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…