Art by Cole Lempke

Much of my life currently, and perhaps always, feels like it’s stuck in the flux.

Depending how I fix my attention, the mood swings up or down.

Do you know what I mean?

Like if I start thinking about everything I haven’t done for this years comedy festival, I get a sinking feeling. But if I can (why does it feel considerably harder) shine my gaze on what feels, suspiciously, like joy about the festival, it doesn’t feel so suffocating.

13 years of something carries with it the old curious black cat, not walking under a ladder (this is good advice) and throwing salt over your shoulder of #s.

Good. At least there is something left in American culture that has a dose of weirdness about it. A number imbued with properties that one finds never coming up in pleasant conversation. A symbol that hasn’t been stripped of it’s power, yet.

Many, not all, but many comedy festivals in America are, to be diplomatic, not designed for comics. In fact, it’s kind of insulting to pay to fly to somewhere in the country, to just to do a couple of short sets for nobody.

The Santa Cruz Comedy Festival was designed by a comic (me), for comics, and comedy fans.

The idea is that starting at 5pm in downtown Santa Cruz, 75 comedians from LA, SF, Sac, New Hampshire, San Jose and Brooklyn, head off to 10 venues. For example, a comic might start at the free Streetlight Records show we have, then walk to Abbott Square, head over to the Jazz Club and end at a pizzeria or pub, or coffee shop.

Performing comedy at each spot.

Everything is timed in 10 minute sets, and as long as no comic delays, dilly daddles, get’s lost, has to go the bathroom, gets the feels, or too high, it all runs like clockwork.

What could go wrong?

It’s a ballet of artists. One comic runs around and challenges audience members to a hot sauce challenge. One comic is teaching a somatic body workshop earlier in the day. One comic performs mind blowing telepathy. It’s a weird ballet.

Fans could follow comics to their venues or otherwise support and welcome our conquering horde with presents and sage words.

Every unused space is a potential venue and as we grow into our teenage years, we are seeking more spots.

We is not really the correct word, it’s a me thing. And I should be writing some PRs - so we, I, will keep this Stack short.

Saturday October 17th, 10 venues, 5 ticketed and 5 FREE - stay tuned to our webpage as everything is revealed.

Jerry Garcia Band 2/8/1992 Devore Field, Southwestern College, Chula Vista, CA

Coming off 25 Grateful Dead shows in 40 days in 1992, aka The Divorce Tour, there was a rare Jerry Garcia Band show down in Chula Vista, and it was a must go event.

My rig this tour was a 1973 AM General FJ8. It looked like an Ice Cream Truck. But it was painted fatigue green so it looked like a M.A.S.H vehicle. We had painted a Red, Yellow and Green Cross on the side with some obligatory flowers.

Imagine this in fatigue green

We had a very “pull me over” vibe.

The drivers seat was on the right side and the drivers door slid open. Heading South on Highway One, with my door open, mere inches from the edge of the cliff was a perfect California experience. Harrowing for everyone else inside but I was loving it.

I remember the stereo blasting JGB’s take on Dylan’s Señor.

“Can you tell me where we’re headin’?

Lincoln County Road or Armageddon?

Seems like I been down this way before

Is there any truth in that, señor?”

The General was filled with various miscreants that I had accumulated in Chico. Tie-dyers, teachers, artists and a hitchhiker I had picked up outside Colorado whose face drooped due to a spider bite.

The Red, Yellow and Green Cross on the outside of the General wasn’t an empty symbol. Due to life being funny sometimes, the General was filled with a ton of full organic baby food jars, vitamins, first aid kits, and diapers.

This healthy new age allotment happened into my life and I took the mantle. I volunteered to distribute aid to whomever needed it.

That particular season, although their time on tour spanned years, the Twelve Tribes Bus (check out the new doc: People Magazine Investigates: The Secrets of the Twelve Tribes Cult) was always in the lot. They offered Red Cross aid. And even released reports of who they helped out.

Considering that walking barefoot through the parking lots of America was part and parcel of the Grateful Dead experience - you can imagine how many people had cuts, bruises, scrapes, burns, thorns, glass, and other things in their feet. Plus the usual need for things like aspirin, ‘profin, water and somebody to talk to for a mental health check.

But the Twelve Tribes, who I knew as The Yeshua’s, had an ulterior motive for helping. To kidnap souls to come back to their farm and join the “family”.

Dead lots were ripe picking for cults. Even if you were vaguely lost in life, I can tell you from experience, they would find you.

It even seems strange to me writing this, that tour life was inundated with multiple cults. C’est la vie, as the French say.

We parked the General directly in front of the Tribes bus. I hung a sign that said:

GET YESHUA OUT OF OUR FACEA

We gave away, sold and traded a bunch of our odd merch to young parents on tour, then locked up and headed into the show.

Such a treat to hear JGB outdoors in Devore Field. I ended up near the Golden Roaders who were spinning and paying me no mind, as we all enjoyed a truly special afternoon of music.

Heading to the General I saw my ragged crew gathered at the back of the vehicle, roll up door positioned, with each person eating baby food, and a pile of empty jars.

It was at this juncture that it was decided (I was the sole “no” vote) to go to Tijuana.

I’ve never wanted to leave somewhere so fast. Everyone was drinking shots, riding bulls and buying cheap cocaine - all while children begged for money. Never again.

With the headcount complete we headed North back from whence we came.

When all of a sudden.

Out of the far flung blue, was a border check with border patrol.

The border dogs immediately started barking.

We were pulled over to a side area where other not-so-lucky hippies were emptying all of their belongings from inside their vehicles onto the dirt. This didn’t bode well.

The General reeked of spilled bong water.

Before I even came to a full stop, the back sliding door, slid up rapidly and standing there were three border patrol, hands on guns, rifles slung over their shoulders.

Inside the General. Well. Have you ever been so unfortunate to live in a place where when you turned on the kitchen light, and cockroaches would scatter?

That’s what all the freaks in the General did, scurrying into as small a place as possible.

All except Reed who greeted the armed guards with a, “Hey. How you fella’s doing?” Then the warm laughter that followed most of his sentences.

The aforementioned rider with the spider bite? Well he had gone from looking like a minor stroke victim to a major stroke victim, half his face slopping towards the ground. And he was Canadian. And he had no passport.

For those keeping score I was now smuggling drugs and human trafficking.

In the corner of the General was a big stack of papers. My zine. Balls Edge. I sometimes gave it out on tour although it wasn’t Dead specific. It was a broadsheet and the same size as a daily newspaper.

One of the guards grabbed one and opened it up and looked at the back centerfold.

This is what he saw.

Illustration by the genius Steve Ferchaud

Have you ever had a moment that hung in the balance? A moment where the scales of your life were equilibrating and if it was a little too much one way - you were going to endure a lot of pain?

We collectively held our breaths.

The three guards looked at the centerfold again and asked if we gave these out to people. I told him that we did.

They started laughing.

Laughing hard in the kind of way that it was impossible for us not to laugh along, although we still weren’t sure if we were laughing at our own inevitable arrests.

“Can we take some to hang in our HQ?”

“Take as many as you like.”

They slammed our rear door, smacked the General on the ass, and told us to keep moving.

Two more months until Oakland!

Lakefront Arena, University of New Orleans, LA. 10/18/88

We pulled into The University of New Orleans at dusk. The show had already long started. We drove through the crowded lot seeing what became known as Shakedown. Everything changed when the Grateful Dead’s single Touch of Grey hit MTV and every newbie, misfit, entrepreneur, runaway and thrill seeker began flooding into shows.

photo by Jay Blakesberg of the filming of the Touch of Grey video at Laguna Seca in ‘87.

It was a crazy idea to drive from Northern California to see shows in Miami and St. Petersburg, Florida. We got shut out of one of the Florida shows, but what was really a constant bummer was, surprise, our Microbus.

It was a decent 1971 classic air-cooled Type 2 with a single genie. It had a cherry red bolt holding the generator in place that kept coming loose no matter how much I tightened it.

Leaving Florida on our way to New Orleans a new problem started. We were leaking oil and the bright red sensor was blinking on every bunch of miles.

In Pensacola, Florida on an early Monday morning, we found a mechanic named Gator. He said he could fix our oil problem and sent us to a nearby bar to drink orange juice and play pool, where we overheard this conversation.

“Did you see Gator last night?”

“I don’t know how he’s going to be at work today.”

After an hour or two we headed back to the mechanic shop where Gator said our problem was fixed, charged us a high sum of money, and waved to us, and our California license plate, as we drove west.

Turns out Gator did not replace anything. He simply disconnected the oil sensor so it didn’t light up. Which we didn’t realize at first. But I soon found myself stopping every 100 miles to add a half quart of oil so the engine wouldn’t seize.

And that usually involved letting the bus cool down and so we ran late. Very late.

Cruising the parking lot of the Lakefront Arena in New Orleans, we found that the far side of the arena had it’s own exit and nobody was vending on that side.

We were pioneers.

But it was a risky move considering that we needed money for gas and oil and the action was on the opposite side. Fuck it - we were running out of time.

We laid out our blanker and wares. In 1988 I was selling an array of weird stuff. Hand drawn aztec calendar stone, screen printed and hand colored on shirts and night gowns. The gowns were our best seller- go figure.

There were also dazzling beaded vests, crystals, some books, zines, and shiny things that attracted the saucer eyes of attendees exiting and high.

We could almost hear the show inside. The band was at the end of their second set. Probably another half hour until the hordes would descend and fund the next leg of tour. Back to Texas for two shows.

Walking out of the exit, dressed in casual Izods and yacht shoes, perhaps leaving to beat the impending traffic jam, was a young couple. Adhered to them like a sucker fish was a Deadhead who was not doing well.

“Take me to the hospital. Here is my wallet. Take everything.”

They seemed perplexed but also probably out of guilt and confusion were going to drive this sad sack to a hospital. It’s the right thing to do?

Going over, and much to the delight of the couple, I retrieved the wallet and said I would take care of him.

“Do you know him,” they asked.

“Of course I do,” I said.

While driving back and forth across the country and visiting parking lots and arenas where large amounts of people were dosing - there was never a shortage of folks that lost their cookies on some level and needed help.

I’d been there, would be there, and was always so grateful for the kindness of strangers that helped me through the weird times.

I brought the dude over and sat him down on the safe space of our Guatemalan blanket. I gave him my guitar to strum. Slowly, he began to tell his story.

“I went to a bathroom stall during drums and suddenly there was violent knocking on the door. I could see ostrich skin boots peeking under the door and I knew it was the cops. I had a half ounce of mushrooms on me - I ate all of them.

“I blew past the cop and ran through the hallways and then stopped to watch the show. Jerry was on stage and he had big leathery wings. And every time he played a note on his guitar, people in the audience were dying,” he said with his eyes wide open and pupils trembling.

“Yo Bro,” I said.

It was a pretty good story, but this dude was about to jump out of his skin.

“I believe you. But can I ask you a question? If people were dying inside the arena, there would be screaming. People would be running out of the exits. There would be ambulances. Do you hear or see any of that? No. No you don’t. You’re OK. You’re with us. We’re chilling outside a Grateful Dead show. Strum the guitar. Breath. You’re OK,” I said.

The show concluded and attendees were exiting and we were the only blanket in sight. I would pick up the shiniest baubles and catch the light so it hit potential customers right in the eyes.

A Deadhead who looked like Jesus taught me that.

Our blanket got a lot of action that night as were the only game in town.

Unfortunately, my wayward brother on the blanket was asking each person who was about to buy a shirt: “Did you see Jerry turn into Satan?”

“Bro. You’re scaring customers. Tone it down.”

He sulked a bit.

Up strolls a random dude who is interested in what we’re selling. My halfway house brother looks up at random dude and mumbles: “Did you see…..”

Without missing a beat, the other guy goes, “Jerry sprout wings?”

It was a goddam Chuck Woolery moment.

And those two, I hope, are still connecting on a deep level somewhere besides near me.

The crowd petered quickly. My gambit didn’t exactly work as good as it needed to. We didn’t have enough money to hit up the next two shows in Texas.

New plan, we head west and regroup and then head to Long Beach and close out the year in Oakland. It was a good plan. A solid plan. Not well thought out, but intuitively a bad ass plan.

That is until our microbus engine blew up in the middle of the desert in New Mexico.

But that’s another story.

Check this out.

Long story short, we met as strangers in his inner sanctum and soon found common interests. We had a lively conversation. Within our convo, I mentioned two names that were completely at random.

Upon leaving, Dan gifted me a copy of his book.

On the back cover, the two completely out of left field names that I had mentioned were there as endorsements and giving the book praise.

THE SAME TWO NAMES.

My thoughts went to Criss Angel and Houdini.

Was this a magic trick?

Dan was one of my two spiritual advisors on our (The Schmenge Brothers) film, MESSIAH INK - which will have it’s World Premiere at The Santa Cruz Film Festival on Saturday, October 17th.

The movie is a comedy. Is it a dark comedy? I guess that depends on your belief system and sense of humor.

The quick of it is: When a struggling author’s wildly misinterpreted interview quote goes viral, the internet crowns him the modern-day Messiah. While he would rather hide from his new celebrity status, his misfit roommates scheme to turn his moment-in-the-spotlight into rent money and beer.

Or something like that. It needs to be punchier.

Maybe I’m just being presumptuous that anyone will give a hoot about MESSIAH INK. After the 5000 projects throughout Northern California that I’ve produced, I’ve had my share of miffs, biffs, and nothing burgers.

But, and this should be the take-away, I’ve also had transcendent moments.

I’m not feeling born again, more like adopted. You know?

Like I’m in the extended family, but I’m not related to anyone. I still can be at the functions and be like, “OK. Hmm. Interesting.”

Pinned to the wall for a definition of god, I would try out:

Omnipotent, everywhere all at once, and nowhere at the same time. In every molecule, and in the space between quasars, fully interconnected, and self-aware and able to influence earthly events.

Hell yeah.

I can get onboard with that definition. I can. Really.

But it should also be remembered that I don’t know how anything works.

I don’t even understand how farts work.

He farts and you don’t smell it, but I do?

How mysterious.

I struggle with experts. Which is why I like Dan. He is an open book and always looking for new data to mine. And not a spoiler alert, but Dan is also a very textbook guy. He goes by the book and believes in scripture as being divinely delivered.

Here’s an old joke.

All the leaders of the world’s religions get together to discuss how they can agree on a unified theory of god. After many days of intense discussion they make their announcement.

The Pope representing all the world’s religions, gets on the mic, “We have all agreed that god is like a mountain. And each one of us has a spot on that mountain. And while our views may differ, we are on the same mountain.”

Just then the head Rabbi stands up and says, “I’m on a different mountain.”

It wasn’t just the set of wild circumstance in Dan’s office that has got me humming about god. That was just another clue on the road.

Did you ever dive into the 20 volumes of the Collected Works of Carl Jung?

During high school I was fascinated by synchronicities. Jung expounds and then expounds some more on what the heck synchronicities might be, but in the end, he felt they were an unknown underlying, interconnected “something” linking mind and matter.

How mysterious.

Some part of me is still in my high school mind and thinks synchronicities are god connecting me to the multiverse.

I also think about Martin Buber’s book I and Though, another high school favorite. Buber dwells on the idea that god shouldn’t be thought of as something outside of us. God is not an object.

Imagine my surprise in grad school to learn about the Hindu greeting from the Upanishads, Tat Tvam Asi.

Translated roughly as That Thou Art.

I’ll always be grateful to Professor Edward Mooney for his time and patience and for his act out of the greeting, Tat Tvam Asi.

“Imagine a world where you greet someone with, ‘You are god.’ They would respond, ‘You are god.’”

He then went around the class and said to each of us, “You are god.”

In my mind that meant greeting each person that you meet and recognizing the common spirit that you share with them.

