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In Tulsa The house I'm staying in in Tulsa is in the Brady Heights district. The coffee shop I'm sitting in (whose delicious breakfast burrito was not nearly big enough and I really want to order another) is in the Brady Arts District downtown. And I didn't know anything about Tulsa but it turns out that Brady was a giant fucking asshole, a racist who eventually shot himself in the head after his son died in a car accident. After that, the desirable Brady Heights residential district fell into disrepair, the huge fancy old houses turned into huge decrepit old houses, and the city voted to name a street Brady but after a different Brady who wasn't such a jerk. Then along comes the present day and people are starting to fix up the huge old Brady Heights houses, turning the neighborhood into a mix of shitty and nice. New paint and designer landscaping, peeling paint and sagging porches. But all steadfast, along a calm old tree-lined street. The effect is somewhat creepy, or maybe it was just that I arrived alone at 10:30 at night, or maybe it's just that some of the houses are decorated for Halloween. Or maybe it's just that when I was in bed alone in some strange empty house I was reading about some old racist asshole who committed suicide many decades ago. The air conditioner next to me made strange noises all night. I slept fitfully. Tulsa is humid, or humider than I'm used to. This americano is... funny. There is old concrete everywhere. My rental car is a Yaris, 2014. I should go find a grocery store. Route 66 marathon. I mean, despite having a "founding father" who seems to have been a bit of a dick, Tulsa seems cool.
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