Casual Observations from the Balcony On the Eve of Fathers' Day

When sitting on the balcony, having already tucked your son into bed, smoking quietly with blank slate mind, it is easy to realize how little you know. On this particular evening, it would all center on the world of insectia, specifically 3 bugs previously unobserved by yours truly. Since I have no way to inform you as to their identity, I will give them names based on their behaviors: the Kamikaze beetle, the Helicopter fly, and the red and beige two-tined finger lance.

The Kamikaze beetle is large as bugs go around here, about 3/4" long and about 1/2" wide. It is a deep copper-brown, the flagship color of confusion. I have always believed that efficient feeding and sexual attraction constituted the primary behaviors off most insects, most living things in fact, but this beetle cast all that into doubt. The beetle began his night time dance by strafing me several times, then disappearing for brief moments. I was warned of his approach by a buzzing sound, not unlike a cellphone set to silent supersonic. Once he decided that I wasn't going to move, he proceeded to fly full speed into the lime-beige siding of my apartment building several dozen times without any apparent injury. Now I realize that flying headfirst into solid immovable attitude is very attractive to the human female, but I would not have thought this translated into the beetle mating dance. Since no mating partner appeared in the hour or so he continued this behavior, I assume I am correct. After his hour of concussive head banging, he eventually took up residence on my lawn chair, paralyzed by frustration, or perhaps by a headache of Lyman alpha blob proportion. Of course it is also possible that this was one pissed off female, angry over the poor quality of her most recent color job, but I'm thinking no. This resounded with testosterone, not Lady Clairol. In any event, the Kamikaze beetle is now enshrined in the Mamou hall of fame.

It is often said that what one observes is altered inherently by the fact that it is being observed. This is pure hooey. That beetle didn't give a rat's ass that I was there, and even though he is only a beetle, the sound I made when uttering 'What the fuck' was clearly audible to those not around to hear it.

The Helicopter fly is the prima ballerina of the insect world. My initial observations led me to believe that this specimen was female, although it easily could be construed as a gay male. While my vision is not what it used to be, I do believe I may have seen a codpiece in the area of the thorax.. In any event, the dance was elegant and should not be diminished in any way by our perception of sexual bent. This multiwinged fly, reminiscent of a mayfly, although much larger, danced with such grace that it was almost ethereal. Her wings sort of rotated, like a slow motion hummingbird; their movement was non linear, nothing like the dragonfly. Her four wings caused her to rise like a double helix of cigarette smoke, twirling and pirouetting like a psychedelic kite tail on the winds of whimsy. She had a great deal of difficulty landing, as if her delicate legs were never meant to touch solid ground. It would be impossible to envision the sexual pairing of this fly occurring anywhere but midair, like two hawks, talons locked, spiralling on the updrafts with no fear of falling. I watched her closely as she finally perched on the frame of my slider. Her antennae looked like miniature bottle brushes, multi-tined receptors, furling and unfurling like coiled clock springs, searching for a signal from insect subspace bringing her the transmission that love would soon appear. She eventually swirled away upward, beyond my sight line, hopefully headed for her penultimate dance of death.

The red and beige two-tined finger lance was an odd creature indeed. Reminiscent of that torturous device used in junior high school self blood-testing experiments, I initially observed it crawling for about 2 millimeters, but then it stopped and just lay there, like a disinterested, self-loathing hooker. It is far too small to infer any sexual identity, although it could be described as pretty. I was most intrigued by the color of it; the red of fresh blood coexisting with the grey-beige of the newly dead. It may in fact be dead, as it has not moved in over 13 hours, but I am loath to disturb it, to prod it to movement. I have grown used to having it there, glued to its own little microdot. It is now part of where I reside, like wall paint, and I will leave it undisturbed until it flies away, or blows away in a cold, rainy gust of eternity.

I had every intention of taking this essay into some non sequitur connection of human logic, but I have decided, that since they outnumber us a millionfold, that I would leave it as a paean to bugs and only bugs. Draw whatever conclusions you like.