Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left blank for surprises]

Welcome to the internet home of Tina Rowley. Here you'll find my blog, links to my other published writing, and whatever ends up climbing into the space I left blank for surprises.

 

i, confirmed ornithophobe, am letting the healing begin

Oh, yes, me fears the birds something deep. I've been known to drive home, find a crow perched on my porch (during that season where they're all paranoid and testy because their babies are learning to fly), sit in my car crying for half an hour, pull out of the driveway and drive around for 20 minutes hoping the crow will leave, drive back, see the crow still there, and then go weepingly call an ex-boyfriend for him to come and make the crow go away so I can go inside.

A friend recently told me this story. She was walking down the street when there was a thunk right behind her feet. She turned around and saw a bloody, beheaded pigeon. Quoi? Comment? Come again? What?! She looked around to see if someone could have thrown it at her, and saw a couple of guys laughing. Before she could accuse them, they pointed to a tree above her. There was a crow EATING THE PIGEON'S HEAD. He had hucked the body at her! Plus! Plus! She was wearing a hoody. This close, man. This close. Beheaded pigeon thumping into the open hood. It didn't happen. But it could have.

And that is exactly the sort of shit that goes on with birds, motherfuckers. Can you blame me? Their brains are small, small, so small! So small that if a bird has the thought that it must fuck with you, there is no room in there for you to try and slide a contrasting thought behind it. You can't be like, hey, bird, you just don't know me. I'm a good guy. Listen, I can play the violin! Mammals love that shit. With mammals...if, say, you got a wolf coming at you, you just sing 'Amazing Grace' as sweetly as you can and the wolf is gonna be all, yes! A wretch like me. Hey. Wow. All right! You can go. Birds are just focused on their objective until it magically changes or until they're dead. That's how I feel.

So it is with great bemusement that I announce that I am a contributing editor at a new online humor magazine called the Clay Pigeon. It's all pigeon this, pigeon that all the time. Let me be clear. It's not, like, pigeon-based humor. It just has a pigeon motif. I can't fucking believe it. I'm all arm-in-arm with a pigeon.

Diesel, over at the very fine Mattress Police, is the editor-in-chief and he's assembled a crack team of people to make this weekly comedic juggernaut. Oh, it's a juggernaut, all right. The Clay Pigeon is "a massive, inexorable force, campaign, movement or object that crushes whatever is in its path." This is an early review from Merriam-Webster's. Review, you know, well. Maybe not like directly a review. I think they're not allowed to review things. But it's clear that they want to. They wanted to. (Damn purview. All definitiony. So pigeonholey.) (Pigeon!)

P.S. It's come to my attention that when I mention the online humor magazine Clay Pigeon, I need to use the phrase "the online humor magazine Clay Pigeon" for search engine purposes. Two things make me want to scream a little: the phrase "humor magazine" and promoting things that I'm involved in. It embarrasses me. But it must be done! I'm not the only cat involved here! So there you go. You're going to hear the phrase "online humor magazine Clay Pigeon" out of me in the future.