Tuesday, July the 12th, 2005
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Consider the perplexity of a fop in a quandary. Consider the quandary the fop finds himself in. A bird has built its nest in the fop's tremendous hairstyle. A small bird, of course, a hummingbird or a wren. It has laced the fop's hair with twigs, hay, moss and bits of duff from the forest floor. Were the fop a hater of birds he would not be in a quandary. He would simply tear the nest from his tresses and punch his fist at the hummingbird or wren so that it flew away. But the fop of whom I write was no hater of birds. His love of our wingéd chums was so great that he was known to some as The Bird-Adoring Fop. Perhaps the hummingbird or wren had, with some avian sixth sense, apprehended this bird-love and chosen the site of its nest accordingly. Or it may have been simply the luxury of the fop's locks, espied from high up in the sky as he reclined languidly on a chaise in a salon, fluttering a perfumed kerchief and sipping some delightful infusion from a bone china cup. Birds cannot speak in human language, so we shall never know. Nor do we know what terrible series of events found the fop, ten days later, facing a firing squad.