As a kid–and this is the 60’s I’m talkin about, natch!~-San Francisco seemed like an evil and twisted place.

All we knew of the fog shrouded Gomorrah up yonder came from Dirty Harry Movies, newsclips of moustachioed biker gays dancing with smelly looking hippies, and of course, the Zodiac Killer!

To a sheltered suburban child, it was a frightening thought to visit this place.

(Of course, the stacks of R. Crumb comics that my older brothers brought home from secret visits to the Head Shops on Haight brought a begrudging consolation!)

Oh sure, Ghiradelli and the Cannery were jolly distractions.
But still, you had the feeling, even when walking hand in hand with Ma along the tourist trap haven of Fisherman’s Wharf, that at any second you could be snatched from parent and swept away to the bowels of Chinatown to serve out your youth as a sex slave – or worse! – kitchen worker!

Then there was that maniacal 30 degree intersection of Columbus and Broadway, where the city proudly advertised its sleaze with signage that thrust phallically into the inky skies above!

Ah, but punk rock changed all that–doesn’t it always?!

How we grew to love that intersection, as The Mabuhay and later, On Broadway became our favorite clubs away from home!
–

Yeah, and I’m not the only one to look back fondly on those times and places.
That Jennifer Egan pulled down nothing less than a goddamn Pulitzer with her recollections of blow –and blowjobs!– at the Mab, it only leaves the rest of us wondering if we shared such clarity and romance back then…..nah!

Too busy destroying our rooms at the Broadway Manor and running from Beer Truck drivers, sweating flats of 24 Budweisers in hand!

We fell in love with the city and took the slightest excuse to come back.
Through the years, circumstances changed, the band rode waves of popularity and ridicule, yet that nutty town stayed there, just how we liked it, reliable and comforting as a childhood memory that is recalled during crackling thunderstorms.

*
*
*
*
We’ve left the TV on, again, and I wake to RamboII on the box.

Oh, Rambo, you yoked up vigilante, we love ya!
The fellas all stir as our favorite scene comes on: Rambo actually jumps out of the water and straight into a helicopter—Swear to God!
And this is before CGI, people!

It is a fresh Sunday morning in Berkeley with the day off, so we jumped out of jammies, wet down the cowlicks, and made straight for the city!!!

Well, after a civilized panaderia and carnitas breakfast at Casa Latina , of course….

And, yeah, maybe a few dreadful chicken strips from Popeyes for the walk to the BART, yeh?

Off at Powell, and after a quick bathroom break at the venerable Gold Dust Lounge (where, swear to god–they mistook us for firemen! No, we did not correct them!)—it was straight to Jack Kerouac Alley.

Ah, that glorious strip of pavement, where we used to illegally park a van loaded with amps before they put up the goddamn street lamps.
You go in one door, into City Lights Bookstore to stock up on yer Black Sparrow soft covers, and then it’s just a 12 stride jaunt across to Vesuvio’s to stock up on Anchor Steam and Jameson!

Is there anything better, really, than to sit up on the second floor of Vesuvio’s on a sunny Sunday afternoon?

The gas lamps flicker just below, and you sit there amongst pals with only pints of pale ales and the rusting bonds of time between ya.
Heaven, I tell ya!

Good news! Jet Blue has delayed the 6:30pm flight to 9:45, leaving ample time to get across town to meet up with the Doormats crew @ Zeitgeist .
Hell, we even have time to stop into Bings and let the boys roam the whack shacks for a while!

A cramped cab ride across town and we hit Valencia and Duboce as the day cools.
The joint looks quiet from the street—it always does.

But through the bar and out to the patio, and now you know where the survivors spend their Sunday afternoons, healing the wounds of Saturday night and bracing for another week in front of the digital monitor!

Smart phones chime, as Jet Blue has delayed the flight yet again.

We toast this good news with our pals and the same old stories are told again, louder and brighter.
Pitchers are brought in quads, 2 to a fist, and the empties are drained up to make room.

It’s all laughter and tears now:
We sit at our picnic tables like excited third graders at lunch on a Friday: Pizza Day!

The shadows climb the walls and someone looks at a watch and makes calculations:
Back over the bridge to the BART to pick up the car, drive to the airport in time to be fondled and abused by security: We gotta go!
We head inside for one last round with our Northern pals, and plans are made to meet again, and let’s not make it too long mate!

