After about eight or nine weeks in Los Angeles one will start to say things like, “Well this city certainly does have some of the best weather in the world!” That, coming after two months of straight complaints—about safety and freeway gridlock; about prices and people and pollution—feels more than a little bit forced, as if the endless sunny afternoons and quick, cool evenings are any kind of true solace. As if fine weather is the cure for a rising pathos. A Mediterranean climate may be a rare and pleasant thing but no one believes it to be a true consolation: everyone on the bus notes with sadness that yes, in LA it is always a beautiful day, but one that we cannot come to enjoy.

The most magnificent climate in the world can do little against those barriers that have been erected against nature, the buildings and concrete roads that wrap the landscape like tight buckles. No, to knock that all down would take truly frightful weather, not the seventy days of uninterrupted sunshine that somehow starts to count as a blessing--there’s little like the reassurance of late afternoon sunbeams flitting as they sink below the palmtreetops. And you can always wear a t-shirt and shorts. And you should never leave home without sunglasses.

And with so little rain, there is nothing to wash the streets clean on the final day of the month.

With this, the best of the world’s weather, jogging in Los Angeles is never so awful. If you can stomach the smog a short run here is actually an exercise in social education (though I suspect few citizens are in need of a refresher course on class stratification). Two blocks east is graffiti-covered Koreatown and a mass of multi-colored people walking toward the transit hub at Wilshire and Western. Two blocks west and the concrete cedes some of its grip to irrigated lawns, healthy palms and a variety of landscaped lawn décor. It is in this way that money clothes its home. And there is safety, too. Where streets to the east are raw and perilous, the western mansions on the border of Hancock Park stand like ornaments adorning an oasis.

Jogging, even slowly, it takes just minutes to transition from one world to the next. Of course, a runner is a visitor: tolerated for a time, she is permitted only a passing glimpse of what life is like there. For the runner there is no participation, just peeks into other’s windows. The view shifts from awe to envy to unbearable intolerance and then an empty nothingness. It’s nothing much to talk about, it simply is. And we let it be, the balconies and fences and fancy cars. We let it all sit and instead say to ourselves, “At least there is the weather! This city may be one thing, but the weather is divine.”

brett at 12:49 PM on July 28, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Most world cities are dirty, and Los Angeles is no exception. Though the artificial, soulless environs of more affluent neighborhoods provide a cushion from the filth, beneath this polished veneer is a disgusting underbelly that spills right onto city streets. In LA, it's not just the fetid air that stinks, it's the whole damn city.

Venice Beach was on our itinerary for the Fourth of July. An early busride to the shore, a few beers, and the Mr. and Mrs. Muscle Beach Pageant were all in store--until LA's ridiculous mass transit system was entered into the equation. The metro was not only slow, but worse than crowded (and remember, I've lived in Tokyo). Most Angelenos will be quick to tell you that their bus system boasts the highest ridership in the nation, but don't be fooled. The amount of people packed into these cars says nothing of efficiency or usability, and looked at objectively, this sorry excuse for a bus system is the best that rich white taxpayers have to offer those of us who can no longer afford to drive. To put it another way, this shit is broke, and if you don't have a car, you're S.O.L.

In the end, Megan and I came home and found a nice vegan spot for lunch, played some Battleship (the new game of choice), and watched fireworks from our rooftop. With Gramercy Tower's central location and height, we were able to watch explosions at the Western beaches, the South Bay and the East Side. It was fun, but nothing can really beat a Nebraska Fourth of July. Cities seem oh-so-hip, but don't be fooled--people are doing a lot less living here than small town America.

brett at 01:37 PM on July 05, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Being out feels good.

Out of Ocean Park Hotel, that is. By 9:30 a.m. it is already too hot to remain in bed. I say ‘in bed,’ but ‘on bed’ is a much more appropriate way to describe it. Since checking in, my body has barely touched the sheets. Without air conditioning, the easiest way to spend a day is motionless. Saturday I tried the beach. On Sunday, however, I’m not looking for heatstroke. The ultra-brown tone my skin has taken on is certainly an epidermal signal: seek shade, it says.