That aligned with my thoughts on god. If god is omnipotent and all that is, and isn’t, then we are all god.

Either we all are, or nobody is.

Professor Mooney’s words are something that I think about a lot, even 40 years later.

Which begs the question. What do you do if you meet God on the road? Is it the same thing you do to the Buddha?

“Kill him”, was the zinger put forth by a Zen master in the 800’s.

Seems like a real buzzkill to finally meet the object of your adoration and then kill them. But I guess that’s what happens when you externalize god.

I may not know how things work, but if you were to ask me what I believe, the hill I’m willing die on is this.

I believe in complete social, racial and gender equality.

Hope you do too.

If ya haven’t noticed, because of social media, reels, clips, and viral videos, stand-up comedians seem to be exponentially growing into a unwieldy horde of yahoos.

It’s like some joker fed Gizmo three frozen pizzas after midnight and then doused the Giz with a firehose. Comics are everywhere.

Remember when we all got a U2 song on our computer? It’s like that with stand-up comics. Wether you want it or not, somebody you know is going to start to “try” stand-up comedy.

Might be your nephew, your co-worker, or even your father. There’s no age limit and very few rules to guide.

I’m glad I got in 20 years ago, because I know enough people that I’m literally one degree away from every comedian.

I got introduced to Beth by Dominic at Blonde Medicine Records (a comedy label). And frankly, it was choppy communication with Beth from the git-go.

All me.

My way of looking at this kind of thing is this. It’s a matter of statistics.

If I’m booking a comedy festival (and yes the next one is October 12-17 in Santa Cruz - thanks for asking) and I’m working with 75 comedians. Statistically one of those interactions will go sideways. More likely 10% will go sideways.

This could mean last minute cancellations, COVID, broken down cars, booking amnesia, too high, too drunk, or some other derailment. It’s baked into the comedy cake.

Long boring story short. I thought Beth hated me. She doesn’t. I don’t know why I had to carry that around in my head for 3 years.

Funny how we burden ourselves with false beliefs that just make our days more difficult.

For transparency sake, I’m a freelance journalist and this story appeared in parts in a weekly newspaper. Legally I don’t have to mention them because journalism is a gig economy, but at least we own our words.

Here we go.

Comedian Beth Stelling is nobodies fool. For the better part of two decades, Stelling has Forrest Gumped her way back and forth across the country, making strangers laugh in bars, theatre’s, festivals and on screens of all sizes. With a persistence and intensity normally reserved for high-level competitive athletes, Stelling’s humor, cleverness and personal transparency, make her a national treasure.

From Conan to Comedy Central’s @midnight, Chelsea Lately, The Pete Holmes Show and Jimmy Kimmel Live, the Ohio born comic is at the top of her game.

Two years ago, at 38 years-old, Stelling returned to her High School sport, and was successful in joining the U.S. Women’s Masters Field Hockey Team. Over the last few years, besides a full time life as a touring comedian, Stelling represented the U.S. in Buenos Aires, and South Africa. Combine this with the 21st Century new twist of touring comics having to post five times a week, and respond to comments, and there’s not much time left for anything else.

Stand-up comedy is primarily a community of broken misfit humans, and Stelling was the rare bird who had the competitive edge of a field hockey player, and understood the level of focus needed for success combined with a ruthless work ethic. Her adaptability to read a field and see where possible opportunities are, led to Stelling becoming a valued comedy writer on HBO’s Crashing.

From whatever angle you look at Stelling - successful comedy series writer (Crashing), multiple comedy specials Boner Appétit to You (2015), The Standups (2017), Girl Daddy (2020), and If You Didn’t Want Me Then (2023), or graduating from college magna cum laude - you’re looking at comedic olympiad. New material isn’t a problem.

Stelling is young, but old enough to remember when TV and radio were the most important ways to get the word out about upcoming shows. Now it’s the artists responsibility to get the word out. One should ask at what point do artists become part of the machine, rather than critics of it’s pointless machinations? For Stelling that question is an every day consideration.

There’s a class and glass ceiling in comedy. It used to be able to be shattered with appearances on late night shows, comedy specials and the sheer will of sticking to the straight and narrow of the stand-up comedy path. From the 1950’s until the early 2000’s this traditional route could give a comic a livelihood. That’s no longer true.

I caught Beth on the road to a gig in Northern California.

DNA: Hi, Beth. Nice to hear your voice. Where are you?

BETH: I am on the 5 North, but still have a ways to get to the Bay Area.

What you got going on?

I’m headlining the Sacramento Punch this weekend.

That’s cool. That’s a long drive (from LA).

Yeah. If I can, I’d rather drive than fly. I mean, gas is expensive, but so is jet fuel and time at the airport and blah, blah, blah. So when I can drive, I drive.

Show tonight?

No, tomorrow. They start tomorrow.

Do you ever drive that far and have to perform the same night?

With travel there’s always going to be some random inconsistencies. And there have been some pockets of really, inconsistent travel situations over the last few years. Sometimes I look back at the flights that I did make and can’t believe it. I would do the Comedy Attic in Bloomington, Indiana. Then, I would fly to Indianapolis same day of the show that it starts. The weekend on Thursday, then drive to Bloomington. And I think that’s the closest besides Kingston, New York. Those are the shows where I’ve cut it the closest to having to walk right on stage.

Is it exhilarating?

You know, it depends. I’m trying to think of the times I’ve done it. I feel like for the Bloomington show, that was a little stressful because it was like, oh God, am I going to make it in time? I don’t know, they were both equally stressful. I guess I was deeper into comedy for the Kingston, New York one, because that was just last April. So, you know, I’m less flappable.

You seem like you’re an organized person. Did you learn how to travel through field hockey? Like what to put in your bag?

Are you saying how did I know how to pack well when I started touring?

Yeah. I would imagine through, being a sporty person, you went on a lot of road trips.

I think I would probably chalk it up more to divorced parents and flying since I was 6, down to Orlando. So I’ve been flying for whatever that is, 44, wait, no, 34 years.

Your points must be amazing.

I wish I could rack up all those…

Child years.

Yeah, the court ordered visitation.

And you’re working your new hour now. Is that true?

I think I have an overabundance at this point. I think I was operating for, a good chunk of my career under the old sort of model. Put out an hour. Ideally start the new one right away, and tour it, and then put out another hour. But now with everybody being a comedian and YouTube, and the oversaturation and chasing followers and subscriptions and stuff, that’s not really the case anymore. There are still perhaps a few tastemakers in the business that are like selecting art that they care about, whether that person has followers or not, but usually they do. And I think... now it’s operating from a place of an algorithmic subscription-based draw.

How do you adapt. Do you?

I think like maybe two years ago the conversation became “Oh, we’re booked until 2026,” which is now. I can’t sit on material for that long. So I had an overabundance of material. So I put out about an hour over the last year on YouTube.

I still have, a bunch of material, but it’s like, what am I doing with it? Am I, going to try to shoot it really nicely myself and sell it? Am I trying to go the old way, which would be like, shoot it, you know, decently as a proof of concept and hope the material speaks for itself and maybe a tastemaker will say, oh yes, we want this. So it’s sort of like, what am I doing? Am I working? I’m so used to working towards an hour and now it’s like, I don’t have that direction anymore. Especially because I like keeping it close to my chest and then showing a finished piece of work. Whereas everyone else will post every breadcrumb along the way to getting there. Which seems to be the new way, but it’s just foreign to me.

In the day, on Johnny Carson or whatever, one appearance on a TV show, you’re set for life. And then the boom of the 80s, you know, every comedian bought a house, apparently. Seems like all the cards are off the table and on the floor. People are succeeding algorithmically, but that doesn’t mean that’s the only way to do it. And it’s not for everybody.

It’s just not for me. And the odd thing is, like, you know, I’m not too into reading about economics and the structure of capitalism. Obviously, I have a loose understanding of it from living in society. But it’s interesting. We’re all made to be like these workers, when really art and artistry used to be something that was a relief from that. And now we’ve become the same type of worker, except we’re trying to compete. Figure out an algorithm and capture every moment of someone’s day. And there’s a lot of pay to play happening. A lot of people pay to be in your feed, even if you’re not following them, which I am morally against.

This is actually the first tour where my managers has to do target ads because I’m still used to like getting to the city, doing local TV and radio and having that and having them push me on their newsletter and on their socials and just in general to their fan base. And that’s not really the case as much anymore. It’s meant to be on us. So we’ve become these workers. And of course, like you mentioned, I’m type A. Like I do work hard. I’m not lazy. I’m not a drug addict. Like I’m not that those two are synonymous, but it’s not that I’m saying I’m not up against like an obstacle keeping me from doing my art or getting in the way of it. And yet it makes me feel lazy that I don’t want to be online every day posting something every day that isn’t like finished or ready. So it’s an odd feeling. Someone could tell me, well, you need to work harder. You need to tape every set. You need to put stuff out.

You’ve just become..

A cog in the machine of capitalism. If you think that I should work and put something out every day for free on the internet. It makes me seem uppity and elitist to say that. But, don’t you want to be paid for your work?

On the special front, now it’s a luxury, right? When I look back and say, Conan produced my HBO special. I got to just show up and perform it.

Looking back, that’s a luxury.

Because in my last hour for Netflix, I had to front the money. I had to schedule everyone. I had to pick who’s going to be on my team and pay them, proper WGA wages and make less than what I did on my 1/2 hour?

That was the biggest change. I basically kind of witnessed every step of turning into a worker. And the whole time I have, of course, been working because I have been writing and creating new material.

And you were able to read the field early on, and got into comedy writing for Pete Holmes. You intuitively diversified your skillset.

Maybe it wasn’t the plan originally. But diversification used to be the thing. They’d be like, “Hey, don’t move to Hollywood. Don’t move to LA if you only do comedy. You need to be able to act. You need to be able to have these other art skills.” But now it’s like you need to diversify as a comedian and also do casting for a tech crew. It’s like, what? That’s not my fucking skill set. I need to pick a cinematographer. Okay, thanks. Yeah.

In America it’s all about your credits.

There’s an entire mindset around that. Like, if you play the UK or Ireland in particular, they don’t ask for your credits because it’s embarrassing.

Like they would never bring you up that way, because you’re a fucking loser if you’re bragging before you even go on about being on Carson or the Tonight Show.

So sensible.

And now it’s whatever it takes to get a credit, even if it’s a lie. Like if you were on the same show as John Mulaney, people will say they opened for him or anything. Anything they can say before. Posting in proximity to someone who has followers is the way and showing who you’re with. And to me, that’s like, that was gauche. You know, like I would be embarrassed if someone even caught me taking a selfie.

And now I’m supposed to live online and Show you what I’m eating and what the inside of my head looks like?

It seems like pandering when you do an introductions like that.

I always feel uncomfortable with hosts asking “what do you want me to say about you?” It’s like, what do people need to hear? I mean, if they’re coming to see me headline, they usually know that they’re there for a reason or they want to be there. I think, how about conversely, I posted a clip yesterday from my special six years ago, and people in comments were like, “my gosh, new fan,” or “this is so funny.” And it’s like, first of all, it’s really old. Second of all, you know what I mean? Like, you have to just shove yourself down people’s throats, and I find that really unnerving.

I did a tiny journalistic investigation of you on Reddit. People love you on Reddit. You have like the greatest fan base. Like I didn’t find not one negative thing.

Oh, that’s kind. I guess all the negative men are on Instagram.

Yeah, they tend to cluster up. They hate to be alone.

I get a lot of negative stuff from men on Instagram and especially Facebook. But like I had a back and forth with this 65 year old man named Chris yesterday and today. And he rattled something off and I replied and then we had a back and forth until it ended with him saying like, “you’re right. I just watched 60 seconds and now that I’ve looked at your other stuff and seen all your credits and it’s not easy what you do and you’ve accomplished so much. And I’ll think twice before I just rattle something off on a 60 second clip from 8 years ago.” And I was like, “Yeah, that’s pretty much all I ask.” Like, leave me alone. If you don’t like it, move on. But why are you trying to tear me down? So weird.

It is weird. Do you ever think you’re just arguing with AI?

Sometimes. 100%. There are times, especially on Instagram, I think that this person can’t be real. This is astonishing. But then on Facebook, it really is like oftentimes like it took me a while. I used to almost always just go right to their profile, but this time I didn’t. When I went to this guy’s profile, it’s a 65-year-old man who posts a selfie that’s two inches from his nose. And you know what I mean? So it’s just sort of like, whatever, man. I don’t even know.

If I ever become comedy czar I’m going to enforce that hosts look up headliners before they introduce them. If you don’t know who your headliner is, why are you hosting a comedy show? Like go join a Rotary Club.

I do it for when I’m bringing somebody up at the Comedy Store that I’ve been friends with for 10 years.

See what they’re up to? Get something fresh.

What their latest special is called. Or, whatever. It baffles me when someone won’t say my name right. I can’t imagine having a name that was actually hard to pronounce.

How do they mispronounce your name?

Who did it to me recently? Oh, Chris Spencer at the. Comedy Store said Beth Spelling. Or, sometimes I’ll get Sterling.

Yeah, I can see, I can totally see that.

It puts you on your heels. The truth is like, you want to be like, “my name is actually Beth Stelling.” But it just makes you look like what you don’t want in standup. When you’re introduced and there’s the wrong name. Like I want to correct it immediately. And yet that completely sucks, you know?

Makes you look a little diva.

What a diva. Makes you look like a diva and therefore also just draining your power because you look like a Diva who no one knows.

One last thing, this is just for me. I never connected with you at The Santa Cruz Comedy Festival. I saw you at the big theatre show and I was already bummed because I had invited your buddies The Puterbaugh Sisters and they had just texted their car broke down. And Natasha Leggero had COVID and wore a space helmet. Anyhew, I thought you hated me.

I’m trying to think.

I think the theater was hot. It was a big room. It was hot.

Yeah, the theater was really, really hot. And then I think the show was too long. That’s what I remember. And I remember just feeling like. Like this is, it’s not the first time it’s happened. Not to mention like when people either, when either the show’s too long or people are going too long, by the time I’m supposed to go, it’s like, nobody wants, like I can’t get it out of my head that everybody just really wants to either leave or go to bed or fall asleep because it’s so hot and they’re so tired. And it’s just like an uphill battle.

I messed up because I was looking to replace the Puterbaughs. But I counted them as two people when it was just one act. So I felt like we had to have an extra person on the show, and that’s where that’s where it went sideways.

I really wish they could have made it.

Are you your own press agent?

It’s just a mess out there. My managers have literally said, they are instructing me that I need to pay for ads. And I know that it makes me sound like a diva, I guess, that I don’t want to. Like, it’s not because I think people should just find me. I wish that I didn’t have to pay money to do that, when there could be a better way. Why isn’t the venue doing it? It’s such a disappointment. I just wish things were like...

Buy the ads and then tell your manager that have to prove that it made a difference. Are you supposed to do your own IG analytics? Probably.

Yeah. I’m spending the money, but they’re still taking the same percentage. Basically, I always say yes to anything that will get the word out for whatever area.

Be Sure to Catch Beth Next Time She Is In Your City

Find out more about Beth Stelling at https://bethstelling.com/

By looking at the tour of a year, I can recall where I was and what I was going through. It’s my way of Dead reckoning, as it were.

In 1986 I was living in San Rafael.

A buddy Tommy that I had known since kindergarten was attending Dominican College in San Rafael and offered me a place to stay.

I stayed.

I was waiting out my one year residency so I could attend graduate school.

Tommy got me paid work painting apartments and I learned about green bud, a.k.a sinsemilia.

“Tommy! It’s green? Put it back in the oven, it’s not done yet!”

Our apartment was located right between the Grateful Dead office and the recording studio. From our porch I could see Mt. Tamalpais.

