Off To Europe!

So I was going to write this well thought out and heart felt piece about how grateful and lucky I am to be going overseas. You know, how punk rock saved my life, I owe so much to Polar Bear Club and I'm not worthy of such luck. Instead, I got really drunk on shitty whiskey. Fuck you, I'm going to Europe with my best friends. Take that ex girlfriends.

As always, www.myspace.com/polarbearclub for dates.

Past Weekend Roundup

Well, over this past weekend Polar Bear Club played a couple shows locally. Specifically, we visited urban powerhouses Oneonta, Oswego and Rochester, New York. Like everyone, I enjoy getting away from home and playing out/tagging along for shows. However, weekends like these also are a bit of a tease and a bummer. All the shows were within an hour or two of home. This means that either PBC dudes are either going to go back to their own homes, their girlfriend's home or back to Emmett's in Syracuse. So, all the fun parts of tour or long distance traveling pretty much are thrown out the window. There's no real group hang, no meeting of new people, no real camaraderie. It's pretty much play a show, head home separately and show up again the next day. Kind of like actual work but with more drunk. So clearly the motivation behind these shows was to bleed kids dry of their parent's hard earned money before we go to Europe. Once in Europe, we will use the monies for cocaine made out of gold and prostitutes forged from the softest of silks. I have no idea what that even means but I do know it's a lie. I'm sure the money will be put towards mounting Bridge 9 debt but personally I'd like some fucking health insurance.

Well, that's another entry for another time. For now let's discuss the last couple of days, ok? I remember the last time Polar Bear Club played Oneonta, it was about a year and a half ago, possibly more. This show, like the last one, was on the actual campus. I'm always weary about college shows because I'm usually older than most of the professors on campus. To calm my nerves I took it upon myself to pound beers on the way there. Why? Because I'm an irresponsible man/child alcoholic who refuses to grow up or accept responsibility. THAT'S WHY. (Save me.)

The drive from Syracuse to Oneonta is over two hours so there was plenty of time to get wild and too much time between pee breaks. We were already running late so stopping at a restroom wasn't really high on the priority list. Steve Baby from Forfeit, who defines the term amateur hour, tagged along and at one point relieved himself into a coffee cup. Not having a top, Mr. Baby attempted to dump the cup of piss outside one of the side van windows refusing to take into account the other dudes in the possible line of fire. Needless to say, myself and my main man Wildcat Steve caught Steve's liquid waste in the face. Sometimes I share to much with you people. Ah, who knew adult hood would be so rewarding?

As far as the show went, I'd reckon there were at least 80 or so kids in attendance. Pretty good turnout considering Oneonta is in the middle of nowhere and the town's mayor is actually a cow. (The joke here being is that it's a really, really small town! Get it?! A cow! Hilarious. Fuck you, they can't all be winners.) I was looking forward to seeing The Knockdown again because as I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of their music and them as people. I hope we head out on some east coast dates in the near future. Kids stuck around for Polar Bear Club and were definitely into the performance but I couldn't help but notice that PBC looked pretty tired up there which was probably due to this being their first show in over a month. Who am I to judge? I get exhausted when I sneeze. Someday I'll tell you all about the drive back to Syracuse, the mail fraud I committed, and the horrible acts I performed against my fellow man. For now let's just say that our friend Wildcat Steve gets the MVP award of the weekend for driving us home through a pretty bad snow storm.

The next day, Saturday, was the Oswego show. Oswego is about forty five minutes away from where we stayed in Syracuse. Oswego is also where I went to college for like eight years, you know, to become a doctor. For those too many years, I was the self proclaimed king of Oswego. Sure, no one else probably ever agreed with that assessment but I was looking forward to reclaiming my title - THE RETURN OF THE KING. Arriving in town tipsy, I soon realized that I didn't really have any friends left in Oswego, the town that Winter prefers and time forgets. There would be no coronation for me, the king was dead. For now on, the only loyal subjects I serve are my Sex And The City dvd's. There were some positive aspects of the night though, so no sweat. Forfeit and Like Wolves also played. Both great bands and good friends. I'm told their sets went over well. I have to be honest, I don't think I watched either band. Instead I chose to drink 40's in the van and listen to new PBC demos. While I'm a little disappointed that PBC didn't decide to delve into the fantasy metal genre like promised, I was still impressed with what I heard. Given the fact that college kids only returned to Oswego that very weekend, the turnout of over 100 kids was pretty impressive that night. After the show we split up again with Jimmy and myself returning to Emmett's in Syracuse and the others heading out with their significant others. While nothing too remarkable happened on the night I returned to my alma mater, I didn't catch any piss in the face and hey, I don't get to say that very often.

