New Austin impressions

I. Pecan trees in winter: The very best haunted house tree. Knobbly knuckled branches tipped with dead nut shells. They go very well with the psychotic grackle screams. Not to mention the crying-baby doves.

II. Adult Swim: The kind, generous, brilliant, talented and stunningly sexy friend who is letting me camp out in her apartment sleeps all day and stays up all night watching Cartoon Network. Not my favorite shows, but I’ve discovered they make perfect background noise for the writing process. Just amusing enough to keep me from ignoring them completely, but not so engrossing that I quit working altogether.

II.a. I should have a third thing here. I do everything in threes, including criminal charges in hard news ledes. Seriously, if you try hard enough, you can make it fit in every story. Ha ha! Kidding! The facts determine the story! Sensation is for hacks!

III. Ah, yes—the housing market: Every single apartment ad on Craigslist is spam. Every. Single. One.

(Previous posts on moving to Texas can be found here, here, and here.

GTT

So. This has happened.

I’m not sure I can blame my lack of posts and twitterings entirely on the move, but I’m going to anyway. The fact that I didn’t do a Road to Austin: Phase III post, or discuss the realization that the only way I could afford to move was to sell my ancient car, or at least acknowledge New Year’s Eve and develop some appropriate resolutions offends my sense of plot, but I suppose real life never does have a coherent story.

Although I am camped out on a friend’s couch, car-less and unemployed, I have to say I love Austin. Early impressions: (1) Creepy birds, mainly the doves, which sound like a crying baby, and a species of grackle which makes a variety of charming car-alarm noises when excited, which is all the time. (2) Street con artists. I’ve seen my fair share of begging, both here and abroad, but Austin seems to have more than its fair share of able-bodied, sober, perfectly sane, well-dressed and suspiciously articulate beggars, all with a story to tell. This is excellent. My goal in life is to live in a post-apocalyptic movie, but with plumbing, and I think I am getting closer to that point. (3) College students. There are a lot of them, and at some point in the past decade, they apparently began admitting a bunch of twelve-year-olds as freshmen. Bah humbug, get off my lawn, et cetera, et cetera.

Anyway, the important thing is this: About two months ago, I got all wrapped up in selling the car, packing, saying goodbye, repacking, filling out job applications, and packing, and I quit writing, and social media-izing, and as I look at this long, rambling, inarticulate post, I’m thinking maybe I should have stayed quit, but be that as it may, I’m back.

And I’m in Texas. And here I will stay, at least longer than I’ve stayed anywhere else. I am too old to be constantly picking up and moving. Let’s see, I lived in Georgia four years, which was longest, so that means I have to stay in Austin for five, which means 2018. In 2018, there will be a new president, and I will be—gah, old. But whatever happens, I’ll be here.

The Road to Texas, Phase 1

I’ve tried various approaches to this writer thing. Last year, it was all about being a deadbeat mooch, pretending money wasn’t important and focusing on my Art.

Then I tried being a World Traveler and Self-Sacrificing Volunteer.

Soon, all the unimportant money had dribbled away. I had deep doubts about the value of my volunteering. (Some people are born to make a difference. Some people should really go back to work and just send money.) And the Art—hah! Pah! And even, bah!

That’s when I remembered the whole starving-artist-with-a-menial-job thing. It’s unpleasant, yes, but it has all that romance and cachet and stuff.

Restaurant work seemed the most traditional choice. The application process, however, was tricky. I waited tables in college but in the subsequent ten years, I had made an important self-discovery: I kind of hate people a little. (See item re: volunteering, above.) I really, really, really don’t like depending on being cheerful and friendly and helpful for my daily bread. True, at the very highest levels, wait staff are expected to be cold and snooty, but we really don’t have those kinds of restaurants here in Dog Patch, and I wouldn’t be qualified for them if we did.

So, I put in a bunch of applications at various establishments, listing my experience as a server, but gently encouraging them to consider me for any position but.

Confusing for people.

Lately I’ve been trying to have a more honest and open approach to life, but my ‘I hate people and do not wish to serve them’ explanation seemed ill-advised.

And then I heard about the Café.

They were hiring for the summer.

They didn’t require experience, preferring to train their help themselves, rather than deal with people used to other restaurants’ systems.

They were looking for a kitchen helper who would be on the fast track to a supervisorial position.

It sounded too good to be true …

…

…

.

Funny how these things work out.

Watch this space for Part II of Phase I (shut up) in the coming days!

Dum dum dummmmm.

Citizenship

In preparation for my impending move, I've been doing a little research on Texas. Since it's an election year, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be moving to (gasp) an Early Primary State.

This is a crucial question: As you all undoubtedly know, or at least all of you who are Americans (my stats keep picking up hits from Russia, for some reason), voters who want to have an actual impact in a presidential election need to vote in a primary.Or live in a swing state.

Thing is, I don't really want to have an impact. Who needs that kind of responsibility? I don't like politicians, as rule, so voting early just means choosing the lesser of two (or eight) evils. That means research, and that means paying attention to parts of the news that don't involve a burglar shooting his own foot after the cat knocks over the tropical fish bowl.

As it turns out, there is both good news and bad news: the Texas primary, in April, is not as irrelevant as North Carolina's (May), but neither is it as nearly-competitive as the one in Georgia (March), where I was a registered voter (and odd job reporter covering local political issues!) for five exciting years.