Resolutions

With the holidays over and the New Year just days away, I've started to think about resolutions. More specifically -- if I've ever actually kept one. Sure, there are the one to two month stretches where I've actually gone without eating junk food, exercised daily and all that. But then real life snaps back like a vengeful rubber band. I settle back into bad habits. I stop going to the gym as much as I should. And there's always some justification. "I'm too busy. It's too rainy. I've been good."
Sound familiar?
This New Year's eve, I think my resolution will be a bit different. I want 2013 to be the year of continuous effort. Never quitting. Even if I slip up or get stuck in those same old ruts again, I want to keep trying. Hit the reset button and keep working. Keep believing in myself. I won't let failure shake me. I'll embrace uncertainty, and never let it scare me. I'll keep on living. Keep on trying to better myself.
I look back on 2012 as a year of adventure, and not missed goals. I hope you can do the same.
Happy almost New Year.

The Word Awaits

Smile. The world didn't end. Despite all of the news specials and conspiracy theories, the sun rose in the morning. People woke up.
It's the weekend, and today is the first day of the new cycle. Full of possibilities. Full of life. Time to put an end to all those inhibitions that kept you down and made you feel like you were less than perfect. The world has never seen the real you. The you unafraid of the unknown. The you unafraid to be you.
Be different today. Understand that, someday -- maybe a million years from now -- the world will actually end. The sun won't rise. People won't wake up.
But not today.
Today the world awaits you.

Nothing is Guaranteed

It's sad that it usually takes something tragic for us to remember that life is unpredictable.  Control is an illusion. And despite our best efforts, right decisions, and good luck: nothing is guaranteed.
It's cliché to say that every day should be lived to the fullest. Besides, it's not very practical. But you should love every day you get to be alive. Whether you spend it at work providing for a family, hiking Mt. Everest, or just taking some time to yourself to listen to your favorite playlist, love that you get to do what you're doing.
It might not be your idea of perfection.
It might not be your idea of exciting.
But here you are.
Reading this.
Breathing.

Pull Over

Pull over and watch the sunset. Or tilt your head to the sky and feel the rain on your face. These sights and smells and sensations we take for granted. They'll be gone someday.
So why not seize them now!?
Jump out of bed!
Stop and enjoy the freshly cut grass. Freshly fallen snow. The roses --the first whiff always like a crisp, fresh kiss to the nostrils. Hit the open road with someone you love and drive until the engine stalls and the car sputters to its death.
There is too much of this world to see. Too little time. And in too much of a hurry to get somewhere else, we tend to miss the miracles right in front of us.

Duet

I've been listening to a lot of music lately. My idols, mostly. The Scorpions and Deep Purple and the rock-n-roll that's molded my life. I've even had the fortune to perform alongside some of these legends. And wow --- what talent. Such raw passion. Unbridled by the microphone. The amps melodically thumping LUB DUB LUB DUB with their heartbeat. A musician's true-blue line.
I've been listening to a lot of music lately and wondering -- if I could perform a duet with anyone in history, who would it be?
I'm stumped, and so I leave the question up to you.

Jet-lag

Day is night and night is day. You're hungry at times you shouldn't be. Your head feels like it's been spun for hours on a turntable, then left to stumble through the morning, or evening -- you can't quite remember which is which.
Is it six in the morning or six at night?
Time for breakfast or dinner?
Is it today, tomorrow, or somehow -- yesterday?
Such is living with incessant jet-leg. Life on the road. Pit stops at airports in between time zones. You finally realize time is a concept forged by man for his own sense of ego. For some sense of control.
But when you're jet-lagged, almost everything seems out of control. Upside down. All you can do is weather it, hoping that, sooner or later, all things settle as the should. The show must go on.

Home

The thing about home is -- you can leave it, but it never really leaves you. And once you're back, it's like you never left. Surrounded by friendly familiar faces, the sights and smells and bitter cold nights spent curled under a thick warm blanket. Home stays with you no matter where you go. It crosses continents and oceans, and survives even in the melting temperatures of L.A. Home has instilled in me my passion, my values, and my love of rock n' roll. It's become not a place -- but a part of me.

Video Shoot

What you see on screen is not what you see behind the scenes. It's only six in the morning, but the set at Beso's in Hollywood is bustling with two dozen men and women hard at work. Key grips adjust a light, making sure it reflects off my cheek in just the right way. Not too harsh, but soft, a comforting and warm glow, like a reassuring pat.
The director paces the restaurant, points every which way, a general in the mists of battle, his mind a million places all at once.
In back, the actresses prep with makeup. Two stylist for four girls. Brushes and blush and hairspray. Steam billows from a portable iron. Someones looking for eye liner.
Time to block out the video. Chart each and every step I'll take from 'Action!' to 'Cut!' There's a girl with celestial emeralds for eyes on my arm. She follows me into the restaurant. To a table. I pull out her chair.
On the second floor, catering has coffee and breakfast.
A photographer snaps another photo inches from my face.
Cameramen swarm, circling me like vultures  "Can you sit up, please?" they ask. "Move a little left. A little right. Good, good."
It's almost eight and we haven't shot a single second of footage. Two hours of preparation  Two hours of checking, rechecking, and checking again the cables, the angles, the continuity.
"We ready?"
"We're ready," says the director. He waits quiet. All is still. Until he puts into -- "Action!"

Second Death

Death gets the living thinking. About legacy. About who will show up at our funeral. Who will cry and who will laugh and who will raise the first shot of vodka for a toast.
It's not death that scares us.
It's being forgotten. Irrelevant. "Here today, gone tomorrow," as Sugarfoot Bonner would say. Very few have escaped this second death. That honor goes to the Shakespeares and Einsteins and Christ-like figures across time.
But the rest of us?
What footprint do we leave behind?
Luckily, it's the little things that leave the longest lasting impressions. Making a stranger laugh. Reminding someone you love them. Singing when it's unexpected. Smiling. And the smells -- the perfumes, the new apartments, the deep-fried carnival food, fresh-cut grass and fog machines of our memories.
These things are our legacies. Our lives.
No matter how long your name is still muttered after you're gone, nothing and no one can take that away from the world.
Rest in peace Steve Lee.

Generic Interview: Part III (The Power of Music)

It compels us to kiss. To cry. To twitch with nervous energy. The power of music is unlike another other on Earth. Instilled by God and drilled by man, it has evolved cultures. Fought tyranny. Caused quite a few to faint.
"So, you asked me what music can do?"
"That's right," asks the interviewer.
I pause. Think. Search for the right wording. "Anything it wants to."
That's why we listen in the car -- stuck cursing in traffic or cruising the coast. That's why it's on TV and in the movies. On our phones. Our minds. Music pushes us to jog further. Lift more. Make love. Mosh pit. Stage dive. Take risks. And live.
 "What are you trying to do with your music?"
"Besides not work a real job?" I joke.
"Besides that," they laugh.
If you could make people kiss, cry, twitch; if you could mold their emotions like clay --
I answer, "I'm trying to make this world a livelier place."

Generic Interview: Part II (Rehearsal)

Sasha and Eric experiment with guitar rifts while Derek watches from the sofa. Dan has his feet kicked up on a coffee table in the corner as he sips an energy drink, Instagrams, Tweets, and is everywhere but right here. Standing steadfastly behind the control board, John, the sea-savvy captain of our ship, checks the ear pieces, the cables, making sure everything is accounted for and in its proper place. Meanwhile, Mike and I are sequestered in the sound booth, concocting lyrics like Watson and Crick.
Another typical rehearsal.
"Tell me," asks the Interviewer, "how is rehearsal coming along for your upcoming tour with Nickelback?"
"Slowly but surely," is my answer.
But there's nothing slow about eight-hour sessions in the studio. Pumping caffeine and energy drinks into your blood stream as if connected intravenously. Stopping. Starting. Starting the set all over again. Tweaking this. Cutting that. Timing it all down to the millisecond until everything ebbs and flows to perfection.
I'm asked, "What's it like to rehearse at the legendary Third Encore?"
You're in in the morning. Out by sunset. It's like time travel. Living life at a speed soaring towards light. The day disappears. You go home but you're already thinking about tomorrow's rehearsal. How to improve. Eager to give it another go. Get back to work.
I say, "You're five souls out there on stage. Five souls trying to find one sound. One heartbeat. We don't have a strong pulse yet, but every day it's getting stronger."

Nervous Energy

You work through the anxiousness. Practice. Practice. Practice. Practice some more. Until your fingers bleed and the words taste like brass. Perfecting the levels, the position of the monitors, your stage presence. Hop up on the drum kit here. Kick the mic stand there.
New band. A new set. Almost all new music. Will they still like me when I come home? Will they like the music? The performance? Will they leave wishing there was more, or wishing it had ended sooner?
It's not self-doubt. It's nervous energy. I'm like a dog at the door, wagging his tail. Can't wait. Can't wait. Knowing the whole world awaits just beyond the door.
Have to prepare for the cold weather. Russian cold. Not used to that anymore. Too much sun and beach. Too much Los Angeles. Should I pack a second coat? More thermals? Where's my wool hat? Can't remember the last time I've needed it.
You work through the anxiousness, but there's no working through this. Nervous energy never goes away, only fades, and swoons from stage to stage. It keeps you level. Never too high or too low. Always questioning. Excited. In the moment. This moment. Are you good enough? Prepared enough?
From somewhere deep inside me, I hear a voice whisper, "Yes." 

Check out my interview with Warped Magazine!

Troy Harley - End of Summer | Warped Magazine

Let me know what you think...

