Bird-Scobe | Frank Scoblete

Look! A Big Bird with a Bright Orange Breast!

My fourth bird-watching expedition was to Hempstead Lake State Park on Long Island, New York. It was a lot of fun — even though I did make something of an ass of myself (something I am getting really good at).

The birding group composed of maybe 20 men and women, some quite old (some maybe dead), some quite smart and some I haven’t figured out yet; all bedecked in their bird watching gear of brown clothes with binoculars hanging from their necks, was an enthusiastic lot.

My wife the Beautiful AP and I were the rank amateurs in every way. Using our brand-new 8 x 42 powered binoculars every time someone said something such as “Look over there (pointing), a tan-breasted marmalade rotund chick flyer!” I’d put the binocs (being cool that’s what I now call them – binocs) to my eyes and try to focus on the bird – mostly where my fellow birders were pointing.

Inevitably I got branches and tree limbs or ground or marsh grass but I could never find the bird. The magnification of the binocs was great. I mean I could really see the stupid leaves of the stupid trees.

Maybe human eyesight and binoc sight are on a different level?

The bird walk took two hours and at the end of hour number one I had seen some birds. But usually only for a few seconds because those rotten birds could fly. Just as my binocs were honing in on them; off they would go! Pfft! That’s more annoying than someone talking during a movie.

All I was doing was basically tramping through the woods, over the tree roots that were above the ground. (“Please God; don’t let me break my ankle.”) I was sweating like a pig (do pigs sweat?) and fearful I would rub up against some poison ivy which seemed to be growing everywhere.

We came to the lake; a nice lake that was a little low on water since Long Island was not getting much rain. I binoced-in on a bunch that were lazing their way along the shore. Oh, yeah!

Other than huffing and puffing, I had not contributed anything to the bird-walk of our South Shore Audubon team except stuff like “I don’t see anything.” Or, “Is that poison ivy here?” “A yellow tufted what?” “The darn thing flew away!”

Then I saw them! Three Seagulls. Right at lakeside. “Look over there,” I shouted. “Seagulls! Three of them.” I pointed at them as if I were a pro.

Then a woman’s voice from the behind me said, “To a true birder there are no such thing as Seagulls. We just call them gulls. Seagulls don’t exist.”

(Oh, for crying out loud! Lady did you have to ruin my moment?)

My default is usually to say something funny in moments such as these and I went right to my default. I pointed to the “gulls” and said, “See, gulls!” There wasn’t a single laugh; not one stinking laugh. I thought “see, gulls” was funny. I was alone in the world on that one.

My other great moment came about 10 minutes later. I was scouring the lakeshore, trying to find some birds I could point to and make up for my “see, gulls” comment. I didn’t want to be on the outs with my new birding brethren. I had to redeem myself.

Then I saw it. A big bird with a bright orange breast; it was magnificent. “Everyone! Everyone! Across the lake. (I pointed triumphantly.) Over there. A big bird with a bright orange breast!”

Binoculars, far more powerful ones than those I had, held by birders far more experienced than I am, trained on the bird. (Oh, yeah; oh, yeah! Take that “see gull” lady!)

Then…

The telescope-man’s voice was kind, “Frank, that’s a pile of garbage.” Everyone laughed.

Listen to me; I still think “see, gulls” was funny.

[Read Frank’s new book I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps! Available at Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble and at bookstores.]

Waa! Waa! (I Prefer Birds)

I was going to write an article about how some people have lost all dignity during the Trump win over Hillary Clinton. But then it hit me when I read a Facebook post by someone who fancies himself a tough guy. He was whining that he will never again speak to anyone who voted for Trump – this included his actual family members. Well, since I didn’t vote for Trump (I didn’t vote for Hillary either) you’d think the guy would want to talk to me.

But no, he gets angry when Facebook friends question some of his silly posts. His masculinity is all show and tell, sadly lacking substance. I’ve questioned my own wife’s posts. I’ve questioned (after careful thinking brought on by my wife saying, “I really think you should rethink what you are writing”) my own posts on Facebook.

It is so embarrassing too seeing people whine and moan.

