We’ve been getting a lot of complaints at the
CH3 Home Office regarding the lack of any real punk rock content on these pages. So in an effort to bring you good people up to date, we’ve started a new feature, Our Last Gig! In this column we’ll review our latest show, the venue, opening acts and friends in the audience. Sounds good, huh? Let’s get started:
Ah, Rosemead. It’s been called the hidden jewel of San Gabriel Valley, but we don’t want to let the secret out! After a lengthy layoff from the stage, we decided what better place to get back up there and bust Alf’s balls than this lil gig…..
You know us, though, and any trip out to SGV has us looking for a bowl of noodles– and I don’t mean Udon, brother! Yeah, that’s it, it’s Pho the fellas had on their mind as they made the wordless trek up the 605.
Pho. It’s more than a dish, it is a state of mind that brings all the senses into play. The poetic beauty of the Vietnamese language, the exotic flavorings of the broth. The slight hint of urine that perfumes the ghostly puffs of steam that rise to your grateful face!!
Well, we simply sat back and let our trusty handler Paul Lucas do his thing. Being a citizen of Little Saigon, he knows his way around a plate of Cha Gio, let me tell you! Behind the wheel, Paul set his radar for Viet cuisine and off we flew.
Eventually we settled on My Dung restaurant, nestled right in the middle of Garvey Avenue. The following photo comes from the 11 o’clock news, not 36 hours after we left this fine establishment– Seems a little armed confrontation left 2 dead within these walls. Heh. Well, you don’t get the authentic Vietnamese experience without a bit of the ol “Di Di Mau!”, eh?
The Pho dishes, though generously portioned, lacked a certain depth to the broth. Kimm believes that comes from the failure to roast the bones before making a stock, but that’s Kimm for you!
Dinner was going fine until the waiter brought Mr. Paul his Iced Tea with a slice of lemon—-not a wedge! The audacity!
Oh, Paulie, the trouble you’ve seen! On his many travels through the twisted nights of CH3, Paul has seen many things. Sights that would have a lesser man muttering to himself and staring at the lamp, clicking it on, off….on, off.
Here is a man that has taken his share of abuse and good cheer, and his forthright shell has never shown a crack.
Oh, unless you count the little incident at JFK after the boys spent the day with D.I. Casey at McSorley’s on the Lower East Side.
We had to miss 2 flights as we waited for Anthony to sober up between shots at Manitoba’s! Paulie was then subjected to a high speed gypsy cab ride to the airport where Salvadoran porn played non-stop on the overhead DVD player.
A guitar was left behind at CBGB’s, a cigarette was lit in the security line. The authorities have been called.
It would make any man crack.
That day at the airport, the sun slowly set over our shoulders, reminding us that we were still still! on the East coast. That warm sun was presently sinking into the familiar Pacific waters without our audience. I heard Paul’s voice crack as he pleaded with the ticket lady for the next flight- any flight– to escape these mad men. As we leaned against the Jet Blue ticket counter, so far from home, I caught one of the twinkling teardrops that cascaded off his face and touched it to my lips. The taste? Bitter defeat.
Stay tuned for the next gig report from your ol pals here at CH3!
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