EPILOGUE:

Monday morning and I open my eyes expecting the familiarity of my bedroom, perhaps the soulful eyes of my dog abandoned these past few days.

But no.

I am in a corporate hotel in Oakland.
Still in the Bay area, we somehow missed our flight home.

I turn and see Kimm snoring peacefully on the next bed.
He has apparently traded clothes and is now wearing a dazzling Ed Hardy t-shirt that bears a silver foil tiger.
The big cat’s eyes seem to follow me as I make it unsteadily out of bed and look into the mirror.

I am shirtless, and have a red necktie on.
On my head.

I recall something about making it to the airport too late, being given a boarding pass for the next morning and being led gently out to the curb.

We stand on the sidewalk near midnight now, wondering what to do next.
A clattering above, there is a helicopter busy overhead: not unusual for Oakland.

That’s when the red tie ended up on forehead.

And being Rambo, after all, I jumped for the helicopter.

I jumped again, again, and finally grabbed the spindly rail.
Larger in diameter than it looked from the ground, the powdercoated tubing feels thick in hand.
I adjust my grip and hold on tight.

The whirlybird takes me up, and away, and soon we were breaching the black water below.
We fly back again, back toward the glistening lights of that city.

I wasn’t, apparently, ready to go home.
Not yet.

Oh sure.
Nowdays, you spoiled brats have your punk-o-matic festivals to choose from:
Warped Tour, Riotfest, Fun Fest, Punk Rock Bowling, Tampax Presents Punk in the Sun Fest, blah,blah……

Alright suckers, but in our good old days we had the Anaheim Stadium concert series, where five bucks would get you free overnight camping, a long day in the sun capped by Nuge and KISS, not to mention the chance to make out with slutty hippy chicks by the bathroom!

Oh, I think we know who wins, hmmm?

But let’s go back to Berkeley, circa 1982, to one of the first punk fests we can remember: The Eastern Front!

It was a strange affair, our first time playing on that side of the Bay Bridge, our first outdoor day fest.
Our first, yet not by far last time playing on the flatbed of an 18 wheeler!

We pulled in early to the open dirt field and scanned the scorched landscape: We were playing where?

But the day progressed into a pretty fun affair, with the usual hijinks:
Duane and Larry catch and slaughter a gopher.
Duane and Larry tip a port a potty over with some poor soul locked inside.

Big John Macias has to step in and stop a crowd from murdering Duane and Larry.

Good Times…..

So it’s with these fond memories that we leave San Francisco and our sparkling chums at Thee Parkside and make our way back to Berkeley for the evening gig.

We check into the charming Golden Bear and head over to 924 Gilman Street.

When booking road gigs, we ask the usual questions:
Have ya got a backline we can borrow?
Are there any decent Vietnamese Crawfish joints nearby?
And say, how many drink tickets can ya cough up?

Say What?

No Bar? What kind of place ya running here bub?!

But they were ready for us, with assurances that– no, while Gilman doesn’t have a bar– there’s a whole goddamn brewery across the street.

That’ll do!

We meet up with the Doormats and crew, as well as new artist pals Rich Jacobs and Chris Shary for a little pregame tuneup!

The food, conversation and filtered Hefeweizen has us all in a jolly mood once again, but it’s time to cross the street and check into the club:

We wander the club holding bottles of water between index finger and thumb, as if they were biohazardous urine samples from tranny crackwhores.

We are not at all in our element, in this all-ages politically correct co-op, but then we remember the plan and go into the storied bathroom of 924 Gilman!

And there, sure enough, taped to the back of the toilet tank is a jewel-like half pint of God’s Mercy in a bottle!

Now properly aligned, we climb the legendary Gilman stage and blast through the oldies!

We’re chugging along alright, I’m thinking, when the tempo starts slowing.
We play Manzanar at 3/4 speed, and during No Love, the song breaks down in the middle completely, grinds to a halt, and refuses to start up again.

We turn in unison and look at the drummer who is no longer drumming:
Alf sits upon his throne motionless.
Pale as a trust-fund Caucasian, and gasping for air.

He has forgotten his asthma inhaler back at the motel!

Ya know, I’ve heard of rock stars that collect the tokens of adoration tossed up on stage:
Hotel room keys.
Stuffed Animals.
And sure–panties!

But ladies and gents, let me tell you about a historic night when a blessed fan tossed an honest-to-God Advair Inhaler up to the drum kit, and saved the show!!

