The Art of BS.

A friend recently joked about their career with me, and at one point said something like "I'm just worried people will find out I'm faking this whole thing."  I found this odd, because they've been nothing but successful.  I also found it strikingly familiar.

Despite me outward persona, I battled insecurity for a long time.  Usually, it was about this very thing.  I always felt like I never knew what I was talking about, that I was just good at BSing my way through things, and that I was the biggest Holden Caulfield-style phony there was.  My career in youth ministry didn't help because despite how well I may have actually done, working for jerkfaces kept my ego completely underfoot.  I always felt like I was a fraud.  It really came to a head when I was finishing my undergrad at St. Thomas.

I took a lot of philosophy classes because they really interested me, but that required me to write a lot.  Unlike math, where you can stumble into a correct answer accidentally, you really have to demonstrate that you know your stuff in philosophy.  Every paper, every test, I felt like a total fraud, and that I didn't know what I was doing.  Even though I made all As, I convinced myself that I had fooled my professors. 

Finally, during my last semester, I was taking an independent study on CS Lewis.  I had read eight of his books, and was required to produce a 20 page paper on whatever topic I wanted.  I was crippled.  I couldn't even begin because I knew I was a fake.  As I started looking back through old papers and essay tests to "scavenge" a good idea, I realized that I had made As on everything.  I had empirical evidence that I could write philosophically, and I could do it well.  The only thing stopping me was the fact that I had not realized that what I thought was BS, was actually me being great at what I did.  Here I was thinking that I was just pretending to write these academic papers, when all along I was actually doing it.  So, I wrote an awesome  paper on CS Lewis, and got another A.  I graduated Cum Laude.

Since then, I've worked on reminding myself of the many things I have accomplished to keep the insecurity at bay.  It's a work in progress without a doubt, but I can see my way through the fog with more regularity.  Unfortunately, the flip side of this is that I can occasionally develop an impenetrable shield of cockiness and unwarranted over-confidence, but that's a story for another time.

In other news, a very Merry Christmas to all (three or four) of you.  Please know that you are well loved, deep in the heart of Texas (clap x4).

Leavin' on a Jet Plane.

The next few weeks (maybe even months) will be filled with more travel than usual.  I'm headed out to our headquarters in California for one last meeting in my old role, and will likely be back out there for training in my new one come January.  Couple that with travel for Christmas, and you've got me up in the air.  If I had Photoshop, here is where I'd insert a picture of me seemingly flying through the air.  Instead, I'll just allow everyone to imagine that for a few seconds.

Okay, you can open your eyes now.  I'm still safely on terra firma.  For a few more hours, anyway.

We (read: KB) have done a lot of our Christmas shopping, and are nearing the last few, hard-to-buy-for folks.  I have never understood what exact quality makes someone hard to shop for, but it has always seemed like one of those "know it when you see it" kind of things.  I was told that I'm hard to shop for, and I've allowed that worm to work its way into my brain.  I think it may have something to do with me being rather practical, and gifts being inherently extravagant, no matter the actual size or cost.  It's the distillation of a few things, all wrapped up with a bow.  It's how much someone loves you, what they think of you, what they think you like, and what they think you need.  So pretty much a gift can be seen as the sum total of a person's thoughts on you, and wow...that's a lot.  When someone gives me something, I'm always appreciative, but I'm so humbled that I am not effusive.  That may sound like a lot of BS (I like to call it philosophy), but I think it's how I really feel.  When confronted with such an emotional thing, my practical side tends to take over, and I get all stoic and quiet.  Maybe I need to work on being more ebullient when receiving a gift.  I mean, smiling until it hurts isn't so bad and a few fist pumps in the air might do me good.

So watch out, Christmas, I'm going to get all kind of happy this year.  Brace yourselves!

Jay Oh Bee.

I was informed by my Cambridge readers that it had been three weeks since my last post, and that this was not acceptable.  To them, and to the other, let's say, three of you, I apologize.  The slide into Advent has become a whirlwind, and I vow to be more diligent in keeping my reader(s) up to date on the inner workings of my inscrutable mind.
___________________________________________________________________

When KB and I first began the discernment process, we were entirely unsure what the job situation would be like.  If we went to Virginia, maybe I'd get a government job.  I'm sure the BLS is always looking for nerds analysts.  If we went to Sewanee, I could...buy a seersucker suit and become a gentleman of leisure?  And if the choice was Austin, well...that was more difficult.  I have a good job at Chevron, and the commute is a little on the long side, and where would we live, and blah, blah, whine, blah...

Long story short, that decision got made for us, and we live in Austin.  Boomtown: population, us.  I continue my work here in Houston and get to live in guests rooms thanks to the most unbelievably wonderful friends a guy could ask for.

