Adventure #108: Natural Bridge, Virginia

I was making good time up through Virginia when the skies broke out into the first blue I've seen since I've been on the road. Immediately my brain filled with fantasies of finding a body of water to sit next to and read, now that my participation in Neal Stephenson's ode to the tedious experience of reading The Silmarillion also-known-as Anathem has transitioned from stubbornly reading it because I started it dammit to actually enjoying this 1,000 page math and physics textbook with a narrative and a few characters tacked on to give it some momentum. It's great. Everyone should read it. Then the sign: Natural Bridge! Cave Mountain Lake! I love all those things! The fantasy now involved checking out a cheap tourist trap before going off on an adventure in caves and then capping it off with an hour of book time. The little effete British voiced person in my head (we'll call him Reginald) cheered at the prospect of this new adventure! Hooray! Hoorah! We're having an adventure! This is Pen Pen rejoicing with Reginald.

Well, it turned out the cheap tourist trap wasn't so cheap, and seeing as that was easily the least important part of my adventure, I quickly adapted the plan: Cave Mountain Lake. First hike the Mountain to the Caves, then cap it off with some book and Lake time. So I pulled out of the Natural Bridge Gift Shop and Entrance parking lot and headed off. Hooray! Hoorah! We're having an adventure! Reginald announced. This is Pen Pen helpfully getting gas for the adventure.

The road took me through the kind of land my Brooklynite dust bowl fetishists sing about while decked out in suspenders, page boy caps and meticulously coiffed so-as-to-appear-unkempt facial hair. There were none of those things anywhere I could see. Mostly it was just a lot of stark economic disparity: pristine white houses lined with brick accents beside fields of horses high on elegant rolling hills while clutches of burned down and decaying houses jut out of wooded areas across the street. Trailer parks crowd around a fenced off dirt road. Confederate flags hang contradictorily next to slightly smaller American flags. The remains of farms stand next to open untended fields. Antique stores are everywhere and classic cars deck their lawns in varying states of repair. The church placards each remind us to keep Christ in Christmas through assorted wordplay. Older men sit out on the porches and wave as I pass by. As is usually the case, my overwhelming sense that I don't belong here is subdued by the sincere friendliness of strangers. My lizard brain says “look at those bumper stickers: these people are Trump supporters.” My lived experience says “Who cares? They're just people trying to make what they think are the right decisions for themselves and the people they care about. Besides, don't make generalizations. You're just as much a stereotype of the effete Northern Liberal...” Reginald says “Hooray! Hoorah! We're having an adventure!” This is Pen Pen two blocks from a trailer park.

I pass by the sign for the National Forest, which helpfully informs me it's closed for the season. No problem! I just need to find another way in! So I drive on for another half mile, at which point the road just ends. So I do what any mature, responsible adult who drives a 2004 PT Cruiser they can neither afford to repair nor replace would do: I turned left onto the unmarked dirt road and turned off my GPS. I'll find the damn caves and lake and mountain on my own thankyouverymuch. Reginald became overjoyed. This is Pen Pen certain this is a Very Good Idea.

2 miles of upward climbs and sharp switchbacks before the road stables off for a minute, and I find a small clearing with tire tracks and what looks like a trailhead running further up the mountain next to a small creek. Clearly, caves are that way. Hooray! Hoorah! We're having an adventure! It wouldn't occur to me until much later that the trail is headed in the exact opposite direction of the actual entrance to the Cave Mountain Lake. This is Pen Pen still certain this is a Very Good Idea.

After about 100 feet, the trail becomes a lot harder to follow. Dead trees block the path, eventually converging into a pile that can only have been left intentionally as a defacto “keep out” sign. Well, if they really wanted to keep me out, they'd have put an actual sign up. Climbing over the trees, I find the path is now completely obscured by brier bushes and dead trees. So screw it. I make a b-line for the ridge. Ominous low rumbling resounds through the forest, which if a lifetime of sound design has taught me anything, it's that it's usually a good sign. Bears don't sound like that, right? I realize that despite having spent the majority of my life doing sound design professionally, I have no idea what bears sound like. I should fix that. I look up: airplanes. Oh right. That's the sound airplanes make. Finally, I crest the hill and sit down to read. Life is good! Mission accomplished. That's when I hear wolves. I definitely know what those sound like. Hooray! Hoorah! We're having an adventure? This is Pen Pen discovering it's surprisingly hard to concentrate on dense metaphysical tomes when you're in the middle of nowhere with no cell service and can hear the sounds of wolves in the distance.

