“Watch out!” warned the homeless man. “You don’t even want to look underneath that cardboard.”

The man pointed to discarded box that lay beside a dead rat in front of the Smell, downtown Los Angeles’s premiere all-ages venue. I will not detail what was beneath the cardboard. In truth, I did not peek. Japanese author Taro Gomi famously pointed out that everyone poops. I intuited that, beneath the cardboard and beside its homeless guardian, lay evidence of Mr. Gomi’s observation.

Despite the rat-meets-shit organic sculpture that greets visitors to the Smell, I was comforted to know that the City of Quartz has a secret punk heart. I’m not sure how the Smell persists at the intersection of Chinatown, Little Tokyo, and the Toy District. Downtown Los Angeles’s insistently postmodern glass architecture stifles most human endeavors. Indeed, playing at the Smell presents many logistical hurdles. “Why is the club locked if doors open in five minutes?” and “Is this really the bathroom?” are questions that demand answers. But know this—even if you can’t find the back alley it calls home, the Smell thrives and continues to put on awesome/bizarre events.

I was fortunate enough last night to play with Kira Roessler and Mike Watt, punk legends who together form the dual-bass outfit Dos. I have seen many bands, but cannot imagine music more unusual that Dos’s. Roessler and Watt veer about the stage, dancing freakily together whilst performing bubbly compositions that haunt the lower frequencies. Sometimes Roessler sings. She also wears a Kobe Bryant jersey that has been fashioned into a dress (see above). This fashion-forward statement blew my mind before she had even plucked a note on her matching blue bass. Meanwhile, there was a “Roessler and Watt, respectively, were in the Black Flag and the Minutemen!” vibe that haunted the proceedings. Of course, not all comers were impressed.

“This sounds like two whales bumping pussies,” an irreverent friend of mine commented. I do not think he intended this irreverent comment to compliment Dos. However, the more I listened to Dos’s “whale pussy-bumping,” the more I enjoyed it. After all, whale pussy-bumping is a biological process to be celebrated rather than denigrated.

“Thanks for coming,” said the “promoter” of my band’s live radio performance last night. “Irvine is conservative and weird, and it is difficult to get bands to come here.” Such is the glory of radio—if Irvine’s citizens are conservative and weird, who cares? I only met cool Irvine indie-rock appreciators who work at KUCI 88.9 FM. These appreciators were armed with vegetarian burritos!

Still, radio does have a downside. Live music requires an audience. Upwards of 30 people were tuned into to my band’s “show” via virtual interlinks, but my band could only direct its bristling live energy at a camera operator, a soundman, and a few encouraging burrito-buyers. If we had concentrated, we could have directed our energy at the various microphones and wires that carried our music and images across the country and world. However, it is much harder to perform for electronic components than for a guy standing in front of the stage at a club banging his head, contorting his features into a “jam face.”

I was sad to leave Irvine without a greater understanding of the community. Irvine is ostensibly “in L.A.”—in that fashion peculiar to sprawling Los Angeles where 20 miles from L.A. means “in L.A.”—but I was left with many questions about the suburb. Is Irvine in L.A.? Why, when, and by whom was Irvine founded? Why does the Irvine sun shine so bright and why is Irvine’s landscape so dusty and yellow? Are there beaches in Irvine, or surfers? Where are the surfers? What do students study at the university? What famous persons hail from Irvine? Where did Irvine’s indie-rock appreciators get those wonderful burritos?

Perhaps I am not missing much—that is, perhaps Irvine is “conservative and weird.” I can confirm that an acquaintance of mine is a student of UC Irvine who took an extended leave. Though she had the opportunity to complete her degree in two brief half-semester sessions and had a free place to stay near campus, she balked because she found the strip-malled community so oppressive. I believe that my acquaintance is trustworty—this is, I trust that these oppressive strip malls exist. However, my time in Irvine was spent on-air being digitally streamed to the ears and eyes of 30 people. Thus, I must admit that I was unable to confirm the existence of these alleged oppressive strip malls.

