The Joys of Taking Things Out of Context

My brother, my parents, and I recently reflected on a beautiful story from our collective past. Ah, nostalgia.

 

The year was 1996. My uniform that year was a red plaid shirt from the Gap, a blue tank top, and jean shorts. I hung out with Rebecca Hanson and a pale vegetarian known as Kathryn Andrea Taxbock, and we all admired Eddie Vedder ("Edward," as we called him). Rebecca, in particular, had a soft spot for Nine Inch Nails.

 

We were young. We were bold. We went to concerts and moshed in mosh pits and prepared for these events by ensuring we were properly hydrated. (Yes, we kept juice boxes in the trunk of my blue Delta '88. Kathy and I met some boys in the parking lot prior to a Beastie Boys concert. They were hydrating themselves with vodka, and we just shook our heads. Their eyes, in turn, widened when they saw our practical and nutritious juice boxes—and we knew then that we were mere imposters in the realm of the cool.)

 

At any rate, at that age I was sensitive about my music. And so when an annoying parent wrote in to the Herald lamenting a Nine Inch Nails CD, I responded with an equally irate Letter to the Editor:

 

Re: “Alternative filth,” Herald Letters, March 22.

  

Recently, my 49-year-old father purchased his first cassette tape called Songs of Love and Life by Roger Whittaker. After listening to the first track, Flip Flap, I was compelled to read the horrific lyrics cryptically enclosed. I had no choice but to immediately smash and burn my father’s entire collection of cassettes, not to mention his eight-track cassette player.

 

Why are adults permitted to purchase such filth? How can a father, whose ideals and morals shape those of his malleable children, have access to music — and I use the term loosely — that transcends the boundaries of musical taste in its nauseating sentimentality. The song Sugar My Tea, for example, has shocking implications when taken out of context, and the blasphemous song “Swaggy” needs no further explanation.

 

I delivered the charred remains of this abomination to the music store’s manager, who shook his head in disgust and pity, then wept. My mother tells me that there are others who listen to this detestable putridity. I cannot understand what our society has come to.

 

Carmen Wittmeier , Calgary."

 

My mother had Bible Study the day this letter was published, and she was horrified to discover her daughter's name in the paper, along with a huge photo of Roger Whittaker. I, in turn, was beaming. Then it got even better.

 

An elderly lady with a raspy voice phoned me up and said, "Are you Carmen Wittmeier? The Carmen Wittmeier who was in the newpaper?"

 

"Yes," said I, not sure where this was leading. Was I now famous? She then proceeded to ask me if I had actually destroyed my father's property. I assured her I had not—that I was actually a responsible young lady who volunteered on a regular basis and was conscientious in terms of my studies. Generally speaking, I respected my elders, though I liked to decorate my grandmother with tinsel at Christmas.

 

"Oh good," she said. "I just want to understand the youth of today."

 

But the sweet, sweet icing on the cake came later when I was approached by my English professor Harry Vandervlist, who was admired (and rightfully so) by every heterosexual female who took his class. He was so literary, so clever, so witty, so handsome, and yet so down-to-earth and approachable: naturally, I never said a word in class. So it was unusual to have Professor Vandervlist pull me aside.

 

"I read your letter," he said. I was concerned: would I still get an A in the course? I had nearly perfect attendance—though not always for academic reasons. But he didn't know that.

 

"It was a great letter. You're absolutely right," he said. For a second time that week, I was beaming (though this time it was subtly on the inside). 

 

Anyway, last night my family and I were chuckling over the letter (which my mom now thinks is hilarious . . . now that I've turned into a law-abiding citizen). We looked up my brother's blog from 2009, which tells the story: Sugar My Tea?.

 

Our favourite part of the whole thing was the side-splitting comment some random blog reader made about me on my brother's website:

 

"How do you get from Nine Inch Nails, aka Trent Reznor to Roger Whittaker. And just what does she [your sister] find objectionable about his music? I’ve listened to and enjoyed a lot of it without hearing anything improper.

What I find truly appalling [is] your sister’s assumption that she has the right to pass judgment on another adult’s choices, and vandalize his property because SHE didn’t like it.
And what possible excuse could she offer for destroying his eight-track cassette player!?

New World in the Morning is beautiful, uplifting and thought provoking.
And thanks for tipping me off to Swaggy, which is a lovely piece of whistling, with no lyrics.
I have to conclude that if your sister) finds anything FILTHY in Roger Whittaker’s music, it is because she has a FILTHY mind.

