Right then, the Euro tour van is all gassed up, we’re ready to hit the continent!

Check back with yer old pals often, we’ll be updating the travelogue as often as possible-Cheers!

We’ve been getting a lot of irate emails and-god help us-tweets at the CH3 communications center about our recent Twitter blog. Jesus, you tech nerds are a prissy bunch, aren’t ya?

Alright already, let’s not get our panties in a bunch—we’re not giving up on this trend0 technology just yet.
Actually,after reading through a few of these Tweets, it occurred to me that they greatly resemble that hoary old Junior High chestnut, the Haiku!

We know, we know—you’ve always associated CH3 with being champions of the Iambic Pentameter, and oh brother–don’t get Anthony and Alf started on the limitations of the Sonnet as a metaphysical vehicle!! Not unless you want a couple of drunk Latino hotheads schoolin ya on TS eliot!!

But this Twitter business—it’s almost hypnotic with the brief missives, eh? For example, check this recent update we posted:

Threw up in my mouth onstage @hob thursday. Could’ve pulled it off if I didn’t spit it out and then tell the audience…learn from this!

Nice eh? Conveys the sense of place and action— clean and brief. That’s really what you people want to read on your Iphones, ain’t it? I mean, really–what I’m eating, how I’m feeling…. It all boils down to the bodily function.

I can just see this post happening in the near future:

I just Sharted!

And then –cryptically, tragically—- only this:

Raisinets!

Hey, if that’s what you folks really want popping up on the screen during your son’s graduation, fine by me…. I can do this nonsense all day, people!

So there you are, a nice romantic dinner in that new Persian place you’ve both been dying to try. And yeah, it’s been a crazy week for the both of you- it seems like you see less of each other now than before she moved in…crazy, huh?

A peppery zinfadel breathes patiently on the table. The lavash was divine, the khoresht is on its way, and you are feeling aligned with this wonderful world.

So you take her hands in yours, look into those deep green eyes. They shine tonight, and it reminds you of the phosphorus glow of the waves, that night you first kissed her on the beach at midnight. Those eyes- the twin moons orbiting your wounded planet- they are the only things keeping you from flying off into the void.

This is the time to talk about a future, a real commitment, and so you finally say the words—Whoa—Wha?! The blackberry is buzzing between you , and hello–here’s a tweet from Alf:

The dog ate his fill of catshit, just barfed on the carpet. lol!

Welcome to the new day bitches!

Wheeee! Look at us, slingin’ urbanista terms like props and old school, but you know how we roll! It won’t be long til I’m axin some biyatch to break with the digits or bustin a cap in yo ass—these are good things, correct?

Shizzle, mo zizzle, innit that what the kids say? Hey, this is fun! Hollah!

Get back in the fuckin trunk or I’m gonna chop off your motherfuckin head wit dis machete, white devil!

What? Too much?

Lately, we’ve gotten several inquiries here at the Channel 3 tech support center about how we land so many choice gigs. We’re aware how strange it must seem–you look in the goddamn OC Weekly and there’s yer boys, playing some glamorous show at the Forum or the Greek Theatre, and then wha the…? you see us listed 3rd at SaltyMcNutty’s Hotwing House on Tuesday…..

How is this possible, you ask? Well, simply put, left to our own devices we can only manage to bring twelve to fifteen people to come out and see us play.
The glory days are long behind us, when just the mere rumor of CH3 showing up to pick up a 12 pack at the liquor store would bring 200 kids out with their instamatics.

You really have to look at the demographic of the CH3 fanbase for an explanation. Although we seemingly never age, our audience is growing older, and naturally they have other things to do with their time than to follow the band around. Let’s look at data we’ve collected through extensive research:

As you can see, the average Channel 3 fan can’t be bothered with, oh, I don’t know, actually coming out to see the band! but that’s the way it goes. If we have to play Manzanar for the twelve-thousandth fucking time in front of 6 people at the Doll Hut, so be it! We’re troopers!

But you ax (sorry, it’s just so hard to stop!) did I see you guys are playing with Rancid at the Fonda? You guys are playing with Pennywise? What’s that all about?

Oh, now we see–the phone’s ringin off the goddamn hook hittin us up for guestlist action now! But what about last week, when we headlined Bart’s Pub on Wednesday?

You see, these huge punk acts have to throw a bone to us old timers now and then, just to appease the punk rock gods. It gives them a measure of street cred to have the dinosaurs along for the ride, and besides, it amuses them to see us creak around onstage while they share a plate of caviar with their guitar techs in their dressing rooms.

Well, that’s fine by us. It gives us a chance to be big shots around our kids, but we mainly gratefully take these gigs for the backstage spreads. A little more lavish than the accomodations our booker Ron usually guarantees us with our backstage rider:

We leave these shows heavier than we arrived, backpacks and guitar cases filled with deli rolls and Red Bulls.

And so we go along, in this weird dual existence. The lonely nights in the damp bars, paying our dues alongside the adolescent bands right out of the garage. And then there we are, on a stage bigger than a regulation volleyball court, playing to an appreciative though unfamiliar crowd. The Pasta Puttanesca sits waitng for us in a chafing dish backstage, next to the Terrycloth towels and the Bohemia on ice.

It’s great fun, but tomorrow morning it’s back to reality, gotta get the kid to school and see if we can’t fix that goddamn press brake at the shop….

And as we wheeze our way off the stage after our set, we may brush past one of these modern day Punk rock gods in the darkened hallway. We exchange Good Set!, and have a good one!
But we can recognize what we see as we look them in the eye.
That mixture of pity and respect, amusement and fear: It’s as if they’re looking at their own future.