Osiris Aftermath Tour
[ photos by bryce kanights ]
 Jumping on the East Coast teg of the Osiris Aftermath Tour was meant to be as much a training course in how to be a rock star as it was a way to scam a free trip back to Jersey. I never wanted anyone to go to jail, I just wanted to go home. When Pat Simpson and new team manager Chris Pastes asked me to look at the map of all the spots in the entire United States the tour would hit and choose which I wanted to attend, I quickly e-mailed my reply, "That's okay. Do you go to New Jersey? If so, I want to be on that leg."
They didn't go to New Jersey. Not intentionally at least. "We go from Columbus, Ohio, to Buffalo, New York, then Vermont and so on," one of them told me.
"Well, you have to drive through Jersey to get from Ohio
to New York. So you can pick me up at my mom's house along
the way," I explained. They didn't like the idea of stopping. I told
them I'd meet them at a rest stop on the Turnpike if that was
easier. "Just fly me into Jersey, or I'm not going," I told them.
Next thing I know, I'm walking off a plane in Buffalo, New York. Don't ask me. I just figured I owed Pat one, since I ditched out on him in Brazil and got sick and sat in my hotel room the entire time and "worked on my tan," as he put it. So I agreed to New York as long I could be dropped off in Jersey when the tour headed toward Virginia. My six-month couch tour was beginning to grow old, and I was getting hungry, wanted to see my family and get laid. Not all at the same time, but soon, or else I was going to snap and stab someone in the eye with my pen. They agreed.
In return for me leaving Simpson in Brazil, he left me on this tour. I had called him days before flying and told him I'd purchased the handcuffs and he should shower because I'd be showing up soon and chaining myself to him as I had promised after our last trip. He thought it would be interesting, but regrettably informed me that he was flying back to California for his first week's rest in the two months since the tour started. He said he was homesick and needed to chill. I think he was scared shitless to be stuck with me locked to his arm with no escape possible that didn't include a hack saw and a good amount of blood loss.
Instead I got Jerry Hsu, who I think would have worked out in my favor because if you're going to be stuck with someone, it might as well be Jerry. He's nice. He doesn't stink. And he's little, so if I had to knock him out and drag him behind me through the woods of upstate New York, I could do that with relative ease. Pat Simpson on the other hand is huge, and although he looks like a teddy bear with a kind, Magic Johnson smile, I'm certain I would be the one being dragged about.
 When I walked into the Pizza Hut, where everyone was eating, I had two questions on my mind. First, did Jerry want to wait until the next day to start our bond and get one more night of decent rest, or was he ready to begin? Second, who were the Fox TV filmers? I wanted to explain to them how much I wanted to be on their TV show. The first question was answered easily: The next day Jerry would go to the demo, skate and then head to the airport and fly to Russia. There was no time to cuff up. Total bullshit. Russia. Yeah, right. How many times have I heard that one? I shit-canned the whole handcuff idea.
"So, Where's the dudes from Fox?" I asked.
I scanned the table looking for unfamiliar faces. Adam Louder. Dylan Reiter. Bryce Kanights. I knew him. Louie Barletta and Jerry Hsu. Chris Pastras. Hi, Chris. Chris Dobstaff. Rodney Torres. What are you doing here, Rodney? Oh, yeah. Duh. Never mind. Some other skaters I didn't really know and then him. Will was his name. I knew he was one of them before he even told me. As I slowly walked my eyes over the table, trying to pick out the intruder, I saw him try and avoid eye contact with me. Then he took a deep gulp, and fidgety nervousness set in.
Here's the deal: I don't know who Osiris sucked off, but they must have really used a lot of spit because somehow they got Fox TV to air 13 23-minute episodes of a skate show completely dedicated to the Osiris Aftermath tour, to be aired during an afternoon time slot previously reserved for that extreme meatloaf Bluetorch. A brilliant move.
Will was hired to film for the show. He looked like that annoying fuck from the Dell computer commercials where that one kid asks different parents to buy their son or daughter a computer by explaining the benefits of their sub-par craftsmanship. I hate those commercials, and I especially despise the kid in them. And so I hated Will even before he spoke.