To the pure, all things are pure."

 

As if in an afterthought, he added the following: "By the way, parts of the Bible (look at the Song of Solomon) have shocking implications when taken out of context.

Ready to start burning Bibles?

Or could you learn to simply not take things out of context?"

Is my mind filthy? I think not. But I do know that life is sweet. Kind of like sugar in one's tea . . .

Brock Is Not Alone

So much is circulating around the Stanford rapist--the star swimmer who blamed the "party culture" for his vicious assault on an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. His own father, of course, earned his time in the spotlight by verbally reducing his son's crime to a mere "20 minutes of action" that should not overshadow 20 years of comparative non-violence.

Our outrage is justified. We feel overwhelming empathy for the woman--Brock's brave, eloquent victim. But some troubling questions emerge. Aside from having no moral guidance whatsoever in his home, what other factors made Brock the way he is? It's possible--probable, even--that the young man fed upon a steady diet of pornography. And if that's the case, where should we draw the line between the violence hidden behind a dumpster and the violence quietly committed behind a computer screen?

Just recently I noticed (when my own access cut out) that a neighbour's internet link was called "BangBus." Huh, I thought. That can't be good. But it's clearly a term significant enough to this individual to merit honouring their internet access with that name.

So I googled it. "Bang Bus" (as I understand it) is reality pornography with a supposedly "humorous" twist. Victims (typically adult sex workers) are picked up by the bus, persuaded to have hard core sex (which is filmed), and then dumped off without pay at the wrong location (or left "half-naked" and "covered with cum," to use the description of one gleeful reviewer). Fortunately, only "fat, used-up, coke-shooting skanks" are used in the production of this material, as another reviewer of the site so eloquently puts it.

So how much difference is there between Brock and those who frequent this site for their entertainment? Isn't the mentality--the sense of entitlement--behind both actions pretty much the same? Sure, Brock's victim didn't give her "consent" because she was unconscious and unaware of what had transpired, at least until she uncovered the details of her assault in a newspaper. Victims of Bang Bus, in contrast, were expecting to be paid for their degradation and the assault on their human worth. But even if they did consent and were paid (if the scenes were, in fact, staged), does that make the whole premise of the website acceptable?

Really, is one victim more important than another? Is it a crime to denigrate one woman, and to label another fair game because she's "a used-up, coke-shooting skank" or a prostitute? Is assaulting a woman vicariously by viewing and celebrating her victimization really that much better than taking her behind a dumpster and brutally assaulting her? Aren't both of these actions rooted in a terribly destructive, corrosive impulse?        

I'll end with Dan Allender's short talk, "How Destructive Is Pornography to a Man?" Allender doesn't mince words, or accept excuses. "All pornography," he says, "moves toward more and greater demeaning of the face of a woman . . . The goal of pornography is not mere arousal. It is degradation. It is having power over, and being able to destroy the beauty in the other."

On Fake Breasts and Broken Hearts

Now, every time I talk to a woman who has been devastated by her husband's sex addiction, she will inevitably say the same thing: "He says every man uses porn--at least every normal man. And everyone else is lying."

She'll say these words through tears. She'll be baffled, confused, wondering how much of the blame is hers. She'll speak of the life she had dreamed of with this man--her man. Eventually she'll see that her man never existed, the man upon whom she'd set the weight of so many dreams. His problem existed long before he swept her off her feet, though he kept it hidden and will inevitably blame her for it. I know: I've been there.

"Boys will be boys," they say. And yet how many of those who defend pornography see the anxiety of wives betrayed, women who stay awake in bed hour after hour wondering what their husbands, cloistered in the basement, are doing? It's a profound wound, one that is so casually dismissed by our culture.

In his book Empire of Illusion, Chris Hedges dedicates an entire chapter to porn. At the time the book was written, he says, approximately 13,000 porn films were being made each year in the U.S. alone.  Worldwide porn revenues exceeded the revenue of Microsoft, Google, Amazon, eBay, Yahoo!, Apple, Netflix, and EarthLink combined. Porn is pervasive, and the most committed consumers are between the ages of 12 and 17.

