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Pulling into Southern California is a weird feeling after being away for so long… I always think it will not be a big deal, or that I should be jaded and calloused enough to hardly notice the homecoming… but it feels like returning from a foreign country… and it takes a little bit of time to get re-acclimated… part of the process is just getting used to NOT moving… NOT having to be in a new place the next day… not physically moving forward…

This time, more than ever, I felt a great choking claustrophobia as I drove into civilization here. After weeks and weeks of daily big-sky driving and open horizon landscapes, it felt like everything was constricting around me as I emerged from the desert and crossed into Southern California, USA… the buildings and freeways and traffic and noise… tightening and squeezing…

Until I made it all the way home to the ocean… and performed my ritual tradition. Parking the car, then, before I even go into the house, running out to the waves and the edge of the world… to watch the sun setting into the water… the antidote… the cure and balm… just sitting there and staring out over the ocean… to slowly ease into the idea of being back in the real world…

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I was pretty anxious to get home… thought I would keep driving through the night until I got too tired. It was a little after 3am, somewhere in the middle of Arizona. I could feel myself starting to fade, so I thought I would check some email and rest for a few minutes, and pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a sleezy motel that had the number “8” on its sign.

An elderly man was slumped outside the main entrance, smoking and chugging away on his cigarette as I drove on by to the back end of the motel, far away from any of the other cars. I opened up my computer, checked out some maps, started reading some emails…

Suddenly, there was a “tap! tap! tap!” on my passenger’s side window that shook me out of my trance. I looked up and saw the same wiry, sunken man, pushing his bushy, grey mustached face right up to the window, his security flashlight quivering.

OLD MAN: “Can I help you?!”

I slowly turned, pretended like I didn’t hear him, cracked the window a hair, paused, and said, “Excuse me, sir?”

OLD MAN: “Can I HELP you?!” he repeated.

ME: “Ah, no thank you.” and I rolled the window back up, nearly pinching off his mustache, then went back to staring at my computer screen.

TAP! TAP! TAP! More banging on the window.

OLD MAN: “You can’t be here! Helloooo!”

I ignored him and kept looking down, peering intently at my screen.

He banged some more. Harder.

I cracked the passenger’s window again and told him I was lost and that I was just getting my bearings. Then zipped up the window and went back to my email.

He stomped to the front of my car, stood in the headlights, and yelled at the top of his lungs,

OLD MAN: “LADY!! YOU CAN’T STAY HERE!”

Then, to my complete and utter amazement, he jumped onto the front of the car! Bounced up and down, yelling again. I was rather shocked and awed and slowly looked up through the windshield… paused… then carefully and sternly recommended, “Sir… you will need to get off my car.”

He stepped down. I resumed my reading. He jumped back up and forcefully bounced my car even harder with each syllable,

OLD MAN: “LAY-DEEEE!! YOUUU – CAAAN’T – BEEE – HEEERE!”

I raised my head and coolly repeated, “Sir…. get… off… my… car…”

I then laid as much weight and force as I could launch onto the steering wheel horn… for about 15 seconds, blasting away any night stillness that might have been left…

He finally got down, walked over to my side of the car, put his face right up to mine in the window, then forcefully loaded, cocked, and released the most explosive bird with his middle finger in my face…

OLD MAN: “F!@#K YOU, LADY! I’m gonna call the cops!!”

I fired back, “Yes, sir. Please call the police right now!”

He stormed away, back towards the motel office, shaking his head like he had just witnessed the worst crime in all of mankind, but was helpless to stop it.

Ten minutes later, I closed everything up and started driving to get back on the road. I pulled up in front of the office, and found he was back where I first saw him… smoking his cigarette… dreaming his dreams… I rolled my window down, paused long for effect, then waved and yelled a Dukes Of Hazard farewell, “Thank you, sir, for all your help!” and pealed away with a little dust trailing behind me…

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Before the show tonight, I walked across the street from the venue and drank from the hot springs of Hot Springs, Arkansas… apparently people drive from hundreds of miles around, bringing their empty jugs and containers to fill up… from the fresh and fantastic (and hot) eternal springs… so crazy and naturally delicious….

