When constructing a sentence, it’s important to pay attention to proper spelling and punctuation. Take the simple declarative sentence, “Let’s eat, Grandma!” Oh, what a profound difference a missing comma can make. And that’s the point of today’s rant. The next time I hear someone say, “It may be a blessing in the skies,” I just might lose it.No! It’s “a blessing in disguise.” The only blessing in the skies is that your middle school English teacher isn’t alive to hear you say that. We need to talk. Actually, I need to talk. You need to listen.
Sometimes I worry about our educational system. Actually, scratch that – I lie awake in a cold sweat panic about it. Every day, I browse social media or read emails where someone has catastrophically misspelled a commonly used word, completely butchered a classic truism, or otherwise treated English grammer like a rental car – which, by the way, is spelled grammar. I threw that in there to see if your eyes would gloss right over it like a golden retriever blankly staring at a calculus textbook.
My theory is that about thirty percent of Americans slept through middle school English, or spent that time practicing spitball trajectories, doodling heavy metal band logos, or seeing how long they could balance a ruler on their upper lip. (And by the way, it’s slept, not slepped.)
Recently a guy wrote to me that he’s traveling to Antarctica next Febuary. I told him, “No, you’re not.” Because there isn’t any month named Febuary in the Gregorian calendar. There are two R’s in February. Apparently one of them entered the Federal Witness Protection Program sometime during the Reagan Administration and has never been heard from since.
Likewise, you can’t order an expresso at Starbucks. Well… technically you can. But be prepared for the 19-year-old barista who actually knows the proper pronunciation of the word espresso to give you a judgmental (not judgemental) look.
I realize that you probably take for granite that you’ve mastered your mother tongue. But have you really? If so, how is it that you didn’t even notice that my use of “take for granite” should have read “take for granted”? Unless you are a geologist discussing a countertop, you need to pay closer attention.
Then there’s the person who proudly announces, “Me and Larry saw the funniest movie.” Nope. “Larry and I” did. “Me” is an object. You know… like the grammar textbook you apparently used as a pillow during class. While we’re reviewing elementary school material, you mispelled “misspelled.” And “cat” is still spelled C-A-T. I checked. Nothing has changed.
I realize that, for all intensive purposes, I’m probably talking to a brick wall. A wall that didn’t even blink at the fact that the phrase is actually “for all intents and purposes.”
Last week someone told me her seven-year-old son had told a bold-faced lie. Unless he somehow lied in 18-point Helvetica Black, the word she was looking for was bald-faced. As in bare, naked, and completely uncovered. Like her lack of vocabulary. Leave typography out of this.
And for the record… It is not a doggy-dog world. It’s dog-eat-dog. Nobody wants you to be their escape goat. A scapegoat is a sacrificial lamb of blame; an escape goat is just a farm animal that figured out how to unlatch the pasture gate. And please don’t nip it in the butt. That sounds less like good advice and more like a criminal charge. The expression is nip it in the bud.
Your 9th grade English teacher probably did not tell you your essay passed mustard. Unless she was grading hot dogs. It’s passed muster. One belongs in a sentence. The other belongs on a bratwurst.
Then there are my personal favorites. You don’t loose your wallet. You lose your wallet. Loose is how your pants fit after six months on Ozempic. You’re not balling your eyes out. Unless you’re draining three-pointers while sobbing uncontrollably, you’re bawling. You don’t wait with baited breath unless someone has attached worms to your face. You wait with bated breath.
And if you’re weary of your neighbor’s barking dog, that’s because you’re tired of hearing it. If you’re wary of your neighbor, it’s because he owns seventeen lawn gnomes and keeps inviting you to cryptocurrency seminars. There’s a difference.
And while we’re cleaning house… It’s could have. Not could of. Somewhere along the line, “could’ve” got mugged in a dark alley and woke up as “could of.”
