Behind the Anthony Greens

Keeping secrets is not one of my greatest strengths.

Which is weird, considering I talk about 82 percent less than the average American human.

But my ability to keep a secret falls right above my ability to translate episodes of The O.C. into Bulgarian (and I don't understand rich teenagers or Bulgarian.)

And now that I've got this blog, which requires me by law to turn the mundane events of my life into witty, egocentric, literary gold, it's even more difficult to refrain from spouting off when something interesting actually manages to transpire.

So you can imagine how trying it's been for me to keep in the fact that I wrote this month's cover story on Anthony Green.

Remember a few blogs back when I was hanging out on subway platforms and forgetting to eat? Yeah, that's where I was. I was in Philadelphia and Boston hanging out with Anthony.

And I couldn't tell you.

It wasn't easy.

But now that you're gazing into the sparkling blue pools of mystique that are Anthony's eyes on this issue's cover, I can finally fill you in on some of the stuff that went on behind the scenes.

I agreed to do the story in mid-May, and up until then, my interaction with Anthony Julius Green (I'm actually just guessing on the middle name), had been limited. I'd interviewed him over the phone a few times. The first interview, for the Most Anticipated issue write-up during the making of On Letting Go, led to some fierce geeking out on both our parts about Michel Gondry flicks--which led me to believe that, in an alternate universe, Anthony and I could be BFFs since for most interviews I do, the subjects are typically pretty business-up-front and business-in-the-back. (Except for last week, during which every single musician I interviewed demanded that I drop everything and go see The Dark Knight.)

When I spent a few weeks on Warped Tour last summer, I crossed paths with Anthony every now and then, leading to pictures like this:

Clearly, neither Anthony nor I have conscious memories of such interactions (and in my case: such haircuts).

Note: The guy poking his head through the middle there is my hetero life-mate Artie. He's on Warped Tour this year too, and if you stop by the Vagrant tent and offer him nachos, he'll hug you until Thursday--unless, of course, it is a Thursday, in which case he'll offer you a firm handshake.)

So flying out to hang out with Anthony in person for a few days was kind of like meeting up with some girl you met on Match.com who you'd e-mailed a few times, but never really gotten a full body shot of.

Still, I was stoked.

First of all (and if you're looking for stuff "From The Editor's Floor," this line is straight out of my first two drafts of the story): Getting to Anthony Green in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is the equivalent of a reporter's journey into Joseph Conrad's Heart Of Darkness, but instead of traversing jungles, it's a trip through quaint, quasi-rural Eastern Pennsylvania villages. It took me a flight to Philly, a 20-minute shuttle ride to the subway station, two subway transfers and a 70-minute train ride just to get to his town. Doylestown isn't exactly a bustling metropolis, so I didn't have much choice but to walk the mile to my hotel with my obnoxiously loud rolling luggage.

When it began to rain, a car pulled up alongside me with two very compassionate Doylestownians who asked if they could give me a ride. I thought for a second about the 3,264 educational films I watched in elementary school admonishing the act of getting in a car with strangers, but this was Doylestown (not that I'm condoning hitchhiking in Doylestown). And it was raining. And they didn't lure me with any candy, so I assumed they were legit. (I was saddened when I learned there in fact wouldn't be any candy, but I didn't bring it up.)

In the car, the middle-aged couple asked what brought me to their humble town and I informed them that I was writing a cover story one of their own. They seemed interested and skeptical that a bona fide rock star walked among them, but they listened to my story and nodded and smiled a lot.

When we got to my hotel, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to tip them. I'm not sure of the protocol when hitchhiking, but I didn't want to offend them either way. So I left a dollar on the floor in the back seat, hoping they would find it later and spend it to their hearts' content.

I texted Anthony that I was in town, stepped outside for a cigarette and within about three minutes, he rolled up, promptly got out of his car--which I'm pretty sure belonged to one of the other guys in Circa since Anthony doesn't really drive--gave me a hug and decided to give me a tour of his town. (We'd originally planned to ride bikes, but the rain and my staggering level of lethargy put the kibosh on that.)

Within a few minutes, I'd forgotten that he was Anthony Green.

He might've forgotten who I was, but that's beside the point.

We pulled into the driveway at his house--the one he shares with the guys from Circa--and there was some fleeting drama about who might've left the screen door open, leaving the cat to roam and murder as freely as it wishes.

Seriously, a lot of musicians like to play off like they're actually just normal people underneath it all, but when confronted with something normal (like not requiring a bowl of specifically blue moon Lucky Charms marshmallows everywhere they go), they buckle.

But the guys in Circa Survive instantly seem like the kind of guys everyone grew up hanging out with, who then put their loot together to get a big, bare bones-kinda house.

I got some formal interviewing out of the way with Anthony (you'll have to read the story for that, champ) and then he and his wife Meredith (she was his fiancee at the time) took me to a Hibachi restaurant. An awesome time was had by all.

We were seated at a huge, 30-person table that was empty at first. As we were deciding on what to order, a big group of 20-somethings were seated right across from us. For a moment, Anthony and Meredith kinda stiffened up. Could it be that they were nervous Anthony would get recognized? Then they'd have to spend the whole night being stared at? A few moments pass and finally, Anthony quietly breaks the silence and says: "Fuck it. Let's get the Sashimi, too."

The group had no idea who he was.

(They also had no idea who I was--even when I gave them my business cards and pulled out an old issue of AP and pointed out all my bylines--but I came to terms with it.)

So, hey.

Since I'm determined to blog at least two more times this week, and also because my little fingers are sore from typing and playing MLB 2K8, I'm gonna leave you with three powerful words:

I love Oreos.

Wait. No.

To be continued.

(dum, dum, duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum.)

(But I really do love Oreos.)

(dum, dum, duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum.)