Adventure #99: Jackson, MI

The big problem with Superman as a character is that he's basically perfect. The only way to create any dramatic tension whatsoever is to incapacitate him in some way; hence the proliferation of every possible kind of Kryptonite magically showing up all the time on Earth, despite the general improbability of any showing up here due to the size of the universe, let alone so many chunks. I like a fair fight. Maybe that's why I'm such a sucker for those places where the constant battle between humanity and nature actually feels matched. Abandoned buildings are the manifestation of nature coming up from behind. Bridges and tunnels those places where we've conquered nature but only just barely. One massive storm and nature could still win this one. So after a few days in the ruins of former industrial centers, I needed a little nature. This is Mario and a bridge (not pictured: Birdo.)

About 20 minutes south of Flint, maybe an hour east of Jackson, I came across a state park. Trees. Lakes. Hiking. This would probably be my last chance to experience nature until the spring (or at least until I tour the South again...). This is Mario taking only pictures, leaving only footprints, and the discarded turtle shells of a million Koopas (truly, Mario is history's greatest monster.)

It was overcast as all hell, and a little chilly (still no jacket), but the 2 hour hike around the lake did my soul (and probably lungs) good. I sat for a minute on the edge of the lake reading William Gibson; maybe the least pastoral possible reading choice, but whatever; books don't just grow on trees. The paper does. But. Then industry happens. Anyway. By the time I got to Bird Alley, it was dark. Anthony and I sat around watching terrible 80's movies on VHS while we waited for the other acts to show up. Foragers for the discarded remains of our own culture. Are we America's termites or it's vultures? This is Mario and the last display of breathtaking natural beauty for a little while.

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

Adventure #98: Detroit, MI

In the 2 months since I last visited Detroit, a book has started to take shape in my brain. A collection of interviews, old articles, photos, song lyrics, and letters documenting the stories from the neighborhoods that are vanishing. Primary sources presented with little commentary. Detroit is in a period of change. What it's changing into is up to debate, but as the warehouses and factories and houses continue to be razed one by one, the history of it's neighborhoods threaten to be buried over in grass themselves. This is Mario posing for a very sad, yet optimistic postcard.

I headed out from Justin's a little later than I'd hoped. Drinking till 4 am will do that to you. Who knew? I went down to the neighborhood on the east side that I'd explored last time. 2 short months had already taken their toll. One of the houses I'd come across—an experiment in off-the-grid sustainable living it seemed—had it's garden overgrown; it's rain collection cisterns gone. Was this a failed experiment or merely preparation for the winter? This is Mario and the ravages of time and neglect.

The air felt like winter had come early as I wandered around. A woman came up to me. “I'm 5 months pregnant, and just need to get something to eat. Do you have a dollar?” “Sure,” I said. “Can I interview you in exchange for 5?” We talked for a few minutes. I realized that if this is really for a book, I'm going to need legal releases and all that stuff. But I was utterly unprepared for the look of gratitude at being asked to tell her story. As she talked, her face lit up. She was talking about her friends and relatives that had died in fires—started by Detroit police, she said—but she was beaming. I'm realizing I have a lot of prep work to do to make this book happen, but I'm also realizing that it might be more necessary for the interview subjects than it is for me. It's going to be a huge undertaking, and probably will take a year or more, but it's something that I think I have to do. This is Mario and the future of dentistry.

Around 5:30 the sun was starting to set, and it was getting a little too cold to wander around without a jacket. I still don't have a jacket. Don't judge me. As I got in my car to head up to Saginaw, I got a text from Alex. “You still in the D?” I turned around and headed over her house for tea and catching up. “Detroit is the Wild West,” she said. “Anything is possible.” She had just moved back home a few weeks ago from Brooklyn and is determined to be a part of the rebirth of Detroit. Before I hit the road, she loaded me up with a bounty of home made kettle corn and Vernor's ginger ale, which is apparently the Moxie of Detroit. This is Mario feasting on the best Detroit has to offer (other than Alex's hot sauce, of course.)

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

Adventure #97: Wyandotte, MI

A few years ago I called Rosy from the road. In a manifestation of her permanent state of exasperation with me, she declared “I just don't know how to talk to you when you're on tour. It's always either the best night of your life or the worst and I don't know how to talk to you.” And I had no response, because it's true. Driving 6 hours, singing your heart out for an hour, (not to mention the hours of booking, planning, and promoting that go into every single show) and then being greeted with stunning indifference is devastating. But then the opposite-doing all that and seeing people sing along with your songs; connecting on a very real and personal level-there is nothing better. Those are the nights like last night in Wyandotte that remind you why you do this at all. This is Mario doing this at all.

