Tag Archives: musicians

Is Your Name Yo-Yo-Mama?

I decided that I want to date a rapper.  Preferably by the name, Yo-Yo-Mama, but I won’t get into how I came up with that.  It involved me, my Nana and my Aunt while watching a soap opera from the ’70s, so I won’t bore you with more details.  I’ll settle for a rapper that goes by another name, but I think I’m going to stay away from any whose stage name starts with “‘Lil.”  I just know that I could never successfully sleep with anyone who is serious about going by a name that starts with ‘Lil.  (I’m sorry ‘Lil Wayne, you’re awesome, but I could never sleep with you.)  Even if this imaginary rapper that I am not going to sleep with is really good in bed, I know I would inevitably start laughing out loud right when the thought that I am currently sleeping with someone who has the fake word of “‘lil” involved with his identity crosses my mind.  This thought would probably cross my mind every few seconds because I am convinced that my brain has a forever diabolical plan to sabotage me.  Anyway, I’ve dated enough fucking guitar players, and I’ve had my fair share of drummers and bass players and lead singers, so I think it’s time to test out a rapper.  It’s possible that this is the worst idea I’ve ever had because lead singers often have this severe condition called Lead Singer Syndrome.

Lead Singer Syndrome- A serious social affliction with an unknown origin.  Theories suggest that it could be a birth defect, and a symptom of such is becoming the lead singer of a band.  However, the most widely accepted theory is that after becoming a lead singer, the subject develops feelings of self-obsession and superiority and has a tendency to burn bridges (metaphorically speaking).  The lasting effect is that everyone secretly hates him/her.

Before I piss off too many of my friends, I would like to make a very important note which is, not all lead singer’s are plagued with this syndrome.  But it’s a solid majority.

Not that I know any rappers, but I am taking an educated guess that they may have the worst cases of the syndrome.  I suppose if I am being realistic, Eminem falls under the category of rappers that I do not know, though sometimes I like to imagine that he is my boyfriend and we know each others minds and bodies well.  He is a great kisser.  Well, I’ve made the executive decision that he is a great kisser.  Maybe that’s the difference between stalkers and everyone else.  I like to pretend that Eminem is my boyfriend and that he is a great kisser, but I understand that he is not actually my boyfriend and that I know nothing of his kissing capabilities.  I don’t think that the people who turn into true stalkers can make that distinction.  So if you’re reading this Eminem, don’t worry, I’m not going to show up at your house wearing a fancy dress with mascara running down my face and holding a gun, declaring that you forgot to meet me at our spot for our anniversary so now we both have to die.  The craziest thing I’ll do if we ever happen to meet is, I will totally ask you out on a date.

Sorry, I got on the topic of Eminem because I was in the midst of saying that it’s very possible that rappers have severe self-obsession characteristics, but I wanted to make it clear that in Caitlin World, Eminem does not fall under that umbrella of possibility.

The only rap show I had ever been to was a Tyler the Creator show sometime last year.  Or maybe it has been two years… after you turn 25, years are fairly meaningless.  I don’t know how the fuck I ended up at a Tyler the Creator show, considering that the only reason I had ever heard that name before was because when I was living in Los Angeles, my sister came to visit and she saw him at Amoeba Records and peed her pants over it.  Fat Face was going to the show with his hipster roommates, so I guess he just asked me if I wanted to join and I said yes because I had never been to a rap show and I generally say yes to any of his suggestions.  Unless it involves turkey, which in Fat Face world, seems to be a frequent occurrence.  If he mentions turkey, then I shamelessly say, fuck no.  Turkey meat smells and tastes the most like something dead. Anyway, the Tyler show was great.

My second experience with a rap show was very recently.  I started working at one of the local music venues while I’m home.  I just go in on days that they have a show and help with loading or merch or stagehand stuff or whatever they need.  One of the shows was Mike Stud.  I had never heard of him before.  He’s some white kid that played baseball in college and the only reason that I know that is because I googled him twice because I kept forgetting what his damn name is and I needed to make a spreadsheet with his name on it as well as the opening and supporting acts.  I actually just googled him again, because I forgot his name again.  So Mike Stud, if you’re reading this, you need a new stage name because clearly, yours is forgettable.  With that being said, you kind of won me over with your ridiculous show and though I would rather go on a date with Eminem, I wouldn’t mind making-out with you as a plan B option.

At first, I thought that the show was a fucking joke.  I got a sort of behind the scenes look at it, and after witnessing the sound check, texted 0069 (my good touring friend who does front of house audio) telling him, “You need to get a FOH gig on a rap tour.  I have never seen such an easy/simple soundcheck.”  He texted me back saying, “Been there.  They don’t like white guys.”  Fair enough.

