A Happy Thought of a Different Sort
I was writing this at amy13 today, and figured I'd put it here, too, rather than leave it in random emails. The short story: I watched that youtube video of Brendon recording his parts for 20 dollar nosebleed, and my brain went to a 'how can I get Patrick and Brendon into a story together' and then this happened. No guarantees there will be more. But I think there probably will be.
So. Patrick. Brendon. Road trips. Blues. Why.
FOB takes a break. Not permanent--never permanent, they're totally going to still be playing three shows a year together when they're in their 70s--but for, let's say, a year. Which will be 6 months of not seeing each other and doing their own things and 6 months of writing songs for the next record. Because that's the way their breaks always roll. So, Pete is spending time with Ashlee and the baby, Joe is getting married, Andy is off hanging with his Fuck City guys, and at first Patrick thinks that he's just going to be in LA, doing producer things, hanging out with Pete, but then Pete goes on tour with Ashlee, and hanging out in LA loses its allure pretty quickly.
Enter Brendon. Who is bored. And Panic is taking some time to do nothing, too. And so somehow he ends up on Patrick's couch, playing video games and playing a game of dueling banjos with their voices, trying to stump each other with lyrics. Or something. Anyway, so Patrick mentions being bored out of his fucking mind and Brendon is like, oh my god, me too, Shane is about ready to murder me, because I'm *always there*. And somehow, in the 3 a.m. loopies, it sounds like it would be a lot of fun if they were to go out to random little clubby places and play shows incognito. Brendon's talking, like, fake mustaches (which Patrick is used to, thanks to his short film) and wigs and hats and stuff. And it's a totally stupid idea, right? Except for how Patrick's still thinking about it, like, a week later, and he could sit on a stage and sing the blues or, like, be a soul singer, it's not like he doesn't have a hundred songs that he's composed already that won't fit in the FOB stuff, things he was contemplating for other bands but he hasn't been able to make himself get rid of yet.
So, two days after that, he shows up at Brendon and Shane's and is like, so, road trip? And Shane is all, please, yes, take him, to which Brendon says, whatever, yo. You know you'll be fucking flying out to meet us in three days, to which Shane says, ha ha, no, except in that way that they all totally know really means yes.
And that is how Brendon and Patrick end up in Patrick's Prius, driving out of Vegas and towards Arizona, with nothing but two laptops, four mp3 players, three guitars, a portable keyboard, a harmonica, and a ukulele. Because you never know, Brendon says. And that is very true.
*
Brendon, it turns out, is totally serious about the disguises.
More, he pulls over at the Party City in Henderson--nominally so that he can take a piss--but when he comes back to the car, he's carrying one bag with 4 Red Bulls in it and another in which Patrick can see... hair. He sees black hair and red and huge dark glasses and things that look more than a little like dead rats, which apparently are their mustaches.
Incognito, Brendon says again, oh so proudly, and Patrick just laughs and tosses the bag into the back seat.
Patrick drives from Henderson to Phoenix, and while he's rethought this plan at least ten times since he left his house the day before, he still hasn't gotten much farther than: find an open mic, play.
So. They get a hotel room, something in a Holiday Inn, and after they dump their stuff, they ask the guy at the front desk if he knows of anyplace that has an open mic. There's list. It's a printout of a website 'openmicphoenix.com' and Brendon says, "Dude. We're a day too early."
So, they go for a swim, and then they go for a drink, and they sing bad karaoke until 2 a.m., entertaining some retired couple in the corner, and then they fall into bed, and when Patrick wakes up the next morning, Brendon's saying, "Why!"
"Wh-?" Patrick mumbles, and Brendon shakes the map in his face. "*Why*," he says, and then points to a not even dot on the map. "There is a town called Why. You fucking *know* that we have to go, like, take our picture in front of the sign, right? Fucking *Why*."