I recently got a new assignment, so I get the joy of learning something new.  I'm very excited, because I really do like to learn, and the acquisition of skills is something I have not gotten to focus on much in the last few months.  I'll be working in the product development group, working with customers to meet their product needs.  I'm a decent talker, so the sales aspect should be easy to pick up; the chemistry perhaps less so.
Since I know that LMGK and PCEK read this, I feel like this is a good chance to impart godfatherly advice to all my darlings, and it is this: learning is always fun.  Never stop.  Find something that you like, and learn as much about it as you can.  (I'll save the rest for another blog post, mainly so I am assured of something to write next time).

I am really looking forward to new opportunities, some travel, learning new things, and growing more in my professional career.  It means a little more time at the office for the near term, but I can handle that.  Most importantly, it enables me the resources and leisure to spend time with the ones I love; that to me is the most important aspect of any job.

This post is a little scatter-shot, but I'm rusty...cut me some slack.

On the reading of books.

I have never, never, never been a self-conscious reader.  I generally read what I want, enjoy it, and move on to the next book.  Lately, though, I have been a little self-conscious.  I am ashamed to admit that when people ask what I'm reading, and I have to 'fess up that I am enjoying the latest in the "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series.  Not the manliest or most challenging read, but whatever; they're good.  But I cringe a little when I say it.  Why?  I honestly have no idea. 


Maybe I feel like I have an image as a smartypants to maintain.  While I do consider myself a fairly smart person, I've never had a problem making a grade-A fool out of myself.  Seriously.  Just ask any of my high school friends or anyone that knew me when I was a youth minister.  They will tell you that I seem to be lacking the part of my brain that defines shame and/or self-respect.


If that's the case, I may have over-corrected.  I am currently reading The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and this was clearly a case of not knowing what I got myself into.  I know what it's about, I understand the allusion the title makes, and I know the historical importance of this work.  When KB brought me a copy, I noted its length (600 pages!) and figured it would take a while to get to the end.  Then, upon reading the title page, I realized that this was Parts I & II.  The rest of the book is contained in two more volumes.  I may have indeed bitten of more than I can chew from a strictly volumetric standpoint.


The bigger issue at play here is that I can only read so much at once because this book is not only dense, but it is intense.  People are getting arrested and killed left and right, and because of the (frankly, brilliant) way the author frames everything, you feel as though the NKVD is coming  for you (fun side note: the acronym for Russia's counterintel group was SMERSH.  Best, most fun name for a terrifying group of thugs and spies).  Seriously, after ten pages I am emotionally drained because of the investment the author elicits through his prose.

But I'm determined to finish this volume.  I have started too many books and left them aside because they were difficult reads (I see you waving, Yiddish Policemen's Union; settle down).  I'm so emotionally invested in this book, I feel as though I owe it to the people sent to the Gulag.  Perhaps not the most healthy way to get through a book, but I'll make an exception for this one.  So if you see me reading this tome and I look overly worried, concerned, or exhausted, maybe tell me to put the book down and take a few cleansing breaths. 

In Soviet Russia, books read YOU!!

Sea Legs.

First of all...geeze, what a slacker I am.  I had a post 75% complete, but it languished in development so long that it was no longer relevant.  When I say "in development", I mean I just never finished it.  But nevertheless, I press onward.

So we're almost three months into the Austin lifestyle, which as far as I can tell involves heretofore unknown but brutal allergies, tacos, and the presence of UT football.  I have no problem with the tacos.  Football,I'm uninterested in 85% of the time, and the sudden onset of allergies has been debilitating.  So.  Much.  Sneezing.  It's kind of ridiculous, and I feel like the "Before" segment in a Zyrtec commercial (Dear Zyrtec, I love your product, please give me an endorsement deal. Sincerely, Me).

KB and I are, however, figuring out how to make this work.  We're getting very good at maximizing our quality time together, have done some cool stuff already (specifically, this and this), and are making great friends with the folks in her class.  We've already had house guests and they were fantastic.  If you haven't come to stay in Austin with us, you should.  If you already have, come back anytime.  We like visitors.

It's funny how our outlook on a situation can change depending on the day or week.  Just a week and a half ago, I had started a post that was much more whiny and complain-y.  Now, having spent time with wonderful friends and family, I have the perspective needed to understand just how fortunate I am.  There's a trend on Facebook wherein people are having some sort of Thanksgiving "Advent calendar" and counting days until Thanksgiving by saying what they are Thankful for.  I dislike the way the Advent calendar has been co-opted, but if it gets people to put their lives in perspective, I'm all for it. 

So what am I thankful for?  KB, my family, my friends, and you, dear reader.  Chances are better than excellent that you fit into one or all of these categories.  My life is enriched from knowing you, and I know it will continue to be so enriched.  As we grow together in friendship and faith, I hope you know that I am thankful for you every day.  Especially if you have some Zyrtec on you.

Furniture? Furniture.