Mike Stud had his whole crew on stage which was essentially just his friends, and they were all just doing the typical arm movements that white guys do when rapping or listening to rap, which to me, just looks like slow motion karate chops.  They were trying to go for a house party feel, and I thought it was lame.  I was literally laughing out loud, in the corner of the venue with my backpack on and boots and a “Brand New” t-shirt, while every other girl was 17 years old and wearing mid-drifts and those shorts that go up to your belly button.  They had a case of Bud Light on stage, and a bottle of some flavored vodka and they all kept chugging.  He had a boy band look and feel and I thought the whole thing was incredibly gimmicky and Lead Singer Syndrome-ish.  So if you’re a rapper, giving your friends stupid job titles so that they can come on tour with you is a real thing.  I thought that was an urban legend.  For example, the merch guy was never actually at the merch table.  He was busy being on stage and doing the slow motion karate chops while simultaneously texting and drinking Bud Light along with the rest of the “crew.”

Over the next hour I laughed at how some of the rappers kept kidnapping peoples phones so that they could film themselves rapping, and then give the phone back (an act that would never occur during a rock show). I chuckled by myself at how the “bodyguard” pretended to be relevant and kept coming on stage when someone reached out for a high five. It all seemed very unprofessional when compared to what I am used to.  But then, after a while of being a judgmental jerk, I checked myself and realized… I’m obviously being entertained! I stood here watching this when I could have just left and came back after the performance. So that means that it was a successful show.

Then I found myself fantasizing about making-out with Mike Stud.  There was something about him.  That’s common though in lead singers or rappers or front-men or whatever.  They are generally charismatic because… well, that’s how you become a lead singer!  You have to have that spark that gets people to want to watch you on stage.  That’s what also makes them the most dangerous.

The show that I thought I couldn’t relate to at all, forced me to remember that it’s the energy that we all have in common.  No matter what kind of music you like, if you appreciate the energy that live music provides, then you can find something to enjoy about any genre of live music.  Just don’t be all judgy about it the way I was at first.  Within Mike Stud’s peformance, I went from wanting to slap him, to wanting to kiss him.  His music is still terrible, but whatever, the show was fun.  Kissing him was very conceivable.  All I had to do was go out back after I was done with my duties and turn up my flirt notch.  I was tired though, and settled on the idea that I will find a rapper to make-out with when I am not exhausted.

So, if you’re a rapper that miraculously doesn’t have Lead Singer Syndrome, then call me!  My number is 727-686-4819.  I am a good muse, I like gin and juice, I am not offended by the word bitch and I’ll practice looking cool while doing the karate chop arm movement thing.

… And I swear on my sister’s life that as I am writing this, this cute black guy with dreadlocks is rapping after he just put down his acoustic guitar.  Bye!  Got to go flirt.

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Post Tour Blues – Report 1 of 2

I have been home for a while now, and I feel that I am FINALLY getting over my Post Tour Blues.  I am starting to make more friends, enjoy my little routines and flirting with the idea of trying to start a garden.  Don’t get me wrong, I cannot friggen wait to get back on the road, but I am enjoying NOT going stir crazy at the moment.  I leave again soon though, and will be traveling for three months, and I am very stoked about that, but I am already dreading the Post Tour Blues that I will be sure to experience upon my return in late November.

There are many reasons why us roadies get the Post Tour Blues as I call it (or PTB).  A lot of the symptoms are due to the sudden change in lifestyle.  The easiest, most concise way to describe it, is that we go from 60 to zero in only a few minutes.  The amount of time that it takes to walk off of the bus and into the airport terminal that will be delivering you home.

I go from being in a new city every day and being at a live, loud, adrenaline pumping rock show every night,  to sitting on my mom’s couch watching her make carrot juice and hearing about the family of rabbits that are hopping around the neighborhood.  Touring can be a lot of fucking fun, and everything I deal with on a daily basis is so over the top that it can sometimes make normal life feel mundane.  Another factor in the cause of Post Tour Blues.

Also, you go from having a very specific, functional purpose, to no purpose at all.  Each person on the tour is essential and provides a specific job that makes the entire tour function.  You know exactly what is required of you and there is a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day.  Then you go home and you have no role and no sense of purpose, and those questions like, “what am I doing with my life?” start haunting you.  I just happened to have the month off during the 2014 World Cup.  I am not kidding when I tell you that I spent the entire month alone in a bar, drinking beer and watching soccer.  I had a great time, but honestly, in that month, there was just no purpose to my existence.

