Chillin' in a concrete wasteland
It's a two-hour drive from Austin to Katy, Texas, which is a few miles southwest of Houston. The drive's a straight shot, with only one highway change, although somehow the path crosses the Colorado river no less than three times. Once on highway 71, the terrain goes from hill country to a short stretch of grasslands before the evergreen forests of East Texas. Eventually the pine trees drop away revealing a coastal plane, marked by the transformation of the highway from asphalt to concrete and by the appearance of drivers who go about 85 in the middle lane. I know I'm close to the sprawling city when I see the exposed support beams of what was once a restaurant called the Open Pit Bar-B-Q. I hate to think someone pinned their hopes on a restaurant located randomly on an access road, without another building for 10 miles, but the "For Sale" written in shoe polish on the window makes me think otherwise.
From there it's only a short while until the massive, gaping wound of tackiness that is Katy Mills Malls arises on my right, proclaimed by its lime green, purple, pink, and orange sign, with a turquoise star on top. I like Katy, though. But that’s probably because I like the family I’m there to visit.
Last weekend my cousin got back from the war by way of his station in Hawaii. Mickey's a year older than me, and we were pretty close growing up. This weekend was the first extended hang-out time we've had since he left for the military about three years ago. It’s strange to realize that someone you thought was so similar to you is actually very different. Mickey and I still get along great, but hanging out with him and, more specifically, his friends, reminds me that life for a lot of people is just a paycheck-and-a-six-pack affair. All these kids probably graduated somewhere in the middle of their high school class and went to college, if at all, somewhere in Houston. I say this without trying to be condescending--they remind me a lot, actually, of my good buddies from San Antonio--but it’s a bit of a shock to realize that everyone isn’t trying to squeeze some grander purpose, some greater ambition, from life. They want to be successful to the point that they can support their family--about 80% of his friends, it seems, were either married, engaged, pregnant, or a mixture thereof. Being around them always makes me realize how much of my life I've devoted to books and how little about life's sometimes harsh realities I understand.
Houston on the whole, to me, makes life seem like an endless, faceless procession through the routines of the days, months, years. Concrete is everywhere, and all the buildings are either functional or gaudy. Fitness centers are next to large, blocky office buildings, which are next to giant Ikea stores. Near these buildings, just off the highway, are the cheap, two-story apartment complexes that are usually painted brown with yellow trim and reek of anonymity. Further out are the ’burbs from which the town grew. Katy, the fastest growing area in the nation according to my cousin, is really just a mass-produced neighborhood mutated too quickly into a sprawling series of identical neighborhoods, with all the fast-food blemishes and strip-center tumors that go with them.
Of course, everyone who has lived there seems to really like it.
When asked, Mickey said he’d love to come back and work there for a couple years after he gets out of the Navy. I thought he’d want to get the hell out, like I wanted to get out of San Antonio. Then again, my experience of the town is superficial at best. Maybe the great thing about living there is the multiplicity and the isolation that allow you to carve your own niche and be left the hell alone.
I shouldn’t judge Katy by the backyards and garages of Mickey’s friends. And it’s not fair to extrapolate Houston from the abandoned, depressing buildings surrounding the Astros’ ballpark or from the view from my aunt’s mini-van as we drive the hour back across town. But even those who love Houston will admit the traffic is its worst problem. As our car slows to join endless columns of frustrated, stuttering cars, the feeling of isolation in the midst of so many people--so many people heading the same direction, but unable to move because of the presence of their millions of anonymous neighbors--just makes me want to take a nap. That way, when I wake up, I’ll be back in my own comfortable world, at my aunt and uncle’s house on Splendora Avenue.
Addendum: This is the picture on my desktop right now. I never get tired of looking at it, for some reason, even though it didn't necessarily stand out when I got the roll back. It's a picture of this guy Bill from my friend Matt Oliver's band Sound Team. They're pretty dern good. Check 'em out if you get the chance.
