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.

Adventure #100: Belchertown, MA and New York, NY

I'm not a superstitious person. I don't think that the position of the stars when you're born have anything to do with who you are as a person. My quasi-observant Jew-hood has more to do with respect for tradition and the comfort and sense of place I find in ancient customs than any faith in a divine whatever. But I do believe in the serendipity of the radio. As I pulled out of the house in Brewster, the radio was playing Tupac – Changes. I took it as a sign from the tree peeper I befriended the other day and named Treefrog Shakur (my childhood pet frog was named Biggie. I'm a fan of themed names...) that this was going to be a good tour. This is Treefrog Shakur being fucking adorable.

The last few months in Brewster with Marisa and Jack have been probably the longest period in my adult life that I've gone without either having to pack my suitcase and leave the state for a project or suffering some terrifying medical crisis. It's been a period of some stress and upheaval, sure, but also one of relative stability. Daily routines and habits. My life has changed in such huge ways since my last tour. Suddenly I'm part of a family. I'm charged with being an example for an impressionable tiny person. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I'm trying my damndest to do it well. This is the first time leaving for tour hasn't been a relief. This is the first time I've ever been homesick on the drive to my first show. And I have a beard. I should have led with that. I have a beard now. I'm undecided about it. This is Pen Pen with a beard.

I got to the venue and discovered that my tiny trusty netbook had finally kicked the bucket. So much for good omens. Treefrog Shakur works in mysterious ways. But seeing as my good laptop was dead for 24 hours earlier in the week before inexplicably rising again like the hologram of a beloved performer, I'm not worried. Plus, there's not really anything I can do about it from the road. The show was a lot of fun, and I guess was only the second show they've done in their space. I haven't performed a full set in a while. And I've never performed with a beard. The crowd indulged me as I fumbled my way through a few new songs. I'm hoping to test out a lot of the material for my new album on the road before I finish recording it. So far, so beardy. This is Pen Pen: Time Detective.

My Brooklyn show was canceled last week after the space got noise complaints, and I decided that instead of scrambling to find a half-assed show that I wouldn't have time to promote, I'd just spend time with my friends. Besides, I had a few meetings and rehearsals that I needed to make. I'd hoped to make it to New York in time for court support for Cecily McMillan, but traffic rules us all (radio update: Looking Glass – Brandy, and Notorious BIG – Mo Money Mo Problems). I didn't know Cecily McMillan well. As far as I can recall we'd only ever really spoken once. But I witnessed her assault on March 17^th 2012, just moments after I'd been beaten myself by the NYPD. I pulled into the city just in time for the guilty verdict to be announced. How any twelve members of the human race could find her guilty is beyond me. The Puppet Guild met in Zuccotti instead of our usual Monday in the Secret Puppet Lair. I showed up and was immediately put to work making signs and cards. It was wonderful to see so many people in the park. It's been far too long since I've sat in Zuccotti Park with a Sharpie mass producing signs for a demonstration. The crowd was lively, mostly respectful, and tried their best to be constructive. An assembly was held in which we brainstormed ways to continue to support Cecily and hopefully influence her sentencing. We all laughed as we dusted off the old OWS process. Do we need to mic check? There's only like a hundred and twenty people here. I don't miss New York. I've been gone for 3 months, and I don't really miss it. I miss my family far more after just a day apart. But I do miss this stupid awful park and the amazing conversations it inspires. This is Pen Pen demanding #Justice4Cecily.

This isn't a song I wrote. This is the greatest song in the history of music.