I drove across the US for a show and felt the whole time like Javier Bardem or the quiet Nordic guy from Fargo: On a mission, perplexed by my surroundings and undeniably, painfully myself. Drowsy. Lumbering. Funny hair. Secrets. That gas station from No Country for Old Men with the quarter; that's West Virginia to Nevada times infinity.
You walk into any of these time-warped prairie villages for a snack wearing anything not made out of jeans and you get the long hard eyeball from the till man. That's fine. My very modernity will hurt his soul. That's right, I said debit. The color of this shirt? Purple. Pur-ple. Like grapes. Take that, the farmer from Babe but more suspicious! Enjoy what you must perceive as my lighting fast movements and futuristic, larged-headed money. Enjoy racism!
Me? I'm headed west, teaching America's small town youth that it's OK to dance.
And I'm looking for Josh Brolin, psh.