It was a slice of heaven.

I had come off a hard year or so of caretaking for somebody who was in a terrible car accident.

I didn’t know much about how bodies store trauma back then, but part of me must have known, as I would take daily, and sometimes, nightly excursions up Mt. Tam.

Just me, my Walkman, and the wondrous, magical, mystical vibe of Mt. Tam.

Inside the apartment things were compressed, but cool. Tommy liked the Dead and the fourth roommate was the brother of John Cippolina’s manager.

I soon found myself backstage at small clubs, for shows by The Dinosaurs, Quicksilver, Zero, and John’s other bands with people like Nick Gravenites (Electric Flag) and Barry Melton (Country Joe & The Fish).

I quickly went from being a super anonymous East Coaster, just a face-in-the-crowd (upwards of 70,000), to driving bonafide, rock and roll legends to shows or home or wherever.

At the time, 24-years-old me, was quiet as shit. I think being a silent presence, plus owning a baby blue Oldsmobile Delta 88, is how I found myself being an iconic hippie legend shuttle driver.

One night I was smoking weed with Paul Kantner (Jefferson Airplane) outside The Fillmore when he saw Barry Melton coming.

“Hide” the creator of Blows Against The Empire told me.

We hid behind a dumpster and scared the shit out of Barry.

I had been in California less than a year.

I found a huge difference in quality of shows produced by Bill Graham vs everything else I had seen. He made it seem like we were a family.

1986 started with me having my mind blown at 5 shows at the Henry Kaiser in Oakland. Intimate enough with just 6,000 freaks, it felt like a winter sleep-away party with Bill Graham ref’ing volleyball games between fans and roadies.

My Deadhead jones was being satiated.

Then I would go back to painting apartments, smoking green bud and hanging out with Peter Albin (Big Brother), Spencer Dryden (Jefferson Airplane), and of course, John Cippolina (Quicksilver) and family.

Until the next Dead show.

I fell in love with the concerts at Cal Expo in Sacramento. The drive from San Rafael to Sac went through several bird sanctuaries and the marshy waters would be full of migratory birds of all sizes and shapes. I felt like John Muir.

Cal Expo was three days of shows, and camping, and every year there was just a continued fun experience.

Through all of it, I barely spoke.

I had found a sweet spot in my Extreme ADHD, and APD - that of a mute guy who has a car.

I began to lose the thread of my entire existence right around the Berkeley Community Theatre shows in April of ’86.

I still felt fresh out of NJ. California was a different groove. I had no idea how to “mellow out” and keep my brain from feeling like it was on fire.

I began to feel very much alone at Dead shows.

This was a weird feeling. I never had felt alone at Dead shows before.

I went to the Berkeley Community Theatre shows, which only fits 3,491 peeps! Tiny. I had tickets for two of the four nights. The vibe was extremely intimate with everyone else seeming to be insiders of some sort.

I felt like an orphan at a family reunion.

I had gone from being around people at shows who didn’t want to make eye contact to meeting people (sometimes) trying to engage with me (I never made this easy).

“Were you at Phil’s (Lesh) wedding? Check out these photos I took.”

One show at BCT in ‘86 was on my birthday. I was so thirsty and I couldn’t navigate the walk to the hallway. I couldn’t even muster the words to ask anyone for a drink. I had created my own dry little parched hell hole.

Another night - I was wandering outside Berkeley without a ticket. I didn’t look anything like the hordes of beardoes with flowing robes and a pungent smell that landed somewhere between frankincense and otter.

I reeked more of Springsteen circa. Born in the USA era.

I was lonely, but I felt like I belonged there.

I honestly cannot recall what happened next. But it was hours before the show started and I was outside the BCT, derping along.

Next thing I knew, I was inside the BCT, next to the soundboard watching Bob Weir and Brent Mydland do a soundcheck. It was so strange. Somebody let me in. Who?

That night is infamous in Dead circles for Brent’s emotional outburst, from behind his organ. It was so devastating to watch. But it reminded me that everyone is people and everyone is going through something that is invisible to others.

I thought I had my shit together. I didn’t. But Dead shows gave me a reprieve from my own inner turbulence.

And then there was The Frost Amphitheater in Stanford on May 10th, 1986.

I had really psyched myself into a fucking crater.

Stanford University is where the CIA “inadvertently” leaked LSD to Ken Kesey and his crew, who then stormed America.

“This is where it all began,” I kept telling myself. Which only minimized whatever sense of self I had to begin with, which wasn’t much.

I was panicking before I even left for the show.

Sometimes when I couldn’t regulate my emotions in public spaces I would write in notebooks, or read a book.

Entering the sprawling, tree studded lawn of The Frost it looked like a scene from the movie Hair.

Longhaired dreadheads were hanging from the branches of the trees. Everyone was playing frisbee, kicking hacky sacks or hanging on their blanket with friends and family. It was a glorious scene.

If they blasted the song, Age of Aquarius, it couldn’t have been more pitch perfect.

I found a grassy place to read my book.

Why was I trying to read Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, outdoors at a Dead show, is a good question that I have no answer for.

I was punching up. I don’t think I had even cracked 10 pages yet. And it was a tome, a beast of a book weighing in at 776 pages. It wasn’t a casual read.

I carried it like it was a bible.

I was starting to really really trip out.

The publishing house of the book was located at 666 5th Avenue in NYC. That seemed ominous. Why did I bring this fucking book to the show?

Right about then a hacky sack, from fifty feet away, boinked me in the head.

It reminded me of Huxley’s birds in his novel Island that would screech ATTENTION and HERE AND NOW.

I was brought back to the moment, and I felt lame and stupid. I threw the crocheted ball back to the dudes who were infinitely cooler then I would ever be.

Everyone around me was so smiley, and having a good time and they looked so natural doing it.

“Fuck. How come I get hit in the head with a hacky sack? I don’t belong here.”

The ANT’s were invading my brain. This was no picnic

The show was going to start soon and going up front row looked highly ambitious carrying around a 300lb book.

I left Gravity’s Rainbow by a tree and stood about 50 rows back.

Hard to say, but I was probably completely disassociating at this point.

I felt like I was about to have my first public major anxiety attack.

My ship was listing.

It was then that I felt her stand behind me.

She was much older than I was and had long braided hair.

She didn’t touch me, but I felt a wave of compassion enter my body. A warmth. A feeling of “Everything is OK.”

My mind began to right my ship.

“I was in a good place, my happy place. Jerry Garcia was onstage, and these were my favorite songs. I belonged here,” I thought.

As she walked away I caught her eye. It was Calico.

Calico was doing what she had already been doing for 20 years with the Hogfarm. Instant Karma Police and helping those out who needed guidance.

Woo woo or not. Calico changed my energy and my mind.

She taught me a valuable lesson that day that I carry with me still, which is: our job is to lift each other up.

I got my bearings and found myself 5th row, Jerry’s side.

Right before their fourth song, Big Steve Parish, Garcia’s personal henchman and roadie supreme grabbed my eye with authority. He looked pissed.

This was bad.

He made his way up to our aisle and started shuffling in towards me.

A six foot four shadow blocked my view of the entire stage. He mad dogs me. I looked up. “Uh. Hi Steve?’

He moved one person over and grabbed the kid next to me who had a microphone under his hat. The Dead allowed you to record shows but only in the tapers section. In a few seconds that dude was gone. I looked up and saw that Jerry was looking at me, not disapprovingly, but watching it all go down.

With that illegal taper guy gone, a hole had opened up in my immediate crowds spacing, just for a second. And in slides another dude who looks like Charlie Manson’s cousin. A wild man. A very kinetic dancer man, whose entire essence moved at the speed of the music that he heard in his head.

I was wearing reflective Ray Bans and happen to have very good peripheral vision.

Not to brag. Ahem.

So I was keeping one eye on this spastic dervish, while still enjoying the show. I could feel, that he felt that I was watching him, and his mood was getting dark and chaotic.

During a ripping version of the escalating song Let it Grow, this dude starts ripping off his clothing.

5th row. Outdoors. Lots of sunshine. Garcia is def aware of this situation.

He managed to strip totally naked and throw his clothes to the crowd before Big Steve returned, picked him up and carried him off.

As Steve was manhandling the sweaty naked man, he looked at me with his giant head on slight swivel - and it was like, “You again?”

Look. I know this Sub didn’t really go anywhere.

It was like if Seinfeld was a Deadhead.

“Did we learn anything? Was there a plot? The plot is there’s no plot? That’s the story?”

Sometimes the story is no story.

In April of 2001, I took an abandoned, derelict, abandoned turn-of-the century movie palace and turned it into a non-profit community performing art house.

A few months later was 9/11.

Then in 2019 I took an abandoned, falling apart, 2-plex movie theatre and turned it into a comedy club and experimental theatre.

One year later, on our anniversary, the world shut down with plague.

The funny part is my friends beg me not to repurpose a third theatre. It’s like I’m somehow seen as instrumental in unsealing some doom prophecy. Which I can’t really comment on, and sounds more like an ex-wife question.

So in 2025 I pivoted. We made a movie.

And after much ballyhoo, and struggle between the three directors, this is our official teaser poster.

I don’t know why I have to point out that no AI was used in the creation of this piece of art. But there ya go.

We went through so many taglines, including: A 98% TRUE STORY, AMERICA, HOLD MY BEER, GET IN THE VAN, DON’T TRUST THIS MOVIE, THE MESSIAH IS TRENDING, D.I.M. IS WATCHING, THE ALGORITHM CHOSE HIM, LIKE. SHARE. REPENT, THE SAINTS YOU’VE BEEN DOOMSCROLLING FOR, YOU CAN’T HAVE MESSIAH WITHOUT AI, THE MESSIAH IS BACK. AND THIS TIME HE BROUGHT HIS FRIENDS, A SIX-PACK OF SAVIOURS, THE LEAN, MEAN, MESSIAH MACHINE, THEY COME LIKE THIEVES IN THE NIGHT, MESSIAH INK: THEY’RE NOT ALL WOKE, ITS TIME FOR ANOTHER KIND OF SUPERHERO STORY and SIX FRIENDS. ONE MISSION. PAY RENT.

Making a movie is about having to constantly choose between a near infinite amount of choices. For somebody who struggles with Extreme ADHD, among other things, being immersed in 16-hour days, making minute and large changes every minute was a real treat.

I receive a lot of opinions about how I need to release MESSIAH INK. “Never stop marketing. Pin it to all your socials. Talk about it with everyone. Become available on social media with daily personal posts. If anyone offers you anything, take it. Solicit to streamers. Put it on YouTube.” Etc…..

But I also know that 99% of most movies get sidelined before they get out of the gate. So - we are looking for champions.

We got into our first film festival in October and I look forward to telling you about that when it’s time. If I had to put a fine point on it, just having accomplished this has made me very grateful, but my deeper hope is that it leads to more work (and that it doesn’t cause the world to end).

I found a new way to disassociate. I’ve been busy dissolving into myself.

Maybe this is the way of the artist, and the schizophrenic. How far can you wind your way into yourself, before you become hopelessly lost? Perhaps it’s when you begin to feel hopeless, which I do not.

Have you ever tried to take your life and look at it through a new lens?

Without drugs, I mean.

I’m talking a California sober attempt to take all your memories of yourself and reorganizing them into a new pattern.

That’s me above. A version of me. That’s the DNA that is one of the stars of a new movie called, MESSIAH INK.

There’s three of us in the creative team, and we spent 5 months planning and 8 days filming (only 3 days with the entire cast). From our first shot to our 3-day preview of MESSIAH INK in Chico, CA last week - it’s been 10 months.

We’re currently editing our final version and will be doing an exhibition in Portland this summer. But I digress.

The number one way that I have always disassociated was to use my skillset as a journalist, and sink into other peoples lives for a few weeks. Sometimes I get to be a entrepreneurial millionaire, or the pastor of a church, or a psychedelic author.

But lately I have been walking in my owns shoes, as our project MESSIAH INK lurches towards it’s most realized form. While the three of us on the creative team (aka The Schmenge Brothers) -

- shared many of the responsibilities on the project - I was the core writer. And bringing this story to the screen has been the most encompassing journey, where I needed to turn over every stone in my past, and see what’s underneath.

We don’t have an official synopsis yet, but it’s something like. “An author get’s caught in a viral moment and swept into celebrity culture. He want’s out, but his friends smell money.” Although that doesn’t quite sum it up. Close though.

These six actors are the crew of MESSIAH INK. And the characters of PS, BLT, KJ, LP, DNA and Jessica have lived in my head for over two decades. They first appeared in a novel in 2004. Then again in a bigger reprint in 2006.

For a few years, this group rummaged around my mind, moving things around until they went dormant. In 2020 a literary agent found my novel, and championed it. And as I began a rewrite, I soon found that this six-pack of people were wide awake and ready to rock and roll.

During COVID, I would hear daily conversations between them, chattering away. I’d run to my laptop and begin typing. I was soon up to 700 pages and realized a novel couldn’t contain them, and transitioned to a screenplay. And completed, 13 one-hour episodes.

Incredibly, the pilot episode got pitched in LA to an actual director. Not incredible at all, it was quickly passed on.

Where it begins to get real, is January 2025. I reached out to the creative team if they wanted to film it ourselves. They immediately said yes.

Including DNA as a character in the movie was a nod to so many influential books and movies where the author becomes a character. When I was casting the main group, another one of my hats, I casted an actor as DNA. When that fell apart a few weeks before our first shot, I stepped in front of the camera.

Are you seeing the dissociation yet? My brain went through being in control (as much as directors are ever in control of a movie) to being fed to the wolves. Luckily I had an actual actor to lean on.

Look SubStack - I’m not saying I’m going to be more active here - although I do have a backlog of interviews almost ready to go - because as we approach our true acid test in Portland - I’m definitely going to go inside again.

From somewhere inside myself,

DNA

Even Desmond Tutu only got a warm hug.

Maybe it’s because I did too much research. Emmylou was there at No Nukes and Farm Aid, strumming along with the intention to make the world a better place. And yes, it’s a consideration that Emmy (YES SHE LET ME CALL HER EMMY) is entering her 80th year.

I’m very sensitive to an artist’s “duty” to do 15 minute phone interviews with strangers as part of the job. And when someone like Emmy (!) who has been doing the slavish press junket her entire life comes my way, I prepare.

One thing I do is try to find a topic that an immediately break the ice. With Emmy it was animal rescue.

If you like interviews, this one reveals more of me than I like, but when you talk with Emmy, it can be revealing. Also note: the interview starts with her interviewing me.

EMMYLOU HARRIS: Hello, DNA. How are you?

DNA: Very good.

Are you in Santa Cruz?

Yes.

I love Santa Cruz. I have great memories of playing in that place.

You were here back when it was just a little tiny beach town.

Yeah, but it was also the place where you had the best radio station in the world. KFAT. Then KPIG.

It used to make a big difference when radio stations would play your music. It doesn’t seem to be the thing now. Everything is so corporate and people have a thousand ways to listen to music.

True, now it’s Sirius radio. Some stations are similar to KFAT, like Chris Stapleton’s radio station, number 63 on the dial. He plays everything. From James Brown to Tony Rice. I’m often listening to that when I’m in my car.

What do you have that you listen to that’s local (in Nashville)?

Yeah, we have TSU Radio from WTST. We also have a radio station that has real disc jockeys. It’s still alive.

Are you still involved with dog rescue and animal?

I have one in my backyard. It’s called Bonaparte’s Retreat, named after my first bus dog that traveled with me for 10 years. We focus on the dogs that sort of get left behind, bigger dogs, especially the older dogs that end up in shelters, dogs that have medical issues. So we’re small, but we try to help at least a few dogs that keep them from ending their lives, you know, in the big County shelters.

