My first official post as a nomad on the road. No real home, just a general direction. Last night I slept in my birthplace of California. Tonight, I sleep under Idaho's portion of the vast American sky.
As I begin crossing this groaning continent for the second time, I can't help but feel like Jack Kerouac and I would be best friends. Not just because I was born in San Francisco and we have a Jack Kerouac Alley a few blocks from the Beat Museum, but because I understand. I understand that by trying to fit our immeasurable souls into these limited lives we are all "beaten down and beatific."
I noticed that this blog has gotten a little too serious. So, to mirror my intro post, I will end this thought with Julia Roberts. A few of you have asked me why I hate Julia Roberts. Why do you hate her so, Erick? Let the record show that I do not hate Julia Roberts. I was being facetious. I loved her in Erin Brockovich. I would marry Julia-Erin in a heartbeat. Julia-Erin and I would have incredibly good-looking hapa babies while we saved the world, fighting one greedy utility company at a time.
