The end of the Sabbatical

This August last, we were faced with a conundrum of a variety which we could not have previously imagined. We received a cease and desist order from a fledgling fast food corporation which intended to call itself "McDonnells." The conflict isn't obvious at first sight because, as you can tell, McDonnell is a far cry from Birdonnell, our old and well-revered surname. However, the McDonnell corporation intended to release a line of sandwiches which conflicted with our beloved appellation. Their listed sandwiches were going to include the likes of The Ribdonnell, the Beefdonnell, the Pigdonnell, and the Mega Pigdonnell, you get the idea. Simply awful names for what were surely to be a line of grotesque comestibles.

Obviously, as you by this time have undoubtedly surmised, they were looking to corner the market on the name "Birdonnell" for their newest sandwich. Andrew asked them why they didn't just call it a Chickdonnell. This seemed more appetizing and catchier. The problem, however, is that the sandwich wasn't made of chicken. The McDonnell Corporation, instead of falling back onto the traditional fast food bird of choice had chosen to blaze trails, both edibly and zoologically. Their team of Perdue-trained biologists had created what they called simply "The Bird." It would possess the greatest and most delicious traits of a variety of birds and provide the new meat for their sandwich.

















Above: The Churkeycock in its unnatural habitat.

The bird pictured above, tentatively called the Churkeycock, was specially engineered to provide the turkey's dashing waddle, the rooster's magnificent crest, the peacock's splendid plumage, and the succulent taste of all three birds.

Now, the McDonnell Corporation's letter detailed much of this information, and we discovered the rest through a bit of investigation. Though we were determined to maintain the frequency of our posts on the blog, we were in no position to wage a legal battle at that point, financially or emotionally. As a result, the blogs have been a bit dry over the last year or so as our family representative, Lori, haggled with the McDonnell Corporation for the right to maintain our web site and family name as we see fit, blah blah blah etc bally hoo and hooly bah. You know that old rigmarole. In any event, the battles are over and the folding tent of war has been collapsed and stored under the deck for some other day to be determined as our family foe has withdrawn with its industrial wang tucked between its legs, yelping and limping back to its Grandparent Corporation. The Birdonnell Family has carried the day and shall reign: Evermore.

Back from Parole

Well, the internet police finally caught up with us, and we were deemed "too awesome" to exist online in a continuous state. They pulled up in front of the Birdonnell family homestead and, after a short slapping fight, confiscated our mouses. Mice. I know what you're thinking, "Why didn't you just use the touchpads on your laptops?" The answer is, we don't like touchpads. Never have, never will. To Lori, Andrew, and Landy, and the touchpad is an instrument of confusion and torture, and those who rely on them will find themselves in deep, stinking gravy someday. Trust us.

Many people are concerned about how our move went, and all in all, things went smoothly. Lori and Andrew got the old Saipan apartment packed up, and when we were done, we couldn't find Landy. (I know I'm switching from third to first person with reckless abandon, just so you know. They're not stupid.) So we looked everywhere, the apartment, the porch, in the stove and the fridge, and the lad was not to be found. I mean, at that point, what can you do? So we took off for the airport, assuming that he had decided to finally, "return to the jungle," a development we had been expecting for weeks. He/It had begun to twitch more nervously than usual, and his midnight hooting was developing a genuinely primeval tinge that we were unaccustomed to. So we said farewell in our hearts and drove to the airport, went through a half-hearted customs check, etc, and took our seats in the first class cabin. Flight went well, champagne toast, personal video consoles, thirty feet of legroom, private gentlemen shows in the rear of the first class cabin; it was everything you expect. Off the plane in Detroit, everyone was rude, ha ha ha ha ha, customs flicks a rubber band at us as we roll through with suitcases packed full of gold bullion, "Welcome back, crackers," ha ha ha ha, and bam. We're in America.
That's when Lori's suitcase begins to rip open and we recognize the source of the slow, steady tear in its "Lifetime Guaranteed" Samsonite Vinylpropaline exterior. That particular eggtooth can only belong to Landy.
"It's Landy!"Lori exclaimed.
"We thought you were in the jungle" Andrew sing-song-ed. "Where's all the gold bullion we had excavated from the rear of the Japaneses commandant's headquarters, Landy?"
Landy tried to bite Andrew, and then made him hold his hand as the family made its way out of the Detroit airport to begin its journey anew.
In America.