“I’ll have that vanilla ice cream,” one says. “You know—that chocolate vanilla.” Playing an all-ages show in Las Vegas is akin to this absurdist ice cream order.

Las Vegas is a decadent town built on the poor decisions of many decadent adults. Punk in its original incarnation—the trashy “53rd and 3rd” punk of the Ramones—fits in here very well. However, so-called “positive punk” and its associated all-ages politics doesn’t jibe next to overblown casino meccas with names like “Excelsior” and “Circus Circus.”

“I was going to book an all-ages show of all Las Vegas bands at Circus Circus once,” said the promoter of my show last night. “Circus Circus backed out, though.”

“What?” I said. The prospect of an all-ages show at Circus Circus, where fortunes have been made and then lost at blackjack and roulette, boggled my brain. Then again, the Sex Pistols have played Atlantic City. Still, all-ages exists in Vegas—just, well, casually beside questionable art.

“We came to see you,” said an enthusiastic Vegas fan. “Then, we went to get Thai BBQ. Then, when we came back, you were done!” The fan then opened a Budweiser and drank it in the street. This action would normally violate open container laws, but I don’t think Vegas has any.

“Tough luck,” I said. After the show, I went to Binion’s casino and won $188 playing 1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em. This $188 is more money than I have made playing a show in some time. However, I lost $200 playing 1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em in New Orleans, so I am still $12 down for this trip.

Yesterday, a trusted friend of mine had a Phoenix-related “vision of death.” I do not put much stock in visions of death, but, while driving to Phoenix from El Paso through a raging dust storm, slipped into an apocalyptic mood. I was born in Philadelphia, and am not used to dust storms, cactuses, open spaces, and related Book of Revelation imagery.

However, my show at Modified Arts in Phoenix was a happy affair. Modified the best and only all-ages venue I know in Phoenix, and I got to play with Soft Shoulder (see above), the best and only no-wave band I know in Phoenix. Many young persons enthusiastic about no-wave turned out to watch Soft Shoulder, and many of these young persons stayed to regard my band.

I can only conclude that my trusted compatriot’s “vision of death” was related to poor sonics. The sound mix at Modified last night was truly death-like. Despite the helpful sound person’s best efforts, monitors did not function correctly, feedback reared its hissing head, and, at one point right before our set, a fuse blew for no discernible reason.

I must shoulder a portion the blame for the bad sound. We were late to Phoenix and missed our sound check because, passing through Las Cruces, N.M., I was seduced by this health food store.

“There’s a license plate you don’t see every day!” said a middle-aged woman in the health food store’s parking lot. She was remarking on my “TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION” D.C. license plate. From the woman’s long, jet-black hair and voluminous beaded necklaces, I knew she had refused to play by the rules and had fled the East Coast for the Southwest. My suspicion was confirmed when she outed herself as a former Fairfax County resident.

“We came from D.C. specifically to go to this health food store,” I joked.

“Ha ha!” she said. “I’m headed there right now to buy my incense!” Beaming, she trudged off to make this transaction. When she was out of sight, my bandmate pointed to her automobile’s license plate. The woman who would not play by the rules was driving a car registered to the distant state of Hawaii. In Las Cruces, this Hawaii license plate was even rarer than the D.C. plate the woman who would not play by the rules had remarked upon! This fact gave our interaction with the woman who would not play by the rules a quirky Dadaist nature. My bandmate and I pondered this for the next several hours.

When a show falls through in Albuquerque, N.M., few escape hatches exist. One could schedule a money-burning day off. One could risk booking a show in El Paso, Texas, with a metal band. Or, one could flee I-10’s endless oil fields and drive south through scenic scrub desert to play in Marfa, Texas.

Marfa’s 2,000-plus citizens generate hearsay and rumor 100 miles north of the Mexican border in a ranch town-turned-boho artist community. “Watch for the alien Marfa Lights,” some say. “Marfa was developed by Donald Judd, this insane modernist sculptor,” says another. “David Byrne loves to play there,” says a third.

Booking a show in Marfa requires persistence. At a loss to find a venue, I called the local bookstore to seek advice. “Well,” said the bookstore clerk. “You need to call Carlos. He’s in a band in town.” The clerk gave me Carlos’s number. I called Carlos. His number didn’t work.