I wish gold, or healthy complete meals, or freshly cut watermelon slices, or happiness, or peace-love-and-understanding…. all could gush and pour out of a natural spring… at all times…. making them value-less, and common to everyone everywhere, and anyone could just pull up in their camper, and have a free fill-up any time they wanted…

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I was in a love buzz spell-trance, cruising the Kentucky back roads, and decided to take a little detour to Hodgenville, Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace…. what a lovely distraction and field trip off the beaten path to give my mind a break from all the big-sky driving…

and totally worth it!… a tour of the cabin replica that might have sorta been like what Abraham Lincoln maybe kinda was born in… saw the running natural spring where young Abraham might have drank him some water… strolled through the same souvenir shop where Abe would have sold his own souvenirs if he had lived a little longer…

I thought this would be as good a place as any to get some extra trinket souvenirs for my darling nephews… something fun and educational at the same time… an awesome “uncle surprise” to share from my long travel adventures. We could bond with each other as we learned some historical, fun facts together.

Lincoln pennyMost everything was overpriced horrible crap that would not have made Abraham proud at ANY age… On the way out, however, I spotted a bowl of shiny pennies next to the cashier’s register. Commemorative, gleaming keepsakes, with a couple different interesting, rare backside designs, one with Abe and another with the cabin. WOW! Only 25 cents each! This was my Kentucky treasure-find and I would be a hero to my nephews, reason enough for playing this entire tour.

I bought a couple and made sure to keep them separate from my normal change holder in the car. I was pretty excited to hurry home just so I could give them the precious (and educational) gem mementos and tell them some awesome Abraham Lincoln stories.

A few weeks later, back home in sunny California, far away from Kentucky, I was digging for some spare change as I headed into the post office to mail some letters. I emptied my whole ashtray container into my hands to sift through and find the right amount that I needed…

Like a gold miner’s pan-dream…. shimmering and peering back at me from my hands… were 4 or 5 “rare” Abe and log cabin backside pennies!! Exactly like the two I paid 50 CENTS for in Kentucky!!

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DES MOINES, IA – Police Encounter #4
After the show tonight, I got to spend some quality time relaxing at the local hipster establishment, an art gallery/cocktail bar… hung out, played table tennis (?!?!) til 2am… so lovely… doubles mostly. Shaina and I killed it and left the place burning in flames (sorry Jamie and Joel). We then strolled through the outdoor park of art and sculpture exhibits, deciding what each piece of gut-wrenching, important work truly meant and what the artists were trying to convey from their flowering, tortured souls.

As it turns out, appreciating art at 2 in the morning is not appreciated in Des Moines. We apparently set off silent alarms on our art stroll…. within a couple minutes, half the Des Moines police force was surrounding us. We were properly chastised and escorted to the perimeter and told we’d have to complete the art tour from the outside looking in.

Finally made it home, and stayed up til 6am representing… in an intense and serious competition of “Connect 4″… Another one for the team… Los Angeles – 5, Des Moines – 4… Boo-ya!

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hobo soupLincoln, NE
The “Lincoln Prairie Penis” mystery…. solved. I was told there was a landmark I HAD to see when I got to Lincoln! I HAD to find the giant Lincoln Prairie Penis… after interviewing and interrogating many puzzled and curious locals, eventually I figured out that this exciting spectacle was simply the capital building as a phallic symbol. That was it. A little bit of a letdown.

More importantly, Sas gave me this awesome prize to remember my stay in Lincoln. A can of delicious Hobo Soup. So perfect.

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IDAHO – Police #3
As you motor down the state of Idaho, there isn’t a central thoroughfare or easy, big freeway connecting the towns. One minute you’re cruising through the mountains on a 65 mph road, then suddenly jet braking for a tiny town with a 35 mph speed limit… for a mile… then back to the 65 mph…. rinse… repeat…

I got pulled over by a behemoth unmarked 4×4 truck in a super small, Dukes of Hazard town (but without the Daisy Dukes)… it seems driving 71 mph in a 35 mph zone is not acceptable in Idaho…