My wife and I adopted a Pyrenees that was going to the killing shelter who had cancer. And then after her, we have this guy sitting next to me. He’s 150 pounds. Nobody wanted him.

We have had a lot of those dogs come through Bonaparte’s Retreat. And it’s wonderful to see them get a second chance.

What brought you to dogs?

My family. I had started with a little dog. when I was four. And I don’t know, my father was studying to be a veterinarian. He loved animals when Pearl Harbor was bombed and he joined the Marine Corps. But my parents instilled in me a love and compassion for animals, dogs and cats.

People used to say that their dog is like their baby, and I thought they were crazy. But then we got our Pyrenees, and as I looked into her eyes my heart just started racing. And I turned to my wife and I said, I think I’m finally in love.

How did she take that?

She said, me too.

(Laughter)Yeah, it’s wonderful. I feel that dogs give us something in our lives that we really need. I think they help us take that one step day after day. You know, in the way that they are, they’re present. They’re present in the moment and their joy. is so infectious at the simplest things. So anyway, I believe that they are a gift to us.

People are so lonely and not getting enough connection, especially after COVID, and animals and music are so important.

I’ve got both of those big time in my life.

Do you still like touring?

I always loved it. I was, I took to it like a duck to water. And excuse me, I don’t tour as much. Usually I go out of and I still enjoy it. I do quite a lot of benefits for my dog rescue and other things that my heart, you know, is in. And using that, I reach out to my friend and do guitar pulls with them to raise money for different carpets. And that keeps us through different material, and every show is different. I am getting ready to do a farewell tour of the British Isles in Europe.

Do you find that you have a there’s more of an urgency now? Not because you’re getting older, but because America is burning to the ground.

Well, yes, I think probably it is. I mean, I don’t know how I can impact that.

But I do believe in the songs I sing and I do believe in the power of me. to take people to the better angels of the better angels of good nature. And so I think it has a human power. In a way, it’s almost like, you know, for some people it’s like going to church.

Do you see a similarity these days to what was happening in the social revolution in the 60s?

Well, I came through it a bit late, I didn’t really start making records until 1973. It impacted us all. I mean, the reason I first picked up the guitar was because of John Baez. First of all, her beautiful voice.

And then of course, Dylan and the protest songs, the songs that were shining a light on the civil rights movement. But I could have came to it. It sort of gave me my life and music. That’s what I realized I was supposed to do, you know. And unfortunately, I found myself, you know, there were people that came into my life that made that possible, you know?

There was also so much, so many musicians who were part of the No Nukes concerts. And, in 1979, we were all really worried that the world was going to blow up from those nuclear reactors. And did you, did, so, Yes, true. Music can bring people to their higher angels, but at the same time, those No Nukes concerts were very, and Farm Aid, those are very specific raising awareness of issues.

Do you have any current issues besides rescuing dogs that you feel are important for people to be aware of?

God, how many? As far as my focus, and my energy, is very localized. The plight of animals. I financially support a lot of the organizations. One is against puppy mills, or commercial breeding. If you start studying it, realize that by harming animals and killing them, or raising them the way we do, we’re actually harming ourselves. But people haven’t connected the dots, if you know what I mean.

Are you vegetarian?

I try to do. I think the term now has been coined a pescatarian.But I did give up my love of BBQ. And even chicken. I try to live my life that way. And I think it’s actually healthier and better for us, but I’m not going to tell people what to eat. I would say maybe just think about putting in some vegetarian meals, during the week. It doesn’t take a lot. I’ve seen statistics where people just did one vegetarian meal a week. It would help.

Trying to change people’s dominant paradigm on what’s acceptable to eat. And that’s one of the toughest things to do, really, almost like a religious belief.

You are what you eat. I mean, Paul McCarthy is wonderful for vegetarianism. And, I’ve had some good vegetarian meals. Vegan is a little hard.

It’s a struggle. And then during COVID, I really thought we were going to die. So I just ate Ben and Jerry’s every day. I’m like, what? Who cares?

Right. Well, I saw though. the other night, I can’t remember his name. He’s written a book. He’s talking. I think he helped put together the and where he says that, you know, if ice cream makes happy in moderation, it’s actually, you know, the sugar is, the damage of sugar is, you know, minimized by the presence of dairy. So go ahead, have that ice cream cone.

I like it. Give me one second. Akbash, please stop.

Yeah. No, I understand. And kudos to you for taking a dog that wasn’t perfect. You know, all he needed was a home. All dogs, all they really need is a home.

Emmy, I was slated for 15 minutes. It’s been 15 minutes.

Really?

Yeah. That was a nice little chat and I appreciate your time. And thank you so much for giving it to me.

And think about getting another dog. If one dog is good, two is even better. I have a couple.

I keep trying to tell my wife that. And I will tell her that Emmy Lou Harris told her to get another dog! All right. Well, thank you so much. Love you very much. And I hope to meet you one day.

Bye. Bye.

More info at https://www.emmylouharris.com/

This is a Grateful Dead show in 1980 at the Lewiston Maine Fairgrounds.

It was not my first Dead show, but it was the first time I was outside and able to take my shoes off. I’ve written about this show before (see below), but what looking at this picture reminded of was two things:

1. How young we all were (I was 18).

2. How I was living with undiagnosed Extreme ADHD.

Something about the Grateful Dead experience, not often mentioned, is this - All neurotypes were welcome and encouraged.

This was expressed in a deeper sentiment by Dr. John Weir Perry, who spoke alongside Garcia and Joseph Campbell at a symposium called From Ritual to Rapture: From Dionysus to the Grateful Dead.

Dr. Perry believed that schizophrenia was closer to Campbell’s Heroes Journey, and that psychosis could, in the right atmosphere, lead to higher states of consciousness. In an eggshell, Perry believed that Grateful Dead shows could be environments where psychosis, neurosis or whatever ails your brain, could be “cured.”

That’s my takeaway and it’s probably a simplification - but I will hold my ground.

Disclaimer here; I promised my 15-year-old self not to ever become jaded about anything to do with the Grateful Dead, nor shit on anyone else’s experiences. So I cannot speak to what is, or isn’t happening, at Dead & Co shows.

What I do know is that in 1980, and hundreds of other Grateful Dead shows, if the gestalt of the show was perfect, it created a non-locational space.

Poet Hakim Bey’s "non-locational space" is a form of cultural experience, that exists outside everything we call social reality.

Which is to say, that at a lot, of Grateful Dead shows one could step into a zone where it felt like complete acceptance. And for somebody who was 18 and had zero handle on, nor could even put into words: ADHD, dyslexia, stuttering, chronic anxiety, task paralysis and more - acceptance was intoxicating.

I was a young teenage deadhead (and now a silver haired old deadhead) because the Grateful Dead experience, all together as one, made me feel heard. The constant was Jerry Garcia, the band, the music, the songs, the crowd and me.

But you couldn’t always find the door to the bigger room in the TARDIS of Dead shows. Sometimes it was just intensely personal and the world outside your face would do it’s own thing.

And sometimes, things became transcendent. If you have a hankering for more on this show, read on. Otherwise, thank you and have a decent day.

09-06-1980

I had like 20 or 30 Grateful Dead concerts under my belt. But this show in Lewiston, Maine was my first outdoor show. Personally, my life was in a bit of a downward spiral. I was 18-years-old. I had recently NOT graduated from High School because I failed gym, don’t ask. For good or ill, I still hadn’t found a steady girlfriend. Most of my buddies had left for college. I was reluctantly working at Swenson’s Ice Cream and dreading starting Kean University, in Union, NJ. I only applied because my father thought I was retarded (“Who fails gym!?!”).

It was a three show jaunt stopping in Springfield, Massachusetts and Providence, Rhode Island. Every show I had seen previously was indoors. Madison Square Garden, Nassau Coliseum, The Spectrum in Philly. I didn’t know what I was missing. Northeasterners are used to being inside. We spend upwards of 6 months a year inside, running between heat sources and finding ways to be creative indoors without going stir crazy. Sure, I had seen a couple of outdoor concerts. A mile from my house, in Jersey, they used to have bands like Beaver Brown, Gary US Bonds and the Starship play a makeshift bandstand in the archery field. But this was unlike anything I had experienced.

Entering Lewiston, Maine it seemed as if the entire town was welcoming, or looking to cash in on, the invading horde. People were standing in their driveways offering $10 parking to anyone desperate enough. Restaurants had “Welcome Deadhead” signs in their windows. The line of VW’s, broken down wrecks and school buses, en route to the show, was being viewed as a parade. Children were waving. There was no undercurrent of weirdness, it was a true community spectacle. Post-show articles cried and pooh-poohed the wild atmosphere that occurred when the circus came to town, but they cried to the bank.

The concert was to be held at the State Fairgrounds that was established in 1898. It was to be a trip back and forward in time, and by the time we parked and had eaten our vitamin A, it was close to the starting line.

I was used to people scampering to the stage and setting up perimeters. Establishing little Trumpian invisible walls between my space and their space. This was different. It was concentrated with heads up close at the stage, but mellow and inviting. This was a marked difference from any previous shows. Everyone made room for everyone else until Bob Weir shouted his signature Take a Step Back speech. And for the first time, and possibly only time, everyone did step back and make room so we weren’t crushing fellow fans. I took that as my cue and retreated about halfway back into the field where there was plenty of room to breathe.

Keyboardist Brent Mydland had only joined the band in April ’79. Gone were Keith and Donna. The Dead’s album Go To Heaven had come out a few months prior to the show and featured some real nice Brent tunes. Brent was my guy. I thought he had one of the best voices in the biz, his keyboard playing was colorful and he was obviously a long-haired freak. Over the years it became obvious that the reason he could sing the blues so well was because he was suffering. But at this show, he was fresh and unjaded and so was I.

The Dead played for three hours. The opening bands included the brilliant, legendary Levon Helm who made up another couple of hours. This was a full day into evening experience. By the time the Dead took the stage, me along with 25,000 others were primed and ready to rock.

I’m a loner at shows. I like being able to control where and when I want to wander. I didn’t want to have to make small talk or review what had just happened. This is not to say I was alone. I was surrounded by like-minded people who with just a few succinct words, I could bond with in solidarity and purpose. Unlike all the indoor shows I had seen, having the sky above with clouds in tow, really opened up the cosmic vista. An undeniable connection between fans, band and environment occurred. Gone was the cement underneath. I took my shoes off. This might seem, especially to my California friends, a simple enough move, but it was revelatory.

Unlike The Great Nothing in The Never Ending Story, there was a great something afoot and the music of the Grateful Dead was the conduit. And much like The Never Ending Story, every person there felt like they were the central character in a book that had never been read before. It was a grounding experience. My roles that I played at home, mostly that of a lowly ice cream scooper with a GED, melted away. I felt lucky as hell to be there and I knew I wanted more. Now, as many have argued before, it could have all been a dream brought on by hallucinogens and heightened experience and projected expectations. But it was a dream, nonetheless, and my thinking was a dream is better than no dream at all, or worse yet, suburbia.

I can paint limitless pictures of what seeing The Dead was like. But at the center, was Jerry Garcia. Think less rock and roll front man and more like a great jazzmen, like Coltrane or Miles. His voice through his guitar danced through the crowd with each participant feeling a close connection to it. He was a shaman guiding thousands of souls through the portal between here and there and infinity. It was serious biz. Yet throughout the entire day the spirit of the Yippies, Zippies and Pranksters prevailed. Nothing is too serious . . . unless it’s Deadly Sirius.

Side note: I had never danced at a show yet. I swayed and I rocked with my feet firmly planted in the ground. I held my ground. It was an internal battle between wanting to let loose and having grown up in a super rigid system. Despite the deafening battle between my ears, nobody, not one soul judged me, nor made me feel a stranger. Later on in this series I’ll delve into the cults that popped up around the scene, but in general, the rule of the moment was “kindness” and that was a lifestyle I deeply resonated with.

I still had a ways to go downhill, but what I realized that day was that if I could turn things around I could move to California and be in the land of outdoor shows.

It was a non-locational space, as Hakim Bey would say.

What hooked me into wanting to take on a cover story for a regional paper, (story here) was the more I dove into Reddit, and the more stories I read about the people who were playing McMillen’s games - in particular, The Binding of Isaac - it became immediate that McMillen isn’t simply a indie game designer, he’s a bonafide artist, and world creator.

I contacted a friend in Romania that said McMillen’s game, The Binding of Isaac, basically, saved his life. I’m sure people have deep nostalgic attachment to Mario Bros, but a video game, an extremely low budget one at that - life changing?

Documentary filmmaker of Indie Game: The Movie, focussed on McMillen back in 2012. And the directors Lisanne Pajot and James Swirsky have never stopped filming McMillen. They are still working on a not-quite-in-focus-yet project.

When it comes to McMillen, Pajot is succinct: “He’s such an amazing storyteller. And, such a singular artist as well.”

McMillen’s latest six-year-journey is about to launch on 2/10/26 and it’s called Mewgenics. This interview is raw, and will be cleaned up - so enjoy the cracks and hisses.

DNA: Thanks for your time. I got your e-mail from Cole Lemke, who I wrote a story about. Have you never gotten a lot of press in town (Santa Cruz)?

Edmund: Not for like 15 years, maybe 10 years. It was never like a thing. I think the last time was when my wife went down, because we were trying to promote Indie Game: The Movie because it was it was premiering at the Rio. And we were trying to get somebody to write about it. And we actually went down to the Good Times office to explain that that’s happening.

You’re not famous in town, but you’re an underground legend.

That’s, yeah, it’s cool to, I mean, the select few people who know me know me and everyone else has no clue. But yeah, it’s cool to have grown up here (in Santa Cruz). I was super inspired by Jim Phillips.

I’m more of an internet person. I don’t think people think of me as somebody who lives in Santa Cruz.

And so I don’t really know where to start, but your Wikipedia page, unlike most Wikipedia pages. . .(BARKING) I’m sorry, I have a giant dog.

That rolls through. That’s a low voice.

Yeah, he’s 150 pounds of “how do you do”?

Jeez.

So, on your Wikipedia page, there’s like emotional content on it. Like the meta analysis, pulled it from your interviews or whatever.

I have no idea what it even says. I haven’t looked at my Wikipedia in like 10 years.

You originally started off doing comic books?

I did comics locally, and sold them locally, like at Streetlight Records and Borders when it was around. Also, Comicopolis.

Atlantis?

Not. I didn’t sell Atlantis. I don’t think I did. But I know them down there. But Comicopolis was the place that was kind of was cool with whatever. My stuff was very adult, so.

And who was your inspiration? Where did you get your inspiration for doing comics? Like what did you read growing up?

I mean, Mad Magazine. I mean, my stuff was like cross between Mad Magazine and R. Crumb. That’s kind of where I was at that point as a teenager.

R. Crumb has a new comic coming out.

Does he?

I don’t know if it’s his last one or what. I was like, wow, I didn’t know he was still alive. I mean, frankly, I wasn’t sure.

I know he moved away, like he moved to like France or something ages ago and I thought he retired because I know his like daughter is an artist and I thought like I’ve only heard about him through them.

Growing up in Watsonville, I mean, Mad Magazine is teenager kind of stuff, but like R Crumb is pretty adult. Where were you buying? Where were you getting your R Crumb from?

I found an R Crumb comic in a Mad Magazine in 5th grade that somebody had brought and donated to the classroom, and I took it.

According to Wikipedia, your grandmother introduced you to art? Is that true?

No. She wasn’t an artist. I mean, she supported me throughout. But no, I mean, I, nobody in my family was really an artist. My stepdad was like, somewhat of an artist and showed me how to like shade and stuff like that. But my my main I think my main interest in drawing just came from my obsession to draw Ninja Turtles, like in the mid 80s. And I really like was obsessed with drawing Ninja Turtles. And I think a few people commented that I was good at it and I wasn’t good at anything else. So It was like that dopamine hit from being complimented on something for the first time and realizing that maybe I should focus on that and people would like me. So I did that.