I called the bookstore again. “Carlos’s number doesn’t work,” I said. “Do you have another number for Carlos?” The clerk gave me Carlos’s work number. I left a message for Carlos at work. Carlos works at a restaurant. I thought it improbable he would call me back.

Unbelievably, Carlos called back. “We’d love do a show,” Carlos said. “You can play with my band at Ray’s or Joe’s.”

I was ecstatic. “Great!” I exclaimed. “Which is better, Ray’s or Joe’s?”

Carlos hesitated. “It’s the same place,” he said. “Some people call it Ray’s, but some people call it Joe’s.”

“What?” I said.

Last night, I realized my dream and played in Marfa at Ray’s/Joe’s. I also visited an art museum, a cemetery, a pizza place, and thanked clerks at the bookstore for putting me in touch with Carlos. My bandmates and I personally invited many Marfa-ites to our show. Most came, danced, bought our CDs, then engaged us in conversations about aesthetics.

“I enjoy the repetition,” a friendly gentleman said. “Very meditative.”

“My audio installations do not fit in with the art around here,” claimed a woman critical of local sculptor machismo. “‘Dude objects’ are made here.”

Of course, a bunch of arty folk can’t move to the middle of Texas and expect a smooth transition. “Ranchers were pushed out and the town was dying before Judd came,” said Ray, whose father Joe built Ray’s/Joe’s in 1955 before Marfa’s unexpected gentrification. “But houses are expensive.”

Still, I refuse to be cynical about a place where I can find an appreciative audience by walking down the street. That shit won’t fly on the Lower East Side.

(Photo: Bee Elvy)

Musicians excel at waiting. First, we wait for inspiration. Then, we wait for people to play music with. Then, we wait for an opportunity to record and release records. Then, we wait for the chance to tour.

I do not like to wait, and have waited enough. This is why I don’t like days off on tour.

Touring is a two-part undertaking. Part One is 23.5 hours of inactivity—waiting in cars, restaurants, hotel rooms, gas stations, etc. to play. This relative inactivity sometimes looks like activity—driving, sleeping, loading equipment, soundchecking, selling merchandise, etc. Some of this relative inactivity is even enjoyable. However, Part One is mere prelude to Part Two: the crucial .5 hours of performance time. The glory of Part Two reveals Part One as the equivalent of brushing one’s teeth before going to work.

Try this math: the tour I’m on is approximately 40 shows long. Forty shows times .5 hours per show equals 20 hours of work. That’s less than two full days of work that I have been planning since December of last year. That’s a lot of teeth-brushing. Because I have brushed my teeth for so long to do 20 hours of work, I can do without a day off in Midland, Texas.

Of course, a day off in Midland offers the opportunity to visit the home of President G.W. Bush. Midland also boasts overpriced hotels, “vegan” Boca Burgers at Denny’s, and everyone’s favorite anti-Semite in What Women Want on cable. If one wants to sit around waiting for laundry to dry while looking like complete shit (see photo above), Midland is choice.

I recognize that my allergy to days off is a psychological problem. After years of touring, I even have trouble relaxing on vacation. One day, I will shake this feeling and pursue another dream—playing Texas Hold ‘Em professionally and winning the World Series of Poker. But, to borrow from Yeats, my poker dream belongs to “a country for old men.” I am not ready to be put out to pasture in Yeats’ country yet, so know this: I will sit in my overpriced hotel room and watch South Park episodes on my IPod, but cannot enjoy my day off very much.

I already saw What Women Want in the theater.

Rumors once circulated that Denton—three-plus hours north of Austin—is a good place to play. Even though my shows in Denton are never good, I have played there three times. If I was a football coach and every audience member at every Denton that show I’d ever played was a football player, I still might have trouble fielding a football team.

