I’m going to type this post very quickly so we’re not late for load-in. I apologize for any errors I might have overlooked.

It’s strange to think that I’ve been on tour since March 15th and it’s now almost June. I’ve literally been from coast to coast over the past few months and have seen many extraordinary places and experienced many interesting things. Most notable is having our Tour Manager moon a car full of girls only to have them scream “THE DOWNTOWN FICTION!” at us. Awkward. Awesome? Yes. Yet what stands out the most is the hospitality I’ve been met with in my travels.

All of the homes that I’ve been invited into blur together over the past two years. I can only remember certain charming features such as the fruit basket in Georgia, the coffee already brewed for me in Philadelphia, or in Texas where several blankets and pillows were neatly placed on the floor for us to sleep on. We’ve even had families cook breakfast for us. I’ve even indulged on a cake shaped like a guitar with TDF written on it. A shower is always available for our stinky bodies and a washer and dryer for our wrinkled clothes. I’ve slept in warm homes, sweaty dorms, on large couches, and on stained floors. Yet, no matter where I’ve laid my head and bags, I’ve closed my eyes and could easily fall asleep. Was it the lack of sleep from the tour? Or was it the warmth of their hospitality? A little bit of both, I suppose. 

Right now we’re in Ft. Worth, TX and are trying to wake up David. He’s surrounded by a few blankets and several pillows. He looks comfortable.

Cameron is washing up in the bathroom.

The crew is getting dressed.

I hear someone shaving. 

The pantry is open and we’re aloud to take anything we see.

A puppy is laying with David now.

I think we’re about ready to leave.

Thanks for buying me coffee this morning.

I truly appreciate it.

Thanks for letting us into your home too.

We’ll fold the blankets for you. 

I’m sitting in a coffee shop called ‘Gypsy House’ in Tulsa, Oklahoma. They do it the old fashion way, which is not only charming, but also very delicious. They gave me the shot of espresso, the small tin cup of water, and a little spoon to stir. I picked up a conversation with the barista behind the counter about the coffee shop and she said it has been around for over a decade. “The place has had its ups and downs, depending on the year”, she goes on to say. She also told me she had Starbucks for the first time ever last Monday. She thought it was revolting. I laughed.

Tour is interesting. I get to see many places I wouldn’t ordinarily see. I’ve also been talking a lot more to the people that I meet along the way, which has made this experience much more fascinating. Whether it is the gas station clerk in Alabama, the trucker in Mississippi, or even the barista in Tulsa, everyone has a story and something to say. Everyone is truly unique in his or her own way. It’s funny to think that it would be so easy just to pass along in life, from a to b, this to that, and ignore all of the beautiful things and people around you. I could probably point my finger at myself in that respect. And it’s so sad to think I’ve held my tongue so often and avoided such a wonderful thing, that is, to speak to a complete stranger. We’re all so lucky to have the opportunity to form relationships with people who aren’t like us; someone with different ideals, motives, morals, beliefs, anything really.

I suppose it took time for me to grow up and realize this. I think I’m going through a period of self-discovery as well. My own self-fulfillment is important, sure, but I can think of 1,000 other things that are more important. So by that, I ask you to slow down. Take a breather. Realize that you’re not any more important than the bum begging for your change. So talk to him or her. Take baby steps if you must. Do it for yourself.

Well, I just finished my cup of espresso. The barista said she’d give me another shot for the show tonight. Thank you ma’am and cheers to you and your coffee shop.

I feel like it was just last year that I awkwardly walked into a Northern Virginia venue to see some local bands play. It honestly blows my mind that it has already been six years of me being a part of the live music scene, witnessing the evolution of bands, seeing everything grow, and in contrast, my jeans progressively getting tighter and tighter. I remember playing my first shows with a former band that I was in prior to TDF (which I dare not say its name!) and feeling very out of place and intimidated. We were your average amateur band; pictures on a couch or in front of a tree, parents carpooling us to shows, and of course, horrendous songs recorded on a computer microphone. I remember one of our first shows, we had to sell fifty tickets for an old venue called the Sterling Safety Center and we were opening for a bunch of hardcore and metal bands. I walked into the venue (accompanied by my pops), got my nifty wrist-band (which I was always stoked to show off at school the following week), and hearing the sounds of shrieking vocals and obnoxious guitars. I opened the doors and saw at least a hundred kids flailing their arms like psychopaths to the aggressive screams of the band in front of them. Imagine a dark room with just a few floodlights and a diverse group of kids going completely nuts to music. It was its own culture. It was incredible. Even being nearly pre-pubescent, I knew that I was getting involved in something special.

