Yellow Jackets

The first time I saw the artwork of Bryan Shanchez was in Medellin, Columbia, dominating the side of a five story building. Be it a 30 foot mural or a 3 inch tattoo, Bryan brings true artistry to all of his work. This tattoo is done in the “watercolor”, free-form style. The image of a Yellow Jacket takes me back to my 8 year old self, a budding Entomologist. I collected insects, impaled on mounting pins in neat little rows of dried exoskeletons inside of the colorful cigar boxes that were still made with Balsa. Wasps, beetles, hornets...but no Yellow Jackets. They were too common for me to collect and too damn mean. Unlike Honey Bees who prefer to mind their own business and only sting in defense, Yellow jackets sting just for the fun of it, over and over. Then they call their buddies in to join the party. “Hey guys, come sting this human with me! You'll love the way he freaks out, dancing and waving his arms. Yo Bill! Sting him right behind his ear, see if you can get him to make those high sounds like a girl! We've got to do this more often, I'm laughing so hard I'm about to pee on my own stinger!”

You don't want to fuck with Yellow Jackets.

Pulse of ife...

Curled up next to me in the bed, her regular breathing a reassuring ebb and flow. First sun warms the long curtains, glowing folds wave slowly in harmony with the lake beyond. Feet hitting the treadmill, their cadence marking a journey to many places beyond their immediate path to nowhere. 

Late afternoon sun warms our backs as waves break dramatically on stage, their rhythmic crash unceasing, hypnotic. Nestled in a lawn chair under the oak canopy, the Chiminea pops and cracks as it eats the yard debris thrown hastily into it's greedy maw. As embers dim and quiet, I hear the pulse of my own blood as much as feel it. Cool breezes appear unexpectedly, lured in by the tree frogs, now all dressed up and yelling for their nightly rumspringa to begin.

Tires for Jesus, and Me

After going round and round about new tires, price and features, the woman at Walmart Automotive Center locked in my choice.

“Now I go see if we have em, all fo” She said.

“You don't have an inventory system so that you know that from here at your computer?” I asked.

She started to hit the top of her screen and bang on the keyboard. “I don trus this no more than I trus my man.They lie!”

She said “I gotta check. Otherwise it be like standin in line fo a nice jucy Big Mac and they hands you a tuna sammich!”

Maybe I should have gone to the place next door. I doubt Jesus has these problems.

Real Men Don't Eat Quiche...

“Real men don't eat Quiche” Where did that horse pie come from anyway? No idea. But when I woke up at 1:30 I wanted to make it. One crab, one broccoli. But my deal with myself is that I don't get out of bed before 3AM, so I did my best to go back to sleep. I've always resented, the need for sleep. It feels like wasted time, like I'm missing out on something. Anyway, I made it to 2:45 and decided that the clock was 15 minutes slow.

Five minutes later, I was rolling. Pandora playing Hound Dog Taylor through an old wireless JBL that Hannah gave me years ago about the size of a hoagie roll that still kick ass.

Bent over a Pyrex bowl, grating Swiss, Gruyere, and Asiago. The broccoli was already blanched, mixed with cream and crab. Check, check, check, and check.

Quiche is best if refrigerated overnight and then warmed back up. That is the plan. And tomorrow? I will definitely eat Quiche. So as far as that stuff about real men goes, there is only one of two conclusions to be drawn:

1) It's not true 2) I'm not a real man.

I'm fine with it either way, as long as I get a big slice.