The Bird Feeder
A Mid-Life Crisis
I’m writing today because I cannot explain my actions. No one was hurt, and nothing of value was lost; nonetheless, I was not in control of myself. I am 43. Recently, middle age has snatched me like a field mouse in its taloned clutches. This is a story of how I was trapped within a crisis of the mid-life.
It all started with a bird feeder (MSRP $129.99).
The feeder had a camera built into it, which was mostly fine -- not very good but sort of fine. The resolution was low, the colors were muted, and I didn’t love the app, but hey, I also don’t really care for birds. I think they’re sort of fine. As far as the camera, the feeder, and birds as a whole are concerned, I could honestly take them or leave them.
Our bird feeder’s camera app was supposed to use motion-detection to trigger the camera and send me a photo, but usually it was just a picture of a passing car. So I turned off the motion detection and fell into the habit of only using the app to check in on the birds in real time. If I happened to notice birds at the feeder, I could look at them a bit closer, in low resolution video, if I felt like looking at birds (which I didn’t).
This sad reality was a far cry from the National Geographic-style experiences I imagined when I unboxed the feeder. It seems naive now, but I’d fantasized about exotic animals on my Juliet balcony. Jurassic-looking creatures that sang like angels. Maybe one would leave an iridescent feather. Maybe I’d strike up a friendship with one and give it a people name. Did I dare to dream of one landing on my outstretched finger? Or was that just Disney princess stuff? And would all these joys (and more!) really be made possible by something as innocuous as a new bird feeder?
No.
Because the camera was merely fine.
Until one day, the camera broke. It wouldn’t turn on, and the USB port rusted. The piece of junk was broken beyond repair and, more importantly, my Nat-Geo fantasy was destroyed.
But for some middle-aged reason I refused to accept that.
Instead, I dug up some unused Wi-Fi security cameras (MSRP $35.99 per). I bought them during a Covid-era panic attack but took them down once times became more precedented. I realized I could replace the camera in the bird feeder with one of my security cameras that had higher resolution and a better app. I could not only fix the feeder, but actually improve it (which would surely spark a kerfuffle amongst the National Geographic editorial board).
I pulled out the broken camera and wedged the new one in. I added birdseed and a small water dish. I set the motion detector on the security app and waited.
By the end of the day, I had several minutes of high definition video... and there were birds in them.
Sometimes I follow all of the steps toward a certain goal, but once the goal is achieved, I am nonetheless astounded. I’d grown accustomed to terrible bird feeder videos and was emotionally unprepared for the vibrant crispness of the security camera. And the colors! More saturation, more contrast... It was like in the Wizard Of Oz when Dorothy steps out of black and white. By comparison to the original camera, the footage was magnificent.
Inspired by my success, I looked up the birds and learned they were mostly House Finches and Mourning Doves. Both are common in the area. I also read that they like sunflower seeds, which — wow — me too. So that’s pretty dang cool, I guess...
Actually, I wouldn’t say that I was emotionally resonating with the birds. They were still just fine. To be honest, I don’t think this was ever about the birds.
Still, I was excited by the videos. They showed immense promise... but they weren’t perfect. The security camera was sharper, but the birds themselves were actually a bit softer. The camera was focused farther away than the birds. Which made sense, of course. Security cameras are designed to capture prowlers and UberEATS drivers, the kind of subjects that don’t come right up to the lens.
Undaunted, I added a second camera. I began to experiment with a variety of supports that would allow me to relocate my “B Cam” off to the side, further away from the birds and within the minimum focus distance. I used a clamp for a while but was frustrated by camera-shake, so I tried a “magic arm” (MSRP $21.99) and that seemed to fix the problem.
Again, I set the app for motion detection and left the machine to work. Again, the results improved. Again, my aging brain was dazzled.
But why? Why was I checking the security app several times a day to confirm that the birds (who I did not care for) were making videos for me? Why did I keep tweaking the framing? Why did I take so many time lapses? Why did I add a “C Cam?!”
Now the problem was the angle, because I was mostly getting their little bird profiles. I wanted closeups. Straight on. But I couldn’t point the camera at their faces if it was clamped way off to the side, so I decided to permanently alter the feeder in pursuit of the shot I wanted.
I ordered a rotary tool (MSRP $74.99), a sleek bit of kit that cut right through the heavy plastic. With the bird feeder’s orifice rudely widened, I was able to reposition the camera further back. I set the app and, after another day of waiting, the results were in. I was seeing faces. Those faces were in focus. I was watching them eat and I was encouraged
But why?
