Said farewell to New Haven and headed back to NYC, regretfully to drop off Beenie as he does not have the proper papers to make it across the pond with us this time around.
Who knew having a brief past in porn would keep you within borders?! Porn name: Cummin O'Brien
Into the city for a last burger with Dermott at the Paris House:
Then a fond farewell to Bean Boy and family, before we all head out to our prospective airports.
Kimm and I prefer JFK with their new dining options, heading into the night sky on American and Virgin Atlantic respectively,
But the fellas will have nothing but Continental and good ol Newark as their stepping off point….don’t ask me why!
...and this is fuckin' business class!
We make plans to meet up at the Heathrow Express Terminal in the morning, and also solemn pinky promises not to rat out on each other if someone gets caught without those pesky work permits!
It’s a quick flight over, as we are used to those 11 hour marathons from LAX.
Turns out it’s only, what? like six fuckin hours from New York?? How’s that work?
Barely enough time to sip a smart martini at the Virgin Upper Class Lounge and read the Journal and yer already there!
Turns out the brief flight works against us, as we each meet at Paddington Station and discover no one got any sleep on the flight over either!
Ah well, we’ve been here before. Cat Naps in the station and in the pub and in the train and in the club, and we’re fresh as daisies again!
Travel over complete, all members accounted for, finger and toes intact, and ready to continue a long day into night with a show in Bath…..
“Peter! Hey, Pete–look at this!”
“What’ve ya there? What’s that shit?”
“Dunno. Smell it though”
I hear the kid called Peter take a sniff, then there’s a moment of awed silence.
“Fuck all—it’s booze! That old geezer left half a drink sittin here!”
I am trying to get some merciful sleep, slouched on an express seat on the 14:00 First Western going toward Bristol Temple Meads. Haven’t slept in about 36 hours, and there is a show tonight.
Ipod out of charge, I try to block out the conversation going on behind me.
I cram my neck against the window as the English countryside glides past, but sleep doesn’t come. Behind me I hear Alf and Ant’s comforting snores, as they have somehow adapted the ability to fall asleep whenever they are allowed to be motionless for over 90 seconds.
Kimm taps away on his laptop, working again, but I cannot get any rest for my jet lagged soul as the conversation continues.
“Booze,” whispers Pete, and they go silent again. I squeeze eyelids tight and pray for sleep, ignore their chatter, but I know Goddamn well what’s coming next.
“Let’s try it,” the other one says.
Bingo.
I open an eye and take a peek. Peter and his chum are 12 year old schoolboys on holiday it looks, sitting just in back of me on the train and away from their daycamp group, who are in the carriage in front.
Apparently the rumpled business man who got off at Swindon left a half filled plastic tumbler on his tray.
“What you suppose it is?” Pete asks his chum.
“Mmmm, I’d say Whiskey and water?”
“What? Whiskey Water? You’re a fuckin moron! What makes you say Whisky and water?
“I dunno. That’s what my Dad has. God, he likes his fuckin Whiskey Water, doesn’t he? Says he needs it just to put it in Mum!”
It’s like listening to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley readin a Guy Ritchie script. Oi! You fuckin twats wanna call Ronnie a ginger again, do ya?
“That’s brown ya fuckin idiot. This stuff is clear, gotta be vodka…”
“Vodka.” Pause. “Try it, it’s vodka!”
“Not me, smells awful!”
“You cunt. Gimmee that, I’ll try it.”
“Nah man, I found it!”
The speaker overhead cakles to life. Bath Spa next stop. All passengers for Bath Spa please gather your belongings.
“Hurry up, man. They’ll be coming to get us soon!”
The next sound is Pete taking a sip. There is an explosive spit, and then I am babtized by Peter’s first taste of alcohol. I feel the mix of Brit school boy saliva and stale booze sprinkling down on my face.
“God, that’s awful,” gasps Pete, as his chum howls in laughter.
I take off my Wayfarers, wipe my face with the back of my hand and sit up, fully awake and my last chance for any sleep vanished.
Peter and his friend look at me, terrified as I put my sunglasses back on.
“It was gin, Pete,” I say to them. “Good stuff too.”
The boys turn and run into the other car cackling as we pull into Bath, ready to start this never ending day yet again.
And this is our life as you sleep in your beds a half world away.
