The Flutter of the Wings will Haunt Me

In a city near me, there is a botanical garden center. I will not name it because I wish to avoid being prosecuted to the full extent of the law like the sign said I would be.

Anyway, every year there is a two-week period when an enclosed exhibit features the birthing of thousands of butterflies. Supposedly, if you don’t mind bugs swarming around your body, it’s a neat thing. I thought it sounded like a Hitchcock movie waiting to happen, but I figured that since I shave my head, I wouldn’t have to worry about them getting stuck in my hair. I would only have to watch out that they didn’t plant their larvae in my ears. Oh, yeah, they do that.

So, against my first reaction, I went. I paid $15 dollars for my ticket into the park and then another $5 for the butterfly exhibit. I took my time walking through every other part of the park. I told myself that since it is winter it was just nice to be in the gardens were it was warm.
The real reason was that I had to work up my courage to enter the butterfly exhibit. I mean, come on, thousands of bugs! You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have at least a moments hesitation.

Eventually I could prolong it no longer. I clasped my hands over my ears and entered though the double doors, air-lock style. No sooner did I enter than I saw that one elderly man was already being consumed by butterflies. I couldn’t understand the situation any other way. He sat perfectly still. I assumed he was dead, frozen in some absurd mummified state by millions and millions of butterfly bites/stings/whips/fangs. (I couldn’t for the life of me remember how butterflies kill their prey.)

I found out later that this man wasn’t dead, that he was sitting still intentionally. I assume this was either an attempt to fool the butterflies, believing that their vision is based on movement or the man had some kind of death-wish. I hope he made it out alive, though I wouldn’t put money on it.

In the chaos that accompanied my confusion I must have panicked. I don’t remember much of it. I am told that I ran screaming and waving my arms, not out of the exhibit, but further in. People tried to stop me, but I couldn’t hear them because I still had my hands covering my ears.

The next thing I remember is waking up hours later hungry and alone. Next to me, standing on the frond of a fern was a solitary butterfly. She must have gotten lost from her group (a group of butterflies is a butcherpack) and I thought, “I wonder why they are called butterflies?” I reached out a thumb and forefinger and slowly plucked her off the branch…

Let’s say that the bug-handlers at the botanical gardens should change the bugs name to “I-can’t-believe-its not-butterflies.” I know it’s a mouthful to say, but it might prevent others like me from getting a mouthful of what is some of the most un-buttery flavor ever.

Eventually, I was rescued by the chief butterfly herder. We were chased out of the park, his Jeep ripping apart the mud and rocks and almost bouncing me out of my seat. We were followed closely by seven or eight of the hungriest butterflies you’ve ever seen. If we hadn’t gotten out when we did, no doubt I would be in the gullet of the flying demon known in the latin as Satans sidekickerous.

The trip was not an entire loss. I did learn a valuable lesson from my time surrounded by the whirling death. It is this: people like to risk their lives. We’ve got bungee-jumpers and rollercoaster riders, and butterfly walkers. So I’ve decided to get together five or six wolves and put them in an old barn. I’m going to charge people $15 to walk among the wolves. It will be marketed for those people who might not have the courage to face down the butterflies.

If You're Interested

For anyone interested, please check out my piece -

"An Unabridged and Definitive History of Food" on catapultmagazine.com

Have a great day.

Mens Magazines

I subscribe to three men’s magazines: GQ, Esquire, and Best Life. Of the three, Esquire has the best writing, Best Life is the least lewd, and GQ has the most advertising.

I used expiring airline miles to subscribe to these and it might have been the best thing I have ever done. I have been so impressed by this airline program that I have begun to purchase flights that I do not need and have not intention of taking. I need my miles because want to be ready when my subscriptions are about to expire.

I have learned so much from these magazines. They have more helpful tips than the Yellow Pages (dialing is so 1999), the Internet (WebMD once told me to rub Rogaine over myself to treat a bad hang-nail), or the Bible. (Love you neighbor as yourself? Turn the other cheek? When do those things apply to anyone’s actual life?).

I learned what my watch says about me (I’m curious about time). I learned what my shoes say about me (I’m co-dependant on them to keep my feet warm). I learned what my hair says about me (that I have no hair).

With all my clothes saying all these things about me, I began to get a big head when all I really wanted to get was dressed.

But their wisdom is not only limited to clothing. They cover everything I cannot afford. I have learned that I cannot afford $1,395 for a watch. Nor can I pay $230,000 for a sports car. Even in my wildest dream I will never be able to pay for a trip to an exclusive Bahaman Resort that charges $2,000 a day.

Before these magazines I was under the impression that I would one day be King of, if not America, then at least a majority of the Midwest, but they put me in my place. They have opened me to an entire world of opulence that I didn’t even know existed. I was feeling good because I owned two cars! I mean come on, two cars! My wife and I can both drive at the same time. But thanks to GQ, I am enlightened. I know I’ve been living a two-car life in a three-car world.

For instance I can’t stand to look at my watch anymore. I don’t just see the time of day, or a gift from my wife. All I see is how it isn’t a $2,590.00 Cartier. This has thrown me into tension because Esquire said that a man should always wear a watch, but Best Life said that a cheap watch is worse than no watch. (Where’s my credit card?)

Nor can I any longer look at myself in the mirror. I read an article on exfoliating my skin and I did it wrong. My face is bright red. I look like an evil mime.

That’s all right because I wouldn’t go out anyway. I’m saving money to by a $7,000 handmade Italian suit. I’ll just stay inside in my bathrobe and wait for the mail to come, hoping that a new edition of one of my magazines will arrive and make my life just that much better.