A show in particular that stands out was with a band called In Alcatraz 1962 (the band playing in the picture above) and Once Nothing. This was long after my old bands demise and a few months into TDF’s career. It was Once Nothings last show and the energy in the room was out of this world. I remember looking at the crowd, many of whom are friends I’ve have made over the years, others having familiar faces, and others who were complete strangers. I knew though, that we were a community, bound together by love and passion for the bands and each other. After delivering the most passionate performance I’ve ever witnessed, the members of Once Nothing, all of whom were crying, thanked us for our dedication and loyalty to them over the years. This left all of us getting choked up.  All of us were paying tribute and showing our respect to a band that has given us their blood, sweat, and tears over the past ten years. It was a moment I’ll never forget. And I’m forever thankful for it.

Speaking of giving thanks, there is nothing I’m more thankful for than the memories and opportunities that the local music scene has given to me. Memories from my first encounter with those dancing monkeys, to Once Nothings emotional last show, to being crammed in a shed with forty other people. They humble me and remind me of my roots. They remind me of why I play music. They remind me of why I still go to shows, even those that are held in a shed of someone’s muddy backyard. Among all of the body odor and sweat, in that tiny little shed, I witnessed more passion than one could ever experience in a lifetime. Look long and hard at the picture above. I have. And I’m forever thankful for moments like that.

One word: Passion.

And so begins my first post that I’ll surely regret at some point down the road…

I’m feeling many things at this point in my life. I’m feeling stressed, overworked, exhausted, and terrified. I haven’t been sleeping much lately either. I’m so sick of my room and even more sick of where I am. I’m sick of to-do lists, routine, and focusing on this or that. I’m sick of feeling anxious. I hate feeling tired all of the time. Am I depressed? Probably not. But I’m feeling many emotions that i’d rather not be feeling during the ‘happiest time of my life’.

Want some background information before I continue? Thought so.

For those of you who didn’t know, I’m a full time college student who is fully enrolled in online classes (due to my band commitments). I’ve been a full time student while being in TDF since mid-september and it has been a daily battle since. Even in the back of a van, driving up the coast of Japan towards Tokyo, I was hunched over my books and peeking up at the beautiful countryside every other minute. It’s all a balancing act. It’s all about using my time to the best of my ability and really planning ahead. Being a full time student isn’t an easy task. It’s an incredibly demanding commitment that calls for a significant amount of my days attention. Now, you might be asking yourself, “why go to school when you’re in a signed band?” Here is my answer/more background information regarding the situation: I have Crohns Disease. When I wasn’t a full time student and obviously didn’t have a job that offered me health insurance, I was simply out of luck. Not to mention, health insurance companies wouldn’t accept me or would charge me hundreds of dollars for coverage, considering I had a pre-existing condition. Lucky me. 

This is why I’m a full time student and dealing with such an extreme undertaking. It’s for my family. This is one of the best ways I can show my love and support for them. Not to mention, I’m getting an education in the process. Both me and my family are winners… even if it’s consuming much of my time. I ended last semester with a 4.0 (all A’s) which does certainly make me proud of myself.

Away from school, the band is gearing up to earn some real touring credibility in the coming months. This has me feeling many different things. I’m excited to see the country, meet some great people (you?), and experience many amazing things. But this also has me terrified. As beautiful as the open-highway is, there is still a loneliness I tend to feel on the road sometimes. Instead of feeding you bullshit, I’ll sock it to you: The hardest part is knowing you’re being missed by someone you love and who loves you back. I believe that loved ones must always come before ambitions. 

I honestly have no idea what to say. I’ve just been feeling in the dumps lately. Working on school and band tasks all day, falling asleep anxious as hell, and waking up to the same damn emotions in the same damn place every single day. Maybe I just need to escape? Maybe I should look at the glass half-full and believe that the grass is green somewhere? Who knows. I really don’t know. 

I’ll conclude with a quote by my favorite songwriter, Tim Kasher: “I’ve spent the best years of my life, waiting on the best years of my life, so what’s there to write about?”

Cheers to regretting this post sometime in the future, if not tomorrow morning. 