A word about the annoying overuse of apostrophes… If you’re selling three tomato’s for a dollar, your vegetables don’t own anything. They don’t need an apostrophe. Neither do DVD’s, taco’s, banana’s, or emoji’s. Stop sprinkling apostrophes around like you’re seasoning French fries.
Then come the championship contenders… The people who confuse your and you’re. Or there, their, and they’re. Every time I see someone write, “Your an idiot,” a tiny part of my soul packs its bags and moves to Canada.
And don’t even get me started on people who end every sentence with three exclamation points!!! One exclamation point says you’re excited. Three says you’ve just spotted Bigfoot riding a unicycle while being chased by Elvis. Use them sparingly. Please!!!
Now, I realize I may sound like an insufferable know-it-all. That’s fair. I’ve earned it. Some of you are probably grinding your teeth right now while muttering, “I could care less what this pretentious jerk thinks” – that’s, of course, assuming you knew the meaning of the word pretentious.
Once again…your, er, I mean, you’re wrong. It’s I couldn’t care less. If you could care less, then you still care at least a little – which, frankly, gives me hope. Because maybe – just maybe – you’ll remember one thing from this column. Probably not.
But perhaps, somewhere out there, someone who was about to order an expresso in Febuary while telling his friend that he had passed mustard will pause, take a deep breath … and decide to remain silent.
If this article saves just one innocent apostrophe from a life of abuse, prevents one escape goat from being dragged into another clichéd conversation about this doggy-dog world, or keeps one unsuspecting flower from being nipped in the butt…well, then my work here is done. To be honest, I really could care less.
In the meantime, go open a dictionary.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[WASHINGTON, D.C.] — Following an Executive Order that officially renamed Lake Ontario “Lake America” – a direct response to being rebuffed by Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney during trade talks – President Donald Trump has announced an ambitious new international initiative: re-branding the entire planet.
The move comes on the heels of his decision last year to rename the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America,” and his plan to rebrand the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans as “MAGA Ocean East” and “MAGA Ocean West,” effectively erasing centuries of nautical tradition.
Ancient Greek writers originally named the Atlantic in the 6th century BC, while Ferdinand Magellan dubbed the Pacific in 1520. When asked by reporters why he felt entitled to rename two-thirds of the Earth’s crust, Trump was characteristically modest.
“No country has done more for the Atlantic – or the Pacific – than the United States,” Trump boasted. “No country comes close. Before me, Biden tried to destroy both oceans. Total disaster. The fish were crying. But I saved them. And climate change is a hoax, by the way, so if anything, the oceans are actually getting bigger thanks to me.”
According to leaked memos from senior administration officials, Trump has temporarily set aside all other executive duties—including the construction of the White House Grand Ballroom—to prioritize geographic re-branding. The primary goal: ensure global maps accurately reflect his personal greatness.
Documents provided to The New York Times reveal several upcoming cartographic adjustments:
The Black Sea will officially become The European Heritage Sea. “The Black Sea is a disgusting name,” Trump reportedly argued to aides. “Totally unfair. It completely ignores the incredible contributions of white European settlers. Plus, black is a very sad color. Gold is way better. We’re looking into painting the water gold, actually – just as soon as we fix the Donald J. Trump Reflection Pond” (formerly the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool).
Greenland, long a target of Trump’s real estate ambitions, will undergo a mandatory re-brand. While aides initially pushed for Trumpland, the President is reportedly leaning toward Trumpistan. “It sounds more dominating,” Trump explained. “Very strong. Very powerful.”
The Panama Canal will be renamed The Natalie Canal, in honor of his faithful aide, Natalie Harp. Upon hearing the news, Harp was visibly moved. “Honestly, I’m speechless,” she told reporters. “I would have been thrilled with just a small Central American country named after me, like Peru. Donald is just so generous.”
Slovenia, the nation of Melania’s birth, will officially be renamed Melania in a bid to dispel rumors of marital discord. “Melania is frankly the only good thing to ever come out of that wretched little place,” Trump noted. “Plus, the name Melania has many of the same letters as Slovenia, so the mapmakers save on ink. It’s a genius cost-cutting measure.”