Think of those riots with the “he is not my President”; recounts that wound up giving Trump more votes; the colleges (bastions of learning!) offering safe spaces, puppies and Playdough for students who are upset that Trump won; then the attempt to get electors to desert Trump (four deserted Hillary and two deserted Trump); now the attempt to get him impeached even before he becomes President and on it goes. Criticism is one thing; whining is another entirely.

In my day as an athlete (in a time and a universe far, far away) if you lost you lost. Hopefully you lost by giving it your best. Publically you took defeat like a man. Hell, the girl athletes took defeat it like a man. It was considered bad form to whine and moan. You congratulated the winner and planned how you could get better and hopefully next time beat those who had beaten you .

When Trump starts making policy; fine, you don’t like it, then open your mouth. I will. If you like it; then open your mouth. I will.

Now, birds are an entirely different story. They can fly. They can fly until they stop flying – usually dead from disease, gun shot, or an attack by another bird or a cat (cats kill over one billion –yes that’s over 1,000,000,000 birds a year). I’ve never heard a bird whine and ask for a recount. In that they are far better than some people.

[Frank Scoblete’s latest book is Confessions of a Wayward Catholic which is available at Amazon.com, Kindle and at bookstores.]

The Titmouse and My Grandson

I have three squirrel-proof bird feeders outside the large windows in my office. As I write I can see these “little schweeties” as my wife calls them, flying, eating and squabbling out there in my corner of nature.

I know I will never be a birding expert. For example, we have a host of different kinds of sparrows that come to the feeders and although I can see differences among them, I am hard pressed to identify each and every kind. I just point and say, “Man, look at all those different kinds of sparrows!”

But I can identify a number of birds. One that I love, for example, is the tufted titmouse. It’s a pretty little creature that comes to my feeders even in the dead of winter.

Now, in addition to my birding hobby, another hobby of mine concerns my grandchildren. I happen to like them, a boy 11 and a girl nine. Not all grandparents like their grandchildren, mind you, no matter what some grandparents proclaim.

I want to talk about the birds to them (not the birds and the bees) and include them in my new hobby, but I hesitate. My granddaughter would at least tolerate me going on about our feathered friends; but my grandson might be a different story.

You see, he’s a boys’ boy and that means he is interested in all the things we boys’ boys are interested in–come on, I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I? Bodily stuff like farts, vomit and poop, yes. But above all else, sex stuff – any stuff to do with females.

I’ll give you an example: Ever since he heard the word “wiener” he’s been using it nonstop to describe his own wiener and anything he can attach the word “wiener” to. He is as interested in his wiener as is Anthony Weiner, but as far as I know he has not texted an image of it to anyone. And all that stuff about women? Forgetaboutit!

So here’s what will happen when I tell him about my love of tufted titmice.

Grandson: “Tit, oh, ho, ho, tits! Ha! Ha! Grandpa Scobe said tit! Tit! Tit!”

Grandpa Scobe: “No, that’s just its name. Tufted titmouse.”

Grandson: “Tits, tits, tits, yeah, yeah!”

I can imagine that during the entire day (and then some) he would incorporate the word “tit” as much as he could. That’s just what I’d need, my grandson telling my daughter-in-law that Grandpa Scobe had been talking about tits. My son would kill me.

But my grandson is not the only one. When my wife the Beautiful AP first told me the name of that pretty bird, I responded: “Tit? Ha! Ha! Tit! Tit! I have a tit at my feeders.”

Beautiful AP: “Scobe, come on, titmouse is its name; not just tit.”

Scobe: “Ah ha!”

Beautiful AP: “Grow up.”

Scobe (whispering): “Tit.”

So I am going to figure out how to get around telling him about titmice. He will see several when he comes to my house and looks out the window, so I have to figure out something when he asks, “What’s that bird?”

I am just hoping there isn’t a bird called “tit-wiener” because then we will never hear the end of it.

[Check my books at Amazon.com and bookstores.]

The Search for the Great Snowy Owl

All the birders (birders are bird watchers but “birder” sounds stronger and classier than bird watcher) were at Jones Beach West Field #2, tromping through the sand and the dunes with one harried lady scolding us: “Do not walk on the grass on the dunes!” We were not listening; instead we tromped all over the grass which was unavoidable since it was under our feet.

