an ostentation of ostriches

Storytime!

Story #1:

Nine barnyard animals - eight ungulates, and one lonely old dog - gathered for their monthly meeting yesterday around their dinner trough, a fancy Italian place on LaGuardia Place. Six of the barnyard animals were younger than the other three, but all enjoyed special stature in the barnyard because they received extra feed for doing nothing more than gathering once a month to dine and discuss themselves. One of the elders was an unusually long ewe of advanced age, who spoke in a high, confused tone about her curiosity about other animals species - particularly dogs, since she had seen so many different breeds, including shi-tzus, shiba inus, poi dogs, Tibetan mastiffs, and it didn't seem to her (from her experience with the uniformity of sheep) that all of these breeds could get along! Another elder was a fine, intelligent nanny goat who chewed her cud very delicately, concentrated on suppressing her displeasure at the unseemly curiosity of the long ewe, and was drawn to systems of orderly management - of the dinners, of the barnyards, of the practice of federal civil law and of the federal courts. The last elder was a prize bull who had retired from his tumultuous, passionate career into a subsidized dotage during which his pugilistic instincts hardened into a general boorishness and drew the admiration of the cowed, the fear of the rest of the barnyard, and the exasperation of the silly mutt, who didn't understand why the bull should be permitted to spout nonsense in his old age simply because he had done so well for himself in his youth.

It came time to choose the night's courses. A human in a tidy outfit poured water into the sweaty goblets that had been set aside for the evening's guests. The lugubrious mutt's vocal chords were only accustomed to barking and whining, coarse noises unable to accommodate the flamboyant coloraturas of the ungulates' language and the language on the menu, so she ordered only what she could pronounce: "Lasagne, please." Later, when the food arrived, all the ungulates turned to the mutt with bemused concern and one said, "Why, Mutt, you did not order an appetizer!" The mutt hung her snout in shame, for she had only just noticed that she was the only animal from the barnyard who did not have before her a bucatini all’Amatriciana or an agnello alla sarda, the latter of which had been sacrificed from the long ewe's brood just for the meal. The mutt dared not look up. She pulled her lips down so that her teeth, which had turned a navy hue from the tangy water pressed from cabernet grapes that all the animals quaffed, glass upon glass, might not show.

The ewe and the mutt had recently had an uncomfortable exchange, and the mutt sensed that the ewe was trying to be sensitive and inclusive during the dinnertime conversation. Yet the mutt bristled at the effort because, generous though she was in spirit, the ewe continued to offend the mutt by looking at her meaningfully only when the ewe said words like "Rainbow Coalition" and "transgender," as if the mutt's ears could only perk at sounds associated with freaks. Later, when discussing the recent elections that had captured the attention of the entire farm, the ewe asked the mutt, "Now, have you ever voted?" The mutt wanted to tell the ewe that even though her parents were not born on the farm they still belonged in it now - and everyone in the mutt's family had passports to prove it! But instead, she demurred, and focused on her lasagne (which, unimpressively, tasted just like her same old dog food).

The evening bore on. The mutt was seated far from the goat, whom she felt was a kindred spirit, or at least as kindred as their wealth and cultural differentials would allow. The mutt was relieved that the bull had thus far spared her from his attention. In her singsong soprano, the ewe commented on a iPhone that one of the younger lambs (a transfer from a different barnyard in the same town) had laid on the table. "Well, as long as you have one of those on the table, you'll always know what to call a group of ostriches," she said. "What do you call them?" an animal asked. "You call it an ostentation of ostriches!" cried the delight-stricken ewe. Around the trough, wineglasses were clutched with clumsy hooves and milk-based desserts were licked off of plates.

The bull spoke on and on, but the mutt had successfully trained her sensitive ears in a different direction for most of the meal. Finally, the bull spoke so that he could be heard by everybody, on the topic of a ram (the son of Othello and Desdemona, raised by the latter in a midfield flat on the farm) that was competing in the elections. The ram had already been president - not of the farm, but of the Harvard Law Review - which, to the bull's mind, was even more impressive. The bull said, "Well, when I heard that, I called a few friends of mine at Harvard." Why? asked a curious animal. "I wanted to know whether he had deserved the spot or if it was an affirmative action thing." The mutt gasped, and hid underneath the table. "And you know, everyone I spoke to said it was based on merit!" From under the table, the mutt groped for her wineglass and tipped all of its contents into her mouth. "And then I thought, 'That's really something!'" The bull finished his thought with a snort and firm stamp on the table.

Around the table, heads bobbed in solemn approval and nothing could be heard but the occasional squeak of hoof against ceramic. Although the mutt really wanted to shout "My lip gloss be poppin'! My lip gloss be poppin'! Whatchu know 'bout me? Whatchu whatchu know 'bout me?" and flip the table over in anger, she had neither the median glossoepiglottic fold nor the hands nor the heart to do anything at all. A half hour later, all the animals gathered their umbrellas for the trudge to their separate stables and the ewe laid down a piece of plastic to pay for their $534 dinner. The mutt waited by herself on the L train platform at Sixth Avenue, banishing intemperate thoughts from her head by filling it, through the ears, with Freddie Mercury's heroic tenor, and resolved to write a parable for a tiny audience of friends and the Internet at large, so that she could communicate her grievances without losing the hefty purse attached to her monthly dinners.

Story #2:

A dream. Stephanie and I are attending a demonstration with lots of other students. There are police there, and everyone, including the students, is wearing riot gear. The protestors are patiently standing in neat arrays as the police lob egg-sized rocks at us. The rocks bounce off our helmets and shields. One protestor foolishly tries to headbutt one and reels from the pain. We wonder, "How long can this continue?" knowing that soon someone's patience will lapse and violence will erupt. From our vantage at the back of the demonstration, we see a speckled piece of granite as big as a breadbox hurtle through the air and strike an unseen target. There is a shriek and then shouts of anger ripple through the gathering. We know instinctively that someone has been hurt badly and the protestors will retaliate against the cops, so we run. As we flee we see people getting stomped in the head - it's not clear whether they are cops or protestors. We run until we come to some unlit, shaded enclosure where we gather with others by cool still pools and try to piece together from what each of us have seen what actually happened.