How did we all miss this for two years??

Because I shouldn't just post ranting, snark, and self-serving drivel, I bring you a little bit o' awesome.

This was recorded live in Dallas in July of 2011 by Josh Weathers of the Josh Weathers Band. I had never heard of them until today, when this came across the old Facebook feed.

I mean... wut? Me and pretty much every woman I know saw this and considered packing our bags and heading off to Texas. Then I remembered that this and Austin is all that Texas has going for it right now, and my chances of snagging this are zero to nill. Such is life.

Anyway, we can all go home now.

The Wasp

Is not a wasp.

Well, technically it is. This is a mud dauber, I think. It lives in the left-hand arm of a chair on my porch. The chair I got from my neighbor who got it from his mom and it lived in his house for a while before it moved next door with me. I don't know where his mom got it but its history is most likely filled with facinating stories. Who cares about the fly on the wall or the wall itself? The fly dies in 24 hours and the walls are on the outskirts looking in. The furniture is right there in it, immersed amongst every and all life within a space. Furniture is intimate. Our furniture has seen us naked and absorbed our tears. We've farted and drooled and spilled coffee on it. We've laughed at movies, that, when with friends, we deny enjoying lest we be judged. We've found love and then later shattered their hearts on our furniture.

Think of what we'd hear if furniture could talk.

The chair is dirty. I've never taken the time to vacuum it and take it inside, away from the brilliance of day and the wetness of every other time. The porch is covered but it's no armory. The chair is sun-bleached. There's a hint of what might be mold growing in the creases. There is no odor. It's welcoming, the perfect size and cushiness for curling up with a book. That is, if you're a fairly compact human like I am. Would it be awkward for someone else? Is cushiness a word? The chair can't answer that but I know my opinion.

Besides the grime that's collected over the past year (2 years, maybe? I've lost track of so many things...) the chair has the scars unique to those who cohabitate with cats. Cats do what cats do and are skilled in the use of their equipment. In The Chair's case, the cats opened up the edges of each arm so they could someday be a portal to safe haven for a winged insect with only one real purpose in life.

The dauber lives in the left arm. In years past, left-handedness was considered evil and an affliction. This is where the word sinister has its origins. Not in darkness but in leftness. Leftness meant darkness. Darkness meant evil. Evil means the end of life. The dauber, it doesn't fit her.

She should have picked the right side. It's closer to the house and more protected. The TV tray-turned-side table is not on the right, though it should be since I'm right-handed and therefore not sinister. But does it work that way in wasps? If so I imagine that perhaps maybe she's left-winged, since after all that's the side she picked. And maybe if she were human she'd have voted for Obama and supported gay marriage.

I can't see into her nest; the frayed upholstery acts as drapes. I know she's solitary like me. She buzzes in, buzzes out, she sometimes stops to sip at a bead of water- or beer- that's collected on the TV tray-turned-side table. She's a loner, but also like me I imagine she craves just a bit of company. Company that doesn't ask for too much and doesn't tire her out or make her feel smaller than she actually is.

the dauber doesn't ask for much either. She's never shown any real concern with my presence. I sit in the chair, she leaves. I sit in the chair, she returns. Each time she returns, she does a quick buzz around my head. I think she's making sure it's just me there; someone she knows, the familiar face. And then she says a quick hello before disappearing into the armchair cavern she's settled for.

I watch her fly off and wonder if she's happy. It's a simple life, the insect life. Hatch, mature, mate, see the hatchlings off, and die. Still, I wonder how far she traveled that day, and how many more days she has left to travel. I wonder if she'll venture too close to a stranger; and if she does, will that be her end or will she evade the hastily grabbed magazine? Does she like the beer beads I've offered her? I only offer the best. When she comes home, is she relieved that it's me curled in the chair and not the transient neighborhood cat? Or is she simply tolerating me as a good neighbor with a good fence?

The wasp buzzes by for the last time this evening. She retreats into her comfortable place, where though her worries are many she can tend to only herself. Somehow this helps. Tomorrow she'll go out again. It won't be different from today.

The book I'm reading stopped holding my interest long ago. I know this because I've read the same page maybe three times, maybe five, and with each pass it's all new to me. So I mark the page and go inside. I'll watch television and then go to bed, most likely after a brief accidental sleep on the couch.

Tomorrow I'll go out again.

Macias is the new Black

Remember this absolute nightmare of musical nightmares?

"We we we so excited"

Now imagine that Ms. Black here were to come across Zoltar Speaks and wish to be big. And a man.

That's Rebecca right there, in the Dukes jacket.

Know what'd you get? This. 

"Say farewell to the hate"

We not so excited. 

You're welcome, by the way.