Robin Dead Breast

He rocks in the tree tops all day long

Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singing his song
All the little birds on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Rockin' robin (Tweet x 3)
Rockin' robin (Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee)
Go rockin' robin
'Cause we're really gonna rock tonight
(Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee)
"Rockin Robin" written by  Jimmie Thomas (Leon Rene), sung by Bobby Day (1958) and Michael Jackson (1972)

Spooky-ass spring so far here in the Pacific Northwest. Here's the reason why.

We're being terrorized by demonic bug-eyed robins. They pound into our front windows and door,  scratching them from their muddy talons or flapping away with dirty wings. Yesterday it was the patio door and the side of the Volkswagen. Often, they just perch on the window sills and stare in with their sick dead eyes.These seem to be targeted attacks. Nobody else's cars or homes have been touched by these rob-zombies, and we live in a town home next to several others. There's probably a "logical" explanation for this, but not what I suspect:

It's witchcraft. Not the touchy-feely, incense burning, I-used-to-be-a-hippie-but-now-I'm-not Wiccan type of wiches either. Okay, maybe not the pointy hat, but the cauldron for sure or a crock pot version of same.

We have some neighbors who live at the end of our street on the corner of the main thoroughfare. I would say they were Russian or from some east European country like Pottsylvania or something. They have a couple of toddlers that they like to traipse over to our minuscule courtyard and romp about like it's goddamn central Park. There's a larger, more open area just a half a block down, but they like ours for some reason, mainly so that the kids can draw on the sidewalks with their chalk. The grandmother who watches the lil' tykes encourages them to do so and it does leave a mess.

This annoys my wife who has gone out after they are gone and cleans the chalk drawings off the walls and sidewalk. She thinks they should use their own area for their artwork. A couple of weeks back, they were at it again when Laurie went out to tell them to please stop. The grandmother, who may or may not speak any or little English, just looked up and said, "Thank you."

They haven't been back since.

BUT....

The next day, the crazy ass robins appeared and haven't let up. These creatures sit on the bench outside our front window or perch on their windowsill and peer in with their sick wet eyes, taunting us the entire time.

"Hey! Whatcu doin'? Drinkin' coffee? Watchin' TV? What's on? What's on Animal Planet? Is that David Attenborough I hear? Turn 'im up!"                 

Hitchcock missed a good bet when he didn't include these maniacal sky bastards in THE BIRDS.

But it's not voodoo. That's just silly. Somebody already has a voodoo doll of me. I know the difference I've had mysterious aches and pains for years that can only be attributed to a doll with my likeness, prodded, stabbed and violated in various fashions. Whoever has it I'm sure is going to give it to the dog for a chew toy.

But I'm Hungarian. I know that old dame put a gypsy curse on us or at least on the robins, telling them in her best Maria Ouspenskaya:

"They hate the children. Now you hate them. Go! Attack! Fly, my robin warriors, fly!"

Then she checks the palms of the children for the sign of the pentagram.

Okay. It's nesting season, sure. We had barn swallows built a nest in the corner of our porch a few years back. I asked the Audubon Society how I should get rid of them and that told me to leave 'em be. They were protected. We weren't when we tried to get out the front door. Once they flew the coop, I evicted them once and for all. These robin red breasts (not even fucking red but umber, for God's sake) have the spring crazies alright, but I think the witchy woman's tapped into their vulnerability and bent them to her will.

I'm beginning to sound like the concierge in the 1968 Mel Brooks classic THE PRODUCERS. These demented fowl are definitely "Dirty, disgusting, filthy, lice-ridden boids."

Rockin' robin, my ass. Rotten robin's more like it.

But what the hell do I know? Maybe it is voodoo.

Ouch!

See?

Newman's Own

The recent passing of Paul Newman has garnered many well-deserved tributes to both the man and his career. A giant has crossed our paths and his footprints he left on this earth are deep, leaving lasting impressions on those whose lives he’s touched by the way this man had chosen to live his own. His most famous film roles in COOL HAND LUKE, THE VERDICT, BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID and THE STING have all been the subject of focus since Newman died and deservedly so. However there are some they may fall through the cracks that are also well worth mentioning. Newman worked a wide array of directors, most notably Martin Ritt in his formative years , especially the brilliant HUD with the equally brilliant Patricia Neal and Melvyn Douglas. He never strayed far from more daring filmmakers like Robert Altman or The Coen Brothers. Newman even worked with Alfred Hitchcock in TORN CURTAIN. While not one of his best, Hitchcock’s film does engage Newman in one of the most brutal and realistic fight scenes in history. Then there is the underappreciated western tall tale THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JUDGE ROY BEAN directed by John Huston and written by John Milius. Based on the legend of the notorious Texan hanging judge, ROY BEAN falls under the category of that pantheon of western known as the End of the Wild West. It can stand proudly next to PAT GARRETT AND BILLY THE KID, MONTE WALSH or even BUTCH CASSIDY itself. ROY BEAN has an impressive cast including Ava Gardner as Lily Langtry, a young Victoria Principal in one of her first roles, Ned Beatty, Anthony Perkins, Roddy McDowall and Stacy Keach as Bad Bob…the original Bad Bob, the albino. And the memorable, melancholy score by Maurice Jarre haunts to this day. Even the cornball theme song MARMALADE, MOLASSES AND HONEY (sung by Andy Williams!) works in a strange way.

But the whole show belongs to Huston, Milius and Newman. Huston’s direction is loose and fun-loving, even borrowing from the cult classic EL TOPO in the opening scene, then spinning a yarn as masterfully as he does with his pet project of THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING a couple of years later. Milius proves that he has always been one of the best screenwriters of that period with a distinct voice that is sorely lacking in today’s films. His script is chockfull of memorable dialogue.

Judge: Justice is the handmaiden of the law.

Deputy: I thought you said the law was the handmaiden of justice.

Judge: Works both ways.

As for Newman’s howling at the moon performance as Roy Bean, it stands out in an illustrious career as one of his best. Observe the daring and crazy ass shouting match he has with his bear and marvel at the way this wild beast does not tear him apart on camera. The final shootout alone is worth the price of admission when the elderly Judge Roy Bean steps out the saloon before an entire arsenal pointed in his direction. Someone tosses a torch at him that he catches in mid-air. “Who the hell are you?” someone else yells.

“Justice, you sons-of-bitches!” he replies, tossing the torch back and starting the fire that sets the whole town ablaze. Fantastic. 

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JUDGE ROY BEAN is well worth discovering, probably more successful than BUFFALO BILL AND THE INDIANS, though I admire that as well. It makes a great companion piece to Sydney Pollack's JEREMIAH JOHNSON starring Newman's buddy Robert Redford. Make a double bill out of 'em, pop some Newman's Own popcorn and have a great night at the movies. 

As the Judge himself would say, “That is my ruling.”