Generic Interview: part 1

The interviewer asks, "What's your favorite part of performing?"
I say, "That's easy -- the fans."
I like to meet with them after each show. Whether it's a club in Hollywood or an outdoor amphitheater, 10,000 in the crowd or ten, fans fuel my performance, and afterwards, I like to thank the ones I meet back stage. They all look at me wide-eyed, like some walking poster capable of enjoying a beer with them. Telling jokes. Signing autographs. Having a good time. They're amazed at how normal I am. Just one of the guys.
I try not to treat anyone like a fan. To me, they're all friends. And when you treat someone like a friend, they'll follow you anywhere. They'll truly care about your career, your music. They'll truly care about you.

In the Back of a Speeding Convertible

Sunset on Sunset Boulevard. I'm in the back of a speeding convertible letting what's left of the sunlight shower over me. Not sure where we're going. Burgers and fires, maybe? Beer? Can't seem to remember, but who really cares when the wind's whipping your hair and the smell of freshly cut palm trees tangos under your nose.
Tourists line the sidewalks leading up to Hollywood Boulevard snapping photos of their favorite celebrities' stars. Mickey Mouse. Shrek. A Japanese couple kneels on Jimmy Hendrix to pose with Godzilla. And I'm convinced -- culture's gone to hell.
My spirit's lifted at a red light, when a car full of beautiful women pulls up beside us.
"Where are you guys headed?" asks Brunette with Fedora.
"Uh --" I start. "I'm not sure."
"How can you not be sure?"
"On a day like this -- does it matter?"
She smiles at me. Winks. From inside their car, I can hear suppressed giggling mixed with urging. She says, "We were going to go see the Hollywood sign, but --"
Green light.
"Follow us," I call as the car takes off.
And they do.
Where we're going -- I still can't remember. But my friend, the driver, turns to me and says, "This is going to be fun."

Road-trip: San Francisco

The car phantoms its way down the highway, headlights piercing through the blanket of black that lies ahead. Six hours to San Francisco. Bags packed. Snacks. A full car and a full tank of gas.
The road-trip playlist includes, among other things, a collection of David Bowie, "Rock & Roll All Night" by Kiss, and several samples of new music the band and I have been tinkering with recently. Feedback is positive but we cut the music talk short. No, "Have you seen this or that movie yet?" type talk, either. Road-trips are about comradery, and reminiscing.  Laughing at ourselves just as much as at each other while swapping "Remember that time we -- " or "I can't believe I --" stories.
Within no time we reach the city and the Golden Gate, a truly marvelous sight in all the lights,where we're to meet a friend at a bar to celebrate his birthday.
Drinks are two-for-one so we decide to drink twice as much.
A group of girls join us in our booth just before last call. Another round of shots. Make it two.
Cheers. To birthdays! To road-trips! To making memories for future reminisce.
The next morning, my head pays for the discount drinks. We pull over and find a quiet park overlooking the bay. The sound of the waves crashing ashore, the breeze, whispering and green, sooth my headache. We stay a while, each of us sitting in silent contemplation trying to piece together the night before. Images of drinks sloshing. People dancing. Trips to the bathroom and laughing. Always laughing. We were happy -- but why?
And does it matter?
This snapshot of San Fran, the sense of companionship in a well-shared silence -- a fond memory of a memory I'll never really remember.

Collaboration Breeds Innovation

What if Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had never attended the same elementary school and become friends?  Would we have missed out on The Rolling Stones?

I've been plagued with this random piece of information ever since last Thursday' bar trivia at the Cat & Fiddle. Questioning coincidence, you might say.

But in today's online age, what is coincidence? Physical location means nothing. A vocalist from New York can free-style over a techno track mixed by a DJ in California.  Film directors can find their next script via Craigslist. Comic-book fans lacking artistic talent can pitch their superhero stories to an illustrator. 

I call on all artistic types, all of you, to collaborate. To create. To use this great tool -- the world wide web -- for good, and not gossip.
Don't think you're artistically talented? That's OK. Although talent can’t be taught, creativity can certainly be inspired, and shared, with a click nowadays.
Because Mick Jagger is good. The Rolling Stones are great. 

Fine Tuning

A voice. Guitar. Car engine. You name it -- everything in life requires fine tuning. Constant upkeep. Because complacency kills. Voices have an eerie tendency to go missing before a big show. Strings snap. Engines sputter out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere past midnight.

Neglect never fares well.

So take the time to be meticulous. Take pride in your product. Your possessions. Yourself. Use your tools even when the mood doesn't strike you. They say a writer writes, so it must hold true that singers sing. Jugglers juggle. And so on and so forth. 

Professionals are constantly fine-tuning their trades to stay just that -- professional. Call the world cut-throat, call it competitive, the best stay on top for only as long as they're willing to work to stay there, willing to adapt, improve, re-string, rebuild. 

Darwinism back in action.

 

Surfing

Waiting for the one, the wave, the sun bakes my skin to a golden brown, leathery crisp. There's salt in the air, and in my hair, as I bob up and down on my board. Another wave rolls in. This one bigger than the last, but still -- not the one.
Surfing requires patience. Like most things in life. It's about calculated risk managed by gut instinct. An oceanic sixth sense. Feeling the wave before it even starts to crest. Remember -- they come in sets. So let the first one go. It looks good. There's no denying that. But let it go. Same with the second. Sit tight. Enjoy the air. Taste the salt. Inhale it. Let your feet dangle freely. Feel the ocean cradling you. The sun toasting you. Let instinct take over.
When it does -- paddle. Paddle as if your life depended on it. It's more digging than swimming, really. Faster. Faster. Feel the wave start to carry you. Then --
Pop up!
Don't hesitate. Those who do tend to fall flat on their faces. While surfing, especially.
Pop up!
Keep your knees bent. Balanced. Let the wave do the work. Ride it until it fizzles ashore.
While waiting for the next set, I watch a pair of youngsters try to catch every wave that rolls in. No patience at all.
But they'll learn. As we all do from short-lived satisfactions and wipe-outs.

Paradise Found

The word Utopia literally means "nowhere." Sir Thomas Moore was having a laugh. There is no perfect society. No perfect form of government. No perfect way of life.

Or so he claims.

Sitting under the shade of palm tree on a beach in La Manzanilla, Mexico, starring out at the undulating waves on the horizon, digging my toes into the sand, I'm wondering if this is perfection. Paradise on Earth. When suddenly --

My mind floods with memories of contentment. Skating across hardwood floors in socks fresh out of the dryer. Waking up without an alarm clock. Cold beer on hot afternoons. Taking the stage. Taking a hot bath. The taste of good vodka washing over the tip of the tongue. Sinking into a soft couch. The smell of new leather. Laughing so hard you cry. Laughing unexpectantly. Falling in love.

I've found paradise before. Everyday. Everywhere.

Play Free(ly)

The quarterback on television throws an egregious interception. Across his body, down the middle, into a throng of guys wearing the wrong color. He jerks his chin strap off as he jogs off the field.

 "The hardest part," says Announcer #1, "is forgetting the pass rush, forgetting the interception. Next series, you have to let it go. Play free."

"Let's see how he reacts," says Announcer #2. "The clock is against them."

"If they get the ball back, he has to go out there and let it rip. Just play football."

The camera stays glued to this quarterback. His every facial expression. Every muttered swear. And every time the opposing team advances a yard, they cut to him on the sideline, anxiously pacing. Powerless.

"The guys in your huddle have to be able to look you in the eyes and see that you're not rattled. Even if you have no idea what you're doing -- as the quarterback, you can't let it show," says Announcer #1.

And I'm wondering if people commentate on my performances like this. "Let's see if he can recover from that loose cymbal stand. Unplugged mic. Poor stage placement." Are they scrutinizing my eyes for fear?

If they are, they won't find any. Because on stage, I'm calm. Confident. Ready to let every song rip. It takes time and failure, but once you learn to play freely, live freely -- people notice that, and little else.

  

Downtown, Los Angeles

Remnants of the Gatsby-times survive on Seventh, near Spring Street. Grand buildings, brick-faced and hand crafted, where close to a century ago all the Hollywood-blockbusters got their premier, still loom like guardians of the city. But the theaters have been refurbished into novelty souvenir shops. Once glamorous hotels now house the most privileged of the lower class. The paint on the brick is peeling and chipped, advertising places and products long out of business.
But look closely and you'll see what downtown used to be. A place to celebrate with champagne. Splurge. Go for a stroll with a date after dinner and admire the lights draped from pole to pole.
Now, the street slips into a coma past midnight. The vendors, having packed away their discount T-shirts, leave debris like tumbleweeds. Even cars steer clear. And the only ones left walking the streets are drunkards and panhandlers and people in a haste to get home.
No more strolls.
No more red carpets.
As the city of Los Angeles grew, did everyone grow bored of Seventh? The same music? Same cocktails? Same scene?
Were they all so hungry for something different that they'd let this place -- a piece of history, a piece of themselves -- slowly starve?
On my way home from the SevenGrand, I promise myself to never make the same mistake.
Hunger is one thing. Gluttony another.

Song Writing

Listen -- can you hear it? The sound of your voice reading this silently as the rest of the world fades? The hum of the vacuum cleaner down the hall. The cars outside and creaking floorboards and echoing footsteps. Growing fainter, fainter still.
There's nothing but the words now.
I'm sitting down with a pen and a blank sheet of paper, listening to the silence. Listening for something that isn't there yet. You have to forget everything on your iPod. Forget that jingle you can't get out of your head. Consider it lobotomized. It's time to start from scratch. From silence.
Ask any well-trained or well-traveled musician and they'll tell you -- song writing isn't about writing at all. It's about listening. Waiting. And wading through the mire of static around you until it disappears. Even the sound of your inner voice has to be gagged and bound and forced to listen. Really listen, that is. To and for nothing. Because inspiration lurks in silence. Strikes when you're least expecting it to then delves back into the abyss.
My hand struggles to keep pace with my inner dictation. The lyrics are pouring out now, and like a wary stenographer, I have to stretch my fingers and crack my knuckles every few minutes just to keep going. Keep listening.

