, “The Lost Art of Reading.” In it, Ulin makes the case that reading a book is difficult these days, because “after spending hours reading e-mails and fielding phone calls in the office, tracking stories across countless websites, I find it difficult to quiet down.” Books, on the other hand, force us to slow down, “to distance (ourselves) from the present as a way of reconnecting with a more elemental sense of who we are.”

I began this reading adventure in part because I realized that on my recent week-long vacation in Cannon Beach, I had read three books, even though my days were filled with beaches and bumper cars and bikes and the usual mayhem that is our family. We had no computers; and of the five cell phones there, only my husband’s work phone had a signal.

On the drive down, the two older kids were texting friends and then, as the signal died off, discussing how many bars they had, and checking their phones constantly for new messages and asking repeatedly, “How many bars do you have now?” I don’t understand this particular obsession - if I was checking for bars, it would be the kind that serves blender drinks.

But I understand the immense gravitational pull of the constant updates. I spend a great deal of time flitting back and forth between email and Facebook and god help me, Twitter; and then obviously I need to feed my Webkinz and … I can’t even guess how many times I hit my browser’s refresh button in a day, because I can’t concentrate long enough to come up with a good estimate. I wonder if anyone’s published a study on that? Better google it.

Anyway, a funny thing happened when all the technology got shut off. No, it isn’t that my powers of concentration suddenly returned; you’ve already figured that out. It is that my stepson (who is a great reader but also a great gamer, and a keeper of very late hours), suddenly started getting up early. So one day, he and I got up around sunrise and took a long walk along the beach, down to Haystack Rock.

We saw tufted puffins flying, and a remarkable black bird with a long, bright orange bill, called a Black Oystercatcher. I took some pictures and then put the camera in my pocket and just stood there, barefoot in the sand, looking up, spotting puffins as they flew overhead, trying to see what other birds their might be. The water was incredibly cold. It was very quiet except for the sound of the ocean and the cries of the birds circling the rock.

Shane and I didn’t talk all that much on our walk, which is remarkable given that this is a boy I once paid $20 to say nothing for a full half hour, and I consider it money well spent. But on this walk, we were mostly quiet, in a pleasant kind of way.

We shared our adventure with the rest of the family, who agreed that we should go back and visit the puffins again, the next morning. My husband, who has endured many an eyeroll from me when he mentions his childhood birdwatching, commented, “I think it’s a great idea, we’ll make a birdwatcher out of you yet.”

I don’t think so, dear. And anyway, the correct term is birder.

Which is all a roundabout way of announcing that after hitting the refresh button too many times for a couple of days, and reading the first few sentences of several books but just not being able to concentrate on them, I have found the next book I want to read for my challenge: “A Supremely Bad Idea – Three Mad Birders and Their Quest to See It All.”