Bath on a beautiful day, we head over to the lovely Green Park Tavern and met with fantastic hosts Mo and his Mum. Finest pub keeper in England. Period.
Time to chill a bit before meeting up with the fellas from Valdez, so we hop a city tour bus and fight off the jet lag with touristy good fun.
Alfie in time out....
Turns out Bath was named so because they have Baths there! Who knew? Makes you wonder why Long Beach isn’t named Bad Tattoo–Hey0!
Back to the Tavern, and Mo has put out a great spread.
We descend on the chow like ravenous hyenas, and then head upstairs to our apartment to change into our elaborate stage costumes.
Yeah, you heard right–Mo actually puts up the bands as well as feeding them, and if there’s not a better idea than having CH3 stay overnight in a bar, I ‘d like to hear it!
Back downstairs to catch Lone Sharks kickin things off, and then Valdez hit the stage.
We are delighted to find out they have a built in smoke machine onstage and demand its use every song. And get this—LASERS!
Unfortunately, they don’t get a lot of 6’5″ Japanese singers in here, and the lasers are right in level with my head. No need for that Lasik surgery any more, ma!
My God, what fun we had! Jet lag vanished into the evening air as we chat away the rest of night—and bring down the dogs for God sake! ....who's the best boy??
We could’ve been in any lovely parlor in this beautiful town, but we are steps away from the stage we just played on, and 5 tiny meters underneath the beds we will soon slip into, snoring in syncopated unison like a Three Stooges reel.
We drift off to the sweetest of all sleep, that after a long day across an ocean.
As we lay there we can still hear the pub awake downstairs.
There’s muffled laughter and chatter going on just below our beds.
We fall off to sleep smiling like children sent up after saying good night, while their parents continue the dinner party downstairs.
Awake with a snort, the final note in our Symphony of Snores, totter downstairs and it hits us—we’re still in the pub! Foreheads are smacked as no one had the foresight to set cell phone alarms @ 5am to get up and lay under the taps in our bathrobes. Ah well, the bucket list grows…. Yeah, but did you not say to make ourselves at home?!
Mo and Mum set us off with proper breakfast baguettes in hand:
But before Blackpool it’s back to dear old Bristol to get new stix for Alfie. How badass would these babies look on the riser, eh?
And so we hit M6 to Blackpool. As usual, Euro road construction is our familiar old enemy, and our 3 hour jaunt turns into an 8 hour ordeal. Never a problem though, as it gives us a lot of time to braid each other’s hair, tell ghost stories, and come up with nicknames for physically improbable and disgusting sexual acts! Hmmm, The Roman Helmet....don't know that one..... But do you know how to do a Reverse George Foreman Grill?
Also, Chris fills us in on Dogging, the latest craze for adventurous couples in the UK. Has nothing to do with canines or public dog parks, trust us! Wha? I was just trying to find out where to walk Fido, for Chrissake!
The Tower comes into view, and we are Back in Blackpool!
Ah, city of fried foods and garish casinos: where the stags and hens circle eachother in a drunken sexual courting dance each Saturday night, where the cobblestones tell the sordid tale Sunday morning with their scattered Morse code of vomit and used condoms…. ...and this is at breakfast!
We check into the lovely Gresham just steps from the back load in bay of Wintergardens. Thankfully, we each have single rooms for the weekend, and while the accomodations may not even rate a stateside Motel 6 level in niceties, the sight of a single bed and toilet, not to be shared with another farting and snoring machine, leads us to each in turn break out in the happy Snoopy dance!
A single bed in a private room, leave me now!
We check into Wintergardens and walk through.
Oi! Have some Lancashire health food, wot?
Olympia Stage
The sticky floors, blasting PA systems, fried foods and carnival lights. Shouting hellos and hugging friends not seen for a year. No time to take advantage of that quiet bed, we’ve made it back to Rebellion again!
Into the Wintergardens on Friday night, we’ve been given a nice late set time, though on the echo chamber that is OlympiaII stage….
We set up as Chelsea finishes up next door and away we go! We keep checking our watches, as we wanna jump off stage and get in line to see Stiff Little Fingers, so it’s a hot short set!
We finish up and meet up with a bunch of great people still hangin the rail:
...either they're stickin around for autographs, or they wanna be up front for Varukers!
We’re always speechless when meeting the folks who come to this global event, and they tell us they traveled from Finland or Budapest just to see us!!
