Well sir, let’s look at the ‘ol calendar, shall we?

Uh huh…..It’s well into our first week of January:

*It’s currently 85 degrees outside.
*The Clippers are off to a good start.
*Rick Santorum only missed winning the Iowa Caucus by a cunt hair.

Wheeee! Hold me, Mother, because I’m in bizarro world again!!

Yeah, yeah, I know about 2012…it’s the year we’re all gonna ride this big fiery ball into oblivion, is that it?
Because some pinche Mayan calendar maker, all hopped up on coca leaves and fermented beet juice passes out mid job, the world is supposed to end?

Listen, I got news for you, it already did end!
Yeah, that funny little Rapture that was predicted for Oct 21 by the religious nutjob?

It actually happened!

Problem was, Jesus couldn’t find a single person worth taking back up yonder with him.
No, I’m pretty sure the world has already ended, and we’ve just been too busy posting funny cat videos on Facebook and ripping off movies from the Internet to notice.

How else do you explain the wild popularity of Katy Perry and the continued existence of Fashion Island?

Anywhoo, it must be that time of year for the CH3 recap, so let’s get started people!

Looking at the chthree.com show roster, we see here that the mighty Chingón Tres played an ungodly 26 shows in 2011.

Unfortunately, most of the shows looked like this:

That was a quick pic of the year kick-off, a weekender up to the mid coast region.

Heh…. that was before they opened the doors.

Packed.
Swear to God.

And yes, we still maintain an actual, honest to God html website damn you!
Oh, I know that you young hipsters do all of your communications and networking through your precious Fbook these days, and can’t be bothered actually seeking out when your fifth favorite local punk band of all time is going to play next!

Oh, but just wait until Facebook is bought by Rupert Murdoch and they start charging 3.99 per month!
Then who’s gonna come crawling back, huh? huh?

Speaking of interwebby thingies, this blog you hold in your trembling paws at the moment— let’s look at those stats while we’re at it, hmmm?

We had over 18,000 visitors to the blog this year, and again–not one of you cheap bastards could be bothered with clicking through and buying a T shirt!

Oh, that’s alright, we’ve been steadily recording your IP addresses and feeding them to the Russian syndicate for some time now, using your bandwidth to spread virus and beastiality porn at will–so go ahead, keep reading, tightwad!!

There were a few series that garnered a lot of hits this year, like the in depth look at Rodney Bingenheimer, our beloved LA radio Icon.

But for the most part, most of you were only interested in embarassing photos of drunken hilarity that spilled out of posts such as the racy expose’ on the Pouzza Fest…..

C’est la vie!

A few travel snapshots for the kids back home:

And god help us if we forget the food porn!
Yeh yeh, there were a few snacks in 2011:

Ah, but a year winds down, as it always does, and thoughts turn to messy office parties and tacky decorations.
The holidays came and went, but not without a few final thoughts for the year……

If I never have to see that goddamned Santa Suit again, it will be too soon brother!

Sheesh, give a guy a red suit and suddenly we create a egomaniacal monster!

But thankfully the suit was torn to shreds at the final gig of the year, the Ball Ball at the Airliner in LA.

And now, things back to normal, lights taken down and the tree shredded to pulp, we can only look ahead.

With a weary sigh, we untangle the guitar cords and start to fill in the calendar for yet another year in the trenches.
Will the knees take another 365 out there?
Will the hairline cooperate and hang in there just one more time?

But-truly-ya know what?
We got nothing better to do.

Happy New Year!

T-Bone rolls into the shop, 25 minutes late, early for him.
“By God man,” I say. “What the fuck happened to ya?”

T rolls the eyes, shoots the grin, and the Rorschach test splayed across his wifebeater tells the story:
The Sriracha splotch, a meandering dribble of Jager.
The desperate smudges of lipstick, a shade unavailable in the Continental U.S. the past decade.

“Rough one,” he says. “Anything to drink?”

