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.

Adventure #87: The Pacific Northwest

“Warm Coke tastes like summer,” I thought to myself as I took a sip. I set out my feast. Left-over fancy organic pizza from the vineyard the night before, donated Coke and Powerade (Brawndo! It's got what plants crave! It's got electrolytes...) and a gas station banana. Sitting by the banks of a river 3 miles outside of a faux Bavarian village in central Washington State. And I looked around me and thought, “yeah, this seems about right.” This is Pen Pen on a regular Tuesday afternoon.

 I'd slept in my car the night before because I'd been too tired to make it to Leavenworth after the show. I derive a weird pleasure from the contrast of spending an evening talking fine wines and grape growing regions with folks in a vineyard, and then sleeping in the parking lot of a Walmart in the Hatchback of Notre Dame. Lately I’ve been learning to navigate the weird. Riding the rapids of contradictions because otherwise you drown in it. And if you're at all prepared, it's actually pretty fun. This is Pen Pen manifesting metaphor in front of some rapids.

So I spend my days in New York discussing economic philosophy with my friends who range from effectively homeless to actually homeless. Then running off to summer resort towns to make theatre and discussing Stravinsky with the wealthy who like me because I’m “edgy.” Never talk Marx with the 1%. Talk Chomsky. This is Pen Pen talking Eduard Bernstein with faux Bavarians.

The show in Leavenworth was pretty awesome, and Steve, the guy who runs Der Hinterhof is good people. He asks me to add me to the "not-an-asshole list." So I put him near the top. (It's not a real list.) I end up staying up all night talking politics with a self-described “Limbaugh Conservative.” And instead of killing each other we end up becoming friends. I don’t care what your social or economic views are, if you accept that Deep Space 9 is the best Star Trek series, we’re probably going to get along fine. This is Pen Pen waking up in real fancy hotel in the fake Alps.

The show in Bremerton? Well I’m not really sure what happened. I’d been offered a show at this pretty rad venue. Then the booking guy just sort of stopped responding to e-mails. This is usually a red flag (unlike a red and black flag which is a good thing. Flags are complicated...). In the back of my head I knew there was no show, but I went anyway. I got to the venue an hour before the show was supposed to start as is standard protocol. The venue was dark. No signs of life on the street other than the tattoo parlors and head shops with neon Open signs illuminating their windows. An overwhelming urge to get a new tattoo while I waited was pushed back by texts from my friends who are slightly more rational than I am. So mostly I just read the 2nd Hunger Games book in an alley behind the venue that can only be described as the exact opposite of a beer garden in Leavenworth. This is Pen Pen having apparently slipped through a wormhole in Bremerton, WA that connects to Boston because obviously there’d be a Sox Bar in the Olympic Peninsula.

So I head to Seattle with an unexpected night off. What else can you do? The next day I hit up Black Coffee with my quasi-roommate Amy and replenish the stock of radical zines. I love that despite being on the other side of the country, two former roommates are coincidentally and unrelatedly in town. Why wouldn’t they be? It’s Thursday, after all. This is Pen Pen enforcing the safer spaces policy, Amy.

Then there was Portland. Where I had had misgivings about the show in Bremerton, there was every reason to assume Portland would be good. The other bands all had a good reputation. I had a few folks coming for me. And the venue had been in good communication. They even posted something about the show earlier in the day. What could possibly go wrong? I show up. The other bands show up. We wait. A bunch of people show up. A good crowd, really. We wait. An hour later, someone walks up, tapes a sign to the door saying the show was off and walks away. No explanation. No conversation. Just. “Show’s off. Unforeseen circumstances. The city wouldn’t let us open.” He closes the door. We all sort of stare at each other in disbelief. Now what? On the bright side, my streak of never playing a good show in Portland remains unbroken. Score! This is Pen Pen and some bullshit.

I drive all morning on Saturday, crossing the Oregon Trail backwards. Fording rivers in reverse. People who died of cholera and snake bites return from the grave. Axles unbreak and oxen undrown. I pull into Union around 11:30 and immediately feel out of place. The old construction of the buildings in town and the classic car competition flooding the streets give it the look of 1950’s Hilldale from Back to the Future. Cowboy hats and Harley shirts everywhere, and I’m in a hoodie with an embroidered heart on it and corduroys with embroidered flowers. This is Pen Pen, newly rich in VHS tapes though.

But the feeling of being out of place is quickly replaced by that irreplaceable small town hospitality. Leslie, who booked the music for the Grassroots Festival, introduces me to her family. I quickly hit it off with Dylan and Allison, both of whom are awesome and live in Yakima. The rest of the festival is fun, but as the final band plays, it begins to hail out of nowhere. Golf ball chunks of ice assault the crowd while Bitterroot tries to keep the show going. Finally everyone more or less gives up and we all head back to Brewski’s to drink and laugh about the hail. Because what else can you do? Faux Bavarian villages in Washington State, unexpectedly cancelled shows, random hail storms? The only thing to do is take it for what it is and laugh. You can drive yourself crazy agonizing over what could have been. The money you lost by not having a show is a real concern, but there's also nothing to do about it now. You just hope you get enough at the next show to cover gas and keep going. So you laugh. Because the random string of events that spring forth like a story told by a sugar addled 4 year old is just my life. Arbitrariness is my predictability. Chaos is my stasis. This is my normal. This is Pen Pen on a perfectly normal Saturday afternoon in the country.