"Objects are made by men, and used for many purposes...but we never love objects." - James Franco

KB and I love having people over, especially when sharing a meal.  Even though it sounds slightly pretentious, we really do love to entertain.  It's fun, it builds friendships, and it's always a good excuse for making an over-the-top meal.

When we got married, I did not actually own a table.  As a bachelor, I just chose to hold my plates steady what shoveling food into my mouth with the other hand.  Once KB and I got married, she first introduced me to the concept of "manners", something I had obviously long since forgotten.  Through her diligence and patience, seven and a half years later I can honestly say that my manners are somewhat marginally better.  Kudos, KB!  Hard work pays off!

But I digress.  One thing she brought to the marriage (other than brains, culture, and Clancey) was her awesome table.  She had a great 2-4 person table from Crate & Barrel, and I was in awe.  On one of our first nights in our Houston home, we decorated the table, set out the fine china we got for our wedding, and had grilled cheeses (two youth ministry salaries gets you that level of gourmanderie, if that is in fact a word).  Since then, it has been a workhorse.  And a sawhorse, for that matter.  It's been used for crafting, so it's still got glitter on it.  It's got footprints on it.  It's been used, abused, and has hosted some (frankly) awesome parties.  We always found a way to cram more people around it, and it never let us down.  Now it gets to retire, and will likely be used as a desk, which I think is the equivalent of being put out to stud.  I'm sure at least one food story will be written on it, so you know...circle of life and whatnot.  It's a fantastic, well-loved table. 

Our new table and chairs arrived on Friday, and they are for sure the new hotness...

For God's sake, use a coaster!

Leaves!  Matching chairs!  Appropriate size!  I'm proud of us for making the leap into the early 20th century.  There will be many more happy meals around this table, so stop on by anytime.  We'll eat hot dogs off the fancy china.

Signage.

One thing that my weekly commute affords me is the time to notice signs along the highways I drive.  Most are forgettable enough, but one this morning made me think of two other signs that have stuck in my mind for the better part of a decade. 

This morning, I passed a Ramada Inn outside Giddings, and their sign read "You are in our prayers."  Insofar as I did not see it last week, I know it went up recently.  It is addressed to no one in particular.  I wonder what prompted this outward display of...what?  Faith?  Love?  Concern?  Does the motive even matter?  Of course not.  At 65 mph, its message is simple: Someone, somewhere is praying for you.  It reminds me of two other signs I've seen around Texas freeways.

The first (and second, actually) was a changeable roadwork sign.  It simply said "God bless you."  There's no commentary I can make on this.  Again, it's a simple message, just trying to bring a ray of hope or joy into some passing motorist's life.  The second, however, rattled around in my brainbox for weeks...really, still to this day.  It read "This Is Your Life."

My first thought was that is was a message of empowerment...this is your life.  Take control of it, make it yours, don't allow others to dictate what you think or feel.  Of course, being me, that optimism passed quickly and lead to an overwhelming sense of dread.  I was sitting in my car (at the time, my Altima with a broken turn signal and no AC).  On the freeway.  Stuck in rush hour traffic.  That sign was not empowering my to anything.  It was mocking me. 

"THIS is your life.  This, right here.  Traffic.  Smog.  Not moving forward.  Just look at me!  I sit here for a few days, send out a message that informs people of a construction zone, and then roll on to my next task.  I'm useful!  I'm changeable!  I'm not only solar powered, but look how slender I am!  What is that you're eating?  A doughnut?  Nice.  I'm out in the sunshine, and you're sitting in your car, eating a doughnut in traffic."

Once I finished accusing the sign of plagiarising L.A.Story, I then realized that I was having an argument with a highway sign.  It obviously couldn't hear me.  1) It's a sign, thus no auditory function, and 2) I was in the left lane, too far away to be heard (though with no AC, my windows were down). 

I have often seen both versions of that sign scroll across my mind at various points in my life.  Sometimes the sentence ends in a question mark, sometimes an exclamation point.  Who knows how it will look today, but having passed by the Ramada, it will undoubtedly be a little more hopeful.

You are in my prayers.

Thanks For That, Steph.

So for anyone that is not already aware, my first year of college did not go so well.  One could even say it was...well terrible, frankly.  My GPA didn't matter so much as the fact that the few credits that I could transfer were still not that great.  It was not a banner year for yours truly.  I returned home to Beaumont in a depressed daze, but eventually made it through to greener pastures (namely, Houston).

Flash forward to now-ish, and I live mere blocks from The University.  I'm also considering pursuing my MBA.  Because of sheer proximity, it makes absolute sense to try for enrollment at UT's business school.  Thus, I perused their website to sign up for an information session.  To do this required an electronic ID for their system.  No problem; I sign up for things very well.