It's a two-hour drive from Austin to Katy, Texas, which is a few miles southwest of Houston. The drive's a straight shot, with only one highway change, although somehow the path crosses the Colorado river no less than three times. Once on highway 71, the terrain goes from hill country to a short stretch of grasslands before the evergreen forests of East Texas. Eventually the pine trees drop away revealing a coastal plane, marked by the transformation of the highway from asphalt to concrete and by the appearance of drivers who go about 85 in the middle lane. I know I'm close to the sprawling city when I see the exposed support beams of what was once a restaurant called the Open Pit Bar-B-Q. I hate to think someone pinned their hopes on a restaurant located randomly on an access road, without another building for 10 miles, but the "For Sale" written in shoe polish on the window makes me think otherwise.
From there it's only a short while until the massive, gaping wound of tackiness that is Katy Mills Malls arises on my right, proclaimed by its lime green, purple, pink, and orange sign, with a turquoise star on top. I like Katy, though. But that’s probably because I like the family I’m there to visit.
Last weekend my cousin got back from the war by way of his station in Hawaii. Mickey's a year older than me, and we were pretty close growing up. This weekend was the first extended hang-out time we've had since he left for the military about three years ago. It’s strange to realize that someone you thought was so similar to you is actually very different. Mickey and I still get along great, but hanging out with him and, more specifically, his friends, reminds me that life for a lot of people is just a paycheck-and-a-six-pack affair. All these kids probably graduated somewhere in the middle of their high school class and went to college, if at all, somewhere in Houston. I say this without trying to be condescending--they remind me a lot, actually, of my good buddies from San Antonio--but it’s a bit of a shock to realize that everyone isn’t trying to squeeze some grander purpose, some greater ambition, from life. They want to be successful to the point that they can support their family--about 80% of his friends, it seems, were either married, engaged, pregnant, or a mixture thereof. Being around them always makes me realize how much of my life I've devoted to books and how little about life's sometimes harsh realities I understand.
Houston on the whole, to me, makes life seem like an endless, faceless procession through the routines of the days, months, years. Concrete is everywhere, and all the buildings are either functional or gaudy. Fitness centers are next to large, blocky office buildings, which are next to giant Ikea stores. Near these buildings, just off the highway, are the cheap, two-story apartment complexes that are usually painted brown with yellow trim and reek of anonymity. Further out are the ’burbs from which the town grew. Katy, the fastest growing area in the nation according to my cousin, is really just a mass-produced neighborhood mutated too quickly into a sprawling series of identical neighborhoods, with all the fast-food blemishes and strip-center tumors that go with them.
Of course, everyone who has lived there seems to really like it.
When asked, Mickey said he’d love to come back and work there for a couple years after he gets out of the Navy. I thought he’d want to get the hell out, like I wanted to get out of San Antonio. Then again, my experience of the town is superficial at best. Maybe the great thing about living there is the multiplicity and the isolation that allow you to carve your own niche and be left the hell alone.
I shouldn’t judge Katy by the backyards and garages of Mickey’s friends. And it’s not fair to extrapolate Houston from the abandoned, depressing buildings surrounding the Astros’ ballpark or from the view from my aunt’s mini-van as we drive the hour back across town. But even those who love Houston will admit the traffic is its worst problem. As our car slows to join endless columns of frustrated, stuttering cars, the feeling of isolation in the midst of so many people--so many people heading the same direction, but unable to move because of the presence of their millions of anonymous neighbors--just makes me want to take a nap. That way, when I wake up, I’ll be back in my own comfortable world, at my aunt and uncle’s house on Splendora Avenue.
Addendum: This is the picture on my desktop right now. I never get tired of looking at it, for some reason, even though it didn't necessarily stand out when I got the roll back. It's a picture of this guy Bill from my friend Matt Oliver's band Sound Team. They're pretty dern good. Check 'em out if you get the chance.
posted by Matt at 5:22 PM
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