As I stepped up to the mic, The Rockery was suddenly swarmed with a gaggle of ska kids (specifically of the CBJ variety) and I couldn't have been happier. It's funny how after only playing one show together this summer, I've come to consider Mike and Mark and the gang good friends. But this is a world that breeds fast friendships and faster rivalries, I suppose. Then an hour talking with Marc Blur about the different varieties of anarchism and revolutionary politics, interspersed with memories of what Detroit used to be. Then what seemed like an hour, but turned out to be 3 talking art and sincerity with Justin, the manager of the Rockery, and Jon-Mikal of The Idiot Kids. It was a conversation that I think all three of us needed pretty badly. This is Mario talking realness with noted 80's video game icon, E.T.

Touring can be a lot of things to a lot of people. I guess to most it's a way to become successful. But as I continue to get older and continually redefine “success,” the pretensions of being a famous musician have faded away leaving only the joy of being able to share my art with people who wouldn't have otherwise heard it, excitement for adventure, and gratitude for the unexpected and unexpectedly meaningful conversations at 4 AM; long after the bar has closed. As long as I can continue to do that, I will continue to be the most successful damn musician on the planet. This is Mario defining success by having all the pickles in the world!

This is Jawbreaker's tour song because it sums up all the contradictions about as well as anything.

Adventure #96: Rochester, NY

About 30 minutes out of Brooklyn I started going through my mental checklist. Guitars? Check. Newly pressed copies of A Life In Transit? Check. A vintage suitcase full of anti-capitalist zines? Check. Jacket? Uh. Well it's been unseasonably warm. I'll be OK without a jacket. Sleeping bag? Check. Multiple kinds of pickles? Check. Pen Pen? Oh crap. Maybe I should turn around. The jacket was one thing. But going on tour without my travel penguin? We're doomed. But never one to be discouraged by the slings and arrows of outrageous forgetfulness, I remembered that among the many totems of my perpetual travel is a tiny stuffed Mario. I don't remember where he came from. Only that he's been in my backpack at least since January 2008. This is Mario being selected for this journey.

I got to the Meddlesome Lab about an hour after Seth asked me to show up, but the opening act hadn't gotten there yet either, so everything was fine. We are not responsible adults. None of us. In fitting with the game of “One Degree of Greg McKillop” that is my life, Maya, who was doing merch for Wood Spider plays in Speaker for the Dead. Because obviously. It would honestly be weirder if there wasn't someone at the show who didn't play in Speaker. This is Mario and a Gnome who may or may not play in Speaker for the Dead.

The show was a pretty great start to this final leg of my tour. I've been coming to Rochester periodically because there's been this legend of the Great Rochester House Shows. I've never actually experienced one. Usually it's been Mediocre But Well-Intentioned Bug Jar Shows. Seth kept apologizing “usually there's more like 50 people at these things...” I don't know where you'd fit them. Everyone fit that rare spot in the Venn Diagram of both being great musicians and great people, and the reality is as I begin this final stretch of shows before I cross the boundary of Don't Trust Anyone Over 30, it was incredibly encouraging to perform with artists older than me who are still touring, still playing and organizing DIY shows, still staying true to their ideals. Maybe growing up punk is possible. And then, immediately after performing, I got the text from my dad: my sister went into labor, and I have a new niece. Life can be pretty great sometimes. This is Mario with teeth.

This is the theme music to Mario 2. It's 10 hours long and seemed like the appropriate choice.

Adventure #95: Richmond, VA and Johnson City, TN

Part of me had hoped that the government shutdown might at least make it so there'd be no traffic getting through DC. That part of me was wrong. Very very wrong. Late again to the first show of the tour! Thanks, Obama... But the show ended up being pretty fun. Jamie came out, as did a bunch of the owner's friends. It turns out they all work for the federal government and were furloughed. This shouldn't surprise me, as my life is a swirling vortex of coincidence. Here's Pen Pen and one of my good friends' CDs just happening to be on the TV of the collective I stayed at, despite him having never been there, coincidentally.