Stories I Missed

There's been little time to rest and reflect since I've been home. I whisked straight off to the studio to chat with Randy. Caught up on some much needed sleep. But today I have some time, so I'd like to share with you the stories I unintentionally -- or not -- forgot to disclose during the course of our Warped Tour.

1. Strip Club. Our day off. First day off in eleven straight days. The manager of the Buffalo strip club tells us it's illegal for him to serve us alcohol after 4 am, but we're free to stay as long as we'd like. Chaos ensues. Two of the dancers show up the next day to see us play. They stay for drinks afterwards and agree to model the new T-shirts that had just arrived. The photo shoot takes an interesting turn once the girls walk out wearing nothing but the shirts. No one objects.   

2. Groupies. It really boils down to two classifications-- those who are willing to sleep with you, and those who just want your food. Brittany Vegas is far from the latter. She stumbles onto the bus after we had left the door open to filter out a strange smell. According to her, this looked 'inviting', and when she asks, "Which bus is this?" The answer is easy:  "The best bus." Brittany helps herself to a seat and takes turns looking each of us in the eyes as she reveals her sob story. (This element seems to bind the two classes, according to recent studies.) Her friend had just abandoned her here in Connecticut. She's on her way to the next venue already, so all Brittany needs is a ride. "I know how this goes," she adds. "I'll sleep with any of you." That's when our Tour Manager interjects with a, "No." So Brittany Vegas exits the bus in search of a ride elsewhere, which she must have gotten, because the next day in Maryland, we see her again, though she has no recollection of who we are or why we keep calling her Brittany Vegas.

3. The reason we call her Brittany Vegas. Her real name was Brittany, and we're joking about her making the jump to LA to be a 'star'. One of the guys in the band claims to be able to pull some strings in the porn industry, due to an illustrious career of fifty films -- maybe more. "You can be the fluffer," he says. "Brittany Vegas. I see it now. Stick with me, and you'll go far."

4. Bus Roulette. Every spoke cap on the right tire of the bus is marked with a piece of gaft tape and a number. 1 through 10. Each of us puts twenty on a number and in the morning, whomever's number adorns the top, wins the pot.

5. The Pool. Somewhere in Texas at a hotel off the highway, we're all gathered at the indoor pool. I slip off my pants and take a step toward the water. "Troy," says Dan. "You're naked." I'm also starring at a lobby packed with people. I reach for my swim-shorts. Wiggle them on. By the time I'm dressed, only a few people have their foreheads pressed up against the glass.

6. Airplane Attraction. Well -- actually just some crazy chick Eric sits next to on the plane on the way home. She's enthralled with his abundance of chest hair and even goes so far as to invite Devin to their wedding -- despite already having a boyfriend. "I'm a terrible girlfriend," is her justification. "He's in his forties and I've been cheating on him for years." The reason for her trip to Los Angeles? Win big on The Price is Right.

7. Kansas. Dan and I trudge nearly four miles to the nearest liquor store after I tell him I'm tired of seeing "just the parking lot" of everywhere we go. "Let's explore." Turns out Kansas is nothing but cornfields and crickets. Four miles in 95 degree heat. By the time we reach the liquor store, we're already calling for a cab to take us back. "No way I'm walking that again," Dan huffs and puffs. I head into the store, grab a cart and proceed to fill it like a kid at Toys-R-Us on a shopping spree. Outside, Dan's sitting on the curb, still on the phone. "It'll be 15 minutes," he says, hanging up. We crack a beer. Cheers to the adventure. Only -- it's not over. Thirty minutes pass. No cab. Dan calls repeatedly and each time it's: "15 minutes, sir." I can tell he's getting aggravated by the little vein twitching on his forehead, so I duck back into the liquor store for a small bottle of Grey Goose. We take shots on the curb. An hour passes. Still nothing. My phone dies. Dan's is about to die. Bus call is in less than an hour. But we're too drunk to care, or even notice the cab rolling to a stop in front of us. Honk. Honk.

8. Canada. Speaking of walking-too-far-for-booze stories. In Toronto, I disappear for the entire morning and early afternoon. Toronto is beautiful and the skyline's lightly veiled in fog -- but there are far too few liquor stores. And what's this about an exchange rate? God only knows how much I paid for that 24-pack.

9. John's Birthday. We pause in the middle of the set to play happy birthday to our unsuspecting sound man and tour manager. He's even more surprised by the German dark chocolate cake we have waiting back on the bus. "You called my wife?" he exclaims. And we all laugh. "She called us," says Andrew. "Said to make sure it was German chocolate."

10. Swimming. Sasha and I are taking a dip in the Gulf of Mexico when in the distance, we notice a figure. Arms flailing. Screaming: "Troy!" It's Dan. He wades into the water. "We've got five minutes to get you to the Vans UK interview! I've been calling and calling and -- " I tell him I'm sorry. "I forgot." Out of the water. No time to dry off. We jog back to the venue. Try to take a shortcut but get cut off by a ten-foot chain-link fence. So we climb it.

I'm sure there are stories I'm still forgetting. Blame the booze-laced memories or my maladjustment to the real world, but the entire tour feels like a passing breeze now. Came on strong. Gone all too quickly.

Allergies, Addicts & the End of the Summer

There are certain allergies you catch on Warped Tour. Barbecued hamburgers and hotdogs, for one. Sleeping in a bunk bed. Waiting in line for a hot shower. Settling for a cold shower. Sweating. And dirty clothes. And answering the same irritating press questions like you're applying ointment to a rash.

But then there are the addicts. I'm not talking about the AAs and the NAs. I'm talking about the musicians addicted to the tour. To the circus experience. 

Because touring takes a toll few realize at first. It becomes a part of you. It becomes a microcosm of the way things should be. Where nobody is a stranger. Where people look each other in the eyes and smile instead of starring straight ahead. They wave, "hello." They want to drink with you. Lend you a cigarette. It doesn't matter how long they've been on tour or how many followers they have on Twitter. They just want to share in something greater than themselves.

Sure, there are those who'll claim they hate touring, but really they hate that they need it. Forget weed, whiskey and women. These people get hooked on comradery. So they keep coming back year after year to play the same tunes on the same stages for the same screaming fans. 

Just to belong again. To get their fix.   

It may be the end of Warped Tour for me. The end of the summer. But it's a part of me now. A part I can't seem to shake as I try to readjust to the 'real world' -- if Los Angeles can even be called that. 

So I raise a toast -- to new friends. Fleeting romance. The allergies and addicts alike.

I'm one of you now.

A Warped Prom

The bus is bouncing up and down. Packed with twenty-five people -- maybe more. Some girl has her shirt off, but only two thoughts prevail: how are these tires not bursting? And this is the best prom. Period.

Perhaps I should've started with a confession. In Russia, I finished high-school in three years, so there was no senior prom for me. No ordering the limo. No picking out the right corsage. No photos where you're forced to hover your hand six inches away from your date's hip because her overbearing father's standing there, eyeing you, trying to murder you telepathically. 

On Warped Tour, there's no time for these traditions. Usually, that is. Still, we pre-game like teenagers and everybody takes a turn spiking the punch. There's even a red carpet unfurled into a white tent, and just outside, a 6'by6' Vans backdrop where 'couples' have their pictures taken.

It's me, Bethany the press manager, scarlet hair, flowered dress, an old soul in a woman's body, Mod Son, and Dan. A 'couples' quartet. We file in front of the camera phones. Smile. Flash. Laugh because we're all already tipsy to drunk.

"To Prom!" commands Mod. 

"To Prom!"

Dan and Bethany scurry to the dance floor while Mod and I, and now T-Mills and Mike, work on a handle of Jack. T-Mills hops up onto the table, kicks his head back and chugs.

"Chug, chug, chug," his watchful audience demands.

Meanwhile, on the dance floor, Dan and Bethany slow dance their way into Amy the Pit Reporter and Shaun, lead singer of Yellowcard. 

"Watch those hands, young man," warns Dan.

And Bethany adds: "We decided to chaperon this dance."

Wait. 

Go back.

A few hours before, Bethany and Dan are sharing a Vodka and Blue drink with friends on bus #10 when a sudden rapping at the door excites a smile on everyone's face. Shaun ascends the stairs in a neon, sleeveless tuxedo t-shirt. Holding a corsage. 

Amy clasps her hands over her mouth.

"Hi." Shaun announces, "I'm here to pick up Amy..."

Wait. 

Go back.

Just days before, the entire band asks Amy to prom in front of thousands. Jealousy burns in the eyes of every teenage girl in attendance.

Wait.

Should we go back even further to high-school, when people like Dan and Amy got stood up, or went stag, to prom? Had their best friend swipe their date out from under them? Got too drunk and made a fool of themselves? Cried more than they'll ever admit?

Now all of that is an afterthought. Here they are -- Amy, about to go to prom with a rock star, and Dan, passing his drink back to Bethany, sliding on a pair of non-prescription glasses, about to give them the overbearing father routine.

Shaun whisks Amy away on a quad. She clings to his waist with her right hand and a Vodka and Blue drink in her right. Dan and Bethany watch fondly.

"I'm so proud of her," says Bethany.

"We did well," says Dan.

Back to prom. 

Heavy-drinking at the cocktail tent. Everyone is getting a bit too rowdy. Mod, T-Mills, Dan and I head back to the parking lot, where Machine Gun Kelly joins our group, takes our empty bottle of Jack and shatters it against a metal pole. Then someone yells "Fuck Soda," and suddenly, cans of Orange soda rain down like hand grenades. God only knows how we got on board the We The Kings' bus -- but there we are, packed in with the others, bouncing the bus up and down, up and down, presumably until the tires do burst.

But they don't.

And it's the best prom. Period. 