The final destination of the weekend was Rochester, New York the city that spawned myself, Jimmy, Nate, and Chris Browne. Chris of PBC was actually the promoter of the show so any type of failure or miscue could be squarely placed upon his shoulders, a twist that added to the excitement of the day. The venue was a bar called The Bug Jar, a space that hasn't actually housed an independent, punk or hardcore show on a Sunday in at least five years. I mean, the last time I saw a show at the Bug Jar, Marathon and Bad Business were still together (I'm older than you). It's funny, whenever we show up to a venue we're scheduled to play, the first thing I look for is the flyer for that particular show. It's usually a good sign of things to come when you see promotion of your show. When I don't see a flyer or poster of the show we're supposed to play, the first thing I think is "bad promotion, not gonna be a good turnout". Well, I didn't see any signs of life as far as poster art was concerned when it came to our show at the Bug Jar. Therefore, it was open season on the promoter aka the guitarist of Polar Bear Club, Chris Browne.

Polar Bear Club played Rochester sometime in 2008 with Gaslight Anthem and American Steel at a bigger venue called the Water Street Music Hall. The hometown crowd's response towards PBC could best be described as anemic. Due to this and the Bug Jar's lack of shows within the last five years led me to think that this PBC show could fail. Once again, Like Wolves and Forfeit were scheduled to play. Quickly, my anxiety and doubts about the Rochester show were put to rest when a half an hour before doors were to open, a line formed. Obviously, these aren't the things that determine whether a show is going to be a success or not. A large turnout doesn't always equal a great show. One of the most memorable shows I ever experienced was when The Killing Tree played in front of me and about twenty other people. But watching more and more kids stream in for what were all essentially local bands gave me goose bumps. Well, it was either goosebumps or the return of a pesky simplex virus. So thank you Rochester and thank you Chris, one of those things I'll never say again.

Things got a little tense however when the venue owner tried to cap the amount of people inside at 125 but after some coercing the owner relented and allowed everyone in. At the end of the day, there were over 200 people in attendance. The one part of the night I would love to forget is when I felt the need to stage dive. Well, it was more of a stage fall. I somehow forged my way up to the front, got on the stage and just fell over into a group of unsuspecting and terrified teenagers. At first the kids unionized, said "no, sir!" and actually pushed me back on the stage. While I'm used to rejection, this time I didn't take no for an answer and instead of jumping or diving , I just toppled over. So if you're reading this and if you were at the Rochester show, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fell on you or I'm sorry you had to witness a geriatric embarrass himself. It won't be the last time.

So there it is, three days out with Polar Bear Club. Nothing exciting or mind blowing happened and yet I still managed to churn out at least eight paragraphs on the subject. This time next week I'll be in Europe. Good things happen to bad people.

I Lied

So, yeah. I didn't start that blog about the Canadian dates like I promised. Instead I watched a bunch of Scrubs episodes. Don't you fucking judge me. Zack Braff's wackiness hits me harder than any drug I've ever put in my body. Anyway, I did find some pictures that I forgot about from our West Coast dates. Pictures are mostly from some California shows. Crime In Stereo, Broadway Calls and the Swellers make a couple cameos in the hot, hot photo ops. Click those posers up there or here for the wackness. Argh. I'm having trouble with the pictures I post on here. For some reason, they're getting cut in half. If I knew what I was doing, you'd see the rest of the band up there. I'm out of my element here, but you already knew that.

What, No Victory Records?

