Allow me to set the scene:
It was a hellishly hot early afternoon. I had just turned in applications at a few downtown businesses and decided to sit on a bench in the shade (which provides a huge relief when the humidity isn't at walking-through-a-sauna%), sip some of my water, collect my thoughts, and try to come up with some intriguing (read: not completely boring) ideas for all the lovely readers I have. There are dozens of you out there, I'm sure. Bakers Dozens, even!! Anyway, I was sitting there minding my own business when I swatted away what I thought was a fly.
It was no fly, readers. No. It was, in fact, a bee. Perhaps it was a happy bee before it came across me, in fact I like to think it was just enjoying its day, doing bee things - buzzing about, stopping here and there to eat, and
mentally choreographing its latest routine to show its bee friends how to get to a haven of sweet flower blossoms just filled with tasty noms (see photo at left). And then it happened across me. I swatted at it, not knowing what it was. It was slightly perturbed. It came back at me, enforcing its dominance in the surrounding airspace, letting me know it was the boss. I, even more annoyed, swatted at it a few times with my hand. The bee, now pissed off, easily avoided my measly human attempts to strike it out of the air, flew above me, and then divebombed me. I heard the buzz of his wings and felt the air on my face as he whizzed within mere centimeters of my face. At this point, readers, I knew what I had to do. I used the notebook I had previously been using to record my bloggy musings to swing at the bee one last time before swiftly standing up and quickly stepping away hoping to lose the little bastard while he regained his bearings. I triumphantly walked away thinking the interaction had ended.
Dear readers, I only wish that my tale ended there. As you may have guessed, it did not. The bee was now enraged and in full attack mode. It was now divebombing me ferociously and repeatedly as I swung my arms about and spun in circles in what I'm sure passersby thought to be a rather poor, but amusing, attempt at creating a new dance to the music in my head. At this point, terrified of the berserk bee, I started jogging away while continuing the insane arm flailing. I sped down the block, around the corner, and was halfway down the next block before I realized that I had outrun the bee and was no longer in any danger. I suppose at this point I should point out that I am not in any way allergic to bee stings. I also have been stung by a bee before. And it didn't hurt that bad. Nevertheless, when confronted with an angry wild animal, I respond the same way anyone else would. Fight or flight kicks in and I start with the fight, feeling totally superior to those lower than me on the food chain, and then freak out when I realize I'm outmatched and run like the wind.
After realizing I was no longer fending off local fauna, I slowed to a stroll to catch my breath and slow my heart rate. I continued walking toward the corner of 2nd and Colorado when a large blueish object caught my eye. I at first thought that I had suffered some so
rt of a mental episode as I told myself that there was no way I was actually looking at Babe the Big Blue Ox. It just didn't make sense. Paul Bunyan was nowhere to be seen. And as large as the man was said to be, if I couldn't see him, he was probably nowhere nearby. As I walked closer, I realized that I was, in fact, not crazy and not seeing things. It was indeed a large blue, and yellow I now noticed, cow. But not just blue, it had been painted all over with flowers and landscapes and I realized that Austin, like so many other American cities, had at some point coerced its local denizens into turning lifesize plaster animals into street art.
Following the cow's gaze, I looked across the street and noticed a bright green building occupying the corner lot and extending about half a block along both 2nd and Colorado Streets and rising 2 stories. At first, I was kind of excited. Any building this bright and occupying such a footprint of prime, downtown real estate surely had to be housing some awesome, new restaurant or club. Or maybe it was some sort of modern architecture housing the chicest new condos to be had in Austin. Sadly, as I am neither a sniveling snot factory, nor did I contribute in any way, shape or form to the creation of one, I was amazingly disappointed at what stood before me. A Children's Museum. I can only imagine the horrors housed within. Exhibits mounted thigh-high and decorated in bright colors and crazy shapes and patterns, now dirty and all sticky with whatever it is that makes the hands of snot factories sticky. Wretched, simplistic videos and songs playing on repeat to throngs of the minivan drivers and their spawn. I didn't understand what the appeal could even be. In Indiana, the Children's Museum is an enormous monstrosity that can be full of people and still seem sparsely populated. It is very large, has insane amounts of natural light from the acres of windows, is many stories high, and has a dinosaur standing on its back two legs sticking it's head into the top of the museum while another dinosaur appears to be falling into the building. Austin, capital of the state which prides itself on having bigger everything, had this:
Quaint, isn't it?
And that, dear readers, is how I came to the sad conclusion that everything is, in fact, NOT bigger in Texas.
Next time, I shall regale you all with a tale of the common grackle - Austin's answer to the pigeon.
