A day off, that luxury of the road.

Oh, i know, I know…it’s only been what? 3 shows?
Meanwhile, the Adolescents are going on week nine, or something like that.

But you know us, we can’t stay out that long, especially out here where every meal is offered with delicious mushroom gravy, where every beer is poured minimally at 1.25 liter!
What would become of our girlish figures?

So it’s a jolly farewell to the Hafenklang dorm, after leaving some witty graffiti to be found by the Stitches next week!

We traipse along cobblestone alleys, delighted to have a off day in this breezy port town.
And of course, that means Wash day–yay!

Now here’s another one of those subtle but noteworthy differences from home–why can’t we do laundry at a smart little cafe and drink fine Pilsners during the spin cycle?

We take our time doing the darks and the lights, ordering yet another round as we decide to splurge on an extra 25 minutes of dryer time.

And then we do the tourist thing, stopping at every sidewalk cafe and bakery we see.

And though we lack fuel to grill or pan to sear, we stop into the high end butcher shop to salivate over the racks of cow and pig—time to eat!

We see a passing water taxi and make a run for it, jumping onboard just as gangplank clanks behind us.

The cruise is lovely, and we toast the mansions and hovels as we float past.

It’s a warm evening on the water, and we pop the ceramic cap of another fine lager as a lone sea bird dips into the water and emerges with a silvery prize in beak.

Another victory for the day.

We treat ourselves to a corporate chain hotel (oh shut up, you crusties….we have the miles to cash in!)
Then we cap our day of leisure in the serviceable lobby bar.

We crank down the first thermostat we’ve seen on a European wall, and crawl in bed to the comforting tones of a CNN anchor telling us things are going to be ok.

Not a single distorted chord played this day, not a cd or tee shirt sold.

No Miles added to our body odometer.

But with a pillow mint resting on tongue and piles of clean clothes folded in bag, we drift off satisfied with this day of nothing.

Long days in a van.

You think about it– or actually, you try not to:

All those jaunts up and down the rippled back of California.
The endless miles through Texas on shimmering highway. A smoking ribbon that just barely connects bastions of civilization across a cruel wasteland.
Prague to Vienna in a rusted service vehicle, back wedged so long against an Anvil flight case that you can still count the imprinted dimples of rivets across your poor shoulders.

Those miles, those hours-they add up.

But ya know, what else affords you the chance to sit and talk to your mates the day long, each of ya sitting within spitting and hitting distance?
It’s like being kids in a fort made of a refrigerator box, taking turns holding the flashlight, telling scary stories.
A 6 hour conversation, paused only for the occasional piss break or Anthony’s reassuring snore, off again on yet another one of his catnaps.
And the topics!
Serious conversations about Family and future. Religion, politics.

Superhero debates that go on for hours, the failure of Lucas and the criminal desecration of the Star Wars legacy.

And food.
Oh brother, do these guys like to talk about food!
Meals past and those anticipated, we share recipes and gross out stories about things we’ve put in our mouths out of dare or just drunken hunger.

So on yesterday’s jaunt, Berlin to Hamburg, with the warm German breeze thrumming cross open windows, the talk turns once again to food.

We leave the Ramones Museum misty eyed, hiding our sentimental tears from the lads of Top Buzzer, who are with us tonight as well.

The autobahn beckons, and soon we are rolling again, and we are all in agreeance in our hatred for corporate Fast Food.
But I admit to a recent trip through Jollibee, a bizarre Pinoy fast food joint that caters to the Filipino taste for grease and meat!

The sampling of both the Spam and Corned Beef sliders were, ya know—not so bad after all.

A van conversation starts like this, a simple statement, but soon it bisects and veers off course, an organism that cleaves and mutates into something else altogether.

For we are soon talking of the virtues of Spam and its’ popularity among the Pacific Islanders.
And then someone volunteers-of course! that this SpamFan club, spread from Kauai to Samoa, is based on the cannibal past of the islanders and Spam’s sweet gamy taste—like nothing more than human flesh!!

And away we go!!-we have today’s—hell, this whole week’s ! topic at hand:
The Forbidden meal, the meat of the human!