This brings me to my next point, which is often, I tend to isolate myself post tour.  I know that I probably shouldn’t, because it only enhances the blues, but I know that a lot of other touring folk do this as well.  I’ve speculated on some of the reasons why this is.  One I believe, is that it does become harder to relate to people who live a more stable lifestyle.  Your cares, concerns and experiences, the things that you talk about, are radically different.  It’s not that one way of life is superior to the other, it’s just different, and I get self-conscious sometimes about the topics of conversation that I would probably bring up.  I’m sitting there discussing how I can’t remember if I accidentally drunkenly kissed the guitar tech, how a goth with metal spikes coming from his head stalked me all night, trying to get access on to the bus, and how I’m thinking about dreadlocking my hair just so that I don’t have to deal with hair maintenance on the road.  The stable friend is discussing how their kid likes playing with a broken piece of a picture frame rather than their toys, how the contractor put in the wrong tile in their kitchen and how they may get an office promotion.  Neither is right or wrong, just different and I know that I am the more abnormal one; the minority, so it sometimes makes me self-conscious and I just avoid that type of interaction.  There are of course certain close friends that you don’t have to worry about this type of thing with, thank goodness for them.

Being alone often after tour is mostly self-induced, but not always.  Your friends and family have their own lives without you because they have become accustom to you not being around.  So when they don’t call you to invite you out for their traditional Saturday afternoon Bloody Mary’s at the nearby beach bar, it’s not because they don’t want you there, it’s just that they have grown into the habit of not calling because you’re often not in town.  I sometimes feel very alone after a tour, which leads to PTB.

Romantic relationships are fucked.  To the point where I don’t even have the emotional stamina to get into that right now.  I think it’s obvious how touring puts a major strain on any type of relationship, but especially romantic ones, so hopefully you can use your imagination and forgive me for skipping over the dirty details right now.  Maybe down the road… probably when I am suffering through another episode of PTB, I may be in the mood to drink a bottle of whiskey and dredge through painful memories.

When you’re on the road, it’s easy to distract yourself from the thoughts of your personal life back home being annihilate because there is constant new stimulus.  Once you are back home though, you’re forced to confront all of the things that you have been putting off during your tour and it hits you in the stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

Finally being able to have some damn privacy once you get home is very nice and so you feel the compulsion to take advantage of that and get as much privacy as you can soak up.  This ultimately leads to the loneliness as well.   I will get to bus privacy in the 2nd report.

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The Adventures of Touring – Special Edition: Noisey Made Me Sound like a Groupie, but I Feel Cool Anyway

This is how much I love VICE… I have the app. I barely understand what phone applications are, so if I have an app, it’s because I really use it. Along with VICE, I have BBC News, the dictionary, USPS, google translate, atVenu and fucking Solitaire. Dorky apps. On the bus during long drives while a lot of the guys are on some game application that gives me a headache just by looking at it over their shoulder, I am the annoying one announcing things like, “the word of the day is solipsistic,” or “VICE found a guy who claims that he only has 100 boners left.”

For those of you who need some VICE in your life, Noisey is basically the music section of the magazine, and I got mentioned in one of the articles. Well…. kind of. Indirectly. Very indirectly. I was misquoted, and made to sound like someone’s one night stand, but you know what, I’ll take it. He was nice enough to keep me nameless, but I am here to take full credit because like we all know, I am perfectly comfortable with exploiting myself.

This particular tour holds a very special place in my heart, so I didn’t think that I’d be able to write about it for a while. I fell in love with this band and crew, and the band and crew of the entire three band tour package. When that happens, it’s sometimes difficult to take a step back and explain it all in a way that the non-touring world will understand. However, due to being mentioned in a Noisey article… I will tell this single tale for now. I’m sure there will be more later.

On the last day of the tour, a Noisey columnist came onto the bus to interview the lead singer of the band that I was working for. They discovered a note that I had taped to the television so that everyone would see it which read, “Hi boys- I lost my jeans somewhere on this bus. Please let me know if you find them amongst all of your stuff. Thanks! -Caitlin”

I suppose to someone who has never lived on a tour bus, that may sound strange. However, when there are twelve people living on one bus, shit gets misplaced. If you’re a good busmate and understand bus etiquette, you only bring the necessities onto the bus and leave your fucking carry-on in the bay (the storage space underneath the bus). Regardless, with twelve people, that still means at least 36 pairs of socks and underwear, 24 shoes, five million chargers and approximately three trailer keys. When you add the consumption of three bottles of liquor, two cases of beer and copious amounts of drugs every night, shit disappears. T-dog, my favorite bus driver, would regularly find my underwear in the bus vents and I have found men’s pj pants in my bunk who belong to boy’s who had definitely never been in my bunk.

My note was interpreted by Noisey in the article as saying something more like, “I left my jeans on the bus last night. Let me know if you find them.” I appreciate the artistic license he took because that makes it sound a lot more rock n’ roll, like a hot little metal chick with last night’s make-up smeared around her eyes wearing sexy fish-nets and I-just-got-laid-hair put the friendly letter up, instead of the boring merch girl.