I throw him the package from Party City, all itchy asbestos-laden floss and clearly flammable crimson polyester.
“Suit up, Santa. The fellas are waiting”

We do the shoot quick, maybe 6 takes in all.
It’s early for everyone, and we mumble into coffee cups: varying degrees of hungover.

I Irish up the Folger’s, Brad rallies us to please put a little twinkle in them steps.

Santa is getting into character, and all the good booze is quickly drained.
“Really man? The Crown Black? I told ya to hit the goddamn Kessler first, didn’t I?”

Green Screen stuff is done. We head downtown for some bar action.

Tbone rides with me in the truck, and we listen to NPR doing a segment on the Higgs Boson.
European nuclear research scientists say they are close to discovering the elusive God Particle.

T is fascinated: The meaning and origin of life, explained finally by subatomic particle?
T points out that it really doesn’t have any bearing on his precious String Theory, and I can only agree with a shrug.

I’m riding goddamned Anaheim Boulevard with Santa in the front seat, a can of malt Liquor between his legs.
And you still want the meaning of life?

We get out in front of Steiner’s, and the cars start honking.
“Santa! Yo Santa! What up bitch?”

T flips them off and dances in the street.
An Ecuadoran family packed into a ’89 Tercel slows and stops in front of Santa.
They hold out a toddler to pull on Santa’s beard.

The suit, it has him now.
He’s seeing adoration he hasn’t seen, well…….. it’s been a while: We’ll put it that way.

He’s still and always will be our lil Eric.
But the beer gut, The tattoos crawling up his neck?
The Devil Clown lurking just beneath his boxers?

Whoa.

But now, enveloped in something warm and familiar, he’s brightening up the day.
Coloring the book.

A young woman comes up to him on the sidewalk: Clearly, she’s been crying.

“Sahnta Klowse. Oh Sahnta,” she says.
“Oh Ho,” says TBone. “And what , um, what do you want for Christmas little girl?”

She smiles then, shakes her head.
“Can I have a hug, Sahnta? Would that be ok?”

It’s fuckin’ magic.
Now it’s time to get into that dark bar and escape the fuckin’ magic.

It’s no use.
People see him, see that suit, and they can’t stop smiling.

Tbone does a few shuffling dance steps, pinches the bartender’s ass.

He drinks freely from the regulars’ glasses, and they can’t get enough of it.

Things start to get sloppy.
They always do.

Santa’s beard is smudged now, the white fur on his suit tells the story of multiple trips to the pavement.
I worry that the welcome is exhausted, the crew will see past the Suit and look into a darker, far more familiar fairytale.

But no.
As long as he has on some sort of combination of beard, hat and jacket, he can do no wrong.
People are filling the joint.
The word’s out on Facebook:
You gotta get down here! This Santa…he is a riot!!

And we pack up the gear and leave.
We leave Santa there, he doesn’t belong to us, not any more.

An ocean away, men huddle in the control room of a super collider, and they smash atoms against eachother.
They fall upon the leftover matter like crows on roadkill.

To see what it’s all about, see what makes man tick, is that it?

Yeah, well. They should’ve just asked us.

Come with us now, a short jaunt up the 94 from Chicago, to a wonderland of all things Dairy and Curdled!

Yes, yes, I’m talking of the Museum of Lactose-Tolerance, it’s the
Mars Cheese Castle!

Listen, what the fuck you think we’re gonna do when we see this palace off the side of the road, hmmm?
We pull the swanky Lincoln MKX rental off in Kenosha and approach the forboding complex.

Oh, sure, I’ve been to Versailles, and wandered those stodgy grounds imagining the Rennaissance body odors and itch of heavy brocade….. but c’mon man! this is the Cheese Castle we’re talkin’!

Cheese!

After taking a few clandestine licks at the stately block walls and confirming– sadly— that the Castle wasn’t actually made of cheese, we sit down to lunch at the Mars Tavern.