Of course, I hear them next go up to the Lurkers and say the same thing….
Arturo and Kimm lurk about the backstage bar
And then we shift into fanboy mode, and navigate the backstage maze of the Wintergardens like resident rats, highlighted programs in hand!
GBH
Church of Confidence 999
Cockney Rejects
Friday blends into Saturday, which we thankfully have off. It’s time to investigate the jolly streets of Blackpool, and soak up all the cultural highlights! hmm...I can see where the artist is trying to go here, but what does it mean?!
If anyone gets lost, Scruffy Murphy's on the hour, yeah? Authentic Mexican Food, Blackpool style!
Kimm finally gets his duet with Spandau Ballet!
We’re at the Merrie England Bar at North Pier, when we suddenly realize we are not surrounded by punkers, but a surreal tableaux of human primitivism!
At the Merrie England Bar, North Pier: No, those nurses aren't women. Trust us.
The Hen and Stag parties are getting rowdier as evening darkens the Irish Sea: These Brits, when they drink, they drink!
And in costume no less!
I see a bachelorette party dressed as naughty school girls get into a switchblade fight with a menopausal group of naughty flight attendants.
At the urinals, a trio of lads dressed as Charlie’s Angels bemoan Chelsea’s afternoon loss. A gent dressed as Randy Macho Man Savage vomits precariously close to my All Stars. ...looks harmless, but these bitches will cut a man!
It is time to get back to the relative safety and calm of five thousand punk rockers in the Wintergardens!
Jamie UK Subs
Sylvain Sylvain Vice Squad
Jet Storm, UK SubsFood Daredevil Gardener preps the RebellionDog!
Once again, Rebellion is Punk Rock High School reunion for the vet set. Though we’ve met them each a dozen times, it doesn’t stop us from asking for yet another autograph from Nick and Charlie!
Nick CashChris Valdez, Charlie Harper
Saturday night and we are exhausted, blissed out on sets of punk rock and pints of Strongbow Cider.
We take to the bar in the Empress Ballroom and get ready for our farewell to Rebellion, the New York fuckin Dolls!
New York Dolls
After uproarious sets by the Subs and Slaughter and the Dogs, the crowd huddles in the darkened ballroom, ready to worship the Godfathers of Sleaze. The band comes out, the crowd goes nuts, David Johansen looks fab!
Soon enough we’re back in the night air, having said goodbye to friends and bands, promises made to meet again in a year.
We walk back to the Gresham as the Wintergardens still pulses with live music.
A new batch of tour buses have pulled up on Adelaide St, and we tenatively knock on a few windows, hoping to shake a few more hands before calling it a night.
Just fans out after a day of music, after all.
The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real! This one-of-a-kind sandwich features two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets (Original Recipe® or Grilled), two pieces of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese and Colonel’s Sauce. This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun! mmmmmm....salty!
Yeah, yeah—-you call it disgusting, the epitome of fast food gluttony gone unchecked.
We call it genius!
If you recall the very first night of this little jaunt, all we ever wanted was to get our hands on one of these babies.
And, tell me– is there no sadder image than the fellas being denied a late night sammich, as they plead outside a Brooklyn drive thru through at 2 am?
What? You don't have the chicken to make the buns? Good Day Sir!
Throughout the Eastern seaboard, the Double Down proved elusive:
Banned in Boston.
Ran out at 7pm in Jersey.
In Albany, we had the sandwich wrestled out of our hands by concerned relatives!
Fine. It’s Sunday, Rebellion accomplished and one little show left in the UK.
We figure what better way to say farewell to Blackpool than reward ourselves with a savory Double Down—we’ve been living on carrot shavings and beet juice for the last 10 days, only way to keep our girlish figures intact!
But now it’s time to cut loose and oh, they have KFC in UK, don’t you worry!
Sunday noonish and into the local Blackpool KFC and…wha? They don’t have the Double Down, never heard of it!!
Sadly lacking...
We walk out of the franchise to the laughter and cockney jeers of the cruel locals. They call us yanks and wankers, and anti-carbohydrate fascists!
We load in and get back on the M6 before the bottles and rocks start flying, once again denied the mythic snack.
And in the capital of all things fried, for God sake!
Uh huh. So you guys wil batter and fry a blood sausage and call it fine dining and we're the nutjobs?!
