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.