'Spike'
Intro - Rise of the Crow
As '5th Street Joe' I had a long way to go
On my way to the top, when I met a crow
He came to the door and I named him Thor
Stick around for the story, there's a whole lot more!
Joe Racano, Thursday, Christmas, December 25th, 2014
Intro - Rise of the Crow
As '5th Street Joe' I had a long way to go
On my way to the top, when I met a crow
He came to the door and I named him Thor
Stick around for the story, there's a whole lot more!
Joe Racano, Thursday, Christmas, December 25th, 2014
Table of Contents:
Intro- Rise of the Crow
1. Huntington Beach, 1995
2. Benny and the Pets
3. Spike gets Famous
4. Keeper of the Crane
5. A Place among the Crows
6. Very Superstitious
7. The Great Champion
8. A Crow named Thor
9. The Crow Bond
10. Bird on a Wire
11. Distant Call of the Crow
12. Reunion
13. Crow Kung Fu
14. Something to Crow About
15. Memories of Thor
16. Champion of the Crows
17. Harry Potter and the Double Cross
18. Spot on my Heart
19. The Christmas crows
20. The Bird Doctor
21. Secret of the Ship’s Helm
22. Freedom for the Falcon
23. The Bird Locker
24. The Great Escape
25. Crow Road Show
26. Mending Fences
27. Job Security
28. Lake Front Property
29. The Vanishing Crow
30. The Search for Spike
Crow Kung Fu- epilogue
The End
CROW KUNG FU by Joseph John Racano- a work of non-fiction
"Joey Racano is not only a passionate and committed environmentalist, he is also a consummate writer. Dare you to tear yourself away from his new page."
-Ina Silvert Hillebrandt, Writer/Writing Coach, Editor, Publisher at Pawpress
Welcome to Crow Kung Fu, the book- Caw! Caw!
"Joey Racano is not only a passionate and committed environmentalist, he is also a consummate writer. Dare you to tear yourself away from his new page."
-Ina Silvert Hillebrandt, Writer/Writing Coach, Editor, Publisher at Pawpress
Welcome to Crow Kung Fu, the book- Caw! Caw!
Crow Kung Fu
crow kung fu, crow kung fu
If you know a crow who does it
have him show it to you
crow kung fu, be nobody's fool
It saves a lot of trouble
when they beat you at school
crow kung fu,make the ninjas drool
Eyes on your opponent
is the golden rule
crow kung fu, it shows respect
Bow to the teacher, that's what crows expect
crow kung fu, it's good for your mind
and when they mess around, you can kick their behind
crow kung fu, crow kung fu
If you know a crow who does it
have him show it to you
crow kung fu, be nobody's fool
It saves a lot of trouble
when they beat you at school
crow kung fu,make the ninjas drool
Eyes on your opponent
is the golden rule
crow kung fu, it shows respect
Bow to the teacher, that's what crows expect
crow kung fu, it's good for your mind
and when they mess around, you can kick their behind
Excerpt from 'Our Pal Joey', OC Weekly cover story, Sept. 1998 by the late Buddy Seigal:
" When Racano picks up his guitar to sing, Spike caws and screeches lustily at the same bar of each verse. It's an eerie display..."
" When Racano picks up his guitar to sing, Spike caws and screeches lustily at the same bar of each verse. It's an eerie display..."
Crow Kung Fu
Chapter 1
Huntington Beach, 1995
It started innocently enough. Some people go sit in a sweat lodge for three days and nights without food or water, driven to visions by the ordeal. For me, there was no vision, and no shaman waiting nearby to decipher it. All I got was a visit from two rather self-involved twenty-something Orange County girls who had found a baby crow. Do everybody a favor, will you? If you happen upon a crow and his eyes are still blue, leave him right where he is. His mother will appreciate it. Unbeknownst to many, most birds don’t simply fly out of the nest. Rather, they glide to the floor, hide in the nearest bush, and call for mother. There, she feeds them and attends them, with flying lessons starting about 3 days later. So when you think you are rescuing them, you are usually dooming them. Thank you.
Having a baby crow in your car gets old fast, and soon, the novelty for these ladies wore out. Through the grapevine, they searched out my ‘A’ frame garage on the alley at 5th street in Huntington Beach, and handed over a crow whose eyes were no longer blue. By now, he was ‘imprinted’- in other words, ruined as a crow for life. He thinks he’s a person. As one of my teachers explained it (Susan Dogget, raptor expert), imprinted means “He doesn’t want to be outside with the crows, he wants to be inside with you.”
I fashioned him a large and tall chicken wire cage, and marveled at his handy use of the beak nature gave him. And so I called him Spike. Spike and I lived together for several years along with my dog Champion, who was the greatest crow babysitter in history. He saved spike from many dangers on many occasions. Several more crows were destined to come into our lives, and we eventually had a murder of our own!
Friday, Dec 26th, 2014
Pinned above is a photograph of Spike on a morning ride through downtown Huntington Beach, sitting on the basket of my old red Schwinn. He loved to accompany me to the Sugar Shack on Main Street, where we usually shared a breakfast of eggs.
Chapter 1
Huntington Beach, 1995
It started innocently enough. Some people go sit in a sweat lodge for three days and nights without food or water, driven to visions by the ordeal. For me, there was no vision, and no shaman waiting nearby to decipher it. All I got was a visit from two rather self-involved twenty-something Orange County girls who had found a baby crow. Do everybody a favor, will you? If you happen upon a crow and his eyes are still blue, leave him right where he is. His mother will appreciate it. Unbeknownst to many, most birds don’t simply fly out of the nest. Rather, they glide to the floor, hide in the nearest bush, and call for mother. There, she feeds them and attends them, with flying lessons starting about 3 days later. So when you think you are rescuing them, you are usually dooming them. Thank you.
Having a baby crow in your car gets old fast, and soon, the novelty for these ladies wore out. Through the grapevine, they searched out my ‘A’ frame garage on the alley at 5th street in Huntington Beach, and handed over a crow whose eyes were no longer blue. By now, he was ‘imprinted’- in other words, ruined as a crow for life. He thinks he’s a person. As one of my teachers explained it (Susan Dogget, raptor expert), imprinted means “He doesn’t want to be outside with the crows, he wants to be inside with you.”
I fashioned him a large and tall chicken wire cage, and marveled at his handy use of the beak nature gave him. And so I called him Spike. Spike and I lived together for several years along with my dog Champion, who was the greatest crow babysitter in history. He saved spike from many dangers on many occasions. Several more crows were destined to come into our lives, and we eventually had a murder of our own!
Friday, Dec 26th, 2014
Pinned above is a photograph of Spike on a morning ride through downtown Huntington Beach, sitting on the basket of my old red Schwinn. He loved to accompany me to the Sugar Shack on Main Street, where we usually shared a breakfast of eggs.
Chapter 2
Benny and the Pets
Not long after Spike came to live at the ‘A’ frame, we got a visit from the first of a long parade of cops and skinheads, who in Huntington Beach are pretty much the same thing. We lived out back of 305 5th Street, corner of 5th and Olive, catty corner from the HB Surf Museum, and right next door to the old brick Robert August Surfboard shop. Running that shop in the days leading up to its demise, was an ex fed named Benny Westbrook. Benny was a very dangerous man. The HB cops liked him though, and utilized him in their reign of terror on all left leaning free thinking nature lovers, like myself. I was just the poor guitar slob in the garage next door, but very outspoken, of course. Some things never change.
Benny surfed every morning with a big Cuban cigar in his maw, and dropped in on every wave, to the chagrin of those already in that wave. Corky Carroll, 5 time world champion surfer wrote a weekly column in the local rag and often wrote about both Benny and myself, by now known as the ‘crow guy’. Corky eventually did one of my songs on his album ‘Visions of Paradise’, song #10 called ‘Little bit o’ Rythym’- he paid me $100.00 to record the double rhythm guitar trax. I did both on the first take!
Anyway, Benny loved to sit in the surfboard shop and polish his true love- an AK-47. He would snort meth and just shine shine shine the day away. When finally told to move, he refused, so his landlord (Mike Ali, also my landlord) hired a bulldozer one day and when benny arrived to work the next morning, the building was gone! Folks, this shit is all true.
Well the other skinhead at my door saw Spike in a cage and flipped out. He said “I know that bird- he doesn’t want to be in there!” Hell, I agreed with that, and Spike was rarely in a cage for the rest of his life, but having an imprinted crow is like living with three 2 year olds. Sometimes you just needed a break. Champion told the dude to get lost and he left, never to return. Like the Robert August Surfboards building next door.
Benny and the Pets
Not long after Spike came to live at the ‘A’ frame, we got a visit from the first of a long parade of cops and skinheads, who in Huntington Beach are pretty much the same thing. We lived out back of 305 5th Street, corner of 5th and Olive, catty corner from the HB Surf Museum, and right next door to the old brick Robert August Surfboard shop. Running that shop in the days leading up to its demise, was an ex fed named Benny Westbrook. Benny was a very dangerous man. The HB cops liked him though, and utilized him in their reign of terror on all left leaning free thinking nature lovers, like myself. I was just the poor guitar slob in the garage next door, but very outspoken, of course. Some things never change.
Benny surfed every morning with a big Cuban cigar in his maw, and dropped in on every wave, to the chagrin of those already in that wave. Corky Carroll, 5 time world champion surfer wrote a weekly column in the local rag and often wrote about both Benny and myself, by now known as the ‘crow guy’. Corky eventually did one of my songs on his album ‘Visions of Paradise’, song #10 called ‘Little bit o’ Rythym’- he paid me $100.00 to record the double rhythm guitar trax. I did both on the first take!
Anyway, Benny loved to sit in the surfboard shop and polish his true love- an AK-47. He would snort meth and just shine shine shine the day away. When finally told to move, he refused, so his landlord (Mike Ali, also my landlord) hired a bulldozer one day and when benny arrived to work the next morning, the building was gone! Folks, this shit is all true.
Well the other skinhead at my door saw Spike in a cage and flipped out. He said “I know that bird- he doesn’t want to be in there!” Hell, I agreed with that, and Spike was rarely in a cage for the rest of his life, but having an imprinted crow is like living with three 2 year olds. Sometimes you just needed a break. Champion told the dude to get lost and he left, never to return. Like the Robert August Surfboards building next door.
The Author and 'Spike' on the cover of OC WEEKLY Magazine Sept. 1998
Chapter 3
Spike Gets Famous
Spike was a hand full. Spike was brilliant. Spike was a menace! As an artist, I spent a lot of time absorbed in large pen and ink drawings on an architect table, replete with bright lights and excruciating detail. It was hard to keep an eye on Spike 24/7. And all it took was a few moments of quiet before you would have to worry! Many times I would think I had a full pack of cigarettes (I quit 17 years ago) but when I went to have one, the pack would be empty! "Spiiiiiike!" I would yell, and he would say "Awhhh!" Knowing he was in trouble.
He just loved to take the smokes out, one by one, mash them into wads of tobacco mouth fulls, and stuff them into all available nooks and crannies in the floor, walls, chairs, even my back pockets. Then there was the clock. I had long since learned to keep a full water gun nearby. Spike once took my alarm clock and removed the holding nut. Then he removed the big hand, the little hand, the second hand, and by the time I caught on to what Mr. Trouble was doing, he had removed the clock face with the numbers on it!
"No!" I yelled. "Put it back!" At which he picked up the second hand and replaced it. "That's not right!" I shouted, and pointed the water gun. "Awwhh!" he answered, and removed the second hand, and instead put the clock face back on first, then the second hand. It was an amazing display of problem solving intelligence and reasoning cognizance. I never doubted the intelligence of a crow again.
Not long after came the phone call from Orange County Weekly Magazine, with the good news that I was to be the September 1998 cover story. "I want you to meet with the photographer", said then-editor, the brilliant Will Swaim. "I use Mark Savage." He was referring to the avante-guarde photographer known for his cutting edge use of lights and darks. We are all still in touch occasionally. Mark insisted I bring along the crow, and we all met at Bolsa Chica Wetland. The rest is history, and Spike became the most famous crow in Southern California.
OC Weekly Story, 'Our Pal Joey' by the late, great musician (Beat Farmers) and Critic from Syracuse, NY, Buddy Seigal
Spike Gets Famous
Spike was a hand full. Spike was brilliant. Spike was a menace! As an artist, I spent a lot of time absorbed in large pen and ink drawings on an architect table, replete with bright lights and excruciating detail. It was hard to keep an eye on Spike 24/7. And all it took was a few moments of quiet before you would have to worry! Many times I would think I had a full pack of cigarettes (I quit 17 years ago) but when I went to have one, the pack would be empty! "Spiiiiiike!" I would yell, and he would say "Awhhh!" Knowing he was in trouble.
He just loved to take the smokes out, one by one, mash them into wads of tobacco mouth fulls, and stuff them into all available nooks and crannies in the floor, walls, chairs, even my back pockets. Then there was the clock. I had long since learned to keep a full water gun nearby. Spike once took my alarm clock and removed the holding nut. Then he removed the big hand, the little hand, the second hand, and by the time I caught on to what Mr. Trouble was doing, he had removed the clock face with the numbers on it!
"No!" I yelled. "Put it back!" At which he picked up the second hand and replaced it. "That's not right!" I shouted, and pointed the water gun. "Awwhh!" he answered, and removed the second hand, and instead put the clock face back on first, then the second hand. It was an amazing display of problem solving intelligence and reasoning cognizance. I never doubted the intelligence of a crow again.
Not long after came the phone call from Orange County Weekly Magazine, with the good news that I was to be the September 1998 cover story. "I want you to meet with the photographer", said then-editor, the brilliant Will Swaim. "I use Mark Savage." He was referring to the avante-guarde photographer known for his cutting edge use of lights and darks. We are all still in touch occasionally. Mark insisted I bring along the crow, and we all met at Bolsa Chica Wetland. The rest is history, and Spike became the most famous crow in Southern California.
OC Weekly Story, 'Our Pal Joey' by the late, great musician (Beat Farmers) and Critic from Syracuse, NY, Buddy Seigal
Joey selling guitars on Main Street circa 1994
Chapter 5
A Place Among the Crows
As the giant stump from heck was dangling from the tall crane just a few feet off the floor, I spun it -several tons- with one hand to get the nicest part of the burl facing outward. "Wait a minute", I said, and lodged a big rock beneath before giving the all-clear to set 'er down. This created a cave where animals could hide in perpetuity.