In between all my “Yes, Sirs” and “No, Sirs,” I tried charming Officer Weiner with my “Folk Singer” defense. It did not work. Apparently, Idaho doesn’t care about the arts or romantic troubadours or true heroes who save people’s lives… and I got a ticket to ride… a ticket for $101… thank you Portland (giveth)… thank you Idaho (taketh away)…

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Moscow, Idaho – The city of love
So many friendly people here. As soon as I first landed, I met a pair of girls outside the venue. Turned out, one grew up in my hometown and we chatted a bit. Within the first five minutes of our conversation, the other girl found it important to tell me how they were lovers in love. I was inspired. After a couple load-ins, I noticed a ping pong table in the back. The girls in love were already playing so I made my way over and challenged them to a duel. Like any drug junkie needing a fix, I had to play…. HAD TO. It’s just something that wrestles up inside of me anytime I see a ping pong table… along with my country pride… or broken genes… something that forces the competitive streak and burning winner’s drive inside of me… especially when a snotty girl with a self-confident topspin plays too seriously. I felt a little bad kicking her ass in front of her girlfriend… but my family’s honor was at stake… and she needed to be reminded that Los Angeles rules…

I walked down the street to grab some dinner at a health bar. After some polite conversation with the barista girl, I invited her to the show. She explained that the girl in the back kitchen was her lover and that they were in love… so she would not be able to attend…

Back to work. The sound man went by the name of “Vertical Jim” (because he was so tall, I guess). 7 foot something… and he informed me that my set was supposed to be from 9pm-2am. I laughed. Vertical Jim did not. So I did the best I could with what I was born with, and stretched my usual 45 minute set into four hours.

After the night was over, I tried to settle up with Vertical Jim, but there had been some miscommunication between him and the owner/promoter/booker. Vertical Jim explained he could not pay me as much as originally agreed, due to certain weekday rules (versus the weekend). I admired Vertical Jim for taking such personal ownership and being so invested in the venue’s nightly profit margin, but I needed to get paid the full and correct amount. I encouraged him to call or text the promoter to square things up and get the proper information.

25 minutes later, I went looking for Vertical Jim and found him at the bar, drinking yaeger shots with another employee. I apologized for interrupting their company meeting, and asked if he was able to get through to the promoter. He held up his cell phone and said, “Yes, here, read his text.”

Part of the text from the booker read, “So he was really that bad, huh? I thought he was the Michael Miller Crusade. Whatev.”

Vertical Jim was flustered when I asked him what that meant, stammered a bit and told me the promoter must have been drunk. There was an awkward silence and Vertical Jim’s drinking co-worker gulped and froze a nervous, quivery smile (the same face you wore when your parents walked into the kitchen as you were stealing cookies and you thought if you stood still enough, you could be invisible).

Vertical Jim sauntered over to the cash register with a giant sigh, and brought back the correct amount. I graciously thanked them both… told them it was the best night of the entire tour and how Moscow was my new favorite town in the whole country…

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Got to stay with my dear friend and eye-brow singeing artist, Brian. I think Brian is sitting on the next pet rock. His art pieces are wonderful, and at the same time, functional and useful. He makes salt and pepper shakers and flower vases out of creepy doll parts… genius.

Seems like this whole tour has been entwined and flooded with so many fantastical artists… as I careen and plough through their lives, the best and worst part of it all is getting to see their latest and greatest creations, and witness true art… art that makes me feel self-conscious and lacking and small… like I am an unexposed fraud playing a part, as I taste other’s greatness and see amazing examples of people living and breathing their art….

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Portland, OR
The sky is medium grey, not a hint or trace of blue anywhere. I am watching the air outside rustle the trees back and forth, as they whisper gossip chitter-chatter to each other right before a huge storm comes. I do love inhaling this air… deep and heavy… like it was just freshly made from the tree factory… all pristine and non-California-like… but if you can never see the sun, who cares…

A hard night last night, and I was feeling psychologically damaged (I am so fragile sometimes… like a beautiful flower). I was loading things out after the show… the place had closed… sauntering with my head down… counting the cracks in the sidewalk… when a flickering piece of trash caught my eye. I reached down, picked it up, and lo, it was a hundred dollar bill. For 30 seconds, I was new and whole and born again. Sometimes, money CAN buy you happiness… or at least temporarily erase some unhappiness…