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

Adventure #86: Coram, Montana

I'd be lying if I denied that a solid 60% of touring is a flimsy excuse to visit beautiful places but not have to pay for anything. One day in Glacier National Park in Coram, Montana. The next in a vineyard in Yakima, Washington. Then the next in a faux Bavarian village in northern Washington because that's a thing apparently. Whatever. Why not? The last few days of driving have been long. I've covered nearly 1600 miles in 4 days and any time for myself has been stolen from sleep time. But I've tried to spare a few minutes here and there to appreciate nature because at heart I'm a dirty hippie. This is Pen Pen protesting socialism by posting a bumper sticker in a government funded free for all to use national park; yeah that'll show 'em!

The math said I'd have an hour to go hiking if I didn't hit traffic (don't worry, I hit traffic. But that's like 4 hours after this story ends...) So with no plan beyond a general acknowledgment that there are tons of signs with the little hiking guy icon in the area, I set off to Yakima. 5 minutes in, I pulled off and followed signs for an “experimental forest.” That's my kind of forest. Pushing boundaries! Épater la bourgeoisie! This is Pen Pen and the John Cage of forests.

Like Oblio and the Pointless Forest, I didn't see much that was experimental. But then, so sayeth the Rockman “You see what you wanna see, and you hear what you wanna hear. You dig?” Some evidence of attempts to grow certain kinds of trees in certain kinds of soil. That's cool, I guess. But I wanted mutant half-cow half-daisies! 40 foot tall mushrooms! Mosquiotos capable of speaking Italian! But it was beautiful, and totally worth the fact that it caused me to be nearly late to my show in Yakima. Even if it wasn't going to totally make people like rethink how they conceptualize art and stuff, man. This is Pen Pen performing his experimental Concerto for Mountain, Tree, and Sunshine in F# Minor.

I'm excited to get to the West Coast where the distance between cities is a lot smaller. I'll have more time to go exploring and not just feel like I'm behind all the time. I sold out of A Life in Transit 3 days ago and haven't had time to package new ones. Good problems, I suppose, but why bother being in one of the most beautiful places on Earth if you're only watching it fly by at 80 miles an hour. This is Pen Pen experimenting with some berries that he hopes are raspberries because they're delicious but making his throat feel kind of diagonal?

Santa Claus vulture pineapple the semi-sweet albatross tunnel vision transcending the salivating peat moss of Gothic architecture. We are more than the anti-coagulant spin cycle of yesterday. Repent! Repent? Rejoice a single peanut brittle necktie. For now is the now we have the are will be the exceptional rut of malfeasance washing up out or over the tarnished reputations of linseed oil salesmen and dirt roads forever. This is Pen Pen waking up several hours later naked in a field next to a burned out campfire smelling distinctly of apple cider vinegar.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends. It's experimental, man.

Adventure #84 and #85: Minot, North Dakota and Coram, Montana (and also lower Manhattan)

This is a short play about coincidences. This is Pen Pen, coincidentally reminding you that new episodes of Breaking Bad start next Sunday (unless you live in the Greater Boise region in which case you should be at my show at Dearborn in Caldwell DVRing the Breaking Bad premiere).

SCENE 1

A bar in Minot, North Dakota. Nathan, a punk from New York in his late 20's enters wearing a t-shit with a picture of The Kraken eating the Brooklyn Bridge.

BARTENDER

Oh! Nice shirt! I have that same one. Brooklyn Industries, right?

NATHAN

Yeah cool! Did you get it in New York?

BARTENDER

No. Minneapolis.

NATHAN

What a funny coincidence!

SCENE 2

The same bar. 5 minutes later. At a table with one of the other bands.

SAM

You're from Brooklyn? We just played there.

NATHAN

Cool. Where at?

SAM

Goodbye Blue Monday.

NATHAN

Word! I love that place. That's pretty much across the street from my house!

SAM

What a funny coincidence!

SCENE 3

The same bar. 5 minutes later. At the merch table.

LISA

Yeah, Catherine was in New York during some of the Occupy protests.

NATHAN

Really? I'm involved in a lot of Occupy stuff.

CATHERINE

Oh cool. What sort of stuff?

NATHAN

Mostly puppeteering. Did you ever see the Lady Liberty puppet? I helped build that and perform it a lot.

CATHERINE

Yeah, actually. It's in a video for one of my songs.

NATHAN

Did you film it at Duarte?

CATHERINE

Yeah.

NATHAN

On #D17?

CATHERINE

Yeah.

