Post Dated

Hello world! The following is a blog that was originally planned to be a part of a Warped Tour zine. It was never released so I decided just to post it here instead. The zine was supposed to be about recycling or saving the earth or something I don't particularly care about. What I do care about as of late is getting back into hard drugs. We are on tour in Europe right now, maybe I'll write about it in seven months! Anyway, here's a couple words that I wrote many months ago.



I’ve never supported any type of cause. Never have I cared for much of anything or about anyone other than myself. But being one of the oldest dudes on tour that isn’t in Face To Face means I have a couple of opinions and a few stories to tell. Other entries in this zine will encourage you to reuse this and to not eat that. Beliefs and stances, well, that isn’t really my style. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I refuse to participate in recycling but I certainly don’t make it a point to sort my trash. I’m not a hobo who plays with their waste. Yes, I’m a vegetarian but like with most things in my life, I’m sure it started out as an attempt to impress a girl. I’m not dark and mysterious nor do I try to be. I’m just lazy. But somehow, through all the jadedness and contempt for most everything, there still remains fast music and the Warped Tour. Two things that all these years later I still fully back 100 percent.

I vaguely remember a time, many, many years ago, when large pants and silver balled necklaces ruled the world. Well, my world at least. Shocking bright neon colors adorned a person’s hair and not a large, bold print t-shirt. Polar Bear Club was only a song by Silent Majority and not yet a band made up of the ugliest dudes to ever pick up instruments. Ah, the mid 90’s. When Victory Records actually mattered and social interaction instead of social networking got you laid. Well, my friends laid. Specifically the year was 1996 and the location was Buffalo, New York. My first Warped Tour and one of my first shows in general. My parents were fucking weird. No, not in a “watch you while you shower and take notes” kind of way but in an over protective, shelter me from the outside world manner. For whatever reason it was always a herculean task to convince them to agree to let me borrow their car to travel five miles. In order to get the 1993 Ford Tempo for a four-hour drive so I must have promised the world. Maybe I swore up and down that I’d move out of their house right after graduation. Jokes on them, I still live there! Sigh.

Over the years I’ve heard all sorts of people denounce Warped for being too much of this or not enough of that and maybe at times I’ve agreed with the naysayers. I mean, come on Brokencyde last year and Limp Bizkit many moons ago? There’s never an excuse for either of them. But what I can tell you is that daykick started a fire inside of me that still hasn’t gone out all these years later. Thanks to Warped Tour I’ve been able to see many of my favorite bands for the first time and in some cases for the only time. The Descendents. I saw the fucking Descendents! The Bouncing Souls, Hot Water Music, Social Distortion, Lagwagon, Rocket From The Crypt, AFI and hell, even Deftones. All bands I first experienced at a traveling summer festival.

I don’t have any type of health insurance. Right now today, if I broke a bone, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe grin and bear it. A quick tour of the inside of my mouth with my tongue reveals a graveyard of teeth missing and molars I still need removed. A trip to my local bank’s ATM will tell me that my checking account currently yields an impressive $7.23. Savings account you say? Hell, haven’t had one of those since…ever. My liver is the size of a scab and my total overall debt likens itself to a CEO’s salary. But last year I went to Europe and the United Kingdom three times. In August I’m going back for the fourth. Thanks to three chords I’ve been back and forth the United States countless times. Due to my friends who play those previously mentioned notes, I’ve made new life long relationships and hopefully during the process made my parents slightly proud. Sure, my high school friends grew up, got married and bought their houses. But did I mention I once saw the fucking Descendents?!

So maybe I believe in more than I previously thought. Perhaps I do champion a cause or two. And I guess the point of me throwing together these grammatically incorrect thoughts is a hope that maybe you do too. And if not now, at the end of your stay here, perhaps you find something or someone that keeps your around for years to come. Check out a smaller stage or two, peer in on a band that maybe you’ve never heard of. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up like me and ride the coat tails of your friends’ band to the other side of the ocean. And hopefully, unlike me, you’ll still have all of your teeth. See you in fourteen years.

Still Alive

I was going to write a slew of new entries tonight. Instead, I got drunk by myself on whiskey. The way I see it, we all won.