Take a moment to consider that. Age 12. On the cusp of junior high, I spent my spare time squelching through swamps in search of tadpoles. I played with my rabbits and read Choose Your Own Adventure books. I wrote notes in tiny script to my best friend Karen, talking about a boy that I identified, somewhat vaguely, as "cute." By 13, I had started grappling with my feelings for Johnny Depp. He was strangely attractive, and I was beginning to grasp why my friend Joelle liked to meet boys at Calaway Park or the wave pool, or to plaster rock stars on her wall. That year I, too, met a boy at the wave pool, and gave him my phone number. He became known in my household as "Joey Wavepool," and I would do anything to avoid his calls while my family mocked me. (He turned out to be exceedingly boring and could spend hours describing his cat, or asking what kind of music I liked. He was as clueless about girls as I was about boys. It took months to rid myself of him because he kept giving me "second chances" when I stood him up.)

Today's twelve-year-old, on the other hand, has access to "gonzo" porn, a genre featuring (as Hedge puts it) "a lot of violence, physical abuse, and a huge number of partners in succession." A 26-year-old porn actress interviewed by the author describes the acts she was forced to perform. Viewing her symptoms as she speaks, and recognizing them in those who have witnessed war atrocities, Hedges simply says, "What you are describing is trauma." She quietly agrees.

Another former actress describes the very real physical repercussions of porn--the torn anuses, hemorrhaging uteruses, and Sexually Transmitted Infections (STIs), many incurable. A third performer discusses a six-hour session involving 65 men.

A performer and producer summarizes the genre well:

                      "My whole reason for being in the industry is to satisfy the desire of the men in the
                      world who basically don't much care for women and want to see the men in my
                      industry getting even with the women they couldn't have when the were growing up.
                      I strongly believe this, and the industry hates me for saying it. . . . So we come on a
                      woman's face or sometimes brutalize her sexually: We're getting even for their lost
                      dreams. I believe this. I've heard audiences cheer me when I do something foul
                      onscreen. When I've strangled a person or sodomized a person or brutalized a person,
                      the audience is cheering my action, and then when I've fulfilled my warped desire, the
                      audience applauds" (74).
      
I find it profoundly disturbing to see the very real consequences of this callous disregard for women. A 16-year-old in Rio de Janeiro was recently raped by 30 men. Her brutal assaults (the majority of which occurred while she was unconscious) were posted on Twitter and received over 550 "likes" and positive comments before accounts were suspended. Jokes included “Rio state opens a new tunnel for the speed train.” Meanwhile, in Florida, a 15-year-old girl was filmed having (apparently consensual) sex in the washroom at school. Twenty-five boys either participated, or viewed the event, which was then posted online.

It's tragic. It's tragic that women are viewed as objects--that grown men would post close-up shots of the damage to a 16-year-old unconscious rape victim's genitals (one of the men arrested was 41--the approximate age her father would be). It's tragic that hundreds of people would applaud a violent crime online. It's tragic that a 15-year-old girl would be servicing multiple boys rather than folding up notes to her best friend about a boy she thinks is cute. It's tragic that an entire football team--current sons and future husbands--would watch the degradation of their classmate and post it online instead of making an awkward first phone call to a girl they met at the wave pool.

I can't imagine what it's like to be a female teacher standing in a classroom of eighth grade boys while suspecting what was downloaded during the lunch hour. Or sitting at the dinner table with a thirteen-year-old girl who knows far more about anal sex than I do (not something I ever plan to try). Looking at my daughter's preschool classmates, I can't help but wonder how many of them will be watching hard core porn videos by the time they reach junior high. How many will be pressured into sex acts they're not ready for? How many, in the long run, will have spouses with addictions, or get hooked on porn themselves?

Chris Hedges summarizes pornography--and the mentality of a culture that accepts it--so well:

                               Sex is reduced to a narrow spectrum of sterilized dimensions. It does not
                               include the dank smell of human bodies, the thump of a pulse, taste, breath--or
                               tenderness. Those in the film are puppets, packaged female commodities. They
                               have no honest emotions, are devoid of authentic human beauty, and resemble
                               plastic. Pornography does not promote sex, if one defines sex as a shared act
                               between two partners. It promotes masturbation. It promotes the solitary auto-
                               arousal that precludes intimacy and love. Pornography is about getting yourself
                               off at someone else's expense" (57).

