Lifestyle
‘Birds Are My Eyesight’
On an average morning, Susan Glass can sit on the patio at her condominium complex in Saratoga, Calif., and identify as many as 15 different bird species by ear: a stellar’s jay, an acorn woodpecker, an oak titmouse.
For her, birding is more than a hobby. “Birds are my eyesight,” said Ms. Glass, a poet and a professor of English at West Valley Community College who has been blind since birth. “When I check into a hotel in Pittsburgh, I might remember the rock dove and the house finch in the parking lot, rather than the architecture.”
When the audio is played, captions appear that read “Drink your tea! Drink your tea! Drink your tea!”
Mnemonics are used by many birders to help identify bird calls. Some are more clear than others. The eastern towhee sounds like it’s saying “Drink yer teeeeea!” Audio via Michael Hurben
Ms. Glass, 67, was a child when she first noticed the birds twittering outside her family’s home on the Lake Erie coast of Michigan. “My mother told me they were a swallow called the purple martin,” she said. “I was paying attention to where they were flying, and I could actually start to hear the dimensions of our little cabin, the screen porch, the front yard.”
She has mapped her surroundings by bird song ever since.
Birding got a significant boost with the pandemic: With so many people doing less, they tuned in to the sounds of nature more; and with lockdowns came a reduction in noise pollution, which made the bird calls all the more pronounced.
Sarah Courchesne, a Massachusetts Audubon program ornithologist in Newburyport, attributes the increased interest in birding partly to the fact that it’s a way for people of all abilities to tap into nature — whether by eye, by ear or both.
As the birding community grows larger and more diverse, Ms. Courchesne said, birding clubs and conservation organizations are thinking more about accessibility, and this is changing the way they talk about birding and think about it.
For one thing, the terminology is evolving. According to Freya McGregor, a 35-year-old birder and occupational therapist specializing in blindness and low vision, the term “birder” was once reserved for those who were more serious than the hobbyist “bird watcher.” But increasingly, “birder” is becoming a catchall, thanks to a growing awareness that some hobbyists identify birds not by watching, but exclusively by listening.
Susan Glass, a poet and professor who has been blind since birth, has been mapping her surroundings by birdsong since childhood.
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
She sometimes uses a Braille Sense computer – or her phone – to record audio from birding trips.
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
Spaces are evolving too. Nature trails from Cape Cod to the Colombian Andes are being reimagined, with features like wheelchair-accessible terrain and guardrails to guide guests with low vision. The Audubon Society in Massachusetts recently introduced a series of All Person’s Trails, which are designed for accessibility.
Public programming is also expanding. Birding organizations across the country are introducing a new kind of bird “walk” — one called a “big sit,” where you just stay put. These stationary birding events, popularized by the New Haven Birding Club in the early 1990s, is a type of competitive event, sometimes hosted as a fund-raiser, in which teams of birders stay within their own 17-foot-diameter circles for a 24-hour period and identify as many birds as possible.
When the audio is played, captions appear that read “Cheer up, cheerily! Cheer up, cheerily”
Early ornithologists attempted to describe the rhythmic phrases of the American robin’s cheerful song with words like “Cheer up, cheerily.” Audio via Jerry Berrier
In May, Ms. Courchesne hosted a big sit alongside Jerry Berrier, a blind birder, on an All Person’s Trail near Ipswich, Mass. Mr. Berrier, who lives in Malden, Mass., said he wanted his event to be less competitive and more meditative than a traditional bird sit.
While some studies have shown that simply hearing bird song may alleviate anxiety and boost feelings of well-being, Mr. Berrier, 70, said the benefits go beyond that for him. “Birding gives me a connection with a world I can’t see,” he said, including when the world outside is waking up in the morning and winding down at dusk.
Jerry Berrier often goes into his backyard in Malden, Mass., with his parabolic microphone to listen to birds.
Kayana Szymczak for The New York Times
A microphone is situated underneath a bush outside of Mr. Berrier’s home.
Kayana Szymczak for The New York Times
He doesn’t even need to step outside to listen. Mr. Berrier’s home is surrounded by an audio mixer and sound recording equipment — parabolic microphones and devices he has custom-made — piping in bird sounds from the outdoors in real time, and recording bird song in quieter environments.
At the Ipswich bird sit, Mr. Berrier pointed people to the resonant song of an ovenbird; the buzzy trills of various warblers and the flutelike notes of a Baltimore oriole, which sometimes sounds like it’s saying: “Here; here; come right here, dear.”
