Cheese curds are moist pieces of curdled milk, eaten either alone as a snack, or used in prepared dishes. They are consumed throughout the United States (especially in the Midwest) and Canada. Curds are sometimes referred to as “squeaky cheese” or fromage en grain.

“Say, fromage en grain. I like that!” says Beenie from the back of the minivan.
He has just read aloud the Wikipedia entry on the squeaky morsels we are currently chewing.
For the remainder of the weekend, Beenie shall be referred to as Monsieur Fromage En Grain.

It is only 9;30 am as we leave the stately Mars Cheese Castle and continue up the 94.
We arrived too early for for a hot meal in the tavern, and are currently chewing our way through Venison dry sausage and Garlic Dill curds purchased from the gift shop.
The van is a symphony of squeaks and mastication, as we conjure the audacious farts that will soon perfume the van.

We thought we were clever, taking the red-eye to avoid the early morning hell of getting to LAX during rush hour.
Ignoring the time change, this has put on the road at what? 4am? 3?
At the wheel, I struggle to stay awake as the rest of the lads take head lurching naps.
After I find the Pacifica drifting lanes I pull over for a large coffee and crank up the Replacements’ Please to Meet Me.

We have been called to the Midwest once again for the Chicago Riot Fest weekend.
No silly, not to play at the actual fest, for we have far too much integrity to join such a corporate cash grab.
(Besides, they never answer our yearly pleas to play.)

No, we come out for the annual Liar’s Club Liarpalooza after party, a sort of deconstructed protest of the whole festival culture at the beloved dive.

But as an added bonus, our pal Jeff (Scooby to those that have elbowed the bar with him) throws his semi regular Scoob Fests up in Green Bay Wisconsin this same weekend.

We stop off at the Harley factory to kill some time, still too early for the cafe to serve warm food.
Dazed by the lack of sleep, ratttled by yet another group of graybeards revving their straight piped V twins, we wander through the massive swag shop. I wonder at the overpriced Tees and Heavy Leathers, though I am tempted to buy the star crossed Evel Knievel jacket at a sensible 350 clams.

Green Bay, Wisconsin has an estimated population of 106,675 according to recent U.S. Census Bureau QuickFacts estimates. Lambeau Field, the home stadium of the Green Bay Packers, has an official seating capacity of 81,441 for football games

We hit Green Bay too early for check in and wander through our third gift shop of the day, the bustling mini mall that is the Lambeau Field fan store.

It never ceases to amaze, this quaint burg with the population of a single city block back home.
We Angelenos yawn at two NFL teams sharing a stadium, yet this town shares a Pluribus style hive mind of fandom.

At the swanky Hampton Inn (Corporate slogan: These fuckin; waffles ain’t gonna make themselves!) we are joined by our old pal Suckow, basis for the namesake character in both Tin Knocker and MPG.

We are honored, as he now lives in the furthest tip of upper Michigan, and reluctantly travels down to the big city;
He comes to the lobby blinking at the electric lights, skittish as a cat after the five story elevator ride.

This edition Scoobfest is a special one, more a class reunion for the jolly misfits of Green Bay than any regular gig.
I overhear a half dozen tearful hellos, shouts of recognition between friends finally reunited.
The core group we know from past trips hug us as brothers as well, and the night proceeds with a sweet tone of homecoming.

For some odd reason, the folk up here seem to prefer the Airborne/Last Time I Drank era to the earlier buzzcut stuff.
Fitting, as we are rolling out the LTID reissue this weekend, and when I pull a harmonica out for Waiting For the Sun, no one throws a cup of urine at me.

They sing along, people!
The heart warms, that this tight little pocket of friends appreciated our poodle headed efforts, and we love them all the more for helping us learn those old songs once more.
Bonus: Monsieur Fromage sells a ton of merch this night.

It is 3 a.m. by the time I crawl into my rack, yet I cannot sleep.
Delirious and overtired, buzzed by the energy of all those smiling faces tonight..
I finally drift off, a fitful few hours of sleep commandeered by bizarre dreams of giant cheese curds chasing us up the Wisconsin landscape, mounted on rumbling Electra Gides painted in Packers Green and Gold.

