Shawna Kenney

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Adolescents

June 28, 2018, by shawnajean No comments yet

Fanzines were my first attempt at writing. I made one called No Scene Zine from 1986-1989 with friends in my small Maryland town. It gave me the perfect excuse to go up and talk to someone in a band or at a show. Here’s an interview my friend Pam & I did with The Adolescents on May 20, 1988 at W.U.S.T. Hall in Washington, DC. It’s funny to me now that Youth of Today opened. Thanks, Steve Soto, for taking time out to speak with two 18-year-old girls for their fanzine after the show. We were all adolescents then.

Here’s the adolescents interview, if anyone wants to read:

 

 

Broadsides!

December 16, 2017, by shawnajean No comments yet

I lectured at my alma mater, UNCW, over the summer and their publishing lab made me these beautiful broadsides of my satirical piece, Rules for Writing, which was published on the Brevity blog in April.

I had some extras made for upcoming events but if you’d like a signed copy for your office or as a gift for the writer in your life, Paypal me and I’ll send you one! $10 within the US. $20 outside of the US. Mailed in stiff cardboard packaging, so it’ll arrive in good shape.




Live at the Safari Club

July 12, 2017, by shawnajean No comments yet

Happy to say our book is finally out there in the world! It made its first appearance at RevFest 30 in Riverside. Confirmed tour/signing dates below. Thank you to everyone who contributed along the way. Email me if you have questions or would like to interview us:
shawna dot kenney at gmail dot com

August 26th
It’s Not Dead Festival
Art’s Not Dead/Punks Well Read exhibit
Glen Helen Ampitheater
2575 Glen Helen Parkway
San Bernadino, CA
Noon until 10 pm

Tuesday September 5th

Skylight Books
with Mike Gitter & XXX Fanzine
1818 N. Vermont Ave.
Los Angeles, CA
323.660.1175
7:30 pm

Thursday September 14th
DC Public Library
Shaw (Watha T. Daniel) branch
1630 7th St NW
Washington, DC
7 pm

Saturday September 16th
Atomic Books
3620 Falls Road
Baltimore, MD 21211
410.662.4444
7 pm – 9 pm

Monday September 18th
Old Books on Front Street
249 N. Front Street
Wilmington, NC
910.762.6657
7 pm

Safari Club book

February 22, 2017, by shawnajean No comments yet

This book has been in the works for 6 years. Six years! My husband and I have done over 100 interviews and people have donated tons of never-published photos, flyers and ephemera to make this a truly collective oral and visual history. What took us so long? Well, life… we both work full time, also had both of our computers stolen a few years ago (with only some of our original material backed up), also doing an oral history is a SHIT TON of work (transcribing and transcribing, editing, and tracking people down backstage and in back alleys to get quotes).

We’re thrilled to announce the book has found a home in Rare Bird Books, an indie publisher with a love for music and beautiful products who understood our vision right away when we presented it. We are grateful to them and everyone who has contributed their time and expertise to making this happen. We hope this book will be a treasured document of time and place.

It’s available for pre-order here now. Note there is a collectible version in slipcase cover available, as well. Only 100 of those will be printed, so get on it!

Hamlet’s Hideaway – summer writing retreat

April 14, 2016, by shawnajean No comments yet

I’ve had the privilege of traveling to Denmark a few times now and I can honestly say that this American has a love affair with this country. It’s easy to romanticize its bike culture, clean countryside and rich history—especially its literary legends. I’ve biked up the coast to wander the grounds of Helsingor (the beloved “Elsinore” of Shakespeare’s Hamlet), stroll through the gorgeous Assistens Cemetery to find the gravestones of Søren Kierkegaard and Hans Christian Andersen, and enjoyed a day at the Karen Blixen estate. Just walking through the public parks and touching the stones of ancient castles, it’s easy to see how scribes found inspiration in this Nordic setting.

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I’m looking forward to returning once again, this time teaching with dear friend and fellow journalist Anja Klemp Vilgaard. Who will join us in this summer’s adventure?

peacock2

Safari Club: a history of harDCore punk in the nation’s capital 1988-1997

October 4, 2015, by shawnajean No comments yet

I have been remiss in my blogging and have come to realize maybe I am just not the blogging kind. Anyway, excited to be nearing the end of a five-year project: an oral history of a punk venue I once booked in Washington, DC. My husband Rich and I both hung out there and saw tons of bands there but never actually met one another until much later. We’ve been working on this book together, interviewing people in the back seats of cars at shows, via Skype, on the streets, backstage, over email… whatever it takes to get as many of this space’s stories down.