NATHAN

I'm totally in your video walking behind you the whole time. A friend of mine sent it to me last year. You're that Catherine Feeny?!

CATHERINE

What a funny coincidence!

SCENE 4

Duarte Square. December 17^th, 2011. Catherine is shooting a music video. Nathan has no idea he's in a music video.

SCENE 5

20 miles west of the border of North Dakota and Montana on a random Sunday in August.

CURTAIN CALL MUSIC

Adventures #82 and 83: Chicago, Illinois and St. Paul, Minnesota

The bumper sticker on the back of the luxury SUV said “Don't spread my wealth, spread my work ethic” and I nearly lost it. Here in the remains of Central Michigan, where the industry had skipped town and taken most of the jobs with it? Where McDonalds issues a packet to their workers explaining dispassionately that the only way to survive on their wages from McDonalds is to take a second job? I'm fortunate to be able to earn my living mostly doing the things I want to do, but it comes at a price of constantly contorting my finances and schedule. And in the last 4 months, I've pulled a string of 20 hour days without a single day off to come out the other side as broke as I went in. So question my sanity for trying to make a living as an artist in the worst economy in almost a hundred years, but don't question my work ethic. This is Pen Pen saying “fuck that” and flipping the car the bird (it's funny because penguins are birds).

I woke up in Jackson, still tired. The kind of tired that goes down to the bone. I had a mountain of things left to do. 4 shows still not confirmed. A grant to write. 3 or 4 songs for a play to compose. Scores for 10 other songs. And always more articles. Not to mention the daily routine of travel for 4 hours, and perform for 2. The detritus of a hyperactive work ethic. But not even I can sustain 20 hour days indefinitely, and if my body wasn't going to let me sleep, I was going to force it to relax. Even if just for a few hours. So as I reached the corner of Michigan and Indiana I pulled off in search of a beach. It may not be salt water, but at least you can't see the other side. So it'll do. This is Pen Pen taking a long walk off a short pier.

A few triumphant hours of reading while the sounds of summer permeated the air. The to-do list glared naggingly in the back of my head, but I pushed it aside. Yeah. I know this means one more 20 hour day somewhere down the line. But right now? Right now it's the 74^th annual Hunger Games and I'm not about to miss that. This is Pen Pen winning the Hunger Games Chicago style.

As I left Chicago the next morning, the tired still hadn't abated. But my work ethic is indefatigable even if my wealth is fatigued. So I pulled off into a coffee shop for a few hours to try to polish off some of the work I'd run from the day before. A dent, but not an insignificant one. I headed back on the road for a few hours, then pulled off again, having made good enough time to justify a brief break in the road and lured by the promise of a “state trail.” A weird weird part of me felt a tinge of guilt for going hiking when I still had so much to do. An even weirder part of me contemplated not writing about it for fear that some of the people I'm doing projects for would know I was having fun during time that I could have been doing work. “Why aren't you working?” Bender orders. “We are working!” Leela and Fry respond. “I mean working yourselves to death.” 8 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, 8 hours of what we will? I'll settle 18 of work, 4 of sleep, and 2 of what we will. This is Pen Pen what we willing.

I headed off on the Northwest trail because A. it looked like I could do it in an hour and a half, and B. it was the only one marked difficult. If I'm going to take it easy, I might as well take it easy with difficulty. About a hundred yards in a path split off from the main one. “Time Warp Trail,” the sign said, with a tiny red sign affixed beneath it, “Do Not Enter.” You really should know better than to name something awesome and mysterious like “Time Warp Trail,” put a sign up explicitly telling them not to follow it, and expect curiosity not to get the best of everyone who walks by. This is Pen Pen doing the time warp again.

Sadly there were no frozen donkey wheels. No four toed statues. Not even a polar bear that would turn out to have nothing to do with the plot. As far as I could tell it was still 2013, and there was no Dr. Frankenfurter, Doc Brown, or Dr. Juliet Burke. But I did come across the ruins of an old wall handmade stone wall that was clearly built by Jacob to keep out the Smoke Monster. This is Pen Pen screaming “Waaaaaaaalt” loudly and dramatically despite it also having nothing to do with the plot.

I got to the venue late. Cursing my brief dalliance with fun. But everyone there was incredibly friendly. From the other bands to the promoter to the sound guy, I was immediately welcomed into this community in St. Paul. When I got up to play there were at most 30 people in the venue, but they were appreciative, attentive, and incredibly supportive. It may have been a small crowd in a large venue (funny how I can play to 6 people in a basement and think that was a great crowd!), but it didn't feel small. The other bands were unanimously great. At the end of the night, the promoter apologized for their not being a lot of people there to see me. “That's OK,” I said, “They were the right people.” Those moments when you're welcomed with open arms into a new community? When the performance of your art forges real human connection? Those are the moments when all the hard work becomes worth it. Those are the moments that propel you through the 20 hour days. This is Pen Pen turning on the Red Light despite Sting telling him he doesn't have to.

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