The Amazon Rainforest will be renamed The Great American Amazon Prime Forest, following an exclusive branding arrangement with Jeff Bezos, assuming Bezos ponies up the $1 billion payment to the Trump Library and Casino Fund.
The English Channel will become The Hegseth Strait, honoring his Secretary of War. “Nobody’s straiter than Whiskey Pete, that’s for sure – except for me, of course. There will be no gay waterways in my administration.” Meanwhile, The Swiss Alps will be rebranded The Trump World Liberty Financial Alps, to honor his hugely successful climb to the summit of riches from his crypto company.
When asked if he had plans to rename major strategic rivals like Russia or China, Trump flatly rejected the idea. “Why would I change their names? They’re doing a fantastic job,” Trump said. “And Putin and Xi Jinping think I’m doing a incredible job – way better than Lincoln, frankly. Lincoln never had the ratings I have.”
Other upcoming name changes expected to be codified by Executive Order include:
The Great Northern USA Territory (formerly Canada)
Mar-a-Lago West (formerly Mexico)
The Shithole Continent (formerly Africa)
Trump Med Casino Resort (formerly the Gaza Strip)
Vance Valley (formerly Silicon Valley), out of respect for his Vice President, who tipped him off on how to run a Crypto scam and make billions
Muskalia (formerly Australia), which Trump reportedly described as “a giant desert full of lethal animals, perfect for testing autonomous Mars Rovers.”
D.C. insiders report that speculation is running rampant over whether Trump will attempt to rename the planet itself. White House staff overheard him whispering to his assistant, “Which sounds better to you, Natalie: Planet Trump or simply The Orange Planet? After everything I’ve done for this solar system, I deserve it. Nobody knows more about running a planet than me. NASA came to me, tears in their eyes, they said, ‘Sir, the Earth needs a new brand.’”
However, rumors that Trump plans to rename India – the world’s most populous nation – Ivankavania were firmly shut down by the President himself.
“India is a very crowded, dirty place, not fit for Ivanka,” Trump angrily clarified. “No, I’m leaning toward giving Ivanka Great Britain. They’ve been very mean to me over there. Very rude. And Ivanka would make an incredible Queen—way sexier than Elizabeth ever was, believe me.”
[Author’s note: After I published this article, I received the following direct message from President Trump’s Truth Social account: “Seems like you didn’t get the memo, Mr. Jones. The name of this blog is now officially: “View from Mar-a-Lago.” Thank you for your attention to this matter!”]
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What a brilliant idea – baby food for adults in single serving jars. What could possibly go wrong? This was an actual product idea Gerber brought to market. Shockingly, it was an epic fail. (Not making this up.)
What a brilliant idea – baby food for adults in single serving jars. What could possibly go wrong? This was an actual product idea Gerber brought to market. Shockingly, it was an epic fail. (Not making this up.) Most Business marketing gurus study successful product launches like the iPhone, the Amazon Echo, or my personal favorite – the wheel. Not me. As one of America’s leading self-proclaimed marketing and brand management experts, I prefer to examine the spectacular, crater-sized smoking holes left in the market by history’s greatest commercial flops. (I’m looking at you, Cyber Truck.) I’m talking about those mind-bogglingly bad ideas that make you wonder if the entire executive suite was huffing industrial copier fluid during the development phase.
Recently, while researching some of the most catastrophic product launches of the past half century, I uncovered a treasure trove of previously unreleased shareholder letters from corporate CEOs. These letters attempted to explain how products which should have been laughed out of the conference room somehow made it all the way to store shelves. What follows is a sampling of a few of those letters.
All of the following disastrously misguided product launch failures actually happened.
EXHIBIT A: GERBER FOODS (1974)Context: The genius idea to market “Gerber Singles” – pureed, jarred meals for single adults.