Every Time I Die

(Wrote this one a couple weeks ago, just getting around to posting now)

I don’t know one single Every Time I Die song title, record name, or lyric. I cannot listen to Four Year Strong without getting a toothache or feeling like an audio pedophile.(Hmm, an audiophile? No, that means something else) And Trapped Under Ice? Come on, you know I hate hardcore.

On our first date of this tour, we headed to Poughkeepsie, New York, and true to form, Polar Bear Club was running extremely late due to me being behind the wheel, my advanced age and cataracts. I remember fantasizing that we would be SO late that the Every Time I Die tour manager would kick us off the tour and tell the lot of us to go home. Why was I already so pessimistic from the onset? Well, first off, the world has done me wrong and owes me something. Other than that though, I wasn’t really jazzed about touring with bands I wasn’t familiar with musically. Yes, we’ve gigged with Four Year Strong and Trapped Under Ice previously, but for the life of me, I couldn’t even tell you what label each band was on. To me, tours are more exciting when I’ve been a fan of the other bands for years and years. To be fair, I’m out of touch with current music. I live in a shell. Instead of posters, upon my shell walls, I hang spite. Rather than art, I choose to show off my anhedonia. So I’m sure you’ll be just as shocked as I was upon realization that I’ve had an incredible time on the tour I’ve dubbed, “Bands That Will Never Grace My Ipod.” (Author's note, I no longer have an Ipod, I left it in a shitty Motel 6 somewhere in the desert. Pity me, it was my mother's)

The routing of this tour can best be described as questionable and you could say this band package is hitting some obscure cities. Quickly browsing our itinerary will reveal a who’s who of areas I’d never, ever think to visit. Sparks, Nevada? No, that can’t be a real place. Lubbock, Texas? Fuck Houston, Austin, or San Antonio! I’m going to motherfucking Lubbock! Regina? Yes. YES, I absolutely want to go to a city that rhymes with vagina. Hell, bring the family! Of course, the reason we’re headed to urban powerhouses such as Kitchener is due to a proximity clause, which involves the summer’s Warped Tour. I’m not a scientist, linguist, or mathematician; I’m a habitual masturbator, so I can’t fully explain whatever that means. All I know is this tour can only play locations you’d probably go to if you needed some sort of illegal back alley abortion and yes, I’ve done the research. But apparently people live in cities I’ve never heard of because the majority of the shows have been bringing out a ton of kids and I like to think that PBC is reaching a whole new audience. But just like unprotected sex will bring untimely warts that you later need to explain to your next girlfriend, along with the good, there has been some bad.

I love Canada. Montreal has the hottest girls that I’ve never, ever spoken to. The titty bars showcase the loveliest strippers with the highest of self-esteem, so I’m told, of course. Degrassi High, as well as The Next Generation, has provided me with countless hours of guilty enjoyment over the years. I’ve never really been to the western part of America’s 51^st state but for some reason, I’ve always wanted to visit Vancouver. Since most of our friends in Living With Lions reside in the area, I was especially excited that our tour would be hitting that exact city. We finally got to Vancouver the night before the actual show. While hanging with friends that night and in the morning, I thought the city looked like a great place to possibly someday live. Like waking up to a pissed bed, the harsh reality of the situation eventually set in.

The venue was in a completely different part of Vancouver. A part of the city we had not witnessed the night before or that morning. Pulling up to the venue appropriately named the Rickshaw Theatre, we unwillingly took in the local culture. Amputees, hobos, drug addicts, and cock whores as far as the eye could see. If I were still in college, this would have been my Xanadu. 105 years later, not so much. Before the show, a couple of us decided to walk around the area and soak in the local scene in order to experience first hand what walking death looks like. Jimmy saw a woman shuffling around with an IV needle protruding from her drug-hungry arm. I, myself, witnessed two drug deals and others observed the actual narcotics being smoked. I even heard tales of two women simultaneously shitting in the alley ways. This was Hamsterdam, but up close and personal. Legend is that if anyone were unfortunate to be bitten by one of the zombies, that person would instantly become homeless and itchy. Once night fell, a pact was made to stay inside and if you had to leave the venue, we promised to use the buddy system. Luckily, all of us left Vancouver unscathed. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Eugene, Oregon.

