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!"

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.

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.

 

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.

  

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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."