The grass is not like the grass on your lawn or on a golf course. Each stalk is about a foot or two high and every couple of inches there it was. You couldn’t help but step on the grass. But this lady, protecting our planet as she had a “Protect Our Planet” shirt on, was adamant. Everyone smiled at her benignly and she finally gave up the fight and stepped on the grass too.

Birders were all over the place – on the dunes, the beach, near the parking lot. Wherever you looked, there was a birder or groups of birders in their birding clothes with binoculars pointed wherever they thought they would see the creature we had all come to Jones Beach to see, the great Snowy Owl.

My group is from the South Shore Audubon Society and we were hunting for that great Snowy Owl also known as Bubo scandiacus. (Bubba scandiacus, if you are from the south.) We hungered to see it as these owls are tough to spot around our area since they hang out in the Arctic, which is a long drive from Long Island, New York. In the fall they migrate to the south. I guess these birds are the real snow birds, not to be confused with NY senior citizens who spend three months in Florida every winter.

Now, birding is not a precise activity. The leaders of our group saw the Snowy Owl just a few days earlier and some photographed it. So, everyone excitedly looked here, there and everywhere to catch a glimpse of this magnificent owl. Alas, after an hour and twenty minutes of climbing, walking and binoculing, Mr. Owl didn’t make an appearance. I have printed a great one from Claire Reilly, a pro photographer, who photographed the bird several days later on Jones Beach.

That night, after our day’s disappointment, my wife the Beautiful AP and I watched a documentary titled Wild Arctic and one beautiful sequence had a fabulous video of this fabulous bird. In the birding world, this sighting doesn’t count. We can’t put it on the list we’re not keeping (see article “The Pelican Brief”). But the documentary was great to watch.

snowyowl

Photo by Claire Reilly

[Read my new book Confessions of a Wayward Catholic!]

Times, They are a Changin’

If you told me 10 or more years ago that I would become a birder (as in a bird watcher) I would have said you were nuts. Only maniacs want to go out into the forest or parks or bays to look at birds. Seriously now, look at birds? Insane.

But now I am ambling through some of the most beautiful parks and bays on Long Island with dozens of birders, and with my wife the Beautiful AP—and I am a truly happy man, a truly happy birder.

I never knew we had such beauty on Long Island. It’s as if I’ve moved to a whole new locale. In a way, I have. I am now one of those nutty birders out there with my binoculars and my special birding hat and when I see one of these beauties (even ugly birds are beautiful) I get a real charge.

I’ll admit in those long-gone years of my birding disdain I figured incorrectly that all birders were deranged. They must be wackos of the wackiest way to do what they did, so I thought. Having met them, most are smart, interesting and committed people – although one or two or a few are indeed out of their minds. Still, isn’t that true of most groups – a few maniacs interspersed with smart, interesting and committed people?

We go out birding on Sundays at 9 a.m. We’ve been to Francis J. Levy Park, Hempstead Lake State Park, Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, Jones Beach West End, Mill Pond Park, Massapequa Preserve, Point Lookout Town Park and Lido Preserve, and indeed more are on the upcoming schedule. The Beautiful AP and I are even contemplating going to Costa Rica on a birding expedition.

I’ve seen all sorts of birds on these walks; colorful songbirds, wading birds and a variety of those awesome predators of the skies—hawks! One was sitting atop of a tree munching (this is indelicate) on another bird. An amazing sight! This was at Jones Beach West End.

I do not know the names of all the birds I’ve seen. Yes, there are birders who are experts and they identify the birds and easily describe their behaviors, calls, plumage changes and migratory patterns. I listen and try to learn, but I am a slow learner in this field.

Sundays have become “date days” for the Beautiful AP and me. We go birding then go out for a romantic lunch. Yes, a decade or more ago, I would have called this a cheap date. But times have changed. Now with my wife at my side, I happily clad myself in garb laden with pockets and strap on a water bottle and binoculars over that, to tread through mud and bush to spy on winged creatures—and I am ever surprised by what I see.

The Four-Hour Erection

His name is Mr. Squeaky. No, that’s not the nickname for a man’s sex organ. It is the name for a Green-Cheeked Conure parrot; a parrot who is a sex fiend–a complete and utter sex fiend.

