Yeah, this post is about as late as can be. I moved this past weekend, and with three children to take care of for the length of this month, let’s just say that time is at a premium.

And oh man, about this move. We are in the belly of the beast here. We extricated ourselves from the ever-increasing yuppie hell that has devolved from Houston’s Montrose District and have relocated to much more square footage and a somewhat unnerving assload of strip clubs.

Our apartment is in the far corner of a huge complex, and while unloading the truck Saturday night, it became immediately apparent that it is places like this complex that have come to define what it now really means to live in America.

To exit the complex you have to use the gate that is just beyond the unit over from ours, and so this affords us the chance to become intimately familiar with the musical tastes of an interesting multicultural cross section of Houston’s population of well over 43 billion (most of which, I have on good authority, are total morons).

So what is pan-ethnic Houston into? Well, from the sound of it, Houston really loves lots and lots of hip-hop, and that is in as many flavors as you could imagine. In about one hour I heard Hindu rap, Spanish, English in a southern accent, in a New York accent, in a British accent, and in god knows what Asian language (might have been Vietnamese, but I didn’t hear enough to be sure).

Sometimes being the minority is an interesting place to be, especially in a country where your own race stands not only convinced they own the place but that their dicks are so huge that they can swing them anywhere they like.

When, like, say, now, I am totally overwhelmed with things to do (work has also been directly entrenched in my overcrowded ass of late, in addition to the move, the kids, and the wager with Old Scratch), music can often take a back seat. At times like these – and god knows I have seen plenty – silence is like the sheer power of a thousand metal bands playing simultaneously, and doing so flawlessly, and meticulously well-preparedly as well. That is to say, I am bowled over by the sound of nothing, and stand in awe of the peace that can be found in if only you know where to look.

And so it was fitting that on the day my country strokes its own silver back by detonating benign munitions from the shores of China, I should happen to find myself a measure of solace (however small), in which to bask, like a chameleon sunning itself in the path of an oncoming truck.

I wish you a happy birthday America, and welcome home, Griswalds. The light is on and the curry is just about ready.

Now, if only I could find my hash pipe…