When we were young, we dreamed of seeing the world, leaving home and experiencing things that our hometowns could never offer. When we dream of these things we picture adventure, intrigue and quite possibly, romance. These images of joy obscure the truth: the hours of driving, the constant quarrelling and the uncomfortable sleeping quarters. These truths were made evident in the summer of 2002 when I set upon a magical musical tour with Anaheim, Calif, locals The Lipstick Pickups and The Bikini Bumps across the western United States.

Twelve of us waited on Geoff's lawn for the vans to arrive. Our usual conversations were cut to a minimum as we eagerly awaited the beginning of our first tour. My backpack was strung over my shoulder as I watched for our rides to arrive. Inside my bag were two pairs of pants, three shirts, four pairs of socks and four pairs of underwear, as well as a biography on the life of comedian Groucho Marx and a number of CDs. This would last me for the next 10 days.

Our two vans turned the comer and stopped in front of us. Without hesitation, Kevin, Lee, Vanessa, Erin, Tracy and Dan stuffed themselves into the first van. Mike, Justin, Brian, Geoff, Allison and I situated ourselves into our already cramped van. This would be our home for the next week and a half. Allison, Lee, Dan and I were just tagging along, seeing the world and living life. Waving goodbye to girlfriends and boyfriends, we turned the key in the ignition and sped off to our first destination, Filthy's Music in Lake Elsinore.

Excitement was the word of the day. The record store show was just a brief stop before we headed for our final destination of the night -- Las Vegas, where we would be staying with our friends, the Civic Minded Five. That night drinking prevailed over sleeping and we were informed that the house was supposedly haunted, which scared some and enthralled others. The show that night was to take place at the house of a friend of a friend, who was throwing a Fourth of July party. When we arrived at the house our noses pulled us toward the barbecue and our bodies pulled us into the pool to escape the blistering summer heat.

The first band that played was comprised of acquaintances from Tucson, Arizona. Fireworks zipped from here to there, barely missing some and injuring others; I was hit in the head with some sort of firecracker and the lead singer of the performing band was hit in the face with a bottle rocket that exploded in his face, giving him a bloody nose and burning his shirt. This was the beginning of the end for our stay in the 702 area code of Las Vegas.

The Bikini Bumps and Lipstick Pickups played without incident, then our tour mates, The Unit Breed from San Francisco, began their set. The lead singer launched into an anti-American speech that caught the attention of the owner of the house, a jock of sorts who loved America. Telling the ranting singer to keep the noise down was not the solution. This led the Unit Breed to become even louder, prompting the owner to throw his beer at the singer.

Soon enough, Unit Breed guitarist Matty Luv approached the owner of the house with his guitar raised over his head, ready to knock some sense into the friend of a friend. This is when the brawl started. Nearly 20 people joined in throwing fists and fits as the show was brought to an abrupt stop. We were all then forced to leave the hostile situation and retreat back into the downtown area. People were angry and I was having fun.

Back at the house the night was brought to a close with my band, The NOISE!, performing with our No. 1 fan, Matty Luv, who saw us play at Kimo's in San Francisco, where he served as the sound guy. After witnessing our destructive stage show, he told us that out of the four years he'd been working there, we were the greatest thing he'd ever seen, and that for about 12 seconds he was ready to move to Anaheim and join our movement in mayhem.

That night the ghosts inhabiting the house made themselves evident as blinds inexplicably opened and closed and a Billie Holiday song was mysteriously turned on as one of the numerous lawn gnomes that populated the backyard was seen hanging from a large tree. These creepy happenings were the topics of discussion the next morning as we prepared ourselves for our next show in Nogales, Mexico.

Mexico has a reputation of being rundown, dirty and overpopulated. In other words, it was our kind of country. The show took place in a small bar in Nogales, just across the border from Tucson, where we were staying. Our tour guide of the Mexican bar was a fellow by the name of Pony the Mexican Prince. He walked from patron to patron, giving out free tequila and free beer.

The mascot of the bar was a live owl that flew across the establishment at its own free will, sitting on speakers and daring people to try and touch it.

The cultural barrier between the United States and Mexico didn't affect our relations with the other customers of the bar, who were extremely friendly and generous with their marijuana and cocaine, making the night that much more enjoyable. One extremely drunk regular grabbed me by the shoulders and recited the words to a number of Queen songs, motioning for me to join in. When our Mexican hot night was completed, we headed back to Tucson, where I slept on a linoleum floor, underneath a foosball table. We woke up early and jumped back into the van for another long day of driving onto Flagstaff, Arizona.

The Robothouse in Flagstaff was just a few apartments that were located next to each other. These proved to be an adequate venue, as it would be the best show of the tour. Kevin, the drummer of the Lipstick Pickups took off all of his clothes in the middle of the set and poured barbecue sauce all over himself.

Here's a tip: when barbeque sauce comes in contact with the genitals it bums -- very badly. The night of music was brought to a halt when the police were called and the show was stopped. The next day we were able to visit the Four Comers, the Grand Canyon and Bedrock, home of the Flintstones museum!

The rest of the tour took us from New Mexico to Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington, Oregon and back around to California. A few of the more memorable moments came when Geoff got severely intoxicated in Idaho and screamed at everyone and everything, thinking he was in Utah. A fan fact about Utah: they have less alcohol in their beer. Being mostly populated by Mormons will do that to a state.

This trip left us with a bevy of stories, probably even more than I can remember. Battleground, Washington, was the mandatory stop for tattoos. A number of people, including myself, had the great idea of pissing off their parents. I got "DRS" permanently engraved on my wrist. DRS stands for Doktor Rev. Shaw, an alter-ego of sorts.

After Battleground, we drove onwards to Oakland, where we met up with friends and such, finally taking a break from gas station food and feasting on an enormous helping of barbecue from a family-owned restaurant next to the house where we played.

We also were able to smoke a ridiculous amount of weed, as a pact was made before we left that illegal substances would be left at home just in case we were pulled over by the police. A combination of these two things and the lack of sleep we received caused me to pass out from fatigue. While watching a band play, my sight started to get fuzzy until I couldn't see anymore. Then I fell into the person in front of me and was escorted outside to get ahold of myself. The next day we finally headed back to Anaheim.

This tour was my first and definitely not my last. It opened my eyes that there is actually stuff to do outside of sitting at home and watching television all night. We said goodbye to the Unit Breed in the Bay Area.

Unfortunately, this was the last time we were able to see Matty Luv, who a few months after the tour died of a drug overdose in his home above Mission Records. So I was glad that I was able to get to know him and play with him in The NOISE! before he died.