I mean, she was super supportive. I mean, it was like a half and half situation. My mom would move in with my grandma in Watsonville whenever we were in transition around Santa Cruz. And I spent a great deal of time with her and eventually ended up living with her as a teenager. And even though she was like a devout Catholic, she’s, for some reason, always supported whatever it was I was doing, even though it was not something she would be into.

My mom and my stepdad had an on-again, off-again relationship that caused us to move frequently.

Yeah. I mean, I made a game. I made a whole game about it.

That’s The Binding of Isaac. Did you feel that drawing and making these games was allowing you to process? Like it gave you control on your life because you were the one drawing. No one was telling you what to draw.

Yeah, when you create your own world, you make the rules.

Were you a gamer or what was the transition from comic books to games?

I mean, growing up in the 80s, I think every kid eventually had a Nintendo or played Nintendo. I was like the last kid on my block. I got a Nintendo right when Super Nintendo was coming out. But it was still super awesome, and everybody else on my block had Nintendos, and I’d go over and play their games and stuff, and I was super obsessed with Zelda and Mario 2 and Castlevania. I played a lot. It was never really, like, I never considered it as a career until I was doing it, and I didn’t realize it. Like, quite honestly, it was like, I thought, okay, Comics or animation, that’s my future. I’ll try to do that. And I wasn’t able to swing it with comics because no publisher would publish me. And I was so frustrated, I just decided, well, I’ll just take my comics online. So I took, like, some HTML Dreamweaver web design classes at Cabrillo and got what I needed. I failed those classes, but I still understood Went home, made my websites, and started hosting my comics online. And in that transition, one of the things that, one of the web tools that you used in the late ‘90s, early 2000s is a thing called Flash. Right. And it was just like interactive website stuff, which had some scripting to it. And through that, I made interactive comics. And that turned into and then that turned into really basic video game stuff. I didn’t even consider myself making games though. I still felt like I was making animations that you clicked a button to get through, you know, or, you know, point and click and drag. Like a dead baby dress up was like my claim to fame in like the very early 2000s, late 90s, which was part of my comics back in the day. And that one actually got around. They got in magazines in the UK and stuff. It was a pretty big, weird video game thing that got around the internet in the late ‘90s or early 2000s. And that’s when I was like, oh, OK, well, I guess I’ll focus on this. And through that, I found Newgrounds, newgrounds.com, which hosted Flash Animations and eventually Flash Games. I made a few Flash games and then found this place locally called, they were called Chronic Logic back then, and they had done a game called Pontifex. It was a bridge-building physics simulation game. And I think I just lost my job as an animal control officer locally. And I was like, What the **** am I supposed to do? So I was going to try one more time to do it as an artist. And I needed a portfolio because literally my portfolio was just a bunch of like dead baby jokes and **** jokes and, you know, obscene stuff. Right. So I approached these guys. They were literally like two blocks from my house off of Mission. And I was like, Hey, I’ll work for free. Like, let me do stuff for you guys. I’m building a portfolio. And then they hired me within a couple months and I started working on games there and I pitched this game called Gish, which was my first like what do you call it like something people paid for because everything before that I’d done was just a free online thing right and that’s what made me like once that came out I realized oh I’m a game designer making video games and like I feel like I have something to offer in this medium that is more unique than comics, I guess. Like I felt like I had more to offer this medium than others that I explored. So I decided to double down on that.

Wow. While you were at Cabrillo College, you were working as an animal control officer? That’s brutal.

Yeah, it was all over the place. But I mean, you get like used to it. Like sadly, you kind of just like, oh, that’s life. But I really like the job. I lost the job when it went to county. Like it went from SPCA to county. And everybody who hired me, like my higher ups were all like, not, they didn’t even have like high school diplomas and stuff. And they like, the city required that.

And they started panicking and like, It was this bizarre conspiracy. I like found out that they were like taking notes about every time I didn’t fill the gas tank up all the way when I dropped it off, like off my beat and stuff. So I was like, **** this, I’m leaving. Like they’re the people I was trusting for night calls. Like I’m in Watsonville, like getting a call for a blind pit bull that won’t get off somebody’s doorstep. These are the people that are supposed to back me up. They’re not there. They’re not helping me. So I quit. And then they like begged me to come back and said they were going to give me a raise and yada yada yada. And I went back and then within two weeks, once they found somebody to replace me, they fired me.

I mean, in a certain way, good.

Yeah, I mean, it was good. It took me a few years to be okay with how is that with that being good because I had never felt so wronged in my life.

Well, they’re going to find out.

I mean, dude, my training officer got a DUI on the job within a few years after I left. So I’m not even worried about that.

You were a good employee. You know, good employees usually are the ones who get it in the end. You know, I mean, it seems like, within a couple of years of that, you were getting written up, your game, you were getting noticed. Like, with Gish was 2004. It’s crazy to, so many people try, to be a game designer or anything, or open a restaurant or whatever. Most people fail. Like, all of a sudden, you start getting these, like you said, dopamine hits of recognition. And you were saying that’s when you knew you had picked the right field. But I mean, that must have been a real rush to find the lane to be in.

Oh, no, it was. There was a very specific moment, too, where we were demoing. So there’s this place called, it’s called GDC. It’s a Game Developers Conference. It used to be held in San Jose, now it’s held in San Francisco. It’s really big. Like people from all over the world, developers come and... commingle and they network and they show up.

It’s called the Independent Games Festival, which is this, back in the early 2000s was a very small, intimate little thing of where, you know, you submit your, you pay money, you submit your game, and then like half the games that got submitted actually got into the festival. You got to demo your game for people for the three days that it’s going. And then there’s an award ceremony and you’re up for a bunch of different prizes and stuff. And when Gish got into that and when we showed it in 2004, seeing people play the game, because until that point, like I’m, you don’t see people like laughing at your comics, you know what I mean? Like you’re not like watching people look at your work and like enjoy it in some way. You just never, you never get that kind of feedback at all. And I’m watching people play this game that I made and they’re like, like laughing and high fiving and like getting really into this game. And then I hear I’m hearing other people like question how we did it and, you know, like kind of just being in awe of it. And it was that moment where I’m like, holy **** like this is this is what I’m what I’m doing, like 100%. And the next year it won. the grand prize in game design. So one to the big the biggest awards possible for an indie game to to get in 2005, which was great in the moment, but sucked right after, like literally within a few days after realizing, like, what the **** am I supposed to do? Like independent games didn’t make money then, you know, like it was cool to. get the best thing in the world you could get when you’re just starting out, but then like what’s next and where do I go with this? And how do I make a living off of this? Because it’s not, it’s I’m barely getting by. And it still took another five years before I even had the opportunity to make a living off of my work.

After you won the initial awards, were you being headhunted or by any other, you know, by EA or by any other companies?

Yeah. Yeah. Actually, it’s pretty funny. Like right after we had won the award, I did get I got called by EA saying like, okay, we see you. We’re ready. You know, let’s let’s do this. If you if you’re serious about making games, we can offer you a job. And I was like, no, like, I’m the whole point is to be independent. Like, I don’t want, the whole point is to not work for a company. Like, which was a big misconception, especially with my mom and stuff too. Like, my mom was still like cutting out stuff in the newspaper and being like, oh, look, they’re hiring at this local video game place. And I’m trying to explain to her like, no, like I’m trying to, I’m trying to build my name enough that stuff opens up for me and that I have an opportunity to make money off of my work. Like I was able to get by like hustling, like working my *** off and doing like part-time contract work. But the video games didn’t start paying out until Super Meat Boy. Like that wasn’t, that was the first time I really ever made any kind of money off of my work.

Right after that, I had quit, like I tried to, I tried to make the website stuff work. There was like, I don’t know if of it, but in 99, you get paid bank for like internet ads. And by 2000, it was crashing. And then by 2001, it was dead. So like for a blip in time, I was making a living. Like I remember making like 700 bucks a month as, you know, an 18, 19 year old kid. just off my website. And that lasted a few months and it was gone forever. So I thought that was my career. I thought that that’s what I was going to do. And once that crashed and I had no other options, I was working at GameStop part-time like throughout my career really, but I had an opportunity to get a job as an animal control officer locally, and I did that for a year.

I’m just interested in animal control officers. Like, so you get a call that someone in the city has a raccoon under their house.

Yeah, and I was that guy too, and I preferred that stuff. Like, usually the most common is like, a dog has been abandoned somewhere or there’s a dead animal on the road and it needs to be chipped. Like you need to check it for chips to see if it’s like owned by anybody or.

Is it always new stress when you are trying to finish a game? Another piece of the puzzle you need to figure out.

Not so much. I mean, I usually work with people who are very technically gifted. Working with Tyler, who I’m working on Mewgenics with, I don’t really run into many issues when it comes to bugs or anything like that. This is on my end, though.

Well, since I’ve talked to you, I went out into the wild and just started finding people I knew that were gamers. And asking and I really stumbled across some people. I have a friend in Romania, Tudor, and he lost his mind when I told him I was doing a story that you were his absolute favorite. I had no idea, you know, that his, you know, binding of Isaac meant so much to him and it changed his life. And I was like, all right, so Yeah, I’m sure it’s frustrating, but you’re doing good work.

Well, thanks. Yeah, no, my stuff is spoken to people, especially overseas.

Can you give me the rundown on Mewgenics? Like what is the game exactly?

It’s a cat breeding simulation. Like it’s a cat hoarder game where you hoard cats in like an abandoned house. You breed them. and then you take them on adventures in like a kind of like D&D style. Like you class them as different classes. They gain abilities and loadouts that are similar to those D&D classes, like a thief or whatever else. And then you play turn-based combat events and random events, or you do like skill checks, and then you get loot and furniture for your house and defeat bosses and harvest food and save up money and then try to survive enough to come back to the house so then you can breed those cats with previous cats or stray cats in hopes that you will retain the skills that they left with or that they ended with and then go on more adventures and then the game just continuously. It’s like Isaac, it just keeps opening up and unfolding and Does that for a long time.

Like what drew you to Cats?

It was kind of a joke. My... My wife had a rule for a while that if I was starting a new project that she would get a new cat.

And I don’t know if you saw Indie Game: The Movie, or know of it.

I just watched an interview with the directors.

Yeah, they’ve been actually filming this. They’ve been back down here. It’s been kind of interesting. But yeah, so that movie, spoiler, the movie concludes with my wife getting her first hairless cat, which is what she wants through the whole movie. And by the time I was working on Mugenics, we had four. And they were all weird, exotic cats. Some like stray cats that we’ve brought in over time, but a few hairless cats. I thought it would be funny to kind of make a game about that, like as a joke, like my wife being a cat hoarder, and the kind of moral weirdness of purchasing purebred cats that have abnormalities that people like. ‘Cause we went down that rabbit hole pretty far, and that’s kind of where it all initially came from. But that was like the original prototype, which was like 12 years ago. It changed drastically since.

You remind me of like Grant Morrison, because he wove so much of himself into his stories. He found that the more he wove himself into his own stories, the more I don’t know, I guess strange incidents were happening to him where his stories were reflecting his life and vice versa. That ever happen to you?

No, I think it’s kind of the opposite for me. Like I usually, usually I write about personal experience because I’m trying to kind of figure it out.

And, you know, the creative process does help me kind of figure things out. And when I picked this project back up, like six years later, I’d had a kid and the game suddenly stopped being about cats and being more about having children and leaving a legacy and the kind of stuff you pass down to them and genetics, more about genetics and kind of like rolling with the hand you’re dealt, making the best of it and realizing where the silver lining and the downsides are.

If you had called the game Kidgenics, it would have been a whole different thing.

Yeah, it would be more literal. But yeah, I think I just like to write about it. Nothing ever like comes from it. Maybe I’ll like realize what I’m writing about a little bit better over time. But nothing ever really comes from the game. It’s always like life. It just helps me realize what I’m, why I’m interested in the topic to begin with.

As you like peel the layers back on your own psyche.

And it helps even more once I put it out, like with Isaac, the stuff that I was writing about there, I don’t think I had a full perspective on it until I could see it through other people’s eyes.

So there’s a lot of that too.

Have you devloped coping mechanisms to deal with the insane amount of stress that these games present to you?

I don’t feel, I honestly don’t feel any stress from game development. I don’t feel stress from life.

But I feel very, very little stress from this. It feels like I’m just hanging out with my friends and goofing off, really. I guess I feel some pressure in wanting there to be enough of a success to make, you know, my partner in this happy, you know. Tyler has never made a huge game. And I would like him to be financially stable off of this. So there’s some pressure in that. And I guess, the other people that I have working under me are looking to continue to work. So I guess there’s some pressure there too.

What do you like about Watsonville (California)?

And I really dig it. Like, I still like, I like going there because there’s some nostalgia there because my grandma is Mexican, or was Mexican, and I liked going to places with her and hearing her speak Spanish. She grew up in the depression here, and they came over during the depression, so they could never admit they were from Mexico. But she was very fluent and I could hear her speaking Spanish to these people and I’m like, ‘Teach me Spanish’. And she’s like, I don’t know how to speak Spanish and I will never teach you. It was very much the, stay out of the sun. Don’t tell anybody my maiden name sort of situation.

“It’s an art of being open enough to allow the project to show itself to you.” McMillen

Do you have a laid out routine for how you approach designing each game?

No. I very much like to keep it as open as possible to allow the game to show me where I’m going. I like, I write in a way, and it, like I know, I know my name and the point B, or I could say the point, you know, Z or whatever, and then all the letters in between I figure out as I go and I pivot to the direction that I feel is right at the time. It’s kind of hard to explain, but because usually in video games you can’t do that. Like you need everything locked down from the start. And for a lot of the game’s mechanics, of course, I do that. I like design all that. But there’s still, I don’t know, it’s an art of being open enough to allow the project to show itself to you.

I like to keep it unknown. I think it’s better for the project, but it’s also better for myself because it keeps me motivated to work on a project for a long time when I don’t know the end, you know?

It feels like I’m playing it, and I’m experiencing it as I’m writing it or designing it.

This time we are the ones looking for strange attractors.

We’re looking for early fans, other creatives, those with a deep streak of the weird, and anyone wanting to help us through our roll out. And so. . .

Welcome to MESSIAH INK.

In 2025 I threw up the proverbial Bat Signal for anyone that wanted to follow me into a new adventure.

Responding immediately were Dylan Hillerman and Julia Arrgh -

Our core creative team, aka The Schmenge Brothers, filmed an extremely ambitious feature entitled, MESSIAH INK.

SIDENOTE: Yes, we are a unit of co-directors and we refer to ourselves as The Schmenge Brothers.

Who We Are:

DYLAN & JULIA

Husband-and-wife team Dylan and Julia operate GuignolFest Media (founded 2008), an innovative Portland-based company, producing film festivals, creative projects, and live performances. As producers, artists, actors, and film editors, they collaborate with many filmmakers at all levels of production. Dylan has foundations in graphics, theater, art education, and film for 40+ years. Julia has been an interdisciplinary artist since the early 1990’s, for commercial and museum work internationally. They are also researchers and educators for art and emerging technology. Commercially, they produce animated and filmed content for their clientele. For MESSIAH INK, they are Co-Directors/Co-Producers with DNA and the film editors.

DNA

Comedian and journalist, DNA, has produced 5000 community-based events over the last 40 years. MESSIAH INK is a passion project that started as a failed Master’s thesis, an elaborate play, a thin novel, a thicker novel, two abandoned web series, and is now arriving in full form in June. Exactly when the world ends, just as planned.

Anyone interested in knowing more?

