Ken Hada is a fourth generation Oklahoman, descendant of Danish and Hungarian immigrants: Gypsy poets, barn dance aficionados, art lovers, amateur philosophers, wheat farmers, preachers, teachers and common-sense craftsmen.

“These poems, acting as spare parts themselves, go into the making of one smooth-running, powerful engine.”

 - Diane Glancy

Author of Pushing the Bear

Collective Confidence - A Profile of George Penney | by Andrea Festa

Confidence.  It’s a complex personality trait.  Too much of it, and you’re an arrogant asshole.  Not enough, and you’re meek, blending in with the crowd.  George Penney is cocky at times, yet modest when needed.  But is this confidence a façade only a twenty-year old dreamer can concoct?  Something that will dissipate over time?  Or is it inherent in the mind, body, and soul?  One thing is for sure.  If it is genuine, one only hope George Penney will hold on to it forever.

“Without sounding egocentric, these are the two things that always happen on a day to day basis for me: 1) I’m always on the move. I don’t waste the day. If there’s ever a day where I’m just sitting at home, I make it productive, I’ve gotta keep it moving.  And, 2) people stare at me…everywhere I go.”
I’m sitting in a modest, cozy kitchen with orange walls in Bala Cynwyd right outside of Philadelphia with George Penney: twenty-years-old with a sweeping wave of spontaneous blonde hair, statuesque and lean, an aspiring musician. He wears skinny jeans, Nike’s, and a casual, colorful hoodie- a refined type of dishevelment. He methodically brews a cup of coffee and occasionally glances out the window above the sink when he speaks, as if searching for his train of thought in the trees outside. I ask him,
“So you mean, the females stare at you?”
“Actually…both women AND men. I don’t know what it is.”
I mention to him that maybe it’s his confident swagger. He asks what I mean and I tell him it’s in his walk- it exudes confidence. And people draw to that type of stuff. I don’t tell him that his walk looks like it’s meant for a Calvin Klein runway, but it comes to mind. Even in the short travel from the coffeemaker to the refrigerator, it’s a catwalk: his arms loosely disengaged from his body, his head upright, his shoulders pulled back, a fierce, yet friendly face. His lips curl into a closed, sly smile that resembles the Joker- a gesture unique to him.
Earlier, he’s giving me a tour of his parent’s three-story house. There’s a retro multi-colored area rug in the living room, some old-fashioned Coca Cola ads strewn about, remnants of his father’s past from the Arctic Circle preserved in frames.
“So this is the Penney household. My parents are really into art, if you couldn’t tell.”
He guides me through each room, pointing out pieces of his life like we’re at a museum. That’s the thing about George. He’s comfortable in his own skin. He talks eloquently and defined, slow enough to keep your attention but not slow enough to bore you. You’re intrigued. Every word is carefully planned and executed at the precise moments, eventually reaching a nice culmination, which emphasize his final, and often insightful point. He hardly pauses in his speech. There’s no uncertainties, such as “umm” or “like.” He tells it how it is and he never, ever runs out of something to talk about. No prying needed. Just George, his monologue, and his audience.
“It must be an only child thing. You can tell someone’s an only child when all they do is talk about themselves.”
You can also tell someone’s an only child when they occupy the entire third story of the house.  George leads me to his personal bathroom with a black and white checkered floor, followed by the bedroom, adorned in electric blue walls and a window cove that overlooks the suburban street below.  

 It’s a typical young man’s bedroom, but something strikes me as interesting.  It’s a marker board on the wall facing the bed.  I glance at the list of bulleted items, scribbled in black: -studio apartment in center city, -California, -$1,000,000, -more opportunities.  Before I have the chance to ask what this is about, he’s ready with the answer.

“This is my vision board.  I just write down things that I want accomplished, some dreams and goals, some wants.  That way, when I wake up in the morning, it motivates me to start my day.  I look at this and then I know that I’m that much closer to obtaining my goals.”

 He points at each item like a game show host.  

 “You know, like get a studio apartment in the city, open up more opportunities for myself.  It keeps me going.”  As he says this, he expands his chest and churns his arms in a locomotive motion, as if both literally and figuratively pushing towards his aspirations.  

 Beside the marker board is a one-dollar bill taped to the wall.  Yet next to the “one”, he’s written a dollar sign and six zeros.  I already know what this entails and I smirk a little.

“And this is my one million dollar bill,” he says wide-eyed in all seriousness, looking to me with certainty, as if even the slightest inclination of doubt on my behalf would serve as an insult to him.  On this note, my smirk fades.  It baffles him when people think that it’s impossible to make one million dollars.  In fact, he told me in the kitchen,

“I’m a firm believer in the law of attraction, meaning, every aspect of your life right now is something you’ve attracted, both the negative and the positive.  I only surround myself with positivity, thus, good things happen to me in return.  It might sound selfish, but I think a certain amount of selfishness is good…just not too much.”

He even stays positive when his computer won’t turn on.  He fumbled with it for some amount of minutes and said that if his computer crashes, everything he has saved on there is lost.

“It’s a pain in the ass, but you know…I won’t let something like this bother me.”

This is where he spends most of his time at home, on his Macbook, something his father gave him to pursue his musical interests.  George doesn’t browse the Internet aimlessly but rather, he’s productive- creating beats and networking himself with record labels and other aspiring artists.  Composing background music for various hip-hop, alternative rock, electronica, and rap artists (under the pseudonym “Fadeeka”) has become a part-time job for him.  Friends call his style, “Funk dance hall…upbeat, different, and bold…something unique that’s not widely popular in this country.”  Others have said, “He’s very driven when it comes to his music.  More so than the normal person who just says ‘Oh, I’m in a band and practice every once in a while.’  He would sit down at his computer in between every class and just make beats.”