We finish the set, we have a blast.
We sell every last bit of merch at half cost and adjourn down the street to the Albatross for a jolly nightcap!

We head back to the motel for a heated discussion on the new Planet of the Apes film and its inherent fascist implications.
The discussion turns into wrestling and arm punching, and it is time to put this long ass day out of it’s misery!

We drift off to sleep, and spend a tortured night dreaming of talking chimps and tater tots, giant buckets of Miller High Life and empty asthma cartidges.

It will be morning soon enough, and plans have been made to meet up with our pals back in the city for a leisurely day of sight seeing, maybe a cocktail or two, nothing major.

Or so we thought!

Alright wiseguys, we’re back—though none too happy about it!

Oh, we’ve been getting the usual snarky remarks lately:
Sheesh, 2 months without an entry?
What the hell? What is this, just another punker blog abandoned?

The words suddenly dried up, like one of Courtney Love’s tweets that disintegrate into an indecipherable trail of asterisks and ampersands while she nods off on a barstool at The Roosevelt?

Ah, shut the fuck up, we hear ya.
Yeah, yeah, I know you just got that new Android 4G, and ya just can’t wait to break it out in the men’s crapper, necktie draped over shoulder, and waste precious company time readin about yer old pals.

Just look at ya! Don’t you know there’s a goddamn recession goin on???

When we last left our heroes in June, Summer was just a young pup.
And as we stood on Santa Monica blvd that evening long ago, the days growing longer and the prospect of the Angels and Dodgers meeting in the World Series still a possibility (Har-fucking-Har), we planned on making the most of a Summer off the road.

We were definitely gonna get back in the studio, finish up a few tracks and have a new album ready for the Fall!
Maybe a new Tshirt design, yeah, that’s it. Something that combines Anime art and Olde English lettering maybe? We’ll get right on that!

And howsabout the CH3 Book Club finally tackles Ulysses, eh? Perfect time!

Yeah, well.

So what did we accomplish this Summer?
Well, unless you consider reaching level 36 on Nazi Zombies and being at The Goat Hill Tavern every weekday for Founder’s Hour as stunning achievements, I think you got yer answer.

So when we received word to report to the Bay area for some gigs in August, it was with a weary sigh that we put down the remote, said goodbye to Shark Week and replaced rusty guitar strings.

But just like Zep in The Song Remains the Same, we crumpled the telegrams from Peter Grant with steely resolve, kissed the families goodbye and headed back into the glare of the stage lights!

A quick jaunt up the 5 and we’re there in no time.
Of course, half your travel time is waiting in line to cross the motherfuckin’ Bay Bridge on a Saturday afternoon.

Ah, the Bay Bridge.
Where humanity meets for lunch, where the yuppies and pervs, hippies and gangsters are all blended and funneled into the community they call home!

It’s a matinee at the beloved Thee Parkside first up on the agenda, and we crash through the doors breathlessly to catch our pals The Doormats rippin through their set:

The fellas are sounding better than ever, playing well…perhaps a little too well, hmmm?
They get off stage to a rousing ovation and we immediately accost them and accuse them of actually practicing for this gig. Shameful!

We stumble through our set, managing to remember every other lyric and missing the proper guitar chords by only a half step.
We gasp for air between songs and beg for merciful beers, but the discerning matinee crowd stands with arms crossed and makes us play the songs two, sometimes three times in a row until we get them right!

But it all comes back soon enough, and we play I Got a Gun for the official 13,457th time before jumping off the riser and making for the glorious patio on a warm Saturday afternoon:

Ah, to be there surrounded by precious friends on a stunning SF afternoon.

We toast the day with buckets of Miller, and toss toasty tater tots high in the blue sky before catching them in mouth: Hungry birds waiting for mama to regurgitate greasy salty goodness into gaping beak!

Kimm and I head upstairs to do a quick interview with our old pal Mike for Radio The Way You Like It.

We’re distracted, though, as we can hear the laughter of chums and the openings of bottles just out the window.
We chat a bit more, and then head back to the patio to enjoy the waning day.

The afternoon progresses in the usual fashion:

It’s been grand, and as the sky darkens we head back into the club to pack up the gear and load it out once again.
It would be nice, wouldn’t it?– to spend the rest of the day in the city, eating and sipping our way into a blissful coma state to match these last couple months off.

But no.
It’s back across the Bridge yet again, and another show tonight in Berkeley.

Seems like the Bay is not done with us just yet, not by a long shot.