The hottest place to be during a heat wave is in the driver’s seat of a black sports car that lacks air conditioning.

After finishing laundry and finalizing tomorrow morning’s check-out with Betty, I hit the showers. Not that I was terribly grubby, but ice water from above really helps the sun seem a bit more distant. Betty is the German woman who booked my room last week. In an almost unthinkable move for a concierge, she knocked on my door despite a clearly displayed “Do Not Disturb” sign. I was actually happy to see her. For the past seven days I’ve been wondering if there was actually any hotel staff.

When driving without air-conditioning, all of the little things matter. The sunroof should be open if the sun is low, but closed when she’s high in the sky.

Around most spots in L.A. the sounds of Spanish abound in a beautiful background. At once incomprehensible, the language begins to take shape in a short time. Within a few minutes, something becomes understood as lost pieces of high-school rush back. It seems easy to understand and yet I am hopeless to speak. Los Angeles has the third largest population of Mexicans of any city in the world—including Mexico. Here it is not called diversity but life.
I looked up a variety of coffee houses online. Keyword: vegan; location: Santa Monica. Today, I would not walk.

Our personal spaces are easy to forget. From 16th & F to 424 Watson to Mom & Dad’s and now Ocean Park Hotel, the next place I will rest my head is Gramercy Tower, a seven-storey building constructed in the 1920s and only two blocks from Korea Town. Gary’s in Mid-Wilshire. Tomorrow Gary goes to Guatemala. There are secrets in every place called home. In Gramercy Tower there is a grand piano.

Jax Vegan Café was closed. Not for the day, but for good. “We apologize to our customers but today we have closed our doors. Thank you for a wonderful 7 months.” And so I clambered back into a black sports car, still seeking caffeine. In a black sports car without air-conditioning, you pack your own bottle of water. In a black sports car without air-conditioning, you get cranky. This amount of driving is new: for two-plus years it’s been two wheels or two feet.

In Korea Town, shade comes mostly from the intermittent shadowcast of Hangul-lettered streetsigns. Spanish loosens its grip, but only slightly.

brett at 08:29 PM on June 22, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Despite the heat of the day, walking is the only true way to know a city.

June 21st is not a monolith. For some people it is a birthday. For Billy and Liz DeFrain, it is a wedding day that will become an anniversary day. To most in the Northern Hemisphere today marks the second day of summer, and now, nearly week after the Lakers’ loss to Boston in the NBA Finals, Los Angeles is in a heat wave. Here the air is dry and high temperatures are not the most oppressive part of life. The sun’s awesome power is more apparent in this desert, where its radiation hits the planet with less resistance, desiccating everything.

I left Lincoln for Los Angeles, and after 20 or more hours of travel found myself in what locals call “La La Land.”

From air, the Monterey peninsula was shrouded beneath a thick carpet of clouds that only the highest peaks poked through. Like landing onto a lake of cotton, our plane descended toward the hilltops and into a fluffy maelstrom of white. Below, a gray Monterey day had already passed noon and everything remained just as it was before. There was my car and campus and the same, ongoing construction splashing caution-sign orange and asphalt-black over the intersection of Madison and Pacific. The sea-breeze was almost chilly, and for a moment I regretted my flip flops and even put on a coat. From there I got in my car and drove.

The Central Valley, through which Interstate 5 runs, is not as temperate. After an early morning flight, I spent the hottest hours of the day making my way south through endless citrus groves, thousands of identical trees sucking up every spare drop of moisture. It was only upon approaching the San Luis Reservoir that I realized my miscalculation: the seaside slopes of California are much more accommodating than the land beyond the Coastal Ranges. People will tell you that the Midwestern portions of Interstate 80 are some of the most boring stretches of highway in the US; I-5 in the Central Valley, however, is certainly more lifeless and stretches for nearly as long. Without air conditioning, the Prelude felt something like a moving sauna.