Quick jaunt down to London and it’s back to Camden and the Dublin Castle:
Dublin Castle
Turns out Dublin Castle is the old Madness headquarters, and they say that Suggs actually still comes by now and again for a drink!
We take photos of photos, and even do a quick shot for ol pal Otis, knowing he would enjoy the thought! Here's to ya, pal!
And then it’s off to explore Camden once again, and yes—– perhaps wander innocently into a KFC and end up in a sodium induced coma!
Camden on a Sunday At the World's End, where all tours end!
Turns out that even in this Metropolitan jewel they have not heard of the DD. We grudgingly surrender to conveyor belt sushi for dinner, comforted only by the thought that we will be flying home in the morning, and that much closer to the snack that has now become a unattainable treasure…….
Eatin off the assembly line.....
Back to the Castle and catch Valdez roarin through their set:
And then it’s time for the our last set in the UK.
Sayin farewell to the Valdez crew.... Rest my monkey. You have done your job!
Backstage now, and Kimm is listlessly picking at the leftover catering:
“What is it chum?” I ask. “Done good, we’re goin home Matey.”
“Yeah. I know. The show’s have been great, it’s just that….” and here he pauses, and I know what’s coming next.
Kimm’s voice cracks as he whispers the 3 syllables:
“Double Down….”
I look around, and though we have played a fine set, and here we are in London on a crystalline Sunday evening, the lads are down.
Ant stares emptily into space. Alf dumps small salt packets into his mouth.
Well.
Enough is enough. I dry the fellas’ tears and we parade out of the Castle, jaywalk boldly across Parkway Ave, holding hands like children on a field trip to the zoo.
Fuck KFC and their arbitrary blessings! We’ll say when and where we’ll have our meal, goddamnit—even if we have to make it ourselves!
And that is how we ended up at a McDonalds on this historic night, and showed the Brits a thing or two about American ingenuity! Come on boys...I gots an idea!
The CH3 Double Down:
Ingredients:
2 Fiesta Fried Chicken Sandwiches*
1 Bacon Western Big Mac*
*Available only in Greater UK Franchises and in Western Malaysia
Procedure:
Take chicken patties out of sandwiches. Discard buns and lettuce.
Take Hamburger patty and bacon out of sandwich. Discard bun and lettuce.
Assemble: Chicken Patty, Hamburger, Bacon, Chicken Patty (2)
Enjoy.
A crowd of curious Anglos gathered around us as we furiously worked over our projects. The whispers became audible gasps: “Corr, have a look at what they’ve done there!”
“It can’t be…it’ll never work!”
“Crazy Yanks. God bless em, the crazy Yanks.”
“The tall one, what is he, a Mexican or some sort of hairy eskimo?” Yes, yes....it's true! ....and they said it couldn't be done. It's done!
I gingerly grab hold of the creation and take the ceremonial first bite.
The sodium rush, the explosion of liquified grease.
The melding artificial flavors.
These all come together in an orgasmic symphony, and I pass the sandwich down the row.
Each man takes a bite, eyes roll back into heads, the bliss is palpable.
Tour complete, but more importantly, we’ve ended the quest on our terms.
We exit triumphantly into the night air, bellies satisfied and memories already engraved. We each try to put into words what just happened, how to tell the folk back home the good good work we’ve done here.
Luckily, there’s video!
A fine way to end our Summer, we walk the streets of London, lips shiny with grease.
We’ve come full circle yet again, it seems, and another tour ends as it should, among pals and laughter.
Cheers to you all — old dear friends and those we’ve met and count as our friends now, see ya again soon-M
When we last left our heroes, they were wandering the streets of London in a salt and grease induced haze, the UK shows done and hearts looking homeward…… Alf chokes down yet another creation---hey, you can quit eatin--- it was just a joke for the blog pal!
The fellas said their bittersweet goodbyes on that sultry Monday morning:
The work week bustle of London swirled about us as we stood on separate street corners, guitars and knapsacks in hand, suddenly purposeless as mercenary soldiers bewildered by a world at peace.
We each make our way home in a fashion: Anthony and Alf spend an extra week out in Haiti, volunteers on the Wyclef Jean Presidential campaign until plans for the puppet regime are outrageously interrupted!