I think the band Guttermouth said it best when they proclaimed, “hippies smell like shit, piss, hemp, and eggs.” While I hate all populations of people equally, hippies hold a special place in my heart as far as loathing is concerned. There isn’t any real tangible reason for my spite, other than possible beard envy. I’m absolutely convinced that if it were genetically possible for me to sprout facial hair that wasn’t a Frank Turner-esque goatee, I could run for Congress. Or maybe Town Comptroller. Either way, a friend told me that Eugene had a pretty big drum circle population. I thought to myself that night, “perhaps tonight’s show will bring out peaceful moshers only interested in the light show.” Never in a million years would I have expected any type of violence, but everything changed in a split second to the tune of Digital Underground’s masterpiece, “The Humpty Dance.” That night, after PBC’s set, Goose was to be found next to the soundboard “shakin’ and twitchin’ kinda like (his leg) was broken” in an attempt to make Every Time I Die’s soundman laugh. Never has one song been more prophetic, for in the blink of an eye, a filthy dirt urchin came up and pulled a Tonya Harding by punching out Goose’s leg with his fist. Instantly falling to his feet, Goose quickly realized that he had seriously injured himself. Shocked and confused, PBC’s best dancer was carried outside of the venue, so he could be brought to an emergency room. Unfortunately, Goose had to fly home for a couple days later. As of now, his knee is fucked and we weren’t really able to find the dude who assaulted Goose. Luckily, Polar Bear Club was able to stay on the tour due to Dan and Alan of Four Year Strong learning and filling in on the bass duties.

So like every tour, we deal with what is given to us both good and bad. Positives have included the usually warm crowd responses for Polar Bear Club. Also, it turns out that Every Time I Die are a great bunch of dudes who put on an incredible live show. Up until now, I’ve never really seen them live before and I find myself making it a point to catch them every night. And of course, we’ve become even better friends with Four Year Strong and Trapped Under Ice. Four Year Strong in particular have gone out of their way to take care of us and are currently rivaling Broadway Calls as our best friend tourmates. (Step it up, BC) Sure, there have been some long drives, some disappointing shows here and there, and Goose’s soon to be amputated leg, but we press on. As of this writing, we have less than a week on this tour. Truth be told, I’m ready to get home and live like a human being again for a couple of months, well, maybe for a couple days. Speak soon.

If Rob From Ruiner Had A Time Machine

Note from Trevor.

Does anyone remember that website www.buddyhead.com ? A couple of years ago it was all the rage. There was a gossip section on the site that basically talked shit on bands, celebrities, hipsters, and Fred Durst. It was over the top, hilarious and outlandish. After a while though the funniest part of the site wasn't updated regularly and the product suffered overall. Yes, new entries would come every once in awhile but the joke soon got tired and people began to move on in droves and forget. Well, here at polarblogclub.com we're experiencing the same thing. Basically, the joke is over. I've become tired with this site and so have you. However, since I'm still touring and fancy myself the funniest person I've ever met, I'll still plod on. I just need you to know that I get it. I know I'm on my last legs here and that the earlier stuff was better. But since a couple of us remain I present a guest blog from my friend Rob from the band Ruiner. When I say friend I mean a dude who I've toured with a couple times. He's here to remind everyone that while I haven't written anything of any merit lately it sure as hell could be a lot worse.

Your turn, Robert.



So it took me a while to get started on this. I must begin my guest blogging endeavor by explaining a few things: for all his self-loathing, poor choices in friends, bad decisions in life, and war against sobriety, Trevor is a great writer when it comes to this here blog. I continually read it on tour and have quite the “lol” moments (sometimes at my expense). Not too long ago, while stroking my friend Trevor's (or Tracker or Manager/Baby Sitter to Polar Bear Club) ego, he asked me to do a guest blog because he hit a "creative wall.” I had never written a blog before, but I do love letting the world know the things I think. I agreed, but I needed to ponder what I'd write about. The funny thing is Trevor and I share some similarities. Put aside that he is tall (I am of hobbit height) and he has the physical prowess of a 13-year-old girl (I like the gym), he, like myself, is usually a miserable bastard. Also, we both dwell on the past. So I thought I'd continue the water works about self-sabotage and never getting over anything while it relates to being in a band. (So if you want to read funny stuff about Polar Bear Club, go read the Bridge 9 board. Pretty sure they are on the verge of being voted worst band on Bridge 9 records, next to International Superheroes of Hardcore. Hey, what do you expect, they aren't a hardcore band or Title Fight.