When teaching newcomers how to distinguish birds by ear, Mr. Berrier often shares mnemonics. For the eastern towhee, he said, listen for a bird that tweets: “Drink yer teeeeea.” The American robin sounds like it’s singing, “Cheer up, cheerily.” The Northern cardinal might be saying, ‘Watch here, watch here.’” American goldfinches call “potato chip” in flight, while olive-sided flycatchers chirp, “Quick! Three beers!”
When the audio is played, captions appear that read “Here! Come right here! Here! Come right here, dear. Come right here!”
One of the mnemonic phrases that Mr. Berrier and other birders use to identify the the Baltimore oriole is “Here; here; come right here, dear.” Audio via Jerry Berrier
Mr. Berrier has been birding since the 1970s, when he was in college at the Indiana University of Pennsylvania. There, a professor gave him a special assignment to replace the dissection-based portion of his biology course.
“He ended up giving me probably one of the greatest gifts that’s ever been given to me by recommending that I listen to his record albums from Cornell University that had bird sounds on them,” Mr. Berrier said. “He said, ‘I want you to listen to these during the semester, and at the end, your lab portion of the grade is going to be based on a walk in the woods with me, and I will ask you to identify some of the sounds you hear.’”
At first, Mr. Berrier found it daunting to distinguish bird species in the wild just by their sounds. “I just thought, ‘Man, these birds all sound the same,’” he said. “But by the end of the semester, I was hooked, and I’ve been doing it ever since.”
During these early outings, Mr. Berrier identified cardinals, with their laserlike trills; robins with their cheery twittering; and red-winged blackbirds, whose call he still thinks of as “a harbinger of spring.”
When the audio is played, captions appear that read “Watch here! Watch here! Cheer, watch here! Cheer! Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty.”
To some, the Northern cardinal sounds like it’s saying “pretty, pretty, pretty.” Audubon Vermont compares its call to a Star Wars light saber. Audio via Jerry Berrier
‘A Bird Heard’
For birders looking to build out their “life list” of every bird they’ve ever spotted, knowing these calls can be indispensable: The American Birding Association’s rules for identifying a bird species make no qualitative distinction between “a bird heard” and “a bird seen.”
Trevor Attenberg, a scientist and writer who is blind and lives in Portland, Ore., pointed out there are plenty of birds you have far less chance of seeing than hearing. “Something like 60 to 70 percent of the birds that you will encounter, you will only be able to encounter by ear,” Mr. Attenberg said.
“I’m always listening to what kind of birds I can hear in any given environment, whenever I step outside, and it tells me so much,” he said. “It tells me about the weather, and the seasons. It tells me about this specific landscape that I’m in. Even when I’m in urban environments, it can tell me about the quality of habitat.”
When the audio is played, captions appear that read “whip-poor-will whip-poor-will”
The Mexican whip-poor-will, which can be found in the southwestern U.S., has a call that sounds like its name. Audio via Michael Hurben
Learning the percentage of birds that one might only ever have a chance to identify by ear gave Mr. Attenberg, 40, more confidence. “It’s indicating to me — as the blind birder, uncertain as to my place in science — that I actually can compete with other ornithologists that can spot birds through binoculars and so forth, which I can’t really do,” he said. “Learning that, in fact, such a large share of possible bird detections are only going to come through the ear, tells me that, well, there is room for blind people — and people that just enjoy using their ears for listening or collecting information — to learn about birds in this way.”
But the notion of “a bird heard” is becoming increasingly imperiled as noise pollution brings about fundamental changes in the way nature sounds. Ornithologists have reported birds changing the tenor of their calls as they strain to be audible over the din of human-made noise — whether it’s crypto mining or just the everyday sounds of leaf blowers or car traffic.
When the audio is played, captions appear that repeat “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you?”
The barred owl seems to be asking, “Who cooks for you?” Audio via Michael Hurben
Ms. Glass, the poet in California, said she has noticed that, over time, there are fewer bird sounds altogether. “There is no longer, in my part of the world, what you would call a dawn chorus — an overwhelming bird chorus that drowns out everything else,” she said. Bird song ebbs and flows with the seasons, peaking during migrations. But studies indicate that as bird populations decline, bird song is declining, too.
Jerry Berrier often stands on his deck with his shotgun mic near sunset, and records bird sounds, which he later edits.
Kayana Szymczak for The New York Times
5,400 Birds
Michael Hurben, 56, is on a mission to document what he can, while he can. Because of a degenerative retina disease, his field of view has narrowed over time, from 180 degrees to, he estimates, less than one-tenth of that.
So Mr. Hurben, a retired engineer who lives in Bloomington, Minn., has doubled down on his love of birding, and is well on his way to identifying 5,400 different birds — a little more than half of all bird species in the world. “I just want to be able to say that I’ve identified the majority,” he said.