Oh wait...problem.  It seems that the University of Texas, in their wisdom, had converted my old UT email account into their new IT system.  This would be fine if I had any idea whatsoever what my old password was.  So I went through their process of calling the helpdesk, only to find that as a "former student" I would have to verify my identity to the supervisor on duty.  Since this all happened before the days of "security questions", I would have to answer questions about my time at UT.

In The Lord of the Rings, when The Fellowship descends into the Mines of Moria, Gimli is eager to see his kin that owns the Mines; upon finding the remains left by orcs he lets out a painful wail of mourning.  When I was told I'd need to answer questions about my academic career, my brain let out a similar wail upon viewing the decayed visage of my pride. 

I wish I could say that I partied an appendage off, or was just up to my eyeballs in pretty ladies, but I can't.  I went to a few awesome concerts, went to exactly one (1) party (and hated it, for the record), and got a lot better at playing the guitar.  I don't really remember anything about that year, because I have tamped those memories down.  The only thing I really choose to remember about my time as a Longhorn is the sole A that I earned, in a class that I would gladly revisit on any given day: The History of Rock Music. 

It followed the same basic structure every Tuesday and Thursday; come in, listen to a weird or unique cover song, listen to our professor lecture about something totally awesome, listen to more music, leave.  It was great, I made an A, and I got exposed to some amazing music.  If only my Chemistry and French classes had been the same!  So I flunked out, went home and licked my wounds.  I also tried very, very hard to forget the entire ordeal.  For the next thirteen years, I did a pretty good job of that.  That is, until Stephanie decided to give me the third degree.

"What was your first and last semester?"

A sigh, and then "Fall '97, Spring '98."

"Were you ever on academic probation?"

"Obviously."

"Did you ever receive a degree from The University?"

"OK, clearly I did not."

"What was your address?"

"Ummm...dorm room in Jester...ground floor...I don't really remember"

"How about your mailbox number?"

"Seriously, are you just screwing with me here?"

And on it went.  Five of the most mortifying minutes of my life.  Not because of anything other than it was something I was not proud of.  I hadn't spoken much of this out loud in the better part of a decade, and now I was considering a graduate degree form the same university that dumped me.

But that's over with now, and maybe I can move on fully.  Maybe trying for a graduate degree from UT will help close that circle.  As long as I can top my first semester GPA, I'll be fine.

For the record, my first semester GPA was 1.466.  I honestly cannot remember how I ended the year.  I challenge anyone to top that!

Pseudonymity.

There's a theory, nay an outright axiom, that deals with the nature of the internet and the behavior of its denizens.  Anonymity combined with an unlimited worldwide audience leads people to write things they would never dare say in public, and maybe not even in private, thereby creating a world of pure id.  The converse of this axiom is essentially that if people had to post comments using their real names, they would never in a million years write some of the heinous, awful things they do.

There was a story on NPR the other day about people fighting to be able to use pseudonyms on social networking sites like Facebook or Google+.  It's one thing to sign up for an account with the New York Times and post your horrible thoughts about their stories on vegan cooking classes on the Upper East Side (zing!) using the name "MeatLvr" or "PETAsux", but to actively fight for more anonymity seems to highlight some deeper issue.  What in these person's minds is so base and callous that they not only need to express it publicly, but are so ashamed of it they need to hide it?

Winnicott was one of the first to write about The False Self, the mask that we put up to meet the expectations of others.  Each of us at some point in our lives has a False Self that we present to the world; someone (some thing, really) that we think is better than out true selves.  Someone that is...what?  Smarter?  Funnier?  More confident?  Less affected by criticism?  We all do it, but at some point you grow up, you drop the mask, and you realize that you are a wonderful, lovable, complete person (yes, YOU!).  You allow the True Self to be the dominant personality, and discard the mask. 

And now there's a group fighting to remain anonymous.  Fighting to keep their masks in tact.  What must they think of themselves that they need to hide?  What must they think of others, to want to hide?  Maybe it's  case of arrested development.  Maybe they just have so much hatred in them that they can only expel it on message boards in disguise. Or maybe they lack the surety of their friends loyalty that they can express themselves without fear of wounding a relationship. 

I count myself amongst the lucky that I know my friends love me enough to put up with my ravings, and that I need not present a False Self to the world.

Sincerely,
Wilfred Q. Krackenback

First Dates and Date Firsts

As previously mentioned, KB and I tried out Cherrywood Cafe in Austin and enjoyed our burgers and beer.  In addition to interesting sartorial statements, we also had the privilege of sitting next to a couple that was almost certainly on their first date.  Adorable.  Obviously I had no choice but to eavesdrop with all my might.  You know you would have too...don't judge.