Kimm, as usual, takes to a small monastery outside of Kyoto, taking a vow of silence just so he won’t have to discuss the Last Time I Drank….. album with yet another curious fan.
And me? It was a courier flight back home via Minneapolis, where I hand delivered a human heart, cornea and a sparkling green iris to the Mayo clinic.
Also holds 2 Yoplait banberry yogurts and a thermos of gin tonics.
We finally reconvened on a magical Friday night on Anaheim avenue, a quick pre game tune up with Joe Jost’s specials, eggs, and hefty schooners of Busch! Food o the Gods!
Ah, Long Beach—how we missed your savory snacks, your sodden alleyways!
It’s with a jaunty skip that we make our way back to Alex’s Bar.
What can I tell you people that you don’t already know?
Those warm red lights, the humid fertile atmosphere…..this is less a bar than a uterus we’d like to incubate in for nine months, smart cocktail in hand! ...coming home.
And so we sling on those guitars one last time, say farewell to the Summer.
The worn leather straps fit into the grooves that have been notched into our shoulders, a physical defect earned by a thousand nights in a thousand bars.
...and this is between songs...just beggin for more drinks!.....after the shots of whiskey made their way to the stage, the guitars became increasingly violent and unmanageable!...and then the lights start to blur....it's happening again! Damn you Alex's!
Alrighty then, make that 2 more club sodas. And hell, since it's Friday--extra limes!
Anthony quits the band mid song. Again.Maria Montoya takes it home...
Much has been made of this location and the otherwordly charm it has acquired since filling in for a vampire bar on a popular sitcom.
Pfffft—-please. The regular denizens on any given weekend night would make those wimpy bloodsuckers run away like frightened children……
Whoa! These people are fuckin' freaky.... let's get out of here and go hang at Acapulco Inn!
Yes, it’s on those soaked planks surrounding the bar that the true creatures of the night haunt!
Again...will you please shut the fuck up and just play the songs....please!
But it’s the next morning, when you wake up in the bed of your pickup truck, which is parked in an abandoned warehouse.
You are wearing nothing but a lobster bib and surgical booties; your mouth is welded open from snoring the dry air and, yes, a most recent meal of chicharrones and hummus.
You look for any clue of what has happened to you, scan your body for any new wounds. And then you spot it:
The tell tale stamp on the back of your hand.
It was a night at Alex’s, afterall, and you are truly back home.
From the Long Beach group Supersport’s myspace site:
Long time SuperSport drummer Noal Brown passed away on Saturday night. He has been the energetic drummer for the past six years and co-wrote many of the songs on the band’s last two CD’s.
A memorial with a slideshow and opportunity to tell stories will be held on July 24th at 7:00 pm at Marina Pacifica in Long Beach (underneath the Pier One Imports and next to the Verizon Store). A benefit show will be held at DiPiazzas on August 1st.
Rest in Peace, Brother…. Not one, not two---yeh, you got it---3 Mohawks!
Noal Brown, he of the 3 mohawks, the pierced nipples when nipples just weren’t pierced.
Yeh, who filled in for one brief Summer back in 1984……
Kimm tries to run away from the Blue and White. He was apprehended and stored securely for transport.
We had a leisurely month planned for the road: Cutting straight across the middle of this great land, Vegas to Denver, hittin the hilarious burgs of Oklahoma City, Lincoln Nebraska, and Kansas City before surfacing in Chicago for a lil midwest action.
Mustard sandwiches in Madison WI....alright then, Mr Genius---we gonna spend that cash on food or beer, huh?
Then up and across the length of Canada, down through the Pacific Northwest and home before the goddamn Back to School commercials started playing on TV—I hate those fuckin things!
Ya know, a fifty year old man, I am, and yet just the words back to school send me into a deep depression:
visions of shoveling snow and 3:30pm sundowns…..and we live in goddamn Southern Cali!
Gaaa! Shove it up yer ass, there's still plenty of Summer left!!
We were suddenly and familiarly without a drummer as Mat Young left after recording the Airborne ep. We’d seen Noal drummin at a few house parties, got him up to speed, and threw him in the van. Backstage in America....
We also brought young Hetzel along as roadie, and together these 2 blonde kids were out there spreading California cheer and God knows what bodily fluids across the country.
Hetz seems very excited about sitting shotgun.