Greene was always a hustler, a pro active entertainer, who was selling his home-made burned CD’s at a coffee shop in Sacramento. Then, first pinnacle out of the gate, finding his first album, Gone Wanderin’ winning awards and constant radio play in the Bay Area of California.

Flying as fast as he could through tours with The Black Crowes, Taj Mahal, Susan Tedeschi, and with whomever was left of the Grateful Dead (notably the Terrapin Family), and appearing at music festivals around the world.

For a singer/songwriter at heart, that keeps cranking out lyrical and musical gems, life on the road is always the work, the job, the grind, to insure that his family is secure, and his muse satiated. With little downtime, Greene is re-evaluating things, priorities and his measurement of time.

Obviously I’m a fan of Greene, and I’ve lurked in similar intersecting circles because of his affiliation and love for the Mother Hips (and side project(s) with Tim Bluhm) .

Always a joy to get some time with the other JG.

DNA: Jackie! How ya spending your nights lately?

Jackie: Most of the time in the evenings after the kids are asleep, I’m on headphones in the back, tinkering away.

I mean, isn’t that the American dream?

Yeah, it is my American dream. It is the thing, you know, that I’ve always wanted to do. I like going on the road, but I like being a family man too. It’s like there’s a balance that has to be struck. I’m constantly trying to find that. But I do better and better, as I get older, I think.

More and more, everybody is thinking about that. Like why am I here? What am I doing? And what is it that actually, you know, that makes me feel like a human being?

I think that’s a worthwhile personal inquiry that individuals should go through. And everyone should ask those questions to themselves. For me, I’ve been very lucky. Like Bob’s (Weir) a good example. And Phil (Lesh) was also a good example of having a good balance. Like at the end of the day, you know, they’re both wonderful family men. They had that portion of their life as well as the musical portion of their life. And they have great kids and, I love them. And that’s a good model, you know, for me, I think.

There’s something about the intrinsic beauty of the greater Bay Area. Do you take your kids out for the nature walks?

Well, we live up near Sacramento, but there’s a lot of a lot of hiking and stuff that we’ve done up here. We do all kinds of stuff with the kids. I mean in the summertime, it’s like, man, it’s like we got, well, we got soccer. We got T-ball, all kinds of that stuff too. But yeah, I mean, the Bay Area just culturally has like a lot of music going on. It always has. And those guys are obviously a big part of that world.

You have an incredible work ethic. It seemed like for a long stretch, like you were just constantly touring and playing. How did you learn that?

Well, that’s just because my first tours, were with really old school folks, like B.B. King and Buddy Guy and all these acts that have been around forever. They knew how to work. And everybody I really like, I really respect is, they have that mentality. Warren Hayes is a great example. Nobody works more than that guy, as far as I know. And just hanging around with him and there’s something about it that’s a privilege. I just always felt that you should do it while you can do it. I guess I do have a good work work ethic. Yeah, I do. Yeah, why not? I’ll take, I’ll take that.

I remember seeing Warren in the parking lots with a little table trying to sell CDs. He’s been hustle from day one.

There’s a mad respect to all of that. It’s just the right influence, I think, in that department. I don’t want to be lazy. I don’t want to take it for granted, you know, that kind of thing.

Look, first of all, is it Till the Morning Comes? What’s the name of that album?

Till the Light Comes.

Jeez, that album saved my life one night from a bad mushroom trip. I was just... I just put that album on over and over till like it was dawn. I was like, oh, thank God. But do you, as a family man, do you find like new inspiration when you’re writing songs now?

(laughs) I mean this next record, it’s called, it’s called Welcome to the Family. I go between calling it Jackie Green’s Family Album and Welcome to the Family. Like family, thematically family related stuff. So for sure. Yeah, I’m like, I’m pulling from that heavy right now.

And I think the last song I heard was Recession Proof. Is that right?

Yeah, but yeah, during ‘22. I got a couple songs I put up on my web. They’re probably still up there.

Yeah, that’s where I heard it.

I’m not an internet guy. Give me a break

I mean, yes, but at the same time, during COVID, you were one of my constants every week on the olde internet.

I did figure out how to do a live stream.

I mean, give yourself credit, Greene. You ******* you know what you’re doing. I mythologize a lot. So, the way I see it is this nucleus of the bands in the 1960s in the Bay Area, expanded out and their ripple, their wave was like a tsunami. It brought in so many people. Growing up did you have like a penchant or whatever for 60s music?

No, I didn’t because I didn’t really know it. I mean, I had come from, I had come from just sort of parallel to the Grateful Dead. Like I was really liked Bob Dylan. you know. To this day. It was like, that was my guy. You know like this dude could do no wrong. And as a matter of fact, when I was, what was it? I was, maybe 19 or so, I went and saw Dylan play and Phil Lesh and Friends was on the bill also that night. And Larry Campbell was in Dylan’s band that night. And it was just so funny, like years later, I would end up in a band with Larry playing with Phil.

Incredible, right? And that’s the magic of that Bay Area, whatever happened originally.

Yeah, the magic. But it’s a good metaphor. Yeah, it’s like some sort of a wave that that came out from the nucleus of the Bay Area and came back with a bunch of musicians. Yeah, right. It’s like casting a net for fish.

A Mother Hip’s fan was saying to me what a brutal break up song Shut the Door is, and I was like have you heard Idiot Wind?

Yeah, really. really, really. my God, have you heard that whole record?

Blood on the Tracks. I mean, come on! So, as a guy who’s getting older, has your regime changed in terms of like prepping for shows and staying healthy?

I mean, just like the particulars, I actually do vocal warm-ups now, which I never did before. I actually kind of feel like that helps me out. I would say that like, not really. I just, I kind of, I’m always playing. So it’s like I don’t really, I’m not like really particularly practicing necessarily. I just, there’s instruments in every room in my house and there’s always time to play. So I pretty much am doing it all the time anyway. So I don’t really feel like I need to, unless there’s something like we just like tonight we’re we’re doing something a little different. We got a little jazz combo, upright bass, piano, and like, so we worked on that stuff. So, other than that, you know, little projects I’ll work on, but for my main like modus operandi is just writing songs and... I’m taking my time at this point to make sure the record’s right, the way what I want to do and what I want to say and how I want to say it and all that. I don’t try to push it. I’ve never really tried to push it because I just don’t like myself on the result when it’s, you know, I feel pushed, you know. It’s like when you’re going through the airport and TSA is shoving you through, and you like got to get your computer. You’re like, man, ******* give me a break. You know, it feels like that. You know what I mean?

Yeah, right. I know. Let’s roll this out slower.

Let me make sure this **** is right so I don’t forget my keys. Yeah, exactly.

Was KPIG the first, one of the first stations to kind of break out your album?

KPIG and KFOG were both the first. The Bay Area stations. KPIG and KFOG played my stuff long before Sacramento ever did. For years, probably. Which is fine, because they’re bigger and better stations. No offense. It helped me out. And I played, I’ve probably done a couple of the swine soirees that they’ve had.

Yeah, I remember that.

In the past. Yeah, I mean, KPIG, I’ve been in, God, I’ve been in, they’ve even changed buildings on me, I think.

Yeah, I think they’re in a smaller one now.

Yeah, I love KPIG, I love KFOG.

What are your setlists like when you play with your band?

We always have fun. We don’t, we don’t really make a set list. Yeah. It’ll be different both nights. We don’t really know. I imagine. I mean, I’ll just say it now. I imagine we’ll probably do some Bob stuff. You know, we’ll probably get into some, you know, we’ll probably do that. But other than that, I mean, we don’t have anything other big plans than just to have fun like we always do. You know, we always have a good time there.

Thank you for your time, Jackie. I really appreciate you getting back to me. Last question. Are you the kind of person who sets goals? Do you have things that you see ahead, that you want to get to or achieve?

I guess maybe in the past I would have, I would have, I would have said. Yes, and it might have been a little bit of kind of ******** because my real only goal is to get at the best song, at least music-wise, is to get at the best song that I can get at.

And then, but simultaneous, now that I’m a dad and a family man, I have that calling as well. So like I said, it’s a balance of both of those things. I really want to do a good job of being a dad and being a husband and all of that stuff. But at the same time, I want to try and make the best songs I can. And I think they, I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. And, that’s what I’m saying about Bob and Phil. Those are good examples of how to do, how to be both. Let’s put it that way.

In my opinion, there’s a core level of authenticity in your performance.

I do like what I like and I don’t necessarily want to follow a trend or anything. And I’m going to be true to that. And I mean, that’s what the muse is, like you have to do that if you’re going to be serious. You have to follow that. You can’t listen to other people in that regard.

THANK YOU FOR READING! Consider sharing this or helping amplify my interviews if ya dig that kind of thing.

Parts of this interview appeared here.

But for several generations, Uncle Floyd was most widely known for his lo-fi television show, The Uncle Floyd Show (1974-1998). Having been too young for Soupy Sales, I never saw a children’s show, that was definitely not for kids, until I tilted the rabbit-ear’s one day, looking through the UHF channels for something, anything that was better than suburbia and found Uncle Floyd.

With a wide cast of characters and puppets, The Uncle Floyd Show was notoriously dumb, and played with some ancient stereotypes. And yet, it was original, heartfelt and the Braveheart of corporate television.

David Bowie was a fan and wrote a song about Floyd, and Floyd often had amazing guests like The Ramones and Monty Python. The show was so New Jersey from the bottom to the top, and it’s captain, it’s head cheerleader, was Floyd.

This is my Uncle Floyd story.

1977 in West Orange, NJ was so epically boring. No cable, no internet, no video arcades, only 4 or 5 stations on the TV, and a highlight could be looking at the Encyclopedia Britannica. That level of boring. Yes, there was the outside and all of it’s fun. But inside, Lamesville.

Weed at 15, was a welcome respite from the suffocating insulated nature of suburban society. Finding Floyd on the staticky channels was like winning the lottery. It was as if I found somebody who was talking to me. Letting me know that I was right, suburban NJ does suck. And then letting the Ramones play in the studio to prove the point.

I’m not sure when I realized that Floyd’s teensy television studio was up the hill from my house. Just a tiny joint of a place, dwarfed by broadcasting towers, and next door to the Eagle Rock Bowling Alley. And not until much later did I realize that Floyd’s lair was next to a recording studio - which explains why Meatloaf, Bon Jovi, Cyndi Lauper and others showed up on the show.

I was 15 and getting high, and walking aimlessly to the Turtle Back Zoo for no reason. Talking with my buddy Marc, heading into the McDonalds, killing time, and who do we see there ordering a milk shake, is Uncle Floyd. I had no reason to say hello, I lived in a world of critical anxiety. When I saw Marc walk up to him and say hello, I ducked out and got as far away as possible.

Outside, shortly after, Marc let me know he booked me a gig on the Uncle Floyd show to do magic. When? Next week.

This was terrible news. Yes, I did put on magic shows between the ages 8-12. Yes, I got paid to do it sometimes. Yes, I did often dress in weird costumes and had a ventriloquist dummy that was filthy and my primal id, blurting out things I would never say.

But that was behind me. Word got out amongst my highly critical, ball busting friends, and it became a peer pressure dare to do it.

I had a lot of fuckin’ of anxiety, but I also had a gene that has always, and still does, demand “on with the show.”

I don’t remember who drove to the studio. One of us has had a temporary license. This was being filmed at dusk, so the last sunlight of Jersey was setting fast. There was a pre-game of Mickey’s Big Mouths, one of the malt beers that became “the beer to drink” for a while amongst the Junior High freaks.

I mentioned “the gene.” I have it. Beside’s the name, I’ve produced over 5K community events over the decades. Even back then, I had a thought, “I’m on TV. I need to go big.” And then I remembered, Larry had a bird.

I was going to use a real bird, that would be set on fire, in a magic trick, on TV. I had never done this trick before. In theory it would work. I also had no experience with birds. Zero. What could go wrong?

Whomever had the temporary drivers license made a pit stop so I could get the bird. “Keep the cage covered with the sheet, until you need him,” Larry said. What else could I possibly need to know?

My car of goons showed up at the top of the hill, across from the reservation, parking in the small TV lot, and underneath the looming towers. First rule of order was that nobody was allowed in the studio besides me. My friends would have to wait outside until it was over. (edit: My friend Marc, let me know that he was in the studio and saw the bird fly off)

Floyd greeted me. Inside the studio it was tight. The set was no more than six feet wide and four feet deep. The TV camera was right there. You could almost touch it from Floyds TV desk. The stage lights were scalding hot. I asked if I could use Oogie (his #1 puppet) in a trick. He said no and that was definitely the right answer.

Then Floyd wanted to see the bird. I whipped back the sheet and the bright lights woke that bird up like a shot of adrenaline in the breast plate. I opened the little door and that bird flew out of that cage like a bird out of hell.

My strongest memory is Floyd chasing the bird in the studio. Me chasing Floyd and it culminating with the three of us locked in the bathroom. For any magic nerds it was the Dove Pan trick. A trick in which I never used a dove, finch, warbler, or any bird. But here we were, surrounded by porcelain. We mutually decided, Floyd and I, the bird having no say in the matter - that I would put some water in the bottom pan of the trick, and when it perched, which it did, I would slam the cover down on it, which I did.

Camera rolling, I was introduced by Floyd and then I was solo onstage on TV, trying to remember what to do. Just my tricks, and me, and Schrödinger’s Bird (in the pan). Alive? Dead? I guess we’ll see.

The tape that it was recorded on, like so many of the Uncle Floyd shows, was soon recorded over by another show. It’s a thing that was a thing, but is now a memory. So from memory, I was 15 and I was awkward. I was using saying barely remembered patter and lame banter (something about “having just performed for the Royalty of Europe”), and then the finale. I lit the pan on fire (big cheer from Floyd co-horts Mugsy, Scott and Looney Skip Rooney).

I remember pulling the lid off the flaming pan, and seeing a bird crumpled up and lifeless. I remember holding it up by one wing, and saying, “Chicken flambé ” which also got a laugh. And then either the heimlichian position of holding it, or the heat of the lights drying it out, the bird came back to life and I put it back in the cage and covered it quickly with the sheet.

Afterwards, I was walking outside the studio with Floyd and crew, and Scott Gordon, who was a big man, saw a dent near the trunk of his car. I knew my dumbass friends had probably kicked it in, as they consumed the rest of whatever illicit’s we had brought.

Scott went over, opened his trunk and bashed the dent from the inside out with his meaty fist, and popped it right out. They don’t make cars like that anymore. And they don’t make quality humans like Floyd anymore. Often performing 300 times a year in live shows, Floyd was revolutionary, and an influencer.

At least for me he was.

I don’t have the Bobby Ace music on yet, the Black Throated Wind is in the wings, as demon dog isn’t settled down for the night, yet.

The only music that calms him down is Jack Johnson. And I don’t want to hear Jack right now. At first I never wanted to hear Jack. But demon dog was right. Jack doesn’t suck.

Even if you could care less about Bob Weir, or are happy for some strange reason (you always hated the Dead and deadheads, and some hitchhiker wearing a dancing bear tye dye, gave you scabies once), Bob Weir is indisputable, verifiable, as one of America’s greatest entertainers.

He’s been onstage for 63 years! At different magnitudes of being a star. He died with his boots on, playing and singing his songs until he couldn’t. To me he’s in the same category as Johnny Appleseed, Willie Nelson, and Paul Bunyon - an American, and a humanitarian that was pushing a message of kindness. And Weir was hilarious. A fucking gem.

I missed seeing teenage Bobby and 20’s Bobby, I got the 30s to the 40s, Bobby. I got the short shorts and the scaffolding climbing, Bobby.

Weir loved to entertain. That was the tough nut, for a lot of deadheads, that stuck in their craw. Why the pink shirt? Why the perfectly coifed hair? Jerry didn’t do any of that. For me, at a certain point it dawned on me that they were a dynamic duo. Batman and Robin. The talented guitarist and his dyslexic sidekick. They adored each other and complimented each other and were hilarious together.