I started playing in bands in Middle School. It was an exciting time for me, blah blah... blah blah. Around that time, I also started wrestling. Now why is this important, you ask? Because between playing in bands and being athletic, I was in good favor for having my penis touched much faster than most. Unlike my friend Trevor, who probably didn't come out of his shell until about the time he got those sweet flames on his wrists. Now don't get me wrong, I was not Mr. Popular. I dressed like a circus clown that listened to Pantera (and still does listen to Pantera). It just so happened that despite my cartoonish appearance, I occasionally had a girlfriend (I'm persistent, like an STD you learn to live with). But like Elvis and so many musicians before/after him, I'd meet the one I shouldn't have fucked around on. She was and still is the most attractive thing to ever be seen in pictures with me. She is also the driving force behind many a Ruiner song. She never did anything wrong, never hurt my feelings or "broke my heart.” The only thing she ever did was trust me. Sadly, I was young and stupid—barely 21. No real excuse other than that. Sit a bag of chips in front of my best friend and band mate Danny long enough, he will eat them. Well in this metaphor, the chips are vagina and Danny is me. The result, however, is not greasy fingers and ruining your dinner. It’s starting a new band and deciding to punish yourself by reliving the moment she found out you cheated on her, most nights for 25 to 30 minutes for the past 6 years.

See, my story is not a sob one. I have no one else to blame but myself nor do I try. I just felt I would write something that relates to this blog, but gives a different spin on why someone can be so miserable. You grow older and stop blaming the world for the bad hand you are dealt. Maybe you weren't that great to the person who left you. Maybe they are better off with anyone other than you. Maybe being miserable isn't a healthy way to go through life or make friends. Too bad I take very little of my own advice.So thank you, Trevor, for allowing me to rant to all 6 or 7 people who read this. I will be awaiting your clever diatribes of loving the “D-man” and how you feel your penis is barely a usable appendage on your person.

Oh and Marathon is one of the greatest bands to ever come out of Upstate New York.

Hello Bastards

Hello! I wrote this weeks ago but was unsure about actually posting the entry. Why? Well, because it sucks!

Today I write out of necessity rather than convenience or want. Wait, I don't actually need to do anything. I type now only to bury my last blog entry at the bottom of this website. It's time to focus on touring with Polar Bear Club instead of my dying inner child or whatever hippie shit I was spouting a couple weeks ago. It's nine in the morning and I haven't even been back in the United States for more than twenty-four hours. There is a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room taller than Jimmy Stadt on a good day. I know I have to pay some bills today, maybe get an oil change, and most importantly hose myself down. I won't do any of those errands. Instead, I'll eat a whole pizza in bed (futon), watch episodes of The Wire (Sex And The City), and etch out a couple sentences about the last couple of weeks in Europe with Title Fight and Shook Ones.

These end of tour entries always fucking suck. I'll be the first to admit it. I'll also admit my best entries are the ones that are mostly about me and not Polar Bear Club. But I'm not the reason why you kids come here, so for once I'll try to stay in line. Anyway, these types of accounts aren't as funny because I attempt to throw three to four weeks of hard giggin' into four or five paragraphs. Of course, I do all this after the actual events have occurred. Being 145 years old, this means that I forget most nights and fail to report anything of any actual significance or relevance. This also means that I make a lot of things up. On the flipside, it's important to remember that nothing exciting ever happens on tour. Polar Bear Club is not Led Zeppelin; no one is getting fucked with a red snapper. PBC is more like a straight edge hardcore band, minus the douchebaggery, rather than a 1970's Rolling Stones when it comes to partying. When you add a group of teenage edge warriors named Title Fight to the mix, alcohol consumption (aka wild nights of dick tricks) was at an all time low. But don't get me wrong—this was one tour I had the most fun being a part of.

I don’t like touring Europe and the UK. That being said, I don’t like leaving my house. The reasons I don’t enjoy overseas are trivial and downright absurd. After all, most shows on foreign soil are some of PBC’s best. Promoters and friends go out of their way to take care of us (well unless your name is Tom Smalley). In fact, we’re treated a thousand times better in England than back home in the United States. However, I’m a creature of habit and detest unusual currencies and unnecessary coins. I don’t appreciate having to pay money to urinate on a motorway (I’m talking about you, Germany). And even though the only person I text or call when I’m back home is my mother’s cat, my biggest peeve is that I’m usually without a phone for weeks on end. All of my petty complaints aside, I truly do appreciate the opportunity to travel, and on this particular tour were some of the best shows of PBC’s career.