The whole thing has been both heartwarming and overwhelming. More people than we ever expected seem to want this book now and we feel obligated to do it right for our community. After several talks with indie publishers, we’ve decided the best way to do this is to just do it ourselves–the punk way! This means we can stick with our aesthetic vision… this also means we have to find a way to fund it. Eek! We are hoping our community will help with that, so we’re not really doing it ourselves–we’re doing it with your help!

Until then, we have created a little sneak preview zine version of the book, which will be available as I sign my other books at the It’s Not Dead Festival on Sat. Oct. 10th.

safari cover small

Here’s the cover. It’s designed like a 7″ record and we must thank our friend Christian Wolford (a former bandmate of Rich’s) for all his help with this. I hope we have captured all the chaos and fun of this era and place.

#getsomeoneriding

August 17, 2015, by shawnajean No comments yet

There’s nothing like riding a bike with a kid to keep you on your toes. I had to run to the bank one morning—just a mile away—but a 15-year-old friend was visiting—a girl in foster care whom my husband and I have been mentoring through a program called Kidsave. She told me she hadn’t learned to ride a bike until the age of 12 but felt comfortable enough to accompany me on my errand (her riding my husband’s bike).  After a few shaky stops and one big hill, I asked if everything was okay and she laughed and said, “this is fun!” Then her chain fell off. She panicked about that fact that her pedals “weren’t working.” I rode up to her, asked her to get off and walk her bike to the sidewalk, where then I turned it upside down and hooked the chain back on.

Bike Rack

We continued on, locking our bikes, running errands and stopping for snacks. We took a slightly different route home, down low-traffic streets where I used all the hand signals I sometimes slack on and insisted on helmets though she didn’t want to wear one (I know she didn’t think it was “cute” but I said that I thought being brainless would be uglier). Of course I worry about my own safety but having someone in my care puts me on hyper-alert. I’d never want to be a bad role model or ambassador for bikes, especially to a young person. It made me think a lot about how biking has given me such joy and freedom and reminded me of how important the bike was to women’s independence.

I once taught at an all-women’s college, where I rode my bike to work, just three miles each way. When my students found out, they said I was crazy. “Three whole miles?” they’d ask. One added that she’d pray for me, since traffic was kind of bad in the area. Don’t know if it ever inspired any of those young women to give biking a spin, but it’s cool when you can share something you love.

Today our mentee is on the verge of adoption by a nice family who took her biking on the beach as one of their first outings. Hopefully it’s all smooth rides from here on out for her.

Full Circle Magic

May 30, 2015, by shawnajean No comments yet

We wanted to walk after dinner, to feel less fat, less 40, less broke, more something. So we did. My husband and I walked 2 miles to Silverlake and wandered around and into a record store called Vacation Vinyl. We browsed. We chatted. Rich looked at a Hirax record and the owner pointed out that it was slightly warped. The he offered to play it for him, just to see how bad it was. I watched the wavy plastic spin on the turntable and Rich played air drums to its song, making the record store owner chuckle.

“Did you have this back in the day?” he asked.

“Yeah, on cassette,” Rich laughed.

Together they decided the record wasn’t too badly warped after all—it was listenable. Then the owner surprised us both.

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“Tell you what… I haven’t done my good deed for the day. Take it. You seem to be the right person for this record.”

“Really?” Rich asked, scratching his scruffy blond head.

“Yeah,” said the guy, putting the record back in its sleeve and waving it toward Rich. “Enjoy!”

Rich took it and thanked him. We left feeling grateful. Rich vowed, “the next time I have some money, I’m coming here to buy something, just to support them.”