The crane crew detached their steel cable, and began the slow trek in reverse, job well done. Meanwhile, tweaker Mark came in the 'A'-frame to meet Spike. He wasn't disappointed, as Spike was very gregarious and loved meeting people. As a tree trimmer and cutter, Mark often dealt with crows and whatever else nested in the trees.
An alumni of Susan Doggett's Migratory Birds 1 and 2, I knew trees were to be left alone until after nesting season, but business people don't care about stuff like that. So even though all birds in America are protected under the Migratory Species Act (except English House Sparrows and European Starlings), many crows and birds of prey were often orphaned when their nests are destroyed by trimmers.
Mark asked if I'd be willing to help raise any orphans, but I didn't answer, for fear of encouraging such destruction. Then he left -for the time being.
In the meantime, I landed a job playing and selling vintage guitars at a small shop on Main Street called 'The Closet'. (see photo) Across the street, there was a newspaper stand set up in a hotel lobby, both businesses owned by a dingaling named Jinx. Why was he a dingaling? Because he was the type to tell little white lies. But not innocent harmless white lies- these were white lies that came back to haunt other people, like me, for instance.
His girlfriend was a red haired Texan who wore tight, dirty jeans. One day, we were talking about music (I rehearsed right next door to their place, also on the 5th street alley) and he said in passing that Bonnie Raitt was his girlfriends mother! Who was I to doubt it, right? Fast forward to September 21st 1996, and I was asked to open for Bonnie at a concert for the Bolsa Chica and the State Beach of that name.
While backstage with Bonnie, I mentioned that I knew her 'daughter'. Bonnie was furious! It was a few years before I got the chance to confront the guy. But just imagine- one chance in your life to hang out with your idol, and you stick a reproductive organ in your own mouth. Sheesh!
Anyway, across the street in the hotel lobby, worked an interesting young man named Paul, selling papers and cigarettes and such. We became good friends. One day, he was shuffling around in a drawer for a pack of smokes for me (I quit the dirty habit 17 years ago), when I noticed the drawer was filled with colorful, whimsical leather craft, like blue and yellow wallets, etc. "Wow!", I said. "Nice stuff- where'd you get that?"
"I made it" came the answer.
"Naw!" said I.
"Yup" said Paul. Turned out this guy would soon become the world famous artist Paul Frank! You may remember the trademark monkey on his creations? I mean, Paris, London, New York- the dude went super-big time! And he was such a nice guy too. I was glad for him- until the business world eventually stripped him of everything, including the right to use his own name on artworks! Seems he signed on the dotted line once upon a time and sold his life away. Shame.
Well, it wasn't too very long before a white pickup truck showed up early one morning at my door. 'My door' was two huge barn doors facing the alleyway. It was a guy who said "Mark sent me. He has a crows nest and they are taking it out of a very tall palm. I think there's a crow in it- do you want to save it?"
"Hell yes!" said I, and I grabbed a carrying kennel, threw it in the back, and jumped into the passengers seat. Wheels screeching, we sped off to a big adventure.
Chapter 5
A Place Among the Crows
As the giant stump from heck was dangling from the tall crane just a few feet off the floor, I spun it -several tons- with one hand to get the nicest part of the burl facing outward. "Wait a minute", I said, and lodged a big rock beneath before giving the all-clear to set 'er down. This created a cave where animals could hide in perpetuity.
The crane crew detached their steel cable, and began the slow trek in reverse, job well done. Meanwhile, tweaker Mark came in the 'A'-frame to meet Spike. He wasn't disappointed, as Spike was very gregarious and loved meeting people. As a tree trimmer and cutter, Mark often dealt with crows and whatever else nested in the trees.
An alumni of Susan Doggett's Migratory Birds 1 and 2, I knew trees were to be left alone until after nesting season, but business people don't care about stuff like that. So even though all birds in America are protected under the Migratory Species Act (except English House Sparrows and European Starlings), many crows and birds of prey were often orphaned when their nests are destroyed by trimmers.
Mark asked if I'd be willing to help raise any orphans, but I didn't answer, for fear of encouraging such destruction. Then he left -for the time being.
In the meantime, I landed a job playing and selling vintage guitars at a small shop on Main Street called 'The Closet'. (see photo) Across the street, there was a newspaper stand set up in a hotel lobby, both businesses owned by a dingaling named Jinx. Why was he a dingaling? Because he was the type to tell little white lies. But not innocent harmless white lies- these were white lies that came back to haunt other people, like me, for instance.
His girlfriend was a red haired Texan who wore tight, dirty jeans. One day, we were talking about music (I rehearsed right next door to their place, also on the 5th street alley) and he said in passing that Bonnie Raitt was his girlfriends mother! Who was I to doubt it, right? Fast forward to September 21st 1996, and I was asked to open for Bonnie at a concert for the Bolsa Chica and the State Beach of that name.
While backstage with Bonnie, I mentioned that I knew her 'daughter'. Bonnie was furious! It was a few years before I got the chance to confront the guy. But just imagine- one chance in your life to hang out with your idol, and you stick a reproductive organ in your own mouth. Sheesh!
Anyway, across the street in the hotel lobby, worked an interesting young man named Paul, selling papers and cigarettes and such. We became good friends. One day, he was shuffling around in a drawer for a pack of smokes for me (I quit the dirty habit 17 years ago), when I noticed the drawer was filled with colorful, whimsical leather craft, like blue and yellow wallets, etc. "Wow!", I said. "Nice stuff- where'd you get that?"
"I made it" came the answer.
"Naw!" said I.
"Yup" said Paul. Turned out this guy would soon become the world famous artist Paul Frank! You may remember the trademark monkey on his creations? I mean, Paris, London, New York- the dude went super-big time! And he was such a nice guy too. I was glad for him- until the business world eventually stripped him of everything, including the right to use his own name on artworks! Seems he signed on the dotted line once upon a time and sold his life away. Shame.
Well, it wasn't too very long before a white pickup truck showed up early one morning at my door. 'My door' was two huge barn doors facing the alleyway. It was a guy who said "Mark sent me. He has a crows nest and they are taking it out of a very tall palm. I think there's a crow in it- do you want to save it?"
"Hell yes!" said I, and I grabbed a carrying kennel, threw it in the back, and jumped into the passengers seat. Wheels screeching, we sped off to a big adventure.
Not my fingernails
Chapter Six
Very Superstitious
On Main Street a bit further out of town, was an Asian restaurant and next door, an Asian nail place. The restaurant had two huge tanks in the middle of the dining area filled with Main Lobsters. Now, I am nothing if not annoying, and every day I would go by the door of that place and say, to no one in particular, “Let the lobsters g-o-o-o-o!”
These folks weren’t doing well financially, and were likely Buddhists. So one day as I went by on my red Schwinn, the lady laid a ten dollar bill on the floor and looked the other way. My guess was she was trying to appease Buddha. Not one to disappoint, I scooped it up and kept on riding. She smiled with relief. Soon thereafter, all the lobster tanks were gone! I’m not sure it helped their business, but it certainly helped those lobsters! The people in the nail salon next door were equally superstitious and perhaps were the same family. Enter Spike. And I do mean enter!
I brought Spike to lunch one sunny afternoon at a café across busy Main Street, where I sat at an outside table and Spike sat crowing on the bicycle basket nearby. It is important here to note that although I had in the past lived with parrots, conures, doves, pigeons and crows, never did I clip anybody’s wings. And this sometimes caused that clash of ideology between the rules of man and nature. And such was the case this day. Busy reading the Orange County Register (which in those days quite often carried outlandish stories about your favorite activist and mine), and eating my meal, I had failed to notice how quiet Spike was being. And when I looked up to check on him, he was gone!
Tense moments went by as I looked around 360 degrees, head on a swivel as it were, calling his name. I used what the soldiers in Vietnam called my ‘thousand-yard vision’, and scanned the horizon in all directions. With no sign of my boy, I strained my eyes to pick out anything that might be out of the ordinary. And a few minutes later, heard shouts and screams coming from the nail salon across the street! Mixed in were Spikes distinct distress call and I jumped up from the table and headed across the busy intersection.
“Get out!” came the cry in broken English. “Out!”
There he was, my Spike Lee-Roy being swept unceremoniously out of the door of the nail salon with an old straw broom! I immediately realized his danger. Having a crow walk into your place of business for these superstitious folks, was akin to Satan showing up at a Christian day care. “Out!” she yelled, sweeping like Tiger Woods swings a wooden driver golf club. As I so often did with my crows, I held out my forearm and said, “Awh! Awh!”, and Spike flew in like a Red Tail, landing on my arm and telling me all about it. The lady with the broom now was probably certain I was Buddha and hurriedly closed the front door.
“You see, Spike, you see?” I scolded. “You have to watch out for people!”
“Aww” he cooed.
And it was so true. 99% of the time, people mean death to a crow. That is why wildlife rehabilitators wear condor socks on their hands when it’s feeding time- the worst thing in the world for animals is when they like people. This trust is called being ‘imprinted’, and it usually gets them killed.
Very Superstitious
On Main Street a bit further out of town, was an Asian restaurant and next door, an Asian nail place. The restaurant had two huge tanks in the middle of the dining area filled with Main Lobsters. Now, I am nothing if not annoying, and every day I would go by the door of that place and say, to no one in particular, “Let the lobsters g-o-o-o-o!”
These folks weren’t doing well financially, and were likely Buddhists. So one day as I went by on my red Schwinn, the lady laid a ten dollar bill on the floor and looked the other way. My guess was she was trying to appease Buddha. Not one to disappoint, I scooped it up and kept on riding. She smiled with relief. Soon thereafter, all the lobster tanks were gone! I’m not sure it helped their business, but it certainly helped those lobsters! The people in the nail salon next door were equally superstitious and perhaps were the same family. Enter Spike. And I do mean enter!
I brought Spike to lunch one sunny afternoon at a café across busy Main Street, where I sat at an outside table and Spike sat crowing on the bicycle basket nearby. It is important here to note that although I had in the past lived with parrots, conures, doves, pigeons and crows, never did I clip anybody’s wings. And this sometimes caused that clash of ideology between the rules of man and nature. And such was the case this day. Busy reading the Orange County Register (which in those days quite often carried outlandish stories about your favorite activist and mine), and eating my meal, I had failed to notice how quiet Spike was being. And when I looked up to check on him, he was gone!
Tense moments went by as I looked around 360 degrees, head on a swivel as it were, calling his name. I used what the soldiers in Vietnam called my ‘thousand-yard vision’, and scanned the horizon in all directions. With no sign of my boy, I strained my eyes to pick out anything that might be out of the ordinary. And a few minutes later, heard shouts and screams coming from the nail salon across the street! Mixed in were Spikes distinct distress call and I jumped up from the table and headed across the busy intersection.
“Get out!” came the cry in broken English. “Out!”
There he was, my Spike Lee-Roy being swept unceremoniously out of the door of the nail salon with an old straw broom! I immediately realized his danger. Having a crow walk into your place of business for these superstitious folks, was akin to Satan showing up at a Christian day care. “Out!” she yelled, sweeping like Tiger Woods swings a wooden driver golf club. As I so often did with my crows, I held out my forearm and said, “Awh! Awh!”, and Spike flew in like a Red Tail, landing on my arm and telling me all about it. The lady with the broom now was probably certain I was Buddha and hurriedly closed the front door.
“You see, Spike, you see?” I scolded. “You have to watch out for people!”
“Aww” he cooed.
And it was so true. 99% of the time, people mean death to a crow. That is why wildlife rehabilitators wear condor socks on their hands when it’s feeding time- the worst thing in the world for animals is when they like people. This trust is called being ‘imprinted’, and it usually gets them killed.
Chapter Seven
The Great Champion
Every wildlife rehabber has to know his limits. I found mine the hard way. People in the neighborhood got wind of my affinity with animals, and soon I would come home almost daily to boxes at my front door. These boxes always said ‘Joey’ on the front, and always carried some poor creature or other. Once, I opened a box to find an entire clutch of tiny baby finches, buzzing ‘round the nest but always sticking close to it. I’m sure they were looking for their mama, and she for them as well. It didn’t take a genius to figure out some idiot had cut down a tree, figuring that ‘Joey will take care of this’.
But they underestimated how much work that was! At that age, these chicks were doomed. And then there was the bitch across the way who brought me a bird with a broken wing. “Oh, my cat brought this bird home, can you please help him?” Now folks, I want to be clear about this: I don’t hate cats- but I do hate people that let their cats roam outdoors. They kill everything that catches their eye. Cats did not evolve in this environment and so none of the animals ever developed a defense against them. Cats belong indoors at all times- period.
Cats kill rodents, yes it’s true. But did you know that falcons such as the American Kestrel get something from mouse bones they need to survive and can’t get anywhere else? When your cat kills outdoor mice, you deprive the falcon, and the snake, and the owl, and whomever else needs to eat that varmint! Cats kill an estimated 3 billion song birds a year! And they kill lizards, snakes, insects, butterflies, frogs, rabbits and gophers. Gophers make holes in the ground, which allows water to run in and get filtered. To lose the animals that make holes is to simplify our natural water filtration system. Cats wipe out ecosystems. If you’re a cat lover and you’re ok with all that, then I say please go play in traffic.
This same lady brought me a second injured bird a week later and I turned her down. I felt bad, but she had to face her responsibility. Well at one point, there were 20 cages in my ‘A’-frame garage, and they were all full! It was draining the life out of me. Then at one point, I would accept that one bird too many and almost instantly, they would all die. That’s how I found my limit. I eventually wound up running the Huntington Beach Wetlands and Wildlife Care Center, a 5-million dollar facility paid for by the American Trader oil spill. That's where I met raptor expert Susan Doggett and took her Migratory Species classes- but that's another story for another time.
Back to the tweakers. Tweakers weren't always bad. They just think they are going fast, but they are really going very slow. Meth makes you very distracted (as well as psychotic) and you wind up doing a zillion things that didn't really need doing. I had a tweaker girlfriend who taught me the ropes back in Berkeley. She kept a fishing tackle box full of shiny beads. She would spend all night arranging them just so! When everything was perfect, she would simply dump it all out and start over! Never, ever do meth, people.
One day yet another tweaker was walking down the alley with a surfer girl and a puppy on a leash. Instead of passing me by, they came right over and said, “Joey, we know you help animals, and we need to find a home for this dog- can you help?”
