Pet Sounds

Traditionally, I've always disliked the Beach Boys. Before I moved to California, I couldn't fathom why the laidback lifestyle they promoted made for good song material. I took offense that their music served to make stupider those of us who might have been accidentally exposed to their inane lyrics. Now that I've experienced life in beautiful, sunny southern Californ-I-A, I still fucking hate the fucking Beach Boys.

The "Pet Sounds" that I prefer can be heard issuing daily from a house one street over from ours. Megan and I discovered it about a week ago, and it has truly brought joy to our lives. On the first Sunday evening after the Daylight Savings time change, as we were walking back from Balboa Park, we overheard a pair of squawking parrots. They were mimicking what was unmistakably the sounds of loud, aggressive sex. Especially nice was that each had his own part and strictly adhered to it. At one point in the exchange, as one repeatedly grunted in mimicked exertion, the other cawed out a gasped, "Oh God!" Hopefully, the children playing in the park next door didn't notice. Otherwise, someone might complain, and my favorite new radio program will be cancelled.

There are several questions that this raises. One being, how loud and frequent must you be before your parrots can accurately immitate your lovemaking? Another is what to do with your parrots once they've begun showcasing your private tendencies. You can't ever give them away for fear that some stranger would know what gets you off. Also, it'd be wrong to kill them just because of something you did. Maybe the best option is to do what these owners have done and cover the front of your house with a huge blanket and opt never to show your face in daylight. I guess I'll just have to keep wondering. After all, it's not like I can ring the doorbell and ask them. Maybe answers will be forthcoming from the secret-baring birds. Actually, I'm holding out for a "NOT ON THE SHEETS!"