The Italian Beef is a famous Chicago-style sandwich made with thin slices of seasoned roast beef simmered in a savory broth, piled onto sturdy French bread, and topped with pickled vegetables

Saturday dawns with thunderclap and a steady rain escorts us all the way back to Chicago.
We stop off at the Cheese Castle on the way back, of course, to top off the curd supply and each, to a man, destroy the poor public toilet.

The navigator is set for Al’s Beef, our current favorite of sandwich temples.
Soon we are settled at the stainless steel tabletops, contemplating the works or art before our drooling faces.

I consider the glistening slices, the gardenia made slick by savory gravy, sweet and hot both baptized in the unctuous holy water. I heft the sandwich and am startled to realize that this package shall soon be nestled in my womb.
So be it.
We pounce.

There is one more stop before we go down for our cranky pants naps, and that stop is the infamous 1,000 Liquors.
Namechecked, I now realize, in both books, we stop into the liquor store/taproom of our soggy youth.

You can’t go home they say, but you really can’t go back to the dive bars of your teens.
What did we expect? Seventy five cent drafts and and the colorfully grumpy drunks of a Mike Royko column?
Kimm and I squint at the walls, trying to reconcile this modern store with the wonderland of memory.
No longer connected to the store by a discreet doorway, you now have to exit the shop and go to the next doorway for the modernized bar.
We grumble the old man’s lament, complaining about the internet jukebox, praising the good old days, as Nick and Ant roll their eyes at their feeble elders.
Somebody needs a nap!

Tinnitus is the perception of noise or ringing in the ears or head when no external sound source is present. Damage to tiny hair cells in the inner ear (cochlea) from aging or loud noise exposure is the most frequent trigger.

Thank God some things do remain, I think, as I walk into this dark recess of recess period:
The Motherfuckin Liars Club!
Our pals ChumHuffer from Brooklyn are already up on stage, an unusally early start for festivities here.
Apparently the Riot Fest has been plagued by sheets of rain, shortening some sets and ending that festival early.
No such worries inside this warm haven though. The bass drum hits chest with palpable force, the PA doubled since the last time we were here, good old Gary having scavenged another stack of speakers from Wednesday morning dumpsters.

This is a club run as if by 15 year old boys, a fort made for summer vacation.
The bands play as loud as they care to, the crowd tosses their empties as they call for another round.
At any moment I expect a grownup to flick on the lights and chase us all away.

The rain pours on as our pals Destroy Everything set up.
I spy a ring of razor wire crowning the chain link backdrop, and can only wonder at what thie year’s DE incarnation will entail
I place my bet on a Hogan’s Heroes parody, but am just off the mark when the scene turns into a futuristic mind fuck of prison abuse and mind control (I think).
Love these maniacs!

We play our set and then hustle off to watch Chicago’s mighty Bollweevils.
It’s time for an Irish goodbye, stopping only to hug Gary and the Herb, vowing to return at their bidding, regardless of our sleep deprived mania.

Recent technical failures in aging air traffic control systems, severe weather, and air traffic controller shortages are driving an increase in flight cancellations and delays across the United States.

Back in the van, we discuss the wisdom of a stop at Wiener’s Circle to cap our night. Or maybe sleep? Shall we try it?
Our phones chime in unison, American Airlines notifying each of us our ungodly 8 am return flight has been cancelled.
Well, good, I think.
Perhaps they will let us sleep in for a few precious hours before a rebooked evening flight.

*Chime*
No such luck. They have now routed us to SFO in the morning-leaving at 6 a.m.

Some quick math shows we will have to be in the van ready to go at 4 a.m.
My laughter dissolves into tears, and the others join me.
Punchy-is that what they used to call it?
We are howling now, at our ringing ears, our bubbling guts.
For sleep, what is it anyway, but a dress rehearsal for death?

I lie down, still dressed and set the alarm for 105 minutes until we have to leave.
Then, do I sleep? I do not.

I’m at Heathrow, four hours early for the flight home.
It’s already been a long travel day: 7 am lobby call in Blackpool, six hours on M6, the humiliation of airport security.

But we are cleared, and we each settle into hard plastic chairs to wait out our last hours before the flight home, imagining the torture in store for our poor kneecaps.