 

The next day we suddenly had money, riding that miraculous-yet-maddening rollercoaster of the self-employed. We walked to Silverlake again, this time for dinner at Flore and to fulfill the promise of the night before. Rich spotted Dennis, the singer of Refused, sitting a few tables away. We finished dinner, I excused my self to the bathroom and hoped he wouldn’t bother him while he was eating. When I came outside, ready to go record shopping, Rich asked, “Do we have any plans tonight?” I shook my head no, assuming these were our ‘plans. “Good,” he said. “Because Dennis just told me that Refused are playing a secret show at Vacation Vinyl in 20 minutes.” We headed over, got our numbered tickets, and got in line. While I held our spot and origamied my ticket into a boat, Rich went in and bought a Refused record, which he’d ask everyone to sign after the show. We packed into the small room, some familiar faces standing around the racks, and we were treated to an intimate set of high-volume Swedish post-hardcore. Good things happen when you take walks.

 

 

Breaking Away

March 18, 2015, by shawnajean No comments yet
Ross Castle

Ross Castle

It was one of those horrible bus tours—the kind where everything is planned down to a tee, including tourist sites, hotel buffets and bathroom breaks. I’m more of a backpack-and-wander kind of person but my mom had never been to Europe and this was on her “bucket list,” a bunch of things she’d been ticking off since my dad died three years prior. She’d since learned how to mow the lawn, pump her own gas, use her ATM card and pay bills online. She fulfilled a lifelong dream of seeing Boston by traveling with a friend and next she wanted to see Ireland. She didn’t want to travel alone with a bunch of strangers, so when she offered to pay for my ticket, I agreed to go. I’ve been all over most of Europe, the US and some of Central America, but Ireland has never been at the top of my list. I couldn’t care less about my Irish roots—I’m happy being an American mutt.

shawna bike ireland

The trip was a well-organized whirlwind. It took us by coach from Dublin to the Cliffs of Moher and back in 7 days. It was a bit of a cattle-herd, with too much focus on shopping and too little time to explore for my tastes, but perfect for my mother and twenty other mostly senior citizens, many who had never traveled abroad at all, some with significant mobility issues. I enjoyed the bits of history gleaned from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, geeked out at the Yeats exhibit at National Library of Ireland and appreciated the emerald vistas while silently suffering through the Guinness Factory tour, too many potato-based vegetarian-option meals, and the pub-centric nightlife. By the time we reached Killarney, I knew I needed a day to myself. ‘Twas fate that lead me to see a flyer for a “bike on a boat” tour (at a pub, of course), inspiring me to take a solo trip while the rest of the group headed to the Dingle Peninsula for a day of shopping. I called the number on the flyer from the hotel, and a nice Irish gentleman suggested I come back to the pub the next morning at 9 to buy a ticket for the boat, then I’d have to rent a bike from a place around the corner and ride it to Ross Castle, where all of us in the early tour group would put our bikes on a boat to begin our 22 kilometer trip. The boat takes people and their bikes up the Lakes of Killarney, dropping passengers at somewhere called Lord Brandon’s Cottage, where we’d begin the cycling part of the trip—2 kilometers uphill to the Gap of Dunloe and then a mostly downhill 7 miles back down to the town of Killarney. He estimated we’d be back around 4 pm, which would give me time to return my bike and walk back to the hotel with time to wash up for dinner.

 

My heart beat a bit faster at the sound of it all. I rode my commuter bike all over the city back home in Los Angeles, had been mountain biking a few times in Maryland, and once rode up the coast of Denmark to Kronberg Castle, but this would be a new adventure on wheels for me. My mother worried a bit about me leaving the group but understood I wanted adventure instead of shopping. Others in our tour group seemed concerned when they heard of my plan. In the breakfast line the next morning, one woman took my arm and looked at me with teary eyes, saying, “I’ll pray for you.” I assured her I’d be fine. I headed out with a backpack, sunglasses, snacks, some cash, strong legs and a cute new raincoat I’d snagged from a local thrift shop for 3 Euros.

 