Wednesday, I made good time at first through the Blue Ridge Mountains. I didn't need to be at Acoustic Coffee until 7pm, really. I had tons of time! So I pulled off the highway following the siren song of signs for a national park. Part of me (the part that was driving) wasn't thinking at all about anything in the previous paragraph that might lead me to believe this was a pointless endeavor. It was a pointless endeavor. This is Pen Pen and futility.

I'd burned an hour in pursuit of happiness, but still: TONS OF TIME! The federal government may be shutdown, there may be a battle over whether having access to healthcare and thus remaining alive is a right or a privilege, but at least I'll get to see my friends in Johnson City! I took a detour through the Blue Ridge Highway. Stopping in the unfortunately named town of Vesuvius, I walked into a Gertie's Country Store. Unsurprisingly, the conversation hovered around the Government Shutdown. “Someone ought to start a revolution!” The woman I presume was Gertie said. “Funny thing about that...” I said. She gave me her contact info and told me to let her know when we march on Washington. She said she didn't care if it was right or left, she'd be there. My kind of person. This is Pen Pen and the preposterous beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

But then: traffic. (Thanks again, Obama...I'm not sure how this one is your fault. But Ted Cruz knows...) 2 hours of not moving. Finally liberated from the traffic, I made it to the Coffeehouse 45 minutes late, and more than a little cranky. But as is often the case, the general air of comeradery and warmth of Johnson City made it impossible to be cranky for too long. The band after me, There Is No Mountain were incredibly nice, and it turns out lived in Boston for a while. I tire of coincidences. (No I don't.) Then, halfway through my set: Karla. In the middle of a song I looked out the window to see a tuft of bobbing blond curls and a mandolin case walking up. She walked right on stage and jumped in the middle of the stage. Sheer musical joy. There could have been 10 people or 10,000 people watching at that point. I really didn't care. We stayed up late catching up. While I told her about Marisa “Black Bird” came on. Because obviously the first song I played for her when we were 14 would haunt me thus. I'll never tire of coincidences. This is Pen Pen hopping a train out of Johnson City, but anxious to come back.

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

Adventure #94: Indianapolis, Indiana

Here are some things that happened:

1. I drove to Indianapolis
2. Crystal Wolf gave me a new hat
3. I got to play another show with The Michael Character
4. Jackfruit became a verb
5. All my friends jumped on stage with me to sing my last 2 songs and it was amazing
6. This guy Cory (who I'd never met before) and I dyed each others' mohawks blue.
7. I finally made good on my threat to get a Piradical tattoo (thanks Andrew)

Here are some things that didn't happen:

1. Nothing. Everything is happening all the time according to String Theory.

This is Pen Pen with a new hat.

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

Adventure #93: Springfield, MO

Here's a fun(ish) fact: for a good chunk of the route from Springfield, MO to St. Louis, MO I-44 is both the site of old Route 66 and the Trail of Tears. As a fan of diners, vintage cars, and unusual roadside attractions, I'm obviously in favor of Route 66. As a person who is generally opposed to racism, genocide, and forced relocation, I'm not really down with the Trail of Tears. But these are both parts of American history that have had profound impact on our national identity, and for better and for worse we can't have one without the other. For a few hundred miles occupying the same space are the relics of one of the best periods of American history and one of the worst. It's understandable that most places along I-44 want to engage with the positive. Our ancestors did some really really fucked up things and we've done nothing to fix it in the 150 years since. So we celebrate those hundred miles with nostalgia and kitsch, but feel obligated to put up a little plaque demarcating the site of atrocity. Please note the font sizes. This is Pen Pen and some serious tonal confusion.

What's a local history museum to do? I had been driving for 4 hours and the gas gauge wouldn't shut up. A general lack of interest in running out of gas brought me to Springfield, MO around lunchtime with a few hours to spare. I found myself in a cute downtown area. A beautiful square surrounded on all sides by bars, music venues, and coffee shops. And of course, the Springfield History Museum. (The statue of Jebediah Springfield was conspicuously missing. I assume it was off getting the head re-attached.) It was the kind of park that were I the sort of person to occupy public space as a means of political protest I'd pitch all sorts of tents in. This is Pen Pen totally not planning anything.

The history museum hits the same jarring tone as the highway. 6 rooms devoted to lovingly recreating the hotels, diners, and service stations of 1930's – 1950's Springfield. The most mundane details preserved for posterity. This rusted oil can was in use in 1936! This is a genuine tray from a local diner! This bed was once slept in by President Taft's nephew's wife's 2^nd cousin! And then on the other side of the museum (away from everything else on the other side. In parentheses. Quotated...) was a single room devoted to both slavery and the Trail of Tears. Way to be economical about space guys! This is Pen Pen trying in vain to order a veggie burger... (ugh fine, do you just have a black bean burger then? What do you mean you don't have avocado??!)

