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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.