While it pains me to waste pages responding to such a ridiculous accusation, It has been brought to my attention that many of you have misunderstood the point of one of my recent pieces. The article in question is, of course, “Free as Bird, Looking for Release,” published last week in The New York Times op-ed section.
In the piece I spoke from the perspective of a pigeon solely because I was trying to use the metaphor to symbolize the free-spirited nature of my city life. I was, I repeat, not, implying that I have been shitting on peoples’ cars.
Apparently, the article (although I personally do not believe it to be at fault) misled some to believe I was using the publication to exorcise my own dark longing to defecate onto vehicles, or worse, admitting to having done this horrid deed already. In truth, until a casual visit from the police yesterday, I didn’t even know there was a serial car shitter on the loose.
So, I will tell you exactly what I told them. I’m appalled that people like that even exist, and can’t believe you would think it might be me just because I wrote lines like “I flutter to and fro, taking time to gaze upon the people and places that are at my disposal, knowing I can find deep release anywhere, and on anything, I please.” The line is clearly referring to a long walk through the city, and stopping to reflect somewhere that helps you feel calm and relaxed.
I’ve seen a number of quotes from my article being featured in “gotcha” pieces without an inkling of proper context. A number of times I’ve seen this specific section of the third paragraph: “The air is crisp as I flutter against it. The world below me begins to blur. I can still make out the form of a blue 2004 Toyota Camry. Faded bumper sticker that says ‘Lock Her Up’ next to a silhouette of Bigfoot. I slow myself ever so slightly as I pass over. Then I expel myself all over it.”
This is driving me crazy! The line is obviously a metaphor for seeing something mundane that triggers an emotional reaction from your childhood, such as seeing a car your father drove and then projecting (expelling) your own experience onto it. I’m baffled that people like Detective Steve Robinson would try to say there’s anything more to it, especially when he considers that his car is unattended in the East Town parking garage every Tuesday and Thursday while he’s in his spin class.
Lastly, I’ve seen the finale of the original piece cited the most. Now, this is the only one where I guess I could maybe see how it might be misconstrued just a touch by an uneducated subscriber not reading closely. “When I see a car, I float right over the top and poop on it. I send my feces across the windshield, hood, anywhere the sun will beam down and dry it over time. The dark green Ford Explorer that was parked behind the Cracker Barrel off of I-75 West? Yeah, I was responsible for the massive amounts of shit that covered nearly every visible inch of it. I was in the area and wanted to feel powerful. I want to be remembered. I am, just to remind you, simply a pigeon.”
I really feel like the last line explains this one away. It would take an awful lot of stretching my words to make it imply anything else. Now, for the second time, allow me to close an article by stating my exact intent and not leaving anything hidden for you internet sleuths to pretend to decipher.
My article was purely a reflection on freedom within the confines of a concrete jungle told from the point of view of a pigeon, and more importantly, until DNA testing from a Chevy Tahoe-turned-crime-scene proves otherwise, I am not guilty of any coincidental crimes that occurred before or after it was published.