I make it back to the car; no caves, no lake, hardly any mountain and very little reading, but happy to have gotten to enjoy one last trek through nature before winter swallows me whole. Then following the impeccable logic that brought me to this point, I continue forward, assuming that no-one would make a road that doesn't lead somewhere else. As the road continues to climb upwards and I realize that the banks are too steep to attempt to turn around, Reginald is suddenly replaced by the robot from Lost In Space. Danger Will Robinson! My car whines on the dirt road, each bump shaking the tambourines in the back. I'm feeling very grateful that I finally got my suspension fixed. At the top of the hill, I see a truck. Oh good! Maybe they're park rangers or something. They can tell me where I am and how to get back. Then I see 3 more pickup trucks. Then I see guys in cammo with guns, while the radio mockingly plays “Another One Bites The Dust.” Et tu, Freddie? Forgive me for making a massive generalization about white Christian super-hetero dudes with guns, but that's the point at which I say screw it, pull up behind the first truck, pull a quick U-turn on this dirt road halfway up a goddamn mountain and bolt. As I pass my trailhead on the way back, I laugh thinking that for all the silent judgment I've passed on the Trump stickers and Confederate memorabilia I've seen, at least they're not the kind of dumbass Northern Liberal who thinks it's a good idea to drive a damn PT Cruiser with 223,000 miles on it up an unpaved mountain road with no way to call for help. This is Pen Pen conforming to every stereotype.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share with your friends.

Adventure #107: Casey, Illinois

Usually the less I'm updating anyone about my life, the more I'm doing. I guess that's true for everyone. So a year off the road hasn't been a year doing nothing. Though that probably would've been nice. It hasn't even been a year without adventures. Or a year without taking pictures of a certain stuffed penguin in strange places. It's just been a year of not having time to write about it. But all that's about to change. Probably. Not really. I'm intending for all of that to change maybe? Yeah, that's it. Here's a random picture of Pen Pen doing something this year that I never posted about.

Anyway, after a week of juggling writing in the morning, driving in the afternoon, performing in the evening, and drinking and catching up into the wee small hours every day, I holed up in a hotel in St. Louis for 2 days with every intention of getting caught up on work. (Or at the very least recording a scratch of this new song I wrote on the road.) Instead I watched Law & Order SVU for like 6 hours before my show. I have no regrets. This is Pen Pen having no regrets.

So semi-refreshed and still not at all caught up on work, I hit the road. After about an hour, I passed by a sign I've seen many times before and never had the time to investigate: “WORLD'S LARGEST WIND CHIME!” Now there's nothing in the world I love more—not music, not social justice, not Star Trek, not even penguins—than that little moment when someone decides that they need to seek fame and fortune by devoting themselves to a totally pointless pursuit. Something that benefits no-one in the grand scheme of things, but requires so much effort as to be utterly admirable for their gusto. And that, my friends, is why I'm now in love with Casey, Illinois. This is Pen Pen in the pointless forest.

I stood at the corner taking pictures, my mouth agape with joy. A woman walked up to me. “You're not from around here, huh?” I wondered whether my sparkly painted nails, my flower printed jeans, my mohawk, or my faux-fur lined women's jean jacket gave me away. Maybe it was the standing on a corner taking pictures of a stuffed penguin. I guess we'll never know. Though she never gave me her name (she never stopped talking long enough for us to properly introduce ourselves), she was now my official tour guide. “Over there? That's the world's largest mailbox. And around the corner up two blocks is the world's largest ruler. If you go up this street one block, you'll see the world's largest pencil. I've never seen it myself, but I know the world's largest knitting needle and crochet hook is in that yarn store on this block. They used to have these really big wooden shoes on display in front of the Town Hall, but I don't know what happened to it. Oh, what direction are you headed?” “East,” I said. “Oh perfect, the next town over has the world's largest horseshoe. You should check that out on your way out if you've got time. It's east of here, so you can just get on the highway there. And make sure you stop in the cafe before you leave town. They have postcards and other stuff there.” Postcards? I'm sold. This is Pen Pen not sure if they also have the world's largest stamps.

