I've been thinking about getting a second parakeet for quite some time. I was thinking about it more lately because I am going on vacation for three weeks, and I was afraid Cassie would be extremely lonely. Parakeets are extremely social animals, and need a lot of attention and companionship. And my parakeet book is emphatic that getting a second bird is a good idea, even when you have had your first bird for a while.

I realized yesterday that time was running short, since I wanted time to supervise the birds for a while before I just left them alone together. So, today, I went and picked out a bird. I knew that I wanted a blue or white bird. I knew that I wanted a boy (less chance of fights, since in male/female pairs, females are naturally dominant). I knew that I would name him Hedwig (if white) or Pigwidgeon (if not white) after my favorite Harry Potter characters, the owls.

So I went to the store and stood in front of the parakeet cage for a while. There were many parakeets in the cage, most of whom were young males with coloring I liked in various shades of blue. I checked all the important things: lively, shiny eyes; good claws; smooth, healthy plumage, friendliness towards the other birds, etc. I also wanted a mellow bird, considering what a spazz Cassie is.

The first bird I liked spent the entire fifteen minutes or so just sitting in the food dish with another bird. He had beautiful coloring, and was amusingly fluffy and fat. He was so mellow that he actually looked stoned. And I think he might have been gay.

But, unfortunately, I had to decide against the fat gay stoned bird. His feathers didn't look really healthy, and he also looked very attached to his domestic partner. I would have felt like I was the cruel hand of fate, ripping apart two lovers. And really, haven't homosexual couples been oppressed long enough?

So, I picked another qualified bird, and pointed him out to a helpful employee, who chased him around the cage with a net and finally caught him. The employee held the net out to me for confirmation, with this tiny parakeet head sticking out of it. To tell you the truth, I had no idea if that was the bird that I had initially decided on. But I felt so bad for this poor bird with the traumatized look on his little face, I just gave the thumbs up sign and figured, well, what the hell. (For the record, I'm pretty sure it's the right bird.)

Pigwidgeon is small and pale blue, with some pale grey and white coloring. So far, I haven't much to report about his personality, except that he seems to be handling Cassie's curiosity with dignity.

I had to buy a cheap cage for Pigwidgeon, since it's not a good idea to introduce one bird directly into another's territory. They need to get to know each other first. (I can return the cage, so it's no big deal.) I set the cage up next to Cassie's, and let Pigwidgeon into it. It's only been an hour or so. The birds spent the first twenty minutes staring at each other, and the second twenty minutes staring at me. Now, in the third twenty minutes, they're back to staring at each other again.

Cassie did fly over to Pig's cage and climb all the way around it, probably looking for a way in. Pig just sat there, dignified. Pig isn't moving around much, but his feathers are semi-fluffy and he seems interested in his surroundings. Every time I hear a noise, as of feathers ruffling, I turn around to see what's going on. They're just staring at each other quietly, though.

I can't say it's entertaining at all, but it seems like a good start to me.

I always love this time of year, when I get to pick my classes for the next semester. Of course, my school is so tiny, I only had six classes to choose from. But my school is so good, that I hated having to pick only three. All six of the classes sound very interesting.

One of my classes is already set in stone: part two of the literary magazine, on Monday afternoons. I'm going to keep my Mondays in Berkeley thing going by taking another class with my Keats professor on Mondays. He's teaching a collaborations workshop, where we'll all be writing collaborative poetry, and publishing a chapbook at the end of the semester. What's even better is that Joey, Laurie and Mickey are all going to take the class with me.

Every semester we have a "context" course, which is a broad cultural overview that provides the context for studying a specific author. This semester it is my Romantics class. Next semester's sounds fascinating: Urban Scrawl. Here's the description. "This course addresses the city (Manhattan) as matrix for the manufacturing of cultures and identities, using both contemporary historical and critical texts alongside nineteenth century dime novels, joke books, religious tracts, slave narratives, song lyrics, guidebooks, newspapers, self-help and health books, and etiquette guides as sources that underwrote the literature of the 'American Renaissance.'"

It's a rather convoluted description, but buried in there somewhere is a really interesting class.

Alongside a context course, we're expected to take an author course. Our choices are Herman Melville and Emily Dickinson. I chose Dickinson, based on my greater interest. Also, I've heard that the Melville professor (who looks exactly like Alexander Hamilton on the $20 bill) isn't the world's greatest teacher. I've also heard that he expects us to do actual work. I mean, what the hell is that about.

Of course I am interested in Melville, and I am particularly interested in having a better understanding of Moby Dick. But one of my classmates told me she would give me her notes and reading material from last year's Melville class. So I can learn about Melville on my own time, without the pressure of classes and assignments and all that stuff.

The other class that I wasn't able to take is also taught by Alexander Hamilton. It's called Science and Poetry, and it's a writing class. It sounds incredibly interesting, but it's on Friday mornings, and we all know how I feel about mornings. Plus, my schedule is full, and I'm not willing to drop my collaborations class. So oh well.

Science and Poetry, though, involves taking scientific texts by everyone from Stephen Jay Gould to Stephen Hawking and using them as jumping off points for writing projects. I'm sorry to miss it, but I'm just going to have to live vicariously through Laurie and Joey.

Finally, I posted my finished sonnet sequence. A few people expressed interest in reading the sequence when it was done, so, what the hell. I'd love to know what you think. My favorites, by far, are sonnets five through eight. Oh, and keep in mind, the sequence is not autobiographical. So resist the temptation to read it that way.

There's still time for those of you who are poetically astute to offer suggestions, since it's not due until next Tuesday. And I am still trying to come up with a title other than .

Although that does have a nice ring to it...

"There was also a Random Soccer Player who grinned constantly, as if someone was dangling a bright shiny object in front of his face. 'Oh ho ho,' he said, during a disturbing shot of the crabs being dismembered with scissors. 'These guys still seem to be struggling against the inevitable. Ha ha ha.'

That show is fucked UP."