I had a decent view of Girl Dater, who seemed to be quite nervously chatty, which was okay because Boy Dater seemed to be a good listener.  He had his back to me, so I couldn't read his body language.  She talked quite a bit about hr family, their lake house vacation home, the fact that they weren't really rich, and the fact that she had pets.  When she asked if he liked dogs, he responded positively.  t was this point that we focused our after-dinner conversation on the drive home.  According to KB, asking a boy if he likes dogs is akin to asking how he deals with commitment.  When she explained this to me, I felt as if I had just been given secret knowledge that single guys are never told, for fear that it would upset the natural order of things.

As a guy, I can only view this piece of information a few way.  1) It's a test of loyalty and fidelity in some way.  Dogs are the Platonic ideal of loyalty, and perhaps if a potential suitor identifies with those traits, he sees part of himself there. The other choice is 2) Girls really do not understand guys.  I think most guys like dogs because they are much more like men in general.  We're driven by attention, a regular feeding schedule, and rewards for good behavior.  We're generally averse to aloofness, being scratched for no reason, and very picky eaters.

I think most men like dogs, some just on principle, so I'm worried that the single women of the world my have some misinformation.  If a guy doesn't like dogs, yes he terrible, but liking them doesn't mean he's great. I hope that Girl Dater probed into Boy Dater's psyche a little deeper, asking his opinions on the world in general.  KB has also posited that the best relationships are those in which people move from discussing people, places and events and on to ideas.  I can honestly say that we are very lucky to have the friends we do because the sharing of ideas, beliefs and opinions is something we are all passionate about.  We dialogue, share, and are made all the better for having known each other and spent even small amounts of time together. 

So Girl Dater, I wish you all the best.  Ask Boy Dater about his opinion of the state of education in America, his opinions on the evolution of popular music, and whether or not PETA has a moral footing to stand on.  If his answers compliment yours, then ask if he likes dogs.  He'll know what you mean because I've already spread the word.

PS The titular "date first" was watching someone back into a scooter and phone a friend for advice, only to discover that sad friend was inside and that it as her scooter.  Oh, Austin...you and your scooter gangs.

Bizarro, indeed.

I've written about t-shirts before (this blog doesn't have enough history for me to link back to it - don't be lazy), but I don't consider another t-shirt-inspired post too soon.  I mean, who doesn't like t-shirts?

Anyway, while testing the neighborhood hamburger joint waters yesterday evening with KB, I saw a gentleman enter wearing a purple t-shirt with a backwards purple "S" on a yellow shield.  Using my super powers of geekery, I knew that this was meant to evoke the DC comics supervillain Bizarro.  He's like a mirror-opposite of Superman.  Whereas Superman is good, Bizarro is evil (though clumsily so).  He also uses inverted adjectives to emphasize his oppositeness.  Where Superman might say "Up, up and away", Bizarro would say something like "Down, down and here".  Superman fights for truth, justice, and the American Way, so Bizarro stands for Lies, Injustice, and...I don't know, a Parliamentary Monarchy?  You get the idea.  Bizarro is everything NOT Superman.

It seems to me that wearing a shirt with some sort of recognizable logo inherently proclaims that you identify with that logo in some way.  I have a t-shirt that has the cover of Orwell's "1984" printed on it.  I love that book and have no problem being identified with it.  I also have a Freebirds t-shirt (or two).  I love burritos...again, you get the idea.  But what does it say if you are wearing a Bizarro t-shirt?  I don't think that guy was evil, from another dimension, or allergic to Blue Kryptonite.  I think his statement was supposed to be something like "I'm weird, I'm defiant, I'm not within the mainstream."

How defiant and unique can you be if you're purposefully acting that way (or identifying as such)?  It seems to me that the most truly unique individuals are those that are unique simply through living their authentic lives, and being themselves without any (maybe a little) pretense.  Joseph Beuys, Jackson Pollack, Andy Warhol.  They were (mostly) authentic in their art and set out with a specific goal in mind; the changing of perception about what art (or culture, or pop culture) could be.  But if you're out there just being defiantly weird for no other purpose than to be unique, how unique is that (also, how defiantly weird is it to take your Mac to a coffee house and surf the web with their free wifi?).  For me, the guy in the Bizarro t-shirt summed up the thing about Austin that I find most difficult to get my head around.  Being "weird" because that's what you're supposed to do.  It's almost as if there was a group of unique, idiosyncratic Austinites that roamed free a generation ago, and now all we have left are these echoes and shades of what it used to be like.  It's a difficult position to be in, and to watch from the outside.  I want to embrace our new city, but it's rather prickly at times.  Bizarro, unlike Superman, hates hugs.

The search for authenticity strikes me as a "dark night of the soul" for a lot of people, especially those still being formed (read: in their 20's).  In the vernacular, I believe this might be called "keeping it real".  Holden Caufield called out everyone that came across his path for being "phony." So what is it to be a fully authentic person?  I would argue that the real fakery we see is actually a form of mimicry.  Take "foodies" for example.  If someone is truly passionate about food, then their enthusiasm will show, and they will tell you about where the animal was raised, where the vegetables were grown, etc.  That kind of infectious enthusiasm will naturally inspire imitators (as flatterers), but perhaps their enthusiasm and passion are a bit diluted.  Now imagine this chain of imitators keeps going, so that the food discussion becomes de rigueur and loses its original passion and life.  That's the place I see too many people living.  That's Bizarro-world.  They sell t-shirts.