"Don't fucking film me. If I catch you filming me, I'll smash your camera. If you film me and put me on your stupid show without my permission, I'll sue you and Fox." TV is lame, Simpsons and M.A.S.H. withstanding, and I want no part of modern afternoon programming.
"Well, no one has given expressed permission," he tried to offer, stuttering and reaching for the right words to safely respond to my warm introduction. "We were given permission to film anyone on the Osiris tour."
"No. Not me," I clarified. "You Have permission to shoot any of the riders. I don't ride for Osiris, therefore whatever agreement you have does not cover me. Got it? So don't fucking film me. Now pass me a slice of meatball and sausage."
 That's how it began, and I'm glad that it did. The next day at the demo I saw just how many of these and hanger-ons (four vanfuls in all) were tailing the big rock-'n'-roll tour bus, and I was quite glad to that Will had explained my position on being filmed. Most just avoided speaking to me or even making eye contact for the entire week i was there.
I had bigger things to focus on. I was in training to be a rock star. I had six days to prepare myself, a week off in New Jersey and then right to the Tony Hawk tour, and I had to be ready. I was blue collar, used to touring in cars and small vans, paying for my own meals, smelling of someone else's ass and being forced to read and reread magazines and books over and over to pass the time on long stretches of road. Suddenly I'm on a tour bus complete with 12 bunk beds, two large-screen TVs, Playstation 2, stocked refrigerator, cable TV, SVD and VHS players and anything else one would need to take on the American highways and feel like king of the world. It was like culture shock. I didn't know which movie or video game to play first I wanted to sleep in all the bunks at the same time, I wanted to take advantage of the occasional free meals by ordering everything on the menu. "Gargoyle, bring me two lobsters and a 72-ounce prime rib, blood red. And one of each of your bottles of wine so I can try them all until I figure out which one I like, at which time I'm going to need ten bottles of that, and snap to it. I'm hungry."
Out of control and uncool. I needed to learn how to accept the high-roller status and realize that this was just how it was, and I need not order steaks to go because tomorrow there will be more free food, and, no, I won't be magically teleported onto I-95 somewhere in the Florida swamp in a rundown CRX looking under my seat for gas money. I had to come to terms with the fact that for the month of July, the Aftermath tour and Tony's Tour, I was going to be higher than an eagle on a cloud lined with someone else's dime. I just needed to
adjust to the situation.
But how hard is it to be a rock star anyway? I'm already an asshole, and I love to loaf around and do nothing while bossing others around. And I'm a sexy-ass man. I can't think of one light or angle in which I photograph badly. I'm just naturally handsome, double chins, beer gut and all. Wait. Let me took at myself in the mirror again. Kiss me, you sexy thing.
I was going to be just fine. By the time Tony's bus rolled through to get me in Denver, I'd be so big-time I'd have to buy new pants. It helped that I partnered up with Louie Barletta. He's on some beyond-rock-star shit. When that dude enters a room, it's all eyes on him until he leaves. I watched him closely and took notes.
The demo in Buffalo was notable only in that the skatepark was probably the most disgustingly hot park I've ever been to. Eggs and milk would spoil in minutes in that place. My only joy was when I made the occasional toast to the banner hanging in the corner of the park promoting a local air-conditioning company in the area. I think it read something to the effect of, "Don't sweat the small stuff, stay cool with Bob's air-conditioning. Best air service and repair in Buffalo." Whenever I felt as if I was going to pass out from the heat, I'd took up at the sign for a laugh, clutch my arms and pretend like I was freezing. Brrr. Thanks, Bob.
 Other things happened on the tour, things you probably want to know about, things that could very well change the way you look at life, but I don't remember any of those things. From what Bryce told me, at one of the fancier restaurants we ate at in New Hampshire or Rhode Island, I got really wasted and was yelling at the waitress to bring a new bottle of wine every four or five minutes. He also told me that I saw Will the filmer drinking my wine, at which time I rammed my hand into the bottom of his glass, smashing it into his mouth, breaking the glass against his teeth, slicing his lip and chipping his teeth. The sight of blood must have made me feel bad because I supposedly poured him another glass and apologized. Moments later Bad Chris was back.
I screamed in Will's face, "Have you ever seen the movie Excalibur? Well, have you?"