Couple updates here, folks. So, as you may have heard, Polar Bear Club and Bridge 9 Records are currently sleeping with each other. If you haven't heard, well, that wild picture up there may clue you in or you can head over to http://www.bridge9.com/ to check out a cool animated thing that clearly doesn't feature my newly acquired beard enough. Personally, I'm very proud and excited for my friends. I hope this means a lot of touring with Ruiner and the opportunity for me to sleep with X'd up hardcore girls with low self esteem. (Jokes?)

Lately, PBC has been practicing feverishly five days a week in Syracuse and as of today, started to demo for their new record. I'm not sure of the specifics for I am stuck here in Rochester toiling away at a job that is crushing my spirit on the daily. In a couple weekends we head out for shows in Oswego, Rochester and Oneonta New York with Like Wolves, Forfeit (again?) and The Knockdown. Should be a blast. After that it's off to Europe where I anxiously await the day I can finally purchase the services of a hooker. As always, check PBC's myspace for dates and times.

If you look to the right, you'll notice I threw up a couple links to some other blogs. The first is courtesy of Ted from Another Breath. Apparently, Ted is documenting the writing and recording process of AB's next record. Fun fact about Ted - his full name is really long and pretentious sounding. I'd type it here if I could remember it but it makes you assume that he owns a yacht and a butler as hilarious as Benson. Hell, he just might! The fact remains that Another Breath is the best current hardcore band going and Ted's pecs could turn a gay man gayer.

The other link is to my good friend's site. His name is Nick Dynamite and he has a big brain. We went to college together and every now and again he pops back up in my life, gets really drunk, and alienates people. I love him. Anyway, his big brain leads to large words that I don't understand. He writes about all sorts of topics ranging from music, politics, technology and food. None of those things interest me but they may interest you.

I think that's it for now. Later tonight I'm going to start an entry about the Canadian dates with Cancer Bats and the Holly Springs Disaster. The focus of that entry will be less about humor and more about the alarming amount of Juggalos in attendance. But wait, there's more! Once I churn that out, I plan to do a belated Top 5 Polar Bear Club Members of 2008 entry. Here I will passively aggressively list PBC dudes from least favorite/unbearable to preferred/bearable. Keep your eyes peeled for that ground breaking piece of journalism.

P.S. new URL address for this blog, update your bookmarks, or don't, either one will get you here. www.polarblogclub.com

The Entry About Chicago Is Finally Done

December 13 was the worst day of my life since that one time back in college when I threw up and shat at the same time. I swear to god I almost imploded. But getting back on track, in the wee hours of the 13th we rolled in to Chicago, most drunk on boxed wine, the others drunk on freezing temperatures and lack of sleep. Emmett had contacted an old friend, Adam, who offered to put us up for that night and agreed to house us until our show later on in the evening of the 14th. After picking up Adam we frantically parked the van and trailer, grabbed our stuff and began to walk to our shelter for the evening. I'm pretty sure I immediately went to bed, a bed I shared with Goose who insisted on sleeping head to toe in order to stave off my drunken advances. Good try Goose but no one's been able to stop me yet.

Early the next day we all woke up early in anticipation of going to a local vegetarian diner that Jimmy had been talking up for awhile. Nate and I headed out into the icy tundra to pick up the van and trailer while everyone else continued to get ready. Our vehicle was on a pretty major road in Chicago and panic began to set in as we walked further and further along the street with no sign of the huge white van and red trailer. We've all heard the horror stories of bands getting their entire lives stolen in a blink of an eye while they sleep somewhere else. The truth is, vans get stolen all the time, especially in major cities. I know if this was the case with us, the band would have been over right there. I mean, there is no way we could recover from such a financial and personal loss.

Eventually, we found the spot we were previously parked in. Since there wasn't any smashed glass anywhere it was decided that our van hadn't been stolen - it had been towed. Our suspicions were confirmed when I craned my head up and to the right to reveal a "NO PARKING, TOW AWAY ZONE". Damn you sweet lady booze, you win again. After a couple phone calls to local municipalities I located the impound lot where our livelihood had been taken. It was probably around noon at this point and we had about five hours until load in for the show that night. I figured we'd have everything taken care of within an hour or so. I put off eating for the day and Emmett and myself headed to the impound lot across town driven by Adam, letting everyone know we'd be back in a blink of an eye.