We’ve been on a good tear lately, yeah?

Was it really only three weeks ago when we sat on the sunny riverbank of Vieux Port de Montréal , sipping on 7% ales and letting those gravy moistened frites slide down the gullet?

And then, with barely ebough time to wash the gravy stains out of the pants and Lipitor our cholesterol levels back into acceptable range, it was off to Punk Rock Bowling!

*sigh*

Fuckin’ PR Bowling.

The less said about it the better, really.

More a physical endurance test than a music festival, this year’s tournament had us literally spread across the city, Jagerbombed Zombies wandering in any direction the fierce Devil Winds cared to push us!

The usual damages:

A mysterious new chip has appeared on lateral incisor.

We are now Facebook friends with three separate women named Dixie.

A dozen Rhode Island gypsies appear on Alf’s front porch, having accepted his gracious invitation to come stay with him over the Summer.

But cell phones are replaced, bass players are eventually located.
And just 4 days later we are recovered sufficiently enough to report to our beloved Long Beach Airport for a quick overnighter at Rip’s Cocktails and Ales in Phoenix for a gig with our pals The Freeze:

It turns out that a sweaty packed gig in 102 degree temps is exactly what we needed.
The hard earned toxins purged from our sweating vessels, we rush to replenish with gallons of PBR and a final stop at Jack in the Box for dozens of mystery meat tacos!

As day breaks over an already scorching Phoenix moonscape, we stir in our nests of fast food wrappers.

There’s an early flight home, time for a shower and a bowl of restorative ceviche before heading into Westwood for the Rhino Pop Up Store Posh Boy Records event!

Well.
A full day honoring Posh Boy Records ya say?
How times have changed!

Is there another L.A. record label, another man! that stirs up so many passionate feelings in the ‘ol punker community?

Maybe, but work with me here, people.

It wasn’t that long ago (alright, alright–so maybe it was!) that the mere mention of Posh Boy Records would cause any hipster in the room to launch into an uninformed tirade about how Robbie ripped off their friends, how he stole the artwork done by his sister, how he burned the crops back yonder of Pappy’s farm….sheesh!

Yeah, well.
It’s like the old saw about infamous Studio 54…if you have a story about being there, you probably weren’t!

But like the survivors of a playful hurricane that came through town and only smashed the VFW Hall, these bands gathered here today looked back proudly –fondly! on those Posh years.

We huddle together in the green room and tell stories of hard-won royalty checks and magical recording sessions, show scars on barroom elbows and photos of adolescent children……

The day is a benefit for the MusiCares foundation as well, and we were honored to be part of it.

MusiCares?
Oh, it’s a worthy cause, alright.

Don’t we all know that guy, that one guy?

Useless as a human being, lacking the proper attention span to park a car between the lines or balance a checkbook, this character can somehow pick up a cheap Korean guitar and make it sound orgasmic.

Yeh–that’s called a musician.

The sad fact is that a lot of these chaps have neither the luck or looks to get in on Keesha’s touring outfit, nor the aptitude to work at Payless Shoe Source.

And then what?
Yeh, you got it.

That guy who’s been snoring on your couch the last couple months and drinking all the orange juice?
That’s a musician!

Donate if ya get the chance—-
Musicians aren’t exactly known for their swelling Roth IRA’s or their keen ability at daytrading, ya got me?

MusiCares provides a bit of relief for those cats down on their luck.

Besides, if you don’t keep this organization going, guess who’s coming to stay in the spare bedroom while they wait for their licensing check from Gossip Girl, hmm?
Say it with me:
A musician!

Turned out to be just a great evening.
And funny, just like last year’s OC Slam, we’ve brought in a new season with The Crowd!

The day finally gives in, and we huddle outside by the food truck.

We’re off for a bit, and excited about it.
Between bites off chewy Banh Mi, we talk of vacation plans, tickets to ballgames.

We’re perched on the eve of another Summer, and the gentle evening breeze off Santa Monica holds not only the scent of curry chicken, but the promise of long warm days ahead.

*additional photos courtesy of Lisa Hood Regalado, BigWheelMedia and Myles Regan

Again?

Sheesh. I think by now you good people could write yer own goddamn CH3 weekend roundups, couldn’t ya??

Oh, go on…… It’s easy!
All ya gotta do is throw up a few photos— (mostly baskets of greasy food and Alf flippin off my camera)– jot down some wiseass cracks about growing old and drinking in airport bars.
Throw in a few Gaaaaas! and yer all done!

