Our Neighborhood

Our neighborhood is nice. Families walk their kids and their dogs. Across the street is a coffee shop where we don't drink coffee. We ride our bikes or run freely. But there is also the occasional drug addicted man in a motorized wheelchair who rolls up to one of his colleagues and shoots him 4-5 times then rolls away. Or the as-yet-unidentified arsonist who has proven that he/she is consistent and considerate as shown by the fact that the one dozen homes he/she has torched were unoccupied. Or the pack of feral dogs that apparently has cut short several cats' lives.
And good garage sales.

1125 1/2 Euclid St. #1, Houston, TX 77009

Out of the unpacked boxes stored in our spare room and our tree-lined, dreadfully sticky neighborhood in Houston comes a brief post. Jessica and I are finally in Houston. She is a student teacher at a high school where she is a fair-skinned minority and the students call her "Miss". The students walk through metal detectors every morning. Some of them spell engineer E-M-G-Y-N-R. Her supervisor looks like Hitler. And she loves it. Absolutely and wholly loves it.
After two or so months of unemployment I found work at a recovery program for adults with mental illness and substance dependence problems. I do group therapy with some of the funniest, however foulest mouth people I have yet to meet. My boss likes money. A lot. Which is making it hard for me to work there and feel good about the quality of services my clients are receiving. More updates to follow as the first major moral dilemma in my life in a long time continues to develop.

I may be unable to help in the event of an emergency

On a recent flight back from Amy and Alph's I actually reviewed what the flight attendant says to review but you never do. This is what I saw:

What do these hieroglyphics even mean? My best guess involves using laser vision to break through your window because there isn't any exit because the plane landed on a sandbar and then the ocean. If that's the case I'm screwed. Superman and I haven't spoken for years.

Un peu de cultura

Watch this movie. It's in Portuguese but it has English subtitles.

Watch this movie. It's in French but it has English subtitles as well. Stick it out until the end. It's not about an affair we promise (The only thing worse than Hollywood is Le Hollywood Francais). They'll do anything to sell you a movie.

Both of these movies were in the "International" section of Blockbuster. Be careful in that area, there are likely some French movies that ARE about affairs. Probably all of them.
Shameless Frenchies.

For those who may not know, Josh and I are moving. Where? Three hints:












































Still haven't guessed?









What do Sam ______, excessively large cowboy boots, and Whitney _______ have in common?
That's right...Houston. We're moving to Houston, Texas. In May, just as the heat of hell settles in. We are moving to the land of bbq, and big things.
The reason for this drastic move from the lovely mountains of Utah to heat-blazen, hurricane-frequented Texas: I'll be student teaching in the Aldine School District, and Josh will be working a big man's job...the kind that comes after graduate school. We are up for some serious adventures, and growing more excited everyday. More to come...

What are you looking at?

These are my boots.
With these green monsters I can wear my sneakers inside the rubber exterior without fear of getting wet. In them I am a Clydesdale. While others tip-toe around slushy puddles I slosh straight through. While others desperately look for footprints that have already been made, I make my own like King Winceslas of old.
But people stare.
In another time their stare might have been deemed a gesture of awe or reverence as they approached, offering up their soggy shoes as an effigy to me, the patron saint of functional winter footwear. Alas, we live in an age of heretics.
They try to hide it but by the time they have broken the tractor-beam attraction of my boots I'm on to them. I just don't see what the big deal is.
It's not like I look like the scary old man from Home Alone who ends up being nice and hits the robbers over the head with a shovel thus saving Kevin.
It's not like I could pass for some lesser-known brother of the world famous Super Mario Brothers who unlike his brothers actually spends his time plumbing and not saving bratty princesses from King Koopa and his minions.
I am a man not a sideshow.
If you're going to stare at least pay me the respect of congratulating me for being brave enough to wear such things in this impractical, fashion-crazed world.