Orlando Nights: or why you should be happy as f*ck

It starts with a bottle of Jack Daniels Green Label. Why the change of color? We haven't a clue.
But it's different. So is starting the night in the back of Mod Sun's tour bus with said bottle, Mike, Dan, and a member of one of the BIGGEST bands on tour.
"I have to tell you," he says to Mod.  "There are two people I've met in this world that when they walk into a room, everyone around them is instantly happier. The first was Snoop. And now -- you."
We all chuckle at the sentiment, but it's true. Mod Sun, the self-described "hippy-hoppy" musician from Minnesota might as well be the Tony Robbins of the Warped Tour.
This guy starts pouring his heart out to Mod.  "It's tough when you have to sacrifice so much. I don't get to see my kids grow up. I don't have a home. And I'm never really happy."
Mod contests: "Are you kidding me? I've known you for ten years and you're one of the happiest guys I know."
"It's a facade. So, please, can I just ask: how are you happy all the time?"
"All I know," starts Mod, "is that what you put out into the universe, the universe will return to you. If you come out to your car and there's a parking ticket, and you say, 'God! I hate parking tickets. If I ever get another parking ticket I'll...' But right there. You just said 'parking ticket' two times." He waves his fingers for emphasis. "Two times. And I guarantee you will get another parking ticket. But if you wake up thinking, 'today is the best day ever', it will be. Especially you. You wake up in a different city every day. Nobody really knows you. You can be whoever you want to be."
We toast to happiness. First shot.
Mike's turn.
"When I was 13, I had cancer. But I had a really good group of friends that didn't make me think about it. They just treated me like nothing was wrong. All the same jokes, all the same crap. So I never felt like there was anything wrong with me.
"When I was in the hospital, the doctors would always come in to tell me my 'progress' but every time I'd say, 'Nope. Don't want to know. You can tell my parents, but I'm doing better.'
"They gave me a small percentage of survival initially, but here I am, eleven years later. I was always telling myself, 'I'm doing better.' And even if you don't believe it at first, you just have to think it. And keep thinking it. Until you do believe it."
Second toast -- to Mike.  "Fuck Cancer," the refrain.
There's a third and fourth and even fifth shot as everyone offers a bit of Buddhist-momentariness into the conversation. The last toast is bequeathed to me. I revert to my Russian:
"For friendship."
By ten o'clock the bottle's nearly finished. Bus call isn't until three. So we head down to the barbecue and hand the bottle off to random people we see along the way. We run into Sasha. Andrew. T-Mills's bouncer. A few blondes and fake-reds.
By the time we reach the barbecue -- the bottle's all the way finished.
Time for hamburgers, hot-dogs. But seeing how we're all "Happy as F*ck" (Mod Suns's aptly named hit single) this doesn't appease our appetite.
So after a quick phone call, we pile into four taxis. Destination: downtown Orlando.
A quick slice of pizza and a beer.
Toast: to downtown Orlando.
A few minutes later, Mike stops to play drums on the sidewalk alongside a guy using buckets as bongos. A small crowd gathers. Tips abound.
We then stumble across a bustling and bumping scene with four bars and an open courtyard connecting them. Price of admission: only $5.
Wristbands. Somehow Sasha gets in with my Russian ID. (In the spontaneous rush, he'd forgotten his wallet back on the bus.)
Then shoot shots to "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Dance and scream along with Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer." The rest of the bar watches dumbfounded. 'Who are these animals' they must be wondering, 'in the leopard-spotted shoes and cut-off shirts and fedora? And why  are they all so fucking happy?'
From there the night fades from memory.
Tequila.
More tequila.
Dan throws up -- in Eric's bunk.
Something about a fire extinguisher.
Then three rolls around and our bus rolls out in line with a dozen others. Next stop: West Palm Beach.

Work-related injuries

When you're a musician, work-related injuries are a bit different. You'll chip a tooth on a microphone. (Or if you're our  drummer -- a can of Monster Tour Water.) Get rock neck from rocking too hard. And as Joe, the keyboardist from Born of Osiris, explains about his broken wrist:

"Stage-diving."

"Nice," says Andrew.

"Yeah, it was a couple shows ago. You know -- just another work-related injury."

"Can I sign your cast?" asks Dan.

"Sure."

So while some look at life on the road as a vacation, never forget the crowd suffers. The Death Metal head thrashers. And those who become so absorbed in the performance that they literally lose their shit on stage. Because that's rock and roll. 

Creativity is a Lost Consciousness

According to a Newsweek article we stumbled across while cleaning out one of the junk-bunks, the next generation has demonstrated an abysmal, statistical drop in creativity. And for the first time ever.
I'm not strictly talking about being able to finger paint. Or compose a symphony. I'm talking about being able to think 'outside the box'. Assess problems from vantages not a priori. Creativity builds leaders, boisterous speakers, and men and women who will change the world. Without it -- what are we left with?
So it's a nice change of pace to meet people on Warped Tour like Larry Gee, the titular lead singer of a Dallas soul/funk band.
"We say soul/funk, but really it doesn't matter what sort of music we play," says guitarist Beau Bedford. "It's about Larry. And his voice. He can carry anything. I've been around man, and I'm not kidding you when I say Larry is going to be the greatest American soul singer of our generation."
Our generation. And perhaps for generations to come. Because if it's true that our children are in a steady creative decline, there might not be another act like Larry g(EE)'s.
Because by the end of their set, there are twelve musicians on stage -- only half of whom are really in the band. Guys with tambourines and saxophones and trumpets and whatever'll make a sound. Pieces of other bands on tours. Musicians who just want to jam. And the end product is undeniably addictive.
All because Larry is the creative type. Forget the confines of the stage. The procedural approach to music. "Let's get talent up here and see what happens' is his approach.
And I love it.
Too often, and too easily, we settle for convention, fearful of what might happen if others disagree. If we disappoint that wrong person. So we bury our heads and our imaginations like ostriches on the lamb.
So today, take the time be creative. For one second or one hour. Take a chance and see what happens.

The Showmans

There are plenty of people who travel with Warped Tour who aren't musicians. Barbers. Physical trainers. Even tattoo artists all work for tips, providing the 'talent' with desperately needed services on the spot.

But there's another type who travels -- the showman. They're the ones selling merchandise. T-shirts. Hemp necklaces and book-bags and CD compilations. You name it -- you've bought it. And they probably sold it to you. They work the tents all day in hundred degree heat armed with nothing but bullhorns and spray bottles and their own style. 

"Hey you -- Freckles," says Rob to a Ginger Girl walking past. "Buy something."

Rob's holding a shirt that reads: Get Naked. The kind of shirt every guy would wear on a first date if he were really being honest.
But the Ginger Girl shakes her head, smiles and says, "No, thanks."
"Hey, you -- Black Guy. Buy my shirt. It's cheap and sexual."
But the Black Guy meanders on his way.
At that moment, a cocky 15 year-old with pimples and braces and wearing a shirt that reads: Fuck Everything, strolls up.
"You're a terrible salesman," the kid says.
Rob fans the wad of 20s, 10s, 5s and 1s in his hand -- a hearty stack. "Oh, yeah?" And in one foul swoop, SLAPS the kid across the face with it. "Buy a shirt."
"Um..." the kid stammers.
"Buy a shirt," Rob insists.
The kid looks over his shoulder at his two friends as if to say, "Help me." But the only backup they offer is --
"It is a pretty cool shirt, dude."
The kid looks at his feet. Looks back up at Rob.
"How much?"
And like the fish that's bitten into the worm, you can tell by the twisted expression on his face -- he knows he's fucked.
"$55."
"$55?"
"But for you I'll do $25. I'm feeling generous today."
The kid reaches for his wallet. Riffles through the 1s and 5s I'm sure his parents had given him for lunch at one point, and finds a twenty tucked way in back. "Here," he says, handing over the money.
Rob rummages through a set of bins beneath the table. "What size? Small, medium, or fat-ass?"
"Medium...?"
"Medium it is."
Rob returns with the shirt. The transaction is complete. And as the kid walks away, Rob calls, "I  love you!" He turns to me and adds, "You can pretty much say anything to anybody as long as you end it 'I love you' just as another Gangly Teen with poor hygiene walks past.
"Hey -- you. This shirt will make you much less ugly."
A brief glance, but no sale. For now at least.
"OK -- I love you!"

Unwarped, Unwound

Ah – time to unwind. Another long, humid day in Buffalo, NY and the team is tired from trudging the gear across four acres of sun-scorched Earth and gravel and hills en route to our stage.
So we head to the barbecue around ten where we discover an 80s theme dance party, the likes of which – I can guarantee – you’ve never seen.
There’s the hulked-out, tattooed bass player of the heaviest of all the Metal bands shaking his ass to Huey Lewis and the News.
A hip-hop, freestyle chick shrieks when “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” comes on.
The circle in the middle is unlike any of the ones during the day. No shouting. (Well – only to “Jessie’s Girl.”) No punches thrown. No bloody noses. This is the unwarped, unwound side of Warped Tour. Everybody’s just in tune with the grooves they loved as adolescents.
“The best music comes from the 80s,” say Mike, trying to convince Dan’s date – a stripper from the night before – who claims she hates 80s music. He rattles off a bunch of names: “INXS. Def Leppard. Toto. The Pixies. Sonic Youth.” And he could probably go on forever.
Still, she sticks to: “I just don’t like it.” Until they’re in line for burgers and hotdogs and “Seldgehammer,” by Peter Gabriel pricks up her ear and ripples through her shoulders and hips to her ass until she’s shaking it like the hulked-out bassist.
Dan catches her. “See – Mike was right.”
“OK – maybe,” she relents.
It’s only a theme-night, and on any other night, a live band would be entertaining the crowd. But a snapshot of the barbecue speaks to the adolescent still inside each and every one of us. Stirring up memories of prom. First illegal downloads. Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends. Everyone forgets the long day and lost sweat and their sunburns.
By the end of the night, I’m shaking my ass right along with them.