Before you start thinking that this is going to be a fun mystery thriller which ends full circle with the jeans providing some profound moral to the story… it’s not. It’s just a story that is characterized with a shit load of bums and the jeans really have nothing to do with what went down. Lost pants is just a hilarious representation of the drunken debauchery that took place.

The night before, one of the guys, who I will call the Trojan, and I stayed up until sunrise drinking gallons of vodka while he educated me on Metallica. We sat there and listened to a whole album from beginning to end, which is something I appreciated because so few people do that anymore, and his enthusiasm was kind of a turn on.

The following day was a day off. When we all woke looking like a crew of utter death, the Trojan turned to me, still in his boxers and said, “Caitlin! Are we drinking?” You can’t say no to a Trojan…

Jack Daniels for breakfast in my Niagra Falls mug. It’s going to be a fucked up day.

The guys went to a bar early afternoon, but I had to break from the pack and do something normal to kind of recenter my life for a moment. After multiple days of staying up all night and drinking, you start to lose your sense of time and space. So, I went to a museum, looked at fossils and learned some shit.

Later, we all went to a steakhouse that had at least 500 taxidermy animals on the wall (not exaggerating) and we ate some of their insides. It was delicious. We were rolling 12 people deep, so we needed two van taxi cabs everywhere we went, which was a pain in the ass. I enjoy minimal responsibility, which is why I will never TM, but somehow I became in charge of calling the cabs, so when they didn’t arrive for a while, for some asinine reason, I got held responsible. To fend off the harassment, I started doing a tap dance on the sidewalk to lighten my mood, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to throwing a can of soda into the street. Rebel.

While waiting outside of the restaurant for my whole life, a happy bum approached us and OF COURSE, the Trojan started chatting him up while most of us attempted to not make eye contact. In the Trojan’s defense, I think he was the only one who was drunk. The exchange between a black metal Trojan and a skinny homeless man who looked like he could have been Sammy Davis Jr. became such a spectacle, that it was like watching a theatrical improv show on crack. At one point, the Trojan and the bum started dancing together on the sidewalk. At another point, the bum said something to me, to which I responded in perfect English, “I don’t speak English.”

Later, the bum said something about Jesus, to which the Trojan said, “I deep throat Jesus everyday, that little bitch.” At least we know how to keep things controversial.

We were in Denver, and if you have never been to Denver, it’s essentially where people go to do nothing. In other words, weed is legal there, so that’s where all of the hardcore stoners migrate. I can only tolerate so much Grateful Dead. Speaking of the Grateful Dead, I saw this on the wall of the bar that we ended up going to, and I couldn’t believe the perfection.


That is possibly the most god awful published photograph that has ever existed. The guys in the back… holy fuck.

The boys were playing pool, and I was drinking my weight in whiskey while people watching and deciding that the girl who was dancing with the teal fringed mid-drift had escaped from a Mormon family and was currently experimenting in lesbianism. I often play that game where you look at a stranger and make up a full back-story for them. It can be a fun bar game.

After losing numerous pool matches to a guy wearing cargo shorts and a fishing cap, the Trojan was over it and we decided to head back to the bus and just… see what happened. And oh, shit happened.

We crossed paths with a girl at a bus stop. She asked us for money, providing some story about how she needed to get to the next town over because of her dying mother. I could be completely off, but it was something absurd like that. She was good, so if you have never lived in a city, you might have believed her, but because I know that anyone panhandling is fucking lying, I knew better. Still, we spoke with her for a moment, encouraged her and I gave her my knife that I keep in my shoe (because she was whining about not feeling safe) and we went on our way. Regardless of our awareness that this girl was completely full of shit, after denying her and walking five meters, the Trojan and I turned and looked at each other and both said simultaneously, “I like her.” Damnit.

It felt like the idiotic thing to do, so naturally, we went back. We’re so vain; we liked her because she was pretty and articulate and just not your average beggar. At all. She did not look like she was on the streets. Put her in some heels and a skin-tight dress, and she could have gotten by as a high class escort. Come to think of it, I should have suggested that to her. Anyway, we went back and told her that we can’t help her with her child who has been kidnapped (or whatever the story was that kept changing), but we can buy her a drink. So the three of us went into the place that was immediately next to us, which of course ended up being a gay bar. Long story short, she’s out of her god damn mind, and kept trying to hit on flamboyant gay men and complaining that the bar didn’t have olives in the cocktail tray that she was using like a buffet counter. The Trojan and I thrive on this type of awkwardness, so we were eating this girl up. This got us all kicked out however.

At the time, it seemed ridiculous that we were being expelled from the place, because I have seen much much much more obnoxious behavior at a bar, but I got the feeling that she is probably a regular there and she is probably not welcomed at the establishment anymore for past reasons. We said our goodbyes, she cried because she’s mental, and the Trojan and I went on our way.

