Trees in Birdland

I bought some cheapass trees and am planting them in the bird park. They will be big enough for the birds to enjoy in about 5 or 10 years. I did get the holes dug today though so things are moving right along. Maybe tomorrow I'll actually get them planted. They're going to be lovely.

Hey, while the trees are growing you've got time to run over and check out the Fifth Annual Bloggies. They were just announced today.

Sad story

I found this story at Animal Writings. It's very sad but instructional and one I think well worth the discomfort of reading it. It illustrates the little known side of elephant life.

Tyke never had a normal life. In the wild, she would be part of a close-knit herd. She would walk by her mother's side until well into her teens. The herd would be her family. She and the other members of the herd would eat, play, and take baths together, and protect each other from danger. They would roam over hundreds of acres of varied terrain, and sleep under African skies. When she got older, she would share in the child-rearing and have a calf of her own.

But Tyke never experienced any of that. She was trapped and taken away from her family when she was a baby. She was shipped to the circus. There, she was confined to a concrete room and beaten over and over, to break her spirit. Circus trainers hit her repeatedly with a sharp metal "bullhook," which made her cry out in pain. They struck her in her most sensitive areas: behind her ears, on top of her toes, in back of her knees, and around her anus. They wanted to hurt her and frighten her so she would be obedient.

She spent most of her time in chains, doing nothing. Her bones ached from no exercise. Her diet was monotonous. She stood in filth and excrement. She was deprived of every aspect of normal elephant life. She hated it.

She was in the Hawthorn circus, which had a track record of animal cruelty violations. In 1988, according to USDA documents, Tyke was beaten in public to the point where she was "screaming and bending down on three legs to avoid being hit." The trainer said he was "disciplining" her. By April of 1993, she had had enough. She tried to escape during a circus performance. She didn't make it. In July she tried to escape again; she was unsuccessful. Hawthorne should have retired her right then and there, as she was an obvious threat to the public. But they didn't.

For the next year she performed in the circus and lived in a barren concrete barn, chained, between shows. The bullhook beatings continued. Her life stank. She vacillated between terror and boredom. She was not really an elephant.

In August of 1994 Tyke reached a breaking point. She had been in the circus nearly 20 years. She was tired of being beaten, whipped, and kicked. She could no longer take the pain and the confinement. She was angry and wanted to be free. At an afternoon performance at the Neal Blaidsell Center in Honolulu, it all came to a head.

At some point during the show, she veered from the script. Circus staff tried to beat her back, but no bullhook or whip could stop the rage that had been building inside her for two decades. She crushed her trainer, Allen Campbell. She attacked two other people. She panicked the crowd. She ran into the streets. It was rush hour. She was disoriented and no idea where she was. She charged at bystanders and smashed cars as she made her way through several city blocks. Onlookers screamed. The police were called out and started shooting at Tyke with rifles.

She slowly fell over, then awkwardly stood back up. The police kept firing. Her head swayed, and her legs buckled. She got up again. The spray of bullets continued. She rocked her head violently from side to side. Her legs gave way once more. She was on her knees and could not right herself. Her eyes were fully open and confused. The shooting went on for several more seconds. Finally, she fell, very slowly, onto her side.

This was Tyke's final performance. The price of freedom from the circus was steep. She was shot 87 times.

For a few elephants, their circus life has a happy ending.

Magic pray rug and talk radio

I got a paper prayer rug in the mail today from a church. Their letter starts out, "Dear... Someone at This Address". I guess that's me. After all, I am someone. They explain that the rug is "anointed with God's holy power" but they're "loaning" it to me for ONE NIGHT ONLY. They said that I can trust that Jesus sees my needs because if I "stare at His eyes on the Church Prayer Rug, I'll notice they are closed but if I relax and continue looking straight into His eyes, I will see them slowly open and He will begin looking back at me." I tried it but His eyes didn't exactly open. They did turn into big, cool, blank zombie eyes though.