He and his wife, Claire Strohmeyer, who is also 56 and a clinical researcher, have visited dozens of international destinations to check rare species off the list. But a narrow scope makes searching for a bird in a tree, or spotting it through binoculars, especially challenging.
This makes his ability to identify birds by ear indispensable. He has brushed up on his skills online, but also by birding with other birders by ear, including Mr. Berrier, who joined Mr. Hurben on a birding trip to Cape May, N.J., last year.
Mr. Hurben finds it increasingly difficult to hear certain bird song, like the very high-pitched calls of the colorful cedar waxwing.
“Before we go on a trip, I will try to really study the calls ahead of time,” he said. While some calls do require a mnemonic to remember, others are very distinctive.
When the audio is played, no mnemonic captions appear
The screaming piha has a call so unique it’s a go-to for sound designers when making films set in jungles, said Michael Hurben, a birder. He recorded this sound clip on a birding trip to Brazil. Audio via Michael Hurben
He cited for example, the screaming piha, a plain-looking gray bird he and his wife trekked into the Amazon to identify. Its unique call is a go-to for sound designers when making films set in jungles, he said. (Listen for it in Werner Herzog’s 1972 film, “Aguirre, Wrath of God.”) Likewise, another South American bird, the sharpbill, has a call that sounds “like a falling bomb,” Mr. Hurben said. “I hear that song once, and I’ll never forget it the rest of my life.”
Nicholas Hoult (front row, center) plays Justin Kemp in Juror #2.
Warner Bros.
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Warner Bros.
There’s been a bit of consternation flying around about the fact that the theatrical release of Juror #2, directed by Clint Eastwood, was very muted. (It’s now on Max.) It has struck some people, particularly some Eastwood fans, as unfair to give short shrift to the 94-year-old director’s latest work.
But this is a movie that is perfect to watch at home. It belongs at home.
(Some mild early-plot spoilers follow, but they are not important to your enjoyment of the movie.)
The film has a terrific premise: Justin (Nicholas Hoult) gets called for jury duty, which he’s not excited about, since his wife is extremely pregnant and he’d rather just get out of it. But he can’t, and he ends up serving on a case where a man (Gabriel Basso) is accused of beating his girlfriend to death and leaving her by the side of the road after they had a drunken fight at a bar. But Justin quickly realizes that he was at the bar that night, and while he didn’t drink, he was upset. When he left, he took his eyes off the road and hit a deer — or so he thought. Now he wonders: Might he actually have hit this woman himself? And what is he supposed to do now?
The maneuvering that has to happen to make this even mildly plausible is impressive in its precision: He is a recovering alcoholic who went to a bar but didn’t drink, but his sponsor (Kiefer Sutherland) assures him that nobody will believe he was sober and he will rot in jail if he tells the truth. There are both a giant deer-crossing sign and a bridge at the exact point where the incident happened, so that when, in flashbacks, Justin gets out of the car to find out what he hit, he sees the sign, but might just miss the woman’s body, because it may have flown over the side of the bridge.
The legal plot, too, has so many holes in it that it’s more holes than plot itself. As the prosecutor (Toni Collette) prepares to bring the case, nobody thinks that maybe this woman found by the side of the road who left a bar in the dark in the rain was hit by a car, rather than beaten to death with a weapon — of which there’s no sign? (The case against the defendant, her boyfriend, amounts to “we don’t know what happened to her, so she was probably, what? Beaten to death? And it was probably you, since we don’t know anybody else who would have done it.”) Justin’s sponsor (who’s a lawyer!) doesn’t point out that it’s still entirely possible he did hit a deer, given that sign, and that proving otherwise would be a very tall order, especially after they put somebody else on trial?
Suffice it to say that this is a classic hum-through plot, meaning you have to hum loudly to yourself at the silly parts so that you don’t notice how silly they are. But that’s OK! That’s true of many perfectly serviceable courtroom dramas, which is what this is. I miss serviceable courtroom dramas. There should be more of them. And I’ve got nothing against this one, particularly. Clint Eastwood is an experienced and knowledgeable director; you’re not going to suddenly get a bad product. It’s fine!
But the serviceable courtroom drama is a genre that’s well-suited to being watched at home. They could have made this a mid-level Max streaming series, to be honest, dragging it out to six episodes or so, and that would have been fine, too. (Might have given J.K. Simmons, who has a strangely abbreviated role as a fellow juror, more to do.)