So after wandering around the downtown for 15 minutes or so and dutifully marveling at the wonderful collection of world's largest stuff on display, I headed to the cafe for some much needed coffee and to grab myself a souvenir of the experience. “Where you headed?” Asks the woman at the counter. My not-from-around-hereness not requiring any clarification this time. “Indiana,” I answer. “Well, you'll be there soon enough. Here's your coffee.” Message received. So I followed my guide's directions out of the town, stopping for a brief respite at the world's largest golf tee. This is Pen Pen hitting 2 under par.

I like to imagine future archaeologists and anthropologists trying to make sense of our society by the records and relics we leave behind. How many things will be fundamentally misunderstood and misinterpreted when most of our records are now only digital and the odds of digital information surviving thousands of years are incredibly small. Will they assume Casey, Illinois was home to a race of unusually large humans? Probably not. Will they extrapolate a specific religious belief from the Bible verses inscribed on some of the things? How many things have our archaeologists dug up and ascribed some major significance to, when the real reason our ancestors made it was because they thought it'd be cool? This is Pen Pen doing stuff for no reason other than because he thought it'd be cool.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share with your friends.

Adventure #106: Failing to Find The Tallest Point In North Dakota

I'd like to think I'm not stupid. I can be oblivious, clueless, and thoughtless, sure, but that's different than stupid. I hope. You'd tell me, right? Of course you would. Nonetheless, there I was within a mile or so of the tallest point in North Dakota and totally unable to find it. This is Pen Pen, not at the tallest point in North Dakota.

A day off on tour is less like a day off, and more a day to do all the work I haven't had time to do between the hours of driving and performing. But I try to squeeze a few hours in for adventuring. I reason out that if I get an early start, and make up half the 700 miles from Aberdeen, SD and Bozeman, MT, and if don't stop for too much random roadside attraction distractions (or food), I'll have about 3 or 4 hours to do some hiking. And there, right in the middle is the tallest point in North Dakota. White Butte. Perfect. So I make it to Bowman, where there seem to be a handful of inexpensive hotels, and follow the handy directions to White Butte. This is Pen Pen, following the instructions.

I get to the farm where the trail to White Butte is located. There's a little sign and a dirt road through a bunch of corn fields. It's drizzling a bit, and the road is kind of wet. But it doesn't really occur to me why this might be a problem until the first time my car gets stuck in the mud. I'm starting to doubt that you'd really tell me if I were stupid. PT Cruisers aren't exactly known for their torque. Or their durability. Or their design. Well, not in a positive way, anyway. Nevertheless, I soldier on through 3 more mud puddles until the Road. Just. Stops. OK, I think, this must be the trailhead. I'm in a field. Visibility's low from the cloud cover, but it's the tallest damn mountain in North Dakota. I should be able to see it from where I'm standing. Nope. Nothing. Well maybe there's a sign? Nope. No sign. Well, there is one sign. This is Pen Pen and the sign.

I get out of the car and wander for a bit, looking for anything resembling a trail. I had read online that there was a little donation box for the trail, and that the owners of the land request a $5 donation for using it. No box. No trail. No mountain. I prepare a long rant in my head about how messed up it is that the tallest mountain in North Dakota is on someone's private property. You shouldn't be able to own entire mountains, is all I'm saying. It occurs to me that I have the GPS co-ordinates for the mountain saved, so maybe I should just follow those? Then it occurs to me that I'm in North Dakota. I have no cell phone reception, and haven't really had any for a few days. It's drizzling on and off. The radio said thunder showers were likely later in the evening. I have well documented lung problems. No-one knows I'm here. The part of me that loves a good adventure advocates just giving it a shot. The part of me that sort of a little bit wants to be alive argued in favor of giving up. So I did what any mature adult who had lived most of their lives in urban environments would do, and roasted an ear of corn on my engine block while wandering around taking pictures of my stuffed penguin. This is Pen Pen and the best damn corn he's ever tasted.