It’s a felony to burn money, but before leaving Lincoln I set fire to some paper currency. I had seen it done a week earlier and repeated it on my own volition—there’s an incomparable feeling that comes with watching God burn.

Gasoline is expensive. To truly live in Los Angeles, there are few replacements for the automobile. Metaphor cannot truly capture the phenomenal excess and profligate waste embodied in the LA freeway system. Beautiful as far as complex engineering goes, the transport infrastructure of Southwest America will certainly be remembered as a foolish exercise in human hubris. These are to be our ancient ruins. This vast concrete network has left a nearly indelible mark on the regional geography, a transformation so overwhelming it will surely outlast the settlement it supports.

It is only inefficient to walk if your purpose for travel lies solely in reaching a destination. If the destination is simply a location, like any other location, then walking becomes the principal way to know a place.

On the freeway there is one type of life. In Irvine I discovered the privilege that is Lincoln’s campus. On the road to Irvine I discovered a shameful way of life. After two hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic my lungs began to hurt. Back in my hotel room, I was coughing up phlegm as if my allergies had come back. The entire region is covered in a blanket of filth, and in spots the development feels worse than cookie-cutter.

Today I swam in the Pacific Ocean again. Between Ocean Park Hotel and the sea is a dozen-mile round trip that—with the heat—is hardly easy on the psyche. In Plastic La La Land, Santa Monica does not go light on the artificial: the homes are all polish and makeup, and when shady streets give way to sunburnt roads, the nature of the community tiptoes from oceanside resort to lazy desert township. Everything about this place is surreal—driving through barely scratches the dirty film on the surface of the city. Walking through cuts a little deeper, but not far enough to make sense of anything.

"Bake sale for Obama!"

But I don't have any cash on me, just this jug of water. Better keep walking.

brett at 03:00 AM on June 22, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

I've been back in Lincoln for about a week now. It's a beautiful place. As much as I consider myself an honorary Californian, I still love my Midwestern home. I've been spending a lot of time with Ranger.

It gets tough to have the same conversation with everyone I bump into, ("How's California!?") but as with all the other times I've returned home from far away, it's just something I get used to. On Sunday at 8 a.m. I'll be on my way to Monterey via airplane, then Los Angeles via car. If all goes according to plan, I'll be in Santa Monica by nightfall and ready for work at my new job in the early a.m.

brett at 10:32 AM on June 10, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

One bus ride and a short hike later, Eric, Megan and I ended up at the top of Tank Hill in the Twin Peaks neighborhood right at sunset.

It was a beautiful view, but the climate was completely different than what we had experienced in the Haight and the Mission earlier that day. This is to say that it was windy as hell. Megan thought she was going to be blown back down into the city.

brett at 12:42 PM on March 24, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Bakersfield is a cool area of California. It’s farm country, and after we left the city, we spent an hour driving toward a mountain, through a mountain, then out of a mountain fog and down into the valley. There are large wind-power fans everywhere, covering the hills—back and front—practically pulling the clouds out of the sky. We had left the desert and entered California proper. I was tired but operating the car on a raw desire to complete our journey.

When we finally pulled into Monterey, exhaustion had set in. We stayed with a vegan couple and their 14-month-old son. They had agreed to put us up for a few days while we scoured the area for housing. When we turned the car onto a dark Casa Verde Way, I was dismayed and it was Megan who reminded me of my own words: “the people who offer their homes to strangers are good; there’s nothing to worry about. They want to help us. Let’s go.”

So out of the car we went and into their house. They cooked us enchiladas and kale. They made us coffee and Ronen, an Israeli, offered a post-dinner hand-rolled cigarette. They gave us our own room and told us that in the following days their home would be unlocked to us. As Lia, a dreadlocked Iowa City native said, “Consider this your home base.”

In the following days we walked the neighborhoods and drove the city in our car, still carrying the burden of our possessions—bikes, pots, pans and clothing. We wrote down countless phone numbers from apartment windows, local newspapers and university classified ads. It was exhausting. We paid for wireless Internet access at unfamiliar coffee shops and sat in confusion when our calls went unreturned and our prospects came up dry.