Denton does have other charms. For example, there is exactly one thing for me to eat in Denton: a peanut butter smoothie at Jupiter Coffee House. In addition, Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Hall, my venue of choice, has a Joust machine. I am no Joust expert, but take delight in the Joust gaming interface which reminds me of my blissful childhood. I also find Joust delightful is its Zen simplicity. Oh, to be a futuristic ostrich who must kill other futuristic ostriches by flapping higher than them and bopping them on the head, then be forced to retrieve the strange eggs produced by this bopping!

Because few Denton citizens are interested in my music, I am tempted to put the city on my “DO NOT PLAY” list. I have considered putting Pittsburgh and the entire state of North Carolina on this list as well. However, I do not have the heart to write a “DO NOT PLAY” list. That is, I don’t have the heart to never play somewhere again—never ever.

Once, I played a show in a town called Cheb in the Czech Republic. Cheb was part of Germany until the end of World War II, when it was annexed to then-Czechoslovakia and everyone with money fled across the German border. In Cheb, I played at a dive bar with no P.A. A band that may or may not have been skinheads opened, either ironically or not-ironically welcoming the crowd with Nazi salutes. The promoter of this show had just been released from Czech prison after serving seven years for possession of a very small amount of marijuana. Outside the bar, small children were selling cocaine and their tiny bodies for cash. Who would go back to such a place?

I will, especially if they get a P.A.

Last night, I played to 5-10 people and earned $75, Still, I will go back to Denton. After all, Denton is better than Cheb and Rubber Gloves has a P.A. Two kids drove all the way from Dallas to see the show. Who has the heart to disappoint these two kids, especially on a Saturday night?

“How many lead singers does it take to change a light bulb?” asks the Emo’s employee. “Just one—he gets up on the ladder, grabs the bulb, and the whole world revolves around him! Ha!”

Soon, this friendly joke-teller will offer me marijuana. I will turn down the marijuana, as I prefer to get high on well-worn music biz humor indigenous to music towns like Austin, Texas. Austin is Texas’s answer to Los Angeles, but I doubt that any overserious L.A. record execs swap drummer jokes backstage before a show. This very overseriousness makes Los Angeles inferior to Austin.

“How do you know if a drummer is knocking on your front door?” asks the Emo’s employee. “The knocking speeds up and then he comes in at the wrong time! Ha!”

Music biz humor often comes at the expense of drummers, who are stereotyped as replaceable idiot tagalongs who do not excel at their instrument of choice.

“What’s the difference between a drummer and an extra large pizza?” asks the Emo’s employee. “An extra large pizza can feed a family of five! Ha!”

General drummer incompetence is linked to financial insolvency in anti-drummer stereotypes. This hyper-capitalist indictment can take a cruel, abstract bent.

“How do you get your drummer to stop limping all over your lawn?” asks the Emo’s employee. “Shoot him again! Ha!”

Do not expect that guitarists—portrayed as egomaniacal riffmeisters who play too long and play too loud—will be spared backstage barbs.

“How do you get a guitarist to turn down?” asks the Emo’s employee. “Put sheet music in front of him! Ha!”

Of course, not all well-worn music biz humor comes in “zinger” form. Many music jokes roll languidly off of the tongue, much like East Texas’s lazy green hills stretch west until they realize their cruel destinies—that is, to become West Texas desert.

“Musician dies and goes to heaven,” says the Emo’s employee. “St. Peter meets him at the pearly gates. St. Pete says, ‘Welcome.’ Musician says, ‘Is this really heaven?’ St. Pete says, ‘Yep, it sure is.’ Musician says, ‘Wow.’ St. Pete says, ‘Yep. You’ll never believe the band we got up here.’ Musician says, ‘What do you mean?’ St. Pete says, ‘Well, we got Jimi Hendrix on guitar. We got John Entwistle on bass. We got John Bonham on drums. And, because this is your eternal reward, you can sit in with this band anytime you want—now and forever, amen.’ So the guitarist says, ‘Are you serious?’ St. Pete says, ‘Yep.’ Musician says, ‘Well, hot damn, that’s everything I ever wanted!’ St. Pete says, ‘Yep. There’s just one catch.’ Musician says, ‘What’s that?’ St. Pete frowns and looks away. Musician says, ‘C’mon now, what is it?’ ‘Well…’ St. Pete says. ‘Jesus is in charge of the band and his girlfriend is the singer.’ Ha!”