I purchased the ticket at the pub as instructed then walked a few blocks to the recommended bike shop. An elderly man helped fit me for a bike, and when I told him I was off to see the Gap of Dunloe, he asked in a brusque brogue, “what do you wanna see that shithole for?” I laughed and said, “because I’ve never seen it, I guess.” I gave him my driver’s license and he gave me a map and sent me on my way. Mist surrounded me as I rode through the Killarney National Park, arriving at Ross Castle, a fortress straight out of Game of Thrones. After taking a look around the castle (I’m an American—it’s required!) I rolled up to the edge of the pier and leaned my bike against a post, waiting for the boat and the others. Soon came a red wooden canoe-looking thing with a small engine attached. Its weather-faced captain was accompanied by a little beagle standing starboard. A few moments later, an elderly man and a boy who looked about 10 years old walked up to us. “Where’s the rest of the biking group?” the captain asked me. I shrugged. “The pub said there’d be four others but they’re not here, so let’s go,” he finally said. The man and his grandson said they’d be hiring a lorrey once we landed at Lord Brandon’s Cottage, which meant I’d be on my own after this. Shoot. I thought I’d be riding with a group through the hills of Ireland. When they said “bike on a boat” tour I thought there’d be a bunch of us on bikes getting a tour. I also thought it’d be a ferry picking us up—not this little thing. I took a deep breath and prepared to tour alone.

 

With my bike at the hull and the beagle at my side, we the four of us took off up through the Lakes of Killarney. I learned the grandfather and grandson were visiting from Limerick but otherwise no one seemed chatty. We took in the landscape while our captain focused straight ahead, throwing us bits of history here and there. He shared he’d been doing the trip since the 60s, when they use to paddle the whole 11 kilometers without a motor, “fueled only by Guinness.” As we hugged the shore at one point, the dog jumped out of the boat, running alongside us on land as his owner muttered “you little scoundrel!” He hopped back on as soon as he could and we all had a good laugh. Then it started to rain. I put on my slicker under my huge life jacket and popped up the hood. Spots filled the lenses of my sunglasses, my legs shivering beneath my leggings, and I began to wonder why I wanted to do this trip in the first place.

my bike, on a boat

my bike, on a boat

sheep

Momma and baby sheep

 

Finally a cottage appeared—Lord Byron’s cottage—and we were released on shore. It took me a moment to get my land legs again. I was thrilled to use the bathroom and order a hot chocolate before getting on the bike. A lycra-clad man was leaving on his bike as I arrived, and two women in their twenties sat at picnic tables, enjoying warm drinks of their own. “Are you biking the Gap of Dunloe?” I asked. The said yes, that they’d come on an earlier boat. “I’m Laura, this is Johanna,” said one. They asked if I was American and told me they were German. One of them was visiting the other, who lived in Killarney. I was relieved to know there’d be others on the mountain with me but did not want to invade their friend-time. We all finished our drinks about the same time and headed off up the dirt trail to the road. Together we rode for about 10 minutes, until we came to a mother sheep and her new baby. We stopped for pictures, causing me to lose momentum up the slight hill. They slowed to check on me, but I urged them to go on ahead and not wait for me. Within seconds I was alone—just me and the sheep. The incline steepened and I eventually got off and walked the bike up what seemed a never-ending narrow road. At one point I reminded myself that there was no reason to rush. I’m on vacation, I thought. I may never come here again. I walked on mindfully, breathing the clean air, appreciating the water-colored sky, stopping at waterfalls and stretching my legs on boulders. A horse and buggy wound up the road toward me and I recognized the waving passengers as my boat companions. “You’re going to beat me in this race” I huffed as they passed up over and down a hill, then out of site. Just as I wondered when the uphill part of this trip would be over, a fluorescent yellow sign loomed at the peak ahead; it was an arrow pointing to the road down, back toward town. I muscled the bike up to the sign and was greeted by the lush vista of tow mountains separated by a deep valley in the distance. This must be the Gap, I thought. I leaned my bike on the ground as just as I was taking it all in, heard something behind me. I looked up and over my shoulder to see Laura and Johanna sitting atop a rock, waving madly with snacks in hand. “We’ve been waiting for you!” they called. In the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world, I suddenly felt supported—connected. They scrambled down from their rock and we snapped photos of one another. Again we headed off together but when they slowed to film one another on their bikes, I waved goodbye and rolled away back toward town alone. A kidney-shaped lake and dots of bleating sheep eventually gave way to horse farms, thatched-roof cottages and Gaelic signs pointing me back to Killarney. I pedaled toward the cathedral in the distance—my landmark for finding our hotel. The toughest part of the whole trip for me was navigating the right-turning round-about as the directionally-challenged North American that I am. After a few Bowfinger-like attempts, I finally figured it out, moseyed to town, returned my bike and walked back to the hotel in time to shower for dinner. The tour group cheered as I entered the dining room, everyone wanting to know the details of my trip.