This is Pen Pen and still not the tallest point in North Dakota.

Well. Today is a bust, I think to myself. It's about to rain. I've failed at hiking. There are three options available to me, as far as I see it. 1. I continue on the road to Bozeman, and maybe get a bit of free time the next day to go hiking in the Rockies. 2. I find a coffee shop and get some of the work done that I really should be doing right now, and then figure things out from there. 3. I find another damn mountain. Guess which one I picked? This is Pen Pen and another damn mountain.

As I pull into the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, the sky clears suddenly as if nature itself is telling me I made the right choice. The prairie dogs greet me as I make my way to a trailhead, as if to say “that's right, Nathan, screw White Butte. Teddy R's National Park is where it's at.” Or maybe “who is that large primate with the tiny stuffed bird and why does he keep trying to put it next to me while looking through a tiny black box?” This is Pen Pen waiting for his new friends to come out and play.

At this point, I'd like to remind you that only 9 days prior I had been in so much pain from pleurisy that I was seriously contemplating canceling the entire tour. 2 weeks ago I'd taken Jack for a walk around the block that left me in agony. Now I'm walking straight for a range of plateaus about 4,000 feet above sea level. This is Pen Pen discovering the spirit.

The trail was indescribably beautiful. The dirt ranged from red, to white, to blue. It was all very patriotic, or whatever. As I crested the first hill, I was tired, this having been the most physical thing I've done since getting sick at the end of May, but not out of breath. This is Pen Pen ruining an otherwise beautiful vista.

And then I lose the trail. OK. Really, I wanted to get to the top of one of the peaks to get a good panoramic view of the park, and wandered off the trail. This is Pen Pen and it being totally worth it.

I'd promised myself wherever I was at 3:30, I'd turn around and head back so as not to overtax myself. But that's not so easy when you have no idea where you are or where the trail is. It occurs to me that I'm headed west. There are mountains to the north, and a river further west. My car is to the south east. So all I have to do is go south to the road, and then head back east to my car. This is easier to do when there aren't very large hills in your way. After half an hour of turning left as often as possible, I see it: my car. This is Pen Pen, literally the happiest anyone has ever been to see a PT Cruiser.

My Converse Chucks caked in a rainbow of mud and grass, I make it back through the prairie full of annoyed prairie dogs, and set about finding a place to stay. After calling 20 hotels within a 45 mile radius of the park, I find one with a single room. I make it to the hotel, my lungs finally catching up to me and giving me hell. I'm sore, and exhausted. It's been 5 days since the last time I needed any pain medication. Maybe next time I'll make it 7. I have no regrets. I lie down in a hotel bed, and watch a marathon of Fresh Prince re-runs while finally catching up on the work I've been avoiding all day. I wonder if anyone else grew up identifying with Carlton. I wonder if this is going to set me back again. But in the morning, my lungs feel fine. All is forgiven. I set back on the road to Bozeman with a brief sojourn in my park. Next year, I'll give myself a full day. Next year, I'll bring a tent. Next year, I won't have to bring any pain medication. This is Pen Pen playing hide and seek in a rock (he's bad at hide and seek).

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.

Adventure #105: Looking for Four Leaf Clovers In Wisconsin

I pulled into Kenosha with a few hours to spare. The first few shows had been pretty solid, but I was in dire need of some down time. I found myself a green space to sit down and engage in my favorite vice: reading pulp sci-fi. I walk through the park in search of a tree, ideally next to some picturesque body of water, maybe a Bodhi tree? I could use some enlightenment. Do they have Bodhi trees in Wisconsin? I found myself in a field of clovers in the woods. It became inexplicably necessary to find myself a four leaf clover. I'm not a superstitious person, I just like symbols. This is Pen Pen and a knight of the merch table.