Just behind me sits an old Brit couple, chatting aimlessly in clipped East End accents.
“Fuckin’ hell, that security, yeh?” says the old gent.
“Hmm,” the woman hums in response.

I turn to steal a look, and can tell they are a couple, married countless decades. 
I wonder how many children they’ve raised, and if they ever call these days. 
How many triumphs and tragedies have they weathered?.

“This place is changed, though. Tell you what.”
He goes on to tell her all about his days at the textile factory, how they would churn out the carpeting and drapery for the growing terminals. . 
“Reckon I’ve walked every square inch of this place, tape in hand, haven’t I?” he says.
Surely she’s heard this story a hundred time before, but unlike me, she is not tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up.
“Is that right dear? “ she says, not looking up from The Sun. “Hmm, clever,” she says.

I plug pods into my ears and crank up Sandinista!, anything to drown out yet more inane human interaction.
Are we any different though?
On all the endless van rides and airport delays, when we share our stories of past travel nightmares even though we were all there and lived the same moment together?
In those lulls of movement, we gather like a tribe around the fire.
Only the light of flame and comfort of our tales keeping the unknown darkness at bay.

It’s been a leisurely tour up the length of England.
Just a long weekend, really, a few shows with plenty of time for touristy antics and gravy covered food.
This type of travel suits us in our twilight years, sight seeing time between gigs more important to us now than trying to fill in every blank calendar square.
We kick off with a warmup down in Portsmouth before making our way back up to London.

It is a wonderful night at New Cross Inn, meeting with old chums The Adolescents and Scream.
We come together and reacquaint ourselves, set up the gear and take our turns on the hot and sweaty stage.
I talk to Tony outside the packed club, and once again we fall into reminiscence of wild days past.
The Odyssey told once more, embellished by yet more time.
We both squint at the horizon, wordlessly missing our Captain, the guy who should be here, Soto.
Too soon, we break camp and each of us load out to the waiting Sprinters, bounce off into the night in different directions.
Another story has been written.

Made good time north, stopping only to worship at the Sabbath bridge in Birmingham and our customary roast lunch at a Toby Carvery.

Apparently the Toby is the Brit equivalent of Golden Corral or -fuck me- Sizzler, judging by the reaction we get from the locals when we tell them of those ingested plates.
“You ate that shite?” They say. “Ugh, haven’t been since Gram was alive.”

Oh fuck off, what’s not to love?
Meats quantified not in quality but weight, veg roasted beyond all recognition.
All of it nestled under blanket of brown gravy, viscous as SAE 60 weight motor oil.

I mean, the world can some to our shores for some soccer match and geek out over Bu-cee’s bathroom stalls and drink ranch dressing like mother’s milk, but we can’t be goofy yank tourists with the Yorkshire Puddin?
Next they’ll be telling us our beloved Wetherspoons isn’t a proper pub either.

Blackpool tower comes into view, and the heart races. 
This must be 8th or 9th time we’ve returned to the scene, dating back to the Wasted festival as it was branded in nearby Morecambe.

It’s hard to describe this fest, though I have tried.
Loved and hated for its overwhelming and monolithic energy, it has become the international convention for all things punk.
Under one roof, bearing the gifts of the world, both on stage and discussion, art and music and written word.

We can’t go more than ten feet without stopping for hugs and hellos, and soon I fear blowing out my aged throat before we even get to play

After our afternoon set, we huddle around the merch booth with our merch master/backup singer Briony, and accept handshakes and hugs.
Greetings in a dozen different accents. 
Some people claiming to have finally seen us, now checked off a life list as if we were a rare and bespeckled bird.
 
We have become, apparently, a bucket list item for some, though I’m sure it’s our bucket that’ll be kicked first– and they know it.

The best compliment is when they’d never heard of us and we’re just passing by the Empress and gave us a listen. 
And then they take the time to congratulate us and ask who we are.
Nothing better.

I take out my ear pods and the geezer behind me drones on.
“…and then old Billy, he says to me, he says, fucksake Danny, we already filled this order! And we did!”
“Mmhmm,” hums wifey.
But now I find it comforting, and somehow familiar.

