Stopping in at Cheng’s Kitchen for some post-gym sushi, I noticed an odd sound as I sat, miso soup in hand, waiting for the N-Judah to deliver my friend, Amanda.
Tweedleeedle tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet.
I realized the sound wasn’t stopping.
I saw outside the window, in place of the bird cages that usually held live birds, a small, was a plastic cage with a 100% fake bird droning on and on and on and on.
Now, I’ve often joked with dining companions – even a fellow metblogger (who captured photographic evidence of the real deals) – that the live birds’ non-repetitive songs stemmed from anger: those things were outside when it was freezing and when the setting sun surely threatened to fry them on their little birdie perches. When the wind blew, there they were. Fog? Still there.
But not tonight. Tonight, they’d been replaced by the energizer birdie who would. not. stop. tweeting. It was Chinese water torture in a Japanese restaurant.
Finally, I asked what the deal was – where are the real birds?
“They’re retired,” answered the waitress, quickly, as she hurried away.
Why does that answer just not make me feel very good? I think the word I’m looking for is “disquieting . . . ”