The barking outside is in danger of the neighbors getting pissed, so I bribed demon dog inside with a chew stick. He’s currently 147.6 pounds. So the respite from PTSD inducing barking, with a meager chew stick, will be short. It was very short(see picture).

We went outside. It’s dark. He barks at the invisible birds. He runs to every corner of the house and barks and smells yesterday. He’s a 3000 year old protector and the perimeter is secure.

If you doubt the versatileness and intrinsic talent of Bob Weir, and his imprint on music far and wide, watch The Other One doc on Netflix. Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth), of all people, praised Weir’s style as pioneering experimental rhythm guitarist that broke through barriers - and led the way.

My Bob Weir story that I’m avoiding writing right now, goes thusly:

I hooked up an interview with Weir in October, 1995. Just a few months after his best friend, Jerry Garcia, died. I was told not to ask about Jerry. That was OK. I didn’t want to talk about it either. One thing Weir was up to, besides grieving, was leaning into being an eco-warrior.

The Further Foundation aimed to feed the hungry, educate children and raised the red flag about the deterioration of the Amazon basin. It should be noted this interview was for Magical Blend Magazine. Other stories in this same issue you can see from the cover (see picture). I talked to most of those people. I argued with Carlos Castanada. Calrissa Pinkola Estes is a lovely person, and her books have value.

This Bob Weir interview has never been published besides the magazine in ’95, and the defunct website.

BOB FUCKING WEIR - loved him.

My plan was to retype it all, but c’mon. That would take forever. And besides, demon dog is sleeping at my feet.

For Canadian good guy, and Whose Line Is It veteran, Colin Mochrie, his improv skills seem fluid and hilarious, and even when he sweats, it’s funny.

This interview occurred a few weeks ago.

DNA: Hey, Colin, this is DNA. Hi. Great. Just a quick up top, I’m A stand-up comedian at night. And obviously, I’ve been watching your show (Whose Line Is It?) forever, and I’m very excited. Thank you for your time.

COLIN: No problem. Stand up.

How about you? Did you ever do stand up?

No, too much work. And also, my thing is, if I’m going down, I’m taking as many friends as I can with me.

Yeah, it’s pretty lonely up there sometimes. I just did shows in New Jersey and a couple were a love fest and then one was a real disaster.

Funny how that happens.

With improv though, it’s like being in a band when you’re on stage there. Someone else can always take a solo, if things get rough.

Yeah, exactly.

You were pretty young when you started off, in Canada doing improv. What was the name of the company that you started doing improv with?

Theater Sports.

How did you find, how’d you dip your toe into it?

I was at theater school and a friend of mine was doing a play reading at one of the local theaters. And part of the evening was this thing called Theater Sports that had been developed by Kate Johnstone, an Englishman who was teaching at one of the universities in Calgary. And it was improv in a sports setting, sort of. There was a referee, he would issue challenges, and each team would perform, and then there’d be judges that would judge it. And it just, I was just impressed by it. It was just fun to watch them get something from the audience and then end up making a scene about it. So I think it was like a month later, they formed a league in Vancouver. So I took a class and then started doing it, thinking, okay, this is kind of my weekend thing. This was so much fun, never thinking, oh, this will be my career one day. At that point, nobody really knew what improv was. When we were starting out, it was We’d have to pull people in from the McDonald’s next door. And they’d say, what’s your show? We don’t know yet. You have to yell things at us. And then from like within a year, it was this big cult thing in Vancouver and kind of expanded shows and then did improvised plays. And it’s still going strong today.

Did it have any parallel or correlation to what Del Close was doing in Chicago?

Yeah, sort of similar. I mean, the rules are the same for basically everyone. Some teachers have a different philosophy and that comes through that through their teaching. So it was very similar, but different. I mean, the Americans were always, I think, much more politically inclined that we were in Canada. I think that’s changed a little bit as we become kind of more secure in our political process. Right. And yeah, very similar.

And did the Canadian version of improv have like the Harold or like a longer form story?

Yeah, we had, yeah, we pretty much had, especially when I was at Second City, we would have instructors come up from Chicago to sort of teach workshops. So we sort of got involved in that. One of our first long films in Vancouver was an improvised Hamlet. So it was a Hamlet set in sort of a theater sports game. But there was like scenes, the Shakespearean scenes, and then there’d be some Shakespearean improvising. That was a lot of fun.

Did you feel like you found your community, friend-wise and after-show stuff?

Oh, absolutely. What I also loved when I first started, it wasn’t all actors. There was a guy who worked for the cable company, there were some teachers, but it became a really close-knit community. As I think in most cities, the improv community tends to really stick together and support each other. So yeah, that’s where I found my people.

It’s funny how things haven’t changed because like I’m currently in a small town in Northern California and the improv community is thick and it’s more of a group who hang out and do things, where the stand-up community is all a bunch of lone wolves who are broken, mostly men.

I mean, there have been people who have bridged both, like, you know, Greg Proops is a stand-up. He was a stand-up when I first met him. Not a good one, to be honest. (Laughs)

Who besides Proops?

Ryan Styles. Most of his jokes were about, I think, Dolly Parton and a low-budget zoo where all they had was a picture of a giraffe. It’s probably best for him to do improv.

When you were in Second City, who were your classmates?

Ryan was in the same group as me. There was a guy called Patrick McKenna who, he may be known to American audiences for a show called Red Green, the Red Green Show. He played Harold in that. He was sort of the second in command. Mike Myers was in the cast before me. A lot of great people, just a lot of really good writers and a lot of good improvisers. Dan Ackroyd says Second City is kind of a comedy college, and it is. You learn how to write scenes, how to, and you get to improvise every night, which was like a dream. You quickly learn where your strengths are and where your weaknesses are and what you have to work on.

I love the facet of improv that it’s interactive, whereas stand-up is kind of a spectator sport until, you know, there’s heckling or something like that. But it’s baked into the cake of an improv person that you need the audience. You want them to suggest things. To talk. Have you ever gotten mad at an audience?

Oh, sure. Let’s face it, sometimes they’re idiots. They always say, never blame the audience. I’m constantly blaming the audience. Yes, there are times where we’re not up to snuff and you know, you do know that, but there are also times they go come on just help us out a little bit here and I would have to say that’s mostly corporate shows where you know where the show is kind of thrown in as a whatever between awards yeah but yeah and I mean it’s I find it interesting that we’re I mean we’re basically asking them to heckle us we’re asking them to you know shout things at us yeah but they’ve always been kind of respectful and I think it’s because with stand-up, it’s a little more adversarial between the audience and the stand-up because they’re kind of sitting back going, okay, you think you’re funny? Let’s see, what’s your point of view? What you gotta go? And with us, they’re giving us ideas. So there’s a bit of a vested interest that our scenes, based on their ideas, work. So we have maybe an extra 10 minutes to suck before they turn on us.

That’s funny. And I just watched, and I don’t know if Robin Williams was on the show more than once, but I just watched the episode with him. And I’m on the board of directors of a comedy day in Golden Gate Park. So I got to be a round Robin. And I tried never to interact with him because everybody wanted a piece of him. And what I found interesting on that episode was kind of how humble, how humble he was and how willing he was to give other people the spotlight. What were your impressions?

He was what you wanted him to be. He, I mean, he of course was an inspiration and an idol to all of us. And when he came on the show, he was an Oscar winner. and you know we expected I don’t know what we expected but he was just lovely from the get-go one of those people who he knew all the crew’s names within uh you know half an hour I still don’t know half the people that work there he um and as I as you say he was incredibly um did that improv thing of being part of the group was one of the the guys and inspiring and just lovely to work with. It was a highlight of my life and my career to be able to work with him.

I got to see Robin and Rick Overton do improv in Golden Gate Park. Have you worked with Rick?

He is kind of another great, generous person on stage. And that’s another huge difference. It’s like improv, you have to be generous. In stand up, you’re just a selfish prick. You know? You got 10 minutes and it’s yours.

I get that. Stand-up comics are selfish. And when they get laughs they do not want to leave the stage.

It’s true. I mean, it’s basically you have to. You can’t be nice to everyone.

One of the first things you learn is the yes rule. So if you’re walking in with ‘Hey, I’ve got the greatest idea for a scene.’ And if your partner comes out with their idea first, it’s like, Okay, I got to let go of mine and support him to see where this goes. And sometimes it does hurt, but you sort of get into that thing where you’re sort of, you know, your ego, you sort of hurt a little bit, and then you work. For me, one of the great learning lessons was working with Ryan, because he would get as much enjoyment setting you up for a joke, and having you understand what he was going for, and then complete the landing as he did getting the joke himself.

When you tour live, what is that show like?

Yeah, we like to say it’s a live version of Whose Line without the dead weight. You know, those guys!

So everything starts with a suggestion from the audience. It’s even more interactive than a TV show. We have audience members on stage with us, 50% of the show. We’re constantly trying out, you know, because it’s just the two of us, it’s hard coming up. We always think, okay, you know what, we finally hit there’s no more new games we can come up with. And then we’ll have an idea of, oh, let’s try this.

Sometimes we do a musical tribute to the the city that we’re playing, the town we’re playing. So we talk to the audience about all the local things and then we do a musical about it, which makes it fun because only one of us can actually sing. So it has a real element of danger to it.

I did read that in one of the interviews that the singing part was your least favorite part of the show.

It’s actually, well, I mean, on Whose Line, the Hogan definitely was, everyone hated it. But in this show, I really enjoyed the musical part because I’m never comfortable in it. And I certainly got better from the first time we do it. But I’m no Wayne Brady or Brad Sherwood. But I’m committed and the audience feels for me. That’s all I ever really want.

Last question. I know a lot of people who do improv. Dana Moore is the ringleader where I live. Any sage wisdom for people who are just getting into improv?

Oh, jeez. I mean, I always tell people, you know, take improv classes because it’s a great thing to have in your life to be able to actually listening to people and to watching to situations without any prejudgment and just actually live in the moment, it’s a great tool to have. But if you’re going in to be a professional improviser, I always say, if there’s anything else you love, do that. Do it instead. But we were incredibly lucky that the show Out of Britain came from nowhere. You know, it showcased the only skill I have that can get me ahead. Yeah. But my thing is, you know, do it. Just do it as much as you can. You know, if you have a local improv troupe, you know, get in there and do it, do it, do it. You quickly find out where your weaknesses are and how to work on them. And, you know, watch people who you admire in the improv or who make you laugh and figure out, Okay, what are they doing that’s making me laugh? Is it their characters or is it they’re just random whatever? They’re just, it seems that they’re actually in that scene just talking off the top of their head and feeling incredibly comfortable with it. So, uh, watch and learn and do and learn.

Thank you Colin.

Thank you. It was lovely talking to you.

A showman at heart, not afraid of the razzmatazz and shimmering sequins, El Vez a.k.a. Robert Lopez, still shines brightly after five decades of being in the limelight.

With much much deeper roots than the jacaranda trees that surrounded his childhood home in Chula Vista, California, Lopez was an early participant in LA’s nascent punk rock scene.

DNA: I remember seeing you back in the 90s in Chico, California. and became an immediate fan. Where did you grow up?

Lopez: I grew up in Chula Vista. I thought you were going to talk about earlier even. I started playing when I was 16. I was part of the punk rock movement with X. And, played with Germs on their first show. So I’ve been doing this way back. Yeah, I grew up in Chula Vista, a suburb of San Diego.

I’m familiar with Chula Vista. They have a really cool kind of natural amphitheater there. What band were you in when you got into that scene?

I was in a band called The Zeros.

When did you first play the guitar?

I was 16. We were playing at the Whiskey at Go-Go.

Wow.

Playing and then driving back home to school the next morning. We played with X, the Screamers, the Weirdos, Germs, I was all part of that. We did a couple records on Bump Records, singles, and it was great to be 16 and be part of punk rock, the early parts of punk rock before it became bullshit. It was a very creative time. And at 16, being an outcast in high school in Chula Vista, but having friends of likewise interest in LA was pretty great.

Why were you an outcast?

I don’t know. I think lots of people are. I think I liked art better. I knew about John Waters. I knew about Salvador Dali at that early age, and so I wasn’t into sports. So it was a different time. That was 1976. There wasn’t internet to say, hey, I like this too. And so it was a different world. And we, my band was my cousin, a friend, and another member who is now my brother-in-law because he married my sister.

When you’re growing up in the mid 70s and there’s no internet, there’s no cable TV, like how do you, how do you find John Waters?

PBS. Television. There was a lot. It seems like publications like Circus Magazine that were out we’d think, “oh, there’s something going on in New York. Oh, there’s something going on in England.” We would get the radio stations. We could hear Rodney Bingenheimer’s Rodney on the Rocks. way back then. There was a TV show called The Real Don Steel Show, I remember, in 1974, which was like an American bandstand, only it was glitter rock bands, and so the New York Dolls were on there. Wow. I got to see the New York Dolls when I was 14 at an all-ages club, so I was aware of music. First rock show I got to see was Led Zeppelin in 1974, but my second show was the New York Dolls. I go, that is something I can do. That was the inspiration for punk rock. There was only a small little leakage of information, but I think we had more time to let it develop in our heads because it wasn’t like, oh, here are all the lyrics to all the songs in the whole catalog of your favorite band on the internet. It was like going to record swap meets or going to used record stores, you would find the blues or great old stuff or lucky they knew stuff. So yeah, it was, you had to dig more. And I think that was more creative to our minds and imaginations to develop our own styles.

Did you think that punk was a backlash to the, 60s and the hippie bands?

I mean, that was the thing. It was like Emerson, Lake and Palmer and Jethro Tull and musicians, you know, oh, now we’re playing with a Philharmonic orchestra behind us. It was like too out of sync of what we were doing.

The idea is like, and also fashion is just like, we can’t afford that. We can afford this. And I don’t know how to play like a symphony, but I can play like this. So I think it was putting it back in the hands, which always goes around in circles. It’s like, be it beatniks or hippies, or there’s always a new generation that say, let’s break it down and do it again. Punk rock was to break it down and do it again, but so much influenced by the 60s, like the Standells or the Seeds or, you know, music machine bands like that of the MC5, stuff like that. So it’s all borrowing from other the past and putting it together in a new way.

I just saw an Instagram reel of the 1960’s TV show, the Mother-in-laws and The Seeds were on it.

Which is the roots of punk rock, that kind of stuff. I mean, people don’t think about it, but it was rough, simple stuff.

Did you find community in punk?

I don’t have friends from Vista High School, but I have friends from 1978. Alice Bags from the Bags just visited. I live in Mexico City now, but she just visited me. And then Penelope Houston from the Avengers has visited me here. And it’s like, I don’t have friends from high school, but I have these friends I’ve known since ‘76 doing shows with who are still great friends. And so it’s like, it was a community and like-minded souls - going through ups and downs and it’s pretty great. And going to different music styles, we’ve all explored different things and we work together every once in a while. It’s just like a great pickup where we left off and go forward.

And at what point did you kind of start adopting personas? Like before El Vez, were there other incarnations?

I was in a band called Catholic Discipline with Claude Bessie from the Slash Magazine and Frank, the Jewish lesbian folk singer, were in the film, The Decline of Western Civilization. It was like first post-punk movement of that. I was in a band called The Johnnies, a band called The Boneheads, did a bunch of small stuff. But I moved into art.