So that's that.

So we totally live in Austin now.  Why the heck does the water taste like burnt rubber?!  I mean, it's supposed to be so pretty and natural, etc, but man...that's some nasty, nasty water.


The move went better than I expected.  The last time KB and I made a move without assistance from friends was moving her entire third floor apartment into my third floor apartment on the other side of Houston about a month before we got married.  It was a bit fraught, to say the least.  Since then we've both admitted to sharing the same thought at different points in the day. "Well, this is it.  I'm moving (his/her) stuff, but then leaving (him/her) on a curb somewhere."  Lessons learned?  1) Hire movers, and 2) Eat lunch, for crying out loud.  We both get cranky if we're a little too hungry.  I like to think that my heroic build and mirth are directly related, so pass the cupcakes he said joyfully.


Our new house is fantastic, and we can't wait for people to come visit.  You know who you are.  Heck, you're probably reading this.  Both of you.  It's weird to think that it took KB going to seminary for us to get a bigger, better house. That seems entirely incongruous, but then again, when have we ever done things in a predictable fashion?

One of the funnier parts of moving was getting boxes out of the attic.  Okay, maybe not the actual act of getting in the attic to retrieve them (that was terrifying; the attic on 22nd is like the boiler from Home Alone), but seeing the treasure trove of things we stored up there.  An entire library of CD's and DVDs, at least one wedding present, pictures galore from ages past, and a lot of great memories.  We got rid of a lot (a lot) and kept a lot.  I was suprised at how simultaneously cathartic and costive (emotionally speaking, of course) going through the attic turned out to be.  On the one had, it was the lifting of a burden about things we had stoed up there, but at the same time a reminder of things we may have tried to forget.  I imagine it's the same way with any great purgation of things; we imbue our treasure with so much emotion and connect them to so many memories that ridding ourselves of them or even just going through them can open the floodgates.  If one were in seminary, this would be the opportune time to insert a small homily about storing up treasures in Heaven.  However, since one is not...

I really wanted to take a picture of KB standing on the porch holding her lunchbox with both hands for her first day of school.  She gave me a withering look and told me to go back to bed.  That's good wifin', y'all.

My phone does next to nothing

I’ve noticed a something unsettling. 

Let’s say you’re in a meeting.  A totally awesome meeting, being led by a dashing young(ish) analyst with dynamic facial hair and the body of a Greek god (Dionysus was the fat, drunk one, right?).  There’s charts and graphs, insightful synthesis of new ideas, thoughtful analysis of markets, wit.  But you, office denizen, are entirely uninterested.  What do you do to avoid engaging in this KICK-ASS meeting?  Look at your Blackberry.  Uh-oh, maybe you got an e-mail in the last few seconds that desperately needs your attention.  Better check and see.  And carefully re-read those last seven massages.  Carefully.

These office denizens have started their sloping journey into complete withdrawal from humanity and are practically entering the world of the computer.  Like Tron.  They can avoid meetings or conversations by simply retreating into the soft, ambient comfort of their smart phones.  They can snap a photo of a place they looked up on Google while playing Angry Birds With Friends and post the entire experience on Facebook.  No human interaction necessary.  The unsettling thing I’ve noticed though, is that I cannot do any of that!

If smart phones do all that neat stuff, my phone is stupid.  Very stupid.  It can’t really take photos worth showing to anyone, it can’t get on the internet, it does not have games that are enjoyable in the slightest, and it doesn’t really do that well with phone calls.  What does my phone do well, I can hear no one ask?  I’ll tell you: lose buttons.  Buttons fall off my phone like a champ.  Buttons fall off my phone so frequently that I suspect some weird form of call phone leprosy.  I think this phone is actually worse that my very first cell phone eleven years ago.  I mean, at least that one kept its buttons AND I could play Snake on it. That game was awesome!  Snake goes around, eats the apple, gets bigger, and five minutes later fun has been achieved.  Not even close with my current phone.

So why do I care?  I have no intentions of spending money on a new phone; this one still works (sorta).  Maybe I’m jealous.  Jealous that others can find maps, check box scores (that’s still a thing people do, right?), update their social networking whatsits.  Maybe I’m jealous that they have their own personal refuge. At any given moment they can halt a conversation or meeting under the guise of urgent, important business, while I must remain present and (somewhat) attentive. They have an escape hatch, an out, a Zack-Morris-like ability to take a “time-out”, freeze the world and be somewhere else.  I merely have a Zach-Morris-like cell phone.