Valentines day was yesterday. My mom gave me a box of chocolate shaped like a heart and a pair of socks. Consider it a tradition minus the socks. Later on, I went to the grocery store and saw a couple younger than me; the boy was wearing a pink shirt and the girl was wearing a skirt with pink flowers all over it. I bet they went out to a nice dinner that night and all he had on his mind was a slice of poontang pie. Fact is, Valentines day is a shitty day. Those who have a significant other match in pink like weirdos, while those who don’t have a significant other buy a six pack and call it a night.

I don’t want to sound cliche and say, “Valentines day is just a way to sell cards and candy!” but it’s pretty much the truth. Valentines day was only special when I was in elementary school and kids would give each other little cards with candies attached to them. I liked the candy so I liked Valentines day. Maybe I’m not a fan because I don’t receive these little cards and candy hearts anymore. Maybe I should go to an elementary school on V-day with a bag of candy and “I Love You” cards and hand them out to the kids, with hopes of getting some in return…. good idea? (joke). 

How I spent Valentines day: Me and my significant other (@brntgrn) purchased a dozen colossal donuts from Shoppers (glazed, chocolate, white chocolate, blueberry, lemon, and we even snuck an apple-fritter into the box too). We then took our box of donuts and drove to a friends house to hang and meet some of his friends. Coffee was brewing, mouths were chomping on the donuts, and we sat around the table just hanging out. Two girls were there too (not including my own) and they were wearing pink skirts with high-heels. They didn’t want our donuts because they were full from V-day dinner. They didn’t want any coffee either. Those bitches. 

In conclusion, Valentines day is a stupid day. I think February 14th would be much better off as a day were you buy a dozen donuts for your friends, drink some coffee, and talk about whatever around a kitchen table. Maybe next year we can exchange little cartoon cards and candy though. I miss those days. The days when Valentines day was glorious and filled my belly with true Valentine love in the shape of hearts with “Be mine” written in the center.

First person to give me those little heart shaped candies with a cartoon card will get a dozen donuts from me this time next year.

I’ve had a lot to blog about lately but just haven’t had the time to follow up. Hopefully I can make this happen soon. Better yet, this WILL happen soon. Pinky promise.

For now, I have plans to make a pizza and eat it. Priorities must be in order here.

Be back in a flash.

Look at me. It’s 4PM on a Tuesday and I’m sitting inside, unshaven, wearing a black hoodie, and watching Pay It Forward. I’m writing this blog because I haven’t written a blog in a few days which makes this new blog of mine quite dull. Is it a lack of inspiration? Am I getting cold feet? Maybe I’m not cut out for being an avid blogger. Maybe I have nothing too interesting to say.

I started this blog with the idea of taking pictures of the sandwiches I eat. A blog dedicated to sandwiches for Christ’s sake! The first two blogs were similar to this mold. One is of a breakfast I had (gotta love the running yolk) and the next is of a mexican feast and how a greasy tortilla chip under my burrito made the meal worth it. Who the hell am I? Do I not have anything better to write about? Maybe not. Maybe I could pour my heart and soul into this blog and look back on it in 40 years (when computers are installed into my eyes!) and think to myself “What the hell were you talking about?” Yes, sixty year old Eric and his forty year old blog. Yes, sixty year old Eric with computer screens in his eyes.

Either way, I’m not sure what’s going to come from this blog. I’d put my money on it that you (whoever you are) will get posts about me being in a band and all of its happenings (tour stories, this, that, and the other thing). I’m also sure you’ll read my thoughts about this or that as well (again, not that it matters), and maybe even more pictures of food. I really don’t have a direction with this blog. If I’m inspired every hour of the day to write a blog then you’ll get a blog every hour of the day. If not, you’ll have to keep checking back and be disappointed.

It’s now 4:20PM and I turned off Pay It Forward. I’m considering shaving my beard too. I hope you’re enjoying this blog as much as I am.

Borders Bookstore is most definitely my bookstore of choice. Not only is the environment relaxing but it is also home to my favorite coffee shop (Seattle’s Best). I spend a great deal of my time here studying, drinking coffee, reading, surfing the web (now that they have wifi), and simply hanging with the friends and acquaintances that I’ve made over the years. Yes, all of this is fine and dandy, but the main attraction to Borders is all of the freaks that congregate here. Myself included.

