It's been asked, "When the flamingos return to K-Mart, can summer be nigh?"
Well, spring has finally returned. When I was cruising up Magnolia Boulevard j u s t t w o days ago, I was startled to spy one front yard that had a veritable flock of the pink lawn decorations.
The pink plastic flamingo (Flamin-gus polythylus) is on the endangered list, and its gradual disappearance is perplexing. The bird's ever-decreasing numbers can't be blamed on the encroachment of man, after all, for it is we - men and women of all ages - who shell out the $12.95 per pair to buy them.
They are impervious to pesticides; the problem can't be traced to pollution, for flamingos are of its essence.
I've been a flamingo fancier for years. My affection took wing after I'd seen John Waters' "Pink Flamingos," probably the most tasteless film of all time. For me anyway, the plastic flamingo became the epitome of tacky.
Once, years ago, in Palm Springs on a Ford Mustang II shoot, I was assigned to buy some props to put around the car. I went to the local discount store in search of beach towels, beach balls and other fun-type accessories for our human models to pose with.
I spotted a single flamingo standing next to a sign that read: GIANT FIRE SALE - BUY IT NOW OR IT GOES ON THE FIRE. I knew the bird was meant for me, and since the ad agency was buying, I couldn't pass it up.
After the shoot I took the bird back to Detroit, and it enjoyed a place of honor in my office. Around the agency I was known simply as "that guy with the bird." The next year I moved to Seattle and Magnolia, where I became the Northwest Editor of Vans & Trucks magazine for a while.
At the various custom van rallies that I'd go to, it always seemed that people would bring along the family pooch and end up tying the poor dog to the bumper of the truck while they went off and partied. Well, I didn't have a dog, but I did have a flamingo - so I tied it to my bumper. People started looking at me a little strangely.
After a while my flamingo had lost some of its shock value. So, as I was passing a K-Mart one day and noticed that they had flamingos on sale, I bought a flock. I then started tying my nine birds to the bumper of my truck at the next rally.
The comments flew: "You trying to win the most tasteless truck award or something?"
Actually, that was pretty much a lesson in redundancy since most of the trucks were pretty tacky anyway without any outside help.
"No, these are Burmese fighting flamingos," I'd explain, all the while trying to keep a straight face. "In Asia they're bred especially for sport and then pitted against each other, much like cockfighting. They know only two positions, perfectly still and full attack mode. When you watch them eat, fight or mate, it's like watching a pink tornado. Otherwise they're perfectly motionless."
"C'mon, just what do you take me for?" my listener would question.
"Just before they attack, they blink," I'd go on. "I wouldn't turn my back on them if I were you." I was usually left pretty much alone and undisturbed.
Then when fuel prices started to rise even more, the popularity of custom vanning dropped off, and my birds went into hibernation in the basement.
A few years ago I was going to spend Christmas in Detroit with my parents, and that meant I'd miss the annual Christmas decorating season in Magnolia. To solve that problem I dug the birds out of the basement, and when my friends showed up for my birthday party in November, they were greeted with a spectacular display.
I'd stuffed some old clothes with newspaper and made a full-sized dummy of Santa Claus sitting on a chair on top of an old pair of skis. He was being pulled by eight flamingos. I had also taped a tasteful red light to the lead flamingo's beak, and then I'd floodlit the entire scene. My neighbors were terrified I'd leave the whole thing up until Christmas.
My partner, the Lady Marjorie, has made me return all of the birds to the basement for now. But just wait until we throw our next Tacky Party: I've got the perfect thing to use for croquet wickets.
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