Visiting his website is like meeting him in person.  Listed under ‘Influences’ is “Each day.  Hip Hop.  Dance floors.”  From his casually model-esque profile picture to his upbeat and experimental tracks, you can’t help but wonder how much time and effort it took into creating this.  Unfortunately, this sometimes interferes with school.

“I need to step up my academic game,” he tells me.  There’s a regretful tone in his voice.

George tells me he attends a community college, majoring in behavioral health and human services (he says he always had a keen interest in the species of the human being- it fascinates him).  However, he was previously enrolled at Temple University.  His decision to leave in sophomore year was surprising to his roommates at the time, yet he provides me with the real reason for leaving.

“I just wasn’t myself, I wasn’t motivated.  I wanted to surround myself with positive people.  Not saying my roommates were bad people or anything, but…you know, you only live once.”

“You only live once.”  Seems like a cliché proverb only a confused college student would say, but considering the nature of his personality, his optimism and determination, it genuinely rings true.  And not that his roommates were bad people, like he said, but the implication is that he, in some ways, stood out amongst them.  George was going places, he had goals and a dire need to make something of his life.  Not to mention he had a vice that was holding him back.

“I was surrounded by weed everywhere, and I was tempted.  I didn’t wanna wonder what high George was like.  I just wanted to be George.  I mean, there’s a reason they call it dope.”

Now we’re sitting on wicker furniture on the veranda and he’s trying to light a one-hitter with a match, regardless of the heavy winds.  He says that if the wind blows the match out one more time, it’s God’s way of telling him not to smoke weed.  He smokes it anyway after a few attempts.  While exhaling, he furrows his brows and asks me, “So Andrea, are you happy?”  

 By this point, I forgot what I was there for.  He took such a genuine interest in what I had to say that I felt comfortable disclosing certain information to him.  It was like a game of twenty questions, yet not as a means of simply passing the time.  He wanted to know how I felt about life and truly cared about my response.  What are your plans after college?  How do you feel about hipsters?  Would you ever consider writing a memoir?  These were some of the things he asked me and I was more than glad to answer him.  It wasn’t about the writer and the subject anymore- it was two individuals having an insightful conversation.

He takes a sip from the coffee he brewed earlier and gently slides a Marlboro out of its pack.  “I’m a very big believer in coffee and cigarettes,” he says.  “Like, these two things need to happen right now.”

Later, we pick up his friend and musical colleague, Stu, to load up George’s drum set and bring it back to the Penney household.  Stu resembles George only in the sly smile and his confidence is much more subdued.  Both of them, formerly members of a funky jazz/elevator music/all instrumental band called Drop Collective, now work only as a pair, jamming in either one’s basement, both improvising off the cuff and rehearsing previously written material.  The musical relationship between the two is nothing short of a collaborative, supportive effort.  There’s an apologetic obligation to uphold if someone screws up.  Stu, the electric guitarist, will say, “That was my bad,” if something sounds off and George, the drummer, will retaliate with, “Dude, no, that was all me.”  

 And it’s this combination of raw talent and cohesion with one another that ultimately results in a near-perfect blend of melodies and beats- creating an astonishing, finished product, even if it’s all ad-libbed.

The once-dapper George in skinny jeans and clean sneakers now sits behind his drum set, stripped down to his most primal state.  He wears basketball shorts and rips off his shirt (revealing the tattoo of a bluebird on his chest).  He’s barefoot.  He prompts Stu to play “The King of Pop riff,” a hidden language between the duo that I’m unfamiliar with.  Stu begins with an upbeat, multi-chord, 70’s jazz melody.  George bumps his head to the beat, eyes closed, immersed in the music.  Then he kicks in with a heart thumping, fast paced, synergetic pulse.  He’s a fan of the cymbals and uses them at every chance he’s got, but in moderation.  Never looking directly at the drums, he swings his head side to side, occasionally biting his lip to combat the astronomical speed of his arms moving.

They stop.  George says, “Let’s write a song.  Right now.”  After some more coded talk of “Ok, you’ll come in with the King of Pop, then I’ll do the delay, then we’ll go into the Porno Metal,” they’re about to create something phenomenal in a mere fifteen minutes before Stu needs to return home.  George readies Stu, does a little dance in his seat and says, “Let’s make it hot…give it that hot element, you know?”  And then they’re off.

And “hot” is exactly how to describe it.  A gloomy, almost transcendental riff echoes out from Stu’s guitar- like the soundtrack to a thriller movie that takes place in the Pacific Northwest, the sun rising through the trees. George hops in with a beat so full of angst, it’s like a red Ferrari speeding down the highway, synonymous with Stu’s guitar riff peeking through the forest.  After a good five minutes or so of this pure, escapist bliss, they’re done, modestly underestimating what they’ve just accomplished out of thin air.  George says, “Great job, Stu.  Very emotive.  It reminded me of driving down Sunset Boulevard, knowing that you’re gonna meet someone at a motel.”

Stu packs up his things and leaves.  George returns to the veranda to light up another smoke.  Later, Stu tells me, “George is really good-hearted.  He’s grateful and has an understanding about life that most people our age don’t have.”  And I say, it shows in his confidence.  Maybe it is cocky or egotistical.  Or maybe it’s none of the above.  Perhaps it’s even something to be envied, the ability to truly grab life by the drumsticks and make something worthwhile happen everyday.  Perhaps a positive outlook is just what everyone needs.  Maybe we all need to take George Penney’s advice when he says, “You only live once,” coolly striding out of one door and into another.