We are delighted to find a community vat of creamy sharp cheddar stationed on the bar and wonder aloud why we can’t have one of these, say, at Alex’s Bar, hmmm?
I’ll tell ya why—Probably because you goddamn hipsters would dose it with X or defile it with American Spirit butts, that’s why!!

We can’t have anything nice back home!!

We waddle back to the car, dizzy from fromage overload, and prepare for the rest of the ride up to Green Bay.

We do these little target weekenders, and it’s one anchor night that starts the ball rolling.
And then we unfold the road map and draw a 300 mile radius arc, try to find another town that’ll have us for a second show—

Milwaukee, Madison, Detroit, Indianapolis….what lucky town will get us this time around?

What fearless promoter, he of faith and vision, will book us with wild dreams of a packed house and after hours handjobs, only to have to tearfully pay us the guarantee despite the shameful turnout?

Some guidance from the Destroy Everything boys lead us to contact Mr. James up yonder, and he assures us this is a town we should play.
He tells us of sincere fans, some of them actually preferring the Enigma releases to the hardcore stuff!
This we gotta see.

We’ve never been, and the fact that the Packers are playing the Vikings on this date seals the deal.

So we put the game on the radio and watch the Cheese Castle growing smaller in the rearview mirror, like a block of Velveeta suffering in the bowels of a microwave.
We aim for Lambeau, the plan to meet up with James by halftime.

Driving North, with the Fall colors bursting from the trees, and the inevitable raindrops starting to baptize the windshield, we listen to an uneven first half.
The Vikings score again in the 2nd, and our boys can only respond with a FG.
We fear going into a town that has just seen its beloved team drop its first game of the season.
They will be in no mood for our shenanigans, surely!

The Packers are down a TD going into the half, but a late 45 yd field goal pulls them within 4 by halftime.
We pile into Lambeau with high hopes, and though the game is being played in Minnesota, the stadium is still alive with adrenaline…..

It is a stunning complex, and we are amazed to find free parking and an open atrium that—get this—actually welcomes its fans!

Say, what do ya think would happen if you tried this at Dodger Stadium or the Coliseum, eh?
Go ahead, stroll around those joints on a game day without a ticket and you’re gonna wake at the USC Medical Center with the ‘ol LAPD resisting arrest knot throbbing on forehead!

We check the Mall sized Packers Store, and the usual hijinks ensue:

And now we’re talking! They have their own Sportsbar right there in Lambeau, and we skip in merrily as the second half starts.

We meet with our gracious hosts James and Chris, and we are promptly sat down before buckets of fried cheese and icy pints of Pale Ales……we would rather be no place else.

The Packers catch fire, and score 20 unanswered points in the 3rd.
James regales us with stories of the bands that have passed through town, the shows he’s put on and what it’s like to live in Green Bay.
These guys are proper gentlemen, and it’s been worth the drive just to meet them.

Of course, the Packers get the win, and we celebrate by crashing the Kiddie’s game arcade and acting like the happy fools we are!

But what was that? Oh right, we’re here in town to do a show!
So we make our way across town to Phatheadz and reunite with our beloved knuckleheads in Destroy Everything to start the night rollin!

We meet a dozen great people right away, and James wasn’t kidding:
These guys know good music when they hear it, goofy haircuts or not!

It feels like a magical night, and we hear stories, flattering stories of how much they enjoyed the records and how they wished certain friends could be here with them.

But it is our pleasure-truly-to be allowed into their town, and as the Destroy boys roar into their set, we toast the night and this town all over again.

The cheese, the beer, the football—It’s been a grand weekend!
And it’s the perfect capper, to be able to climb onstage and play a few songs for these people.

Tomorrow, we’ll be back home, back to the realities of sitting in motherfuckin’ LA traffic or sighing through a stack of meaningless papers next to a searing computer monitor.

But for now, tonight, we’re a continent away and playing to a decent crowd of new friends on a rainy cold night in Green Bay.