But then came Barbara: the landlord who kept a frog noisemaker on her porch and neglected to tell us that she lived in the same complex she would be showing to us. We sat for an hour on the front steps of the unit, thinking we had lost again. The sign in the yard read “For Rent, do not disturb tenants,” and so knock we did not.

Hours later—after a phone call and the revelation that it was indeed alright to knock—we had found an apartment.

She showed us a 460 square foot studio with high ceilings and furnishings to boot. There was a full kitchen, a garden all to ourselves, a private staircase, covered parking and two six-foot mirrored closets. Megan tested the toilet flush-power and I admired the balcony. It wasn’t perfect, but as Megan said, “We’ll make it home.”

And home it has become. I’m sitting at the kitchen table now, stealing wireless Internet from a nearby network—“Thai House”—and smelling food simmer on the stove. Our newly purchased plants sit next two the large, south-facing windows and with nag champa burning in an incense tray, it feels almost like Lincoln; we know, however, that it isn’t. It’s 65 degrees out and the ocean is a 5 minute walk away—but it’s not the Great Midwestern Winter we’re missing, it’s our friends and family.

brett at 09:13 PM on January 14, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Dear friends, family and fans: Megan and I have arrived more-or-less safely in Monterey, California, land where jade trees have become an invasive species, the Pacific Coast Highway is main street, and the barks of sea lions—not Nebraska train whistles—carry us softly to sleep.

In Denver we met Sarah K., who gave us tea, two comfortable couches, and a warm room with wireless Internet. We pulled into town just as snow began to fall on the Front Range: a heavy, wet snow that caught not only Megan, me and the Prelude, but thousands of other rush hour commuters as well. Nevertheless, we slipped and slid our way to Watercourse Foods. An order of vegan buffalo wings later, Sarah joined us for a Florentine tofu scramble, Monti Pasta and more. My only regret is that when we ate breakfast there in the morning (yes, we dined at the same restaurant twice in 24 hours) that I didn’t purchase neither a shirt nor a coffee mug. If you make it to Denver anytime soon, I’ll pay you for both.

Due to the storm we went south—a route that added a few hours and a few hundred miles to our journey. Interstate 70 was worse than closed, and though we selected I-25 as our detour, it wasn’t much better.

There was no snow, only melting water and a blazing sun in the southern sky. That, combined with a lack of wiper fluid found Megan and I near blind and splashing bottled water onto the windshield at 75 miles per hour. I’d like to try and describe the tension I felt during the two hours it took us to go sixty miles, but I can summarize by saying that I didn’t have a hard turd for three days. Harrowing, indeed.

I-25 took us south through New Mexico to I-40 and into Arizona. Our destination was Best Western Kings Place in Flagstaff.

Flagstaff is a railroad town. The sign posted in the hotel lobby informed us so, politely mentioning that not only would train horns wake us throughout the evening, but that the speeding engines would rattle our doors and windows. They weren’t lying, and I’m sure that if I lived there the charming history of the trains would fascinate me (the sign also said that railroad aficionados flock to Flagstaff for just that reason), but with 12 hours in the cockpit behind me, and another 12 ahead, I only wanted some shut eye.

That night we ate some vegan Thai food; the waitress informed us that for vegan breakfast we should head to Macy’s Coffee Shop. Sure enough, they were stocked with tofu danishes at sunrise, though they didn’t serve coffee: only Americanos. So with espresso in hand Megan and I descended what is surely one of the most beautiful stretches of interstate highway in the country. Taking I-40 west from Flagstaff leads directly into the Mojave, dropping some 10,000 feet in 40 or 50 miles. Goodbye ski-slopes, hello desert nothingness. We sat in awe through each turn.

Megan tackled the Mojave, and by the time we reached Barstow, California, our destination of Monterey was in sight—how could it be?—the Prelude had made it, we thought while knocking silently on wood. Soon we would meet Ronen, Lia, Jivan and Monterey Bay.