I've never been to an impound lot before, I've never had any reason to. I'm not sure what I expected but I sure as hell didn't expect a car graveyard mixed with a touch of Bosnia circa 1992. I mean, there was barbed wire, gates, rabid dogs, armed security guards, and oil fires ablazing! Half of that previous sentence may not be true but I do know that we were out of our element. It seemed that our adventure began in the nearest rusted out trailer on the property. It was early enough in the day to avoid any type of incredible line, or so I thought. As soon as we entered the trailer Emmett and I were smacked in the face with a line longer and more twisted than any lie I've ever told a woman. Inside that trailer was where happy went to die. Every person there was hungover, frustrated, ugly, miserable, and in dire straits - Emmett and I included.

While we began to soak in the atmosphere the situation became more and more dire. Signs posted all along the walls made it clear that in order to spring our van from prison we would basically need all original documents such as the registration, proof of purchase, Emmett's first born, and a blood and semen sample. Well, Lord knows Emmett's all out of semen and my body runs on alcohol so we were in some trouble. Add in the fact that no one in PBC actually owns the van or trailer. Our friends in Angry Penquin actually do, we're just lucky enough that they rent their wares to us at a great price. What that means is that all of the documentation for the vehicle was all the way back in New York State. Fuck our lives. Well, we decided to give the line a shot and hang out in a human lunch box for a bit. It seemed more and more unlikely we'd actually see the van again so plans were being made inside Emmett's and I's head about what to do about the next couple of shows booked. As much as we did not want to, if we couldn't get what we needed that day, shows would have to be cancelled, possibly the rest of the tour. Around this time some hobo heard us complaining and told us that he was once in a similar situation to ours in regards to not having any sort of documentation. His helpful advice was "Give up now. It's never going to happen." Hours had passed at this point and I've only taken advice from a hobo four times in my life. I wasn't about to make it five times. A bit longer we would wait.

Eventually, our heroes finally made it to the front of the line and came face to face with the enemy. Ever see or speak to a public servant in a large city? Horrible, ugly people. Trolls who eat the gooey insides from an infants' skull. Hitler combined with the competence of a drunken sloth. Yes, it's as bad as I'm making it sound. As soon as Emmett opened his mouth he was shot down by the attendant who was clearly drunk on her own power. After a ridiculous amount of time spent fucking around in line, we were blown off within minutes. Grasping at straws, Emmett asked to speak with a supervisor about the situation and we were told to exit through a different door to the side of the "building". I saw this as progress since we were leaving the tin can for a bit. Passing by the security guards (yes, security guards) we entered another trailer and began to speak with another ruler of our fate. This crotchety old bag wasn't as evil as the rest. She was more of a Mussolini to her Hitler counterpart. We explained our situation as clearly as we could. I'm pretty sure I even offered to go down on her in exchange for some sympathy. Per usual my sexual advances were turned down but she did half heartedly mention that if we could somehow get a notarized document from the CEO of Angry Penguin (the actual owner of the van) giving us permission to take the van of the property, we might be set. Finally, a chance at redemption!

I've always viewed Emmet as one of those shady salesman guys during the depression. You know, The dude who sold fake brain tonics and took advantage of down on their luck families in order to get by. Basically, a schemer and a bastard. I mean this all lovingly because it's those exact qualities that got PBC out of this mess. It was decided that we would head straight from the impound lot to Kinko's in order to draw up a fake professional business letter that would contain a plethora of extravagant lies! Most importantly, the letter would state that I, Trevor, was the CEO of Angry Penguin, which is hilarious in itself because the only thing I actually own is the complete Sex And The City dvd collection. (Um....) Furthermore, the document needed to state that I, Super Awesome CEO of Fuck Yeah!, willingly and knowingly gave permission to Emmett to drive both the van and trailer off the impound lot. Quickly, we typed and printed out our non truths and set off to find a notary republic that would aide and abet in our potentially illegal activities.