Due to restraining orders involving teenagers specifically, I’m not sure If I could have been legally allowed within 1000 feet of Title Fight if we went with this lineup back in America. Out of U.S. jurisdiction and on foreign soil, I was lawfully able to perform my tour managing duties. As I’ve often noted, I don’t like music. However, I remember hearing about Title Fight through the hype vine while we were on tour with Ruiner and Defeater during our previous Euro tour. After listening to the band, like most, I enjoyed what I heard. While not a hardcore band, I knew that Title Fight had a huge hardcore following, much like Polar Bear Club had when they first started out. Also, like Polar Bear Club, Title Fight is receiving a lot of recognition and buzz. I think the best piece of advice PBC gave to the TF dudes was to never put out a second record. Because once you do, the kids turn on you. Right, Polar Bears? Either way, if this wasn’t Title Fight’s first time over to England and Europe, it would have made sense to have them play direct support to Polar Bear Club in lieu of their incredible crowd response. Some nights, TF stole the show. I say this without any type of jealousy or animosity because they are a great bunch of dudes, even if they all suffer from the straight edge (social AIDS).

Shook Ones are currently one of my favorite active bands and have been for a couple years now. To me, they put out the catchiest and most infectious pop punk. I’ve seen the band perform at a couple of the Fests and PBC played with the dudes one time in Seattle sometime last year. If you’re an avid reader of this soul stealer of a blog, you know that I often play favorites when it comes to dudes in other bands. This time was no different as I instantly became a fan boy of Shook One’s guitarist, Shitty Steve Guttenburg, aka Funds. Sure, our love of booze drew us together at first, but what really cemented our relationship was on a drunken night in Trier, Germany, it was revealed that we had both slept with the same girl on different occasions. Think about it. One dude from the East Coast, another dude on the West Coast metaphorically and figuratively touching tips inside a vagina somewhere in the United States. All revealed in a foreign land. It’s almost a better story than “The Notebook.” Almost.

Yes, that’s really all I have to say about three weeks in countries such as the United Kingdom, Belgium, Germany, Holland, and Scotland. One paragraph about how I’m an agoraphobic shut-in who hates other ways of life, another vaguely about Title Fight, and a final excerpt about a girl I had sex with and never speak to anymore. If you’ll let me, I will tell you that most of the shows were incredible, especially in Germany and London where all the bands sold out a 500 capacity room. The only blemish on the London night was the overactive stage diver who almost broke his neck during PBC’s set. I swear to God that’s the last time I ever clean up urine that isn’t my own. While I didn’t forge any lifelong friendships like on previous European tours, I still had a blast and thank Polar Bear Club for allowing me to come along and handle money whilst inebriated… And special thanks to every promoter not named Tom Smalley, Stan, Saker, Noodles, Neal, and Leina—thank you the most for making this all possible. See? I’m not all evil.

Morningleaver

Prologue
I feel I need to explain a couple things before the actual entry below. First off, the following really has nothing to do with the band Polar Bear Club whatsoever, it's once again pretty much just about me. How can one person hate himself so much then go on about that very same subject matter for weeks at a time? It's probably science. Also, I go on a bunch using gross words about feelings and love. Obviously, it's all fiction. I mean, the only things I actually love is a bottle of beer and a nice fuck film. Lastly, I wrote most of this while PBC were in Australia and I took a vacation to the west coast to clear my head. As always, everything I write is all in fun and mostly untrue. Let's go!

Many moons ago, under this cold, calloused shell of mine, once beat a heart that pumped blood instead of an angry, black, jelly-like ooze. I’m talking about the good old days, back when my mane flowed like a Nordic god’s, the bags under my eyes were not yet tattooed on by time, and going against God's natural order, I actually had a girlfriend. Of course, I'm referring to the early 2000's, but as fondly as I remember the era now, not all was well. For instance, Saves The Day just put out "In Reverie," thus beginning an epic meteoric fall into mediocrity not seen again until Alkaline Trio's recent crawl into non-significance. And soon my salad days came to an end. Looking back, I should have recognized this as foreshadowing of bad things to come. (I half take back the Saves The Day/Trio Joke. The STD part I meant but I like the new Alkaline Trio record a lot. Plus, Skiba and I need to meet in order to discuss booze and pills.)

