The Kronberg bird
The rare North American Ben Kronberg bird is by nature a species most resplendent. More commonly referred to as a Kronberg bird—on occasion, a what-the-fuck jay—the species is known to festoon itself in the most garish of plumage: tweed jackets, hideous belts from Goodwill, Army coats ripped from the torsos of hobos—hobos shanked to death in the crepuscular hours just before the dawn, for the Kronberg bird himself is a transient by nature, and the train-track hobo his most natural and feared enemy. The Kronberg bird can be seen sporting it all.
For years the Kronberg bird was known to inhabit the mountainous environs of the Colorado front range, appearing on comedy stages around the city of Denver to both delight and confound audiences. Many found his one-liners inspired, and trailed the Kronberg bird to see where he might appear next to trill his uncanny call. Others who witnessed the song of Kronberg and his thick-rimmed spectacles wondered what drugs he was on, and why abortion and time travel came up so frequently in his stand-up.
Still others were just happy that there was a young comic on the scene as funny as Adam Cayton-Holland.
Those who encountered the Kronberg bird were invariably moved by the experience. Comedy ornithologists were eager to add him to their life lists, but then he disappeared. Sure, he appeared here and there at the Squire Lounge and at Los Comicos Super Hilariosos (the comedy show that I put on), and occasionally the bird popped up on television, fluttering wildly about the studios of Carson Daly and Jimmy Kimmel before nearly battering himself to death against the windows after short, televised sets. But for the Rocky Mountain bird-watcher wanting to sneak a peek at the latest plumage and song of the Kronberg bird, times were tough.
Turns out Kronberg had migrated to Los Angeles. I learned this firsthand this past weekend. For if there is one thing that the Kronberg bird likes more than robbing hobos in unwieldy, hysterical knife-fights, it’s crashing in your hotel room, reaping the benefits of your wireless and your constant, pulsing AC.
He is a cheap bastard, that Kronberg bird.
But he is not without his charms. For starters, he lines up great gigs for you in the city of angels, including the storied Comedy Death Ray, which hardly anyone gets on unless they’re hot shit, allowing you to rub it in the face of every hack comic you meet during your week of shows.
“Yeah, I’m just out here sampling the scene, you know. What’s that? What shows have I done? Oh, nothing much. I did a pretty cool show on Tuesday. It’s called Comedy Death Ray. Have you heard of it?”
And with that the comic stares daggers into your black, black soul, and the Kronberg bird winks knowingly at you, coyly preening his mustache.
The Kronberg bird also performs with you on some of those shows, offering his newest birdcalls for consumption: “The diarrhea you get after P.F. Chang’s should be called P.S. Chang’s.” Also: “For epileptics, it’s more like Seizure’s Palace.”
You laugh and wonder what more does this strange bird have to offer? And then he shows you.
Clad in seven-year-old Hush Puppies from Target, short-short corduroys, and a Huggy Bear pimp hat, the Kronberg bird deftly navigates Los Angeles by subway and bus. (And, yes, Los Angeles does have a subway system. You would be surprised by how few locals know this.) He shows you how at the Whole Foods in West Hollywood you can not only use the bathroom and their sunscreen for free, but also score enough samples to constitute a proper lunch. He is full of useful information like this, for while the Kronberg bird continues to flirt with fame, he is still very much the struggling artist, and struggling artists know how pinch a penny.
And a stranger on a crowded bus.
When asked what he liked best about living in Los Angeles, he told me that he really liked swimming in my hotel pool. The bird then smiled devilishly at me and added, “Tell them I’ll be back in Denver for a month beginning August 10.”
Denver comedy ornithologists rejoice.