At the time, my dog Misty was 10-years old, one eyed and very gray. She had been my wife daughter and mother for all those years, but I knew we needed a male for her to train. Misty was amazingly well trained as I am good with dogs. And it is easier to have a dog you have already trained help you train a dog than it is to train another dog from scratch. I looked at the underside, and yes- he was a male. I saw the ring on the tail and knew he was part German Shepherd. “What comes with him?” I asked.
They almost fell all over themselves, giving me bowls and food and such! They said they would be right back with all that stuff, but I stopped them as they tried to walk away with the puppy. Unbeknownst to them –or to the puppy- that dog was now my son, and for the next 16 years we would rarely be separated. I named him Champion, after a Shepherd my wayward father had when I once visited his home as a boy. And Champion, half Shepherd and half police Malinois, grew to be the best trained, smartest, -and I can’t emphasize this enough- the most hella fucking dangerous dog who ever lived.
He lays buried out back under a willow tree now at my home in Central California, next to his wife-dog ‘Tree’. Man, was he ever something! Champion became the protector of all things crow. He fought off hawks, and, yes- cats, too. And even a few Huntington Beach skinheads. But as the years went by, my crows stuck to that dog like glue! They sat underneath him on the corner of Main and Olive when I went into starbucks for coffee. People were always amazed. Soon, Champion would have a new charge- Thor!
Good boy, Champion. Good boy.
The Great Champion
Every wildlife rehabber has to know his limits. I found mine the hard way. People in the neighborhood got wind of my affinity with animals, and soon I would come home almost daily to boxes at my front door. These boxes always said ‘Joey’ on the front, and always carried some poor creature or other. Once, I opened a box to find an entire clutch of tiny baby finches, buzzing ‘round the nest but always sticking close to it. I’m sure they were looking for their mama, and she for them as well. It didn’t take a genius to figure out some idiot had cut down a tree, figuring that ‘Joey will take care of this’.
But they underestimated how much work that was! At that age, these chicks were doomed. And then there was the bitch across the way who brought me a bird with a broken wing. “Oh, my cat brought this bird home, can you please help him?” Now folks, I want to be clear about this: I don’t hate cats- but I do hate people that let their cats roam outdoors. They kill everything that catches their eye. Cats did not evolve in this environment and so none of the animals ever developed a defense against them. Cats belong indoors at all times- period.
Cats kill rodents, yes it’s true. But did you know that falcons such as the American Kestrel get something from mouse bones they need to survive and can’t get anywhere else? When your cat kills outdoor mice, you deprive the falcon, and the snake, and the owl, and whomever else needs to eat that varmint! Cats kill an estimated 3 billion song birds a year! And they kill lizards, snakes, insects, butterflies, frogs, rabbits and gophers. Gophers make holes in the ground, which allows water to run in and get filtered. To lose the animals that make holes is to simplify our natural water filtration system. Cats wipe out ecosystems. If you’re a cat lover and you’re ok with all that, then I say please go play in traffic.
This same lady brought me a second injured bird a week later and I turned her down. I felt bad, but she had to face her responsibility. Well at one point, there were 20 cages in my ‘A’-frame garage, and they were all full! It was draining the life out of me. Then at one point, I would accept that one bird too many and almost instantly, they would all die. That’s how I found my limit. I eventually wound up running the Huntington Beach Wetlands and Wildlife Care Center, a 5-million dollar facility paid for by the American Trader oil spill. That's where I met raptor expert Susan Doggett and took her Migratory Species classes- but that's another story for another time.
Back to the tweakers. Tweakers weren't always bad. They just think they are going fast, but they are really going very slow. Meth makes you very distracted (as well as psychotic) and you wind up doing a zillion things that didn't really need doing. I had a tweaker girlfriend who taught me the ropes back in Berkeley. She kept a fishing tackle box full of shiny beads. She would spend all night arranging them just so! When everything was perfect, she would simply dump it all out and start over! Never, ever do meth, people.
One day yet another tweaker was walking down the alley with a surfer girl and a puppy on a leash. Instead of passing me by, they came right over and said, “Joey, we know you help animals, and we need to find a home for this dog- can you help?”
At the time, my dog Misty was 10-years old, one eyed and very gray. She had been my wife daughter and mother for all those years, but I knew we needed a male for her to train. Misty was amazingly well trained as I am good with dogs. And it is easier to have a dog you have already trained help you train a dog than it is to train another dog from scratch. I looked at the underside, and yes- he was a male. I saw the ring on the tail and knew he was part German Shepherd. “What comes with him?” I asked.
They almost fell all over themselves, giving me bowls and food and such! They said they would be right back with all that stuff, but I stopped them as they tried to walk away with the puppy. Unbeknownst to them –or to the puppy- that dog was now my son, and for the next 16 years we would rarely be separated. I named him Champion, after a Shepherd my wayward father had when I once visited his home as a boy. And Champion, half Shepherd and half police Malinois, grew to be the best trained, smartest, -and I can’t emphasize this enough- the most hella fucking dangerous dog who ever lived.
He lays buried out back under a willow tree now at my home in Central California, next to his wife-dog ‘Tree’. Man, was he ever something! Champion became the protector of all things crow. He fought off hawks, and, yes- cats, too. And even a few Huntington Beach skinheads. But as the years went by, my crows stuck to that dog like glue! They sat underneath him on the corner of Main and Olive when I went into starbucks for coffee. People were always amazed. Soon, Champion would have a new charge- Thor!
Good boy, Champion. Good boy.
Chapter Eight
A Crow Named Thor
The tires screeched on the white pickup as we sped through the streets of Huntington Beach on a crow rescue mission. At Lake Street, we made a sharp left and a few blocks later arrived at the exact spot where I first saw the giant stump. Palm fronds were everywhere around a cluster of extremely tall Royal Palms. Those trees are the tall, thin variety, that seem to wind into the clouds and crows just love to nest in them. Why these bozos were trimming instead of waiting another two weeks was beyond me, except for money being the driving force behind everything in Orange County. I simply had no say in the matter, for fear they wouldn’t call me next time. At first I thought I would be brought to the tree top, but Tweaker Mark brought the nest down to me, instead. And what a nest!
If you’ve never seen a crow nest, it is absolutely dinosaurian. It reminded me of Osprey nests I had seen in Florida, made with very large twigs. “Here ya go!” said Mark, handing me a nest about 10 inches across, surprisingly heavy, and containing a very large, plump, frightened baby crow. I could tell his age from pin feathers and a bare belly. He was the most amazing thing I had ever seen, like a vulture or a Pteradactyl.
“That’s all” I asked, “only one?”
“Just one” answered Mark. Not wanting to expose the bird to any more trauma than he already had, I whisked him into the carrier and covered it with a tee shirt. The pickup driver left us off back at the ‘A’-frame, and Misty and Champ met us at the door. I quickly sat the carrier in the double deep sink and took off to the supermarket, Champion running next to the bike like a gazelle. “Stay” I told Champ, and went into the store for high protein baby formula, in the blue box.
When I emerged, Champ stood like a gryphon next to a Schwinn that absolutely nobody was ever gonna steal. A single, sharp snap of my fingers released the guard, and we lit out for home, pell-mell. I pulled out a spare syringe and ran the water ‘till hot. People often refused to sell me syringes, taking it for granted I was a heroin junkie. Fuck them.
I mixed up the batch of formula to the consistency of pudding, and waited for it to cool. I removed the tee shirt and opened the carrier. The crow was sound asleep. I wouldn’t wake him to feed. I set the light from my architect drafting table a foot and a half above the carrier, and turned it on- instant heat. A few moments later, the baby was stirring, and I stood in front of him, syringe in hand. I tried letting him smell the food, but got no reaction. I decided to wait a while longer, until he was good and hungry.
I heard him rustling again about a half hour later and again stood in front of him with the syringe at the ready. No response from the plump black crow. So I walked around the floor, brainstorming. That is when I decided, if you want to be a crow, you have to act like one. I stretched my arms out wide, zoomed in and touched the side of the carrier lightly. The mama crow had landed. Then I went with my instincts. “Aggh aggh”, I grunted. Then louder- “Aggh!”
His head popped straight up in the air, neck stretched to the limit, beak wide open! It looked like a wishing well down that maw! I squirted a small portion down his throat and he gobbled it down with a sound something like, “Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa!”
And another squirt, “Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa!”
From that moment on, I was mama and I never had trouble feeding crows again. Once, when I was at the Wetlands Center, the volunteers were grabbing the baby crows and force-feeding them. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted. “Here, gimme that!”
Six crows sat in a heated tank all huddled and sleeping. “Aggh!” I said loudly, and all six heads shot up, necks craning, mouths agape! The look on those volunteers faces was priceless. From then on, all the volunteers were acting more crowy every day and I think a few may have actually flew away to become crows themselves!
Back at the ‘A’-frame, after a few hours Spike wanted to help feed Thor. So he sat on the edge of the carrier whenever it was feeding time. I said, “Spike, we have to feed the baby! Spike, feed the baby!” Spike bent down, picked the syringe up and dropped it! “Awh” he cooed.
Good boy Spike-Lee! Good boy!
Art by: Terrie Yeatts
Chapter Nine
The Crow Bond
Raising a baby crow as one of your own teaches you to get in touch with your mama bird inside. Emotions run high and sometimes it makes you a nervous wreck. After all, when you’re not around, and anytime they are out of your sight, anything can and sometimes does happen. When you drive down the street during pupping season, you can see the babies flat in the road quite often.
When the babies leave the nest, that’s when the real danger begins, and the death rate for crows fresh out of the nest is something like 90%. It’s just awful. Imagine gliding to the floor for the first time and finding out too late you have landed in the street, where you can’t be because of the human habit of driving 3 ton metal speeding hulks. Baby crow is no match!
A mother crow knows that there are several important lessons that must be learned and learned quickly if her offspring is to have a chance for survival. Cars are numero uno. Mother will fly into the road and beckon the baby to join her. When she sees a car approaching, she flies out of harms way.
The baby sits there oblivious. So mama will wait ‘till the last second and then dart in to attack the baby causing it to fly away. She repeats this over and over until the baby makes the connection between the speeding cars and danger. Crows who don’t learn this lesson may by chance survive a while, but they do not live long.
The next crow danger is cats, and of course, dogs and people too. So mother will sit in a tree and raise a ruckus when she sees a cat and it doesn’t take long for the babies to catch on. It comes natural to them and they really do enjoy pestering every one and every thing from above. You will likely experience this yourself today. The final crow peril is the transformers on telephone poles.
There is a particular spot on some poles where the wires from the left and right come close enough together for a crow to complete the arc when he opens his wings to fly. This happens very often to large birds and the results are not pretty.
Imagine what these birds are up against! They have to get the concept of a car, and even of electricity for Christmas sake! It is astounding that they eventually do get it at all. They are just that brilliant. When a crow finds himself atop a pole with a transformer, he will quickly be surrounded by his family, which is usually about 15 crows. They will then give their distinct danger call, unlike any of their other numerous vocalizations.
They will caw in complete unison! Caw, caw, caw, caw. Caw, caw, caw, caw. It is very rhythmic, and designed to get somebody’s attention. Sometimes the crow gets it and sometimes he doesn’t. If the crow gets electrocuted, all the crows in the area will bring their fledglings to the pole to see. With the dead crow laying there, they will do the slow, rhythmic chant.
While we were raising Thor, we often saved other babies who found themselves in dire straights, and the mother crows caught on to what I was doing quickly, and loved me for it. It is always best to return a crow to its nest –if possible. But those nests are usually too high to reach. It is also better for the mother to take care of the baby than for you to do it- she’s just better than you!
Once, I took in a baby Champion found in the alley, and put it in a cage. In the morning, I took the bird outside and showed it to the crows, who went bonkers. Until, that is, I used a 28 foot painter’s ladder to reach Jinxe the white liar’s roof next door, and left the crow up there for his mama. I watched one of the crows fly off the wire and land next to the cage. The baby opened his mouth and shook his wings with a rapid, ‘feed me, feed me, feed me!’
Through the cage bars, she stuffed his hungry mouth with food, and flew off to get more. This went on for days with the cage being brought indoors at night, and placed back up on the rooftop each morning. When I felt the baby was ready to fly, I opened up the cage door and watched teary eyed at the mother child reunion. The baby shook her wings begging for food, but mama simply flew to the wire, where other crows sat waiting.
A few minutes later, the baby joined her on that wire! Dammit, I have to tell you that I liked myself a lot that day. I was very proud to prove that humans aren’t a bad species. In fact, we’re pretty fucking awesome. Mama bird became a life-long friend of mine, and she eventually came to me when she was dying.
She died of mites, and unfortunately, my taking her in was what wound up killing Spike, September 1999. But for now, there were many crow adventures still ahead of us. Like the time we rescued another baby only to have somebody catch it and put it in a cage, so we had to rescue it all over again. And the reason we were able to was a the crow bond.
The Great Champion at Grand Canyon
Chapter Ten
Bird on a Wire
The Crow Bond came in handy on another occasion with a different baby crow. This one was found having trouble flying and was taking longer to learn than expected. Her mother was outside raising a racket in the alley and I knew she must be screeching with concern over a baby somewhere nearby. The peril was obvious- a large cat. “Come on Champ!” said I, and we snapped into action.
Mama cawed at us all the way home, but fell interestingly silent as soon as her baby was safely inside the ‘A’-frame with us. After a few days, she was flying all over the garage and the time had come for her release. I swung open the big double doors and our pack made the short trip to a small open field on the next corner. I did a lot of urban releases there.
I tossed the baby as high as I could into a slight breeze, and she took off like a fledgling. She was last seen headed toward Huntington State Beach surrounded by a small cheering section of crows. As was our custom, Champion and I set out a few hours later to canvass the neighborhood and check up on the little buzzard, just in case. Up and down the alleys and streets we zoomed, I on the red Schwinn, Champion bounding at my side.
We crossed busy freeways with ease, no leash required. Champion (and later, his wife, Tree), was keenly attuned to the movements of the bike. When it stopped, he stopped, when it went, he went. It was a matter of survival in the city.
I always said, ‘a city dog can survive in the country, but a country dog will die in the city.’ Champion was an urban warrior, and probably unwanted by police for being a half-breed, and unwanted by tweaker surfer girls for a bad propensity to bite faces too near to his. He had his rules, and all was well so long as you understood –and listened to them.