To be continued.

brett at 08:05 PM on January 14, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (0)

I spent the weekend in Oakland, Monterey and San Francisco. Thanks to my wonderful tour guide Darin, I was able to experience more of San Francisco in one day than I could have in a week by myself. He is truly a fountain of information about the Bay Area: he taught me about people like Chris Daly and the Tenderloin.

After arriving Thursday, I took my obnoxious rental car (2007 Dodge Durango) down to Monterey and spent the entire day in meetings at the Monterey Institute of International Studies. It's a really amazing place.

Friday night was house parties in Oakland, and on Saturday Darin took me into San Francisco and we spent the afternoon in and out of Golden Gate Park for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, where I was fortunate enough to see Nick Lowe play. The rest of the day found us on strange party buses, intoxicated at gatherings downtown, watching fireworks and eating vegan food everywhere!

Unfortunately, my camera battery died early on in the trip, so I really only got about a dozen dud photos. Though I thought it was fully charged, turns out something was awry--alas, this is not my final trip to the bay, which means that there will be more photos to take in the future.

brett at 10:06 AM on October 08, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Well, I had one insane weekend. There were ups and downs--most notably our vehicle breaking down, constantly--but overall I would say I had a smashing time in Ogallala and Denver, despite all of the stress.

The story is long, so I'm not going to tell it here. The short version is that Margaret, Megan and I had planned a trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, and it was cut short due to a faulty fuel pump. We stayed much longer than planned in Denver, and also Sterling, Colorado. Pictures from the journey are, as always, on Flickr.

brett at 12:53 PM on August 14, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

I found a few stray shots from our trip to Minnesota the other day. Nothing to awesome, just some nonsense from the car ride.

For some pictures from the actual show, check Jessica's blog. They are much more interesting than our bored snapshots taken along I-80.

brett at 02:47 PM on August 06, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

I've been obsessed with Lil Wayne for some time now, as should be apparent to all of my readers, and last week, Eric and I decided that with the man being named "Hottest Rapper Alive," and with his hype really starting to near critical mass, that we would indeed have to travel and see him perform. It's apparent to me that his career is nearing a crossover point, where he will go from playing smaller venues to performing on the arena circuit--because although he is famous, the fandom is only just now beginning to grow into a point of mania. Eric and I resolved to travel anywhere to see him perform before the chance escaped us; with last week's gun/drug arrest in New York City, his proclamation to never play the town again, and his rising status in pop-circles, we knew we had to act quickly.

But there were no shows coming up. Nothing listed for the entire year. We searched and searched and found nothing. That was Tuesday, and we figured that we had exhausted our resources, and missed some golden opportunities to see him. Wednesday morning, however, I awoke to an e-mail from Jessica: she had found a Lil Wayne show in Minnesota, at a club called Myth. There was a problem, though: it was starting at 9 p.m., that day. Eric and I didn't even have to ask one another what to do, we took two days of work off and drove to St. Paul. Ryan and Jessica did the same.

It was an intense drive. We took I-35 (yes, that I-35) the entire way, and no, we were nowhere near the bridge when it went down. We were at least an hour from it, and never actually crossed it into Minneapolis.

The show itself was phenomenal. Weezy really exceeded all of my expectations, performing for over an hour and providing a variety of his old hits, new singles, freestyles, and even some unreleased material. He also played guitar--yes, guitar.

After getting through some terrible opening acts, Eric, Ryan, Jessica and I were treated to a medley of songs by Memphis duo 8-Ball & MJG. Their set was something that Robin would have wanted to see: opening with the Three Six Mafia hit, "Stay High," following with "Relax and Take Notes" and then segueing into a series of songs from their classic album "Living Legends." It was a great way to heat the audience up for Lil Wayne, though he didn't actually hit the stage for at least another hour, as we were bored to tears by one more of Minnesota's local crappy hip-hop groups.

