Truesday: We [Might Be?] *ex Per\/erts

But it isn’t the heat that’s the real focus here. It’s the irony that I’m wanting to ramble about today. The ironies of summertime life in Austin, for Craig. There’s nothing “unexpected about”, or any “unusual trail of events associated with” the oppressive, joy-torching heat that exists in Austin.

Hell, that’s what Barton Springs is for.

The first irony I’m currently dealing with is my trees. When I first started up the vegetarian experiment a couple of weeks back, I figured I’d develop a whole new respect for plants and the green kingdom in general. That, and the effects of essentially hand-karate-chopping my lawn with the effort-powered push mower. So I spend more of my free-time trimming the stuff, and every meal is essentially a process of finding nourishment from plants by sucking/grinding on them with my mouth. I’d say I’m easily spending 300% MORE time with greenery than I was at this time last year. This should make me feel a stronger sense of intimacy with my plant environment, should it not? Almost like we’re lovers or some shit?

Well, it hasn’t made us any closer.

The main reason the love hasn’t blossomed between us is that even though the heat index is already starting to scare local octogenarians, this is a good time of year to trim those fantastic shade trees off your house. I had five trees that were pretty much bullying my crib. Slapping the roof, rubbing up against my eaves, talkin’ trash whenever the wind would blow, and dropping leaves and shit all over the place.

Pretty much fucking up my roof in every way but spray paint.

So they needed to be taught a lesson. A lesson in “get the fuck back”. The problem is that these are the same trees that shade my meager domicile from the blazing sun, who also apparently wishes me some serious harm. The trees want the sun - I don’t - so up until the trees started to see my house as an obstacle to topple, we had it all worked out.

Symbiosis and shit.

But a line appeared, blades had to be drawn, a duel began, and since trees are essentially defenseless assholes with no real weapons to wield, I won with resounding success. So no more trees punching and scratching the place where I keep all my material shit.

But now the sun has better access in its efforts to bake me alive. This has caused me to consider scheduling a duel with the sun, as I did the trees, but I’m not so sure that I’d be the Reno favorite in that cage-match. And the torrent of water required to calm it down would probably just cause those asshole trees to flourish with vengeful resolve, and one would probably stab me clean-through with one of the truncated limbs I feverishly lopped off.

So the vegetarian thing is not really giving me any newfound respect for my yardly plant life. I thought that it would. But the recent unfolding of events has only brought me more sun, which I have no real method for foiling. Well, fuck.

And I’m not the only one upset by this. On top of my discomfort with the 100+ heat, comes the discomfort felt by the bugs that used to take shelter in the trees I ruthlessly carved up. Namely, the wasps. Being someone who is quite possibly the whitest-of-the-white, descended from England-Ireland-Scotland-Germany-Probably-France-Too-Damnit, and definitely a protestor of certain religious constructs… you’d think I’d find some kindred emotional bond with these… invaders, these ruthless and conquest-hungry back-stabbers.

Wasps are a somewhat silent but ever-present and threatening reality of Southern Living. They live just about anywhere down here, and usually do their best to steer clear of undue attention. That is, until they’ve garnered enough in numbers to lay claim to some shit. Once they take over the rafters in your garage, you better give up the idea of storing all your old porn up there. Because if you do, they’ll sting the fuck out of you for getting too close to their teeny wasplets.

That, and they’ll covet your porn. Goddamn wasps.

In reality, I don’t have a problem with wasps as living things, or any other stinging bugs who may wish to co-exist with me and mine. I can handle living amongst other creatures of ill-repute, provided they pay some goddamn rent. I had roommates in college and I’ve been to summer camp. I can navigate a potentially volatile environment with deft ease (split the bills evenly, put your name on your milk, and don’t let anyone sting you in the ass – simple) as long as we’re splittin’ expenses and shit.

The problem arises when the goddamn wasps make the decision that I am the invader of THEIR rent-free territory, even though they’re nest-squatting under MY GODDAMN MORTGAGED EAVES (the ones I inadvertently cleared out for them when I trimmed back those evil, yet shade-providing trees). I understand that at one point in the distant past, the space where my house currently resides was just another piece of a gentle slope leading down a slight valley to what was probably a scenic “crick” with plenty of nest-friendly spots for wasps. Now that run-off of a creek is part railroad-track, part random rusted large-appliance or burnt-out car-shell dump.

Oh, the ways of suburban sprawl/urban withdrawal.

And then my crib came along and magically took over the spot, so the wasps were probably all “well what the fuck is this shit, man? Where my fallen-tree trunk condos at?” To which I have a single response:

They’re in Buda, Wimberley, or Dripping Springs you little shits. Either you start paying rent, or you get the 25 ft. spray-n-watch-me-run-away-while-I-scream-like-a-little-girl treatment.

Which is an awesome show, by the way. And by “awesome” I mean “pathetic and sad for a grown man”.

So my weekends are bad theatre, really. Crap theatre where a confused quasi-vegetarian pale-face maims vegetation which would, if left alone, shield him from acute sunburn. Along with eradicating wasp colonies for failure to remit proper compensation for their clandestine camping tendencies.

On top of all that, I’m pretty sure wasps dig the sun-fueled Hawaiian Snow Cone stand on Lamar, too. Creepy little fuckers.