I'm not sure what age indicates appropriateness for the art of bird-watching.  For that matter, I'm not entirely certain if it can be considered a sport.  Some people would undoubtedly have you believe it's a sport.  But if bowling is a sport, or god forbid the World Series of Poker falls into this category, let the debate begin.  While I'm dreadfully awful at both, I could easily create spot-on characters with a repertoire furnished from a few tubs stacked neatly in the corner of the basement.  For example, throw on a pair of pleated polyester pants that rise about an inch and a half above the ankle line, orange and brown velour short-sleeve with an elastic bottom that bunches up every time you bend over, a plaid derby, and a hastily thrown-on mustache; enter Louie "Gutterballs" Parker.  Or how about a plastic green visor, pair of gas station blue-blockers, XXL Tim Couch jersey, jorts, black socks, Teva's and... a hastily thrown-on mustache.  Here comes Tommy "Deuces Wild" Williams!  All that excitement aside, things in my own living room aren't nearly as interesting.

     Most guys my age take up hobbies akin to their lifestyle, or at least to get out of the house.  For example, I know dudes who golf, ride motorcycles, go to the gym, play video games, or at least drink.  Wait a minute.  I thought video games were for children?  Wow.  I've vastly underestimated my own theory about age-related hobbies.  Of course I've chosen to shatter my own hypothesis as well.  You can call me Scott "Hooded Merganser" Herman.  Or maybe"Common Loon" is a more suitable moniker.  On second thought, don't call me either one.  Ever.  My costume consists of a cheap pair of Bushnell binoculars, the 2nd Edition - Birds of Ohio Field Guide that my wife begrudgingly gifted me this Spring, and a cantankerous disposition.  In other words, don't bother your Grandpa!

     I already managed to stare out the patio doors for longer stretches of time than a dog anxiously waiting to take a piss.  It only made sense to excuse the behavior by making it an activity.  We professionals call it 'birding.'  And some will travel across the continent to show their commitment.  What a waste of time.  I can accomplish the same end by standing, or sitting, in the same place for hours.  In my living room no less.  Did I mention that my fenced-in patio is a whopping 10 x 25 feet of concrete slab and urban charm?  I have one tree, two ornamental grasses, and a few shrubs.  In addition, I provide one suet block, a plastic thistle feeder, and your traditional bird feeder.  I'm no ornithologist, but it's a veritable winged paradise out there.  Now you can see why the binoculars play such a pivotal role.  Otherwise it's almost impossible to identify the flaming-yellow feathers of a male American Goldfinch when he's perched as far as 8 feet away from the window.  I've also had to develop a highly-refined ear to distinguish between the calls of the Chestnut-sided Warbler and that of a shirtless youth stealing a bicycle from the neighboring apartment complex.  And if you listen closely enough, you can often hear the arrival and gentle call of the elusive Ghetto Bird as it circles in chase.  But most importantly, I really gain contentment with the joy it brings my family.  Here's a sample: