Frazz by Jef Mallett for August 11, 2024

They are not called birdwatchers anymore. Now they are birders.

Raspy-Throated Funscotcher?

Oh for chirping out loud…

I’m not a birder or birdwatcher but several times a week while I’m on my porch reading/gaming a hummingbird will drop in. Hovers in my face for a few seconds before it darts away. I assume a neighbor is feeding it if it’s that comfortable around humans.

That is some pedantic d*ckery far beyond his years.

As usual, Caulfield goes overboard over nothing. Missing a chance to have a comfortable conversation with an adult.

Poor birdwatchers are minding their own business with their harmless hobby when they wake up this morning to find that Caulfield has whizzed in their cheerios.

Oriole, woodpecker, chickadee, bluebird, bluejay.

Oh boy Jef, not only great theme in today’s strip but . . . Great cartooning ART. The birds in the first panel? Just great. Another 4.0, A+ cartoon. Thank you Jef.

This lad needs Merlin. Just lie back and let the thing listen and tell you who the neighbors are. It’s more fun, not less, to know which bird made which noise, especially the sneaky ones.

Mrs. Olsen did not “scotch” Caulfield’s fun. He did it to himself by jumping to a conclusion.

You can’t have optics that are too big. While anything beyond being able to lift and holding reasonably steady tends to be impractical. Still, the ‘optics’ of what optics you possess when paired with your epauletted safari shirt is important. A Pith Helmet might be a bit much.

Every now and then I’ll dig out the field guide to check on a new or unusual bird but normally, I just watch them.

My cat must be a ‘birder’.

But the notes don’t have to be made public, Caulfield.

Typical kid these days. Takes a simple comment by a Boomer and twists it around so it means something completely unintended. She didn’t say you had to catalogue them, nor did she call you a birdwatcher! If you are watching TV, you are a TV Watcher. You don’t have to know everything about TVs! Stop reading meaning when no meaning is meant!

Raspy-Throated Funscotcher: I wonder if Jef has read “The Indoor Bird Watcher’s Manual”. My family was familiar with the humor and made up their own species names in the late ‘40s and ’50s. The only one I remember: The “double-breasted t*t”. They weren’t all risqué, though.

And, don’t forget, you also have to be condescending about it. “Oh, a left-thorated grackle? Good job, even though they’re as common as pigeons. You know, I once had an orange-crested nuthatch deign to shìt on my camera, and I treasure the stain to this day.” Seriously, who has time to be like that?

Did he come to the conclusion on his own and blame it on Mrs. Olson? Tsk. A kid being a kid. Maybe he just didn’t want to be reminded of school this late in the summer?

And another bad assumption by the kid.

I stay away from birding. I don’t want to end up like old Dick Davenport.

Aw, Caufield, you scotched it for yourself.

Just sit quietly and let the birds watch you.

Coming after this week’s arcs, this appears to be a metaphor for the relationship between reading for pure pleasure and reading centuries-old “literature” assigned for summer reading by a sadistic English teacher.

In (at least) one way, Caulfield is right. The term “birdwatching” has come to imply far more than simply watching birds, and he doesn’t want to be viewed as someone who embodies all those other things.

And to some extent, I’m with him. I enjoy watching birds. I’m pleased if I know their names (in various languages), but I don’t feel a “need” to know. And I don’t keep records, though there are a few that are “recorded” in my brain, because I’ve seen each of them only once, and not because I was searching for them.

And I was annoyed at a “birder” friend of my sister, when a bird unknown to them both arrived in her garden, and he became angry because it appeared in her garden, not his.

Saw yellow finches in Central PA a couple weeks ago.

I do not like the way the blue jay is eyeing Caufield. Blue jays are not known for their even temperament.

Caulfield’s “problem” appears to be entirely self-imposed, and he’s projected that onto Ms Olsen.

Three little birds….