I remember it was during the Summer Olympics, those apparently great ones that took place right here in Los Angeles. We got calls about friends scoring tickets to the boxing events, about the pin mania that was sweeping the land…. Let's see--1984, these babies went for a rock of crack and a fluorescent scrunchy!
Noal struggled at first with the unfamiliar set list and was a bit bewildered at our constant playing of Prince’s 1999.
But in a flash he was hittin it like he wrote it, and dancing right along with us at the Motown afterparties we’d inevitably throw by the van!
Everybody! Little Red Corvette......!
The best part of having Noal along for the jaunt was seein people do the double take (triple take?) when we’d walk into the local Stuckeys, those mohawks fighting for attention on his head like the mysterious air dams on a top secret Soviet weapon.
One day in Chicago after a Cubs game, the young waitress at the Cubbie Bear was so taken by Noal’s piercings that she exposed and layed one supple pink breast in his hands to let him pierce with a safety pin.
People! Do you see the fun we had before the Board of Health got all Nazi on our asses?!
It really was a fun trip: Kimm charms a waitress. Lincoln Nebraska.
Uh oh...look at the hair. I know what's comin up next! StretchMark Matt cops a feel.....
The tour came to an end, they all do.
That last bittersweet leg of the trip is always the worst. You look forward to coming home, sure. A safe bed with no Rorscach test on the sheets, a steady supply of meals that didn’t come out of an ice chest or ordered through a Clown’s gaping mouth.
But at the same time, you hate to get out of the van, and say good bye——–always dreaded that first morning home when you sit straight up in bed and look around, wondering where everyone is.
I imagine it will be like that for Noal’s family for a while, that feeling of looking around for someone, only to remind yourself again that they are gone.
We look back on those few days spent with Noal with the fondest of memories, and wish his family the very best in these hard days–Cheers.
A day that had every reason to be a disaster—a skate park full of unruly brats, restless cougars on the prowl, bitter punk rockers without a proper backstage!–turned into a glorious Summer kickoff….
Simpletones and Crowd, along with CH3 and a Stitch, surround Slam Den Mother July Cleaver...!
A free event that was truly free, and I don’t mean you had to fill out a 3 page questionnaire with your email and check routing numbers to get a wristband.
No, this thing was at a goddamn park in the middle of Costa Mesa, where the cops have bigger fish to fry than harassing some people out to have a good time on a Sunday.
God bless the meth labs of 17th Street, yay! Slammin at the Slam...
You had the stage setup in front of food booths and the skate park on one side of the street, and a rousing trio of Quinceañeras happening on the other.
In between, discriminate aging punkers lurked between the trunks of parked cars and the fest, clutching the tell tale red plastic cups of mystery!
The infamous Red Cups
Ex pat Jay Lansford came back to town, lending his talents to any band that would dare have him!
RikLRik songs with Cat Party
The sets became an impromptu tribute to Beach Blvd., the album that laid blueprint for a thousand OC bands to follow. Der Jay...
Jay then returned to the CH3 stage, and his presence was as familiar and warm as returning to a barstool after a sober 2 week dose of antibiotics….. Is my hair bigger? It feels bigger!
And then, for all that is good and holy in this world, an actual reunion of The Simpletones!
Alfie doin time with the 'Tones
…….and the perfect end, a set by The Crowd, who are now eligible for OC Punk Sainthood. ......so punk they can show up dressed like nascar drivers!
In all, a great little day that sent the kiddies home clutching guitar picks and bloody elbows, and the old timers satisfied that they’d shown the whippersnappers how it’s done!
Excerpt from The Road, an upcoming collection of road stories edited by Tony Patino
In our very early days of touring, a road trip would usually be a weekend jaunt up to San Francisco or a drive through the desert to Arizona.
Being a band in Southern Ca was like that–we didn’t have the luxury of all those different cities bundled together like you had on the East coast.
Nah, it took mind-numbing drives along the freeway just to escape the Death Star-like pull of Los Angeles’ tractor beam.
And it being the early days of hardcore punk, there just wasn’t a lot of goddamn places to play!
We’d hear about some beer hall out in Phoenix, usually owned by some deaf alcoholic widow who snored through the mayhem inflicted on her bar each weekend. And word would spread, hey, there’s a new place to play!, and all the LA bands would descend on the place like locusts, stripping it down to a destroyed shithole, before moving onto the next poor suckers’ joint.