My wife the Beautiful AP and I have two parrots, Augustus, a Quaker Parrot, over 20 years old – a senior-citizen for his species – and the aforementioned Mr. Squeaky, about five years old, and horny as can be.

Augustus spends most of his day grooming, wrestling with a copper bell, eating, bathing and pooping. His nickname is the “stealth pooper.” Mr. Squeaky, on the other hand, spends a minimum of four hours a day screwing the top of his cage.

We assume that Mr. Squeaky (the name given by his first owners) is male since he has never laid any eggs. He has (to be blunt) laid his cage constantly. He is up and out in more ways than one, tirelessly humping a perch that definitely looks the worse for wear.

And loud! When he is going at it, you can hear him all over the house squeaking what we can only interpret as, “Whoopee! I am having fun! More! Give me more!”

One morning last week we parked the car in our garage and even before we could get out the Beautiful AP said, “Mr. Squeaky is having sex again!” (“Whoopee! I am having fun! More! Give me more!”)

Although we try to give him his privacy, when we do walk in on him, he will peek over at us and continue pumping away. He is not an exhibitionist but he is also not not an exhibitionist. I think he is more of an “I-don’t-care-ist.”

The Beautiful AP thinks that Mr. Squeaky is young and plucky (drop the “pl” and replace with “f”). She believes he’ll calm down with age.

He usually takes his bath first thing in the morning and then screws all day. This order of events would take him out of the running to star in a birdie Cialis commercial. For some incomprehensible reason, the Cialis couples take their baths after sex in separate tubs. Outdoors. Shouldn’t they clean before having sex?

Mr. Squeaky loves the perch atop his cage, but he is unfaithful. On some occasions he gets on top of Augustus’ cage while Augustus sits by his door pooping onto the floor. Mr. Squeaky pumps like a madbird on his neighbor’s perch.

Other times, he makes love to the inside of his own cage when he’s covered for the night. No, we don’t peek. We just listen. Eavesdropping, you might say.

If Green-Cheeked Conures were an endangered species, we could put Mr. Squeaky out to stud. But, alas, there is no dearth in that population.

Will time dim Mr. Squeaky’s ardor? Only Mr. Squeaky’s cage can tell.

The Pelican Brief

I call it Pelican Bay because there were literally hundreds of Pelicans flying, diving, floating and cavorting with each other as our cruise ship (the Fathom Adonia) slowly made its way through the water.

The Pelicans did not seem the least upset by our relatively huge ship sailing by them. Why should they? Who hunts Pelicans?

I had never seen a Pelican before these sightings in Cuba, although I have since learned that they are everywhere on the East coast. [My new learning: A group of Pelicans is called a pod.]

Pelicans rocket into the water to catch fish. They are greedy eaters too. I think I saw a few with more than one fish in its mouth, uh, beak.

I said to the Beautiful AP, “Put Pelicans on our list.” You see birders all make lists of the birds they see with the dates they saw them and I thought we should have our own list. I think there are some 900-plus species of birds. This would be our first one on our official list!

“I’m not making a list,” she said. “I have enough lists about my swimming mileage and workouts. You want a list, you make the list.”

“But I want you to make the list,” I said, defeated. I then whispered to myself dejectedly, “Then we won’t have a list.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said.

I am Not Semi-Retired

I love my wife the Beautiful AP; I really do, but sometimes she can be a royal pain in those areas that Royals are not allowed to discuss.

“Since you are semi-retired I think you should take up birding,” she said.

“What?”

“Birding; you know go out to the areas where people bring binoculars and watch birds,” she said.

“I know what birding is,” I said. “What’s that other thing?”

“What?”

“Semi-retired? Why did you say I am semi-retired?”

“Because you are semi-retired,” she insisted. (My wife is an “insisterer.”)

“I am not semi-retired,” I said. “I am not semi-retired. I am a writer. In the past 25 years I have published 35 books, some with the largest publishing company in the world. How could you forget that? I’ve written thousands of articles for over 50 newspapers and magazines. I’ve written television shows. I’ve…”

“Scobe,” she insisted. “You don’t have to sell me on what you’ve done in your writing career; it’s just that you have cut back a lot and I mean a lot on your writing time.”