Talking to the many wives I've met whose husbands are normalizing and defending their use of pornography (and Christian men seem to be notorious for this), I see who pays the price. We all do. Twelve-year-olds who know what an ATM is. Wives barely able to cope with preschoolers and infants while their marriages sink. Teenage girls who watch porn to learn the mechanics of sex and the acts they will be expected to perform. Teenage boys, barely into puberty, bombarded with naked photos from classmates before they've even managed to land their first fumbling kiss. Spouses more bonded to screens than their human partners. A society that can't differentiate between intimacy and exploitation.

This winter, after a heavy snowfall, a man parked his vehicle near my house and watched me struggle to shovel my walk. I had been ill all week. He got out, came over, and politely asked if he could shovel the walk for me. I thanked him profusely, and when he saw me standing there awkwardly, he insisted that I go inside and rest. He did all of my walks, and my driveway, propped the shovel against a railing, and quietly left. I was so moved.

This, I thought, is what it means to be a gentleman--a real man. Someone who, rather than seeing a woman as a mere prospect, recognizes himself as a man.

Empire of Illusion

I'll admit I'm a cat lady--except with books. At least ten of them followed me home recently from the local thrift store.

I was thrilled to start reading Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle,* by Chris Hedges. Oddly enough, this is the sort of book that engages and relaxes me: being a work-from-home mother (and animating Playmobile animals for hours to amuse my youngest daughter), I miss having the regular intellectual work-outs of my university and teaching days.

This book quickly became one of those books I carry with me everywhere--in my mind. It has systematically pieced together so many of the aspects of American (and Canadian) culture that feel so terribly off, though I can't always put my finger on how we arrived at this place, let alone connect the dots between cultural trends.

Hedges begins his book with a quotation from John Ralston Saul:

        Now the death of God combined with the perfection of the image has  
        brought us to a whole new state of expectation. We are the image. We 
        are the viewer and the viewed. There is no other distracting presence. 
        And that image has all the Godly powers. It kills at will. Kills 
                                            effortlessly. Kills beautifully. It dispenses morality. Judges endlessly. The
                                            electronic image is man as God and the ritual involved leads us not to a
                                            mysterious Holy Trinity but back to ourselves. In the absence of a clear
                                            understanding that we are now the only source, these images cannot
                                            help but return to the expression of magic and fear proper to idolatrous
                                            societies. This in turn facilitates the use of the electronic image as 
                                            propaganda by whoever can control some part of it.
  
He (Hedges) then delves into the fascinating world of World Wrestling Entertainment--a venue in which illusion reigns. Professional wrestling is so successful, Hedges observes, because we wish to be fooled, to "happily pay for the chance to suspend reality." Wrestlers become our "vicarious selves," doing what we cannot, facing epic challenges and garnering fame in the process. Reflecting current economic and social struggles, scripts and characters have moved from crude racial stereotypes (from the Russian Bear to the Iron Sheik) of the 50s to the 1980s, to representations of more current social, economic, and psychological breakdown. (Nailz, for example, suffers from PTSD, having been brutalized as a former inmate.)

What's fascinating is that, as Hedge notes, morality is shifting rather than fixed. Good and evil are irrelevant. Values are dispensed of: victory is the only worthy pursuit. Aggressors seeking emotional gratification at the expense of others are not to blame: rather, child abuse or exploitation by an employer grant them that right. Characters' destructive behaviours, coupled with their self-pity, depict "the undiluted narcissism of a society in precipitous decline." And the referee--the sole authority figure--is incompetent when it come to meting out justice.

Celebrity culture is equally disturbing. We are, Hedges argues, Plato's human beings, "chained to the flickering shadows of celebrity culture, the spectacles of the arena and the airwave, the lies of advertising, the endless personal dramas, many of them completely fictional, that have become the staple of news, celebrity gossip, New Age mysticism, and pop psychology" (15). Fantasy, in America, is more real than reality.

I've noted this phenomenon myself after a friend recommended the MTV show "Catfish." (Incidentally, I'm fascinated by cultural trends--media, technology, pornography and the sexualisation of childhood, etc.--and MTV is evidence of some disturbing ones.) The show typically follows the story of a young adult who feels he has made a profound internet connection, a soul connection. Marriage is often being contemplated as the next logical step. The catch? They've never met. And thus "Nev" (the host) helps the unlucky participant track down the love of his/her life, only to discover that he is a she, or she is a he, or a fashion model is a 500-lb male who breeds snakes, or the entire romance has been a prank all along. "Catfish" is a humane show: Nev and his sidekick Max gently delve into the psychological state of both the jilted lover and the catfish. The false love is never humiliated, nor is the person who has invested years of his life into pursuing an illusion.