About 100 paces later, we run into Michael Mud. Another bum panhandling, and despite the Trojan claiming to hate people, he is incredibly friendly. I like people (…in the grand scheme of things… unless you chew with your mouth open), and the Trojan and I were kind of partners in crime during this tour, but had he not been there, none of the events of the night would have taken place. So due to his nature, we of course start chatting it up with the three toothed beggar who we would later learn to be, Michael Mud.

The Trojan and Michael got deep. They were having a serious moment and I know my place, so I kind of stepped back and just observed this take place. They were bonding on a musicians’ level. Michael had an acoustic guitar on his back, so we asked him to play something. He kept declining because the guitar only had three strings, and I think he felt embarrassed playing in front of the Trojan, who is a guitarist. The Trojan almost literally kicked Michael Mud in the ass, demanding him to play and like I said… you can’t say no to a Trojan.

So Michael started playing, and it was really something. I wish I could remember details. Damn alcohol. But I can remember the feeling, and it just had so much heart. I could have sat there at that dirty bench all night listening to him play. He kind of started playing the blues. True blues. When you strum some minor chords and fill in measures with improved, lyricals of misery. We learned a lot about his outlook on life in about thirty seconds because of a song sang on the side of the street at 1:30am with a $30 acoustic guitar that was missing half of its’ strings.

Some more words were exchanged, and later Michael Mud started giving us his sob story. Something I really like about the Trojan is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He does and says what he wants and he doesn’t have sympathy for people because he can see that we are all the same. When Michael Mud responded to something that he said with, “well that’s easy to say when you’re in a successful band….”

This sparked a fire in the Trojan. To which, I don’t blame him. He has worked fucking hard to get to where he is and he still has to work bullshit jobs that he doesn’t like in order to maintain his status. So what I remember the Trojan saying back was basically, “Fuck that. Life is shit for all of us. The world is a cunt, but you have this guitar, so just keep doing what you want to do with it.” Michael Mud started to tear up a little bit, and that’s when I knew we had made a slight difference. Even if it was just in that night. And he made a slight mark in our path too. I’ll never forget that man, or watching him and the Trojan smash each others hearts with cold iron stakes.

We told him to come to the show the next day and we’d put him on the list. He didn’t have a phone or anything to take down information with, so I wrote the address of the venue in sharpie on his guitar, and also my phone number in case he had any trouble. We both walked away knowing that there was a slim chance that this man on the streets would actually arrive. Despite this, the next day I arranged to have Michael Mud on the list. To my surprise, he called me the following morning. He basically wanted to make sure that we weren’t just being drunk retards last night, and that we still wanted him to come. Of course! I was so happy!

He never showed though. I still wonder what happened.

Somewhere in Denver there is a really special bum named Michael Mud, with the address to Summit Music Hall written in sharpie on his now, six string guitar. The Trojan gave him some of his guitar strings before we parted ways so that he would have a complete instrument. I gave up my sick knife to the first beggar, and the Trojan gave up his guitar strings to the second. In a weird way, that’s everything we had to offer.

The Trojan and I made our way back to the bus, and who the hell knows what happened after that. But somewhere between the walk back and the truck stop the next morning, I lost my jeans. I have no idea how because I was wearing them! That’s it. That’s the story of how I came to be indirectly mentioned in a Noisey article. I never found those damn jeans. I’m sure that they just ended up on the floor of the bus, tossed out of my bunk, and then haphazardly shoved into another bunk but… whatever. I’ll trade a pair of Levi’s for a night like that any time.

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 12

I’m sitting in the jump seat of the bus, admiring as the soapy water cascades down the giant windows, and enjoying that deep, rumbling sound of a pressure hose against the exterior body, and contemplating if I should go with a coffee, soda or Vitamin Water to ease the hang over.  Let me tell you about the events leading to this, the tour bus getting washed.

We were having a drink on the bus, after playing Rock on the Range music festival.  We were all done working, Guns N Roses was the headliner, so we decided to go catch the show.  We got to the stage, and I was standing next to Dan, one of the members of Nothing More, which is one of my new favorite bands, and the members are some of my new favorite people.  We listened to two songs, and then both looked at each other and were like, why are we watching Guns N Roses again?  Good conversation over a mug of whiskey (because mugs are the only glassware we have on the bus) sounds much better than listening to obnoxious, no longer relevant, shit music.  So Dan and I turned right around and got down on some Jack Daniel’s, which we both agree is the worst call whiskey, but when it’s free, you don’t complain.