So here we were, smack in the middle of busy Beach Boulevard at rush hour! When there was a break in traffic, I rode onto the thin median in the center of the highway and stopped short. Traffic was very threatening in front of us, and now closed up behind us as well. But Champion stopped on the dime, exactly when the bike did, and we stood as an enigma, in the relative safety of the center highway median.
This was all much to the chagrin of people in passing cars, mouths agape, looks of horror on their faces. I would just shake my head. They couldn’t conceive of this level of cooperation between man and canine. And believe me, the Huntington Beach Police would come to resent it in a big way, often jailing me, while Champion sat at the spot of arrest for two days or more (one time it was six days!) until my release when I would go get him.
And there he would sit, right where he was when they absconded with me. Of course, many of those cops adored that dog, and one guy named Jimenez, even refused to take me in on a warrant once for fear of what would become of Champion. Thank you, Officer- you’re a real cop.
Back to the alleyways, we strained our ears, both Champ and I for anything out of the ordinary. No news was always good news. Soon, we heard what we were listening for, the distant call of the crow.
Bird on a Wire
The Crow Bond came in handy on another occasion with a different baby crow. This one was found having trouble flying and was taking longer to learn than expected. Her mother was outside raising a racket in the alley and I knew she must be screeching with concern over a baby somewhere nearby. The peril was obvious- a large cat. “Come on Champ!” said I, and we snapped into action.
Mama cawed at us all the way home, but fell interestingly silent as soon as her baby was safely inside the ‘A’-frame with us. After a few days, she was flying all over the garage and the time had come for her release. I swung open the big double doors and our pack made the short trip to a small open field on the next corner. I did a lot of urban releases there.
I tossed the baby as high as I could into a slight breeze, and she took off like a fledgling. She was last seen headed toward Huntington State Beach surrounded by a small cheering section of crows. As was our custom, Champion and I set out a few hours later to canvass the neighborhood and check up on the little buzzard, just in case. Up and down the alleys and streets we zoomed, I on the red Schwinn, Champion bounding at my side.
We crossed busy freeways with ease, no leash required. Champion (and later, his wife, Tree), was keenly attuned to the movements of the bike. When it stopped, he stopped, when it went, he went. It was a matter of survival in the city.
I always said, ‘a city dog can survive in the country, but a country dog will die in the city.’ Champion was an urban warrior, and probably unwanted by police for being a half-breed, and unwanted by tweaker surfer girls for a bad propensity to bite faces too near to his. He had his rules, and all was well so long as you understood –and listened to them.
So here we were, smack in the middle of busy Beach Boulevard at rush hour! When there was a break in traffic, I rode onto the thin median in the center of the highway and stopped short. Traffic was very threatening in front of us, and now closed up behind us as well. But Champion stopped on the dime, exactly when the bike did, and we stood as an enigma, in the relative safety of the center highway median.
This was all much to the chagrin of people in passing cars, mouths agape, looks of horror on their faces. I would just shake my head. They couldn’t conceive of this level of cooperation between man and canine. And believe me, the Huntington Beach Police would come to resent it in a big way, often jailing me, while Champion sat at the spot of arrest for two days or more (one time it was six days!) until my release when I would go get him.
And there he would sit, right where he was when they absconded with me. Of course, many of those cops adored that dog, and one guy named Jimenez, even refused to take me in on a warrant once for fear of what would become of Champion. Thank you, Officer- you’re a real cop.
Back to the alleyways, we strained our ears, both Champ and I for anything out of the ordinary. No news was always good news. Soon, we heard what we were listening for, the distant call of the crow.
Chapter Eleven
Distant Call of the Crow
Caw! Caw! Caw! Came the distant call, as we sped through the alleys zeroing in on the sound. Finally we spotted her, sitting on a wire cawing toward a balcony above. When our bicycle was directly below her, I asked “What is it mama? Is your baby alright?”
And no, it obviously wasn’t alright. “Hello?” I hollered out to the balcony, “Hello up there!”
I did this several times, my booming voice getting progressively louder. And I have a loud voice. Finally, with me and mama both yelling, a man’s head appeared over the wall. He looked at the crow and then down at me. “Can I help you?” asked the man.
“Do you have a baby crow up there” I asked.
“Yeah, I caught it in a cage for my son” he said.
“Well can you please let him go? I just rehabilitated him and released him, and this is his mother.”
“Hold on a minute” the man said.
As I waited, the mother crow continued her verbal onslaught. This is when a red sports car pulled in and parked. A young Orange County Princess and her mother got out of the car and were headed into the condo, with their eyes on the yapping crow above them. “Can’t we kill it?” said the young girl, sincerely.
Now, I hate to hate, but I knew right away I wanted this girl to burn in hell as soon as possible. I looked at her mother and asked “Her baby is in a cage up there- how would you feel?”
The two of them held each other’s arms fearfully and walked briskly toward the brick building. “Nasty people!” I submitted. Moments later, the baby flew out to join his mother and it was pretty awesome. One nightmare down, one to go- the two flew from that place toward Pacific Coast Highway, Champion and I in escort below.
Near Java Jungle Coffee House, the baby tired and landed on the tip of a lonesome, wireless telephone pole. He sat there resting until the sun got low in the sky.
Mama and I both knew he wouldn’t survive the night up there because of owls. Owls are nature's main population control of the crow. That’s why you sometimes see an owl being chased around in the daytime by a cacophonous murder of crows.
The sky was heavy with Orange County air pollution and there was little wonder why. Nearby, Highway One was mobbed with three or four lanes of traffic, rushing in both directions, the noise and motion never ending. Across that highway, stood a long row of incredibly tall Royal Palms, arching toward the sky for a long stretch of beach. Mama would now have to teach that baby how to cross that highway of death.
With about a half dozen crows taking turns, a crow would land on the pole next to the baby, and take off into the shoreline breeze, angling higher and higher to attain the escape velocity it would take to clear the highway and all of its traffic hazard, and climb up into the palms across the street. The baby stood and watched until dusk, and so did we. When the dark finally closed in on us, Champion and I left the sleeping baby high atop the lonely pole.
At first light, we once again sped down to the rear parking lot at Java Jungle on PCH (Pacific Coast Highway, Highway One, all the same thing). The baby was still there! Her parents were right back at it, but so too, was the early morning traffic. After all, this was a big-time surfing town, and the break of dawn also means breaking surf. It was still very dangerous to attempt the flight.
Then, at around 9:00 a.m., it happened; the young crow spread her wings, and allowed herself to fall, not unlike an Olympic high-diver. Her broad wings caught the updraft and it lifted her up and over the highway! With the other crows flying all around, our baby made it to the lowest frond on the lowest tree, and scrambled like a rock climber, eventually making it into the safety of that palm. It was the end of a harrowing ordeal, and she made it into the treetop by the smallest possible margin. We were all glad it was over.
Distant Call of the Crow
Caw! Caw! Caw! Came the distant call, as we sped through the alleys zeroing in on the sound. Finally we spotted her, sitting on a wire cawing toward a balcony above. When our bicycle was directly below her, I asked “What is it mama? Is your baby alright?”
And no, it obviously wasn’t alright. “Hello?” I hollered out to the balcony, “Hello up there!”
I did this several times, my booming voice getting progressively louder. And I have a loud voice. Finally, with me and mama both yelling, a man’s head appeared over the wall. He looked at the crow and then down at me. “Can I help you?” asked the man.
“Do you have a baby crow up there” I asked.
“Yeah, I caught it in a cage for my son” he said.
“Well can you please let him go? I just rehabilitated him and released him, and this is his mother.”
“Hold on a minute” the man said.
As I waited, the mother crow continued her verbal onslaught. This is when a red sports car pulled in and parked. A young Orange County Princess and her mother got out of the car and were headed into the condo, with their eyes on the yapping crow above them. “Can’t we kill it?” said the young girl, sincerely.
Now, I hate to hate, but I knew right away I wanted this girl to burn in hell as soon as possible. I looked at her mother and asked “Her baby is in a cage up there- how would you feel?”
The two of them held each other’s arms fearfully and walked briskly toward the brick building. “Nasty people!” I submitted. Moments later, the baby flew out to join his mother and it was pretty awesome. One nightmare down, one to go- the two flew from that place toward Pacific Coast Highway, Champion and I in escort below.
Near Java Jungle Coffee House, the baby tired and landed on the tip of a lonesome, wireless telephone pole. He sat there resting until the sun got low in the sky.
Mama and I both knew he wouldn’t survive the night up there because of owls. Owls are nature's main population control of the crow. That’s why you sometimes see an owl being chased around in the daytime by a cacophonous murder of crows.
The sky was heavy with Orange County air pollution and there was little wonder why. Nearby, Highway One was mobbed with three or four lanes of traffic, rushing in both directions, the noise and motion never ending. Across that highway, stood a long row of incredibly tall Royal Palms, arching toward the sky for a long stretch of beach. Mama would now have to teach that baby how to cross that highway of death.
With about a half dozen crows taking turns, a crow would land on the pole next to the baby, and take off into the shoreline breeze, angling higher and higher to attain the escape velocity it would take to clear the highway and all of its traffic hazard, and climb up into the palms across the street. The baby stood and watched until dusk, and so did we. When the dark finally closed in on us, Champion and I left the sleeping baby high atop the lonely pole.
At first light, we once again sped down to the rear parking lot at Java Jungle on PCH (Pacific Coast Highway, Highway One, all the same thing). The baby was still there! Her parents were right back at it, but so too, was the early morning traffic. After all, this was a big-time surfing town, and the break of dawn also means breaking surf. It was still very dangerous to attempt the flight.
Then, at around 9:00 a.m., it happened; the young crow spread her wings, and allowed herself to fall, not unlike an Olympic high-diver. Her broad wings caught the updraft and it lifted her up and over the highway! With the other crows flying all around, our baby made it to the lowest frond on the lowest tree, and scrambled like a rock climber, eventually making it into the safety of that palm. It was the end of a harrowing ordeal, and she made it into the treetop by the smallest possible margin. We were all glad it was over.
Chapter Twelve
Reunion
Spike, Champ and I spent a goodly amount of time and energy weaning Thor and he was growing fast. “Agh!” I would say, his head would pop up, and squish went the baby formula-filled syringe. Then he would stand on shaky legs, turn about, and poo-poo, always outside the nest. He would turn back around, nestle in and shake his little head, out like a light. Very cute!
When the time finally came to let the kid wander on his own, all I could do was worry. But freedom was paramount. I let him sit on the ‘A’-frame roof to start with, and the nice neighbors across the way marveled at his vocalizations. Young crows talk up a storm, making sounds they will likely never make again as adults, but they just have to explore. I’m sure they thought I was completely insane, and who could argue with that, really?
Then came the time when Thor did not come home at night. Worry was my middle name. And with good reason- a lot of people don’t like any of natures animals, let alone one who is black and usually associated with evil and Satan. And in Huntington Beach during the mid-1990’s, there was a prevailing white supremacist culture, totally anti-environment, and pervasive in the Police department, who were constantly killing people and threatening others- myself included.
The next morning I awoke early and immediately opened up the place, calling for Thor. No sign of him. I searched the neighborhood trying at the same time to be a calm parent, but another two days and nights went by and I was sure he had perished somehow. It was crushing.
I busied myself in the back yard garden, asking every crow flying over “Where’s Thor?”
Then I heard him! I called back to him, and he called again from the roof next door. He was flapping his wings like a baby crow does for his mama, and I could see he was covered in glue and tangled in string! “Come down here, let me help you!” I said. He complied. I took him in my hands and unraveled the string, and washed him in the double deep sink.
After getting a good towel-dry, he flew onto the only furniture in the garage, a big red picnic table. I always kept a big bowl of dog food pellets up there, and everybody knew it. Thor ate ‘till gorged, then flew up into the barn rafters and went to sleep for 3 days.
I never understood why I got all the dirty looks from the man who owned the Porsche-Ferrari dealership across the street after that. Hell, I have only just recently come to the realization that it was his workers who did that to Thor. And the guys brother was HBPD.
I got the fucker back though, just recently. I made a U-turn in the intersection of 5th and Olive while in Huntington on a sentimental journey. And there was that piece of shit out in the parking lot of his obviously dying business and he looked up to see it was me. And I was driving a pretty awesome RV -that was sweet.
The next sunny morning, the crows all came for Thor. I had to let him go. Off they flew, and he showed up a day later, flew right in the big doors. Landing on the picnic table, he wolfed down dog food pellets, flew into the rafters and went right to sleep.
His head lolled back, and his eyes rolled back in his head! As tweaker Mark, now a friend, put it- “They ran him ragged.” He awoke the next day, gulped down a bunch of dog food, and flew out like a dart to meet his friends. He was in good hands!
Reunion
Spike, Champ and I spent a goodly amount of time and energy weaning Thor and he was growing fast. “Agh!” I would say, his head would pop up, and squish went the baby formula-filled syringe. Then he would stand on shaky legs, turn about, and poo-poo, always outside the nest. He would turn back around, nestle in and shake his little head, out like a light. Very cute!
When the time finally came to let the kid wander on his own, all I could do was worry. But freedom was paramount. I let him sit on the ‘A’-frame roof to start with, and the nice neighbors across the way marveled at his vocalizations. Young crows talk up a storm, making sounds they will likely never make again as adults, but they just have to explore. I’m sure they thought I was completely insane, and who could argue with that, really?
Then came the time when Thor did not come home at night. Worry was my middle name. And with good reason- a lot of people don’t like any of natures animals, let alone one who is black and usually associated with evil and Satan. And in Huntington Beach during the mid-1990’s, there was a prevailing white supremacist culture, totally anti-environment, and pervasive in the Police department, who were constantly killing people and threatening others- myself included.
The next morning I awoke early and immediately opened up the place, calling for Thor. No sign of him. I searched the neighborhood trying at the same time to be a calm parent, but another two days and nights went by and I was sure he had perished somehow. It was crushing.
I busied myself in the back yard garden, asking every crow flying over “Where’s Thor?”
Then I heard him! I called back to him, and he called again from the roof next door. He was flapping his wings like a baby crow does for his mama, and I could see he was covered in glue and tangled in string! “Come down here, let me help you!” I said. He complied. I took him in my hands and unraveled the string, and washed him in the double deep sink.