So we somehow got booked for 2 nights at some club in Tucson. It was rare to have a 2 night stand anywhere back then, but we didn’t question it when offered.
We drove out there overnight on a Thursday- drinking the whole way– of course—and made it into Tucson just as the sun was rising over the desert.
There was a motel called the Tucson Inn, run by a family of Vietnamese immigrants, and I think the rooms were about 18 bucks a night. We checked into a couple rooms and continued drinking by the murky pool all day. We were all in good spirits, me and Kimm, Larry and Mike Burton, and our road crew (drunk friends) Chris, Duane and Mike Schmidt.
I had a paper on Hemingways‘ Nick Adams stories due by Monday, so I brought a few paperbacks.
Nick Adams along for the ride...
I figured I’d knock out my homework while resting in the air conditioned room all day, no big. Do you see the good intentions we were capable of back then?
Never opened those books up, but I did discover the restaurant next door to the motel made a drink called the Rattlesnake, which was 8 parts Whiskey.
So I was learning something. Rattlesnake Cocktail Recipe : •8 measures Canadian Whisky•2 egg whites•2 measures lemon juice•5 jiggers Pernod
By the time showtime rolled around we were all just blasted, and we got up there and did our set, and were pretty surprised that we started and ended the songs together. Larry Kelley
Mike BurtonChris prays for us to stop murdering a Clash song......
And the crowd actually liked it! With a second wind, we closed down that little bar and went back to the Inn to continue our night.
How it came to be that me and Kimm, (my best pal since the second grade and still my bandmate in CH3) got into an actual fistfight that night is still a puzzle. Maybe I made a crack about his then girlfriend, who was along for the weekend, or maybe I wanted all the show money to buy bathrobes (a strange habit I still have out on the road). But there was an argument, cuss words yelled, I took a swing and missed, and Kimm landed a jab straight on me and broke my nose.
So this puts us at 4 am on Saturday morning, we still have another day to get through, and another gig to play that night. I am staggering around the motel room, trying to bleed on anyone who is pretending to sleep, Kimm has an fucked up guitar playing paw, and now he has to contend with his girlfriend who wants to immediately drive home.
Now.
Day 2:
We have now split off into 2 different factions, and those with girlfriends along wake up the poor Mamasan to get another room, while I rally the boys to start the new day with a warm Budweiser. The sun rose over Tucson as we closed the blinds, and we were waiting at the restaurant door when they opened at 11 am to start in on the Rattlesnakes again. Note the swollen nose bridge and the first hints of black eyes. Good times.....
The 2 rooms stayed incommunicado for most of the day, me continuing to rant about my poor beautiful schnozz in the trashed bachelor pad, while Kimm soaked his swollen hand in a cardboard icebucket in the other room.
At one point, we got the bright idea to set a small fire to the mattress of one of the beds. After we burnt a satisfying 15 inch diameter hole in one mattress, we then had the fantastic thought to start taking dumps in the drawers of the dresser.
I don’t know why these brainstorms never occur when you’re sober, but at the time it seems so logical!
And if you’ve never seen a turd sitting in an empty particleboard drawer, well, let’s just say it is a piece of art that can only be improved by putting a lit cigarette out in in. Yeh, you call it vandalism, but this little piece got us a $20,000 grant from the National Endowment for the Arts!
So proud we were of this tableaux, we decided to take it over to the couples’ room and leave it on their doorway. I’m saying it’s about 3pm Saturday now.
Retalliation occurs, as it must, when Kimm and Mike Schmidt burst though our door as we are in the bathtub. We have reasoned that the pool is far too dirty to swim in, so Chris, Duane and I are sitting side by side in the bathtub in our boxers. What? We're wearing boxers, you pervs!
Kimm and Mike have taken a fire extinguisher off the hallway and spray down our room, then burst all the pillowcases, also tossing the turd into the bath with us.
Gaaaa! Turd alert!!!
We are all crying now, tears of laughter. Kimm and I hug it out, and bless the powers of friendship and punk rock, we reconvene to make it back to the club and play the second gig.
We make toast after toast to the good people of Tucson, and are allowed to stay in the bar until the sun comes up on Sunday.
Punk Rock Bowling, eh? Have you heard of this little soirée held annually in the sunbaked hills of Nevada?
