sheraton.

So the boss has pulled a TOTAL Boss on me, the worst one yet. Was meant to get picked up today from my hostel in South Bay, LA, to head out to the first date at Pomona. I get a call at like 10am asking if I can look into getting a greyhound there and meeting them there as they were late and had some more car trouble. (with the shag wagon they used to replace the actual bus) I'm just like 'fine, whatever' - I just wanted to get onto the site. So I catch a $60 cab to the station (I fucking HATE Los Angeles, the cabs are just one reason) and then a $13 bus to Claremont. Then another cab about 4 miles along to the Warped site. I get dropped off with my bags, and head to production to ask what the fuck to do with myself.

I explained the situation 'hey, my boss is somewhere between here and Vegas. he said to meet him here and he's not arrived. WTF do i do?' and they let me leave my bags there until they close up - (5pm due to a graduation going on nearby) and issue me with a temporary laminate, it's a VIP Guest pass which will let me anywhere I need to go, not a working pass. Now that the production office is closed, he will need to take us all in tomorrow morning to get the actual working passes. The girls were super helpful and I met some people who's names have sort of been Big to me for a while - Keri Lee, Lisa Brownlee, and I was in the presence of the Lyman, though didn't talk to him.

Wandered around a bit. Saw a handful of people that I know, avoided one, said hi to a few, very stoked to see Carden and Alex. Casper is here too which is rad, I thought he wouldn't be here til JM get here but he must be looking after Treaty of Paris - I want to go find Mike from Treaty tonight, he's a dear. I sat in on the pre-tour production meeting, which was cool and informative. The funny thing about this situation is that I've never been in it before, but it doesn't feel like that at all. It doesn't even feel exciting, it feels normal, and I view that as a really good thing.

At 5pm production was closing so I had to find something to do with myself and my bags, I pretty much thought the only option available was sitting out on my luggage in the parking lot until the bus arrives - which I seriously bet won't be til LATE - but Keri gave me a keycard for one of the spare shower rooms at the Sheraton Hotel that's on the same complex. They had a bunch of extra rooms for people to use and so I got in the shuttle with all the production girls (including Sierra Lyman, who is probably 14 at most but could tour manage a major band from the way she talks, she works for her dad every summer) and now I am sitting in this fucking big SUITE - like it's a mini-apartment - in the Sheraton. I have it all to myself. It's lonely. I wish the crew was here.

There's shuttles starting at 8pm to the kick-off party back in Claremont. I really want to go but I seriously have no idea where my bus, crew and boss are, or when they're gonna get here, or if they want me to join them immediately when they get here. But really. Pre-tour party.

So confused, and mildly fearing they won't get here by the time we roll out tomorrow night, but I feel great. Sunburnt already, but as I've said.. this just feels normal and I'm so stoked about that fact.

introducing the shag-wagon

so last night, i'm lying in my hostel in LA and checking myspace and there's a bulletin from one of the boys on my crew - he's out with our boss at the moment, has been with him since the start of the month getting merch organized and picking up the bus from texas. apparently it used to belong to leanne rimes. whatev. anyway, this bulletin:

our engine just blew up. what the mother fucking gods holy jesus im sorry but we are royally fucked

.....


.................


yeah. i know. I KNOW.

so i message him being like WTF WTF WHERE ARE YOU, ARE YOU OKAY and he's all 'we're fine, please don't tell Boss [for the moment i may leave out names] I posted this, we're getting it worked out we're fine' and i'm like, dude i'm not going to tell him what you posted on your private myspace,, and he writes back "but trust me he just got really mad at me for posting that dont talk to him ABOUT IT im sorry to alarm you nothing is wrong please dont"

so as odd as this is, i try to calm him down and promise i'll pretend that i never heard about the bus trouble and not bring it up at all. he just blogged saying that we will be using a 'limo bus' for the first week until ours is repaired... and upon googling, this is what i can find:


outside:



inside:





.... knowing my boss, we'll end up doing the whole tour in this shag-wagon. My girl and I (for now I shall call the above mentioned dude The Boy and my lovely foreign girl on the crew with me The Girl... maybe I'll introduce them later, depends if they're bothered and if anyone's actually reading this...' anyway the Girl and I have already coined the term 'pulling a Boss'... she just called me saying 'Boss has pulled a Boss on me'.

all I can do is laugh right now. oh well. that shag-wagon will get us on the road at least.

prologue.

three months ago....

