I am more and more frequently nowadays brought up short by the discovery of the error of my ways. Case in point: since September 11, I have been reading voraciously in an attempt to avoid thinking about, and more importantly to overlay in my memory, the horrific images I saw on television immediately after the terrorist attacks.
But what did I turn to? Well, the catch of the day consisted of those books I’d bought but not yet got around to reading, and I’ve made a serious dent in the stack. Unfortunately, the great bulk of them were either nonfiction detailing various outrages upon society or novels written by persons who wished to share their depression with me. Hardly upbeat material.
But then yesterday my eye alit on a slim paperback volume titled Frisco Pigeon Mambo by C.D. Payne. It was a continual delight, and I cannot too highly recommend it to persons capable of some suspension of disbelief who’d like a little break from bombings, vanishing civil liberties, and anthrax.
Just suppose that in a laboratory in Berkeley there is a group of pigeons employed as laboratory animals. They were all born in captivity and think of themselves as human, doing things like falling madly in love with lab technicians, being unaware that they can fly, and exhibiting other humanoid behavior. In their cages are the Drag-o-Matic, which allows them to smoke as much as they like, and the sherry tube, at which they can refresh themselves whenever they want.
Then suppose that this group of alcoholic nicotine addicts is seized by an animal rights activist, taken to San Francisco, and liberated.
Their adventures will take your mind off all that other stuff.