After getting a good towel-dry, he flew onto the only furniture in the garage, a big red picnic table. I always kept a big bowl of dog food pellets up there, and everybody knew it. Thor ate ‘till gorged, then flew up into the barn rafters and went to sleep for 3 days.
I never understood why I got all the dirty looks from the man who owned the Porsche-Ferrari dealership across the street after that. Hell, I have only just recently come to the realization that it was his workers who did that to Thor. And the guys brother was HBPD.
I got the fucker back though, just recently. I made a U-turn in the intersection of 5th and Olive while in Huntington on a sentimental journey. And there was that piece of shit out in the parking lot of his obviously dying business and he looked up to see it was me. And I was driving a pretty awesome RV -that was sweet.
The next sunny morning, the crows all came for Thor. I had to let him go. Off they flew, and he showed up a day later, flew right in the big doors. Landing on the picnic table, he wolfed down dog food pellets, flew into the rafters and went right to sleep.
His head lolled back, and his eyes rolled back in his head! As tweaker Mark, now a friend, put it- “They ran him ragged.” He awoke the next day, gulped down a bunch of dog food, and flew out like a dart to meet his friends. He was in good hands!
Chapter Thirteen
Crow Kung Fu
On the next block, I had some friends who lived together in a rental house. Jimmy Campos worked at Boeing in Long Beach and rode a beautiful Harley Davidson. His brother Joe was a painter and a partier. Peter Rutherford rounded out that crazy crew, also worked at Boeing and was a deep-sea diver to boot! On one summer afternoon, Jimmy was working on his Harley on the front lawn, and the rest of us sat at a white plastic lawn table drinking home-made beer brewed, the label said, ‘by knuckleheads’. Amen!
Also hanging out with us was none other than a certain trouble-making crow by the name of Spike-Lee-Roy. You may as well know it- crows don’t drink well. Spike, in particular was a mean drunk. I did not condone his drinking either- but he was always sneaking a gulp, probably because it was forbidden. The rental house had a wooden front porch, kind of like a boardwalk. I’m not sure if that was designed on purpose because we were mere blocks from the beach, but it was a perfect place for a mischievous crow to stash important motorcycle bolts and nuts every time poor Jimmy turned his head!
Spike had no trouble retrieving these bike parts with his long rostrum, but stashed them back every time Jimmy came over to get them. It was hilarious. Jimmy would back away and Spike would pull them back out and peck on them. As this was going on, we were all laughing and sitting around like knights at the Round Table. Spike finally had a heart and relented to Jimmy, who put the bolt back on the front wheel, quickly tightening it to a crow-proof tension.
That’s when it hit- bam!! There in the middle of the table a cupcake came slamming down from the sky! What the..? We looked up, and there went Thor at about mach-2, just a supersonic cupcake dropping mission and a bulls-eye right smack in the middle of the white lawn table! He dropped us some food.
And he never slowed down.
Back at the garage that night, Thor made an appearance. He flew in through the double barn doors and landed atop the picnic table to eat. That’s when Spike challenged him! Spike had always picked on baby Thor so I wasn’t expecting much of a fight. But as Spike charged him, Thor stood his ground, much as the Karate Kidd did in the movie, and flapped his wings. He rose straight in the air and raked Spike in the eyes with first the left and then the right talons!
Spike cried out in surprise, ran away, and never bothered Thor again. It was the first time anybody ever saw, or even knew the existence of, Crow Kung Fu! He had learned it out there, from them. I knew I would have to write a book about all these wacky adventures someday, and now I had the perfect name- Crow Kung Fu.
artwork by: Susan Jenkins Morning
Crow Kung Fu
On the next block, I had some friends who lived together in a rental house. Jimmy Campos worked at Boeing in Long Beach and rode a beautiful Harley Davidson. His brother Joe was a painter and a partier. Peter Rutherford rounded out that crazy crew, also worked at Boeing and was a deep-sea diver to boot! On one summer afternoon, Jimmy was working on his Harley on the front lawn, and the rest of us sat at a white plastic lawn table drinking home-made beer brewed, the label said, ‘by knuckleheads’. Amen!
Also hanging out with us was none other than a certain trouble-making crow by the name of Spike-Lee-Roy. You may as well know it- crows don’t drink well. Spike, in particular was a mean drunk. I did not condone his drinking either- but he was always sneaking a gulp, probably because it was forbidden. The rental house had a wooden front porch, kind of like a boardwalk. I’m not sure if that was designed on purpose because we were mere blocks from the beach, but it was a perfect place for a mischievous crow to stash important motorcycle bolts and nuts every time poor Jimmy turned his head!
Spike had no trouble retrieving these bike parts with his long rostrum, but stashed them back every time Jimmy came over to get them. It was hilarious. Jimmy would back away and Spike would pull them back out and peck on them. As this was going on, we were all laughing and sitting around like knights at the Round Table. Spike finally had a heart and relented to Jimmy, who put the bolt back on the front wheel, quickly tightening it to a crow-proof tension.
That’s when it hit- bam!! There in the middle of the table a cupcake came slamming down from the sky! What the..? We looked up, and there went Thor at about mach-2, just a supersonic cupcake dropping mission and a bulls-eye right smack in the middle of the white lawn table! He dropped us some food.
And he never slowed down.
Back at the garage that night, Thor made an appearance. He flew in through the double barn doors and landed atop the picnic table to eat. That’s when Spike challenged him! Spike had always picked on baby Thor so I wasn’t expecting much of a fight. But as Spike charged him, Thor stood his ground, much as the Karate Kidd did in the movie, and flapped his wings. He rose straight in the air and raked Spike in the eyes with first the left and then the right talons!
Spike cried out in surprise, ran away, and never bothered Thor again. It was the first time anybody ever saw, or even knew the existence of, Crow Kung Fu! He had learned it out there, from them. I knew I would have to write a book about all these wacky adventures someday, and now I had the perfect name- Crow Kung Fu.
artwork by: Susan Jenkins Morning
The Ol' 'Scacciabong', Author in doorway, Spike in window, Hopper on top, and Thor in tree circa 1997
Chapter Fourteen
Something to Crow About
The ‘A’-frame garage on the alley at 5th street served as both Crow rehab and rock band rehearsal space. I had a band called the Tigersharks and we were very hot. You can hear some of the live recordings on Youtube. My drummer was a tall black fellow New Yorker, a native of Albany. I named the crow Spike, he stretched it to Spike-Lee-Roy. Ron Gaddis was his name, and he and Spike were very close friends.
Spike was a very entertaining roommate. In one corner of the garage was a small hole in the wall, where the mouse family lived. I had framed their little hole with half a broken plant pot, the terra cotta kind. When everyone was being fed, I often placed a cupcake at the mouse entrance and it was hilarious to see two little mice, standing on their hind legs, eating and watching the goings-on with looks of astonishment on their faces. Sometimes the mice would dart across the floor but that never worked out well for them. Crows love to eat mice, and catch them with great ease.
Once, a mouse ran past Spike, who let the mouse get all the way by before showing off and snatching the poor creature by the tippiest tip of its tail. The little mouse shrieked in desperation as Spike hauled it in, bit by bit! In the end, Spike speared the mouse with a beak through the heart, finally fishing out its brains and soaking them in water. It was a Crow delight, marinated mouse-brain. Yuk. As was natures way, I never interfered. Thor too, often flew in the garage carrying a mouse, sitting up in the rafters to eat it before dozing off to sleep. If you think cats are good at controlling the mice in your home, try a Crow sometime!
Back at the Campos residence the following weekend, we were all outside enjoying a big water balloon fight with the folks across the street, when I saw a man leave the church on the corner and walk down our street carrying a large stand-up bass. I really wanted to play with somebody who played one of those, so I rushed across the road to introduce myself. “Hey, whatcha got there?” I asked in a friendly tone.
“Stand up bass” came the reply, “I play in the church band.”
“Wow, that’s cool” said I, “I have a rehearsal studio right over there.” I pointed toward the red ‘A’-frame garage on the next block, and as I held my arm out, down from the sky zoomed Thor, landing with a thud on my forearm! This was too much for the churchy bassist, who found it all too satanic, and left immediately. He must have been sure I was in league with the devil and we never spoke again.
Some time went by before Thor returned to see us again. By now, he had been thoroughly immersed in being a wild crow and he was no longer living among people. When weaning days are over, all the adult crows gather up the surviving offspring, and take them on huge learning excursions, groups of crows meeting up and joining with other groups. I opened the double doors one morning to the sight of a large group taking up three levels in the wires above the alley.
There were about thirty crows on each of the three wires and they were all looking down at me. I got chills knowing Thor must be among them, and they had tolerated his saying a fond farewell to a (ugh!) human father. “Thor?” I asked and scanned them for some clue. Immediately, the last crow on the right of the lowest wire made himself known with a loving hiss that said, “Here daddy.” They flew off in a murder and that was that. But raising him was a success. In fact, Thor was my one true successful raising of a crow, from nestling to fully wild- and that was something to crow about!
My parting gift to Thor- a toy dinosaur
Chapter Fifteen
Memories of Thor
It had been many weeks since I saw Thor and life was back to abnormal in the old redwood ‘A’-frame where we lived. Crows often choose their partner by offering the apple of their eye a small twig, as a token of their affection. Most times this begins the nest building process. Sometimes, it’s just affection. For this purpose, just in case I ever ran into my boy Thor again, I kept a little plastic dinosaur in my pocket. One day I was walking down the alleyway and there in a tree was an unusually playful crow doing unusual things.
“Thor?” I queried, and he flew down on top of an old wooden fence. The fence was to the backyard of a condemned house that was to be torn down soon. Thor sat just at eye level and I fished the dinosaur out of my sweatshirt pocket and handed it to him. He received it with closed eyes and a big smile.
He pretended to like his gift pecking and playing with it, while I petted him on the back as one would pet a cat, pressing down a little extra hard as your hand sweeps across their back. This went on for a long time, over and over as I cooed to my boy things like, “Oh, Thor, you know how much I love you,” and, “You’ll always be my son, no matter what.”
All too soon, it had to end, and he took off for the sky leaving me and his little plastic dinosaur, -and the human race- behind forever. It was the goodbye I needed for closure and his final parting gift to me. Now that house is gone, and for some time it was an open, grassy field. Then came the inevitable ‘bowling alley’ style Orange County stucco paper-cutter house that took up every inch of the property.
Such homes insure that people will live their lives indoors, with no property surrounding the house. We called them bowling alley houses, because they are long high and thin, a developers way of squeezing in the most houses on a lot. Call it progress, call it the American dream. I call it the desecration of a sacred place, where I said goodbye to Thor.
The Great Champion in the Humboldt County Old Growth
Chapter Sixteen
Champion of the Crows
Question: How many people from Orange County does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Answer: One. They hold the light bulb and the world revolves around them.
I admit it. Champion was a dangerous dog. But only dangerous because of the self-centered people in Orange County, who thought the world revolved around them, and that dogs and other creatures existed only for their amusement. One time I was on a pay phone (none of which exist anymore) on Main Street in Huntington Beach with trusty Champion sitting at my side. The nearby sidewalk was filled with throngs eating a sunny day breakfast. Too late, I became aware of a small child approaching Champ! I froze in terror as the little boy walked right up to him (at the behest of his seriously stupid Orange County parents dining nearby). Knowing it was already too late, I appealed to Champion himself.
“Champion, don’t you do it boy, do not do it. Do not do it Champion, you do not do it.”
Champion looked up at me with a terribly pained look as the two-year old boy wrapped his little arms around his neck and kissed him right on the cheek! The little boy let go and scampered back to his proud parents sitting at that table. “Oh you’re a good boy Champion, you are such a very good boy!” said I.
I glared over at the two oblivious idiots with the gaze of an eagle but they just smiled back. They never knew how close we came to absolute disaster. I hung up the phone and Champion and I scooted out of there, but that was proof positive Champion showed restraint when it came to kids- and to the wishes of his daddy. But not everybody was so lucky. One time, as I sat playing guitar outside of Starbucks with Champion next to me tied to a chair, a pretty Orange County girl came up and wanted to pet the dog. “No, you can’t pet him” I told her. “He will bite you if you try.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, and I answered that it wasn’t fair to the animal, who could be destroyed if something happened.
And then she said it, that ultimate stupidity I have heard so often. “Oh, all animals like me, all dogs love me,” and she bent to kiss him, placing one hand on each side of his face. That’s when all hell broke loose. Champion reared up on his hind legs and like an alligator, snapped his formidable jaws about ten times, not two inches from that poor girls nose! She immediately burst into tears and began screaming about lawyers.
In any case, I got more careful about Champion. The next kooky encounter was when I was sitting in the same spot a few weeks later and wanted to go inside for a coffee refill. I placed Champion in a secluded corner, blocked him off with my red Schwinn, put three chairs in front of that, and three tables in front of that! That ought to have done it, or so I thought and I went inside very briefly.
By the time I came back out that door with coffee in hand, I was greeted by a nightmarish scene in which an old man had moved the tables, moved all the chairs, moved the bicycle, and now had Champion backed up against the wall standing, once again, on his hind legs. The old man had his forearm pressing into Champions mouth as if to offer him a comfort bite, I never fucking understood why, completely.
But let’s say Champion decided to take him up on it, and got ‘comfortable,’ as it were. He applied a professional bite to the man’s forearm and released immediately. One by one, the punctures became visible as blood began pouring out of them. The old man held his bleeding arm out to me, perhaps offering me to take a bite as well. “Red Cross” said the man in badly broken English. “Where is dee red cuh-doss?” he asked in some European way.
“Red Cross” I said, “Right this way.” I led him into the back of the store and washed his arm, then wrapped it in a towel, and led him back outside. “Red Cross” I said to him as I pointed down the busy avenue. He staggered off one way and Champion and I took off in the other.
Poor Champion. It took a long time for his daddy to get it through his head that Champion and modern society mixed about as well as oil and water. But let’s face it, with crows, falcons, mice, rats, ‘possums and coyotes, dad wasn’t exactly blending either. I was also fighting against developers and sewage dumping and the local Congressman had it in for me. Soon, the police and county began utilizing code enforcement and animal control against me, in an effort to drive me out of the area. They decided to set up Champion.