So, they get back in the car, and drive for 2-plus hours and end up at the town's namesake, the 'y' intersection of highways 85 and 86. Which, aside from the casino, is pretty much all the town there is. Still, they get out and stand in front of the sign and take their picture, Brendon holding up a peace sign and scrunching up his face. After only a moment's hesitation, Patrick sends the picture to Pete. They're still standing in the middle of the town, in front of the post office, when he gets a reply: *thefuck?????*
They get sodas and sandwiches in the casino, and then Brendon snaps his fingers and says, "Dude, Patrick," and that is how Patrick finds himself back in front of the 'Welcome to Why Pop 133' sign, sitting on the ground, playing his guitar. Well, they're both sitting on the ground, playing their guitars, Brendon's camera balanced on the bumper of the car, recording it all, and they're totally just noodling around, playing random tunes, but then Brendon stands up, probably enough so that his head is out of the frame, and he starts singing, "I'm walking in Memphis," and they so don't know all the words, so it's more tune and "la la la" than actual lyrics, but they're laughing too much to care.
They stop at the gas station on the way out of town and buy 'Why? Why Not?' t-shirts and then they spend two hours driving back. It's four o'clock when they get back to their hotel, and they take showers and drive across the city to the 26th St. Blues Bar, and there's actually a waiting list to get on the stage--mostly older men in their 50s, 60s, beat up guitar cases at their feet. It's a place where everyone knows everyone, and Patrick tugs at the brim of his hat--no mustaches or wigs for them tonight--and feels awkward. Especially when all of the old guys in front of them are really fucking awesome in that authentic, home-grown way you just don't find in Hollywood anymore.
Still, they get their turn at 9:25, and they've got three songs to play, and Patrick starts out with Sonny Boy Williamson's "Bring It On Home", then does Elmore James' "Dust My Blues", and then one of his own songs, one of those that only Pete, Joe, and Andy have heard before. Brendon joins in on the choruses--since Blues isn't his usual listening--and he just follows Patrick's lead on his own composition, and yeah, so they don't get mobbed by fans or anything when they're done, but some of the old guys, including the bartender, are nodding along by the end of the set.
Afterwards, Patrick can sit back and relax, so he does, drink in hand. Open mic ends up as open jam, though, which is how Patrick and Brendon end up back on stage close to midnight, playing along with the other old guys, and when they get back to their hotel at 2, they smell of smoke, and Patrick's voice is feeling a little rough, but Brendon is stretching lazily on his bed, and when he says, "So, did you know there was a Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?" Patrick says, "Really," and starts plotting the route in his head.
So. Patrick. Brendon. Road trips. Blues. Why.
FOB takes a break. Not permanent--never permanent, they're totally going to still be playing three shows a year together when they're in their 70s--but for, let's say, a year. Which will be 6 months of not seeing each other and doing their own things and 6 months of writing songs for the next record. Because that's the way their breaks always roll. So, Pete is spending time with Ashlee and the baby, Joe is getting married, Andy is off hanging with his Fuck City guys, and at first Patrick thinks that he's just going to be in LA, doing producer things, hanging out with Pete, but then Pete goes on tour with Ashlee, and hanging out in LA loses its allure pretty quickly.
Enter Brendon. Who is bored. And Panic is taking some time to do nothing, too. And so somehow he ends up on Patrick's couch, playing video games and playing a game of dueling banjos with their voices, trying to stump each other with lyrics. Or something. Anyway, so Patrick mentions being bored out of his fucking mind and Brendon is like, oh my god, me too, Shane is about ready to murder me, because I'm *always there*. And somehow, in the 3 a.m. loopies, it sounds like it would be a lot of fun if they were to go out to random little clubby places and play shows incognito. Brendon's talking, like, fake mustaches (which Patrick is used to, thanks to his short film) and wigs and hats and stuff. And it's a totally stupid idea, right? Except for how Patrick's still thinking about it, like, a week later, and he could sit on a stage and sing the blues or, like, be a soul singer, it's not like he doesn't have a hundred songs that he's composed already that won't fit in the FOB stuff, things he was contemplating for other bands but he hasn't been able to make himself get rid of yet.
So, two days after that, he shows up at Brendon and Shane's and is like, so, road trip? And Shane is all, please, yes, take him, to which Brendon says, whatever, yo. You know you'll be fucking flying out to meet us in three days, to which Shane says, ha ha, no, except in that way that they all totally know really means yes.