The truth is, at one point in time I was a Barista for Seattle’s Best Coffee. It was during those six months of employment that I met all of the freaks I know and love today. There was an old man, probably in his 70’s, who would arrive to the store at 9AM and leave at 11PM. He’d order a black coffee with a pump of chocolate. He had a sweet tooth. I say “had” because he just recently died. Not of old age like one would expect, but by getting hit by a truck. Strange.

Another man who most definitely was insane, always wore white short shorts and would yell about how Hillary Clinton was the devil. He would never order anything, but would bring a peanut butter sandwich in with him. The crazy man would always talk with his mouth open too. The smell of peanut butter would make me nauseous. I blamed him, obviously. He’d also pee with his pants and underwear down at his ankles. I know this because I once walked into the restroom and saw his pale hairless butt as he was humming a tune.

Another lady always talked about Daytona, FL and how she had plans of going there that week. Like the man above, she never ordered anything. But she always had a pink travel bag with her that had the word ‘Daytona!!’ in large yellow letters across it. I know she never made it to Daytona. I know this because she was a crazy homeless lady that kept all of her belongings in that pink travel bag of hers.

Jake, an employee for Borders, helps customers with locating/purchasing their books. Not much can be said about Jake besides the fact that he speaks like Ned Flanders but is most likely addicted to sex. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day and has had three or four different wives. To top it off, his shoes always squeak when he walks. Perfect.

Alice, another employee for Borders, helps customers with locating/purchasing their books like Jake. I always assumed Alice was in her mid-40’s, had a family, was overly caffeinated and overly stressed, but that is not the case at all. She’s only twenty-something. I couldn’t really describe anything more about her without sounding like a complete prick. Just take my word for it. It’s almost unbelievable. 

The current workers at Seattle’s Best Coffee are also a bunch of freaks. I love them all though. A few of them play experimental music, do an array of drugs, and listen back to what they’ve recorded while watching sharks swim on a computer screen (while on acid). 

And then there’s me. Usually accompanied to Borders with my partner in crime, Bronte. We walk through the door and are greeted by our friends who work in the cafe (usually the ones that watch sharks swim). They charge us 53 cents for a medium cup of coffee (feeding the addiction!) and we casually talk for quite a while. We then go in circles around the store and look for the right place to sit. Circles, circles, circles, and more circles. Once we find our place, we create our little set up and do our thing for more than a couple of hours. Although we mostly keep to ourselves, we can’t help but notice our surroundings and all of the freaks around us. Those listed above (minus the old man now) and the many I didn’t mention. Also, the one-time freaks who visit just once, but make their presence known. I wonder what the employees of Borders I don’t talk to think of me? I wonder what my fellow freaks think of me? 

I suppose if you’re in a certain place long enough to see the many different people, you can’t help but notice what makes them… different. I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we’re all freaks in our own way. It’s just that some freaks shine brighter than others.

Death. Heart Attack. Vomit. Cheese. Mush. Brains. Poop.

By eating the picture above, I’ve probably cut a few weeks off of my life. Worth it? Maybe. Meals like the one above, at one point in time, were of an every day occurrence for me. I’d sneak out of my high school’s cafeteria and venture over to chipotle or 5 guys for lunch with a few friends of mine. After school, I’d most likely make plans to get pizza with some more friends. A cannoli for dessert too. I once ordered the following from 5 Guys: Two little bacon cheese burgers, fries, and a diet coke. At the end of the meal, both me and an old friend of mine were shaking, sweating, and on the verge of puking. I’d consume meals like the one above, every single day, at least twice a day. This all changed one night when I ate an entire medium (eight large slices) pizza all by myself and then a double scoop of ice cream. I couldn’t believe how immune I had become to eating such terrible shit in such large quantities and so frequently. Now everything has changed. For the past couple of years I’ve kept a close eye on what I consume, not daring to go back to my old ways. Yeah, life is too short to avoid certain delicious food (a medium pizza for example) but it is also too short to shorten it even more. 

Just under that large tortilla, stuffed with everything you could imagine, drenched in red chili sauce, there was a tortilla chip. It had melted cheese, bean, and sauce all over it. It was mushy. Looking at it, I knew that it would knock at least 10 minutes off of my life. Sometimes you must indulge a little. And to be perfectly honest… the soggy tortilla chip, laced in heart attack goodness, was most definitely worth it.

Three sunny-side up eggs. Two slices of whole wheat toast. Two slices of pumpernickel toast. Red Raspberry jam. Olive oil. Mocha Java Coffee (Caribou baby!) and two empty stomachs. This is thee aftermath…