It would certainly be nice to see a healthier theater environment, where courtroom dramas could become hits like they could in the olden days (A Few Good Men was the tenth highest-grossing movie of 1993!) The same could be said of sports movies, romantic comedies, adult dramas – I mean, the rest of the domestic top ten of 1993 includes Jurassic Park, The Fugitive, The Firm, Sleepless in Seattle, Mrs. Doubtfire, Indecent Proposal, In the Line of Fire, Aladdin and Cliffhanger. This year’s domestic top 10 (thus far) is nine sequels and Wicked. That’s a bummer.
But that’s happening across the board. Clint Eastwood was not singled out for disrespect; the couch is just where people see regular movies now. And if viewing is going to shift toward home, this film, which is thoroughly and entirely OK, belongs there as much as any.
This piece also appeared in NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour newsletter. Sign up for the newsletter so you don’t miss the next one, plus get weekly recommendations about what’s making us happy.
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In the summer of 2023, Alix Max, new to town with a cigarette in their mouth, was shooting pool on the patio of 4100 Bar in Silver Lake. They were pretty good, too — good enough to catch the eye of two regulars, Andrea Lorell and Julianne Fox, who recruited them to join their practice group. Their proposal was simple: “We have this group chat, and we play together and get better. The goal is to beat men at pool.”
It’s a plotline that could be lifted from the classic billiards film “The Hustler”: an up-and-coming pool prodigy, James Dean-cool, comes to town and gets seduced by the green-felted world of dive bar pool — an aspiring pool shark meet-cute over an ashtray. A cherished motto Max introduced to the group: “Pool is blue-collar golf.”
The pool night was born after Andrea Lorell, pictured, and other players kept experiencing hostility around the sport at other bars.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
The pool-playing group, which started as a group chat titled “Women in STEM,” was composed of pool amateurs, usually young women Julianne “drunkenly met” at 4100 Bar who had a burgeoning interest in pool. Soon, the group chat mutated into a tournament series and community titled “Please Be Nice.” If billiards has the reputation of being a pastime for gamblers, hustlers and hanger-oners, the female-centric biweekly pool tournament at 4100 Bar offers a friendly, supportive alternative. “I don’t know if the goal necessarily was to build community, but it was a natural byproduct,” says Fox. The tournament is both a party and competition where women practice pool, trade tips and compete in an encouraging environment. It was created as an antidote to the prickly, male-dominated world of dive bar pool — all the exhilaration without the bickering turf wars with bar regulars.
Julianne Fox tallies the score.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
The founders, Lorell and Fox, began shooting pool at 4100 Bar in April 2023 and were bonded by their mutual hunger for the game. Growing up as an only child, Lorell spent hours playing on her aunt’s pool table. As an adult, she traveled across the country for work, always seeking out pool halls to “find a good hang.” She’s since joined a league and even played in a tournament in Las Vegas, where her team won the Sportsmanship Award. The team that knocked her out was disqualified in the next round. On the patio, she details the melodrama so amusingly that her love for the game is infectious — almost romantic.
“It’s a community cheering for each other and seeing each other get good,” says co-founder Andrea Lorell.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Until recently, Lorell lived in a cluttered studio apartment with a pool table beside her bed. She jokes being a pool shark is her dream job. “I give myself a little pep talk before important matches: ‘You’re the greatest pool player in the world,’” she says, laughing with a cigarette in hand. For her, the intention of “Please Be Nice” is to make pool accessible to young women: “It’s a community cheering for each other and seeing each other get good. It expedites people’s learning.”
Julianne Fox, a co-founder, says the tournament also operates as a workshop: “If you’ve never shot a pool ball before, come through. We’ll metaphorically or literally hold your hand.” It’s not about showing up the boys, even if that still happens. “I think it’s even more fun to learn the game to play with your girls,” says Fox. “I want to win, but I also want my opponent to have fun,” she adds, emphasizing the competition’s good-natured energy.
Pool tables in Los Angeles can be hostile places. “I’ll walk into a random bar in Koreatown, and there’s a pool table, and a bunch of older men are playing. You walk in, and they assume you’ll be bad at it,” says Max.
Adds Lorell, “They’re either giving you tips or checking you out, so it’s uncomfortable.”
Players say there’s a good-natured energy at “Please Be Nice” tournaments.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Molly Sievert, another “Please Be Nice” player, has also experienced sexism while playing pool. She explains that people assume her interest in pool stems from wanting to impress a father or boyfriend. She began shooting pool at 21 in bars across cities and is still baffled by men’s casual condescension toward female pool players. ”Men have never complimented me on my defensive shots because they think it’s an accident,” she says. When they inevitably lose to Sievert, they toss it up to a bad beat rather than their opponent’s skillset. She won her first tournament at “Please Be Nice” and has been a frequent competitor ever since. She’s a proud critic of 4100 Bar regulars — she says people keep walking into her cue stick, throwing off her shots, and not apologizing. “I always have that little part of me that is like, would you do that to a man?”