Hell, when ya think about it, we don’t even have to take these trips anymore, really.

Send out the cardboard cutouts like Flat Stanley, have the locals take a few snaps of us in the local dives, and presto: instant road trip!
Genius!

Oh, alright then. One more time.
But you kids are on your own after this one!

We push off from the new Terminal 4 lounge at Long Beach Airport and take to the cloudy skies again!

Easy hop to Seattle, rent a pimped out Dodge Caravan and it’s 5 South toward Portland for us.

Oh. Excuse me, Your Majesty!
Has it really been 3 paragraphs without a picture of goddamn food????

Quick stop at the 4th Avenue Tavern in Olympia, they of the three dollar Stellas and kitchen sink cheeseburgers.
They have to drag us out clutching to barstools and throw us back on the road again.

Pull into PDX on the way into town to pick up Mr. Robinson.
It’s been far too long, a fact we are reminded of by Chris’ shockingly gray beard.

But a few pints down in The Annex’s cozy cellar, and it’s apparent that none of us has matured beyond the state of 14 year old hillbillies.
The fart jokes are appreciatively more vivid, however.

Into Plan B on a Friday night, in time to see Rum Rebellion workin the crowd into a frenzy!

We love this place!
Next up is Clackamass baby Killers, and then it’s that time.
We get up there and do our schtick.

Onto the glorious Slow Bar for after gig wind down, late night snacks of the pig variety and call it a night.

Saturday morning comes all too fast.
Amidst the usual a.m. sounds, coughing and farting, cell phones chirping and maids knocking far too loudly, we stir.

We make plans to meet locals Jeff and Wendy at a fine dining establishment on the outskirts of town before heading once again North.

The drive is easy, but the clouds hang low.
Chris is not feeling quite his usual sunny self, and only precious hours will reveal his funk to be either a friendly hangover or a contagious virus.

Ah well. Breathe deep!

We hit Seattle early, only to discover our beloved Dome Tavern has been shuttered!

Heartbroken, we drive onto the Ferry pier and load onto the 4:35 for Bremerton.

The hour long float across Puget Sound is invigorating!
It’s our same dear Pacific, yes.
But the verdant land masses, the cathedrals of pine around us—-all foreign and beautiful.

We stare out at cozy cottages on the loamy banks.
Stone chimneys send lazy wisps of woodsmoke into the sky: carelessly serpentine as the signature on a drunken businessman’s tab after a long afternoon in a strip club.

Alright then, it’s back on terra firma and over to the very cool Charleston to check things out.

Our gracious host Andy welcomes us into the converted movie theatre, which hosts all ages shows as well as a well-stocked bar.
Are we in heaven??

It’s a loose Saturday night crowd.
And though I know we are actually on a connected land mass just miles across from Seattle, it feels as though we are trapped with these jolly souls on our own island!

After The Assasinators destroy the joint, it’s yer old pals that climb the stage stairs.

Ah geeez. It’s all going by too quick now.
We get off stage and chat away what’s left of the night with a great crew.

We’re sent back into the night once again, grinning like idiots.

As we pull into the Super 8, we see a Denny’s sign across the parking lot.
No.
God no.

Yes?

We justify a light late night snack in a half dozen ways:
Helps absorb the alcohol!
We’ll eat tonight and then nothing tomorrow!
I already barfed once tonight, I’m primed!

We head in and tuck napkin to chin.

Sunday it is.

Chris feels no better.
He’s actually sick, it seems, and though we all now feel bad for calling him a pussy and cry baby, we don’t apologize.
C’mon—we’re guys!

He feels like hell, but selfishly, it was grand having him along. Just like old times.

Back to the boat toward Seattle fellas!

We put Chris on his plane and make our way onto ours.
We take to the stratosphere again, and we each pull on headphones as soon as Sportscenter flickers on the screen in front of our knees.

It’s a gradual decompression, this auditory separation from the dear knuckleheads sitting within elbow distance.
We’re getting ready for re-entry into reality.

We’re on the ground in Long Beach with plenty of daylight left.
And though Kimm protests, I persuade him into a quick stop at Alex’s, where they’re hosting an all day Benefit Show For Japan.
Hell, we got the guitars, maybe we can even do a few songs, hmmmm?

But we get there and it’s a different crowd, after all.
Younger, hipper.
Cleaner.

But it was worth a shot, if only to make another grand weekend last that much longer.