I turn to Kimm and ask if he remembers being here in 2007.
“…..and we were all sick from those sausage rolls?.” I say.
“When we were supposed to be at Gatwick?” he answers, taking up the story.
A story that we continue telling each other like the old couple we are.
And we continue talking as we walk to our gate, and finish only when the jet engine drowns out our words.

So I wrote another book.
Wait………come back!

I get it.
I know the only thing more tedious than hearing some dork talking about his new book is hearing some dork talking about writing the book..
It’s as bad as hearing someone tell you about a fish they almost caught, say, or suffering through someone’s unending post of vacation photos.
(….and in this one, we’re pretending to hold the Tower of Pisa from falling!)

It’s an outrageous proposal, I know.
That in this day of shortened attention span and toxic media, to expect people to sit down quietly and devote a few hours to reading the words I splashed onto the page.
And yet, if you are reading this, you might be inclined to read the book, so I feel justified in giving you a bit of background.
Also, allow me to shamelessly put in the sales link here.
And here.

When I wrote the first book, Miles Per Gallon, (hey! that was another sales link!) I sat in a darkened den, laptop upon lap, tapping away in Covid mandated isolation. It was fitting that a worldwide pandemic was the only thing that finally forced me to sit down and write the book I had imagined for decades.
I had those romantic notions of Hemingway alone in his flat off the 5th arrondissement, dreaming up his terse prose for a waiting world, or Bukowski holed up in his skid row flophouse.

This is what a writer does, I’d think, tapping a pen against my teeth in the shuttered room..
And then I would get up and vacuum the house, then clean the baseboards.
The baseboards, people!
Is there a cleaner house than that inhabited by a procrastinating writer?

This time around I found myself writing the book all over the world, a few words typed in a Buenos Aires café notable, a chapter finished backstage in Kanazawa.
I started the book in San Francisco while attending a tribute to my dear fallen friend James.Stewart.
I finished it in the Lobby Bar of Hotel Chelsea, just because.
I did find my old pal procrastination follows you everywhere though.
In the middle of the Antarctic sea, ensconced in the ship’s library with the cursor blinking its unanswered plea for input, a call goes out for volunteers to help decontaminate rubber boots on the tender deck.
Ten minutes later I am there, happily brushing penguin shit from vibram soles, not a thought of foreshadowing or character development in my head.

It turned out to be a book that continues the misadventures of the band, into the big haired days of the Sunset Strip and the ruthless music industry of the 1980’s. I also go into my life as a sheet metal worker (A Tin Knocker –hey!) and the struggles between art and commerce, punk and rock, salty and sweet, that kinda stuff.
And in response to the most common complaint we got on the last book (it ain’t got no pictures!), this book features double the photos: Two!

Once again working with the lovely folk at DiWulf Publishing House (LINK!) and their UK partners at Earth Island (boom) we can get the book into your paws no sweat. Do I have to mention that it is also available from our digital overlords at Amazon? (Fuck ’em. No link.)
Steven DiLodovico once again served as my trusty editor and therapist, Amy Yates Wuefling our steady captain.
Their daily emails thoughout the months shaped the book as well as assured me that two spaces are no longer necessary after a period. Of this, I remain skeptical.
The ultra cool cover art, done up as a classic blueprint was done by my pal Brian Walsby.

And finally, unbelievably, a box of the finished product sits on the floor.
Somehow here, physical, captured.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, you can also order the book HERE!

I.

The poster hung on the wall of my Cerritos bedroom for years.
Eventually yellowed by the unrelenting SoCa sun, turned brittle by the carbon monoxide gale from the nearby 91 freeway. It became the constant of my life.
Going to sleep after a silent prayer to the original daredevil, wheel up and cape flying.
Leading me into my boyhood dreams and nightmares astride a woefully under-sprung XR 750 Harley.
Upon waking, the vision urged me to get up and take a dare myself: take on another day.