To Our Valued Shareholders,
As you know, our Q3 earnings look like a crime scene. Many of you have expressed disappointment over our recent launch of Gerber Singles for Adults. For this, I must squarely place the blame on our Senior VP of Product Innovation, Gary Smithers.
Gary assured me that the “swinging singles” of the 1970s were tired of cooking whole steaks and wanted nothing more than to pop open a small glass jar of room-temperature, pureed Beef Burgundy and eat it with a tiny plastic spoon while watching Match Game.
Unfortunately, the launch suffered due to several unforeseen factors. For one, Gary badly misread the market. He insisted on using the slogan: “Dinner You Can Swallow Without Chewing.” In hindsight, this may have unintentionally suggested weakness, frailty, or that the product was primarily aimed at nursing home residents.
The product flopped after three months not because adults don’t want mushy, pre-chewed food, but because Gary insisted on putting a picture of our iconic chubby Gerber baby on the label. I think it sent the wrong message.
We are currently repurposing the leftover mush into drywall paste. Gary has been demoted to jar-sterilizer.
EXHIBIT B: HARLEY-DAVIDSON (1996)Context: The legendary motorcycle company launches Harley-Davidson Perfume.
Dear Shareholders,
As many of you know, our entry into the fragrance market failed to meet expectations. Specifically, consumers did not embrace our Harley-Davidson perfume line, despite extensive testing. Our chief marketing officer Chad Bennington strongly believed men would be drawn to women who possessed a fragrance that hinted of “gasoline, leather, poor financial decisions, and Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts.”
It turns out men do not want their wives on date night to smell like a broken-down transmission fluid leak. In Chad’s defense, our focus groups responded surprisingly positively after the fourth beer.
Where we miscalculated was in assuming customers wanted to smell like motorcycles rather than simply ride them. We also failed to realize in time that there really is no such thing as an automotive personal fragrance market. Chad has been asked to clear out his desk and ride his motorcycle into the sunset.
We remain optimistic that a relaunch could succeed if paired with a free kickstand and limited-edition neck tattoo.
Warm regards,
Richard Teerlink, Harley-Davidson CEO
Another epic failure was the 2005 launch by Frito-Lay of Cheetos “Flamin’ Hot” lip balm. (Not making this up.) The fact that it came with a Cheetos-themed key chain didn’t help with sales. If you ask me, nothing says “smooth, soft lips” like a cheese-flavored lip balm that tastes like your mouth is on fire.
EXHIBIT C: FORD MOTOR COMPANY, BRAZIL DIVISION (1970s)Context: Launching the Ford Pinto in Brazil, completely unaware that “Pinto” is Brazilian slang for “tiny male genitals.”
To Our South American Stakeholders,
It has come to our attention that the Ford Pinto has not performed well in Brazil due to an unfortunate linguistic oversight. It turns out our Head of Global Naming, Todd Johnson, did not consult a Portuguese dictionary. Apparently, introducing a car whose name in Portuguese translates to the “Ford Tiny Male Genitals” does not inspire the bravado and machismo that Brazilian men look for in a sub-compact economy automobile.
Naturally, this complicated our advertising campaign. Our original slogan, “Drive Your Little Pinto with Pride,” tested poorly. Dealerships reported customers entering Ford showrooms merely to laugh hysterically and pose for photographs next to the vehicle.
I blame this disastrous rollout on Todd’s lack of vision. Honestly, if Todd had just tweaked the marketing campaign to lean into the name, we could have owned the market. We should have marketed it as: “The Ford Pinto: It’s not the size of the car that counts; it’s how you park it!”
Nevertheless, we remain proud of the Pinto and maintain that under a different name – perhaps “The Ford Reasonably Average-Sized Penis” – the vehicle could have succeeded.
We regret to inform investors that our line of Colgate frozen dinners has been discontinued. Apparently, consumers were uncomfortable purchasing entrées associated with cavity prevention.