Weezy did eventually emerge, though. I was only a few rows from the stage, having shoved my way (or been shoved?) quite near since the show had started. The curtain was closed and the crowd--who by now, at 1 a.m., had been waiting for nearly 4 hours, was ready.

With the curtain still closed, the opening alarm from the Carter II

There were plenty of great moments in the show: from his drawn out, 8 minute performance of his newest Carter III single, "Prostitute Flange," to his seated guitar medley--we saw him sing, dance, rap and play some instruments. He performed such classics as "The Block is Hot" and "Dope Boy," while also managing to stick in some new material off Like Father Like Son when he performed both "You Ain't Know," and "Stuntin' Like My Daddy." He also did some Drought 3 material, giving the audience both "Sky is the Limit" and "Swizzy {Remix)."

Toward the end of his set, the automatically-identifiable sounds of "Stuntin' Like My Daddy" began to play, and Weezy spit both Birdman and his own verses in what would have been a wonderful close to the show; but he hadn't quite finished, despite the large amount of security standing around the stage, all insisting that there could be no more music (since it was now well past 2 a.m.). Weezy completely ignored them, and faced the crowd as his DJ played the first synthesizer bits of the DJ Khaled masterpiece, "We Takin' Over": he looked at the audience and smiled the same grin he had been wearing on his face all evening, then launched into a fantastic performance of what must be one of his best verses ever.

When "We Takin' Ova" finally ended, Weezy was on the stage, alone, surrounded by security. He paused and came front and center and told the crowd the following: "Three things: number one, I want to thank you. I want to thank all of you for your support, everyone who voted for me or defended me in whatever, thank you. Number two, I am nothing without you, I'm nothing without you." Weezy then stood silent for a moment, and as his DJ put the needle on Whitney Houston's classic record, "I Will Always Love You," he spread his arms in a Christlike manner and said, "Number three, I love you!" and dropped the microphone as security closed the curtains and dragged him offstage. It was one of the better finales I've ever seen, and truly seemed to represent the emotional connection he has with his fanbase. Perhaps that why he was smiling the entire night, yet you rarely see a photograph of doing anything other than a frowny-faced mean-mug.

The show really revealed Lil Wayne as a much different person than what the videos and interviews have shown: that is, he's not so hard or tough that he can't smile, and he's there for those who love him. He lives for this kind of stuff. He had no pretense because he was among his fans, those who admire him and appreciate his work, and there was no need for anymore cloaking or bravado: he could be himself, and perform.

His performance was amazing. He had more energy and life than I could have imagined, and he provided a bombastic delivery and acrobatic display of showmanship that was really worth all $48 ticket dollars. I had secretly worried that he might come out in a drugged haze, providing just a few songs, but on the contrary, he seemed sober, alert and there for one purpose only: to rap. Just great stuff.

I'm tired now, but I've seen my current musical idol, the Jimi Hendrix of rap music, do his thing on stage, in person. There's much more to say about the show, but if you really care to know, just ask me sometime, I'm sure I could talk for hours. The world isn't ready for Lil Wayne, and this show was exactly what I needed right now, when so much is going wrong in my life. A nice break.

brett at 10:27 AM on August 03, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

We're back from Okoboji. My Aunt Carol and Uncle Bill were kind enough to let us use one of their cabins in Spirit Lake, Iowa, and we enjoyed every sun-drenched minute of it. Definitely one of the better vacations I've ever taken.

We spent quite a bit of time paddle boating, drinking, jet skiing, hanging out on docks, swimming, reading, grilling, laying around in hammocks, shopping and sleeping in--but mostly we spent our time relaxing. Fantastic, fantastic, fantastic. Ryan, Megan and I were the only travelers, though Sam did come up for one day of fun at the "Great Lakes of Iowa."

brett at 09:05 AM on July 09, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Megan and I made it back, somehow! NYC was an adventure indeed. I'm not going to enumerate all of the highlights, but I will list a few things that were just fantastic.

