Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

On this first of May, as we begin one of my favorite months, a look back as is our Monday tradition. The Delusional Grandeur Tour culminates this month with its final flourish. I closed out April in Boston, and we shall return a couple more times before the end is at hand. For now, the week in review:

It began in the Windy City, where beauty and forgiveness found a way, and an artful lunch proved a formidable balm.

The day the world shrunk.

A very pretty post of Bryce Thompson.

Waving good-bye to Chicago.

Bodyworks by Bowers.

Missing in Boston.

Poof!

Beer buddy.

How to stuff it.

The quiet dove. 

Sexy blokes, Round one.

Sexy blokes, Round two.

Hunks of the Day included Francois Imbeau Dulac, Aaron Renfree, Frankie Cammarata, Dan Murphy & Charlie Carver.

The most exciting news, however, happened in the dark of night, on a blissfully warm evening: the first swim of the season.

The day started off rainy and cool, but steadily warmed as the hours ticked on. Andy had begun heating the pool as soon as we heard the weather report was calling for the possibility of fine weather. It paid off as the water reached a perfect 87 degrees, and the outside flirted with the 70’s. I slipped in for the first swim of the year, and it felt divine.

The scent of a wood fire carried over the water – someone in the neighborhood was burning for heat or atmosphere, and it smelled both of fall coziness and a spring night. Torn deliciously between seasonal worlds, I floated in the deep end, momentarily free from the usual gravitational burden of walking through life. April hadn’t even ended, and I was already in the pool. I savored the moment quietly, not wanting to tempt the fates with hubris.

Is it “morning dove” or “mourning dove”? I’m literally too lazy to type a few words into Google to research this for you, so have at it and leave condescending comments on my FaceBook or Twitter feeds. I love that so much. This is the antidote for that other bird post, the one that didn’t have such a happy ending. Here, a bird sits on its offspring (which had poked its head up just for a moment before the photo was taken).

The nest resides in the upper branches of a climbing hydrangea, against a brick chimney, and I didn’t notice it until the fledgling was already hatched. Unlike the robins, these birds made no sound and gave no attacks, even though I’d been working beneath them clearing debris and pruning the branches of the very vine in which their home rested. Had this been a robin’s nest, we would have been pummeled and driven off by a scene straight out of Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ – and I am NOT in a Tippi mood.

My general resistance to beer is being put to the test with this surprisingly moving advertisement from Heineken.

(Though to be honest I’d be happier discussing our differences over a bone dry martini.)

It happened in the night, right before the weekend.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the patch of light gray, lit up by the bright sun, and resplendent against the drab brown ground. When subtle tones and typically-dull colors are combined, the results can be spellbinding. Upon closer inspection, it was a pile of feathers. It looked like a bird had exploded, like some violent but comical explosion in a cartoon.

Body and bones were missing, but in the endless number of feathers blowing around the background, it seemed all the bird’s feathered finery had been left behind. Who or what could have done such a thing?

Andy summed it up thusly: the bird went poof.

I hope it was quick and relatively painless.

The results, while pretty, were also pretty macabre.

Our backyard is Thunderdome for birds.

Fowl play indeed.