Our senior branding director Brenda Whitaker convinced the board that because people love the minty-fresh taste of Colgate toothpaste at 7:00 AM, they’d naturally crave a piping-hot tray of Colgate Beef Lasagna at 7:00 PM. Unfortunately, we discovered that people don’t enjoy eating products that sound like they should be followed by rinsing and spitting.
Several focus group participants specifically cited concerns over “minty lasagna confusion.” One customer reportedly wandered a grocery aisle for twenty minutes trying to determine whether “Colgate Beef Ravioli” was intended for lunch or plaque control.
Still, we stand by the quality of the meals themselves and maintain that our “Tartar Control Meatloaf” deserved more time in the marketplace.
Brenda is no longer with us, and we are currently trying to melt down the remaining inventory into a mint-flavored bathroom caulk.
As I reviewed these corporate apologies, one thing became painfully obvious: many CEOs are unwilling to admit when an idea itself is idiotic. Instead, they blame the rollout. The packaging was wrong. The slogan missed the mark. America overreacted to mint-flavored ravioli. Apparently, no one in the boardroom ever stood up and said: “Gentlemen, perhaps adults do not want strained beef in a baby jar.”
Personally, I think when selecting CEOs, companies should prioritize leaders who accept responsibility for failure. Or at minimum, leaders capable of inventing better excuses. Because if your explanation for Harley-Davidson perfume failing is, “Consumers weren’t emotionally prepared to smell like carburetors,” then perhaps the real product needing to be discontinued is your CEO.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go market my own new invention: The View from the Bleachers-Brand Scented Air Freshener. It smells like overcooked hot dogs, stale beer, and shattered dreams. My marketing team assured me it’s an amazing idea. So when it fails, I already know exactly who to fire.
Here is one new product launch that is guaranteed to become a smashing success. My own invention: VFTB Air Freshener. It came to me in a dream, so you know I’ve thought it through. Buy 50 cans and the 51st one is half off. That’s marketing, buddy!
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I was a child, my favorite shows were Looney Tunes cartoons. I had no idea I was learning to tolerate gratuitous violence, sexually predatory behavior, and adult nudity in front of young impressionable ducks – until my extremely woke adult daughter set me straight. Sigh…
The living room was quiet, except for the heavy, disappointed sigh vibrating from my thirty-year-old daughter, Naomi. I had foolishly suggested she spend an hour with me, watching classic Looney Tunes on YouTube, fondly remembering the Saturday mornings of my youth wrapped in a blanket, eating sugary cereal, and laughing until my ribs ached. I genuinely thought we’d bond over it.
I was wrong. After what could only be described as “enduring” a dozen Looney Tunes cartoons, Naomi glared at me as if her father should be brought up before a Senate sub-committee to interrogate people charged with deep moral failings and profound insensitivity to woke culture.
“Dad,” Naomi began, her voice dripping with the solemnity of a UN human rights investigator. “We need to talk about your childhood. I am literally shaking right now. How did you survive growing up bombarded by such deeply problematic, toxic, and violent media?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, adjusting my reading glasses. “It’s just Bugs Bunny. It’s funny.”
“Funny?” Naomi gasped, clutching her ethically sourced oat-milk latte to her chest. “Dad, let’s start with the most glaringly obvious offender, Pepe Le Pew. He is a textbook serial predator. He completely disregards boundaries, corners a clearly non-consenting feline who has accidentally been painted with a white stripe, and uses psychological warfare to pressure her into physical intimacy. He is a French caricature of rape culture, Dad!”
“He’s a skunk, Naomi,” I offered weakly. “The joke is that he smells horrible, but he thinks he’s the sexiest man alive.”
“No, Dad, he’s a womanizer who perpetuates a dangerous culture of harassment,” she corrected, waving her finger. “But honestly, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I noticed a systemic, disturbing trend of public indecency. Look at Donald Duck.”