Good times rolled on, and Joe and I (one of the other crew members) hopped a barbed-wire fence into a salt barn.  I love Joe.  He’s been beaten and worn, but he has the heart of a lion.  He’s always up for an adventure, and we all know that I’m always up for a potentially hazardous excursion, so you’ll often find him and I doing something thrilling and mildly illegal together.  Last night’s Cait and Joe adventure was investigating what was inside this huge barn-like structure that was just outside of our bus.  We used his denim jacket to blanket the barbed-wire (thank you Levi’s for still making quality denim that will withstand even barbed-wire) and made our way into the dark structure.  Inside was slightly eerie, and we discovered mounds of what we think was salt.  I took it in, because that will probably be the only time in my life that I will have mountains of salt towering above me.  It was oddly beautiful.

Back on the bus, and we are joined by Maus, the bass player of Lacuna Coil, the band I’m working for right now.  I love Maus too.  He’s a party.  The three of us are probably the biggest “drinkers” on the bus, (in our defense, the other’s don’t drink much at all) so when you put the three of us together with no chaperons… I haven’t decided yet if this is a brilliant idea or vastly unwise.

We go on to be terrible people, and turn people watching into a sport.  Who can spot the strangest looking girl (which is everyone at a music festival) and then debate on whether or not  they would still fuck them.  I would agree or disagree, pointing out these poor girls’ attributes or flaws.  Hashtag going to hell.  A couple more birthday shots later (it was Joe’s birthday) and pants start dropping.  Next thing, threesome.  Just kidding.  That wouldn’t be rock and roll.  It’s rock and roll for the boys to climb up onto the counter while you’re in the bathroom, pull down their pants, and tuck their dick and balls so that when you walk out, you’re greeted with the horrendous sight of full ass, and gross, manipulated genitals inches from your face.  Then I’m pretty sure a lot of windmilling while literally galloping up and down the front lounge of the bus took place.  Last night I learned what windmilling is.  If you’re unfamiliar with the term, I would tell you to look it up yourself, but since the Urban Dictionary has such a hilarious definition, I will take pleasure in relaying the meaning to you.

windmilling- the act of spinning one’s penis around in the fashion of a windmill, usually with the intent of hitting someone in the face. Sometimes done while urinating.
“Mr. Bean was windmilling the school children.”

Enough said.

So I’m eating oreo’s, trying not to get assaulted while watching Maus and Joe windmill up and down the bus.  I will say, I was laughing my ass off because then a name calling game between the three of us seemed to develop, which was basically, who could come up with the grossest insult.  “Discharge licking, dirty foreskin face” I’m sure was thrown out there at one point.  We’re yelling this out while chasing each other, climbing on things in the bus… if you were to see a video of us, with no audio playing, I’m positive we would look like a bunch of cavemen during mating season.  And this is tour life.  Way less sex and glamor than people think, and much more of…. this.  Whatever you’d like to call it.

Then Trent, our bus driver, wakes up, and the poor guy is immediately greeted with penises in his face, and Maus biting his nipple.  Of course urine needs to become part of this story.  Trent is about to start driving, and Maus sticks his dick out of the window and pees all over the outside of the bus.  Let me point out, that we DO have a toilet on the bus.

And here we are.  These were the events leading to why we’re now at a truck wash, getting Maus urine cleaned off the Jefferson (the name of our bus), and Maus has now risen from the grave, and is currently puking in the bathroom.  Fuck yes.

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 7

Two fun drinking games I learned while touring, that I encourage all of you to take part in.

First, the Buffalo.  Apparently, this stems from the gun-slinging days, which makes it truly badass.  When drinking alcohol, one must drink using only one’s non-dominate hand.  The reason, is so that your dominate hand, the one that you would use to retrieve your pistol with, is always free, in case you need to suddenly draw.

Notice how her left hand is the one she will be drinking with.

Notice which hand is being used for what.

Most people are right-handed, thus, you MUST always drink using your left hand.  If you are drinking from your right, and someone calls “Buffalo,” you have to chug the rest of your drink.  However, if someone calls Buffalo, but they are incorrect (for example if the drinker is left-handed, and the “caller” is unaware of this), then that person must chug their drink AND buy the next round.  The only way you are exempt from all Buffalo rules, is if you have a tattoo of a Buffalo.  The person I learned this game from, did in fact, have a tattoo of a buffalo on his wrist.  I kind of fell in love with him when I discovered this.  So he can drink from whatever hand he wants, and never needs to chug or buy drinks.

Though this is known as a “game,” it is more of a club.  It’s a lifelong commitment, that unites loyal, honorable drinkers.  I’m sure this is why it is popular amongst the “touring” crowd.  Every person I have met who is a member, has also been on a tour at least once.  A real Buffalo member will never dispute or whine about having to chug a drink if he or she is in violation.  Also, Buffalo members will never be “that guy” or “that girl” at the bar.  It’s for serious drinkers only.


