Ah, the glorious life of a "rockstar."
When I left for the first time to tour the country with my band, you would've thought they'd understand that I would be coming home with cases of Maker's Mark whisky, trunks full of a kajillion dollar bills and Valerie Bertinelli.
They didn't, and it didn't surprise me. What did surprise me upon returning was everyone's shock that I still had to work a regular job and go to school.
That was two and a half years ago.
Tomorrow night marks the 148th show I will be singing for the band I started with four of my better friends during my freshman year here at UB. It also marks the 148th time I will walk off stage as happy as I've ever been and come - or call - home to hear my mother and father ask me why I'm still doing it.
There are times when I have no answer. I've dedicated my life, at the sacrifice of grades, an extra semester of school, jobs, friendships, a lot of money and relationships to leave home for as long as money allows and "live the rock and roll lifestyle."
What exactly is life on the road for a barely signed rock band?
You go to sleep after a show - definitely alone - either missing your companion or trying to remember what a companion is. No one wants to make out in a sleeping bag in between two others in sleeping bags, all of whom haven't showered in anywhere from a day to two weeks.
You wake up at the time the kids who let you sleep on their floor mandate, and get in your conversion van, hoping that they may offer an oatmeal square or a hot shower, but ultimately grateful you didn't sleep in said van. You also average one lost item per household stayed at. Hello, tooth decay.
Then, you pray that someone in the band remembers what day it is, where you are and where you have to be that night. If you are lucky enough to be on tour with another band, that increases the chances of someone having directions by two. Good work.
You hopefully aren't vegetarian, because breakfast is going to consist of whatever they are selling at the fast-food restaurant du jour, which, let's face facts, is a gas station. You're a college kid, so be tight with money, because whatever you saved up over the last few months is going to have to last for the next six weeks. Mmm, Fritos.
We're talking summer here, so the next five hours of $368 a gallon gasoline - thanks Mr. Cheney - are with four people whose hygiene habits we went over earlier. The air conditioning doesn't work, so fight for the Playstation 2, hope someone plays a CD you like, drive, read or stare at your trailer and hope it doesn't disconnect and kill someone.
Arrive at the show ten years before it starts and bask in the 110-degree Texas heat. Hope the show actually happens because you've got $14 left and New Orleans is more than three blocks away. Every show is either amazing or terrible, there is no in between, so keep that hope up.
The sound guy is late, but it doesn't really matter. Thirty minutes or three hours preparation isn't going to change how he feels about five guys he's barely heard of from Buffalo, N.Y. Plug in and play.
Play.
It all comes together. Only one or two kids in the show sing along, but its one or two kids more than you thought would. You make enough money to get to the next show and young Texans turn out to be a lot cooler than their leaders. You meet some kids who turn out to be kids you wish you could hang out with everyday.
You call your family and they are doing fine, excited to hear about everything, including states like Mississippi and Idaho. You call your boss and it hits you: you haven't had to be at work in five weeks. In fact, you are doing what you love.
The next day you get in the van and someone throws in a Piebald CD.
"We've got the best job ever/ Yeah we really got lucky/ We're nobody's robot/ we're nobody's monkey."