The problem with being dyslexic (in addition to giggling every time I pass Scotrun, PA) is that I can't just eyeball the clovers. I have to count them. So I stand out in the middle of this field, slowly counting each and every clover. Time becomes irrelevant. Only clovers. There are so many clovers. As people pass by, I become a little self-conscious about standing still in the middle of a field staring intently at the ground. But I'm not deterred. I'm on a quest. Two bros diverged in a yellow wood, and I just kept staring at the ground counting the leaves on the clovers. This is Pen Pen fixing the broken serpentine belt.

After an hour, I start to wonder if this is the dumbest possible use of my time. Where I had previously been so absorbed in my quest that I lost all trace of time, now I'm conscious of every second that passes. I should probably stop. I'm not stopping. I'll stop when I get to that big oak tree. I get to the big oak tree. I'm still counting.

Gradually, I start to doubt whether four leaf clovers even exist. What could be the percentage of clovers with four leaves? One in a million? I've easily looked at a million clovers by now. I have actual work I'm supposed to be doing right now. I'll do it tomorrow. Clovers. Maybe it's a metaphor? Maybe luck is a metaphor? No that's sort of a stupid metaphor. Though it is impressive how consistent the clovers are across millions of iterations. Maybe they only exist in Ireland, not in Wisconsin. I'm not even Irish. Why does this matter? Wasn't I just looking for a nice tree to read under?

Then my thoughts turn conspiratorial. Maybe they do exist, but the park employs kids to pick them and sell them. I imagine some teenager scanning the ground intently, but not in search of enlightenment or whatever. He's just trying to get his ten bucks an hour to have enough money to give his older brother in exchange for a six pack of mediocre beer. It's late in the season. Maybe there were four leaf clovers all over the pace a few weeks ago, and now there are none. Is there prime four leaf clover picking season? Have I just wasted an hour and a half of my life? I've wasted more time on dumber things. Maybe I'm just not good at counting to four. All of these questions circle around as I find my tree and sit for a bit with Isaac Asimov presents: yet another story in which a chosen boy discovers that he's actually predestined to save the galaxy and then gets the girl. This is the penguin with a thousand faces.

I make good time the next day on my way to St. Paul. I hole up in a coffee shop in Western Wisconsin to write for a bit. That house in Plymouth ain't gonna buy itself. Then set off in search of a spot to sit and read. I have to find out if the generic hero saves the galaxy! (He does.) As I walk down a trail towards a tree-lined river, I hear music. It's good. Folky. I can't make out the lyrics well, but I hear the word “Zapatista.” I follow the sound to a trio of bearded guys fishing. “Is this your music?” I ask, judging a book by its cover. “Yeah.” I end up talking music, politics, the environment, anarchism, religion, and other things that are vastly more important than clovers with one of the guys for a while. As we say our goodbyes, I pass by some anarchist graffiti. I'd credit my new friend if it weren't for the upside down cross, and his professed Deism. This is Pen Pen smashing the system or whatever.

Then: more clovers. Everywhere. The path is covered in them. I. Count. Each. One. Three leaves. Three leaves. Three leaves. No luck. There's another type of leafy green plant that has four leaves. Does that count? No. I spy a patch of poison ivy intermingled with clovers. Should I bother counting those ones? If I get poison ivy from picking a four leaf clover does that cancel out? Or is it more like a challenge before you get the Grail or whatever? Have I been reading too much chosen one in search of a sacred artifact fiction? The answer to those, and other questions are irrelevant because I didn't find one. I sit out by the river and read until I hear the first clap of thunder. That's my cue. (Isn't it always...) I pass by one of my new friends on the way out and say goodbye again.

