All,

Apologies for the long absence, but do not fret, it has not been in vain. I present to you the product of every painstaking hour of available time since my last post.

With warmest regards,

rice

The news struck quickly and violently. I had invested heavily in a stuffed flounder dinner, and was in the process of making my way into the filling when the waiter came back and asked how I was enjoying my meal.

“It’s splendid,” I replied. Pointing the fork at the breaded exterior, I asked, post-swallow, what the chef had stuffed in the flounder.

“Crab meat, of course,” replied the waiter, smiling and leaning over to refill my water glass with water from a beautiful crystal pitcher.

“Mmm, but there’s something distinct about it,” I noted with an inquisitive glance. “What type of crab is it? Blue crab? Mangrove? King? The meat is excellent, and I must know what brave crab gave his all so that I might enjoy his succulent innards.”

With an uneasy smile, the waiter assured me that he would go to the kitchen and find out for me. I thanked him and continued to enjoy my food. It was around this time that I noticed a young brunette woman a few tables over who appeared to have taken a disproportionate interest in what I was doing. I looked over, smiled and gave a polite nod. She quickly opened a newspaper and began to read it. The waiter returned, looking pink and jittery. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what type of crab it is,” he said.

“Then I would like to speak to the chef,” I said, slightly perturbed and a little more inquisitive.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” quivered the waiter.

“And why is that?” I asked. The restaurant grew quiet. The woman a few tables over put down her news paper and watched the waiter intently.

“Because,” the waiter began.

“Because he doesn’t exist,” said a voice behind me. It was the hostess. “This operation is run with precooked food.”

“And my stuffing?!” I demanded.

“Imitation.”

With that, the woman with the newspaper stood up, along with two men from the bar who were dressed in suits, and walked over to the hostess.

“I’m Agent Mahi of the Seafood Exactitude Commission,” the woman said to the hostess.

The hostess looked back, shrugged, and replied, “There is no innocent explanation.”

“Take her away, boys,” said Agent Mahi, and the two burly men from the bar cuffed the hostess and led her out of the restaurant. Then Agent Mahi looked back at me. “Well done,” she said. “You have just assisted in the capture of an elusive, brilliant scam artist. The SEC had been tracking her for quite some time.”

Another man in a suit, whom I had not previously seen, came walking out of the kitchen and over to Agent Mahi. “Just as we suspected, ma’am. Nothing but microwaves. No people, no pots or pans. Nothing real at all. It was all fake. All an illusion.”

Agent Mahi looked only half stuneed. “How did she do it?” she asked. “How did she keep them all going, all on her own?”

“I suppose she had help from the waiter,” replied the agent who had come from the kitchen.

“I guess you’re right. But still, that’s incredible.” Agent Mahi turned back toward me. “The SEC thanks you for your help with this, even if you had no idea what was going on.” She looked back at the other agent. “Well, I suppose we’ll have tons of paperwork to do when we get back. Might as well get started.”

“What about my money?” I asked. “What about my crab meat?”

“I’m sorry,” Agent Mahi replied. “It’s gone. There never was any crab meat. Just some pasted Alaskan Pollock made to resemble the real thing. It was all a hoax. But you can take comfort knowing that this criminal will never rip off another unsuspecting seafood lover again.”

As she turned for the door, I called out in a flashy show of 1940s over-the-top melodrama, “Agent Mahi, don’t I even get a first name?”

“You already know it,” she responded coolly. Then she left the restaurant.

I looked around, my life in shambles, my faith in my favorite seafood establishment gone, my faith in seafood in general  shaken. The waiter had been taken to the car with the hostess, but not before he dropped the crystal pitcher on the ground. Shattered glass lay strewn about the floor, as did the false dreams they had built themselves, the hostess and the waiter. All a hoax. All a scam. As I said, the news struck quickly and violently.

OTTAWA, Canada – Birds are dying.  Every year, an estimated 500 million birds fly into skyscrapers with transparent windows.  These collisions cost the birds their lives.  This year someone finally decided to do something.  But before looking at the solution, we should look at the problem.  Why do so few help?

For many, the statistics are too much to bear.  A local musician responded,  “I am disgusted.  The noble bird is the source of amazing poetry, and the basis for many of my songs.  Birds are dying so some rich businessmen can have a view.  Is it worth the view to kill a bird?  Does no one care?” He then covered one of his eyes so he only see half the pain caused by the skyscrapers.  A tear could be seen rolling out his other, disenfranchised eye.

The collisions hurt the flightless birds in much the same way.  An emu, weighed down by grief, commented, “If I had arms I’d cut myself.” That was the only phrase he knew.

And the buildings?  The buildings are indifferent.  Calls to the EWI building, representative to the IUCN World Conservation Congress, were not returned.

Birds are dying, skyscrapers are silent, musicians are paralyzed, and no one is doing anything about the problem.

Except little Charlie Sobcov.  World traveler, eighth grader, Canadian…Charlie is many things.  Most of all, though, Charlie is a lover of birds.  He fell in love during a trip to Costa Rica years ago, and was appalled when he found out the statistics.  But Charlie didn’t fall into an emotional stupor.  Charlie acted.

During an exhaustive examination of the bird’s sensory systems, he discovered that birds and humans see different spectra of light.  Charlie painted several windows with paint that is visible to birds but not humans.  “Immediately the birds stopped flying into those windows,” he said.  He plans to quickly expand his trials.

We here at chicken and rice salute Charlie for being part of the solution.  Pointless death is not delicious.  His hard work has given many hope.  Hope that pointless death stops.  Hope that musician could be enfranchised again.  Hope that emu need not despond.  Hope those skyscrapers need not kill.  But, most of all, hope that birds need not die.

We cannot wait to see what little Charlie will think up next.  He has a lot in common with another lover of birds, a man who visited the Galapagos and fell in love with the islands’ finches.  That man was Charles Darwin.