Sievert explains a personal theory that women take naturally to pool. Above all, it’s a game of brokering one’s circumstances, calling one’s shot, and making one’s own luck. It’s the type of hazards and presentiment that feel inherent to womanhood. Bravado, Molly argues, doesn’t serve the game. “Men will say, ‘I can make shots. I’m a shot maker.’ Many women are like, ‘I like the side pockets and weird angles. I don’t like the long table shots. I don’t like hitting it real. I like to think about the interaction of all the balls.”
April Clark, a comedian and pool player, chalks up antagonism at pool tables in L.A. to a scarcity issue. “When I first got sucked into playing pool, I was living in New York City; there were so many bars with pool tables.” For Clark, the game’s appeal is the spontaneous encounters with strangers that pool invites. The fewer the tables, the worse the ecosystem, the worse the vibe, Clark argues.
Jaden Levinson, left, and Taylor Garcia watch the action.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
It is often remarked that pool halls look like morgues; the dimly lit blue-felted table inside 4100 Bar is no exception. The competitors are in a trancelike state, building a stratagem. The pool tournaments often run till the bar closes at 2 a.m. The players take breaks to socialize, buy drinks and watch each other play.
Part of the success of “Please Be Nice” is tied to the recent renaissance of 4100 Bar, which transformed from a neighborhood dive into a Silver Lake nightlife institution thanks to TikTok. Mouse, a bartender at 4100 Bar for eight years, explains the bar’s rise began in 2020 when it became a popular spot for outdoor drinking during COVID restrictions.
Participants of all levels are welcome — even those who’ve never shot a pool ball before.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Now, it’s not unusual to have a run-in with a celebrity at 4100 Bar on a weekend with its new reputation as a charmingly sleazy playground for the internet-famous. Due to TikTok, the bar gained a cult following in Europe and Japan, with tourists flocking to the bar to be photographed in front of the avocado-green wall, Mouse explains. “Foreigners come here just to take photos with the 4100 sign and won’t even order,” he says. “People come and spend 100 bucks on the photo booth and not even get a drink.” The wall, he notes, closely resembled the now-infamous shade of neon green from Charli XCX’s “Brat” album.
For Lorell, the dive bar exists as a third space. “If you spend four out of seven days seeing the same people, you’re not just bar friends on that point; you’re chosen family.”
Diana Brennan sizes up the playing field.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Rumors swirl that 4100 Bar might close in the coming year with the expansion of Erewhon. “Over my dead body,” Fox exclaims.
For the future of “Please Be Nice,” Lorell and Fox hope the pool-loving community develops even further. “We would love to solidify a beginner-centric event since that’s where this all started, learning pool with women and nonbinary people who were too scared to try it at a normal bar,” says Fox. “We hope to continue to train up the troops and run every single table in L.A.,” she adds with a smirk.
There’s a beloved pool adage from “The Hustler,” spoken by the protagonist, Fast Eddie Felson: “Even if you beat me, I’m still the best.” Fox thinks the quote doesn’t align with her attitude toward pool. “There’s something Andrea says all the time when someone beats her, she says: ‘I don’t lose to losers. So you better win the whole thing.’”
The “Kiss of Death” in “The Godfather: Part II”, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, based on the novel ‘The Godfather’ by Mario Puzo. Seen here from left, John Cazale (back to camera) as Fredo Corleone and Al Pacino as Don Michael Corleone.
Photo by CBS via Getty Images
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Photo by CBS via Getty Images
The “Kiss of Death” in “The Godfather: Part II”, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, based on the novel ‘The Godfather’ by Mario Puzo. Seen here from left, John Cazale (back to camera) as Fredo Corleone and Al Pacino as Don Michael Corleone.
Photo by CBS via Getty Images
Given the fact that it seems like Hollywood churns out nothing but sequels, you would think the industry would have perfected the genre by now.
Some sequels are pretty darn good, but many believe the perfect movie sequel came out 50 years ago this month.
Of course, we’re talking about Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather: Part II. It’s not only considered the greatest sequel of all time, it’s also considered one of the greatest movies of all time.
So why does Godfather II work, and where so many other sequels fall short?
NPR producer Marc Rivers weighs in.
For sponsor-free episodes of Consider This, sign up for Consider This+ via Apple Podcasts or at plus.npr.org.
Email us at considerthis@npr.org.
This episode was produced by Brianna Scott and Marc Rivers. It was edited by Courtney Dorning. Our executive producer is Sami Yenigun.
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