As for the girlfriend angle, well, I don't want to mention her name here or anywhere else for that matter. Based on previous experiences, if you say or type her name three times, she suddenly appears like a controlled hurricane, destroying everything in her way, including my self esteem, mental health, and most importantly, my checking account. But all those years ago, we lived together, liked each other, and even spoke of marrying each other. For about five seconds.

Easily the hottest girl I've ever had sex with that I didn't have to pay, I somehow kept her interest for about a year, which was quite the herculean task considering I most resemble a pint glass full of plain oatmeal. During a time when I should have been concentrating on graduating college and making positive steps towards our future, in the last couple months of our relationship, I instead chose to stay out late drinking, getting high, and ignoring my partner. But none of that truly matters for I'm the protagonist of this story and she's the dirty tramp that left me for another man when we were still a couple.

As I remember, the "man" she transitioned to straight from me was everything I was not. Neck tattoos, edge to the point of overcompensating for other personal shortcomings, mean, ugly as sin, and from all accounts, a misogynist. Ok, well, maybe we both had the whole woman-hating thing in common, but other than that we were like night compared to day. And if you haven't asked yourself yet, I'm sure you will now. The question that must be on your mind - "Why, Trevor? Why are you telling us all this? This isn't a Livejournal account or your junior high diary. We just want to read about Polar Bear Club tour dates, why do you insist on punishing us like this?" Well, if you don't see the similarities between my attractive ex girlfriend leaving me for another and Polar Bear Club (attractive girlfriend) recently ditching their trusty, yet homely tour manager for Australia (straight edge new boyfriend), well, you're just as crazy as a writer still in love with someone that bailed over six years ago.

One thing time has taught me is that I'm the same exact person that I was in the early 2000’s that I am in 2010, except now I live on a futon that isn't even mine. Oh, God, it's happening all over again! Stupid Australia and their colorful and shocking neck tattoos. I already know how I'm going to handle this one, the same way I handled my breakup all those years ago. First, drunkenly and alone, I'll probably hack my way into Polar Bear Club's Myspace and read all about how great, exciting and new Australia is. To my horror, I'll then stumble upon the messages any ex boyfriend or tour manager should always skip. You know, the ones that will go on and on about all the weird, taboo things Polar Bear Club and Australia do behind closed doors. All the acts that Polar Bear Club would NEVER do with me, even after two glasses of wine.

Secondly, time will go by and I'll tour manage or possibly even roadie again, you know, move on and such. Perhaps a younger band. Of course new band won't be as good looking as Polar Bear Club and they obviously won't be looking to settle down, but it will be a nice couple of months. I'm thinking Broadway Calls? Or maybe Defeater, if they ditch Jay Maas, of course. PBC and my new band, whoever they may be, eventually will have to run into each other on shows and probable tours. And yes, it will be awkward. I'll pretend to be having the time of my life, you know, laughing extra hard at the new lead singer's jokes and pretending to enjoy the new band's songs more than anything off Chasing Hamburg. The whole time, of course, I'll be dying a thousand deaths inside knowing that Goose is being told what to do by another.

And who knows? Someday down the line PBC and the drunk formerly known as Tracker may even work together again, much like the ex and I tried to work it out over the years. However, in both instances, it just won’t be the same. You see, life just isn’t like the movies. Up on the big screen, Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything stands outside Diane Court’s bedroom with a boom box outstretched over his head, pleading for his woman to come back and naturally, it just works out splendidly. In real life, well, in MY life, when I pull the same move, the ex girlfriend finishes blowing her new boyfriend and immediately calls the cops in search of an immediate and permanent restraining order. As far as Polar Bear Club goes, we’ll try doing weekend ventures here and there, but after a couple of beers I’ll insist they write down the name of every single tour manager they’ve been ever been with. It just can’t work; jealousy is an ugly monster, but not as ugly as a drunken Trevor.

