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,