"No, what's that?"
"What's that? Fucking greatest movie ever. Merlin, dude. Fucking Merlin."
"No," he told me, "haven't seen it."
This angered me so that I smacked his glass out of his hand, breaking it into a thousand pieces and told him to go away. Louie said later that night, I tried to flush my head down the toilet while puking, and he was so scared, he slept in someone else's room. I woke up the next morning gasping for air with my pants around my ankles and the phone cord wrapped several times around my neck, choking the life out of me. My head hurt so bad, I had no choice but to start drinking first thing in the morning. The morning of the only real days that mattered.
Skater's Island in Middletown, Rhode Island, once was the best indoor park going on the East Coast, it was so good that Donny Barley moved in to the park to be closer to it. Much of the personality of the park was due to Sid "the Package" Abruzzi, a skater and surfer from the '70s who still emits the good-time, good-vibe '70s party attitude. People from all over the country came to the Island to skate the amazing setup, but mostly to hang out with Sid and drink beers. Sid is gone now, So Louie and I decided to get drunk in the bus and not bother.
I'm still not sure where the can of spray paint came from, but next thing you know, Louie was spray painting "Tiltmode Army" on the Jersey barriers lining the entrance to the park, while another guy hit them up with some poorly written pro-Sid graffiti to the tune of "Sid 4 President," "Sid is Hater's Island" and "Bring back Sid." We all giggled at what had been done and forgot about it.
The owner, however, didn't much care for the artwork, and the next morning, as the bus worked its way toward the highway and down to Connecticut, we were surrounded by police cars. They wanted Louie. Or at least the "Tiltmode kid." When the cops called the park chick and told them they had one of the pro skaters that gave her a free demo the day before in custody and that he apologized and was willing to repaint the barriers, she responded by telling them to book Louie and that she was pressing charges. So the rest of the guys went on to Connecticut while Pastras, Filmer Will and I stayed behind to get Louie out of jail.
Luckily the judge was really cool, and one of the officer's kids was all into the Tiltmode Army, and the fines were relatively cheap, since Louie admitted to only defacing the three barriers he wrote on and not the nine others. It all went on the Osiris credit card as a tax write-off. And we got a little history lesson from the judge who finally answered the age-old question: Why do they call them Jersey barriers? The reason is, the dude that came up with the first one lived in Middletown, Rhode Island, but was from New Jersey and chose to honor his lovely home state with his design's moniker.
"I wrote graffiti for so many years, and I get arrested for something I didn't even do, can you believe that?" were Louie's only sentiments.
 While Louie was being processed and tried, I made some calls and tracked down Sid. He was so excited that we defaced property in his name that he raced down to the courthouse to meet us. He was going haywire, talking a mile a minute, in circles, on all topics. He's really amazing when he gets going, and I'm sure he's the perfect road-trip companion. Maybe not perfect, but fun nevertheless.
"Dude, you guys are going down in history. You guys are a part of my family for life for defending the name of the Package," he said as he hugged each of us and shook our hands. "C'mon, get in my van. We're throwing a huge party in your honor back at the Pit. Let's go, everybody's there."
The Pit is the basement of Sid's mom's house, complete with full bar and a museum of surf and skate memorabilia. "This is where we're going to play, August 24, when I get the band back together." He was all over the place, so we just nodded like we knew what the hell he was talking about and walked back outside to where the "huge party" was going off. The party consisted of Sid, three of his buddies, a warm 12 pack, a grill, four veggie burgers and us. Best party ever.
"Listen, listen, listen," Sid said, "are you listening? I'm getting the band back together. You got to come back up. The Pit's going to be going off. We haven't played together since '81. You gotta come." His eyes lit up like a pauper's in an abandoned bank with every mention of the reunion show. He was infectious. Right then and there we decided we'd do what we could to get back for the show.
It's mid-August right now, I haven't been back to Jersey since the Osiris guys dropped me off there for a week, and I'm getting ready to fly back in a few days for our anti-XGames party in Philly and to meet up with Louie, Jerry Hsu, Chris Pastras and a photographer so we can hit the road and watch Sid's band play again. I didn't make a very good rock star on either big tours, so I think I need this trip to Rhode Island to watch a natural.
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