“Donald Duck is Disney, sweetie, not Warner Brothers, but go on…”
“It doesn’t matter! The societally ignored trauma is the same!” she cried. “Donald Duck walks around all day with absolutely nothing on from the waist down! He is literally exposing himself to his three young, impressionable nephews! Huey, Dewey, and Louie are being subjected to a toxic environment of familial exhibitionism. Where is Child Protective Services in Duckburg, Dad? Where?!”
This is a scene from the 1957 Looney Tunes feature film What’s Opera, Doc? In this scene, Elmer Fudd is digging a hole, attempting to find the “wabbit” as Bugs stands watching him toil in vain. As usual, Elmer is trying to kill Bugs. But he’ll fail miserably, like always. I find this hilarious. My adult daughter thinks I need serious therapy.
I stared at her, trying to recall if I had ever looked at Donald Duck and thought about his missing trousers before. “He wears a sailor shirt,” I muttered. “I always figured his feathers covered the rest.”
“That is a privilege-blind justification,” Naomi snapped, pacing the rug. “And don’t get me started on the insidious ableism and body-shaming. Porky Pig? They took a character with a severe speech impediment and a clear genetic disposition to weight retention, and they made him the butt of the joke! Instead of providing him with speech therapy and an inclusive, body-positive space, they forced him to stutter out the end of every episode for the amusement of the neurotypical masses. It’s disgusting.”
“I always thought Porky was a lovely fellow,” I said, feeling defensive. “He was very polite.”
“He was oppressed, Dad!” Naomi’s voice went up an octave. “But the absolute worst part of these Looney Tunes cartoons is the normalization of psychopathic, homicidal behavior. The sheer level of unmitigated violence is triggering. Sylvester the Cat is locked in a perpetual, toxic cycle of trying to murder and literally eat an innocent, marginalized yellow bird! Tweety is just trying to exist in his cage, and Sylvester is practicing predatory gentrification!”
“Well, cats do eat birds, Naomi. It’s kind of what nature calls them to do.”
“Not on my TikTok feed, they don’t,” she said flatly. “And what about Wile E. Coyote? His vengeful obsession with the Road Runner is terrifying. The Road Runner has done absolutely nothing to deserve this targeted harassment. Wile E. is clearly financing a domestic terrorist cell through the ACME corporation – giant magnets, massive falling boulders, rocket skates! The supply chain accountability alone is a nightmare. He needs a mental health intervention, not a rocket strapped to his back.”
“But the bird never gets hurt,” I pleaded. “The coyote just gets flattened by an anvil. The bird always outsmarts him!”
“It teaches a culture of vengeance!” Naomi yelled, her eyes wide with moral superiority. “And don’t even get me started on the hunter-prey dynamic with Elmer Fudd. He is a cis-gendered white male with toxic masculinity issues, constantly attempting to murder a bunny rabbit with an unregulated firearm. But do you know what the most disturbing part is?”
“When the gun hilariously explodes in his face?” I guessed.
Okay, I will belatedly admit, in the light of today’s social standards that Pepe Le Pew crossed the line egregiously. But surely Yosemite Sam is okay? No? Oh, massive anger management issues. Then how about Foghorn Leghorn? He’s a racist? Hmmm. I missed that part. Thanks for enlightening me, dear daughter.
“No! It’s the blatant predatory gender fluid exploitation!”
“You lost me, dear.”
Naomi let out a scream as she threw her hands in the air. “The moment Bugs Bunny puts on a blonde wig and a dress to outsmart him, Elmer Fudd’s entire demeanor changes. He doesn’t see a rabbit anymore; he sees an object. He immediately shifts from attempted murder to attempted sexual assault! He starts swooning over a cross-dressing rabbit! It completely trivializes the entire trans experience while simultaneously promoting predatory behavior toward anyone wearing a dress!”
I blinked. I had watched that cartoon fifteen times in my youth. My only takeaway as a seven-year-old was that Bugs was so clever and Elmer Fudd was an idiot. I never realized I was unconsciously internalizing a masterclass in patriarchal subjugation.
“Naomi,” I said gently, “it’s just slapstick. The anvil falls, they get flat like a pancake, and then they pop back up. Nobody actually dies. Nobody gets hurt. It’s just… cartoons.”
“That is exactly the kind of passive acceptance that has allowed your Boomer generation to ruin the housing market,” Naomi sighed, looking at me with deep, patronizing pity.
“Come again?”
“You’ve been conditioned to accept violence, public nudity, and predatory skunks as ‘entertainment.’ I think I need to go meditate and decompress. My cortisol levels are spiking through the roof.”
She grabbed her recyclable tote bag, adjusted her blue-light glasses, and marched out of the house to go save the world, one TikTok influencer post at a time.
I sat alone in the quiet living room for a long minute. Then, I picked up the remote, opened YouTube, and pulled up the 1957 Warner Brothers classic What’s Opera, Doc?. As Elmer Fudd began singing “Kill the wabbit,” I took a sip of my distinctly non-organic can of Mountain Dew and laughed until my sides hurt.
The moral of the story? Never let your highly sensitive, impressionable adult children watch Looney Tunes. The trauma is just too great for them. These subversive videos are strictly for us Baby Boomers, who survived the dark ages of comedy, pantsless ducks, cross-dressing rabbits, and anvil-dropping coyotes, and somehow lived to tell the tale. Th-th-that’s all, folks!
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Henry and Marge have been married for 27 years. Unfortunately, for 9 years, Henry’s been a birder. He’s spotted a jay. But he’s not sure if it’s a California Scrub Jay or a White-tailed Jay. She’s thinking, “Who the f*** gives a crap what type of jay it is!”
As a nationally recognized unlicensed behavioral psychologist who has spent nearly three decades studying unusual human habits, I have witnessed countless troubling obsessions. I’ve seen adults spend $14,000 on virtual farm equipment in online games. I’ve counseled men who believed professional wrestling was real. I’ve even met individuals who voluntarily joined local pickleball association boards. (What were they thinking!)
Yet none of these compare to the rapidly growing epidemic currently sweeping suburban America. I’m speaking, of course, about birding.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a “birder” is not someone who enjoys an occasional glance at a Robin while mowing the lawn. No, birders are individuals who become fascinated – some experts would say chronically obsessed – with obscure birds with multi-syllabic names like the Northern Black-Hooded, Double-Tufted, Wing-Crested, Hooked-Tail Sparrow. The problem is worse than you think.
According to recent studies, married men who think Birkenstocks with knee-high black socks is a good look and who have limited social lives appear particularly vulnerable. The warning signs often begin subtly. Perhaps your husband points out a bald eagle circling overhead (unless you’re in New York City, in which case it’s more likely just another pigeon). Then he purchases a bird feeder. Before you know it, your husband is waking up at 4:15 AM on a Saturday, covered in camo netting, to sit in a swamp, hoping to catch a glimpse of a breeding pair of North American White-Crested Sapsuckers.
How do you know if your husband has crossed the line from a casual nature-lover into a full-blown avian psychotic? Look for these critical warning signs:
First, listen to his vocabulary. If your spouse goes on at length describing the minor, indistinguishable plumage differences between the Kentish Plover and the White-Faced Plover, seek psychiatric help immediately. There is no rational reason a grown man should care about a plover’s feathers.
Second, monitor his accessories. If he has a pair of high-powered, military-grade binoculars strapped around his neck at all times – including while watching TV, driving the minivan, or taking a shower – this is not a fashion statement. It is a cry for help. If your spouse has obvious binocular tan lines around his neck, it’s time to panic. He may be beyond saving at this point.
Ordinary men discuss sports scores, riding mowers, or why their team’s prospects to “go all the way” look much better next year. Birders suddenly begin saying things like, “I heard a Black-Throated Gray Warbler this morning.” Or, “The snow geese migration patterns have been spectacular this year.” Or, “Quick! Get in the car! Someone spotted a rare Yellow-Bellied Something-Or-Other near the sewage treatment plant!” No rational person has ever uttered such phrases – or had any interest in being caught anywhere in the vicinity of a sewage treatment plant.
One of the most troubling signs occurs when family vacations become suspiciously bird-centered. Your spouse may believe you when you tell her you’re taking her for a quiet romantic weekend getaway. Then you arrive at a mosquito-infested marshland in the middle of nowhere because “a very unusual shorebird called the Lesser Bar-Tailed Godwit was reported there on Tuesday.” Some marriages never recover.
So, what should you do if you suspect your spouse has become deeply involved in birding? First, remain calm. Avoid direct confrontation (or direct eye contact). Do not ridicule his collection of birding field guides or expensive birder apps. You may be tempted to ask why he owns seven books that all appear to contain identical pictures of sparrows. Resist this urge.
He will have explanations. Lengthy explanations. Annoyingly boring, excruciatingly detailed explanations. Instead, gently encourage alternative activities. Suggest hobbies generally considered more normal among middle-aged men, like high-stakes sports gambling, fantasy football, arguing with Trump supporters on Facebook, day trading, or going to strip clubs with male friends in search of hookers.
This is a chart listing some of the more popular North American Sparrows. Did you know that there are 60 different species of sparrows in North America alone? How many species of sparrow can you name? If you can only name one – SPARROW – congratulations, you’re not a birder. You are a normal, sane person, with your priorities in order.
Granted, finding male friends willing to accompany a committed birder can be challenging. Many friendships end abruptly after the third consecutive conversation about the migratory patterns of the Black-Capped Chickadee.
Try inviting other couples over at your peril. Birders tend to struggle in social settings because they frequently interrupt conversations to identify birds outside the window. “Honey, pay attention. Karen was telling us about her hip replacement.”
“I understand, but that’s definitely a Red-breasted Nuthatch.” Turns out he was right, but that’s beside the point.
You can also attempt gradual rehabilitation. If he spends four hours watching birds every Saturday, reduce it to three and a half. Replace the remaining thirty minutes with sports highlights or yelling at professional golfers on television. Recovery can be a slow, arduous journey back to sanity.
In severe cases, professional intervention may be necessary. The National Association for Concerned Spouses operates a confidential bird-wife support hotline at 1-800-NO-MO-OWLS. Trained volunteers stand by 24 hours a day to listen compassionately while you explain why your husband drove 200 miles to observe a bird that looks nearly identical to twelve other birds he’s already photographed over 200 times.
Remember, you are not alone. Thousands of families are affected each year. But let me help you put this crisis into perspective. Birding, while irritatingly nerdy and mind-numbingly boring, is generally harmless – unless your spouse attempts to pet a raptor. In fact, it could be much worse. Your husband could have become obsessed with model trains.
See? It could be a lot worse than having a birder for a spouse. Your husband could have taken up trains as a hobby and taken over the garage… then the basement… then the living room…
With train enthusiasts, sooner or later, the entire garage gets covered wall to wall with train paraphernalia. Then the basement. Before long your home starts looking less like a mid-century two-story colonial and more like an 1850s pioneer village complete with tiny blacksmith shops, miniature livestock, and a thematically era-inconsistent model drive-in burger shop circa 1962, which he got on sale for only $450.
Before you know it your husband is walking around all day sporting an 1870’s era train conductor’s outfit complete with a genuine conductor’s whistle – which he blows at full volume every time the train comes into the station. If you notice your husband has run a stretch of model train tracks across the bed headboard in your bedroom, that’s a good indicator it’s time to contact a divorce attorney.
Compared to that, a few binoculars and an unhealthy interest in woodpecker mating habits doesn’t really sound so bad now, does it? So don’t freak out. And if your spouse suddenly shouts, “Quick! Grab the camera! A rare tufted thingamajig just landed in the maple tree!” Well… At least he’s outside getting some fresh air, in his favorite pair of Birkenstocks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