At this point I actively disliked the birds. They fought a lot, made a mess of the sunflower seeds, and showed absolutely no gratitude. I also assumed they were diseased. This was not informed by research but I wore gloves and felt guilty for not wearing a respirator while tending to my bizarre little video garden.
And why did I toil? Because the videos were still not perfect. The stupid little birds were looking down while they ate. I was just getting the tops of their stupid little heads. I wanted a closeup -- a real closeup. I wanted to see into their vacant doll’s eyes while they ate. Was that so much to ask?
So I pulled up the Ali Express app and bought something I’d wanted for a long time: an industrial endoscope (MSRP $18.99). The kind you put down your engine when you drop a 10mm socket into its nether regions. The kind you feed between the drywall when you suspect a rat king situation. The kind that is shipped directly to you from an anonymous Chinese factory (if you’re lucky). Finally, I had a totally normal and practical use for one.
It took a long time to arrive. I wondered if it ever would, or if it would even work. That’s the fun of Ali Express, though. I don’t gamble on sports, I online shop with a language barrier. The endoscope did finally arrive, as advertised and translated. I opened my mailbox to find Chinese characters on a shipping label and my heart fluttered. After explaining to my wife that this was an industrial endoscope, not a medical endoscope, and promising that I would not put the camera inside any of the birds, I opened it.
The endoscope itself looked promising but its app was the worst app by far. I looked for alternative software -- somewhere, anywhere, please -- but never found any. Which meant that the endoscope had no features. No motion detection. No exposure controls. Nothing. Which meant I would have to lie in wait for the birds to arrive, then manually trigger the camera. The wire was long enough that I could run it through a window into my living room but, because the birds could see through the sliding glass doors, I would have to hide or they could see me. The solution I’d spent weeks and a few hundred dollars engineering was now far less convenient than the original camera.
Obviously, I should have given up. I should have given up long before I ever got to this point. But there is a stubbornness that I’m developing. I associate it with this period of my life. I can be persistent in a new, stupider way than ever before. I know that this may read like a sad man’s struggles with sunk-cost fallacy, but I think it’s actually deeper, and possibly more concerning than that.
I just didn’t care about the consequences, I was going to get the shot. Maybe it was the Lexapro but I truly didn’t care that it cost too much money. I didn’t care that it took so much time. Nor that I didn’t even like the birds. I wanted the video. Maybe I felt entitled to it. I’d bought all the stuff. I’d put in the work. I’d done the research. It was rightfully mine. I didn’t care that I had a four-camera setup on a balcony less than two feet wide and I definitely didn’t care that this whole thing was an aggressively over-engineered mess.
What I think I might have cared about was not admitting defeat. I wanted to be one of those guys who seemed incapable of failure -- or at least to feel like one. I wanted to feel capable and in control.
So I decided that it was time to get serious and I hid the endoscope in the bird seed. Then for the next week, I set an early alarm. Each morning, I hid behind my couch with my phone in my hand. A USB cable snaked in from a window, through the legs of the furniture, to where I sat (sometimes with a cup of coffee) and waited.
I’d like to pretend that these hours were spent in careful contemplation of how my life had come to this, but honestly, I mostly cursed the birds. There were many false-starts and near-misses. I’d capture a portion of one, or something would scare them away, or they’d spend the whole time fighting and bitching like little assholes. Sometimes they didn’t come at all, which infuriated me.
Until one morning, I got it.
This has been built up so much that the video can only be anticlimactic, but I was satisfied. The clip did everything I wanted. It was a closeup of a bird eating. I was able to see into the bird’s blank little bead-eyes as it consumed my bait.
Mission accomplished.
Was it a National Geographic-style experience? No. But given the amount of effort I’d put into this project, I decided that was the birds’ fault. I’m sure that some balconies probably get a bunch of real lookers, but here in the San Fernando Valley the birds are sixes at best.
So I removed the endoscope. And a few other cameras. I pared it all the way back to one camera, and decided I could live with seeing the tops of their stupid little heads. Not that I’ve been looking at them. I don’t really watch the birds anymore. Haven’t refilled the feeder in weeks. I can’t say that I miss them either, although I do sort of miss the challenge. I think I feel more like I’ve conquered them and moved on.
I got the shot. I claimed glorious victory in a war no one was fighting by hyper-fixating on a pointless problem until I’d eliminated it. But more than that, I took a measure of control in this god-forsaken world. I forced a small, unwilling animal to look me dead in the eye using nothing but 5 cameras, a rotary tool, a magic arm, a clamp, an industrial endoscope, and a few pounds of sunflower seeds.
Take that modernity. Take that nature.
I’m still here.