Disorientation

My cell phone alarm sounds. Time to wake up. Jump out of my bunk. Say ‘good morning’ to John who’s already hard at work on his computer, fighting the on-going fight with our sub-par WiFi.
“I swear, if I find out who’s been streaming…” he says, shaking a mental fist.
Stepping out of the bus, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the burst of light. New city. New parking lot, more precisely. Some are gravel. Others grass. Few are paved completely. But every time there’s the same disorienting feeling – you have no idea where anything is. The bathrooms. The stage. Turn left out of the bus? Right? Why do people appear to be walking in six different directions?
You finally get a sense of what state you’re in after perusing the license plates in the parking lot. Still, this information helps little when it’s nine in the morning and all you want is a hot shower.
So I wander for a little while. Scope out the line of people forming by the main gate. It’s hundreds long with hours to go.
Sure, right now this place feels like an alien planet, but by bus-call, I’ll know exactly where to get free beef jerky. Where our friends’ buses are parked. How to get a cocktail. And as soon as I’m finally comfortable with the venue –
Robin, our bus driver, comes walking up the beaten path totting his suitcase. He shoots me a glare that says: “Time to go.” No alarm necessary.

What would you do for Warped Tour tickets?

“l’ll show you anything,” she stresses in a  French accent. “Except my vagina."
The bus breaks out in laughter.
"What else is there to show?" asks Dan, trying not to sound scummy -- but failing.
Meet Viki. She's with her friends Stephanie and Valerie. French Canadian girls with piercings all over the place and tattoos up to wazoo. Stephanie barely speaks English. We met only hours ago and now all three of them desperately want to see us at the next stop in Toronto – a measly 7-hour drive.
The funny thing is -- they actually make it. Through two hours of torrential downpour, too.
We meet up the next day at the box office. Their tickets are waiting, as promised. But it's five o'clock already and we go on at eight, and after that, it's a nine o'clock bus call -- much earlier than usual because when you've worked for 11 straight days, you'll pretty much do anything for an extra night in a hotel bed.
Still, the girls are ecstatic about the little time they get to spend with us, and per custom it seems, most of that time is spent teaching members of the band swear words in French.
Bitch.
Asshole.
As Mike explains it: "So I always know when someones talking shit about me."
After the show -- which is rushed because of the rain and rescheduling -- we take a few photos in front of the Toronto skyline. Gorgeous. Like Seattle, because of the needle, but less cluttered. And as we're walking back to the bus --
"Wait," calls Viki. She has this look stapled to her face like she's about to offer up something she might later regret.
"It's OK," says Mike. "You don't have to show us anything."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Like we've never seen a pair of tits before," says Dan, still trying not to sound scummy -- failing yet again.
So we board the bus without the girls and get ready for a much needed night in a real bed. As we pull away, Dan and I are lucky enough to be looking out the window when Viki lifts her shirt.

The City That Never Sleeps

If you had less than two hours to spend in New York City, arguably the greatest city on Earth – what would you do? What would you see? Which of the hundreds of landmarks would you visit?
The bus rolls to a stop at Broadway and 42nd just after one on the morning. We’re on our way from Holmdel, NJ, to the next show in Montreal. Another 8 hours of road time ahead of us.
This is Mike and Sasha’s first time in the Big Apple. They’ve heard the stories and the hype – now what?
We file out and immediately their necks crane upwards. Sasha’s speechless. Mike whips out his phone and starts recording everything for his girlfriend back home.  He snaps a picture of a Leonard Cohen poster. “She’ll love this,” he says.
But the clock ticks away. It’s 1:15 and we’re not quite sure where to take these New York virgins. Mike wants to see the Empire State Building but we tell him that’s impossible. Too far. Same with Central Park. (Besides –anyone who has ever spent time on the East Coast will tell you to stay far, far away from Central Park after midnight.)
First things first – a stroll through Time’s Square. We take a picture with some beautiful girls waiting for a party bus. One of their typical meat-head boyfriends in a black sleeveless shirt wants to fight Dan for dragging ‘his woman away’.  No fight ensues, despite Dan’s drunken instigation: “Oy!”
Next stop – a slice of New York-style pizza. Jon finds a good place on his phone. After that – the group splits. Eric meets up with two childhood friends he hasn’t seen in years. Dan and Mike take off for the CBS studio. Jon and the rest grab drinks at St. Andrews.
Time flies in the city that never sleeps. At 2 am the band reunites at St. Andrews. The owner, a guy by the name of Mark, grey hair down to his collar, slides into our booth. He shares a story or two about his wildest concert experiences, and then buys us all a round of drinks. A second round soon follows.
At 2:30 we’re high-tailing it back to the bus. ‘High-tailing’ in the sense that everyone knows there’s only a five minute window before the bus driver leaves us all behind. And he would. Really. But we can’t help it. We’re mesmerized.  By all the lights and the high-definition screens dozens of stories above our heads and the sounds and the smells and the aura that is New York.  
“Come on!” Jon yells to those of us lagging behind.
Bumbling, stumbling, we finally board the bus. Eric wishes his friends goodbye as we wish goodbye to Vofka, our photographer. He’s headed back to L.A. for another gig.
As we pull away, the question is posed: “So, Mike – what’d you think?”
“Awesome,” is his answer. Albeit brief, he searches his mental vocabulary for the right words to describe the experience. But all he comes up with is, “awesome,” again.
The next day, we wake up in Montreal. Another city. This time – another country.  Brimming with possibilities.
“And to think,” says Mike, still in awe, over breakfast. “Just this morning we were in Time’s Square.” You can tell by his nerdy grin that the stop was everything --  and maybe more than --  he could’ve hoped for.  “I can’t wait to go back in a week.”
And so we mentally prepare for the next New York stopover, the question constantly on our minds: what’s left?
Everything. 

The Moment

The moment hits me in the middle of ACDC's "Thunderstruck." God -- I love this shit.
Sasha's fingers run ravenously down the neck of his guitar like acrobatic spiders. He's off on another rift. Another Sasha-twist on a beloved  rock song, yet somehow, as always, he's found a way to improve upon the original.
It's nearing midnight. The end of another day on Warped Tour. Sasha, Dan and I are in the back of the bus playing for the stoners and casual-conversationers huddled in the parking lot outside our window. We rip through Aerosmith, then "Back in Black." At times, I stop just to watch Sasha at work. At peace. He and the instrument entwined like a tree and its roots. You can no longer tell where one starts and the other stops. Instead -- they depend on one another. Thrive and survive off this symbiotic symphony.
Sasha's eyes light up. He grits his teeth. Dips the guitar. And in the middle of "Thunderstruck," he unleashes a viscous wail with the whammy bar.
Then it hits me.

Education

Five of us are circled under the tent. Devin, Dan, Andrew, John and myself. We're enjoying a mid-afternoon beer and reflecting on childhood.
John says, "I remember in the 3rd grade, it was parent-teacher night and I'm sitting there with my mom and the teacher goes: 'John's no good. He's trouble and he'll never amount to anything.' And that stuck with me. Even to this day, I think."
And it's funny because Andrew remembers a similar teacher in 3rd grade.  "She told me I was stupid because I didn't understand what Pi was. Forget that I had taken all sorts of advanced placement classes before that. She had it set in her head. I was hopeless."
"Girlfriend in college told me I was utterly hopeless in life, too," adds Dan.
That's when we realize we've all had that naysayer at one point in time. Who told us we weren't good enough. Could never work hard enough. Had next-to-nothing potential.
But ask Devin and he'll be the first to tell you he wouldn't trade his neurotic work ethic for the world. "It's gotten me to where I am," he admits with a smile. "So when I finish with something, I know it's the best it could possibly be." All because his parents -- teachers first and foremost -- had challenged him years ago. We have the choice to fight what comes innately, or embrace it. No matter what sort of 'education' we've received.  So stop making excuses. Stop trying to justify the things that bring you happiness. You're happy for a reason. Learn why, and you'll live a fuller life than most..

The things we'd tell ourselves

It's two in the morning and everyone on board our bus is starving. We missed dinner earlier because of the set time and now, it seems everywhere we stop is closed.

We finally spot a 24-hour Wendy's at a truck stop in Minnesota. As everyone eagerly files inside, we're surprised to find several others waiting to order.

"Is that --" starts someone.

"I think it is," says Andrew.

Standing at the counter is Dan Whitesides, drummer for The Used, alongside his wife, Brittni. They place their orders and move aside.

"Next," the cashier calls.

We proceed to place order after order while chatting with Dan about the tour so far. He's an undeniably friendly guy and wishes us well after the cashier calls his number. "245!"

Once back on board the bus, there's an elongated moment of savory silence. Everyone is too busy chewing, drinking, to make eye-contact. Chili-cheese fries. Spicy chicken sandwiches. The processed life.

"You know," starts Dan, our gawky and awkwardly tan promotions manager. The break in silence captures everyone's attention. "I wish I could go back and tell 11 year-old me that one day he'd be ordering a burger with the drummer from The Used. I think he'd like that."
Which gets me thinking. What would I tell my naive younger-self?
"Keep calm. Rock on."

  

Are we a bus?

It's a common phrase on the road. Means: "is everyone on board and are we ready to go?" 

The worst fear is leaving a band member behind at some Po-dunk gas station in the middle of nowhere at four in the morning without a cellphone or wallet or real means of survival. Talk to any tour manager and they'll tell you a story -- drummer with a case of the runs who didn't tell anyone he was venturing off to find a clean bathroom. The bus pulls away and, two-hundred miles later, the error is finally discovered.

But on the 2012 Warped Tour, the phrase connotes much, much more. "Are we a bus?" is another way of asking if we're brothers and sisters in instrumental arms. Our genres may sound different, but do we share common passions, dreams, fears? Are we burdened by the same Earthly questions?

And the answer is always the same.

Take a look around any of the venues, and you'll be hard-pressed to find a face or body without a piercing, a tattoo or blue streak of hair. Call them freaks. Call them fans. Call them all musicians at heart. Because if you think having a voice, or having the ability to play an instrument, makes you a musician, then you couldn't be more wrong.

Being a musician is being true to thyself. Music of the heart. Or soul. Whatever you want to call it. One God, or no God -- who gives a shit as long as you treat your fellow musicians and man with respect.

So every night, as the bus drivers return from their over-due slumbers and the roadies finally relax, every bands gathers in the parking lot for a barbecue. To toss the football. To play N64 on a 56" flat screen TV.

So on this tour -- "are we all a bus?"

You bet your ass.

A 'typical' day on the road

Midnight: Hit the open road. 500 miles to the next city.

4 am: Pit stop at Walmart. Six cases of water, poker chips, sun block, and beer.

8:30 am: Wake-up. Shower. Drink a Monster.

10 am: Set times revealed. The promotions team hits the ground running with posters.

12 pm: Lunch.

1 pm: Mingle with some of the other bands backstage. Shoot the shit. Talk shop.

Two hours before the show: vocal warm ups.

An hour before the show: unload the bus, pack up the dollies.

Rock the fuck out of the Ernie Ball stage.

Break down: ten minutes.

Sign autographs for every last fan waiting, take pictures. 

Forty minutes after the show: unload the dollies, pack up the bus.

8 pm: Warped Tour BBQ. Burgers and hotdogs and cocktails for musicians and crew.

10 pm: Enjoy the remaining moments of fresh air under the tent in front of the bus. Make friends with passing strangers.

11 pm: Watch footage of the day's performance. Discuss how we can improve.

11: 45 pm: Poker tournament begins, $10 buy in. Blinds  up every half-hour.

Midnight. Hit the open road. 600 miles to the next city.

What goes around comes around

John boards the bus and asks me where my ear-plugs are.
"I thought they were  in the tech bag."
"No... they're not in the tech bag," says John, expecting the worst.
"One second." I'm digging through my bag and pockets when I remember -- "Oh."
"'Oh', what?"
"I left them right next to the dolly..."
John's face drains of its color. He looks like a ghost who's just learned that another, scarier form of ghost exists. "Shit."
John and Andrew race back to the Ernie Ball stage. It's only been an hour since we loaded out -- but still, with the wandering eyes and hands around Warped Tour, you never can tell who abides by the 'finders keepers, losers weepers' mentality.
Luckily, luckily, one of the back stage techs for the next band noticed the ear-plugs (not an inexpensive piece of equipment, and very, very essential) and had pocketed them, thinking someone would come back looking for them eventually. And there were John and Andrew.
When they return to the bus, we toast to our good luck.
Then, later, after one of our friends from another band -- let's called him 'Mo' -- is hanging out with us on the bus, we notice he leaves behind an eighth of dank, dank marijuana.
'Finders-keepers, losers-weepers?'
"No way," says Andrew. "I firmly believe in Karma. What you put out into the universe, the universe returns. We got lucky today. Let's not forget that."
So at the next show we meet back up with Mo and return the surprisingly-not-missed marijuana.
"Oh, wow," exclaims Mo. "You guys could've just smoked it, you know?"
But we shake our heads.
"Nah, man, " says Andrew. "What goes around comes around."
And that night, whether it was on booze or weed or luck in life -- we all got high.

A Part of the Story

Often times, as a musician, you're placed on a pedestal. Minds are impressionable.So when two 17 year-old girls come knocking on the door to your tour bus a mere half-hour before midnight, one might expect the story to take the typical turn for the worse.
But this one doesn't.
Andrew and Dan edit video at the table while Devin and Eric tune their bass and guitar in back. I open the door to find the two girls -- both of whom are going to Warped Tour, one celebrating a birthday -- standing there in the dark. We give them a brief tour of the bus and even share a few stories from the road.
But then it's, "Goodnight. Don't forget to bring your friends to the show tomorrow."
Too many times people paint musicians as hound dogs. These sex-crazed maniacs unable to control themselves at the sight of a bra or pantie thrown on stage.
In fact, it's quite the opposite. Most musicians understand what it was like to be a 17 year-old in love with music, willing to drag their parents six hours across state boarders to see their favorite band.
So Andrew shows the girls up and down the bus, then wishes them, "Goodnight." We all climb back on board, shut the door, and collapse into the couches.
"That was... weird," starts someone.
But Andrew is quick to correct: "A little, yeah, I get that. But don't you see? We gave those girls a story. They're probably screaming in the elevator right now about how they got to see a band and a tour bus and all this on her birthday. It's a story. And they'll go to sleep tonight not thinking there was something wrong with them -- that they weren't cute enough, or whatever. But that they met a group of guys who were actually willing to treat them like people. Not take advantage of them -- even given the opportunity. And maybe -- just maybe -- this story will keep them from thinking that they're anything less than worthy of being treated with respect in the future."

Bailing

Knock, knock, knock.
Mike's standing alongside Sasha at the door to room 326 of the Courtyard Suits just outside of Dallas. The only problem is -- nobody's answering.
"You think Devin and Eric are asleep?" asks Mike.
Sasha's hiding against the wall. "We should hide," he suggests.
Knock, knock, knock.
Tension mounts as the two listen for approaching footsteps. Still -- nothing.
Mike hangs his head. He's about to give  up, when --
The metallic unbuckling of the door latch. It swings open to reveal a middle-aged, bald man in a polo shirt and flip flops.
"What is it?" he bellows in an English accent.
"Uh..." stutters Mike. He turns to Sasha for support -- except Sasha's running for his life, already halfway down the hallway, bailing.
Mike turns back to the Englishman, opens his mouth to explain the misunderstanding when he's interrupted:
"Do you just go around knocking on people's doors then, is that it?"
"Sorry, I thought this was my friends' room."
"Who goes around knocking on people's doors in the middle of the night?"
"Like I said -- I thought this was my friends  room. I'm sorry." And with the apology, Mike heads  down the hallway. Confrontation over and averted.
The Englishman, on the other hand, hasn't had enough. "You just gonna go around knocking on other people's doors then, are you?"
Mike stops. "I said I'm sorry," but really, he's thinking -- "You're not going to fight me in this hotel, you idiot."

Five minutes later, Mike discovers Sasha outside of the lobby smoking a cigarette. He turns to Mike with a Cheshire smile and chuckles, "This was a good experience."

A Story

People should be judged by whether or not they die with a story.

Luckily, on tour, everyone has one.

We're sitting in the back of the bus after a long, hot, humid and worse yet -- wet -- day in Houston, swapping stories like free-for-all ping pong. Back and forth. Off to the side. 

Andrew knows a guy who got eaten by a crocodile. Or at least he did.
Devin shows us a picture of him with David Lynch. Eric and I -- huge  movie nerds -- can't get enough of it. 

Then there's Mike's half-pound bag of Sour Patch kids. Amps that have "balls for days." How many push-ups each of us can do. The conversation winds deep into the night, into the next morning.
"The first time I saw Def Leppard in concert," says Eric, "I was 8, and I got so high off of second hand smoke.." Laughter erupts. "That's probably why I play guitar in your band."
So even if it's just a story about a guitorgan, (that's a guitar and organ mashed together -- yes, they exist) have a story. A joke. Something to say. Be your own protagonist, in case the book turns out to be shorter than expected.

Be a 'Roadie-for-a-Day'

As you know, starting July 1st, I'm joining the 2012 VANS Warped Tour for a grueling 40 city, 30 state trek across the U.S. What you don't know is that my team is looking for fans in each city to be roadies for the day! If you and a friend would like free passes to Warped Tour in exchange for lending us a hand when I stop by your city, comment with the name of your city. I'll contact you with more details. 

7/01 Reliant Center Parking Lot Houston, TX 

7/03 Gexa Energy Pavilion Dallas, TX 

7/05 Verizon Wireless Amphitheater Maryland Heights, MO 

7/06 The Palace of Auburn Hills Auburn Hills, MI 

7/07 First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre Tinley Park, IL 

7/08 Canterbury Park Shakopee, MN 

7/09 Sandstone Amphitheatre Bonner Springs, KS 

7/10 Klipsch Music Center Noblesville, IN 

7/11 Blossom Music Center Cuyahoga Falls, OH 

7/12 First Niagara Pavilion Burgettstown, PA 

7/13 PNC Bank Arts Center Holmdel, NJ 

7/14 Parterre Île Notre Dame Montreal, QC 

7/15 Flats At Molson Canadian Toronto, ON 

7/17 Darien Lake PAC Darien Center, NY 

7/18 Toyota Pavilion Scranton, PA 

7/19 Comcast Center Mansfield, MA 

7/20 Susquehanna Bank Center Camden, NJ 

7/21 Nassau Veterans Mem. Coliseum Uniondale, NY 

7/22 The Comcast Theatre Hartford, CT 

7/24 Merriweather Post Pavilion Columbia, MD 

7/25 Farm Bureau Live At Virginia Beach Virginia Beach, VA 

7/26 Aaron's Amphitheater at Lakewood Atlanta, GA 

7/27 Central Florida Fairgrounds Orlando, FL 

7/28 Cruzan Amphitheatre West Palm Beach, FL 

7/29 Vinoy Park St. Petersburg, FL 

7/30 Charlotte Verizon Amphitheatre Charlotte, NC 

7/31 Riverbend Music Center Cincinnati, OH 

8/01 Marcus Amphitheatre Milwaukee, WI 

8/04 King County's Marymoor Park Redmond, WA 

8/05 Rose Quarter Riverfront Portland, OR

My cousin's end of summer

You remember my cousin? The hapless, love-poisoned teenager partially glued to his Smartphone? Well, for those of you looking for an update -- he's forgotten all about 'what's-her-face,' as he so eloquently puts it. Or so he claims...