I don’t really think that modern, technology-driven escape routes are a good thing.  Being present with those around you is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself; the things you’ll hear and learn are priceless.  Smartphones and escape hatches cut us off from people, from knowledge, and from friendship.  I just wish I had them every once in a while, like we all do.  What I really want is to play a game or twelve of Snake.

Compartmentalizing

It’s a weird feeling to come home at least once a week and notice that something else is missing from my home.  That is to say, it’s not been removed but rather removed from its place.  It now exists in some bizarre, unreachable realm.  Most people call it a box, but Schrödinger’s Cat would beg to differ (and probably beg to be let out).

KB made a pact with herself that during the month of July she would pack one box per day, and she has far exceeded her goals.   We are building an ever increasing stack that will eventually get moved onto a truck with all of our other belongings and sent to our new house in Austin.  It’s a hard thing to watch, really.  She takes certain amount of delight in packing, perhaps because of a certain “Day of Bags” of which I dare not speak.  I take only an enabling role, bringing in more boxes (Thanks, Spec’s!).  It’s hard to watch all of the things that have built our surroundings for seven years get put into boxes, but it’s even tougher to realize that, wow, we sure do have a lot of books and CDs, two things that seem to be headed the way of the Evening Paper.  It’s a disconcerting feeling to see one’s life and interests neatly packed away.  Everything someone could want to know about me is being stacked neatly into a container, ready to be loaded onto a truck.  Favorite book?  Catch-22.  Someone that came into my house and saw that displayed might then understand my love of satire.  Favorite music?  The blues.  My CD collection is full of blues tunes, new and old.  All of these things are not me, but inform who I am.  Only a few people get the real details, but visitors can see glimpses from what is in our happy home. And now that’s in boxes.

The other aspect of boxing up everything around me is finding things.  Most telling, no less than three (3!) journals I’ve started and then just let fall off into the void.  At least one begins with a comment about how I lack the discipline to keep a regular journal.  Oh, Nick from 2003…you’re so right.  I mean heck, when was the last time I posted here?  I have to wonder why I seem to find the idea of keeping a journal so appealing, yet so difficult to maintain.  It just stuffing more of myself into boxes, but it’s such an fascinating thing.  Other than just the record of daily life, I suppose it has to do with keeping your inner thoughts on record so you can remember not only what you did, but how you felt, all in the hopes of exhibiting personal growth.

Of course in the case of this blog, it’s the hopes of getting one of those blog-to-book deals, becoming famous, and landing on the cover of Texas Monthly with the headline “The Next Kinky Friedman (But This One’s a Gentile)”.  I even play guitar…

Departures and Arrivals

Reader caution advised: This one might will get seriously maudlin. 

We’re leaving Houston late in August. Not for good I hope, but for now.  We’re headed off to Austin to become part of the Seminary of the Southwest community.  More specifically, KB is going to be studying there in order to become a priest.  I will be studying there on how to be a clergy spouse: how to host a tea, the finer points of playing bridge, gossiping about the organist.  To be fair, I think that last one is a senior level class.  Okay, most of that last bit is not true (but God help me, I do love to gossip).  Seminary is something that has been in the works for KB and for us as a family for a long time, so this is an exciting time.

We’re less excited about the prospect of leaving those dearest to us.  They know who they are, and if you’re reading this and aren’t sure, assume it’s you.  It probably is.  And thanks for reading my drivel.  But I digress.

We are very fortunate to have formed some incredibly deep bonds with our friends and family here in Houston.  Aristotle says that friendship is based on finding another either good, useful, or pleasant.  Our friends are all three.  According to The Philosopher, a genuine friend is someone who loves another person purely for the sake of that other person.  We are fortunate to have friends like these; people that we love simply for who they are.  And who they are, is wonderful. 



Distraction!



I can’t help but think about making our exit from Houston (our fair city), and how that is a microcosm of life.  One of the wisest people I know once told me that how we make our exits in life (from a party, from a job, etc.) are foreshadowing how we will make our final exit.  Will it be kicking and screaming, upsetting those around us?  Will it be slipping silently out the back, hoping to leave unnoticed?  Or will it be a blessing, assuring those that matter most of your love, and how much fun you’ve had with them, before gracefully leaving through the front door?  I’ve tried my best to live by the third option, but this one will be tougher.  This one might involve some kicking and screaming.  I promise to do my best, though, because it is without a doubt the exact right thing for us to do.  It is the wonderful culmination of years of patience and prayer, and it's a very exciting new adventure.  But it is still a change, and it is still difficult.

We’re very fortunate, though, to have some impressively great people waiting for us in Austin.  People we’ve known for years and have always said “Boy, I wish we lived closer to them”.  And now we will.  So we depart with a heavy heart, but arrive into the arms of the best Welcoming Committee Austin could have provided us. 