And I don't blame them for wanting to tout all the great things about Springfield while diminishing the negative. Local history museums often act as town propaganda. They're not there for locals to engage with their history, so much as they are for tourists to discover that town. And most towns are more likely to attract tourists and thus revenue for the town with something fun and exciting than a giant bummer. (Bummersville, Kansas obviously being the exception.) But the fact that I understand why they do it doesn't mean I also don't think it's fairly disingenuous. The bad parts of our history are really bad, and when we pretend they didn't happen, or gloss over them, we run the risk of doing them again. And a local history museum is in the unique position of being able to tell the stories of the individuals—the locals—who were effected or involved or complicit. The story of 60,000 dead Cherokee is so vast and horrible, it's hard to relate to. The story of one family from just down the street is relatable. But instead? An entire room devoted to meticulous documentation of the evolution of the logo of a local trucking company. Three little plaques about the previous inhabitants of the area and a handful of arrowheads. This is Pen Pen just glad no-one will ever have to not know what this one hotel looked like in the mid 50's.

So tout the good things about your town, like it's famed monorail! Be proud of its role in naming and christening the Mother Road! Springfield, Springfield, it's a hell of a town! But don't avoid the issues of the bad stuff either. The past is only dangerous if we avoid it, because it leads to us continuing to do the same wrong. Keep the Route 66 stuff, but the incredibly complicated and difficult issues of slavery and Native American genocide deserve at least equal space in the conversation. This is Pen Pen embracing the theme of tonal confusion and totally changing the subject by singing the monorail song.

This is the monorail song.

Adventure #92: Norman, OK

“So where are you playing tomorrow night?” Laine asks after a somewhat lackluster show at the Gray Owl Coffee shop. For the record, I don't blame anyone for it being a lackluster show. It's the first day of school. It's a Monday. These things usually don't make for great shows. “Kansas City,” I tell him. “Why?” Laine tells me that there's a big house show planned for the next day that he could put me on if I wanted. To imagine this conversation best, you should also probably be aware that Laine looks almost exactly like Beck. I say almost, because it's likely that Beck has a scar or a birthmark that Laine doesn't have and maybe vice versa. I didn't check. This is Laine and Beck side by side.

The show I had booked in Kansas City is what I call a “filler show.” Where the owner of the bar says “yeah, sure you can play here. It's our slow night, so there probably wont be anyone there, but we'll give you a few beers and a place to stay.” And you say yes because booking tours is hard and sometimes an offer of a crappy show is better than no show at all, because maybe there'll be like this one dude who really likes your music and buys a ton of CDs or something. It almost never happens, but it did that one time so you keep hoping. I don't like burning bridges, and I know if I pull out of even a filler show I probably will. But it's also 11pm at this point and I haven't done anything impulsive and potentially ruinous in a solid 20 hours. Plus, the offer of a day without travel, even if it means a longer day of travel on Wednesday is too tempting to pass up. When I call the venue to ask if it's OK, they respond with new heights of apathy. Everything's fine. This is Pen Pen burning bridges.

It's the little things on tour. A day where you don't have to drive anywhere is sort of a big thing. I head downtown to a vegetarian restaurant because I can't remember the last time I ate a vegetable that wasn't grown in a lab somewhere. I take my sandwich of glory down to Lake Thunderbird and pretend for an hour to be the sort of person who has free time and knows how to relax. Also I try to write a song in 7/4 because I'd been listening to Light and Ladder all day on Monday and damn them and their catchy folk melodies in compound time signatures! This is Pen Pen writing a breakdown in 19/8 because he can (he can't).

The show that night is a thing of sheer awesomeness. I've been lucky these last few days to play so many shows where the sense of community and creative mutual respect is so thick you could cut with a knife if you wanted to. But why would you want to? That shit's amazing. A house full of people. Great performances. Laine gets up and plays a whole bunch of ridiculous indie rock covers. And I back him up on Beck's “Loser” because Laine needs to keep up appearances that he's not Beck by claiming not to know how to play the guitar part. I don't get it, but then, the witness protection system is complicated. I end up staying around until 2 talking music and Star Trek and race and class and gender politics. bell hooks is cited more than once in the evening. As is Fannon. As I get in my car, one of the guys who had been at the show wanders by. “Guess you struck out too,” he says. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I guess neither of us fell in love with that special someone tonight...” I shrug, not knowing how to tell him that I totally did fall in love tonight. Just not with an individual person. I fell in love with a community. This is Pen Pen in love.