I can tell by the way he's slouching, the way his  bony shoulders hunch forward -- something's wrong.
Still, he insists, "Nothing's wrong."
"You sure?"
"Well..." And we're walking out of SIR rehearsal studios on Sunset Blvd. The traffic's sparse and the weather just right for a two-block walk to the car. "You know that song you guys were just playing back there? 'End of Summer'?
"Doesn't ring a bell," I joke.
But my cousin still doesn't find me funny. He digs his hands into his pocket. Sighs.
"Kind of got me thinking. I met my ex-girlfriend at the beginning of summer. And -- I don't know." Someone honks at a car refusing to turn left at the intersection up ahead. "What's that song supposed to be about?"
"What did it make you think about?"
"Well..." And we're crossing the street when my cousin takes a deep breathe. "How you have to accept that all things -- even the very best things  -- come to an end. Your High School sweetheart. My three-month relationship. The one night stand. A random conversation with a girl at a bar. They 'failed', maybe, but they weren't a waste of time. They're a part of  who you are now. You say, 'I was in love with what's-her-face. We were meant to be.' You cry and cry. When really, you were just in love with the way they made you feel. And that's something you can get back. Well..."And now we're at the car. My cousin  reaches for his keys. "Maybe not get back, but --"
"Get again," I chime in.
"Exactly," he says.
"Hold onto the memory of summer, and never forget -- there's always the next one."

Another Cage Match...

Vote for me!

Other Me

The Radio DJ asks, "If you weren't a musician, what would you be doing?"
And even though I've practiced the answers time and time again, for whatever reason, this one eludes me. I fall silent. My neurons are firing. My thoughts are tangled. Would I still be living in Russia? Would I have seen the things I've seen? Met the people I've met? Would I be the man I am?
Assuredly, those answers are 'no', but still I can't think of an alternative. I consider myself lucky to be sitting across from this DJ, talking music and Warped Tour and things that, in the grand scheme of things, aren't really important. I've worked so hard for so long to get to this point and all I can think about is the luck that's played into my life. The subtle moments of seeming insignificance that, like dominoes, lead to something, then something else, until you're face-down on the floor. Six-feet underground. In a better place. Or not.
"What would I be doing..." I trail, trying to bide by time. "Well, I'm not quite sure. But what I can tell you is this --" And I go on to talk about luck. About how successful people are quick to praise their own efforts but even quicker to dismiss the role that luck has played in their lives. And I don't mean luck as in fate. I believe luck comes to those who open themselves up to it. Who earn it. "So what would I be doing if I weren't here with you right now?"
The DJ shoots me a glare as if to say, 'finally'.
"Looking for a little luck."

Heatwave continues across the U.S. Supposed to be over 100 degrees in Houston when we arrive. Looks like I'm going shirtless...

Having a Voice

My voice. Feelin' a bit raspy. Fighting an infection. But I make it through another recording session, then another round of preparation for radio interviews. The typical questions -- when and why did I start playing. What are my fondest musical memories. Do I get nervous before a big show.

I have the answers down pat now.

The only way I get through it all is a warm lemon tea. Finally, someone plays back one of the tracks from rehearsal over the loudspeakers. It's the thousandth time I've heard "End of Summer," but still, somehow, it's not my voice. Not the voice talking to my tour manager a moment ago, anyway. The raspy me.

My voice takes over the room, resting occasionally to make way for one of Mike's bombardment on drums. And just when I think it's gone forever -- there it is again. Is that really me?

Can't shake the thought. But I'm comforted knowing I've found my voice. I hope you find yours. And once you do, never let it go. Through colds and setbacks and moments of self doubt, let your voice be your guidance. I have, and I'm happy.

Can't wait to unveil some of the new cover songs we've been working on for Warped Tour. What's a song you've always wanted to hear fused with rock?

You know rehearsal's rockin' when the floor ends up littered with splintered drumsticks.

Rehearsal

Only ten more days 'till we leave for Warped Tour!

Vote for me!

XFactor1 Vs. Troy Harley – Cockfight

The Setup

Like the calm before a hurricane, or lovers learning the contours of one another's body for the first time. The band sets up. Amps out. Lights down. Instruments at the ready. There's the bass. An inkling of some spontaneous rythm that's just popped into the bassist's head. Nowhere to go, it wafts aimlessly into the empty recording studio until it's picked up by the guitar. Buttressed by the drums. And suddenly the place is thumpin'. Toes are tappin'. Heads are bobbin'. And no one knows why - this isn't even a song, just an eruption of creativity. Unbridled energy. Talent trusted to roam free. Or, what most people call "just the set up."

Rehearsal at SIR today on Sunset Blvd. Gearing up for one hell-of-a Warped Tour. Let's hope this soar throat goes away soon...

There is no central Forex building. No HQ. No army of paper-pushes squawking about like headless-hens in house. That means any quote you find on the Internet comes from an independent source, and although quotes may appear strikingly similar, they tend to vary slightly.     


You'll find a million and one trading "gurus" out there trying to sell you on their experience. In reality, what they're really doing is selling you on a broker. (Keep an eye out for the link on their page to the Dealing Center, where you'll be asked to open an account.) These gurus teach for money. "Buy my DVD on this selling system and you'll be buying yachts in no time!" Sound familiar? When in actuality, these gurus make their money from brokers who pay them to attract new customers. Take a closer next time you visit one of these supposed Forex sure-thing sites. (On some, you can call and ask a live person questions. Imagine how much that cost the broker.)  


It's not a business. It's a game. And you should only trust those who have something to lose. Like you.

Slumps

The word itself carries a heaviness. "Slump." Your tongue slips from the roof of your mouth down the back of your teeth only to hang mid-air on the "um." Jaw-dropped, your lips labor to pop the "p." A slump drags us down like an anchor attached to the ankle, and yes, some drown. They accept their self-imposed "ill-fate" and stop fighting. Exhale. But others -- nay, they break the chain by...

Well that's the thing, isn't it? There is no thing. No concrete way to break the slump. Only time and tribulation. It could be days or weeks or months or Hemingway-put-a-gun-to-your-head years. You can't hit a baseball. Can't write a song. Can't get laid. You can't, you can't, you can't, you can't...

Until you do. There's the thundering yet hollow crack of the bat. Lyrical epiphany. The moment he or she smiles back at you at the bar and you know, for the evening -- they're yours. All of a sudden, memory of the slump disappears. It's as if it had never been real -- only a figment of our insecurities, like a nightmare, on loop, played for the entire world to see. And we're back in the game.

That's all it is. Life, Forex and the pursuit of happiness are games of ups and downs, risks and rewards. Slumps you'll forget all about.

Me and Mickey

Accepting loss: or, how I failed to explain Forex to a teenager

“Loss is a part of life. Is that too cliché? Yeah, it is.
“Let me start over.
“Loss… is inevitable. Even when things are going good. No way to escape it. Figure that one out and you’ll make millions off the self-help suckers.”
My teenage cousin stares blankly back at me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t like my joke. Beneath the table, he’s texting on his Smartphone. Never breaks eye contact. “What’s that got to do with Fortex?” he asks. Though there’s an inflection in his voice, I can tell his question is defensive, rather than curious. Indifferent, at the very least.
“ForEX,” I correct. “It’s like this – no one ever JUST profits in the market. Think of the most successful person you know. Even they’ve failed before. Lost everything. Started over. But – and this is a big BUT – the second time around, they took what they learned from that first failure and applied it. Refused to make the same mistakes.”
My cousin snickers: “Wish you had told me that last week.”
“Why, what happened last week?” I can tell he hadn’t intended the thought to escape his mouth.
He hangs his heads. “Girlfriend broke up with me. Second one in… six months?” This question he poses to his memory.
“And were things going good?”
“For a while, yeah. But then at three months it’s like something happens. They flick a switch. Or I do. I don’t know. One or the other."
"It’s called the ‘honeymoon’ stage. Every couple goes through it.”
“And it lasts three months?”
“Depends.”
He sarcastically snorts: “Depends” as if he were expecting me to give him a definitive answer.
“No one ever knows,” I say. “Just all of a sudden – the little quirks you once found cute drive you crazy. The grating sound her teeth make against her fork when she eats. How she demands that toothpaste be squeezed from the bottom. Things change. Good to bad. Just like that. Sometimes it’s inexplicable. Other times not. You have to fight to keep the things you want in life. For the most part – the world is out to take them away from you.”
My cousin pockets his Smartphone. For the first time, I have his undivided attention. No texts. No tweets. Not even a beep. His eyes bear into mine. “She said the same things my last girlfriend did. I’m too distant. Not a good listener. 'We never do what I wanna do...'” He sighs. “What can you do?”  
“Appreciate good things while they’re going. Eventually, you dance with the devil, and you’re gonna get burned.”
OK – one last  cliché. 

What's it like to be in a band?

I was asked that this morning. "What's it like to be in a band?" And as if set on auto-text I regurgitated:
"It's great! We do what we love. Blah blah blah." Which is true, of course -- we play the music we love for the fans we adore. But being part of a band is in fact much, much more.

A band is your first-and-a-half family. Not even your second. They know you on a level your parents and siblings probably never will. They know you as your talent. They know you as a perspective. And even though you don't share blood -- you bleed together. Through the open-mic nights in Nowheresville, the rejection slips, the shit songs, all the way to that first big break, fresh ink, your name across a dotted line designated:"band member."

"Member." Key word there. Whether you're the guitarist, drummer, backup vocal, hell, even the guy with the cow bell -- you're a well oiled part of something greater than yourself. Greater than you could ever be alone. So great, in fact, that you're never alone again.