gap of dunloe

Rocky stance at the Gap of Dunloe

 

I found out later that the woman who had prayed for my safe return had lost her daughter in a skiing accident a year prior. I felt bad for laughing off her concern and suddenly grateful for the opportunity to travel with my mother—for all the troubles we’d had over the years, for the life I’ve lived so very different from hers, for the sacrifices she has made which allowed me to choose my own adventures. I treasure the time I spent in the mountains that day, alone in a way that I never am, far from the worries of my everyday life, in the good company of my self.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seen Jan. 3

January 30, 2015, by shawnajean No comments yet
michele gallery 2

Me & Michele in front of the painting of her at Avenue 50 Studios. Nov. 10, 2012

We’ve all had our share of death-in-the-time of Facebook now. I’ve had my own… publicly grieving my father in the form of raw and embarrassing status updates, clicking around and discovering a former student’s suicide, watching my husband’s beloved cousin’s page disappear after a sudden illness took him away.

 

Most recently I lost dear friend and fellow author Michele Serros to cancer after she fought the good fight for a year and a half. The memorial drawings and posts filled my feed, constantly reminding me of the great loss her husband and closest family know all too well.

 

We met years ago when I wrote to her as a fan and we quickly became friends. We were penpals for a while and she often addressed the envelopes to: ‘LA Shawna,’ which I thought was funny. Was this because I had moved to LA? Or was she using the Spanish article, meaning “the Shawna” or was she just re-naming me? As an English professor, I often taught her story, “The Gift” to my freshmen lit classes. To an east coast kid like me, she was the quintessential California Girl but her stories reflected a working class experience similar to mine growing up .

 

Once when I shared I had an upcoming reading in New York but no place to stay, she arranged for me to get the keys from a neighbor and stay in her empty Chelsea apartment. I was honored to be invited to her Acne & Agnst book club, where she often swooned over Dave Mustaine’s lovely locks. When she first met Antonio, she called to tell me she’d met “the one” and he was “Mexican and vegan!” When Flacos did a pop-up restaurant in Oxnard, my husband and I roadtripped up to see her and meet this mystery man. Michele convinced us to get the pozole, a dish we’d never tried (and now I am forever hooked… do you know how hard it is to find vegan pozole?)

 

Now, with her LA memorial celebration approaching, I find myself thinking back to the last time I saw her—at the Latina Women’s Short Film Festival in Ventura last year (which she joking called the “short Latina women’s fest” on a photo caption.) My husband and I brought a teenager we’re mentoring, and despite her fading vocal chords and throngs of fans, Michele took time out to chat with us and signed a copy of Honey Blonde Chica to our mentee. I always admired her graciousness. When my father died four years ago, hers was the first card to arrive in the mail and the only one I saved. Her words comforted me in a way none others did. “He must have been a good papa to have raised you.” Michele understood grief.

 

Today I found myself searching through my Facebook messages, wondering about the last time we’d corresponded.

 

My messages show that in August of last year I contacted her about booking her on the Writ Large Press #90for90 reading series at Union Station. I knew she was sick but I hoped things were getting better. She looked into whether it would coordinate with another appearance she was doing in Ventura, but the dates didn’t work out. The last response she sent was with typical Michele manners: “Oh… I’m afraid I can’t make it. I hope you think of me for other events. Thank you.”

 

My messages show that on Christmas day of last year, I sent her one line: “Love you and thinking of you, today and everyday.” The only thing that comforts me now is Facebook’s trademark check-mark and little time-stamp below:

 

Seen Jan. 3

 

She died on Jan. 4th. I was not there with her at the end, but I’m glad she knows she was loved, not just by me but by untold numbers of people for whom she was the world. I will always think of you, Mucha Michele… forever the Chicana Role Model. Thank you.

michele gallery

Our totally “candid” conversation at Avenue 50 Studio.

 

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Live at the Safari Club: A History of Hardcore Punk in the Nation’s Capital

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Recent Posts

  • Adolescents shawnajean, June 28, 2018
  • Broadsides! shawnajean, December 16, 2017
  • Live at the Safari Club shawnajean, July 12, 2017
  • Safari Club book shawnajean, February 22, 2017
  • Hamlet’s Hideaway – summer writing retreat shawnajean, April 14, 2016

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