And that is how Brendon and Patrick end up in Patrick's Prius, driving out of Vegas and towards Arizona, with nothing but two laptops, four mp3 players, three guitars, a portable keyboard, a harmonica, and a ukulele. Because you never know, Brendon says. And that is very true.
*
Brendon, it turns out, is totally serious about the disguises.
More, he pulls over at the Party City in Henderson--nominally so that he can take a piss--but when he comes back to the car, he's carrying one bag with 4 Red Bulls in it and another in which Patrick can see... hair. He sees black hair and red and huge dark glasses and things that look more than a little like dead rats, which apparently are their mustaches.
Incognito, Brendon says again, oh so proudly, and Patrick just laughs and tosses the bag into the back seat.
Patrick drives from Henderson to Phoenix, and while he's rethought this plan at least ten times since he left his house the day before, he still hasn't gotten much farther than: find an open mic, play.
So. They get a hotel room, something in a Holiday Inn, and after they dump their stuff, they ask the guy at the front desk if he knows of anyplace that has an open mic. There's list. It's a printout of a website 'openmicphoenix.com' and Brendon says, "Dude. We're a day too early."
So, they go for a swim, and then they go for a drink, and they sing bad karaoke until 2 a.m., entertaining some retired couple in the corner, and then they fall into bed, and when Patrick wakes up the next morning, Brendon's saying, "Why!"
"Wh-?" Patrick mumbles, and Brendon shakes the map in his face. "*Why*," he says, and then points to a not even dot on the map. "There is a town called Why. You fucking *know* that we have to go, like, take our picture in front of the sign, right? Fucking *Why*."
So, they get back in the car, and drive for 2-plus hours and end up at the town's namesake, the 'y' intersection of highways 85 and 86. Which, aside from the casino, is pretty much all the town there is. Still, they get out and stand in front of the sign and take their picture, Brendon holding up a peace sign and scrunching up his face. After only a moment's hesitation, Patrick sends the picture to Pete. They're still standing in the middle of the town, in front of the post office, when he gets a reply: *thefuck?????*
They get sodas and sandwiches in the casino, and then Brendon snaps his fingers and says, "Dude, Patrick," and that is how Patrick finds himself back in front of the 'Welcome to Why Pop 133' sign, sitting on the ground, playing his guitar. Well, they're both sitting on the ground, playing their guitars, Brendon's camera balanced on the bumper of the car, recording it all, and they're totally just noodling around, playing random tunes, but then Brendon stands up, probably enough so that his head is out of the frame, and he starts singing, "I'm walking in Memphis," and they so don't know all the words, so it's more tune and "la la la" than actual lyrics, but they're laughing too much to care.
They stop at the gas station on the way out of town and buy 'Why? Why Not?' t-shirts and then they spend two hours driving back. It's four o'clock when they get back to their hotel, and they take showers and drive across the city to the 26th St. Blues Bar, and there's actually a waiting list to get on the stage--mostly older men in their 50s, 60s, beat up guitar cases at their feet. It's a place where everyone knows everyone, and Patrick tugs at the brim of his hat--no mustaches or wigs for them tonight--and feels awkward. Especially when all of the old guys in front of them are really fucking awesome in that authentic, home-grown way you just don't find in Hollywood anymore.
Still, they get their turn at 9:25, and they've got three songs to play, and Patrick starts out with Sonny Boy Williamson's "Bring It On Home", then does Elmore James' "Dust My Blues", and then one of his own songs, one of those that only Pete, Joe, and Andy have heard before. Brendon joins in on the choruses--since Blues isn't his usual listening--and he just follows Patrick's lead on his own composition, and yeah, so they don't get mobbed by fans or anything when they're done, but some of the old guys, including the bartender, are nodding along by the end of the set.
Afterwards, Patrick can sit back and relax, so he does, drink in hand. Open mic ends up as open jam, though, which is how Patrick and Brendon end up back on stage close to midnight, playing along with the other old guys, and when they get back to their hotel at 2, they smell of smoke, and Patrick's voice is feeling a little rough, but Brendon is stretching lazily on his bed, and when he says, "So, did you know there was a Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?" Patrick says, "Really," and starts plotting the route in his head.