Mousy-Bird, dorking around away from the steering mechanismIt is time to come clean. Really clean. Zestfully.

When I was 11, I was introduced to the world of Birds. Not ornithological specimens, mind. These were of the type created by an old friend and frequent Blurbomat commentor, porkchop.

Birds were a race of mutants. Sort of a poor person’s X-men. Army men, molded plastic figures (Micronauts included) and anything resembling an animal were represented. Near as I could tell, at age 11, was that this race had as it’s sole purpose to pilot Lego® spaceships built by us, the masters of the race. It became apparent that the Birds weren’t very good pilots. All my friends’ ships seemed to be crashing into other structures: the brown Herculon covered sectional which tripled as a bed/mountain range, smaller Lego® structures and spaceships, e.g. those found here.

I remember distinctly losing it when Mousy Bird (all birds had a binomial designation with the second name always ending in -Bird; Army-Bird, Micro-Bird, etc.) took his houseboat of a ship and crashed rather hyperactively into my svelt one-person craft, decimating the craft and all aboard. Goddamn Mousy-Bird didn’t really have hands. It was never made clear how Mousy-Bird qualified for a pilot’s license in the first place or allowed to fly a ship of that size.

The next year saw my own Bird Metroplex evolve, complete with a Transportation System that was a BirdTown commuters dream. I had a 4-foot oval Hot Wheels track loop featuring a Sizzlers Future Train, with a Rapid Descent Boarding System (a couple of paper towel rolls taped together with openings carved at either end) that took Birds to various Lego® structures. The city didn’t have waste removal or water treatment, but the Birds were happy. Until I put my brother’s drums in my room and started to play along with Journey’s own Steve Smith.