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

Adventure #91: Route 66

At the risk of offending everyone with this comparison, Route 66 is basically America's Paris. Once upon a time some really cool shit happened there that more or less defined the greater national identity, but nothing really has happened there for a while, hey look, a museum! (Also it's apparently the sort of place where people randomly and unexpectedly fall in love. But that's another story...) This is Pen Pen getting his kicks on Route 66.

These days, Route 66 is a mausoleum to itself. Bypassed and surpassed by the more efficient but way less interesting Interstate 40, the towns along Route 66, which survived entirely on the throngs of migrants and vacationers headed west, have shriveled up like a raisin in the microwave. It is America in microcosm, both good and bad. The possibilities presented by the open road. Our expansive beautiful landscape. The regional quirks that fly in the face of American monoculture. But also our bad habit of building something up long past the point of sustainability and then standing back and watching as it collapses in on itself. Nearly every town has a “Route 66” landmark. As if to say “This! This over here! This was a thing once!” This is Pen Pen at a thing once.

As I drive from Albuquerque to Amarillo, the roadside is pockmarked with the remains of towns. I can't help but wonder how long ago these gas stations were shuttered. Some look like they haven't seen use since the 70's. Others could have been open just last week. Teepee shaped hotels and gift shops trade in Native American exoticism, while the actual Reservations dotting the highway are a reminder of the cost of the open road; crimes for which no justice has yet been served. For all the fun and nostalgic kitsch of the 50's themed diners and diner themed gas stations and gas station themed book stores, there is a sadness here that no amount of chrome and Bill Haley jukeboxes can cover up. This is Pen Pen and existential crisis.

Amarillo's another story though. One of the towns that survived the Interstate 40 overpasses, Amarillo wears its Route 66 heritage proudly. Along 6^th Ave nearly every building is emblazoned with the iconic logo. Classic cars line the street. The hint of desperation behind the nostalgia in other towns is distinctly missing. The show that night is sparse, but it's one of those nights where the right people were there. Light and Ladder and Whim Grace are both really incredible. There's a level of sincere appreciation for each others' work as we each take the stage. When the show finally ends at midnight, none of us want to go home. We end up heading over to one of the manager's houses for a bit to hang out and eat fajitas and then Whim and I head to Merri's to pass out. This is Pen Pen just thankful we're not staying at this hotel; it doesn't even look like they have wi-fi.

The next day, I reluctantly hit the road towards Oklahoma. The remainder of the tour is now measured in days. Soon it'll be measured in hours. I'm tired and a little homesick, but I'm not ready to go home yet. But Afropunk Festival waits for no man, and I'm not about to NOT abuse my all-access pass to The Coup. This is Pen Pen assuring Boots Riley that he's really not that kind of creepy obsessive fan.

In the expanse between Amarillo and Oklahoma City, the remains of Route 66 towns seem to have given up trying. But not Shamrock, Texas. Good ol' Shamrock. With their proud “as seen in the movies!” billboards hyping their iconic Conoco station. With all of the gusto and charisma of a local furniture store TV ad, Shamrock Texas paints itself green, sticks its fingers in its ears, and shouts "Come See World Famous Shamrock, Texas!" And you kind of can't help but admire them for trying. Because that's also part of the character of America; the guy who against all odds and logic refuses to give up. The lovable indefatigable hopeless. Shamrock, Texas is the clerk at Radioshack who asks if you want to also buy batteries even though you just came in to buy a replacement charger for your phone. Shamrock, Texas is the perennial long-shot third party presidential candidate who tells everyone within earshot that the media is too scared of her to give her equal coverage. Shamrock, Texas is the old folk singer still singing his Barry McGuire covers at the open mic hoping he'll be “discovered.” Shamrock, Texas is America. This is Pen Pen pointing out that now the Conoco station has also been seen in a penguin blog; please adjust your billboards accordingly.