So what's it like to be in a band? Sit in your favorite chair. With your favorite drink. In nothing but your underwear. Kick up your feet. Put on your favorite movie. Look around -- you're finally at home.

In music, like life, there is always a "better." A better take in the recording studio. A better performance on stage. A better tomorrow, and all that.

It's this belief in the better that motivates me as an artist and musician. William Faulkner said artists are creatures driven by demons, and that may be. But for  me, not knowing the limit of my own potential is what keeps me thinking. Working. Striving to achieve better.

So I pick up the guitar and muse whilst my fingertips scrutinize the strings. I'm a bind man searching for braille, for inspiration. And suddenly -- I find it. Or it finds me. My fingers deftly dance up and down the neck of the guitar. I close my eyes and take a back seat to the music. I have faith it gets better.

A shrill courses through the crowd as the first guitar chord screeches to life. In back, the pitch black arena boasts a pair of neon spotlights turning their gazes toward me, center stage, microphone in hand. Then the drums. A boisterous thumping, like a Tyranasauraus heartbeat. BUM BUM BUM. The lights zero in on me just as the bass erupts. My lips savor a final moment together before the inevitable separation anxiety of an hour long performance. And from somewhere in my gut - a voice rises. My voice. It's on.

Keep up with my blog and our video diary for daily updates on rock and Warped Tour depravity.

Check out my promotional magazine

I'm in Miami, B --

Forex Training

I decided to check out some of the Forex training programs out there, and boy, do they try to sell you on an illusion. On the Forexmentor.com website, Peter Bain claims that the average trader is successful 7 out of 10 times. 7 out of 10 times? I talked to a friend who is new to Forex and he said in his first two months, he's only accumulated 5 successful trades. He has no idea what went wrong. He says he took all the precautions described in some educational material from the Forex site.  But because of the risk by reward ratio, if you can still manage to get 5 out of 10 trades successful then you average 50 to 60 pips every week. If you trade only one pair then it becomes difficult to gain above 50 pips because you can't see positive movement everyday in that particular pair.

So I showed my friend the Forex course I had been looking at, and we reviewed more of their tips. According to them, the best time to trade is just after 2 am (eastern). This is true for the Euro and the American Dollar, but not so for pairs like the Dollar and the Japanese Yen. You should have seen the confused look on my friend's face...

The major disadvantage of the Forex course is that you can't get the chart set up daily. It took us 25 days to see the chart set up exactly as the course had explained. Needless to say, it was difficult to determine the pivot point lines for some of our currency pairs...

After studying this Forex course, we've concluded that you must set your own rules because you can't solely depend on Forex,or Peter Bain's, strategy to identify entry and exit points.  Target 35 or 40 pips because below 35 pips and your risk becomes too high.

Still sound overly complicated? Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it. I have. I think...

Warped Tour!

The band is taking the show on the road this summer! We've landed a spot on the high-octane Vans Warped Tour -- a 100 band, 40 city, 30 state, two-month trek across the United States and Canada. Since 1995, the Warped Tour has held the crown as one of the most popular outlets for new artists to promote their music, and has maintained a steady fan following over the years. Being added to the bill is a tremendous honor.

So follow my blog and our outrageous adventures as we bring the house down each and every stop along the way.

A few tips to consider...

Recently I’ve unveiled a number of dangers lurking in the shadowy Forex Market, but today I’d like to focus on solutions. For what are problems but solutions waiting to be discovered?

 #1 Do you have a plan? If not – GET ONE!
Over trading tends to bog down users new to the Forex market. So make sure you have a plan, with incremental goals, to help keep track of how many trades you’re making, where your trades are concentrated, and where your money is going. Your trading tendencies might also depend on the information you’re receiving. Are you normally dependent on the sixty-minute chart or customer support? How often are you logging in? Try slowing things down with longer time frames. Using a longer time frame automatically reduces the number of trades you’ll consider. You won’t be tempted to take a “valid signal” 10 times a day trading via a daily chart.

 #2 Stick to your plan’s goals. Have those goals spaced out, too. 
I set a weekly goal of 100 points. This is a realistic goal for me to achieve and having the number posted on the door to my office reminds me that once I’ve made my weekly goal there’s no reason to take on extra risk. Now, you can focus on other things. Go for a hike! Fix the house up! Take care of those taxes ahead of time! Just don’t allow temptation to get the best of you. And there will be temptation. After hitting 100 your homepage will flash some fantastic opportunity you can hardly believe. You’ll want to drag the mouse over to the button and CLICK. But you can’t. Not this week, at least. Next week – now that’s a different story.  Some “experts” may think a 400 point a month cap is low, but who knows you better than you. If you think you can handle the responsibility of a few extra trades each week, then by all means, trade away. If not – stick to your goals.

#3 When in doubt, ask yourself, “Do I need this?” 
There is a HUGE different between want and need. Desire and necessity. (Just ask the Buddhists.) “Do I need this” almost seems too trivial, doesn’t it? But how many times have you suffered from buyer’s remorse after making a purchase out of anger, spite, or blinding bliss? I know I have. So before you click accept on that trade and take on more risk, ask yourself, “Do I need this? Or do I just want it?”

Ever hear the old saying: if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is? Well, perhaps no adage could better exemplify the Forex market than this. Small firms lure unsuspecting ‘customers’ with elaborate stories of 1000:1 returns and the glory of making a quick buck. And they’ve been doing it since the 70s!
Now, with the Internet, these schemers have a web to trap you with their ‘too-good-to-be-true’ tactics. All it takes is a window and about a million lines of the smallest font you’ve ever seen, followed by the question: do you accept the terms and conditions? We’ve all been there. Don’t pretend you read through every single article of fine print --  you don’t.
But this is how they (the manipulative, greedy Forex firms) get you! Once you hit accept, you’ve cleared them of all legal responsibility. Only – you also just trusted them a ton of money, didn’t you? What happens if something happens to that capital? Are they legally or fiscally responsible?
And the judges' answer – EEERR. Sorry, you’re out of luck. The firm’s lawyers will cite one little word: risk. It all comes down to risk. High reward equals high risk equals greater chance of you losing your hard earned pension, your rainy day fund, emptying out your entire bank account. Of course, you only remember the Trader telling you about the glories of the reward. (They tend to leave out the risk part. It’s just plain unsexy and doesn’t sell well.) So beware when choosing a trading platform! There’s no such thing as easy money or a quick buck. In life, fortune is earned – never bought.

Time Travel

It's amazing how the simplest of sounds, the most estranged of songs, can jettison us back in time to a memory we'd nearly forgotten all about. That happened to me yesterday when I came across Deep Purple's album "Machine Head." Instantaneously, I was nine years-old again, sprawled out on my parents' living room floor in Russia with a record player and a pair of five-pound head phones.

That was the day I first realized my true love, and passion, for music. 

Of course, not all songs recall fond memories. I think a few ex-girlfriends out there can attest to that...

Above all, my advice for beginners is this: don’t work in Forex until you’ve had AT LEAST three years of experience studying the nuisances of this business. Choose your broker wisely. Perform a background check. Personally, it took me five years before I started to consistently make money. So don’t get frustrated if the market feels like too much at first. That’s because it is! People dedicate their lives to understanding currency exchange – why shouldn’t you put in a little effort?

In my opinion, Forex, in Indonesia and abroad, is a way to cheat the system. Unlike the stock market, which is fairly-regulated, even in Indonesia, Forex is not licensed. This means they have free range to do as they please with practically no supervision. Recently, the U.S. Government, realizing Forex presents a realistic threat to uninformed citizens, has begun investigations by the Commodity Futures Trading Commission and the  FBI. It’s difficult to put Forex higher-ups behind bars, because their extensive legal team is quite clever. They protect themselves with signed contracts while walking away with your money.

Indonesia is a mess because of Forex fraud, as is a majority of Southeast Asia. Licenses can be a tricky thing, so make sure you read the fine print before signing your name to a legally-binding document.

More advice to my friend from Jakarta

"Similar to market development in the West, Forex companies began to appear across Asia - Singapore, Pakistan, India and the Philippines. But in the West, people tend to be more educated in market analysis and possess firsthand understanding of how bonds and broker licenses operate. In Asia, however, people tend to be more naive. They have a hard working mentality but their laws are muddy. Government payoffs aren’t out of the ordinary. And ultimately, the paths these Forex firms take resemble those of many Las Vegas casinos -- built on broken dreams and broken homes.

Never underestimate the effects of psychological trauma, either. Forex “clients” can be well-educated, sure, but that doesn’t inoculate them from fraud. Many are shocked to learn how boldly and rudely they have been robbed of their hard-earned money. The moral repercussions, more than the money, leave the deepest scars, too. Turning to the courts, these “clients” are shutout by big shot Forex lawyers equipped with signed documents. Justice, and retribution, become near impossibilities.

But you’ll say, “I want to trade. I’m aware of the risk. I’m a big boy/girl and I can handle the shark infested Forex oceans. Heck – I took a class and read the book. I’m a market expert!”  Not so fast. You see, the Forex people are impervious to discouragement. They’re mentally prepared to effectively communicate with, and pacify, threatening, crying and begging “customers.” Even if you take them to court and win, the settlement – once you factor in court costs and lawyer fees – will be minimal.

These companies are clever. They know exactly who to target. They’re not going after one big fish with a million dollar account. They want the whole school. Besides – if you have a million dollars to invest, you’re probably well versed in market management. No, the type of person they’re after is the regular investor. The entrepreneur with $10,000 to invest. The middle-class American. (A diminishing demographic, I think we’ll all admit.) And worst case scenario, if these companies are brought up on charges, they have the means to evaporate their holdings, open a brand new office in a brand new city in a brand new country – easy money. A sucker born every minute.

Don’t believe in easy money? Just turn on the Discovery Channel and watch predators identify, stalk, and take down the weakest prey in the pack.

Don’t be prey for these Forex frauds.