Sunday, December 19, 2010

Seagull Suicide Note

The above is the only remaining picture of Seymour: Taken on Halloween when he dressed up like a blue heron. 

The below is the last known entry (perhaps a suicide note) from the diary of Seymour: a Marina del Rey, California Waterbird.

19 December 2010

It’s a Friday night and I’m bored again. Ennui descends on me like the fog. Oh that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? I’m bored! Bored as hell!    Sitting here on the spring line of this same old codger’s boat waiting for him to finish his can o’ beans makes me question my very purpose in life these days. It also makes me question why all old men insist on eating like Limeys. I’ve become fat off Spam, I have.  Fat and tired and bored.  I have it all now and maybe that’s just the problem, too much success, not enough motivation.   I should enjoy my own palm tree free of other feathered assholes… plenty of food from Captain of The Third Circle of Hell here. Life isn’t even interesting anymore.  There aren’t any more cats to worry about -- what with the recent influx of little foofoo dogs in the delightfully yuppie apartment complex across the way. Ah, I do appreciate dogs, slobbery and yippy as they are.  They keep the four-legged meowing death threat at bay and they do quite a number on the squirrel population.  Nothing worse than a squirrel, well maybe a typhoon.

 Years ago on a night like this I would be scouring the patios down Admiralty Way at the Ritz seeking out discarded rehearsal dinner bits. Crab Rangoon was my favorite. The crunch, the gooey insides, the aftertaste.  Much like a good, sun-crisped, well-squashed beetle.  Then post spilled aperitifs, I’d probably fly around Venice for a spell in search of a randy pack of finches to spend the rest of the cold night with.

Years before that I would have found myself stowed away on a singles cruise ship, spying on one-night-stands and getting tipsy off recently regurgitated Mai Tai puddles.  Those were the glory days.  Not these days, not now. 

Ah, looks like the codger’s tossed his beans aside and is settling in for the night.  Somehow I’ve lost my appetite, though.

I think instead of beans, I shall fly out to the sea and see what’s new on the horizon, if anything.  The sun has just set now and the winds are strong, but after these last few years, I need a challenge. 

The spring line will stay taught and wait for my landing, and I doubt my palm tree will mind a night without its tenant.  If I don’t return, there will be beans aplenty for some other wretched, bored soul.

 Smooth sailing, world.