Houston, Texas, has long been famous as my least favorite city in America. This is not because shows there are bad or because showgoers are unfriendly. In fact, the Houston punk scene is pretty supportive. Houston is my least favorite city in America because its highways are incredibly confusing.

I thought about some ways to convey what I call “Houston confusion.” I could post a picture of I-10’s unnavigatable loops and swirls, but that’s trite. Some traffic cameras hint at Houston’s labrynthine unmarked highways. However, I’ll just point out that Mapquest finds Houston the No. 1 “Toughest City for Visitors to Navigate” (D.C. readers—guess who’s No. 2?). Also, this is the address of the motel I slept in last night: “3200 West Sam Houston Parkway South.” Try to find that at three in the morning while eating a Taco Cabana burrito.

Once I did find my show last night, all went swimmingly. After the show, the friendly promoter provided some curious information.

“The show’s draw may have been hurt because an insane dude posted a death threat on this local message board and said he was going to bring a gun and kill everyone at the show,” the friendly promoter said.

“What?” I said.

“The show’s draw may have been hurt because an insane dude posted a death threat on this local message board and said he was going to bring a gun and kill everyone at the show,” the friendly promoter said again.

“That’s what I thought you said,” I said. Then, I remembered that local headliner—appropriately-named Bring Back the Guns—had taken the stage wearing T-shirts with targets. “So those target T-shirts were more than mere fashion statement!” I exclaimed.

“Are you glad I told you about the death threat after the show, and not before?” the friendly promoter asked.

“Yes,” I said. My mind began feverishly working. I found the number of people at the show adequate, I thought. Yet, the number of people at the show represents only those who are willing to risk death to see my band. This thought comforted me two hours later as I searched for 3200 West Sam Houston Parkway South.

But how many people would come see my band in Mapquest’s No. 1 Toughest City to Navigate if they knew they would survive the experience? I must wait for the next Houston show to answer this question—that is, if this hypothetical show can be found.

Punk orthodoxy demands that a band insist on playing or at least try to play all-ages shows, even though persons of all-ages may not like one’s band.

Last night, I played an all-ages show at the Green Project in New Orleans. The Green Project is a model all-ages venue. Run by motivated young people who have built a large, well-lit performance space with a decent sound system and a working toilet above a recycling center, the Green Project 1) feeds bands, 2) pays bands, 3) feeds bands, 4) somehow persists in a semi-devastated neighborhood on the border of NOLA’s very-devasted 9th Ward, and 5) sports a built-in crowd of motivated young people enthusiastic about music. However, few of these young people were too enthused about my band last night. No one heckled, but the response was, in the words of a Foreigner song, “cold as ice.”

I am 30 years old. I do not expect anyone, least of all teenagers who are probably smarter than me, to enjoy or even respect the music I make. Still, when an all-ages show I have struggled to put together goes awry, I am thrown into an emotional tailspin. I could play 100 terrible bar shows where I am heckled and assaulted and not blink, but when a bunch of kids isn’t into my band, I get bummed. “Godammit,” I think, taking Our Lord’s name in vain. “Teens are what this punk shit is about. Am I relevant?” I wonder for the 5,000,000th time. “What, in this society of the spectacle, does it mean to be relevant?” I wonder for the 500,000,000th time.

A former bandmate of mine once offered this wisdom: “It is ridiculous for a 30-year old man to get into the mind of a 16-year old.” However, against all odds and for no good reason, I will continue to pursue all-ages shows, even though—contrary to popular belief—they are ten times as hard to find as bar shows and (Green Project excepted) usually pay less.

After all, one can’t be too bummed about the reaction of the audience at the otherwise awesome Green Project. This question isn’t novel, but has anyone reading this been to New Orleans lately? Hurricane Katrina really fucked NOLA up! How do its citizens persist? I saw a kid riding a bike carrying one crutch—just one. Why was a kid who needs crutches riding a bike around his devastated neighborhood, and where the fuck was the other crutch?