I thank the lord old Evel didn’t exist in a time of social media and streaming channels.
Would he have his own fan site, hid behind paywall, or perhaps an OnlyFans where we could ogle his roadmap of scars?
No, heroes like this existed only on bedroom walls and the occasional episode ABC Wide World of Sports.
He was commemorated only by Hasbro toys and scandalized by salacious headlines.
Ali and Bruce Lee, our idols were a million miles away and untouchable, as they should be.
The black helicopters would fly as we slept, doing an evil president’s dirty work without 24 hour news coverage or Facebook outrage,

II.
In the old days we would write letters.
A commitment not only to the cursive that has now atrophied beyond recognition, but of stamps and envelopes.
Actual human saliva was spent to the seal the deal.

Now one may simply look up the tags and connect with not only our musical heroes but fellow flat earthers or vaccine deniers in a simulated community.

A digital long distance relationship, one of those unique to this social media era.
We had a mutual fan club, BA telling me he bought our records (way) back when they came out,
Last Time I Drank, surprisingly, being his first and favorite.
I confessed my love of their instantly catchy songs, the clever wordsmithing, the sharp lyrics masquerading as dumbskull jerk rock.
Eventually, we would meet up in the weathered flesh.

We played a couple shows at Indianapolis’ infamous Melody Inn, and BA would show.
True to his word, he carried a well worn copy of Last Time…to have us sign.
Sloppy Seconds would make a stop in at Alex’s after a raucous PR Bowling gig and we’d all show up.

We made plans to some day team up on some shows, but you know how that goes.
Bands come together briefly, hugs exchanged and well wishes shouted over the merch table.
And then the taillights disappear on the horizon, one or the other band off to the next gig.
Promises to meet again put aside until we’d renew them once more, like hollow wedding vows..

III.

No Punk Rock Bowling this year.
After the initial relief–I mean, aren’t we getting too old for four insane straight days of this?-there was a heartfelt sadness.
What would we do without the annual convention of freaks in the freakiest of all places-Las Vegas?

But the stars align, as we find a sweet three day weekend to finally play with Sloppy Seconds.
Though they are made of heartier stuff and push nine shows into ten days, 72 hours seems right for us.
Gentleman touring, the twilight road…. a boutique experience, hmmm?
We offer the equivalent of the Early Bird special. Gotta get the seniors fed and home before they get too cranky.

We all meet and greet in Vegas, make the drive out to Arizona.
Repeat.

IV.

Always interesting to do a few shows with another band.
To see their habits and methods, inevitably more disciplined and well stocked on merch than we.
Soundcheck or blow it off? You know our vote.
Each band has its own dynamics, as varied and privately weird as the families lined up along the same tree lined street.
In one of those houses someone is chained to the radiator.

We watch their set from the wings or the back of the room, hear some of the same intros, note the different songs that sneak into their setlist.
There is no reason to change it up, really, as each night is whole new set of faces.
But the crowd demands a song that didn’t make the setlist, or cut that one song perhaps didn’t land right the night before.
We get bullied into playing Wetspots, though it is never practiced.
Boredom and the search for amusement, the twins.

V.

It is 95 degrees by the time we leave Phoenix Sunday. It is 9 am.
Ocean Beach is unseasonably chilly, an ocean breeze like a teenager’s sigh.
.It is an early show, and BA’s birthday.
Final day of our little jaunt, three days that have passed like, well, fifteen minutes.

We get BA up to sing Make Me Feel Cheap with us, then we roll up our cords and hang out at the back of the bar.
I get to watch them play one more time, and by now I know how the set goes.
The band starts without the big man on stage, then BA comes up to the roar of the crowd.
Off and running…from the CIA!
And though they have been hanging out at the merch table all afternoon, this is different.
Transformed, they all are, into something more than just another group on the road.
As if a mere clockwise spin coverts them from ordinary men into a squad of crime fighting misfits.

I am transported back to those afternoons watching reruns in wood paneled bonus rooms..
Muscle cars and axe handle battles, green skinned women from outer space with knee high boots and (three) big boobs.
And if a more fitting eulogy was ever written for Joey Ramone, I don’t want to hear it.

They come to my favorite part of the set, about seven songs in, and they count off their ode to the untouchable idols of our shared youth.
And when they gets to the line , I shout along.
I believe in Evel Knievel!
And I am, for a moment, back in that bedroom.
All of the fears and hopes of a boy still there, and I stare at that poster until I trust the night to take me away,