You wish you could freeze certain times of your life, don’t ya?
You wish that you could keep them in your pocket for a time when you need a reminder of how good it can really be.

Ah, Chicago, you drunken slut of a town—-God How we missed ya!

The hair is dyed, the pajamas are packed, and we’ve stashed enough Immodium and Zantac to see us through the upcoming weekend.

A plan to meet up with ol pals in Destroy Everything, a gig Saturday at Reggie’s, and then a quick jaunt up to Green Bay for a Sunday nighter: Downbeat right after the Packers demolish the Vikings…….!

Fond memories come flooding back:

Taking in a late season Cubs game, years before they installed lighting at Wrigley.
We were thrilled to see people stream out of the office buildings at 11 am on a Wednesday, already tearing neckties from collar and downing beers as they walked
to the ballpark.

No matter that the team was a good 21 games out of first, these people were gonna go see their goddamn team through til the end, not like the dismal late season attendance of Southern California ballparks…hell no!
It made us ashamed of our own city.

Where was our goddamned commitment to blowing off work, drinking during the day and cheering on a team with no chance to play the post season—huh?!

Afterward, sitting in the Cubby Bear, with the August sun still high in the sky and pitchers of Old Style sweating on the table, Drummer Noal has the charisma and steadiness of hand to pierce a curious waitress’ supple pink bosom with a match-blackened safety pin.
The charmed lass looks at her newly accesorized nipple in wonder, then scampers off to the kitchen to show the rest of the gals

Our work here is done!

We’d stay the week at our dear old pals the Suckows, and Mr Mike would graciously allow us to grill Brats in the backyard while he was at work, only to come home and find we’d drank all the Extra Old Style in the house…..

Then he’d shoo us off to spend our days at the lake, Barbecueing chicken thighs at the Articles of Faith picnic spot and swimming in the strangely salt free waters of Lake Michigan!

Late nights exploring the exotic drinking locales, ordering another round in disbelief at 4 fuckin a.m.!
Have we gone to heaven?!, we’d ask each other over generous buckets of Jack and tinkiling ice cubes.

One night Doug and I jumped out of the Blue and White, had the fellas go around the block while we ran inside 1,000 Liquors to grab a 12 pack.
Once inside the store, we discovered a doorway that lead right into a proper dive bar connected to the store!
We were thrilled as teens finding a black garbage bag full of Hustlers in the riverbed underpass.

One by one, the rest of the fellas would jump out of the van to find out where the hell we were, only to order up a highball themselves and pull up a stool.

Poor Jackie, behind the wheel, cursed to inevitably circle the block solo, finally double parked our van full of gear and succumbed to the siren call of bourbon and lager as well….good times!

And yeah—Mr. Smartass!—–we’ve actually played some more recent gigs as well.

Memories Bar, 2007:

Riotfest, 2005

What is it about this town that makes us act unabashedly like the kook tourists we really are?

Waiting 2 hours in line to get to the top of Sears tower?
Eating overpriced veal chops at Harry Caray’s?

—count us in!

And so we’re heading back once more, to visit a nuttly little town that we love.

And like that one funny Uncle, the one who only sees you maybe every third Christmas, his schedule determined by parole board or shady out of state employment, we’ll come back bearing gifts.

He smells faintly of Old Spice and Old Grandad, and hugs you overlong before holding you at arms length and looking you over with sparkling eyes.
And then he says it, just like the last time and the time before that: he wonders at how much you’ve changed, but how ya never looked better!

Extra Pix courtesy of MXV @ Punk Vault

Dive bar, that’s a term that gets tossed around a lot these days, like serious actress, or non-contagious, am I right? Oh, the hipsters find some place that still serves beer in the can or–get this!–has an actual jukebox full of 45’s.

The kids furiously wave their hands over glowing Ipads, like Priests trying to rub the semen off of bibles, sending out tweets and updates on the delicious irony of this joint.

