As most of you (whoever that entails) know, we've moved to Austin. The home of obnoxious hippies, passive aggressive homeless, live music, and way too many UT students. Reason: I was accepted into an Occupational Therapy Assistant program. That is beside the point. The point is that Austin and Sherman are two very different places, though it doesn't take a rocket surgeon to figure that out.
First, ever Monday night at Ruta Maya (a chill coffee/beer joint just south of downtown), there is live Russian music by The Flying Balalaika brothers. From there you can hop around to seeing Breathless at the Paramount, or eating authentic French cuisine at Justine's Brassiere. Basically, there's always something to do. We live in Northwest Austin, which is perfect because it gets rid of the student-overloaded, drunken 6th Street, life-sacrificing hippies of downtown, but there's a Super Target five minutes away and a Planet K down the road for cheap Kamel Reds. So far it's alright.
I live on the second floor of a three-story apartment building. My upstairs neighbors have a habit of playing their mexican folk tunes on a high bass level, and sitting on the porch drinking Bud Light while rambling loudly in Spanish. (How I know what they drink: when a storm comes through, the wind blows the empty cans onto my porch.) Normally it's easy to ignore by putting Animal Collective on the record player and turning it up. However, when you have to wake up at 7:00 in the morning because you'll have to sit through an annoying amount of traffic to make it on-time to class at 8:30, these loud revolution sessions tend to be a hindrance to sleep. Melatonin, do your thing.
Currently, I work at a Starbucks on the weekends. I have learned very quickly that everyone, including certain managers, are potheads. Although I normally have a very stereotypical hatred of potheads, I am finding that most Austinites function very well, if not better, when they're high. In all honesty, I couldn't care less if they're on acid or weed. As long as they can shut down a bar and wipe down a counter, the smell of freshly burnt swag is no issue.
This ends the update on our lives. I'll let Isaac speak for himself later. I'm sure his opinions may include more cynicism, hatred, and better wording than my little informative monologue.
-Kristen
and still no smog?
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