I always had an art background and knowledge and love of art. So I ran an art gallery in Los Angeles called La Luz de Jesus. And we got to work with great artists like Robert Williams and Mark Ryden and Mark Mothersbaugh, Gary Panter, all this great stuff. And so being the curator there inspired me to become El Vez because I had put a show together about folk artists like Reverend Howard Finster, or Jon Bach, doing interpretations of Elvis just because they loved it. I was like, a self-taught artist. And so from that, I dared myself to go to Memphis and entered an Elvis impersonator contest doing Elvis. And it backfired because here I am 37 plus years later!! And I had only planned to do it once, but it worked so well and taken me far. I’m very lucky. But yeah, that started the character. And I got surely influenced by Bowie or Kiss, it’s just like the idea of putting on a character makes it stronger to be on stage if you might be shy. I think I was shyer when I was a kid. I’m not as shy now, but I think a persona in music makes you be an actor in a different way.

How has the character of El Vez changed over the years? Has he grown in dimension as a character that you portray?

Yes. Luckily I have another show called The Unhappy Hour. I’m in Seattle right now and I’m doing that. And The Unhappy Hour is jazz and stories for people on antidepressants. It’s kind of the opposite side. El Vez is positive and power to the people. Mr. Bob (of the Unhappy Hour) is singing jazz songs and interpreting them in a different way, and talking about world order and how we’re always going to be oppressed or have gun violence or... the death of my father. So it’s really dark, dark humor. It’s very funny, but it’s very dark and very bleak.

So it’s the opposite, opposite side of El Vez, which is always powerful and strong and the people have the power. Then I have another band called COVID Cola. There’s this great band called the Schizophonics from San Diego and we’re great friends and we do collabs on different stuff like that.

We had a fallout with the other half of the Zeros. And so now the two of us are in the Zero 77 and the other half are The Zeros from the original. We wrote half the songs, they wrote half of the songs. So it’s like a sibling rivalry of sorts. There’s a documentary coming out about The Zeros and it’s in the can, but the other camp is holding it up from coming out because they’re saying, oh, we can’t use our songs in this. So I have many different outlets to release it in different ideas or different moods.

How has El Vez changed?

El Vez is older now. I don’t have the hair to make a pompadour. Now I have a gray beard and gray hair.

I mean, I still fit in the same outfits and still do the splits and jump around and wear sequin jumpsuits. But it’s changed. And I do like that with the Unhappy Hour, I can interweave between my characters or look at myself and comment and sing a song about, what is it like to be a 65 year old gay man who has to put on gold in my hot pants for the mortgage.

Is there an El Vez documentary?

There was one that came out many years ago, but it’s just on VHS and never got released as a thing. It’s called as El Rey de Rock 'n' Roll. But it’s time for another one. People have been approaching me about making another one. But there’s a YouTube channel on the YouTube channel, El Vez, with tons of great stuff. I’ve been very lucky and got to do many things and tour around the world. I opened for David Bowie in 96. I’ve opened for Carlos Santana in Vienna. I’ve played on stage with Bjork. I’ve opened for Bob Dylan in Spain. I’ve been on Oprah. I’ve had my Gold lamé jumpsuit be at the Washington Institute. It’s the only institute in Washington, DC. So it’s been - well, Elvis has been very good to me.

Why do you do Christmas shows?

Christmas, just, I mean, I’ve been doing Christmas shows for a long time and it wasn’t the intent of going for the Christmas market, but that is a favorite show that I think people enjoy most of El Vez. I’ve been doing it since at least the 90s, early 90s. And I’ve had three albums. We got a release, re-release of my first CD. It’s coming, Merry Maximus, and it’s going to come out on vinyl.

So we’ll have it for this tour and a couple extra tracks on it. But it’s a good Christmas show. It’s Merry Max-mus, and it’s like showing that traditional Christmas doesn’t have to be a white Christmas, it can be brown.

And so showing that Christmases can get a little dark and sad, which is like Unhappy Hour because Christmas is always a year in review, kind of what political state we are in. And so El Vez can show the sad, but he is positive, we got to fight on continuing that fight and it gives you hope. And there’s one scene in the show, I’ll be dressed in a double piece with these giant feathered wings all in a white sparkling jumpsuit. So there’ll be politics, but mostly fun and Christmas. And I got a great new band, The Centuries, that I really enjoy working with. So it’s like new youth injected into the show.

You got to keep it fresh.

Yes, that’s what I do like to do. I used to tour so much and there’s this time, after doing a tour, where I say, I got to do something new so it inspires me for what I’ll do the next time.

It’s incredible that you’ve kept a character alive this long that hasn’t become a parody of itself.

That’s because it is already. It’s easier. The thing is to rise above the parody, which I accept the challenge. And it’s like, how can out of this clown come words of truth? And speak truth to power and the idea that people have the power. All while wearing lamé.

It was 38 years ago. Which feels like forever.

She would have been 105! I always wonder what she would have thought of me in my 30’s, 40’s and beyond.

This picture is of a much younger mom, a mom I never knew. A mom who liked hats - or was possibly a witch that played Mah jongg.

I spent the last 2 weeks of her earthly presence with her in the hospital. I talked about it the first time on stage the night I recorded my comedy album, Dark Horse.

Yes, that’s a shameful plug, but she would have approved.

I had flown in from Chico, to Livingston, New Jersey, where Charles Cullen, the serial killer (who I went to elementary school with), was still working as a nurse in the hospital, St. Barnabas. In this case I’m sure he didn’t murder my mom, as nature was doing just fine and didn’t need any help.

I remember sitting by her bed, reading a book from grad school, by Ken Wilbur. I never really knew what Ken was talking about - but I was trying. Outside there was a storm. One of those NJ storms where it feels like the end of the world.

The week before I got there was The Perfect Storm (ya might know it from the movie), it was throwing 100 foot waves in the Atlantic, and it’s aftermath was blowing around the brick hospital walls.

On the TV, on the wall, there was another rare event - three sitcoms had a crossover event, where a hurricane affected all the characters on The Golden Girls, Empty Nest, and Nurses.

Somewhere between my mom drifting in and out of morphine dreams, and Betty White, there was a passage in the Ken Wilbur book - it talked about great souls being taken by the wind to heaven, or new adventures, or maybe to Miami Florida, where old jews go to die (and all three sitcoms took place).

The night before she died, she had become catatonic, the morphine had been increased to combat the stomach cancer and leukemia ravaging her system. But I knew she was the kind of woman who would never die on her birthday - she wouldn’t have ever traded a happiness for a sadness and she stuck it out one more day.

A few days ago, my wife’s grandmother passed. Connie. Some of you probably remember Grandpa Stan (who passed last year) from stories I’ve told onstage.

Everyone seems to be in some stage of grief these days. And that’s fine - but remember - happiness is just around the corner. If you look hard enough

I value you.

DNA

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Thiermann is a pro surfer, who has traveled the world as a Patagonia ambassador, but he’s also somewhat of a renaissance man. From living in a van, to being an outspoken advocate for the ravages of climate change, to an investigative journalist, to the power of mushrooms (the magic kind), to creating a monster of an event in LA called The MotherF**ker Awards where famous comedians parodied the disgusting affluence of corporations, Thiermann will one day be on somebody’s list of the Most Influential Under 40’s in America.

His latest quest is being an author, and his freshman slim book, is entitled One Last Question Before You Go, and subtitled, Why you should interview your parents.

As the title suggest, Theirmann interviews his parents, and brings in experts (some of the guests from his podcast) to weigh in on why it’s important to do as a social experiment, but also to heal one’s soul.

IMO it’s a goddam shame the way we treat our elders in this country, who are currently being starved and denied health care. But even before this sudden, infuriating moment we find ourselves in, it wasn’t much better.

Our elders hold our history, both personal and emotional. By losing those stories, we lose ourselves, and perhaps, the path forward.

One Last Question Before You Go is not just a moving literary piece, (this will end up a bio-pic) of Thiermann’s early years in Santa Cruz, it also digs into the notorious surf culture of Santa Cruz that rarely gets mentioned - and goddamit, he’s also a clever, funny novelist as well.

But that’s not all - turns out Kyle’s stepdad is an infamous conspiracy person, with whom his mother hitched her Qanon wagon too - and if trying to talk your parents wasn’t difficult enough - imagine trying to navigate the bridge between wackadoodle land and being in the present moment - and watching Kyle do that dance, is heartbreaking, but his ability to turn a phrase, (“where she saw chemtrails, I saw clouds”) is revealing, and more widespread a phenomena than anyone is reporting.

The book is more than it appears. It’s a TARDIS of literature, because it’s small on the outside, and contains multitudes on the inside. It’s about trust, self-doubt, reframing old images into new ones, taking chances, finding a north star that isn’t inhabited by grifters and charlatans, and constantly trying to figure out what draws us together, instead of driving us apart.

The beauty of One Last Question Before You Go, is that’s its the soulful journey of an extraordinary young man, disguised as a How To Book.

This interview has minutia that is assuredly only interesting to the two of us, warts and all, as they say. It should be noted that Kyle is also forging his way as a stand-up comic, and I will deny any nice things I said about him, anytime we meet near a stage.

Last thing, some choice quotes were excised from this interview and used in a publication article - which I will include here - when it’s live.

DNA: It is on and recording. I think this is the same one, that you recorded me on, a H6 Handy recorder.

Kyle: Those things last forever, man. I’ve had mine for going on seven years now. (note: Kyle now uses a Zoom PodTrak P4)

It was probably almost that long ago, when you recorded me, and I can guarantee you 100%, that this will be a better conversation.

I know, man. You blocked it from me. I really liked the conversation and you called me back and you’re like, no, we’re not releasing it. So I’ve been trying to get you back on the pod ever since. I’ve got it in for you.

I’d be more ready this time.

I’m going to turn this one around.

I’d be more than happy. I mean, yeah, I don’t know what was happening for me then, but. I know what’s happening for me now. I’m interviewing you about your book.

Yeah, man.

Can you tell me a little bit about how you came up with this?

I think the interview is a chance, like psychedelics, to recontextualize how you see them. And so throughout this process, you know, I have some skills as an interviewer, but it really is a book where I bring in a number of other experts. People like Charles Duhaig, who he wrote The Power of Habit and Super Communicators, which is a book on, it’s basically a book on like, how do great people communicate? In the book he talks about this concept of deep questions. So don’t just ask about the facts of your parents’ life, ask how they feel about their lives. What were the inflection points that made them do the things that they did? People like Christopher Ryan is in the book. He wrote Sex at Dawn. He talks all about families in prehistory. And I think it’s important to say like, if your parents already dead or if you have a relationship with your parent, that’s just a no go zone. Use the term parent more flexibly, who are mentors, who are people who you would want to get to know better, who are older than you, and take the time to actually sit down and go a little bit deeper in these conversations, which is something that we tend to do less and less now with the phones, and we do even less with old people, because in our culture, we just we throw away old people. And I think that’s super ******* lame. So, you know, that I, throughout the process of my book, I interviewed, I did a series of interviews with my mom, my dad and my stepdad. And old people are, they have a lot of answers that we are looking for. kind of hidden in plain sight, but we don’t take the time to ask. So that was the inception of the book, and I spent the next three years writing it.

Absolutely. We’ve outsourced our parents’ knowledge to like Jeeves, you know, to the internet.

Totally.

To Reddit.

Totally. We think, oh, you can just GPT your answer. And I don’t need to ask my parents this anymore, and we’re severing one of the core cultural values of humanity. If you think about hunter-gatherer societies, it was auditory storytelling passed down from grandparents, parents, to children. And ultimately, I think what we remember are stories. So taking an hour to ask them about some of the big stories of their lives are what you will remember after they die.

Throughout the book, in research for the book, I got a lot of people to interview their own parents who had great stories.

And I started writing this book as much more of ‘Oh, it’s going to be like a fun, like a how to book, and not really get into any of my own ****. And, throughout the process, I decided to make it a much more personal story and basically get into how my mom and my stepdad got very invested in what I would consider to be conspiracy theories. And it really fractured our relationship. So If there’s an arc to the book, it really is much more around having a mom, losing that relationship, and then using the interview process to reestablish a relationship. And that, right now in America, we’re sort of taught that you can’t be friends with someone if you don’t agree with their politics. And I think that’s wrong. I don’t think that we should have what we believe about politics to be at the top list of our identity. And I think that the process of sitting down and stepping out of the role of child and into the role of interviewer can be an incredibly powerful exercise, because you’re essentially just sitting down from your mom or dad as an interviewer. And even if they say something that makes you want to scream, the job of the interviewer, just as you’re doing right now, is not to react. It’s to be able to just sit there, ask the next question, and continue to draw stories out of them. And I really, I do think that the skill of getting better at asking each other questions is as powerful as psychedelics in terms of reshaping relationships.

I believe given the chance, people, anybody, really wants to tell their story. They want to be heard. Most people never have a chance to be heard. And you’re giving an opportunity to tell, everyone has a story. I’ve been in some retirement community homes lately, and it is heartbreaking to see these people wandering around. I understand they have dementia, but so what? There’s no care. Like you said, they’re discarded and we’re losing our humanity, our heritage, our knowledge base. And I applaud you on this. I mean, you’ve got no shortage of great ideas, but this one really resonates with me. And what is the relationship with Patagonia?

Patagonia has been my longtime surf sponsor. I’ve been working with them for the last 14 years and they are doing the store tour. So we’re going to be doing an event in Santa Cruz on the 15th. We’re going to be going all over Austin, New York, Portland, San Diego, Ventura. I agree with you. I think that after the interview with my dad, one of the things that was most surprising to me is how, he said, he wrote me an e-mail, which I put in the book, he said, thanks for interviewing me. It made me feel like you were interested in what I had to say. And he said, I think a lot of parents feel like their kids are not interested in their lives. So I interviewed him because I wanted to learn about his life. And I also wanted to record it and get it down on tape. If, COVID killed him, I wanted some of his stories down on tape. I realized that like the evidence of his life would have been limited to photographs. But afterwards, I realized like, oh, it’s actually a lot more than that. It’s a chance to let them be heard. It’s a chance to understand a bit more about why they are the way they are. like that’s, one aspect of the story is that the way your parents grew up shapes the way they see the world now. So something that they do that you think is just ******* crazy You can reshape that, the psychedelic spirit, like metaphor, by asking them questions. Like, there was a woman named Doctor Katie Hendricks who I interviewed for the book, and she taught she told me a story about how... when her parent was a kid, she lost the week’s grocery money. And her parents just berated her for it. And as a result, like Kitty’s mom was frugal for the rest of her life. And like she had no idea why she was so frugal until she sat down and interviewed her to, and like, oh, holy **** like it’s because of this singular experience that you believe the world is this way. And similarly, I think that, you know, there’s a, a lot of evidence that like the way culture is when you are in your 20s becomes the way you see the world for the rest of your life. So I think that it’s a bit like interviewing your apprentice can be a bit like taking an empathy drug to understand a bit more about why it is they see what they see. And, you know, like, as you said, also the history of Auditory storytelling, the history of, really learning from our elders, like it is being lost, but it also, there’s a there’s a story of FDR sending Congress around to interview slaves who were about to die. To basically, freed slaves, to basically say like, I want to get your experience before it’s gone forever. Like this idea of turning yourself into a journalist and really, and recording a few of these stories that will be lost if you don’t do it, I think is it’s now easier than ever because you can just pull out your phone and record stories. So I just think that it’s, there’s no excuse not to do it.

And the idea that your parents will be around forever. I lost my parents pretty early. So I’ve had to, through photographs and things like that, make up my own narrative of who they were. And so it’s like, your parents won’t be around forever. Like, now is the time to figure it out. Also because every 20 year old thinks, I’m not going to turn into my parents. And then later on, you’re like, why the **** am I so weird? Or whatever it is, you know, or do I have these habits? You can have revelations about yourself through talking to your parents. Where are you surfing right now?

I’m in Santa Cruz right now. I was, I surfed Manresa this morning, man.

I hope you catch some ripping waves, dude.

No one says that, DNA. No one says ripping waves. We don’t talk that way.