Back from Parole

Well, the internet police finally caught up with us, and we were deemed "too awesome" to exist online in a continuous state. They pulled up in front of the Birdonnell family homestead and, after a short slapping fight, confiscated our mouses. Mice. I know what you're thinking, "Why didn't you just use the touchpads on your laptops?" The answer is, we don't like touchpads. Never have, never will. To Lori, Andrew, and Landy, and the touchpad is an instrument of confusion and torture, and those who rely on them will find themselves in deep, stinking gravy someday. Trust us.

Many people are concerned about how our move went, and all in all, things went smoothly. Lori and Andrew got the old Saipan apartment packed up, and when we were done, we couldn't find Landy. (I know I'm switching from third to first person with reckless abandon, just so you know. They're not stupid.) So we looked everywhere, the apartment, the porch, in the stove and the fridge, and the lad was not to be found. I mean, at that point, what can you do? So we took off for the airport, assuming that he had decided to finally, "return to the jungle," a development we had been expecting for weeks. He/It had begun to twitch more nervously than usual, and his midnight hooting was developing a genuinely primeval tinge that we were unaccustomed to. So we said farewell in our hearts and drove to the airport, went through a half-hearted customs check, etc, and took our seats in the first class cabin. Flight went well, champagne toast, personal video consoles, thirty feet of legroom, private gentlemen shows in the rear of the first class cabin; it was everything you expect. Off the plane in Detroit, everyone was rude, ha ha ha ha ha, customs flicks a rubber band at us as we roll through with suitcases packed full of gold bullion, "Welcome back, crackers," ha ha ha ha, and bam. We're in America.
That's when Lori's suitcase begins to rip open and we recognize the source of the slow, steady tear in its "Lifetime Guaranteed" Samsonite Vinylpropaline exterior. That particular eggtooth can only belong to Landy.
"It's Landy!"Lori exclaimed.
"We thought you were in the jungle" Andrew sing-song-ed. "Where's all the gold bullion we had excavated from the rear of the Japaneses commandant's headquarters, Landy?"
Landy tried to bite Andrew, and then made him hold his hand as the family made its way out of the Detroit airport to begin its journey anew.
In America.

A Fabrication

Well, cat's out of the bag before it could even get comfortable in the back of the truck on the way to the river. The tale of our abduction at the hands of Haole Extremists, who were later going to be identified as the Pale Hand of Garapan, was slightly exaggerated. We DID go to Coffee Care, it should be noted. After that, the story sort of... well, it had it's own legs and was walking around. Let's put it that way.

The good news is that there is genuine excitement in the air as the Birdonnell family calendar now includes a number of Cheese-related holidays. That's right. We're moving to Wisconsin!

A number of questions arise with this bit of news:
1.) Is our timing in any way related to Bret Favre's current hesitancy to either retire or return?
2.) Will Landy adapt well to the new climate and surroundings?
3.) Will Landy be allowed through customs? Will he need shots? Will we have to declare him as a gift/animal/plant detritus? Who do we go to for these answers?

There are others, but lists are boring. Let's try a table instead. Tables are lovely. This should be considered a preliminary glimpse into the variation of traits and behaviors common to two locales: Saipan, CNMI and Beaver Dam, Wisconsin:

Differentiating Factors	Saipan	Beaver Dam
Potable Water	NO	YES
Movie Theater	YES	YES
Ocean	YES	NO
Very Long Lake	NO	YES
Chipotle Proximity	NO	YES
Betel Nut	YES	NO
Delicious Fruit Bat	YES	?
Affordable Cheese	NO	YES
WWII Live Ordinance	YES	?
Proximity to Canada	NO	YES
County Fair	NO	YES
Taco Bell	NO	YES
Year-Round 50 Cent Meat on a Stick Stands	YES	?

As you can see, the choice was obvious. You take the thirteen categories that matter most to you, and see where you would end up.

On a side note, there was some confusion on the part of a visitor from the infamous site of Jim and Kristene. All apologies, Mrs. Lind, if the light nature of this prose causes it to be confused for "satire" or "fiction." The narrative voice of this page is still emerging, but it is intended, at all times and without exception, to be as serious in tone and timbre as Mr. James Earl Jones. As you read, please imagine his voice narrating in your head.

Trapped in Haoleville

You may have noted our prolonged absence. It has been a long, arduous month for the Birdonnell clan. Our trials have been many. Our suffering can only be described as "great". But we are back, and we are doing much, much better.