One must be invited by a member to become one.  So, if you are not part of the Buffalo Club, you are not allowed to start playing now.  However, now that I have made you aware of its existence, if you hear someone calling “Buffalo,” I suggest you make friends with that person, and if he/she thinks you are worthy, they will invite you to become a member.  The American Buffalo Club website can further explain what it means to be a member.


Second game, and my favorite, is called, “Iced.”  We did this a lot on tour.  Take a Smirnoff Ice bottle, (the most disgusting of all malt beverages) and cleverly disguise it so that the person you are trying to “Ice,” is unexpectedly encountered by the bottle.  For example, the best one that I witnessed was while I was on Warped Tour. Peace Tea sponsored Warped, so there was an absurd amount of Peace Tea beverage cans everywhere and they are delicious.

peaceOne of the guys cut the bottom out of one of these cans, and put it over a Smirnoff Ice bottle, completely covering it.  He then offered the tea to our Tour Manager, covering the open bottom with a napkin.  When our TM accepted the offer, thinking it was simply a tea, he grabbed it, removing the hollow can, revealing the disgusting Smirnoff Ice, which was now glistening in his face.  When this happens, you have been Iced, my friend.  And you must get down on one knee, and chug the Smirnoff as so:


This is what followed the Peace Tea offering.  Epic.  …And Kyle MacDougall is hot.

It seriously sucks when it happens to you, but is seriously hilarious when it happens to someone else.  I put a bottle in one of the musician’s suitcase, because I knew he was about to go through it.  He lifted up a folded shirt, and instead of finding the clean boxers he was in search of, he was presented with a Smirnoff Ice.  If you fail however, and the person you are trying to ice suspects what is happening, or if your plan is unsuccessful (for instance, if my friend had not in fact gone through his suitcase) YOU must get down on one knee and chug.  A fun touring game that you can bring to the real world.  Because remember… touring life is not the real world.


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Dear Bearded Musicians,

Please do not get married.  I ask this of you because inevitably you and I will meet, have an annoyingly profound connection, and we’ll both be sorry about that wedding band around your finger that is now suffocating the both of us.  Thanks!



Epilogue:  I am cursed with falling in love with every guy I come across with an acoustic guitar, tattoos, a beard and a raspy voice.  That may sound incredibly specific, but I would say at least one out of every four musician’s fall into that category.  Fuck my life.

Like many of my tales, this one starts at a bar.  I wasn’t there for five minutes before I made “The Iron Man Eye-Contact.”  This type of eye-contact is very different from typical flirty, eye-fucking exchanges that are made between you and a hot stranger.  Iron Man Eye-Contact only comes around a handful of times in life, and it’s like when Iron Man is in his helmet, and he targets someone and the red lights start flashing, the two of you are locked in… there’s no going back and all of this information appears about the target.

His name was Pete, and I can’t stop thinking about him.  Jesus Christ.  When I looked at him, it was just like Iron Man’s instant information stream.  I felt like I already knew so much about him and knew we would instantly vibe.  He walked past me, and did one of those unnecessary touching your back things while saying excuse me, even though there is plenty of room to pass without the physical contact.  Okay, done.  I was wet just from that, so I knew I was saying hi to him on his way back over.

Just as expected, we immediately hit it off in a way that made it feel like it was scripted dialogue.  Three minutes into the conversation I find out he’s in a band.  Of course.  Fifteen minutes in I find out he plays guitar in the band.  Of course.  Beard, of course.  Tattoos, of course.  Raspy voice… considering my curse, I would say it’s safe to assume that is another, of course.

Eighteen minutes in and he grabs me by the hand, leading me to a quieter area of the bar.  Wet.  Twenty-five minutes into the conversation, my friends that I drove with are ready to leave, so I’m about to mention that we should meet again, and I see the wedding ring glaring at me, radiating energy as if it’s the friggen ring from Lord of the Rings.  It was a stab to the stomach.  First of all, you’re a touring musician and you’re married?!  What is wrong with you?  Secondly, fuck you and me!  We’re both screwed now because I know you felt it too.  So I said bye and just left.  I’m sure I’ll never see that Pete again, but I know that I’ll forever think that we both probably missed out on something really good.

So, my bearded tattooed guitar playing friends, the moral of the story is:

Do not get married, because with my curse, there is a strong possibility that the two of us will meet and both want to rip out our eyeballs if you are.

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 2

In Part 1, I shared some observations I made during the summer of 2010 while working as a merch girl, on Van’s Warped Tour.  In this part, I am going to discuss the overall touring lifestyle.  It may provide some insight as to why musicians are out of their mind.