And a before ya know it, they’ve chased out the honest neighborhood drunks, installed kitschy black velvet paintings of Cantinflas above the bar, and the internet jukebox starts blaring Johnny Cash at 110 decibels. You look down the bar and it’s all fedoras and pork chop sideburns, hovering over tallboys of PBR and squawking smartphones.

Bleh.

Take a ride around Hollywood, and a few of the old places survive:

Sadly, most of the good ones are gone…

There was a time when your Friday night was already planned for you, bub! No searching the internet for where to go or what to do, nah. You parked your car –free!– off of Argyle and you were set for the night: The true Hollywood Walk of Fame, that between the Cathay De Grande and the Firefly!

Ah, Cathay, home of a thousand hangovers and bad decisions!

It must’ve been quite something in the day, but by the time the punks and lowlifes inherited the space, its velvety smooth makeup had worn and cracked, and she now looked like the weary middle aged whore of the Boulevard: Discounted by half, but still game for a good night, goddamnit! We must’ve played there a dozen times at least, usually a 3am set on a Thursday night (or was that Friday morning?) The crowd would be done for the night, nursing that precious final Bud ordered at last call, loafing around til they got a ride to the Zero One.

We’d spend the night pestering Dobbs for free beer or pawing at one of the Pandoras in a darkened booth.

And when told that yet another band has shown up and pushed our set back another hour, no problem! That was our cue to saunter out into the warm Summer night and make our way over to Vine off Hollywood, and settle into the Firefly…..

Firefly , where the drink wells would regularly be set aflame, where the special was 2 bucks for a shot of hideous gin or whisky and a Budweiser.

Oh, stop drooling, mate…it was only a 7 oz bottle of Bud we’re talking about…..but still! 2 bucks?!

Clever, clever boys that we were, we would set up camp just in front of the stacked Budweiser cases next to the bathroom and clandestinely exchange empties for full warm beers all night long.

Drinking shot after shot of bathtub gin, holding wee beer bottles that made us look like twinkle-eyed giants, we passed the night singing along to the jukebox and hitting up any chums who may wander in to buy a round. Perhaps Keith Morris or Bob Forrest, back in their tottering days, when they would come rolling in after being kicked out of The Roxy or The Palace.

And now a round of Flaming Blue Jesus’, a shot of 151 and Ouzo lit aflame, we’d hold them aloft a moment before extinguishing and choking down the molten licorice: The wan blue flames flickered like the hopeful torches of an approaching search party.

Someone thankfully has the bright notion to glance at a watch, and we are corralled back up the street, back into the Cathay.

But by now the bridge is guarded by a new troll, malodorous as a goat, witty as a Catskills headliner: ElDuce!

Drummer of the The Mentors, victim of Courtney Love, ElDuce was the soul of that little stretch of Hollywood. Oh, he might stop you at the door and threaten to pull out your lower lip with the pliers in his back pocket, or wave his precious pecker at the ladies in your group.

But by the end of the night, you could usually find him curled up inside the front door, naked as an innocent baby and snoring through the sweet dreams of the blessed!

So you played your sloppy set and dreaded the thought of hauling the gear back up those stairs, but really— where else would ya rather be?

And if you were lucky, the doors would already be locked, and you were invited to stay for an after hours session, only to emerge blinking and reeling into the bright sunlight of another Hollywood morning.

And then you’d put on the sunglasses that you knew you might very well need when you grabbed them the night before:

On your way out for a night in Hollywood, our Hollywood.

Oh those golden puffs of wheat
Got a crunch that’s crisp and bold
Gets me moving and a grooving
With a taste that’s solid gold!

Say, what’s that yer sayin?…….
is that what you wanna know?

Milton? Rimbaud?

Perhaps a few penciled lines, scrawled on the margins of a Racing Form discovered next to Bukowski’s cooling corpse?

