It's odd enough to write a blog, much less one that is going on someone else's site. What exactly are you supposed to write about? Yourself? The host? The great deal you got at Popeye's the other day? (Eight chicken strips for $3.99!)

You're going to get stuck hearing about me. Sorry. I know, it's not fun. You probably don't even know me. I'm one of Anne's old friends from Mounds View, and we had AP Comparative Government together. We conveniently sat at the same table and somehow started talking about the short-lived animated series of "Clerks" or hair metal or some other obscure pop culture bullshit. We created our own rock-and-roll government to replace Bush and Friends; it was lead by the 3Bs of rock: Bowie, Bruce (Springsteen) and Bono. We gave hilarious nicknames and created rifts and ate jelly beans and created Special Interest Group Twister and didn't pay attention in class, except during especially amusing Circle Times. We were Pinky and the Brain, except that we were either both (occasionally) geniuses or we were both (usually) idiots. Narf.

ANYWAY, that's how I got here. Right now, I'm a freshman at DePaul University. The White Sox have just won their first pennant in 88 years, and I am the happiest person alive, after Jermaine Dye. I've been waiting for this since the day I was born. As a fourth generation Sox fan, this carries a lot of emotion.

But I'm not going to write about that. I'm going to write about what Anne requested:
The pigeon.

SO... I stepped on a pigeon the other day.

Yeah, I know. How the hell does someone step on a pigeon? Aren't they usually in the air? Don't they usually move? Do you look where you’re walking? (I don't know, sometimes, yes, and obviously not.)

The real story starts back at the DePaul Barnes and Noble bookstore, downtown in the loop. Every Tuesday, I take the red line to Washington and then transfer to the blue line up to Western to go to my knitting group. However, I decided that I needed to stop at Barnes and Noble and buy myself a copy of Spin: 20 Years of Alternative Music.

I was quite pleased to own this book; so pleased that I found it completely acceptable to skip across the street in downtown Chicago at 6:20 in the evening. I skipped across State Street without any problem. I began my step-hopping across Jackson and make it there almost fine. There was a group of pigeons on the corner, living their happy pigeon lives… until I came along.

As I stepped up onto the curb, I firmly planted my left foot straight into the lower back of an innocent bird. It didn't make a noise, but something didn’t feel right. I looked down, and there it was, giving as much of a terrified emotion as a pigeon can show.

I immediately lifted my foot and looked at the bird with a deep concern. Was it hurt? Was it dead? Is there a veterinarian around? Who would clean it up if it died? Does it have a pigeon family it needs to feed? Was it three days away from pigeon retirement (oh, the retirorny...)?

I bent down to try and look at the bird. It opened its eyes and glared at me. It looked so sad. Slowly, he began to wobble away, and then flew a little bit, and continued walking with his pigeon friends. I watched him for a bit, and then continued on to Subway.

I'd go into the emotional wrought and moral of the story, except I don't really feel like it, and I haven't done my homework on a Sunday night. So just don't step on pigeons. You get feathers on your shoe.


to read more by kim, today's guest blogger, visit her blog for updates on obscure pop culture references that sometimes i don't even get, the hustle-and-bustle of knitting in chicago, and sweet-ass prose.