Sittin here, Long Beach Airport, cloudy Friday morning.
Waiting on the 11:40 non stop to Seattle.
Thank God they’ve let Legends come in and give us a curved blonde bar with a view of the runway– although the dark little hallway you used to sink Bloody Marys was pretty fun too.
Nothing like drinking overpriced cocktails at a rudely early hour with other drunks and nervous travelers!
I mean, where else can you go through three 22 oz Sam Adams at this hour without feeling like the lush you really are, hmmm?

Maybe the trips aren’t quite as arduous or often as they once were, but we do alright.
Nowdays, a long weekend qualifies as a tour. Jet Blue out of LB for a leisurely lunch and soundcheck. Maybe a show in another town Saturday, eat where the locals tell us, drink where they tell us not to.
Home Sunday evening in time to watch the East Coast feed of Californication before turning in for the night.
Easy.

But there was a time when we were true road animals, just itching to be out there in the wilds of America.
We’d count the days til the next jaunt with a wild gleam in our eyes, like landlocked sailors whiling away each dry day in a dockside pub: one eye on the glistening ocean, feeling the rough caress of tackle and block even as they pawed at the moist crotch of the shanty whore.

Of course, you wouldn’t always face the road by yourselves.
Besides taking the roadie and merch guy, often you were joined by another band for a tour, or maybe just for a week- long stretch.

Anyway, you get stuck, by promoter or booking agent, with another band for a stretch, and sometimes it goes well, other times…meh.
We onced played through Texas with Husker Du, this was at the very earliest stages of both our bands.
Serious musicians with a strong work ethic—them, not us, silly! —they seemed bewildered, and not in the least amused by our antics.

Surely we should’ve known, even then, that certain bands have the outlook of Blackwater operatives, solemnly showing up to do the job, get paid, and get out of town in the cover of night.

Other bands? Well, let’s just say they treat a jaunt out of town as a free vacation, and they behave accordingly:

We have favorite bands to play with, yeh!
Our pals Kraut on the East coast, Doormats in the Bay area, maybe Youth Brigade— as long as Shawn is quiet, which means sucking face with a skank in the corner.

But it was Stretchmarks, those fearsome men out of the frozen North, that beared witness to some of our finest hours, as well as our most shameful, and yet still miraculously! count us as friends to this day.

The Stretchers first came into view on the BYO Comp, and somehow, it was decided that they would accompany us as for a bit on the loooong 1983 Lights Out tour.

Our shyness with the new guys faded quickly, by about the second piss stop on the way out of town halfway to Tucson, when I pulled the ol Knock Knock-Who’s There?-John-John Who?-John the Baptist! joke on manger Matt, and sprayed a full beer up his nose.

By Dallas, Mark, the maniacal bass player (fittingly dubbed Terror by then), was convinced him to shave off his eyebrows.
No problem, really, as we would apply electrical tape to his brow each evening–inverted for angry, or at an obtuse angle for bewildered!

We traipsed through the Southwest like brothers, spending a long weekend in Austin with the Big Boys.

And then it was off to the natural wilds of Woodshock Festival, an anarchistic collective of clattering generators and burnt out malcontents.
The highlight of the day was when I jumped off a 80 ft cliff, hand in hand with Mark, into the murky green quarry water below.

Of course, we were there to play music, not just braid each others’ hair and tell ghost stories. Though there was a lot of that!

A great team—They’d set em up, and we’d knock em down, The Stretchmarks coming out each night and roaring through their Hardcore manifesto!
Unfortunately, we never got a chance to actually see them play, as we were always out in the van listening to Prince or sneaking cases of beer out the back door of the club….

They’d come out, sweaty and winded, as we’d be trying to learn the chords to Little Red Corvette in the Blue and White.
Oh well–we’ll catch ya next gig, promise!
heh.

In the years that followed, we met again for a few shows.
They cheerfully put up with our growing hair, and just shook their heads with a wistful smile when I’d pull a harmonica out of a cowboy boot in front of a crowd of spitting punkers.
And though they probably thought, what the fuck are these guys doing?, they still bought us a beer when they sold all their merch and we forgot to bring any!

Punk Rock Bowling has become the high school reunion for aging punkers, and I can’t wait for the day that they start to include seminars on Medi-Cal for the punker or demonstrations on how to remove bad Social D Skeletons from your sagging triceps.