I read those four lines over once again, trying to memorize their genius stupidity and trying to find the meter of the bizarre stanza.

We are sitting there, Kimm to my right and Jay to my left, in the polished reception of a mid-Wilshire casting office.
The year, I’m putting this right around Spring 1985 or so, judging by the wardrobe:

Kimm’s hair is freshly bleached out and teased to impressive heights.
Jay has on 4 clashing silk scarves and is wearing a neon night-crawler fishing lure as an earring.
I heft one white cowboy boot over a seat arm, gouging the Naugahyde mortally with a proper English style riding spur.

And we’re waiting in this lobby to read for a commercial.

That’s right, so sue us already!

See, we were in the middle of our hey, nobody gives a fuck about us, so we don’t give a fuck what they think! phase of our career, when the punks had enough of the harmonica solos and midtempo weepers and left us for dead.

Aimless, restless, we worked on new songs that amused only ourselves during the days, and played sets at The Music Machine under phony names at night.

Oh, are Straight Edged Feminists playing the Machine again tonight?
The Rodeo Clowns opening up another show already??

Yep, that was us.

We played undercover since the clubs didn’t want any punks to show up and trash the bathrooms, but truthfully we didn’t want any punks to show up just to be disappointed and weeping in the parking lot, left shattered by the sight of their once fave hardcore punks dressed like trapeze artists.

We had some new manager, someone who I’d certainly never met, and he had directed Kimm to round us up and report to this address on a Wednesday afternoon.
Seems that Post was going to go a little sleazier in the new campaign to get kids to eat their crap!

Rockers in commercials?
Oh, we heard the legend a million times, about how the goddamn Police dyed their hair specifically for a Wrigley’s Gum commercial…and look at them now!
Why, there’s no harm done…in fact, this will be a good thing!

We looked around the lobby and saw a couple other groups of groups here for the same gig. A few of them, the other unlucky singers, studied the lyrics while the rest of their band members were teasing hair and putting on more eyeliner or rummaging through impressive looking makeup chests.

I put my sunglasses back on and popped a zit, about the best I could do…

A set of double doors opened and out came a glammy looking quartet, all black hair and Cuban heels.
Jay knew some of the guys—of course!—turns out it was Candy, a great pop group that’s probably best remembered as Gilby Clarke’s band back then…..

They looked drunk, happily disgusted, and way comfortable in their carefully sloppy outfits.

See, that’s how it goes for little guys, am I right?

Us big guys, well, we try to glam it up and we end up less like Michael Monroe, more like Rip Taylor, ya know?

Someone actually fired up a salon-rated blow dryer in the lobby at this point, and I started feeling a little sick.
How had we got here?

The current commercial was running and we’d seen it: Bruce Springsteen fantasy based in a military boarding shool, all homoerotic undertone, corn syrup and subliminal directive:

And then someone calls out, Channel Three! and we’re next.

I dunno, I was expecting some sort of stage set up, at least some unplugged guitars to hold or a mic stand.
But instead we entered the room to find a man and woman seated on folding chairs facing a table, a wall.
She, all frizzed red hair and bitten down finger nails.
He, J Crew and Topsiders, clearly unamused with his career path.

“Alright then, you are……Channel Three, is that it?”
The redhead marked off a tick on the clipboard and stuck a raw cuticle back in her mouth.

We nodded, and I suddenly regretted not having the Rodeo Clowns come in for this gig in our stead.

“Hah.. okay, funny name. So why don’t you just go ahead and we’ll run through it one time, ok?”

There was one video camera set up, maybe a couple lights, a boombox on another chair.
And that was it.
They hit a button on the boombox and the room was now filled with that goddamn jingle.
And then we started to…..forgive me! rock out.

Imagine if you can, the sight of us jumping up and down in an empty office room.
I’m lip synching those inane lyrics which are now and forever burned into my brain.
Jay does a Townshendian windmill with nothing at all in his paws: air guitar, I believe that’s what you kids call it today.