Okay, she has a small point there, a teeny-tiny point. In the past I would spend eight (sometimes up to 10) hours a day at this damn (I mean “darn”) keyboard. In one year I wrote four books – four hefty brilliant books – for a subsidiary of Random House. Try writing four thick, amazingly good books in one year while also writing for…

“I know what you are thinking Scobe,” she said. “You are now going to tell everyone reading this how amazingly prolific you are and how much you have accomplished to show you aren’t semi-retired.”

“What makes you think that?” I whimpered.

“Because I know you,” she insisted. “I can see the wheels turning in your head.”

Okay, okay, I am spending less time writing than I used to in the past. I now spend about four hours a day (sometimes three) writing my columns and other stuff (such as Facebook posts) but I have a good excuse for that…

“I know you are reading a lot more lately,” she said. (I swear she is plucking this stuff out of my damn [darn] head!)

She’s right; she’s right. I am reading more lately. That is true.

From the age of 15 to 35 I read maybe five books a week; I had over 5,000 books in my collection by the time I divorced my first wife. I kid you not. I am a fast reader because once a book grabs me I can’t put it down. (”Is dad still in the bathroom?” “Yes, he’s reading.”)

During that 20-year period, I read mostly science, philosophy, esotericism, theology, classics and a lot of science fiction. In my young years I thought I was on the road to learning “the truth” which is what Pontius Pilate sarcastically asked Jesus, “And what is the truth?” Jesus remained silent. Had he answered the damn (darn) Roman governor’s question I would know “the truth”; instead I have not been spared from my current, total ignorance. (I blame Jesus for all of this!)

So why am I reading more lately? Well from 35 to my current age of 69 (“It’s just a number. It’s just a number.” It’s just a number my ass. I have arthritis for God’s sake!), I spent my time doing theatre, then playing casino games and writing. The more I did those things, the less I read.

“Oh, no,” my wife insisted, reading my mind. “You have cut down your writing but spend as much time watching movies and news programs as you do reading.”

She just stands there plucking this stuff out of my mind. Do any of you husbands out there have wives who can read their minds? It’s very annoying.

“I read a bunch of good magazines, Scientific American, Discover, Skeptic, Skeptical Inquirer, Reason, Free Inquiry and…”

“Come on, Scobe; you are semi-retired,” insisted the Beautiful AP.

“No, I am not. I am retired from teaching for almost 15 years but not from working,” I lament. “I am a writer. A full-time writer.”

“I think you’ll like birding.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I cried out loud.

“You also need to get out of the house and socialize more.”

“I have a friend,” I said.

“Who lives in Tennessee and you live in New York,” she said. “Why don’t you call some of the people you taught with and set up breakfast or luncheon dates with them?”

“Most of the teachers I was friends with have died.” That is so true. Most of the ones who inspired me are in their graves. I honor them in my memory.

“You have to be involved with people,” she insisted.

“I give talks. I’ve given talks to fifteen hundred people at one time if you haven’t forgotten,” I defended myself.

“Other than the person who paid you; come on, you didn’t know any of them.”

[“And what is the truth?” Come on Jesus, answer the damn (darn) question.]

“You need…binoculars…to be a birdwatcher,” I stammered.

“I’ve ordered them. I’m getting a pair too and I’ll go with you until we can find you a birding friend.”

[A birding friend? A stinking birding friend! What the hell (heck) is happening to me?]

“You know I get bit all the time by mosquitoes,” I said. “I could get Zika.”

“I’ve bought wipes with DEET on them. You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want to socialize. I’m not that good in small groups,” I said.

“Lawrence High School has a group that meets every so often. Find out about them.”

“I don’t know any of them,” I said. “They came to the High School during the time I was a hermit.” [The Scobe the Hermit story is for another time.]

“You will write a note to Steve Kussin who is in charge of the group.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

“I want you to become a bird watcher. And I want you to sign up for a program at Hofstra University for professionals who are retired…”

“I’m semi-retired,” I said.

Crap (crap). She nailed me.

So enjoy my bird articles!