But it was here that we finally reconnected with our chums. They looked great, to a man, just great.
We all reconnected, marveled at times past and present situations.
We told them how we were a serious band now. This punk was a business afterall!

And then they just smiled and shook their heads as we proceeded to get blasted in front of them once again, and they’d wheel us to our rooms and tuck us in.
Just like ol times!

But the following year, a monumental event, they reunited to actually play at the Festival!!

I hear they were great, but I think we were in the circle bar when they played …..
We’ll catch ya next time though, promise!

So.
A holiday that celebrates drunkeness and public urination?
The chance to revel in our Anglo roots, the closest thing we have to a Politically Correct KKK Rally in downtown Boston?
The chance to drink warm green beer in overcrowded bars that just happen to have Irish family names hanging out front?

And most importantly, the chance to later urintate in shocking hues of emerald, again, in a public place?

Count us in , Brother!

Ah, what is it about celebrating the Irish culture make us want to drink to blackout?

Oh, it starts off charming enough:
The tacky green decorations in the office, some playful pinches to the naughty co-workers who insist they’re wearing green underwear.

Let’s give it ’til quittin time, after that 3 hour lunch at Hennessy’s, and the office is now decorated in green vomit and discarded blouses.
A sexual harrasment lawsuit is already being faxed in to corporate HR.

Yes, it’s the luck of the Irish that we get the holiday that sends DUI arrests and spousal abuse reports into the triple digits!

Oh come on! ya tell me. It’s not all that bad, is it? Don’t we use this day to also celebrate the culture and food of the Isle?

The food ya say?
Corned beef, is that what you’re talking about?
—-the slut of the barnyard, just what is this hunk of cow, eh?

Usually appearing in the meat case around this time of year for a crazy low price, you’ll find it vacuum packed, swimming in a disgusting bath of goo and pickling spices.
The barcode grimy and faded, expiration date handily smudged indelible: This one looks like a winnner!

Oh, I’m sure finer cuts of beef are available from a reputable butcher, but don’t bother.
After all, we’re talking about a meal that is meant to be eaten while you are drunk off your ass.

That’s why the long cooking time, dont ya see?
Throw this flesh in a pot, cover it with a Guinness and you’re free to sip away the afternoon.
You slip down to Main Street while the grisly meat boils down to stringy goodness. It’s the magic of the moist heat that does the handy magic whilst you battle the wobbling crowds at O’Malleys!

And the culture?
Oh man, where do we start?

Our fearless heroes, once legends of the bog and dell, are reduced to mere cartoon characters!

I know, I know…….

I’m as guilty as any for being a sucker for The Dropkicks or Floggy M.
Once that mournful tin whistle kicks in, it’s all hugs and Jameson-flavored tears!

But hasn’t this whole punky-Irish bastardization been done to death?
I get the uneasy feeling that all these hipsters who learned to play the banjo will soon be losing the Brit driving caps, growing a beard, and moving to Brooklyn to join the next Mumford and Sons!

The rivers turn green, the bars assign bouncers at the door at 6 a.m.
Secretaries leave work early to get drunk with their bosses, the shameful Friday-morning greetings and shared toothbrushes be damned!
The day has become a confusing mash of Mardi Gras and Halloween!

I blame it all on the booze companies.
Like the master pimps at Hallmark, who’ve shamed a nation into showering Mom with meaningless crap and enduring those bland Black Angus brunches on Mother’s Day, the beer companies know exactly what they’re doing!

But hell, pass up a weekday holiday that celebrates early drinking and fatty foods?
You mean, like a normal weekend trip with an aging punk rock band, hmmmm?
Not us!

Have you ever heard that old saw?
The one about professional drinkers leaving St Pats to the amateurs?
Yeah, those are the bitter old fucks that just hate to see their local dive get a little business for once.

A true drinker doesn’t give a shit what day it is.

So let’s celebrate this day with the masses, enjoy a few hardy rounds while wearing a blinking plastic shamrock weasled off the skank from Anheuser Busch.
Besides, those college kids get a little careless with the extra jello shot and the change from a twenty left on the bar, if ya catch my drift!

And yes, we’ll remember our ancestors, who came to this great land amidst starvation and poverty, and flourished anew by sweat and ingenuity.
For, after all—aren’t we all a wee bit Irish on this day?

But let’s have a little dignity out there, people!
We’re not going to be manipulated into drinking our selves sick in the name of heritage, now are we?

Until Cinco De Mayo, vatos!
Órale!