I make a U turn at the flashing red light, a police cruiser parked across lanes next to a city utility truck.
No big, probably cleaning up the detritus of a recent crash.
Or perhaps a light pole has toppled, looted of its coppery skeleton by our enterprising neighborhood tweakers.
I detour through a neighboring industrial park, but Western Ave is once again blocked by cop cars and firetrucks.
The next street over blocked as well, and here the first responders are joined by the blue KTLA 5 news van.
A bad omen.
As any So Cal native knows, the appearance of the news van is rarely on the scene of good news, no.
More likely, the ocean has once again breached the seawall, or a body has been found decomposing in the trunk of a Honda Civic.
A young cop comes over, already shaking his head, and twirls his fingers at me: universal sign for roll down the window.
“Can’t go this way sir,” he says. “Mandatory evacuation orders.”
But we need to get our gear,” I respond. “Playing a show today, and we need to get our gear…. Sir.”
We exchange a few more sentences, each ending with a passive aggressive sir, his mocking my graying head no doubt, mine aimed at the Oakley shades perched upon his crew cut.
It is not a satisfying exchange for either of us.
We are ultimately turned back, mere meters from our studio containing our amplifiers and drums- but more importantly, the goddamned merch!
Now, I am enough of a conspiracy theorist to detect a government ruse with all this toxic chemical spill nonsense, obviously code for alien landing site.
But it seems that the precaution is true.
A tank filled with naughty chemicals is threatening to explode or spill or mutate into a nasty creature, all of this a few blocks from CH3 headquarters.
And so we head to the show with only guitars, the chance to shill our overpriced black tee shirts denied.
No matter.
It is Sunday of the two day Summerbash, the inaugural festival put on by our nutty old pal Bill–the aptly nicknamed Dr. Strange!
With Punk Rock Bowling taking a year off, Bill bravely took on the long holiday weekend festival mantle and presented his own spunky punky little gathering at the Cathedral complex in Pomona.
It is lovely venue, apparently a historical old YMCA site, converted now into a mixed used complex with cafes and different performance areas. Whispered rumors of a swimming pool in the basement, gun turrets upon the roof.
Wandering the maze of halls, it reminds me of a mini Wintergardens, the site of our beloved Rebellionfest up in wacky tacky Blackpool.
If there were drunken hens falling off their platform heels and puking into the cobblestones, the scene would be complete!
There was no need to worry about the lack of gear, as it seems we know every musician on the bill.
Friendly faces at every turn, most of them aging gracefully.
Our crowns of gray and laugh lines honestly earned, surely the reward of meeting up once again, after all this time.
For it is what became clear when the annual PR bowling fest was not scheduled for the year: We need these gatherings.
An annual gathering of the tribe.
The chance to check in with the people we have held dear through all these years, the mad teens still visible just beyond the cataract clouded lenses of our eyes.
Proof of Life.
It is a non stop catch up session, each new arrival greeted with shouts and hugs, the chance to re-acquaint ourselves with bands and fans, each with a story of triumph and regret.
Where once we would hustle each other for drink tickets or glassine baggies of powders, we now borrow Tums and show off photos of the newest granddaughter.
Ancient petty squabbles are forgiven if not forgotten, nights of terrifying violence and danger now retold as hilarious anecdote.
And the bands, they still play.
On the way out I hug Bill in farewell.
Hey, let’s not fuck this one up, yeh? I whisper into his ear.
Because we can’t lose another chance to get together like this.
And be it the trashy charm of Vegas or the gentrified halls of Pomona, no matter.
Just as long there is somewhere to convene, fittingly on Memorial Day, to celebrate the survivors and mourn those lost.
To remind ourselves of something fucking good for once in this mad mad world.
Where’s that fucking blue news van now, huh??
We soon find out, as we look down Beach Boulevard as we drive past the shuttered off ramp..
Old Highway 39, named in album and legend, is deserted.
No sign of the tarped taco stands, no tweakers riding Bmx bikes on their dizzying errands.
No cheerful hookers, hawking their wares from the shadows of the seedy motels.
The city evacuated to the sum of forty thousand people now, and I am grateful that I have a home.
I was just there