So I didn't find a four leaf clover. I didn't find a Bodhi tree. I found neither luck nor enlightenment. But I found people. I'm realizing why I'm here. We're all so afraid and disconnected. Most of us are kind and generous. Most of us want the world to be better. Most of us know it can be. But we feel alone and helpless. Looking for clovers for hours is a waste of time. Talking to people for hours isn't. I want to do something that leaves this world a better place than I found it. I want to put in more than I take out. I want to break the laws of entropy, and any other laws I can think of. I want to let people know that everyone feels just as alone and afraid as they do. That we're all hopeless and frustrated. And that's OK. Because maybe if everyone realizes they're not alone, we won't be so hopeless. I don't know if this is direct action. I don't know if this is the best possible use of my time. But unlike looking for four leaf clovers in Wisconsin, it feels like I'm accomplishing something. I just don't know what yet. This is Pen Pen, over and over.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.

Adventure #103: Existential Angst

It was a little under 4 years ago that I sat in the back of a darkened theatre setting up mics for a less-than-impressive musical revue and thought “why aren't I performing? Didn't I always say I was going to be a performer?” That night I started booking my first tour. I had no contacts, and no idea what I was doing. I accidentally booked a 14 hour drive between venues at one point. I not-so-accidentally booked more than one 10 hour drive. Despite having played in bands and recording solo albums since I was 15, I had only actually performed solo a handful of times. I was terrified and clueless.

“When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy. In the company of strangers, in the quiet of the railway station running scared.”

I doubt most 26 year olds think of themselves as children, but in hindsight, that's what I was. I knew nothing. I hadn't experienced much in life. Certainly not much bad. I had never heard the terms “pneumothorax” or “bleb.” I had no idea of the dozens of little time bombs waiting in my chest for a little physical stress or the comforting embrace of the NYPD to go off. I also had no idea how much a 2 week trip around the Midwest might change my life. When I left, I was a Sound Designer who played music and wrote sometimes. When I came back, I was a Musician and a Writer who did sound design to sustain himself and for fun sometimes. The designation was important.

I had just spent 5 years of my life going all in on an identity. I worked on some 200 plays. I ratcheted up residencies. At one point, I designed the sound for every single play in the BCA Plaza space for a year in addition to a majority in their other spaces. I'd worked Off Broadway and in major regional theatres. For a 26 year old, I was about as successful as one could be as a theatre designer. But I wasn't happy. I was stressed and anxious. I was tired and frustrated. I had invested all my time and energy on a career that had never been my goal. It just sort of fell into place. I had never really had it in me to give being a musician and a writer a go.

It took me 2 years to figure out how to perform. To figure out how to let an apathetic crowd roll off your back, and how to put your entire heart and soul into every note, even when you've sung them more times than you can count. It took me another 2 years to figure out how to book and plan a tour. And that's not to say I'm an expert at any of those things. Just that I'm less terrified and clueless than I was. It's fitting though that the only two songs from that era that I still play are “Let's Get Lost” and “The Glamorous Life.” One is longing for adventure, the other is bemoaning all the bullshit that comes with it and wishing for a decent night's sleep. Those twin poles of wanderlust and stability continue to be the forces that draw and quarter me.

It's fitting also that I began that first tour with all my possessions in a storage locker and no real sense of what would happen next when I got back. 4 years later, and still in a moment of indecision, the best thing I can think to do is go look for answers on the Eisenhower Interstate System.

This is Pen Pen going somewhere he probably shouldn't to see what's on the other side.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.

Adventure #102: Lexington, Kentucky

He was an older man, impeccably and fashionably dressed (except for the sandals) with two bags and a sign that just said "OHIO." My trip to Kentucky had been, at best, a waste of time. I was headed back to Ohio anyway. The least I could do was take him with me. "Anywhere in Ohio?" I asked. "Anywhere." "Is Cincinnati OK?" "That's perfect." He got in the car.

Here are the things I can be reasonably sure are true that Star told me:

1. He had hitchhiked from California to Lexington, Kentucky in about 5 days.
2. He was a disabled Vietnam vet with a gnarly foot injury.
3. He was well-read about history and knew a lot of obscure facts about the Founding Fathers.
4. He once had a dog named Awesomest, but doesn't anymore.
5. He's sixty years old.
6. He's part British and park Cherokee and maybe descended from a Mayflower passenger.
7. Obama doesn't know who he is.