For that, we wholeheartedly thank you Austin.  Let’s play bridge sometime.  I’ve got some serious dish for you…

Seriously, Austin?

It was like something out of Orwell’s Animal Farm if Animal Farm had been about vehicles.  You know: one wheel good, two wheels bad!  As we drove through what I’m told is called Hyde Park, the unicyclist emerged right in front of us, almost as if materializing out of nothingness.  One minute, an empty street.  Then, suddenly, unicycle.  The rider’s air of smugness and superiority was a thick as the most delicious bacon imaginable.  He continued on his way undaunted by observers, firm in his belief that not only were two- (God forbid, four-) wheeled modes of transport inferior, but that you’d be able to grate cheese of his abs by the time he made it to his adult kickball league.  Fine, artisan cheese.  Granted, I am assuming to know his inner monologue here, but how far off could I be, right?  Dude was on a unicycle.



One of these.



So this is how you welcome us, Austin?  You send out the Ambassador for Unicycles to welcome us to our new home.  Don’t get me wrong.  I have nothing against the unicycle per se, nor do I have anything against Austin, despite my smarminess.  Heck, some of my dearest friends in the world live in Austin, along with friends I have yet to meet (too cheesy?).  I’m not even sure why this irked me as much as it did.  Was it because he seemed to choose this mode of conveyance solely because he wanted to be “unique”?  Was it so he could tell people he rode a unicycle everywhere?  Was he a clown college dropout?  Okay, if it’s the last one he totally gets a reprieve because I can’t juggle either.

An improvement.

I guess it’s the sheer, brazen impracticality of the thing.  No one would choose to ride a unicycle because it is a convenient way to get from Point A to Point B.  One would only choose this to make some sort of statement, but the fact that he was riding through a neighborhood in the middle of the day on a Tuesday suggest he’s not in this for the audience.  I just can’t get my head around the idea of doing something so impractical just to make a point.

I suppose that is untrue, though.  Opinions are formed from ideals, the most impractical part of the human person.  Any statement we make expressing those ideals exposes some part of us that is set deep within, daring others to critique that which we hold dear.  I think the fear of rejection runs pretty deep within a lot of people, so putting yourself on display like that is a huge risk.  It’s a bold thing to step forward and bare your soul.  Or your unicycle.

So here’s to you, Mono-Wheeled Nameless Austinite: keep rolling along.  For God’s sake, wear a helmet.

Keep Austin 170 Miles From Here

Everyone has seen the t-shirts that say “Keep Austin Weird.” The slogan started at the turn of the century as a show of support for local businesses.  Then came the t-shirts and bumper stickers, and like another famous slogan in Texas, this rallying cry became something that Austinites used to show their outside-the-mainstream culture, their “weird” diversity, and their love of all things different.  Lest we forget “Don’t Mess With Texas” used to be about littering.

Since that time, other cities have taken up the slogan’s bones in the format of “Keep (City Name) (Attribute).”  Most notably, there’s “Keep College Station Normal.”  This speaks not only to the ancient rivalry between UT and A&M, but to College Station’s more conservative bent.  When someone from College Station wants to rag on Austin they will, without fail, used the phrase “purple hair” as a pejorative.  “This kind of individualism (that a lot of people do, it seems) isn’t tolerated in College Station!”  This is usually followed by a lot of harrumphing.  But I digress…this is not about College Station.  After all, they gave the world Freebird’s.

There’s a new shirt springing up around Houston.  “Keep Austin 170 Miles Away”.  When my Houston friends and I heard this slogan, we howled with laughter.  Double-over, crying laughter.  Cleansing, therapeutic laughter.  Why?  Because we live in Houston and frankly, we know the score.  Houston is built on a swamp.  The air here is barely breathable.  If you don’t have a car, chance are excellent that you’re not leaving the house.  Our sports teams kind of suck.  A lot.  We’re not considered a college town, even though we have two major universities, three smaller universities, and a downright decent community college system.  As Houstonians, all of this keeps our egos firmly in check.

But damn it, H-town is fantastic.  The food here is amazing, and completely lacks all pretention.  The sheer volume of high-quality culture rivals any of the largest cities in the US.  The Menil is arguably the best and most accessible art museum in the country.  When the National Museum of Ethiopia needed remodeling, they sent Lucy to HMNS.  We get our fair share of touring music, and the Woodlands Pavilion can’t be beat.  The economy of the city is strong, and jobs are available.  Most importantly, I’m convinced that the people of this city are the nicest and friendliest in the state.  We all know that we live in a swamp, but we’re making the best of it.  We’re humble, but deep down we know that Houston is great.  So why “Keep Austin 170 Miles From Here”?  Because while it is undoubtedly a beautiful town with a lot to offer, we just don’t have room for the ego.

A month from now KB and I move to Austin.  God help us.