Deep, deep, deep in the ghettos of Chicago resides the greatest "store" of all time. The establishment I speak of offers all types of services ranging from check cashing, drivers license processing, cheap cell phones, and a 24 hour notary republic who eerily resembled Pizza The Hut from the movie Spaceballs. Here is where I thought our plan would come to a crashing halt. I assumed the notary would want some sort of proof stating that I was an actual business owner and not the borderline drug addict I've slowly become. Apparently, Chicago is the home of second chances and not giving a fuck because this giant toad of an employee only asked for a dollar for processing fees and away she went with her reckless signing! Huzzah! Another step complete in the Great Van Heist of 2008. I must admit, about this time I was feeling like a balder/frumpier Danny Ocean. Back to the impound lot we went.

Entering the main trailer again for what Emmett and myself hoped would be the final time that night, I noticed nothing had changed. In line were the same group of hostile citizens we encountered when our adventure began in the morning. This instance we would not wait in line. Armed with desperation, a notarized document that meant nothing in the real world, and a newly acquired confidence that only comes with being a fake CEO of a real company, Emmett and I breezed past the security guards and straight to the supervisor. Shoving a flurry of forged documents, lies, and boyish charm into her face, Emmett and I defeated the Bowser-esque Supervisor Boss Lady each gaining 100 experience points in level 3-2 of Never Coming Back to Chicago Again. Of course, this was not the last level as we were instructed to speak with another woman in order to get a whole bunch of bullshit signed and stamped. After that was taken care of, we were to enter an entire new room to finally pay our fine.

But wait! Before we could actually pay the cashier, I was allowed past the second security check point to find the van and trailer in the sea of bad decisions. Only I was allowed entrance for I was the one signing all the paperwork. Who knows what Emmett was doing at this point, perhaps he'll reveal that in his own blog entitled "Why Did I Decide To Start Touring Again After Marathon Broke Up." Anyway, I was given a vague description of where I might find our transportation by an armed individual who told me to go "Back there. For a long time." Well, that was good enough for me! Noticing it was almost two hours past load in time, I knew I had to speed things along. For perhaps the second time in the last five years, I used my legs for running instead of using them as heavy load baring devices. While I ran all I could think about was exactly how I was going to drive the van and trailer up to the main entrance. As I've alluded to before, PBC does not allow me to drive due to a panic attack I suffered at the wheel years before. Crossing my fingers, I silently prayed to Zeus hoping I wouldn't have to back up our ride.

Well, if you read my blog you know nothing ever goes my way, or so that's what I tell my therapist. When I reached my destination, the van and trailer were in a complete fucked up parking situation. Yes, if we were to get off that lot with what we needed, Trevor J., would have to accomplish the simplest of acts that even my two year old nephew could perform - I'd have to go in reverse. The whole backing up aspect took about twenty minutes, the crying took 15, and the sweet taste of victory will last a lifetime. I was able to free our van from the shackles of the parking space and drive the mother fucker to the main gate. All that was left was to pay the lovely city of Chicago for the privilege of spending an entire day inside their parking division Hooverville.

Since this entry has gone on longer than my career at Oswego State University (it took me six years to graduate with a four year degree) I'll try to wrap up this saga within the next paragraph. The last stop before we left the lot was to pay the cashier. Because both van and trailer were towed, PBC were forced to pony up 500 dollars in order to get back what was rightfully ours and since I have a heroin addiction that refuses to be quenched, I had that much money on me.There was no choice as to whether or not to pay the extraordinary fine. We had to finish the tour and we had to recover the trailer that was full of instruments and precious, precious illegal immigrants. So that's what we did. We paid the cashier while actually choking on the thought of being down 500 dollars. Emmett hopped in the driver's seat, I hopped in shotgun and we promised to never speak of all the dicks I had to suck in order to actually get the van out of impound purgatory. That's the real story, folks, I just made up all the other shit. Ah, we're having fun now!

Thanks for reading everyone. I promise to never be this long winded again.

As always, send women.