The biggest mind fuck is not living out of a bus or van… it’s not going in and out of time zones sometimes twice a day, it’s the utter lack of privacy.  I started that summer being one of those girls who claimed that females don’t poop.  Two weeks into the tour, pooping was a topic of conversation with me and everyone else.  Typical club tours are much different than Warped Tour and other traveling music festivals.  With club touring, the pooping situation isn’t as much of a problem, but on Warped Tour, it’s the number one problem.

I did not poop, at all, for ten days!  I know.  It was absolutely awful and definitely added to why I was so miserable ninety percent of that tour.  Even after I finally did, it still was not regular the entire summer.  Many people had this problem I came to find out, but not as seriously as I did.  Traveling in general can make one constipated, but then on top of that, your diet does a complete 180.  We had a catering service that traveled with the tour, and it was better food than you’d imagine, considering that they’re doing all of this out of a semi-truck.

The catering service really impressed me, and the guy who swiped your tour pass in the food line was sexy (unfortunately not pictured above).  They have to feed 600 people three meals, every single day!  Yes, it takes 600 people to make Warped Tour happen.  Despite the hot guy, and the pretty good food considering, you are still eating from a mobile kitchen and your body knows it.

Also, half of the venues do not have bathrooms.  We have toilets on the bus, but they are STRICTLY for pee only!  No toilet paper even.  After you wipe, you have to throw the toilet paper in the trash.  Yummy.  So, if you’re at a venue with no bathrooms, and you have to poop, you are subjected to using porta-pottys that all of the other 12,000 (literally) sweaty,puking, muddy, teenage attendees have been using all day and night.  Me and the band had an ongoing inside joke that walking into a porta-potty actually makes your butthole involuntarily contract, not allowing anything to exit or function properly.  It’s true.  I know, gross inside joke, but like I said… privacy out the window and there is nothing more hilarious than some of the conversations that spawn while touring because no one holds back.  Pooping in a porta-potty is just not an option your body leaves you with, so there was that to add to my constipation.

After the fourth day of not pooping, I finally had to go to our Tour Manager, Kyle (pictured)

because he is the one that would have to get me in touch with the touring Medic.  Yes, Warped has a Medic who tours with us… kind of makes it seem more bad-ass than it actually is.  She gave me some natural pill that didn’t work.  Every morning Kyle, and everyone else on our bus for that matter, would ask me if  “it” happened yet.  Of course, they didn’t sugar coat it though.  They would just yell across the bus, “Caitlin!  Did you shit yet?!”  When I still hadn’t after a week, Kyle made arrangements for me to see a Doctor in the following city.  Now, thanks to Dr. Clemens, I do not leave for tour without Colace,Benefiber and Miralax.

Apart from everyone knowing about your bowl movements, right down to the size and color of them (some of the guys would even take pictures of their shit and compare with one another), everyone also knows when you’re having sex and who you’re having sex with.  The “walk of shame” has a whole different meaning on a tour bus.  Those poor girls who just hooked up with one of the band dude’s in their bunk, had no choice, but to walk past ALL of us on the way out.

(Though it’s hard to tell, there are eight people just right there).  There’s no escaping to a bathroom to quickly fix your hair or eyeliner so to minimize the “I-just-spread-my-legs-for-a-stranger-look.”  We did our best to try to avoid eye contact with these girls, act like we didn’t notice, but I think that just made it worse.  The guy, would then be subjected to being made fun of for the rest of the tour if the girl was on the more unfortunate looking side.  Regrettably, I was in a relationship with one of the band member’s at the time, and if we were both MIA for twenty minutes, everyone knew why.

Overall hygiene, as you know it, is also out the window.  Again, not every venue had bathrooms and showers, so baby wipe showers become your number one source of hygiene control.  I am not kidding, I would say on average, I was able to shower once every four days.  Keep in mind, that Warped Tour is in the dead of fucking summer, so you are essentially sweating your ass off for three months straight.  I had to push two hundred pounds of merch up hills, over crazy terrain, set-up tents, sit outside for eight hours, unload and reload the trailer… the pro is I got skinny and very tan, the con is everyone is disgusting.  When there were showers available, there were usually only a few, and remember that there are 600 people, and I would say 400 of them are trying to shower on any given day.  Extremely long lines, filthy bathrooms and no hot water.

Towards the end of the tour, Kyle got some “shower bags” that are made for camping.  That was helpful, but where did the showering take place?  In between the busses of course.  As stated previously, that detached space polluted with generator exhaust, rivers of spilt beer and the eerie feeling that home has never been so close or so far away.  Also the space where everyone was constantly walking through and hanging out.  I had to shower in my bathing suit for all to see.  People try to be respectful and not stare, but it’s still just hilarious to walk up on someone loofahing in a bathing suit under a makeshift shower that is rigged up to a trailer.

These are just a couple of reasons why touring brings out the worst in everyone, and there are many more reasons I plan to share next time!

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