I do not mean to be dramatic, but where there is life, drama will follow. Like a stray dog who refuses to either make direct eye contact with you or stop following along behind your footsteps, drama will follow. Here is why we have not been blogging:
It started off as an innocent enough March day. Lori, Landy, and Andrew puttering around our island paradise in a Honda Civic that lacked for nothing. Four cylinders running to perfection, the sun smiling overhead, and palm trees swaying to the beat of our radio. The young family made their way up the winding roads of Capital Hill. Their goal? A delicious breakfast meal at the legendary purveyor of food and fine spirits: Coffee Care.

Something was wrong, though. The birds were still and the breeze was strong from the East. Omens were ignored as the family pushed its way into Coffee Care's faux adobe interior. "Where are the crayons? Where are the crayons?" Landy yelled. We always vow beforehand that we won't let him eat them, but he's got this look... I'll describe it as best I can some other time, but the action must commence. As Landy ran into a booth to look for crayons, Lori and Andrew noticed something different about the restaurant. Instead of the wait staff, there was a group of pale-skinned people standing in a semi-circle and staring at us.

One of them stepped forward, a tall, hale, blonde fellow in khaki shorts, a flower-print shirt, white socks, and sandals. "Greetings, brother and sister," he said. "We're so glad you could join us."

We did our best to explain that we had only come for Cinnamon French Toast, that we weren't looking for trouble. As we were soon to find out, though, looking for trouble can sometimes be as needless a task as looking for hair in your sink's drain. That is to say, it's always there. Looking for you.

Our saga continues.... here: www.metabirdonnell.blogspot.com

Grilled to perfection

It may seem like a waste of time to fill the internet with the fam's encounters with the barbecue, but what the hey? If you think we're wasting time here you should just look here and here and here. Perhaps it's un-American to consider the last one a waste of time, but maybe it's just deeply American to think so. In any event, I would rather think about barbecuing.

Last night the fam ate barbecue cooked on our own little back porch. Hamburgers for Andrew, salmon for Lori, and about a pound of roasted marshmallows for young Landy. It's all he'll eat these days. It's merely a coincidence that we were barbecuing last night so he had a way to roast them on a chopstick that Lori gave him last month. He was happy as a coconut crab, though; you should have seen him there, roasting three marshmallows at a time and singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" over and over to himself.

The hamburger was very good, but very small by the time it was done cooking. In the states, they mark ground beef by the percentage of fat it contains, as many of you know. However, in Saipan, there's just one type of hamburger available, and apparently it's 50% fat. There was so much fat coming off those patties that Landy nearly lost a hand to the frequent bursts of flame that shot off the fat as it hit the coals. The burgers, when they were finished molting, turned out to be exquisite. The delicate play of the garlic that was infused in the meat during its preparation and the crunchy charred exterior of the succulent beef patty was enough to make my eyebrows knit. A small sweater was produced, I put it on, and spent the rest of the evening in the afterglow of a burger well-cooked.

Lori's Slammin' Salmon, a title which I have not yet seen on a menu, but which I'm sure rests snugly in TGI Friday's cache of copyrighted foodstuff names, was a melange of brown sugar, lemon juice and olive oil wrapped up tight in a thin jacket of aluminum foil. She declared it to be, "puckeringly sweet and sour, with an aftertaste that brought to mind a long hug from Scarlett Johannsen." Most intriguing.

Landy reports that his marshmallows were softer than usual. Most likely as a result of the heat from the coals.

As you may have guessed, we're all catching up on our New Yorker subscription here, and are very much enjoying the food issue of a few months back. In any event, we hope you're eatin' well wherever you are, and keeping it safe and sound and real.

Birdonnells Heart Elvis

Hey, everyone at home!

Hope it's not snowing too hard for ya'! Ha ha ha ha! The Birdonnell clan is having a grand old time on "the rock that only wished it'd been forgotten by time." This is a miraculous place in some ways. A testament to our ability to forget the realities of war in sixty years or less. Not that everyone is doing so. But really, when you think about it, the fact that we can swim to a number of submerged military tanks, dive off their gun barrels, then fly to Tinian, and ride a moped to the holes in the runways where the atomic bombs America dropped on Japan were stored, fly back to Saipan, and then stop at KFC for lunch and take in a really stupid movie at the theatre.... well, it just makes my big, fat American lips start to quiver. Even Landy agrees. This is a magical place of "what-may-be-someday" for places such as Iraq, Bosnia-Herzogovenia, Rwanda.... there's hope people. Just come to Saipan, and see for yourself!