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

Adventure #90: Two Day Mini-tour with The Michael Character

I suppose given the community I run with, it shouldn't be surprising how often I encountered these little coincidences on this tour, but it's always still a little surprising. Starting with the Kowabunga! Kid micro-tour, the micro-tour-that-wasn't with All Over The Place, the run-in with Catherine Feeny, and now another totally coincidental micro-tour with The Michael Character (which people keep calling The Michael Project for some reason). This is Pen Pen and some cassettes, which are totally back.

Despite the number of mutual friends, it's surprising Jimmy Ikeda (The Michael Character's (not Project) lead singer) and I haven't crossed paths before. But anyone that Greg McKillop considers a friend is probably a good person. I get to the venue in Phoenix and we immediately hit it off. He's been traveling more or less the same route as I, just a few days ahead. Where my single person and a stuffed penguin in a PT Cruiser has felt cramped over 8000 miles, he's been in a full band in a Honda Accord. I'm not totally sure how they fit everything in there, so I'm assuming it's actually a TARDIS. This is Pen Pen and some zines, which are also back.

It's good to see Sam again, and our planned Bradley Manning argument is far less heated than I'd expected. It lasts a good minute or two. It was pretty anti-climactic. He makes a few valid points I hadn't considered about Bradley not redacting names when he leaked info, which is a fair concern. But I wont be withdrawing my nomination for Bradley for radical sainthood any time soon. It's tough to leave Arizona so soon. I barely spent 16 hours there, but the drive to Albuquerque is long, so I get up at the crack of 9ish the next morning and hit the road. This is Pen Pen meep meep.

Reactivi had suggested I stop by Arcosanti after I'd complained on Twitter about the lack of tumbleweeds (or road runners. Or coyotes. Or ACME supply stores. What the hell Arizona? Why are you ruining my childhood?)... I didn't have as much time as I'd like to explore, but I wandered around a bit until the unmistakeable sound of a rattlesnake reminded me that I'm wandering around in the desert alone, and despite my Klingon upbringing, today is not a good day to die. This is Pen Pen reasonably certain the Arcosanti people don't know what urban means.

I make it to the show a few minutes after The Michael Character Project and am greeted by what's become an unfamiliar sight after the past week of fun but sparsely attended shows. People. Lots and lots of people. More people than can fit in the room. A plethora of people. Poet after poet gets up to read, then The Michael Charaject then me. Then more poets. One of whom lives actually kind of near me in Brooklyn and is in Albuquerque for the summer. He reads 2 chapters of Stephen Malkmus / Steve Albini slash fiction. It is sheer genius. I literally tear up with joy. I don't even. It's basically everything that I want to exist in the universe. We can all stop this art charade, people. Creativity has reached its peak. Everything we do from now on is bullshit. This is Pen Pen and a genuine autographed James Ikeda rock (not notarized).

The mobile zine distro is decimated by the folks at the show. They apologize, but that's what they're here for. I figure if I return to Brooklyn zine-less then my mission is a success. There are other ways, I suppose, to measure the success of a tour. But that seems like as arbitrary a metric as any. The Michael Project and I head back to a hotel. We watch Louis CK stand up and pass out. Wait, that sentence is confusing. Imagine if you will, Louis CK standing up and then just suddenly passing out. That's not what happened. We watched him perform a stand-up comedy routine on TV, then we all pass out. Subtle differences. Keeping in mind that this tour began with what remains one of the best days of my entire life, this is a pretty damn near close second. These nights, where everyone is earnestly engaged. Where all the performers support each other. Where conversations are had, and genuine friendships are made. These are why I tour. This is Pen Pen at a cheap hotel in Albuquerque which is most likely a front for Heizenberg's current meth manufacturing operation.

Adventure #89: Hayward, CA and Los Angeles, CA

It was cold and windy by the time I made it to Venice Beach, but I didn't care. For the past week and change I've been within a hundred miles of the Pacific Ocean, but my schedule has kept me just slightly inland. And at heart, I am a water pokemon or whatever the hell the astrology thing is. This is Pen Pen pretending that it's not way too cold to be at the beach right now and he's having a really good time.

The long days of driving gave way to long days of hanging out with the wonderful Bob from Global Rev in Hayward and Lindsey in Oakland. (And not Jesse or Carrie because they're both dead to me now.) Performing is fun and will always be where my heart is (and I suppose technically that's what I'm here to do...), but there is little in this world better than staying up until preposterous hours talking politics and economics and revolution and life and the universe and everything over a few beers with old friends. It's weird to think that just a year ago I didn't actually know either of them. But then, it's always weird to think how different my life was just a year ago. This is Pen Pen and the Anonymonalisa.