Chapter Seventeen
Harry Potter and the Dog Double Cross
The beginning of the end came one dreary day when I left Champion safely hidden at the Plaza Almeria condominium complex across the street from Starbucks. I came out from getting a cup of java only to be approached by a short, fat cop I knew only too well- Officer Potter. Officer Potter was a piss-poor artist wannabe who was very jealous of my artwork, music and probably held a deep homosexual crush for me as well. That’s as near as I could figure it. The Huntington Beach Police and anybody in any state or county agency all knew me, as I was quite well known for my activism, but some of them liked me too.
However, Potter had short man’s complex and wanted to score the big points that would be his should he crack the nut no one else seemed able to, and that nut was me. I’m not sure I like the wording I just used, but let’s just go with it.
“Your dog just bit somebody,” said Potter. He pointed across the street at two laughing kids standing in the driveway of Plaza Almeria. Champ was being escorted into a dog catcher truck by two OC Animal Control kidnappers, each with a noose around his neck. My spirits plummeted along with the newly falling rain. Champion never did well at the pound. He never ate, defecated or stopped whimpering and panting, no matter how long he was there. I knew what he was in for.
“Where did the kid get bit?” I demanded of Potter. He tapped his wrist to show me where.
With Champion in a compartment, Potter and the two dog catchers went into Starbucks to get coffee, leaving me standing on the side of the road alone. I went to the compartment where Champ was and stood comforting him with words. “You stay, you wait” I said. Daddy’s right here” I told him as the rain began to come down in torrents.
The animal control guys looked out and everybody saw the rain coming down as heavy as could be. And I stood out there by my dog for an hour until they drove away with him. And even that, Potter was jealous of- our loyalty. Something he and his scumbag police department knew nothing about.
When I finally went to Animal Control to meet with them, they showed me a photo of the bite- it showed a kid holding his pants down, exposing one check of his ass. “Bullshit!” I told them. Potter said the bite was on the wrist! I knew we had been set up by a false police report by the Huntington Beach Police. And they continually raised the amount it would take to get him out. In the end I had to pay hundreds and pawn my Stratocaster to a crooked Lawyer who never did give it back.
In all, Champion spent 16 days in the pound, many days longer than was legal. But the law means nothing in the wild west of Orange County. I was very glad to have cost them the hundreds of millions I did when all was said and done. You can google it at Orange County Sewage Waiver. It’s all there. On my way back from court one day, the folks in the other RV’s told me Animal Control had come for my dog again, and almost got him out of the window with a noose.
That’s when I knew I had to save him. We left town and never returned. Champion died at the ripe old age of 16 ½ and lived in a beautiful place. He is buried ‘neath a willow tree, having been a great crow protector. In fact, the greatest dog who ever lived. Good boy, Champion. Good boy!
Chapter Eighteen
Spot on my Heart
A nice man came to the ‘A’-frame one day wanting to talk to me about a crow. He told me his son had been raising a young crow on tuna fish, and the bird was doing rather well. But now the son was going away to school and the father had heard that mine were the best hands for the crow to be left in. I told him his timing was good (Thor had left quite a void) and I was willing, so long as he understood he would not get the crow back. I always intended to release to the wild anybody I rehabilitated, if at all possible.
Several days later, the man showed back up, this time with a small cage containing a beautiful young crow. The crow already knew his name, and that name was ‘Spot’. Spot was about to fly and could already fly short distances. It was a problem. His eyes were already turning black, and I hoped I had caught him just in time before imprinting. We would see.
Spot took right to me, and to Spike as well. And it wasn’t long before he was flying in and out of the big double doors. Meanwhile, Mama Crow had left the last of her brood in the alley with us, a crow I called Shadow Bird. She was very talkative and always on guard, complaining about some danger or other. With her as our sentry, we were always a step ahead of the game. Soon, the time came for Spot to fly out on his own, and Shadowbird and Spot became inseparable. Up and down the alley they would fly, two air force jets moving with ease and grace. No one and nothing was safe from the curiosity of Spot. He was into everything and into everybody’s business.
I used to walk to starbucks and he would dive bomb me for fun, making ‘crack-a crack-a crack-a’ sounds, while showing off the most amazing evasive maneuvers. And, of course, he would land on my shoulders and go through my shirt pocket to steal my cigarettes. He was a very affectionate bird. We grew very close, and the crow bond became strong.
I spoke to Susan Doggett about Spot’s behavior and she said it didn’t look good to her- that he was treating me like a mate and might be imprinted. Across the alley in a duplex lived a mother and daughter of Indian descent. I liked the daughter, but the mother liked me. Fortunately for Spot, the daughter, who called herself Annette ‘Frost’, was not interested in me. But not so fortunate for the mother, Spot was keenly aware of her flirtations and grew acutely jealous!
On a hot summer day with the double barn doors to the alley wide open, I was rehearsing music while Spot sat across the alley, standing high on the duplex wall atop a telephone box. He was just a-peck, peck, pecking away. Shadowbird sat on telephone wires nearby. Below, the mother had arrived at home, parked her car and began walking up the long flight of steps to her apartment. From the time she left her car, she was saying things to me that were thinly veiled flirtations.
This continued as she climbed the stairs. But my focus was on Spot, who stood on the wall-mounted metal box pecking, pretending not to listen. As the woman climbed higher and higher, Spot began pecking harder and harder, until his fury became impossible to hide. “Spot- don’t you do it Spot, be a good boy now…” I said, uselessly.
When the woman was a few steps from the top, Spot took off like a hell-spawn and approached her from behind like a fighter jet landing on an aircraft carrier! “Spot, no!!” I cried out.
In a scene right out of Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’, Spot pecked the woman’s head and scalp so hard you could hear the rapid-fire impacts. The woman screamed as she fumbled her keys into the doorlock, flailing at the bird with her other hand! My goodness, it was terrible! Rarely had I seen such jealous fury, and I tried very hard not to see the hilarity in it either. She finally got in the door, Spot flew off, and the door slammed shut. Stunned silence hung in the air.
Yes, an imprinted crow can be quite dangerous.
After that fiasco, the woman never flirted with me again, and Spot started spending his days at the beach, I could tell from the sand on his talons when he would return. Finally, on a Tuesday, July 17th, 1996, Spot didn’t return. I stood in the alley doing coffee and newspaper, and there was no Spot to help and harass. It was two days before somebody relayed to me they heard a crow had been out on the Huntington Beach Pier causing trouble. Something about a girl who worked at the bait trailer, and I ran down there, two days late. I had hoped against hope, Spot was alright somewhere, but the girl met me halfway out on the Pier. She told me the crow landed on her shoulder and was going through her pocket. “That’s where daddy keeps his cigarettes” I told her.
“I just knew that was somebody’s crow” she said, shaking her head sadly.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Two fisherman caught a halibut, and the bird flew off my shoulder to go see what it was” said the girl. She told me he went down to the water and landed in it. Unable to get back out, Spot flapped his wings to no avail. He flapped and flapped until he finally fell still. “I knew I should have jumped in the water” she lamented. “It took an hour after that before he finally drifted out with the tide. I’m sorry”
Helplessly, I put my head on her shoulder and cried my eyes out. Last night in bed, I was preparing to write this chapter, and I realized the wound in my heart remains fresh –after 19 years.
Some months later, I ran into the old man who brought Spot to me, and he asked about the crow. He said his son was very interested back at college. Although I had rehearsed the diatribe many times over and over, about how wrong it was to imprint these creatures, how it was all their fault and all the pain it caused everybody –especially Spot- I looked at the man and told him, “Spot did great- it was a big success.” I figured that was best. And there will always be a spot on my heart.
Chapter Nineteen
The Christmas Crows
During all the years I spent living in the alley at 5th street, perhaps the most amazing recurring events were those on every Christmas morning. Our society is a lot like a bee hive, or an ant farm. People who live near highways know this. It’s all so quiet at night. Then at about 4:00 a.m. you hear the first car; and then, the second. Pretty soon you start to smell them. Ugh! By 6:00 a.m., it’s a stampede of innumerable cars, people and poison gas exhausts, rushing to some unnecessary destination to do something that makes no sense at all in terms of the natural world. The cacophony continues throughout the day until reaching a crescendo about 5:00 p.m., and slowly tapering off in a whistle-blowing, carbon monoxide spewing decrescendo, settling down to an occasional passing car at about 9:00 p.m., and falling back into unbroken silence after midnight.
That is when the madness ends and the crickets begin to tickle the ear. Distant coyotes howl and yip, and all seems well in the world. But then that old 4:00 a.m. rolls around once again, and those robot droids who like to think of themselves as modern society begin to stir, and we do the completely unnecessary and destructive all over again from the beginning. Except for Christmas morning!
There are many people in the world who would like to believe that they have been chosen out from among all the clusters, galaxies, solar systems, worlds and planets, and from all the nations and states and towns and neighborhoods; from throughout all the eons, millennia, epochs and the enormity of time. That they have been chosen by a supernatural, extra-worldly deity who embraces their wars, pollutants and economic transactions as being cream of the crop in the Universe.
Of course, you know who you are, and I am glad you got to read this book before you floated away to wherever it is you will be going next. But on that one morning, on that one day, no matter for what psychotic reason, the gray, leaking, metallic machine grinds to a halt with the sound of a thousand nails on a thousand chalkboards. And the result is a golden silence, where the flap of a bird wing seems to leap out and caress the ear!
And this golden stillness is not lost upon the crow. For all the years I lived in Huntington Beach, California, where a great number of these psychotic believers live, it was a recurring circumstance. I would awake every Christmas morning to an invaluable silence, fling open both large wooden barn doors, and behold the miracle. The wires would be lined with all the crows for a mile around, all stunned right along with the golden silence, as if to ask me why. What, they wondered, was going on?
Was the world suddenly healed? Were the people finally finished with their planetary death march, packing up, and returning to their home planet of Mars?
“I know,” I would tell them, as they looked down at me for a clue, “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Then, they would all fly off to enjoy it. Pretty much, the opposite would happen every July 4th. If only people had the wisdom of a crow.
Chapter Twenty
The Bird Doctor
It was to be my first ever art show at the old brick Huntington Beach Library on Main Street and the day had finally arrived. The place was set up with all my large, colorful pen and ink drawings, and flowers were on every table. Unlike other artists, I’ve never really been the ‘artsy’ type, and my nerves were getting the best of me. I went across the street and into a more familiar environment, an alley, and chugged down some Jack Daniels whiskey to calm my jitters. That’s when I spied a cardboard box against the cinderblock wall.
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it saved two baby birds that day, huddled together in the box and covered in ants. After the show (which was a success) I brought them home and raised them, with no idea what they could possibly be. Albatross, perhaps, I thought to myself. “They never land!” I explained to my neighbor Howard, as he tattooed local strippers in his living room, wearing protective rubber gloves. But I remembered a conversation in which people commented on how you ‘never see a baby pigeon- no one’s ever seen a baby pigeon’ it was said. Could these be that rarest of sights?
It reminded me of the Marbled Murrelet and the Audubon contest with the big cash prize to the first birder who could discover one of their nests. That one, as it turned out, was won by a tree surgeon working high in a redwood 50 miles inland. What was unusual about that was that Marbled Murrelets nested far into the old growth but spent their days fishing on the sea shore! To this day, they are being destroyed by our incessant logging.
Well yes, these turned out to be baby pigeons and I raised them as my own. Photon and Phoenix, I named them, and they lived good long lives. Many times afterward Howard would poke fun at me as the pigeons flew around us; “they never land”, he would say. They never leave, was more like it! Howard left though, returning to his native New Jersey when the money got tight. I still remember his tearful goodbye to his beloved cats before leaving forever on his motorcycle. I never understood how people could leave behind those they love. Perhaps it happens when circumstances are sometimes out of our control.
Like the time I was walking past the nasty old Porsche dealership to use a pay phone and saw a baby pigeon sitting on the sidewalk, facing the wall. As I walked by, it shook its wings, in case I was its mother. When I got off the phone, I stopped for a closer look and saw why. It was completely blind, with pox scabs covering both eyes. Hearing my approach, it once again shook its wings. I looked above and saw the hole from which it must have fallen –or been tossed. I knew there was no use putting it back, so I took the little birdie home.
Spike and I fed the poor little thing and I went into the garden to cut an arm of Aloe Vera. I took the goo and rubbed it on the growth of each eye. The growths got softer and softer, and after two weeks, I began to wiggle them. Finally, they came off! I kept the bird in the dark as best I could, and allowed it only gradually to be exposed to light and sight. When that bird finally flew away, I understood the glory every doctor must feel when they heal a patient.
“We did it, Spike!” I said.
“Awgh!” he beamed back. To this day, I still get choked up.
Chapter Twenty One
Secret of the Ship’s Wheel
During the height of our days at the ‘A’-frame on 5th street alley, the backyard looked like a jungle- even though the floor was cement! It was a classic battle of man and nature- and I represented nature. By now, a new landlord had purchased the house on 305 5th street, and, of course, the ‘A’-frame along with it. It was a Palestinian family, and they were scumbags! They came in with a heavy hand and forced me to work long hours in return for rent- which, up until now had been a mere $70.00 a month for me. But in my defense, it was just a garage on an alley of speed freaks, with a cold cement floor and no bathroom.
When the head scumbag came into the backyard to look around, the place was very verdant. Every wire had morning glories and when he saw the stump- you know, ‘the’ stump- he said, “What’s that?”
“What?” I asked, playing dumb.
“That,” he said, motioning toward the 7,000 lb, fourteen-foot high stump nestled in the corner.
“Oh, that” said I with a smirk. “It’s a stump,” I answered, loving every minute of it.
“What are we going to do about it?” he asked.
“I have no idea”, said I. “I’m not sure what you can do about it.”
“How did it get here?” asked Mike Ali, the new landlord.
“I have no idea,” I said- “It was here when I got here. Maybe Carlos can get it out” I said, referring to his hapless and newlywed son. In the end, I did a beautiful job of cleaning up the place, and still keeping it somewhat green. But that stump wasn’t going anywhere, I was certain.
Mike Ali forced me to do more and more chores until I felt like a slave, which was not entirely inaccurate. But karma was often with me, like when he ordered me to empty and clean out the garage next door. We walked over, cut off the locks, and opened up the doors, revealing a dank, dusty interior that hadn’t seen the sun for decades. The place was full of boxes upon boxes, water damaged and all empty. After we went through about the first fifty, it became obvious the place was devoid of anything of value, and Mike said, “Clean it all out and you can keep what you find.”