"Hello? Hello? HEY!!" I yell as I hear voices and footsteps pass me by. I slam on the door with my open hand, but.. nothing. I sit down on the pale, dusty concrete steps 60 floors above the city and pull out my phone.

"Good Morning, welcome to the office of the American Consulate."

"Um, hi. This is going to sound really weird, but I'm meant to have a visa interview at 9am and I'm stuck in your fire escape.."

You see, this never would have happened if American tourist visas were valid for four, not three months. Or if The Bamboozle festival fell on the first weekend of June, in SUMMER, rather than May, like a good parking lot festival should be. Or you could take it another step further and say it never would have happened if I hadn't discovered Pete Wentz's blogs through an old online friend from Chicago, and fallen so deeply in love with this scene that I do anything to immerse myself in it at all times. Another step, and if Kevin Lyman had a change of heart and had become an accountant or a chef, and never started his festivals, I wouldn't have this deep-seated need to fulfill the rocker-kid's version of running away to join the circus: working the summer on the Vans Warped Tour.

You could blame me being stuck in the fire escape on many, many things: the song Holiday from Real by Jack's Mannequin, the film Almost Famous, the song 7 Weeks by Gym Class Heroes, Tim Towner from The Daily Chorus for writing such an inspiring blog about noobs who want to work Warped. Blame my friends Dave, Joe, Ali, and Alex, who all work in touring in the USA, for pelting me with advice and being so really, really ridiculously encouraging about me even making this mad attempt. (For those just tuning in, I'm not from the States, and I flew over in April without anything close to a 100% guarantee of a job.) You could blame the ANZ bank for granting me a loan, for some unfathomable reason. ('Who would give me a gun?' - That 70's Show, anyone?) But when it really comes down to it, the only reason I am stuck in the fire escape is because I am stupid and thought I knew better than the general universe. This is what happened.

I ran up the outer stairs and into the skyscraper lobby. It was the type to have separate elevators to different sections of the building, and I quickly jumped in the one marked 47 - 68, checking the time as I go. 8:40. My appointment at the American Consulate to apply for a year-long visa (regular tourist visa is 90 days) but I'd been told to arrive half an hour early for "screening". I pressed the button for floor 59 and it refused to light up. I tried it again, with the same result, but at this point the lift had taken off and was climbing fast. I got off at the next selectable floor - 61 - and came out in a lobby servicing a few different offices. I found a secretary and asked why the lift wouldn't stop at floor 59. She had no idea, but directed me back down to the ground floor to ask the main building reception. I ask if there are any fire stairs I can use as I just need to go one floor, and she once again directs me back down 60 floors to the lobby. Dude, my interview is in 14 minutes, at this point. I have to be screened. Warped Tour. I looked around for someone to give me advice that I would like a bit more, when I spotted a lovely green exit arrow sign. I follow it and find an emergency exit. Despite it proclaiming a $1000 fine for obstruction, I push it open and trot down the two flights to find the door for floor 59. Firmly locked from the outside. I start to panic a little - 'the fire stairs in Chatswood Westfield car park are never locked!' I try the doors on the floors above and below, with the same result. This is when I start freaking out pretty badly. Have you ever been physically trapped? It created a panic in me that definitely was not conscious. It was mindless terror and I was sweating into my navy blue polyester work blouse.

I pull out my phone and step up and down until I find a bar of signal - i am trapped in a fire escape 60 floors up. think i am going to die. I text to my roommate and a couple of friends. I try pounding and pounding on the door with no result, and that's when I call the office. They respond like they think I'm either a terrorist or the biggest moron alive. Apparently, I was meant to report to floor 10 for SECURITY screening, then get sent up to floor 59 in a special elevator. Duh. American government offices. They send some security guards to come get me - at this point I'm physically shaking and very white - and those dudes just pretty much laugh at me. By then, I had missed my appointment and also could barely stand upright, so I just left the building, after some lady told me I had white all over my ass - from the concrete dust in the fire escape.

The funny thing is, when I came back a few days later, the security guard remembered me, yet they still GAVE ME THE VISA. Clearly they figured that I wasn't trying to sneak in with a bomb, and that I was dumb enough not to do any damage to their country.

Well... we'll see about that. Heh.

fucking fucking how do i make this work. tbh.