Punk Rock gone legit? Bowling gone decadent? Help me out here, will ya?
You get a group of punk rock survivors from throughout this country, and gather them together in a third tier casino for a long weekend of drinking, music, drinking, reunions, drinking, and–oh yes!~ Bowling!
All well and good, but my Lord! did the Brothers Stern have any idea of the cultural maelstrom that was to come after christening their fledgling event thus?
First warning he flips you the bird. But next time you infringe copyright it's go time!!
I mean, we now suffer under the yoke of a hundred bastardized variations of Punk Rock Lifestyle items, all flown under the cozy punk flag……..
Go ahead and hit yer google tab up yonder and start typing in punk rock…..autofill begins spewing out a myriad of hobbies, all sharing the Punk Rock prefix……and I trace the blame squarely back to that initial combination of the radical and mundane, punk and bowling!
B7---that's Black Beauty Seven,,,anyone?
Punk Rock Knitting, Punk Rock Golfing, Punk Rock Bass Fishing….Hell, you got your Punk Rock Parents, Picnics and Scuba Diving!
...ya know, I'd make the usual snarky comment, but this stuff is pretty fuckin cool!
So let me ask you, just what is it that makes all these harmless activities punk rock, hmm?
Is this re-branding an attempt to gather the tribe for protection?
Not likely, as punk is as mainstream as lowriders or scrapbookers these days.
No, the days of brutal police harassment and running from the jocks is regretfully long gone.
No need to circle the wagons anymore, brother!
Hell, you wanna stand out? It takes more balls to be Amish than to sport that pink mohawk nowdays! .... there's those fuckin' troublemakers, always beggin for change outside the gig!
Perhaps the Punk Rock asterisk is just an excuse to show up at the golf course or shooting range half drunk with bad tattoos and do a shitty job of it—–ya think?
As if by identifying ourselves as Punkers before we climb the high dive, that gives us the right to flip off the judges and do a bellyflop, all in the name of Anarchy!!
I dunno---that softball looks awfully cheerful to be a punker!
Eh. You know what? fuck it–let’s go bowling!!!!
Gutterball?! Why, I'll........!
The trip starts as it always does, a quick lighting of a candle at the Strummer shrine….
Watch over us Joe!
Another venue change, this year finding the shenanigans at the Sunset Station Casino, conveniently located between what the fuck? and where in the hell? avenues in Henderson……
A prime example of the American architecture that shits on the cathedrals of Europe....
And so this gathering of the tattooed and beer-bellied has expanded, as all good things must!
I heard a bit of grumbling from the veterans—–how the weekend has lost the charm of the days when it was fifteen people sharing 2 lanes and sleeping on the floor of Fat Mike’s suite…
Alrighty then....who needs a refill?
But all those cynical concerns fall away as you walk into that blast of artificially chilled air, hear the mechanical squawk of the slot machine: as Pavlovian a signal to drop your paycheck as the aroma of Starbucks awakens the small intestine!
But then, the real draw of this weekend, the chance to see some of the old crew!
Really, this is what has made this annual event the closest thing we have to an old fucks punker convention……the chance to see the other survivors, toast our shared fallen friends and show off the tattoos of the latest grandkids!
Happy Trails, buckaroos!
This year even saw the return of old pals Stretchmarks!
And though their meager attempt to Roofie us and harvest vital organs failed, we still love those goddamn Canucks!
Mysterious Canadians Kimm goes native with the indiginous tribe....
And bowling? Hell yes! Through our strategic use of stringers and sandbaggers, we finally advanced to bowl on Sunday as well.
The Dream Team, getting ready to roll the rock! The winning team of the coveted over-30-half-latino-half-cracker-category!
Official results lists the mighty Team CH3 as finishing between 33rd and 64th out of 225 teams—let’s call it 33rd, shall we?
Kimm wonders how he's gonna get this baby through airport security!
And somewhere in there, they put on a godamned punk rock show too!
As you nurse a pounding 3 day hangover and piece together the weekend out of bizarre images that flash across the brain, you gotta admit —- Hey! they really got something here, this is an event here to stay!
Hell, we might as well get in on this craze!
So we’ve gone ahead and trademarked the following events:
Punk Rock Colonoscopy
Punk Rock Priesthood
Punk Rock Curling
Punk Rock Child Labor Camp
The CH3 Blog 