What disturbs me is the passion participants feel for what often turns out to be a false image. They place all of their hopes and dreams onto an entity that communicates through text in vacuous snippets ("U mean the world 2 me, Babe"). The unknown person behind the internet is whatever the recipient wishes him or her to be--whatever fills that void. It's sick, and it's sad.

"Catfish," of course, is not nearly as sick as "The Swan," a 2004 reality show that reveals the transformation of an unattractive poor soul into a being worthy of admiration. Hedges describes the process used to correct "Cristina":

                        The surgical procedures she would undergo were typed out beside each body
                        part. Brow lift, eye lift, nose job, liposuction of chin and cheeks, dermatologist
                        visits, collagen injections, LASIK eye surgery, tummy tuck, breast augmentation,
                        liposuction of thighs, dental bleaching, full dental veneers, gum tissue recontouring,
                        a 1,200-calorie daily diet, 120 hours in the gym, weekly therapy, and coaching. (24)

At the end of a process that I would deem torture, Cristina is ecstatic. She declares, "I'm in love with myself!" Now that she is an illusion, an unrecognizable substitute for the person she was born to be, she has arrived. Her destination in my mind is unclear of course: surely she will need to upgrade her  husband, and her children, and her home, and her dog. But the message to us all is, as Hedges points out, that once a woman is made to resemble a celebrity, her "problems will be solved."

Somehow, I'd rather take my crooked bottom teeth and the slight tummy bulge that resulted from two pregnancies any day. Gum tissue recontouring for aesthetic purposes? Really? Having one's wisdom teeth removed for medical reasons is certainly bad enough, in my opinion. And I would like to resemble myself. It's easier for my children recognize me this way. Much more convenient. And wouldn't you have to stand in line for a new passport photo and driver's license after each major surgery?

Hedges nails it when he points out that our preoccupation with celebrity and illusion "conceals the meaninglessness and emptiness of our own lives." Furthermore, he writes, "It seduces us to engage in imitative consumption," and "deflects the moral questions arising from mounting social injustice, growing inequalities, costly imperial wars, economic collapse, and political corruption" (38). The Titanic is sinking, and we're all bleaching our teeth.

I have only covered the first chapter of this brilliant book. I feel inspired, now, to move away from the computer screen and to engage in reality. I hope that you will cancel your gum tissue recontouring, or your brow lift, or whatever is on your agenda today, and join me in the real world.

(The next blog will cover Chapter 2, which delves into the world of pornography.)

*Please note that my copy of the book is not this pristine. My daughter kicked a cup of coffee onto it, so my version is brown and white and decidedly crumpled. But its exterior appearance does not reduce its value in any way (though its resale value, perhaps)--I firmly believe that one cannot judge a book by its soiled cover.

 
 
 

The Intimate Lives of Budgies

There is never a shortage of entertainment when you own budgies. Four little winged brats are typically catapulting through our house at any given time. Let me introduce them:

"Sugar" is the lone male who pursues himself in any mirror he can locate. He's not a narcissist, exactly--more of a gentle soul who genuinely appreciates the only bird who gives him unconditional love. He's our family tragedy, but he tolerates little "L's" clumsy affection like a brave little soldier.

"Water" is a docile, independent female who can slip through the bars of the cage and do whatever she pleases. She is one of the most popular birds among the humans, though she only tolerates us because we feed her.

"Lemon" is the alpha male, who spends his time pursuing "Lemonade," or any craft supplies that remind him of his beau. These two budgies can be going on dates in the dishwasher, or in the guinea pig's litter box (picking up brown chunks of what I like to think of as recycled hay), or exploring the basement now that they've discovered how to navigate their way down stairs.

Lemon pursuing his lady love

 

Lemonade's torrid affair with a ceramic suitor

 

Dear "Bola," may she rest in peace, was the brat of all brats, who led her brother Lemon into the outside world, where he was knocked to the ground by a Magpie. I was never able to locate her again, though I walked the neighbourhood many times over. Perhaps some kind soul found her, and has discovered how frequently she bites.

Every day is an adventure with these good, inquisitive folks. Just the other day, our dear Lemonade took a swim in the toilet, not realizing that small children seldom flush. Little L. came over to me and said, "Sorry, Mommy."