First, Harlem was the only place I've ever been in my life (since having dreads) where people didn't stare at my hair as I walked down the street. In fact, it seemed like people couldn't have been less interested in me. Awesome. (And speaking of hair, NYC definitely had a dearth of dreadlocks compared to the west coast, where little nappy headed people were running rampant.)

I ate some of the best Japanese food (Udon and veggie sushi) that I've had since I lived in Tokyo. I rode in a limo. I heard Jim Jones' song "We Fly High" playing from a car window on 138th street in Harlem (I think this is probably comparable to the feeling one gets praying to Allah in Mecca). Ballin! I rode some subways, rode some cabs, ate Mexican and went to many bars. I listened to country music and rap. I met a barber named Fig. I met his pitbull named Tyson. I had one of those take-your-breath-away moments at the MoMA.

I also had some wonderful travel delays with Megan in O'Hare aiport. Blizzard and deicing and standby were the words of the day. I'm still surprised the two of us didn't kill one another. But now I'm home, and it's nice.

brett at 09:40 AM on February 26, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Just in case you missed it in my previous post, I have a plane ticket to New York. Like Claude McKay, I'll be headed "Home to Harlem."

This will be my first visit to New York City, and really, my first time ever traveling to the east coast, if you can believe that. It should be quite an adventure, especially considering I have some good friends to put me up. I guess this is me finally confronting my subconscious fear of New York. We shall see what happens.

brett at 09:58 AM on January 04, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Seeing the Pacific Ocean from the other side--finally--was a surprisingly profound experience that left me without even a semblance of my normal post-travel homesickness. "Ugh. I'm so ready to be back in Lincoln," was replaced with cockeyed contentedness, sandy toes and salty soaked dreadlocks that may have had their first sniff of a future home.

I was swinging at sunset on the shore; up and down and up again, when it really hit me that the ocean is where I belong--I've experienced it before, but not like this. Up and down and up and down and though there's more driving and less waliking and lots of things not really designed for me, it seems that there must be a little spot out here ready to accept me, a perfect little fit along the coast.

Those waves lapping at my little toes.

It would be nice.

brett at 09:55 AM on September 20, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0)

I leave for LA in a few days. Oh man.

brett at 09:13 AM on September 12, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Kevin just arrived back in Japan to teach English, and from his blog it appears that he's having a reaction very similar to the one I had when I first returned to the country:

i miss nebraska already and i want to come back. why did i leave nebraska? i am so miserable here. [Via]

I don't think this is a bad thing, but rather, a normal thing. Anyone who doesn't have this type of reaction to leaving a place they love didn't belong to be there in the first place. I've felt this way leaving Japan, but also going to Japan.I've felt it leaving Lincoln, but also coming home to Lincoln.

We build travel up in our minds to be one thing, but with so much distance and difference, we often forget how hard it can really be.

I remember, when I was first writing this blog years ago I mentioned something to the effect of hating international flight, because I always leave someone that I love on one side of the Pacific or the other.

brett at 08:17 AM on July 31, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

If I had to choose somewhere besides Tokyo or Lincoln to live, it would most certainly be Chicago, Illinois.

I was just up there for a wedding this weekend and ate more free food and drank more free alcohol than I have in a long, long time. Highlights include: a Puerto Rican salsa band, meeting a plethora of great people including Junito and Jessie, signing along to a Rage Against the Machine cover band in downtown Chicago with Adrian, having our hotel room upgraded to a suite, passing out on Ella's parent's couch half-naked and waking up with my headphones still on, and of course who could forget Adrian and I breaking the window of the hotel's exercise room at 5 a.m. (It was an accident. We were only trying to engineer a backway into the locked pool!!)

I probably should have taken a camera along, but I was lazy.

What a great town, full of great people. Cheers to Ella for inviting me along on such a stellar weekend.

brett at 01:12 PM on July 24, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Guess who's going to the Nebraska v. USC football game this fall?

That's right.

Perhaps I'll paint my entire body red, or some other such nonsense.

brett at 11:34 AM on June 05, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1)