There is something so trashy about seagulls in parking lots. I’m not sure if it’s the bird or the landscape, but I know that combined, they form a depressing mix of low income, forgotten dreams and clothing worn too tightly. The scavaging, both on the part of humans and gulls is unnerving. Trolling for food, trolling for parking spaces. Fighting over found crumbs, honking for a stolen parking spot. It all makes me so depressed. The movement of the birds adds to the scene. There is no calm; only swooping, jutting, jabbing, strutting, squawking. They’re not white, they’re grey on light grey. These are seagulls turned into citygulls. These are the bikers, sporting their thug inspired strut and challenging anyone to grab that piece of french fry. They laugh at the thought of their cousins soaring on the wind currents above the sea, mocking their sense of freedom. Freedom for these guys is fighting for what’s yours; in this case, a french fry. Freedom is owning your space among the bipeds, who think they own everything. Freedom is shitting on their cars, laughing from above as they cower for cover in Wal-Mart.