“No shit, Sherlock!” is an expression I believe hails from the grimier alleyways of London, where wordsmiths deftly transmute even the foulest vulgarities into palatable sayings by sheer dint of accent. You may have heard of it. It is a quaint phrase, very likely apocryphal to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous works, but it has a special, almost literal resonance tonight. Why? Because I may finally be able to close the casebook on why birds land directly on my car to poop.
There are moments when justice seizes evidence to cast a light into the dark, unraveling machinations most fowl before a jury of peers. This was not one of those moments. Instead, as I was walking back from my mailbox, thumbing through bills and yet another terrifyingly glossy church advertisement, the answer dawned on me. The pieces were always there, laid out so obviously: the birds. The caca. The time of day. The car. I had only to assemble them.
My car is essentially the warmest toilet within flapping distance. There, I said it. Conveniently located next to the woods, its outhouse appeal is enhanced by a black paint job, which assures it will absorb far more sunlight than its owner ever will. And here I thought those birds were just being racist. Now, I am pressed with a need for solutions, and already the gears are churning. The plan I have formulated involves superglue, specifically a generous layer applied to the car exterior, and it will require patience. The preparation must be thorough. The timing, flawless. Do you ever wonder why hood ornaments went out of style? Neither do I. Neither do I.
True to my word, I stood humbly before FlickFool this weekend, curious, strangely contrite, filled with possibility, and letter by agonizing letter my username appeared, then my password. I hovered briefly over the Enter button and suddenly–click–I was in. I noted how the interface had changed. Guided the cursor across the screen. And then I logged right back out. Hey! I never said I’d actually write any reviews. We’re talking baby steps here.
Back in April, I expounded on my losing battle against wrinkly clothing and how a miraculous steam-powered iron, heretofore alien technology I had only read about in Ironing Enthusiast Monthly, miraculously failed to press my shirts. Certainly the device didn’t move of its own volition, placing some of the blame on yours truly, but it’s far less blame than you’d suspect.
I have a new iron. There were revelations last night, in the course of 90 minutes spent at the board, when it was clear that a bigger iron makes all the difference. Apparently my original one was travel-sized, or possibly crafted by hobbits for hobbits to make presentable their buckwheat tunics or whatever the hell they wore. With a modern variant, the chore became easier. Fun, even. After laboring over a shirt, I reached for another one, two, then one more.
I had gained a new domestic art. It was exhilarating. What prior to yesterday evening were basically disposable button-downs transformed into a bounty of threads. Reusable clothes, you say? There’s a new sheriff in town, 100% cotton. This morning, I donned my handiwork and stood triumphantly before the mirror and– Still wrinkled. It was like I had never even fired up the thing. Shit.
There are at least a dozen rationalizations for why I’ve neglected FlickFool, quashed any inclinations to log in since the day I disappeared, but even now I feel my resolve crumbling. I see all the excuses spread neatly across the table: how I only have patience for one site, not two. How movies are far more enjoyable sans running mental commentary. How I could easily fizzle out again after a false start. Or how difficult it is to count to 50.
But damn it if that alliterative URL doesn’t slyly work its way into my thoughts from time to time, buoyed by the knowledge that the site persists even now, borne by the industry of others, its pulse ever indomitable. What started as a silly inability to sign into WordPress one evening ballooned, at some point, into a kind of digital estrangement. It certainly feels like its real-world counterpart, where something as simple as picking up the phone requires so much effort that deferment becomes the refrain.
I mentioned a few weeks ago how neat it would be to create something, and the irony isn’t lost on me. Because something was created, however small and modestly visited, and I’m not sure I abandoned FlickFool well enough. It calls to me! There really is no way around it. Perhaps if conditions are optimum this weekend I’ll type out my full username, maybe even the whole password along with it. We’ll see.