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.