And Kimm, I think they made him do one take playing air drums, and then another, God Bless him!, where he had to hunch over and play an air keyboard!
He looked like a grumpy Republican, typing out an angry Letter to the Editor in the middle of the night.

The music stopped and we avoided looking at each other while they rewound the cassete for another take…this time you, the tall one….you play the drums, kay?

We had sucked on the cock of the Sugar Bear, it was neither sweet nor crisp……..Bitter, oh, it was bitter!

On the car ride home, we were quiet.
It would be a good story, some day.

But how about we not talk about it for now….to anybody!

Surprisingly, we got a callback, but in the end it was Candy that got the gig. Naturally.

Yet sometimes there I’ll be: Albertson’s on a Monday night, pushing a cart loaded with barely drinkable Zinfadels and 2 for 1 cannisters of solid albacore.

Life seems never more routine than when you are in the Supermarket, where you measure your immediate future in the meals and guilty desserts that you will consume in another identical week.
We eat this food and crap it out, and mark another day off the calendar, that much closer to the end.

But I’ll pause, sometimes, in the cereal aisle, and look into the heavy-lidded stoner gaze of that goddamned bear.
And I’ll think, if just for a moment, what could have been if I would’ve worn the eyeliner with just that much more faith.

Well, well—The ol’ blog-o-meter clicks over to post #100 today, eh?

The goddamn Century Entry (huh? huh?) , if you will.

As I look back on these webpages of text and photos, one thing becomes instantly apparent:
Anthony and I desperately need some new t shirts!

It’s been swell, really, to have this forum to jot down some thoughts and memories.
After all, it surely won’t be long before the Alzheimer’s and Syphillis catches up to us, and these fleeting images will be stripped from Amygdala and Hippocampus alike.

But there we’ll be, pawing at drool covered Ipads in the Punk Rock Retirement Center, able to relive those glory days with the palsied swipe of a jaundiced fingertip!

Oh, we have history all right.
Let’s look back on the earliest CH3 blog entry on record, recently discovered in a cave deep in the Borneo Rainforest:

We soon discovered what an invaluable tool a blog could be for promotion and information!
With technological advances, we were able to bring our devoted readers up to date with timely previews of tour dates and gig reviews……

Of course, we were archiving our adventures long before this inter-web thingy took to the ether.
Have a gander at the original CH3 tour diary:

Although it looks like any regular semen-encrusted notepad you might find tucked under an adolescent boy’s pillow, within these crumbling pages a thousand nights of punk heroics comes to life!

A lifetime together, you tend to collect.

Flyers and photos, a guitar pick from Rick Neilsen….Jay’s thinning scissors.
Guitar cord stolen from Youth Brigade, a photo of Danzig driving the blue and white van, seat all the way up.

The digital revolution saw all of these tangible things—words, music, photos–sent through a Seussian hopper, only to emerge as a blinking series of 1’s and 0’s.

Gone were the days of cutting and pasting—with actual scissors and glue, goddamnit!–a flyer for the show in 2 weeks.
Making telephone calls to book tour dates, staying out after the streetlights flickered to life.

Now we create an event on Facebook, invite a thousand people we’ve never met with the press of a keystroke-cntrl-I, and then blog about how shitty the soundman was 36 hours later.

But we’ve come to embrace these technologies, and the exciting opportunities on the horizon!

Of course, just as with any poorly written sitcom, once you hit the hundredth episode,
it’s ka-ching baby!
I’m talking syndicated reruns of course!

We’ve already signed a lucrative deal to start 5pm reruns on Facebook and Ask Jeeves, as well as a Japanese version of the blog to be produced immediately!

And with the animation market red hot these days, plans are already in motion for the new CH3 blog animated series!
As we speak, 3 dozen South Korean animators are busily preparing the cels for the upcoming 20 minute web series.

Here’s a little sneak peek at an upcoming episode: