Bird on the Pipe

I woke up 3 a.m. humming a school fight song from when I was 7 years old. I've forgotten most of the lyrics, but a few remain with me, along with fragmented melodies. Funny how these trivialities linger long beyond their intended usefulness.

What was their intended usefulness, anyway? Perhaps the song was put in my head to one day wake me up 3 a.m. some 40 years later. An alarm clock. A long con, to some unknown effect.

Either way, the joke is clearly on me. Not that I'm laughing, mind you, but then, humor is subjective. One man's hilarity is another man's... uh, thing that isn't funny.

Then there was that bird on the pipe in a Santa Fe parking garage. This is where we first discovered mead. Not literally in the parking garage, but not far from there. Fermented honey. I'd like to thank that genius from millennia ago.

The bird, of course, is long dead by now. Like the genius that invented mead. Like everyone else that came before us, and everyone that follows will be. Which leaves only us. Time is on our side for now, though that won't always be the case.

Existential crisis will wake a guy up 3 a.m. Better to be woken by a half-forgotten school fight song. Crisis tends not to help anything, in my experience. What is its intended usefulness? Well, it'll get you out of bed at some godawful hour so you can start typing words that attempt but necessarily fail to convey the very crisis that woke you.

So we've got a song, a bird, and some existential crisis. Now we just need a priest, a businessman, and a punch line that doesn't suck. I have no clue where to even look for those things. In my dreams?