When I was halfway through, he and Carlos stopped in to make sure they didn’t miss a penny, but left when I showed them a whole bunch of nothing. When I got to the back wall, the only thing left was a line of tall, square boxes, thin and rotting, at the rear of the warehouse. I didn’t hold out much hope that there would be anything valuable in them. But the time to check would be now, while nobody was around. I opened the top of the first one and saw right away I had struck paydirt!
I reached down and grabbed hold of the peg on a large wooden ship’s wheel- a helm made of some hardwood, dark and exotic. I pulled the entire wheel up and out, to check on its condition and it had somehow remained pristine, including the brass components. I lowered it back into the box and took it around to the alley, where it was the perfect shape to be stashed between the garages. I returned to the warehouse and checked the next box. It too, contained a ships wheel! So did the rest, about ten in all.
I knew all too well Mike would not keep his word so I worked fast.
Mike and Carlos returned after dinner to find the warehouse clean, the dumpster full and their slave filthy and exhausted. They locked the place up, walked away and paid me nothing.
Chapter Twenty-two
Freedom for the Falcon
‘Fool with a Falcon
Keeper of a Kestrel
Reverent of nothing
Cursed by the ancestral
Tweaker with a habit
Junky full of hatred
Courage of a rabbit
Disrespect the sacred
Who knows what goes through the mind of a meth head. And even if you did, what’s going on in that same mind two minutes later? Something completely different- psychotic is the word. (The great philosopher Ken King once told me the difference between a neurotic and a psychotic. “A psychotic thinks 2 + 2 is five. A neurotic knows 2 + 2 is four- but it bothers him”).
And for that matter, what goes through the mind of a person who cuts down trees? In my opinion, there are only two reasons to cut down a tree: guitars and toilet paper- and never if there are birds or squirrels in the tree. Well Tweaker Mark was constantly up and down in trees, really tall ones. He was usually trimming them, but he cut them if the money was there. More than once, his tweaker friends brought home baby crows, tried to raise them, and failed. Then they would bring me the poor, emaciated survivors. One, named Jake, lived just long enough to bond with Spike and me, then broke our hearts. The morning after Jake died, I brought Spike over and showed him the empty cage. Spike cried out in a way that was proof positive crows know exactly what is going on around them –always.
This time, Tweaker Mark came to the ‘A’-frame with a covered cage and simply said, “Here- maybe you can train him, I couldn’t.”
“What is it?” I asked, taking the cage indoors for a peek.
“A falcon” he answered.
I took the cage inside and when I uncovered it, there stood a male American Kestrel. I knew he was a male because of his blue breast, taught to me by Susan Doggett. Females are reddish and slightly larger. But this guy was nothing less than god-like. Captivity didn’t register with such royalty as a bird of prey, and he crouched backward in revulsion as I drew back the cage cover. After checking him out health-wise, I saw no reason to hold him any longer. Some control freaks with delusions of grandeur fancy themselves falconers, but I held no such desire. It was like an orca at Seaworld- a crime against all that is holy in this world -and Spike did not like him one bit!
I took the cage outside into the alley and opened it up. It was a stormy and windy day with a steady rain. The Kestrel stood for a moment, swept back wings of a supersonic jet at each side. When he lit out from that cage, he rose on a 30 degree angle and was at the end of the long alley in less than a second! He darted at a sharp right angle, and after that the only evidence he had ever been there was the mass confusion his release left behind. Pigeons, doves, starlings and sparrows were going crazy in the stormy sky above, a tribute to his place at the top of the avian food chain. I watched in awe, knowing freedom was not my gift to him, but rather, his gift to me.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Bird Locker
As a younger man, I often played what you might call ‘vitality’ games, something like the stotting of an antelope. Stotting is where an antelope stands fast against an approaching lion instead of just bolting away. The real studs leap into the air first, giving the lion a head start. This display of bravura and vitality signals to the lion, ‘you’re wasting your time- you’ll never catch this one’. Studies show that lions chasing antelope who stotted have a lower survival rate.
So lions rarely give chase to these show offs. Stotting has been compared to smoking cigarettes in humans. The smoker says, ‘that’s right, I’m so awesome I can do this to myself and still be the best choice in the nightclub’. All human behavior can be traced back to its wild animal roots somewhere back there.
Well, I used to do things like choose a destination, and try to get there in a straight line, no turns, no detours. If there were any obstacles, I had to go over, under or through them. I remember crawling through the bushes at the reservoir in Lafayette, California, with my dogs running through the woods and coming into the thicket occasionally to check on their nutty dad! And when I was living in Huntington Beach in the alley on 5th street a few years later, I was still prone to such silliness.
Zipping around the neighborhood one day, Champion, Spike and I came across a large gym locker put out for the trash somewhere. It was an unusual sight to see a genuine locker like that and in great condition. I simply had to have it! But how the heck does one transport a very heavy metal locker the few blocks back to the ‘A’-frame? ‘This is Huntington Beach’, I thought. We can use a skateboard!
A friend let me use her skateboard, and it was game on. The going was slow, and many passers and drivers-by stared in wonder, but eventually a few hours later, I got it home. I had sawed a small door in the back room of the garage, where the double-deep sink was. It allowed me to get some air cross flow without opening the double barn doors.
There were too many tweakers in that alley all the time, usually headed a few houses down, where a poor lost soul named Jimmy ran the biggest crack house in Huntington Beach. Meth, crack, whatever you want to call it, it was for sale, and cheap, at Jimmy’s house in 5th street alley, so you wanted to keep your doors closed when possible.
One day I caught them breaking into my garage, so I went to their house and beat them all up in a blazing, surreal scene of dogs biting, crows diving, alley-rats punching. Crow Kung Fu was everywhere. How bad was it? They called the cops on me! End of the crack house- but that’s not our main storyline here.
I slowly rolled the huge locker end over end until it slid into place in the narrow back room. Once there, it begged the question, ‘what did I need a locker for- start a softball team, perhaps?’ That’s when Photon and Phoenix, the alley-pigeons decided to move into locker A-1. The size was perfect for a newspaper floor. Each morning, I opened the little door, and the two flew out to circle high above the neighborhood. It would have made Mike Tyson proud.
At dusk, they would fly unassisted, back into Apartment A-1, and make ‘coo, coo’ noises until I shut the locker door, which had a perfect air vent built right in!
A few days later, Champion and I were taking an early morning walk on the beach, looking for towels left from the day before. May I say we had the finest collection of big, expensive, colorful beach towels in the western hemisphere?
I went into a restroom and found a large white pigeon walking around, no idea how she got stuck in there. I had never seen such a large pigeon, or one so beautiful- I brought her home and called her Angel. I later found that she was called a ‘King Pigeon’, first raised by the Romans as a food source! Live and learn. She took a mate, named Belle, and moved into Locker A-5.
Before too long, there were many pigeon pairs in the Bird Locker, all coo-cooing to get out every day at dawn. I would open the doors and they would fly out with a ‘whoosh!’ With all of them aloft for maneuvers, I would drag a trash pail in front of the Bird Locker, yanking out yesterday’s newspaper and placing in the new. It kept the whole operation very clean. And the operation kept the bird activity out of the main room, where bird shit was not good for floors, artwork or musical instruments.
But other action sometimes found its’ way into the main room, in the form of massive sparrow invasions. One minute all was quiet, birds outside chirping away, the next was bedlam. Whenever a falcon came to feed, the huge flock of sparrows out on the wires would fly inside and hide in the rafters above me, sitting silently until the danger had passed- just another day in the Bird Locker!
Zacks on Huntington Beach- don't eat the food!
Chapter Twenty-four
The Great Escape
‘When the Bird prowls
and the Cat stalks
Guard your horses carefully’
(From Tale of the Gryphon)
Like I said, the Ali family were a pack of scumbags, obviously accustomed to treating people like chattel. Perhaps this was a holdover from life in Palestine. Never been there myself. In any case, I was told to paint their house at 305 5th street, and I did so. It took me a month to paint it, every nook and cranny –by hand brush- and when it was done it looked beautiful. But when it came time to get paid, Mike Ali, who owned a lot of property as well as a concession business on Huntington Beach, handed me a five dollar bill.
His inept son Carlos was twice as cruel again, once bringing me out some chicken dinner, and tossing it to his pit bulls instead. By this time, my dog Misty had grown very old, slow and blind, and I was hesitant to subject her to another stretch in the gutter. But one day, Mike Ali told me I had done such a good job painting the house that he now wanted me to paint their beach concession, called Zack’s on-the-Beach. Carlos and I went to see the ‘job’ together, and I asked him how much I would be paid.
Carlos just laughed. Now I understood how a father feels while swallowing his pride for the hungry mouths he must feed at home. I had pigeons, crows and dogs to think about- but I also had myself. I was a cauldron of lava inside. Finally, I did the unthinkable, and called home. When my mother answered, I said, much to her surprise, that I was calling to speak with my stepfather. The reason it must have been such a curve ball for her was that my stepfather, Nicky Pomponio, made Mike Ali look like Mr. Rodgers, having been raised on the hellish streets of Brooklyn. The same place I was born and raised, East New York, aka the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, aka ‘Satan’s Laundromat’.
But Nick was getting old and I was in dire straits. I came right out and asked to borrow some money. I had never asked for anything from him in my life before and it took him by surprise. I told him about my situation and I guess it struck a chord. He asked what I needed money for and I told him I had a plan. “How much do you need?” he asked.
A day later, he wired me $3,000.00 Western Union.
Champ and I headed to Java Jungle, with a copy of the RV Trader magazine, and I called the first RV I saw that I could afford. A Class ‘A’, 1977 Chevy Titan with a 454 c.i. power plant, stove, refrigerator, shower, table, and sleeper. The owner delivered it from Cypress, all the way to where we sat at the coffee shop on Pacific Coast Highway. We took it for a test drive, paid cash and signed the title.
I was in sort of a dream-like state, soaking in the relative protection suddenly around us, such as I had never known before. A roof over our heads! Windows! Bed! No more sleeping bag on a cement floor. I filled it up with gas, brought it home, and went on a three-day detailing binge. I moved everything I could fit into the rig, and tossed the rest in area dumpsters. I swept the garage out and soon it was empty as the day it was born. Then I set up Spike and Hopper, my two remaining crows inside a nice spot in the RV.
I parked the rig in a space not more than 50 feet from the ‘A’-frame I was leaving behind. I left it there like a Gryphon, the mythical guardian of secret treasure. I returned to the beach, where Carlos was to meet me. “Get to work”, he said.
“How much does the job pay?” I asked.
“How much do you want?” he replied.
“Thirty-five hundred for the whole job,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah, sure, just get started” he lied.
“I get half now and half when the job is done” I told him. “And I’m hungry- put on some hamburgers.”
By now, Carlos was very angry and started threatening to throw me out of the garage. I told him I needed to speak with his father. He called Mike Ali, who met me in the alley out front of the ‘A’-frame. “I want you down at the beach painting the hamburger stand,” he said.
“Pay me first,” I challenged. “You haven’t even paid me for painting the house yet.”
“I did so pay you,” said the cruel miser. I didn’t grace him with an answer.
“Carlos can paint the beach store,” I said.
Mike told me to move out of the garage, and I told him I was already out. When he realized I was serious, he stormed over and flung open the double barn doors- the place was spotless. He couldn’t even make a ‘you’re a slob’ argument.
“Where are you gonna go?” he asked, concerned I might hang around. I pulled out the keys, unlocked the RV door, and fired that mother up.
“Where did you get that?” he fumed, and, “You can’t park it here.”
I showed him a note from the lady across the alley giving me permission to park in her driveway, and I pulled right across the alley. We stayed one night, then left to park at Java Jungle with other RV’s.
I returned the next day to capture Photon and Phoenix, but they were homing pigeons- as soon as I let them out at Java Jungle, they flew home to the garage and Carlos shot Photon. I found him just in time to say goodbye. Phoenix survived.* It was a sad ending to an era, but we were free at last.
*Phoenix was eventually visiting me daily across the street where I got a job working security. She ended up as dinner for a coopers hawk. At least she died with more dignity than poor Photon. Fuck You to the Ali family.
Chapter Twenty-five
Crow Road Show
In the first days following our departure from 5th Street Alley, the Huntington Beach Police were always on my heels. How dare somebody escape the clutches of alley-slavery! Mike Ali had been good friends with HBPD, stemming from a confrontation at his night club where he apparently saved a cops life when he shot somebody. So when Mike asked the cops to give the crow guy a hot foot, they responded with a sense of duty.
Some of them also had a deep-rooted fear because of things they had seen and couldn’t easily explain. Such as the time when I stood in front of the old brick Robert August Surfboards building with maniacal ex-fed Benny Westbrook and his motorcycle cop friend, who were probably secret lovers.
I was talking to a crow on the wire above (Thor) and of course, the cop thought I was in the ‘too through crew’. 'Too through crew’ refers to people on the streets too long, their brains cooked by drugs.
Benny said, “No, this guy really talks to crows.” The tall motorcycle cop, clad in a tight-fitting leather uniform, scoffed at the notion.
“Joe, show him,” Benny asked.
Normally, I refused animal tricks. Champion did no tricks, yet was still magnificent. But in the end, I held out an arm and said “Agh!, Agh!”
Thor soared down like a missile, and landed on my arm with a thud. The force knocked me backward and the smirk disappeared off that cops face. It was replaced with astonishment. “No way!” he exclaimed. I shook my arm and Thor flew away.
Another incident occurred with my RV parked at an empty field on 6th Street. I was suddenly surrounded by half the Huntington Beach Police Department. An imposing officer named Moore gave me a ticket for blocking a driveway. "Where is the driveway?" I asked. He pointed to a dip where the curb was designed to become a driveway if anybody ever built a home on the field. It was an abuse of the law.
But as he wrote, Spike hopped right up to Officer Moore and jumped onto his shiny black boot. Moore stared down in disbelief and Spike stared right back up at him. Many of the other cops on scene took an involuntary step backward. “What is this, Damien?” asked Moore. Spike hopped up the steps and into the rig.
It became obvious to me that our pack would have to do something different. We just couldn’t afford the tickets. One day I and a friend returned from the ice cream shop to find a large number of police surrounding the RV. They were measuring the distance of my tire from the curb. It turned out to be 18 inches, and they wrote me ticket number six- and that was enough to tow the vehicle.