The thing is, Polar Bear Club and I are actually still together with no plans of breaking up. (Well, until I get my grad school applications of course.) We have a lot of great things coming up, including the “Tour Of Bands I’ve Never Owned A Record By” with Every Time I Die, Trapped Under Ice, and Four Year Strong. Most importantly, I might actually wiggle my way into a pair of shorts for Warped Tour 2010. The lineup for Warped Tour? Well, a bunch of bands with members born when I was a college quadruple senior but I could use the sun. Unfortunately, as far as the ex, well, that never seemed to work out. Seven years later, I only think about her every second, every day. Eventually, hearing "no" was too much and all I could do was hop a plane to the west coast to start over. And with that, well, my flight to Portland is about to board. See you when I'm back, if I come back at all. (Clearly I came back, I’m finishing this up in Germany, nerds)

Shorter, Faster, Sadder 2/22/10

It happened again this morning. That flash of panic and nausea in my stomach. A couple seconds of bewilderment, confusion and terror. Once again I wake up have no idea where I am. Luckily, this time I came to in a comfortable bed. What I do remember is that I didn’t even drink that much last night - just a couple beers. But this is how it goes now. While my brain deteriorates and breaks off into tiny pieces I struggle to remember most nights and yet I can still recite every word to The Humpty Dance by Digital Underground. I rush to find our tour laminate that lists every city Polar Bear Club performs in. A rush of warmth and calm shoots through me when the note card tells me we are in Rosswein, Germany.

It’s almost eight AM and I hate myself for being up this early. I hate the Shook Ones and Title Fight’s driver even more since his alarm clock is to blame for jolting me up at such an hour. He seems like a nice enough dude but no one should have a Led Zeppelin song on repeat as a way to get up in the morning especially since it took ten minutes to actually do the trick. I wish I could remember his or anyone’s name but once again I blame the drink and the chemically abused brain.

The promoter for last night’s show put every band and crew member up in a hostel located near the previous night’s venue. I search around the room and see Nate in one bed and the driver in the other. I’m starting to remember checking and settling in just a couple hours before. I peer through the windows to discover outside and I’m reminded of winter in western New York albeit briefly. Snow covers every inch of the ground and I quickly realize there is nothing similar between this part of Germany and Rochester, New York. While I’m no expert on the manner, buildings in this sleepy and cozy town look centuries old and distinctively German.

I once again proceed with my morning rituals, which consist of making sure I haven’t lost my passport, wallet, and sanity. Two of the objects I still have. I trip towards the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror again even though I know it’s a terrible idea that I’ll soon regret. While we haven’t been gone even two weeks, I’m already putting on significant booze weight. Before we left for this expedition I spent ten days in Portland, gargling down alcohol and shoving down all sorts of unhealthy food. This trend continues overseas. Shows offer a large amount of free food and enough hooch to take down Matt Skiba in his prime. Every god damn day I tell myself to take it easy, to slow down, but it seems I can’t even breathe without getting a healthy load on. This happens on each tour and during downtime I get back into shape and drop the pounds. However, right after this tour concludes there isn’t any type of break. As soon as we fly home, a couple days later Polar Bear Club heads out for a month with Every Time I Die. Come April I bet I’m twenty five pounds overweight and longing for the days when I could still see my penis.

I love touring Europe and the UK and at the same time I cannot stand the whole ordeal. Shows have been incredible. People are coming out, singing along, and buying merch for every band. Promoters take care of us and cover every guarantee. I’m seeing some old friends but not meeting anyone new which is fine because all I need is my parent's cat Haley. The drives haven’t been that long but I still get anxious and my knees begin to ache while sitting stationary in the van unable to lie down or get comfortable. For some reason a bit of me longs for home. There isn’t a girl, dog, or a life waiting for me there and I don’t know if there ever will be. Maybe it’s my Xbox 360 I miss so much. Remind me to buy her something nice when I get back. Possibly, a sweater for her hard drive. Unlike other tours, I haven’t really bonded with any other bands members. Where is my Frank Turner, my Derrick of Defeater or even Mark of Strike Anywhere? Well, at least Nate’s here. He’ll do for now. I quickly tell myself to grow up, my inside voice shouts “you’re traveling the world and you have a job many people will kill for. Enjoy it while you can”. And I’ll do that today with a large bottle of lager. But for now I’ll try and get back to sleep. Or maybe the Title Fight driver will get out of the bathroom so I can finally touch my dick – the most important of my morning rituals. It's all for you, kids.