Back to Venice Beach. I had an hour to kill before my show in LA so I wandered around for a little bit. Growing up in the Northeast, my relationship with palm trees has more to do with dinosaur movies than California. This is Pen Pen being a dinosaur, which he is, because birds are dinosaurs.

At the venue, that old panic began to set in as 8 o'clock got closer and the room was devastatingly empty. Slowly some friends trickled in. Then as I started playing, more and more people, until by the time my set was over, there was a pretty solid crowd there. We all stuck around, and my cousin Jason ended up jumping up and doing back-up vocals for Emily who played after me. It was one of those moments that make touring wonderful. When for a few brief minutes a whole bunch of strangers form a community based solely on unanimous love for the song “(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher” and a complete lack of shame or self-consciousness. It was glorious. This is Pen Pen being welcomed to LA by the official welcome monkey.

The next day was my day off. The one and only day off on this tour. That was probably a mistake. But I made the best of it. I went to the beach for real for a bit, reading anarcho zines and my cousin's (not Jason, Ciara...all my cousins are writers, apparently) latest book. This time, Venice Beach was warm. The sky was clear. Soon there'd be a long drive to Arizona. Soon there'd be another week of shows as I begin the long trek eastward. But for a few hours in LA, I actually made an earnest attempt to relax. This is Pen Pen just kind of wanting to give the Myspace folks a hug for not giving up.

Adventure #88: Caldwell, ID and Sacramento, CA

“No, Nathan, we don't have time to stop at every abandoned building and take pictures.”

“But I wanna...”

“No! We're already running late and we've already stopped at 3 abandoned farm houses today.”

“But it's what I do! It's my thing. It's mine. It's...my precious...”

“Don't care. We don't have time.”

“Fine. [gollum] Asshole.”

This conversation was had out loud. After a few weeks on the road by yourself you start to turn into Gollum. This is Pen Pen stopping anyway.

 Driving alone without anyone to talk to through the mountains for 6 hours, 8 hours, 10 hours a day, and you start to understand that woman on the street who talks to herself. Just loudly enough so you know she knows you hear her. Just quietly enough that you're pretty sure it might be about you. I've often wondered what happened to get someone to that place. It turns out they were touring singer songwriters. All of them. Next time you see someone talking to themselves on the street, ask for a copy of their EP. The piano ballad; track 4? It's actually pretty solid. This is Pen Pen and another abandoned farm house.

New York Nathan barely tolerates whatever it is about him that makes people on the subway think “This guy! This guy with the headphones on, who is clearly focused on writing something in his notebook. This is the guy I should talk to!” But Touring Nathan? He revels in it. Oh? I remind you of your son? Your grandson? Your great grandson? Tell me more! Do you have pictures? You have a dog, too? Do you have pictures of your dog? (I kind of hate dogs, but I love listening to people talk about their dogs. They get so excited about the most mundane things and it's just great.) This is Pen Pen, this time at an abandoned stable!

The show in Caldwell is fun, but definitely small. But the conversation all night is great. And honestly, at this point in the tour, I'm more interested in having some human interaction than performing. Both is the sweet spot, obviously. But 3 weeks in and having driven some 5000 miles by myself? I'll gladly take a night of talking comparative religion and anarchism with some friends I don't get to see often. This is Pen Pen also liking abandoned cars!

Driving south through the mountains the next day to Sacramento is beautiful, but dull. A meaner person would make a joke about some of the people they've dated. I'm not that person. Neither is Pen Pen. He's a penguin, not a person. This is Pen Pen and his ex.

It's amazing the way trees appear almost the second I cross the Nevada-California border. After 8 hours staring at desert brush, trees are a welcome sight. It's as if they're adhering to some ancient treaty.

“OK, fine, California. You guys get all the trees, but we get all the casinos and whores.”

“That sounds like a fair trade, Nevada.”

“Then we declare these borders official!”

“Ha! I tricked you, Nevada, for we have Los Angeles, where young artists gamble their futures and whore themselves out to entertainment companies instead of making that super personal short film about their grandfather they've been talking about since they were kids! AND WE HAVE TREES.”

Nevada shakes it's fist angrily at the sky, for it knows it has been duped. This is Pen Pen and Nevada's famed tree (just kidding, this picture was taken in California; Nevada doesn't have trees, jackass)...

This is a song David Bowie wrote one time. I like this song.