They sent for animal control, towed the RV, and took Champion to the pound. It cost a lot. Soon thereafter, they woke me at 3:00 a.m., did it all again, and took me to jail for sleeping in my vehicle. Next, they even painted the curb red, had parking enforcement write me a red zone ticket, and re-painted the curb gray afterward! It was time for a change.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mending Fences
Our having moved into an RV didn’t change everything; we still liked to sit outside Starbucks and play guitar with Champ sleeping beneath my feet, Spike sitting on the back of my chair, and lots of people to talk politics with. There was a big bank across the street that sat empty and had recently been cordoned off entirely. Word on the street was it would soon be torn down, and I and a few friends had lots of fun breaking all the windows. It was like popping bubble wrap, very stress relieving.
Soon, a large wrecking crane arrived on back of a flatbed with a sign on the door saying, ‘HERE TODAY, GONE TODAY’. It got the point across, but never sat well with me. I always felt the slogan should be, ‘HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW’, but as the tree-like Ent said in the Hobbit, “People are hasty folk.”
It was no lie- that bank was gone by sundown. In rolled the construction trailer and up went the temporary fencing, and a big sign proclaiming, ‘Coming Soon- Plaza Almeria’. I took the first opportunity to ask J.A. Hill Corporation out of Pasadena for a job. The head honcho himself looked me up and down and turned me down flat. “We don’t have any jobs here,” he hissed.
I sat there strumming again the following day, and there were very strong winds. So strong it actually blew the temporary fencing down onto the many very expensive cars lined along the street. There was a foreman fighting to hold the fencing, but it was really blowing out there. I snapped into action! “Stay” I said to Champion, and walked over a section of fallen fence. I grabbed a length of yellow nylon rope off the dirt and tied it onto the fence, while the foreman hammered spikes into the soil.
Together and wordlessly, we struggled for almost an hour, lifting fence off now a Jaguar, now a Mercedes, a Land Rover, A Beamer. Rolling slowly past came a very sparkling new and expensive super-duty white pickup driven by a man with a look of concern on his face. I could see from the corner of my eye it was the big boss who had spat me out a day earlier. He shouted some orders to the foreman, hard to hear in the wind. Then he stopped the truck, looked directly at me and said, “Come into the trailer when you’re finished.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
As we moved on down the line tying up fence, the foreman looked at me and said, “That’s one way to get the boss to give you a job.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Job Security
I entered the construction trailer of J.A. Hill Corp. and was greeted by a very nice lady who sent me back to meet the big cheese. Jim Hill was a big Southern California developer who built big stuff. Not exactly the people I was used to associating with, but by the time I left Orange County a few years later, I had met him –and a few more. The Orange County Register would make a big deal about the ‘unholy alliance,’ and who could blame them? But that came later. Suffice it to say I never sold out. Quite the contrary; I was a good influence on them and they in turn restored my faith in humanity with their willingness to change.
Jim was always on the phone. He was always fending off somebody who was pissed off. “This isn’t the building business,” he once told me, “this is the lawsuit business.” I stood patiently for him to finish and told him I had experience. “Doing what?” he asked.
“Construction,” I answered. I still hadn’t realized how big this project was and that construction laborers were less important than front-end loaders, giant land scrapers and D-6 Bulldozers.
“No construction jobs here,” he said, “I need a security guard.” Then he offered me more money than I’d ever made in my life, and sent me out to buy uniforms. I went to the granddaddy of all security stores in Long Beach, or as it is known to the hip-hop community, the ‘LBZ’.
They had black pants and black shirts and black boots and black gloves and black knit caps- and just a lot of black shit! I bought a week’s worth, plus a snazzy reflecting SECURITY vest and helmet. Might as well go Hollywood I thought. When I got to work on the first day, I looked like a Blackwater mercenary and the boss liked it. “Where’s your badge?” he asked.
I shook my head and offered sincere apologies but made it clear I would never wear a badge- ever. Then I called in my ace in the hole, and that was Champion! He was bad to the bone, resplendent in an international orange SECURITY reflector vest that matched mine. Jim Hill didn’t know what to make of me, but he loved my dog, and often said, “I’m not paying for you, I pay for him!”
And it was abundantly true- Champ made a fantastic watch dog, often escorting outside passers-by the entire length of the fence, a whole city block! We were a great team before and now we were a great team getting paid. The amazing thing was that our job was to hang around in downtown Huntington Beach, living in our motorhome on private property, off-limits to cops, code enforcement and drug crazed ex-feds. And better yet, all the birds found us again in no time at all!
Chapter Twenty-eight
Lake Front Property
With the RV safely behind the fence surrounding the 40 acre site, one of the first things to happen was the return of my pigeon-daughter, Phoenix. It was she who I found in the box in the alley at the art show, covered in ants with her brother, Photon. Now she was alone and all grown up- a very demure and pretty lady-bird! I was thrilled to see her, and tossed her some seeds. “Be careful,” I told her. There was a very sneaky Coopers Hawk about, making short work of pigeons. I watched him sneak up on one from behind who was sitting on the construction fence. True to the name raptor, Mr. Cooper whisked that bird silently up into a palm and devoured it among the fronds.
Meanwhile, back in the world of people, the area had been graded clean, revealing very dark Earth beneath. “That’s all native,” said the foreman. I took time to marvel at the deepening ditch, eyes always peeled for a Woolly Mammoth or Saber-Tooth Tiger skeleton. Eventually, the hole was complete. They made it very deep because the Plaza Almeria project would have a gargantuan underground parking garage that went down an astonishing seven levels!
One night, a giant land-mover was still idling at 10:00 p.m. and rumbled loudly against the backdrop of a silent town. Apparently, a heavy equipment operator had left it running, went to the bar across the street, and got so sauced he forgot about it. It took a half dozen phone calls around the nation to track down the manufacturer, who guided me in shutting it down. Somebody got in trouble for that one, I’m sure!
The next morning I was called into the trailer where a pack of blue shirts wearing tape measures stood around a big wooden drafting table. There had been many complaints from angry residents. “Why wasn’t I called?” asked Jim Hill in his usual low menacing whisper. They all looked at me expectantly.
“I didn’t need you,” I replied.
The foreman shrugged his shoulders, rather in agreement. I left without further conversation, and in retrospect, Jim agreed. Why be disturbed at 4:00 a.m. when the security guard had it under control?
With the exception of one large D-6 Bulldozer, the last of the heavy equipment had been removed and the area was otherwise deserted. Champion, Spike and I stood at the far fence together, watching the bulldozer scraping the walls of the now impossibly large and deep hole. That’s when he took one scrape too many, and sheared off the rusty cap of a 10 “ water main that wasn’t on any of the maps, plans or schematics! From our birds-eye view, we watched as the clear fresh water began to pour out like the Hoover Dam.
At first it wasn’t very alarming because of the size of the hole, but the bulldozer began to get bogged in the mud and it soon became apparent that the hole could fill –and beyond. I started imagining a river of thick mud running down Main Street and pouring into the sea two blocks away like the volcano at Kilauea! We called the city, but Public Works just said, “What water main?”
The rising water filled all seven levels before being shut off just as it crested the hell-hole of Huntington. But like every cloud, there was a silver lining- Spike, Champion and me now enjoyed beautiful lake front property- in downtown Huntington Beach- and had it all to ourselves, behind a tall fence, for weeks. Jim Hill wanted me on site 24/7, preferring me not to go anywhere, and I got permission to buy a cooking grill. So of course I went out and bought the biggest gas grill sold at the local box store. Neither the crows nor the dogs were vegetarians, and we all ate well for a change.
Soon the seagulls discovered our secret lake, and the place was a ‘site’ to behold! It took a long, long time for that water to go down, and even when it did, we got enough rain to fill it back up again. These were the last days of peace at Plaza Almeria before real construction began, the calm before the storm you might say, and we decided to enjoy it.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Vanishing Crow
As all good things must come to an end, the waters eventually dried up and the crews began to arrive on site. First, they layed rebar, then brought in the enormous cement pumper-truck. They poured enough cement to increase CO2 in the atmosphere by 90%. When it was all done, they drilled holes, ran the wires through and began framing- it was a microcosm of how we are destroying the world.
During this time, Champion and I would patrol along the inside of the fence while Spike stood sentry on the roof of the RV, cawing to his friends. Occasionally, Thor and others would visit him, as well as a large Red Tail Hawk, who kept Champion busy. Champ knew the language of the crow and instantly responded to distress caws. He would see the hawk above, stand on his hind legs and growl, often driving the raptor away.
Training Champ to pay attention to things in the sky had some side effects too. He would chase the blimp for miles down the beach, wagging his tail and barking at it. Then he would return prancing with a big doggy smile, satisfied he had chased it off. At night, he barked at the lights of passing planes and jets, and sometimes, at Venus!
When the contractors started to arrive, we got to be good friends with a plumber named Greg Stephens, of Greg Stephens Plumbing. No idea how they thought of the name. We used to help Greg sometimes, and even worked with him for a spell.
The cement workers were harder to make friends with because of the language barrier, but they were really nice guys. The first time we interacted was when a loud ‘Thump!’ rang through the site. I bolted from my RV and saw them gathered ‘round a a stack of fallen lumber that had been piled too high. I realized after a while they were lifting the wood slowly and taking count of their workers, fearing someone might be underneath! Fortunately, no one was.
One day at lunch time, they were all sitting on that same wood pile when I exited the porta-potty after a good crap. I walked by them unsure why they were laughing as they ate their bag lunches. I scanned their faces for the humor, but could not figure it out for the life of me. But the farther away I walked, the harder they laughed, prompting me to turn around and look behind me.
There, trailing from the crack of my ass and out of the neatly pressed black security pants, was a long roll of toilet paper stretching all the way back to the now distant porta potty, disappearing inside. I quickly tore free, and laughed along with them. Thank god they didn’t speak English! I walked over to ask Greg the plumber if he had seen it. I knew he would get a kick out of it, but his truck was already gone.
As the day drew to a close, I started locking gates and closing up shop. Champion stood by as I called for Spike, but I got no response; that was unusual. When you talk to birds (especially parrots), they answer instantly, such is the language of birds. You say ‘tweep!’ and they answer almost in unison. But call as I might, there was no answer from Spike.
“C’mon, Champion,” I said. We searched the site high and low, but found no trace of Spike! As night settled in, I feared the worst.
Where was my son?
Chapter Thirty
The Search for Spike
Spike was not a wild crow. To the contrary, he was an imprinted crow, one who cries at the sight of a wild crow. He was a human child with no street smarts, and he was missing without a trace! It was no use calling out for him, because at this time of night, he was asleep wherever he was- if even still alive. All I could do was think.
There was no way Spike just disappeared like that, all evidence to the contrary. Did somebody decide to take him home? If Spike had been taken by a hawk, he would have made a racket. Champion would have heard that. What was out of the ordinary at the job site today, I wondered. “Spike, where are you?” I said aloud.
One thing that crossed my mind was the plumbing truck. Spike disappeared about the same time the plumbing truck did. Could he have hitched a ride? I had seen him sitting on the pipes of the trucks rear rack a few times. Was Spike out on an Orange County Freeway somewhere? The thought was more than troubling. Eventually, I remembered the name of Greg’s plumbing business and looked up the number.
“Hello?” said a groggy voice.
“Greg?” I asked.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“This is Joey the security guard at the Plaza Almeria project, sorry to call so late.”
“No problem, what’s wrong?”
“Greg, I can’t find Spike anywhere. By any chance did you happen to see him?”
“No Joey, sorry but I haven’t,” he said.
“It was just a wild guess, sorry to have bothered you,” I answered.
It was worth a shot, I figured. And still I had no idea what could have happened to Spike. I was thinking he probably got snatched by an owl. Worst of all was the thought that I’d never know what became of the bird I had lived with for years. We turned in, but sleep was impossible.
I kept my ears peeled for any tell-tale sound as the clock trudged ahead more and more slowly. Champ was keeping his ears open too, jumping at every sound. Then after midnight, my pager went off. I scurried to a pay phone to check the voicemail message (this was the old days) and it was a message from Greg. “Joey, I was laying here thinking and I just remembered something that happened on the way home tonight. Give me a call as soon as you get this message.”
I called him back immediately, and he told me he had stopped at a video store on the way home to grab a movie. “I thought it was weird, but when I was in the store, the guy was chasing something out of the door. I looked, and it was a crow- but I didn’t think anything of it. I wonder if it was your crow?”
“It’s worth a try,” I said. “Where is that video store, how do I get there?” I asked.
“It’s really far from where you are. But I’ll come pick you up and take you there if you want.”
“That would be great, Greg, thank you so much!”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.
In the still of the night, a black mini-van cruised up next to my RV just outside the gate. “Wait here Champ,” I said. The side door slid open and I got in the back. Mom was sitting in the passenger's seat holding a sleeping baby. Apparently, they were up anyway and weren’t in too bad a mood, considering. They were really nice about it, and could see I was worried sick. We drove a long time, finally pulling into the parking lot of a small, darkened strip mall. “Where’s the video store?” I asked.
Greg pointed to one of the now closed stores. I ran to the door, looking in every nook and cranny with no sign of Spike anywhere. Then I thought, ‘where would he go?' I looked for any greenery. There wasn’t much- just a small patch of grass with a couple of bushes. I went for a look anyway. As I approached in the dark, I could make out a bench between the bushes. To my great happiness, there stood Spike, asleep on the back of that bench, lost, forlorn and many miles from home.
I picked him up and held him to my chest, kissing his head and saying, “Oh Spike, my boy, I was so worried about you!” Spike murmured and mumbled and whispered crow things back to me. I had almost lost him and promised to be more careful in the future.
And then of course, almost the identical thing happened again about a month later, with Spike this time making the trip all the way to Greg’s house on the axel! Greg paged me and said, “He did it again- he’s in the driveway playing with my kids- and they love him!”
Crow Kung Fu
epilogue
Native American lore says that crows are the messengers across the void.
Spike spent a lot of time opening and closing the spice drawers above the sink in the RV and playing with the shiny things inside them. For years after his death, we were often awakened by the sound of these drawers being pulled out and dropped, splashing their shiny contents into the sink.
Crow medicine stayed with us for two more years, when Mama Crow came to spend her last days on this side of the void with us. We took her in and gave her the dignity she deserved.
Champion lived to be sixteen and sleeps with his wife beneath the shade of a tall willow tree in Central California. Spike has journeyed across to the other side, but has never really left.
Shadowbird, Thor and many others live on.
The End
Misty, The Author, Champion, Spike (on tire) & Sampson 1997