"Uh oh," I replied. These words seldom inspire confidence.

"We were in the bathroom, and Lemonade flew in the toilet," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

I ripped over to the bathroom, not knowing how long a 'swim' Lemonade was 'enjoying' in the local 'pool' (the colour of lemonade, incidentally). Fortunately, the soggy and disgruntled bird had made her way to the kitchen. She had, indeed, taken a bath, but would recover everything but her dignity.

We have had many near misses in our household. Bola (named after L.'s imaginary friend) disappeared one day and was discovered wedged behind a dresser. How long had she been wedged? I honestly don't know, but I did search the entire house until I found her, immobilized and silent. Lemon went for a long swim in the fish tank when I left the cover off during a cleaning. And Water was rushed to animal hospital after consuming a pipe cleaner. She pooped black for a week. 

My favourite moments with these lovable pests? I loved it when the children assigned each bird a detailed daily report card. I was amused when Water got stuck in a water bottle, and in a roll of paper towels (her obsessions). I was filled with respect when Lemon, upon being cruelly clipped, flew over my coffee and dropped a vengeance turd, missing my drink only by inches. And watching one of the budgies accidentally land on an adult, winged praying mantis was hilarious: the mantis was irate and the budgie completely confused.

Pets are good for kids. They teach them responsibility, and raise some pretty interesting questions. "Mommy, is it really okay for Lemon to marry his sister?" or "Mommy, why is Lemon jumping on that yellow pom pom?" We talk about the genetic potential of a budgie procreating with a pom pom (could the babies be any more adorable?), and the less inspiring genetic potential of a brother-sister union (thank goodness Lemonade flew into the picture and ended that).

Budgies are like people (though humans generally don't mate with pom-poms, as the genetic combination would be disastrous). And though you never hear the phrase "Budgies are man's best friend," these darling winged vermin sure come close.


A budgie-themed birthday cake (easier to create
than a live-miniature-unicorns-flying-out-of-an-
erupting-volcano cake)

 

Sugar being tamed by "Sarah": both are
considered equally "alive" in our
 household

 

Water, Lemon, and Bola attending an
anti-human conference

Quick Diversion

Spring is in the air. They are nesting in the hideous hallway light. Such optimists...

The Professor and the Budgerigar

Now, I recall being asked to edit College Days--basically, a professor's memoirs.

Arthur Cridland sent me a sample chapter of his work, and I quickly agreed to edit his book. After all, his writing flowed and was filled with nostalgic images. I thought back fondly to Dr. Black at the University of Calgary who would stand in front of the classroom reciting entire passages he'd memorized--Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope. I remembered being floored in Chris Wiseman's Poetry 354 class when he read John Berryman, Anne Sexton, and Randall Jarrell, beautiful words that have never left me.

So thus began the editing process, in part during a road trip with Lisa Wind down the Oregan Coast. (Ah, dear Lisa. I think of you often. I saw a child the other day that reminded me of your little orphan Capsuinita.)

I quickly discovered how much I liked this Arthur Cridland character. The man's prose covered more than pastoral images: he clearly had an appreciation for the female form and for a good prank. I recall, many years later, his story of a dead cow in an elevator.

Fortunately, my favourite people are quirky, and I knew I'd found a gem when I listened to Professor Cridland's answering machine message--a violent rant against telemarketers. [I tend to be gentler when receiving unwanted calls. The trick is to hand the phone over to the nearest child with the instruction to imitate the sounds of wind breaking. The child is entertained, and the telemarketer inevitably gives up.]

Now I soon got to the chapter about the professor's budgie bird. Budgies are a chatty, personable folk--I have two of my own. I have never connected with them  . . . well  . . . romantically. It never occurred to me that that could even be a possibility--not that it would have made a difference in my courtship behaviours. So imagine my shock to read of the professor on a hot summer evening going to bed without his nighttime attire and tearing the sheet off himself during a restless sleep. Imagine reading about an innocent little budgie flying to the nearest perch she could locate.

I shall stop at this point: this is a family blog, after all, and I am feeling most uncomfortable--somehow soiled like the bottom of a birdcage. But if you could stomach the contents of the previous paragraph, I would very much recommend this fun, rollicking memoir. All the best to you, Professor Cridland. And do please stay away from my birds.