Speaking of visiting Saipan, when you do so, don't miss the Thursday night Street Market in Garapan. Holy. Cow. Picture this: the three Birdonnells walking through row after row of exotic, delicious scents. People from around the world crowding around you, everyone walking around with enormous coconuts with straws sticking out of them or some sort of meat on a stick. People trying to pet your "pet monkey" only to realize it's a child. I mean to tell you that it's an experience that you don't want to miss.

You can get anything at this Street Market. Anything. What's that? You want some Saipan Pineapple? Well here you go. I suggested that they change their sign to read "Saipapple" but they just looked at me. They probably didn't speak much English. You can get squid on a stick, five mysterious choices for five American dollars, necklaces made from sea shells, coconut shells, various kinds of teeth, whatever you want. I have not yet located a shrunken head at this carnival of plenty, but I'm holding out hope. Lori purchased a new pair of sparkling slippers for only two dollars, and Landy used some of his allowance money to buy a henna tattoo. I couldn't believe what he asked for; I don't even want to talk about it. But it is his money, and he isn't allowed out of the house much anyways, so, what the hey.

There were people from all corners of the world and entertainment galore. The highlight of the evening had to be the King of Rock and Roll himself, Mr. Elvis Presley. Elvis entertained the clamoring throngs of the Street Market for upwards of twenty minutes last Thursday night, and the Birdonnells were there for every minute of it. Andrew, Lori and Landy were all cutting a rug in front of the stage, and no one could stop us. Although, for some reason, a few tried. Lori and I have never taken swing dance lessons, but that has never stopped us from trying to make it look otherwise. I spun her around so many times that she was shaking when we were finished. Landy's dance is a real crowd pleaser as well. He goes down about halfway into the splits and then hops up and down on his heels and shakes his wrists in the air. It's startling to watch at first, but then it becomes mesmerizing. He's quite a child.

It's been exciting times here in Saipan. That's all for now, but hope you're doing just as well as us!

Coconuts, Dancing, and Coral

It's been an eventful week on the island! Hello from tropical Saipan!

This week, we have seen some real Birdonnell family-style excitement. First of all, it turns out Landy is one of the finest tree-climbing bipeds in the entire world. His clawlike feet give him an unanticipated advantage, and the whole family has been enjoying the fruits of his labor. We had coconut meat soup last night as we drank pina coladas from halved coconuts. I finally figured out how to open the shell. First, Landy has to husk the fool things; he's got the sharpest teeth. Then I take the family machete and crack the thing open. Turns out you can't just tie it to the porch railing and whack it, though. I thought it would be that simple. Works with pineapples.

Apparently you have to use the dull end of the machete, and just give it some cracks as you rotate it in your hand. Who knew? Landy has stopped drinking regular milk and will only drink coconut milk. He says regular milk comes from "dirty cow". That's our boy. He still eats hamburgers, though, and probably will continue to do so until we tell him where they come from. Funny how life works. Crazy old life.

Lori swam the length of the island last week, which was a first for her. Landy and I followed in our double-kayak with emergency water reserves, but she never even stopped once for a break. It was quite a feat, twelve miles, and we're all very proud of her. When she reached the Southern tip of the island, right around Ladder Beach, she thought about turning around and swimming back, but Landy talked her out of it by yelling "shark!" over and over again. There weren't any sharks, of course, but it was still very convincing, so Lori got out of the water. We hitched a ride back to Garapan in the back of a truck with twelve other people. There was an elderly man amongst our rowdy party who whittled Landy a duck out of a betel nut. Landy loved it very much, but after another five minutes in the truck, the old man asked Landy if he could have the betel nut back. Then the old man took it from him, cracked it open with his teeth, rolled the betel nut into a pepper leave with some lime, and popped it in his mouth. Landy didn't cry or anything, because he never cries, but he told the man to "watch his back." That was a bit startling, but everyone in the truck just laughed and laughed.

Landy meant it, though. That old man better watch his back.

We made it home eventually, anyway, and we had coconut milkshakes with dinner. All in all, a successful day for the Birdonnells. Hope you're having great weather in the states!