Here are the things that Star told me that are probably not true:

1. He's never consummated his marriage to his wife of 4 years, and she told him that if he hitchhiked to Ohio, she would fly out to meet him, and they would be married at her parent's house in Dayton in front of a Rabbi.
2. His wife is a model who actually owns QVC and is one of the richest people in the world.
3. His wife is going to let him on QVC to spread his message of peace and love.
4. His wife bought him a 75 foot yacht that is currently anchored off both Martha's Vineyard and the San Francisco Bay.
5. He once gave away $15,000 in $100 bills at a Walmart in California around Christmas.
6. His wife is descended directly from Mary Magdalene and is a shipping magnate because Jesus told her ancestor to go into import / export before he was crucified.
7. His wife has a long-term girlfriend named Tracy, but he doesn't care because he loves her.
8. His wife is buying him a new dog which he will name “Awesomest Two,” but call just “Two.”
9. He and his wife will buy all the world's debt in order to force all the world governments to declare world peace, at which point Obama will finally have to publicly recognize him.
10. You shouldn't call someone a “Jew,” they prefer to be called “Hebrews.”

I want his whole story to be true (except the Jew bit. I bristled every time he insisted on calling us Hebrews...). I want to believe that after I dropped Star off at a truck stop north of Cincinnati, he called up his wife, who was waiting patiently at the airport. She took a cab like she promised and met him. And they lived happily ever, after enforcing world peace by controlling all world debt. But mostly I just hope he finds someone to take him back to California.

This is Pen Pen and a random castle in the middle of Lexington, Kentucky because why not?

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.

Adventure #101: Philadelphia, PA and Wilmington, DE

I'm continually amazed by the transformative powers of music. I can spend an entire morning driving in a terminally pissy mood; tired, sore, frustrated, homesick, and then suddenly a radio station in West Virginia plays Living Colour's “Cult of Personality.” By the end of the intro I'm a person again. By the end of the first verse I'm singing along at top volume. By the end of the first chorus I'm re-energized and invincible. This is Pen Pen, future cult of personality.

I was undecided about Philly at first. The last show I'd played there was disappointing at best. Plus I lost a mic stand at it. Bah! Driving around in search of a coffee shop to finish some work, I ended up on a street so covered with cherry blossoms that it was slippery. Philly's not so bad. The show that night was actually pretty solid. It was a small crowd, but warm. Everyone there was participating, shouting out random covers, singing along. Interrupting my rambling stories with their own. Though many of us were strangers at the beginning of the night, the power of a Tom Petty singalong and a poorly executed impromptu Queen cover transformed us into friends. Fun fact: Queen sounds dumb on an acoustic guitar. Todd from the Susan Drangle House showed up. In all my years of touring, exactly twice has someone I've approached about a show said “we can't do it, but let me know if you get a show and I'll come check it out and you can crash with us!” It was seriously humbling. Maybe it doesn't sound like much to people who don't tour a lot, but it meant a lot to me. This is Pen Pen warming up to this whole Philadelphia thing.

Delaware, on the other hand, I had no preconceptions about. I've never gotten out of my car in Delaware. Sure I've driven through a bunch of times, but always on the way to somewhere else. It turns out Delaware is pretty great—or at least Wilmington is. I ended up talking to a store owner for almost an hour (his son discovered Norah Jones, apparently!) before one of the other patrons started telling me all the places I should play next time I'm in town. When I got to Mojo13 it was totally empty. “I'm the featured artist tonight. I was told to show up around 7:30.” I explained to blank stares. By 9, a few folks had started to trickle in. By the time the music started, this group of strangers and acquaintances had become friends. I finished my set backed up on congas by a bassist who had snubbed me earlier in the evening and against whom I had nursed a foolish but short-lived grudge. I don't really understand how playing music together can turn people into friends without a single word passing between them. I don't understand how the right song coming on the radio at the right time can transform you from a cranky tortoise into a real live human person. And I guess I hope I never do. Magic tricks are diminished when you know their secrets. The world needs all the magic it can get. This is Pen Pen crossing the Delaware.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.