They promise that God is going to bless me spiritually, physically and financially if I do four simple things. First off, they want me to send the rug back first thing in the morning. God's a busy man and wants it back ASAP. The other thing I have to do, of course, is pray on the rug. It is prayer rug after all. The good news is that I don't actually have to get down on my knees. proof they are indeed wise men. They know most real true believers are obese. The instructions state that for the magic to work all I have to do is touch the paper to my knees. It has to be on both my knees, like a napkin I imagine, but how hard is that? Then I fold the rug up and slide it into my bible or under my bed and leave it there overnight. Good thing I can stash it under my bed while God does His Work because I don't have a bible. No matter my bed is just a mattress on the floor.. God can squeeze under it. He is God, after all. The fourth thing I have to do before I send it back to the church is be sure to fill out the questionnaire. I have to tell them where to tell God to direct His Blessing.




Oh, and they do want me to send them a little Seed Gift to show my gratitude for God's Work, of course, but I decided against it. You can't be too careful these days. After all, so many religious groups are terrorist network in disguise. Instead, I changed the Church's eagle logo on their envelope so that now he is shitting bombs. Given that terrorists and evangelicals are cut from the same cloth, seems about right. I'm sure they'll appreciate my gift and the fact that I didn't risk sending dough to bad people.



The God Squad is everywhere these days. Flipping through radio stations recently, I caught the last few minutes of a caller complaining about people who support both abortion rights and animal rights. She just can't get her head around it and writes us off as troubling heathens who shamelessly prefer dirty animals to human babies. Another boob from the rights are only for humans bunch. She probably eats eggs (embryos) and occasionally downs a tasty veal or lamb cutlet (baby flesh) and votes for 3 strike legislation to imprison those same, precious babies when they start acting out in the hood. Well lil' lady, I suppose I am a heathen. I don't respect scriptures, philosophies or people that celebrate human or animal sacrifice (including the crucifixion of your Lamb). I also pity the star struck martyrs playing "holy" war (whether Armageddon or Jihad). They aren't "saints". They're brainwashed glory seekers. I, for one, am sick of being dragged along in this arcane argument between a bunch of Middle Eastern pundits (Christians, Jews and Muslims) arguing their blood soaked politico-religion. Screw the whole lot.

I do support abortion rights and animal rights. I also spay and neuter my pets. I am a vegetarian who eats dairy and eggs although I'm very disturbed by the terrible ways dairy cows and chickens suffer at our hands. I don't think it's right or necessary. I have non-negotiable objections to the way animals are raised and killed for the meat market. Live and let live.

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Popcorn party

I threw a popcorn party in the bird park today.


News spred fast. Crows love to party. Pigeons too.

Spring and molting

I hate beginning with "I" but that's where I am at tonight, in my head, mulling things over. I've been getting rid of more clutter; books, furniture, clothes, points of view, expectations, resistance. Everything is under review, not just because it's spring, although spring always drives me out of my mind, but because it's time. Everybody knows when it's time.

It took me a long time to get one thing straight. I can't put into words exactly what that was but since then I compare everything to it and that's what I'm going on now. The latest things to go were the poems on my website. They were among the least viewed pages anyway so I doubt they'll be missed. I'm going to start submitting them, like everyone else does, to those obscure poetry mags no one has ever heard of, including me. If one gets published, I'll re-post it but not until then. It's a good day. I am making peace with a certain irrevocable sense of loss that is bitter as it is sweet.

Here's to you, Bubba.

However sentimental people may be about Muffy, proud of Rex, or vindicated rooting for the underdog, the idea of animal rights for the masses is generally considered weird or silly. On matters of life and death and what's for dinner, the minister, rabbi, priest or mullah have final say. That means the members of other species are generally shit out of luck.

Rest in Peace, old boy.

Bubba the Leviathan Lobster, as he was called, died today before making it to an aquarium at a Ripley's Believe It or Not museum. His size generated enough interest and support that he escaped the grim fate of lobsters that fall into human hands. PETA (People for the Eating of Tasty Animals) battled PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) and kindness won the day. But Bubba died anyway. They don't know why. My guess...fear. I suppose that's better than being boiled alive Here's to you Bubba and all the others.