Soon the miles are melting away as we are shouting to be heard.
Would you, hmmm? Dare to taste of human flesh if it was offered?
Is there moral dilemma at play here?
Or are we simply wasting perfectly fine protein with each passing funeral parade.

Ant shrugs and says why the hell not? I’d try it!
Kimm keeps judgement to himself, not sure just yet where this one is going.

Will he awake in tomorrow’s hostel bed, missing a toe or earlobe, only to find Alf and Anthony already flossing their fangs, sated?!?!

Frank, the German handler and all around good guy, is of course Vegan.
He listens to our heated debate with growing disgust, and soon I can see him scanning the side-view mirrors and calculating the severity of injuries in a mid highway leap—surely a small inconvenience to escape these lunatics.

We size each other up, considering where to start…. Leg meat or breast?
It is soon agreed that the twin loins hugging the spine will be the prize at this year’s Labor day cookout.

And then we wonder–do we eat enemy or friend?
Surely, the meat shall be that much more savory, dining upon the braised thigh of a girl you once held as dear!

And what of the chance of amputated limb?
So you lose a forearm in a wind torn regatta, what do you do?? I say you throw a grand dinner party, (left handed) and there your once mangled wing is dignified on a bed of risotto with roasted pearl onions, a treat for your friends to enjoy one last time—-whoever gets the serving with the Misfits tattoo gets to take home the centerpiece!

We are feverish now, bursting with ideas:
A quick text is sent to a friend of an intern at Food network.
A chain of tasteful and locally decorated theme restaurants?

Cookbook recipes are pulled from thin air.

And as we pull up at the fine Hafenklang club to meet up with fellow Cali gourmands Face to Face, our discussion spills into the cobblestone streets of Hamburg.
Frank runs into the night looking for a block of tofu to cleanse his violated palate and mind.

We are served dinner upstairs after soundcheck, and we inspect each piece of mystery fajita for the telltale sign of life: Hickey or freckle-either would thrill us!

The gig is great, a last few moments with the Buzzer before sending them back to UK with bags of unsold CH3 tees loading down the Volvo. thanks guys!
Face to Face slays it, and we wrap things up chatting it up and seeing them off as well, for we will be staying in the vast dormitory flat behind the club–by ourselves!!

It’s off to the Reeperbahn for a nite cap, meeting up with the Turbonegro chapter camping out at Lunacy.

It is a Sunday though and quiet out, and even the Mediterranean prostitutes parading the boulevard seem tired and bored.
One skinny Polish exchange student sidles up to Alf and offers him anything for 50 euro—-you better watch what yer offering there, sister!!

It is stewable tendon that he hungers for, not erotica!

After brushing teeth and donning pajamas, we each grab a bunk–there’s gotta be 16 beds in that room–but leave the lights on for a few moments more.

Frank announces he will be sleeping in the van tonight, muttering something about watching the gear as he bolts for the door.

And then it is just the 4 of us, and someone hits the lights.

But I can see those eyes glowing in the dark, and catch a flash of incisor and molar when someone coughs across the room. somewhere in the night a canine howl bays low, waiting for the answer, but we all hold our tongues.

The conversation, it seems is finally over.

The sleep takes a long time coming, each of us knowing the tastes, if not taste, of fellow man.

You wouldn’t think they’d let us cranky old bastards to stay in a Youth Hostel, huh?

I mean, really.
Left to our own devices, we’d be cashing in those Hilton Honors points to upgrade to the suite.
It would be the Wellness Spa after High Tea if we had our choice, but that just isn’t done in the world of Euro punk touring.

Keepin’ it real, as they say.

And so once again we wake in our efficiency room , all bleached towels and body wash canisters upon shared shower stall tile.

We pile into the elevator, en route back to the gig after a fitful nap, and wordlessly wonder at the vibrance of youth surrounding us as we read the bulletins posted up:

HackySack Tourney East Lawn tonight! Bring your own sacks!

Sisters for Celibacy drum circle has been moved from Activity Lounge 3 to Cafeteria Sunday. No men please—this means you Kevin!

As we move past the shadowy figures lougning in the warm Summer evening, their faces illuminated by the azure twinkle of Iphone or pad, we think this might be perfect:

After all, these kids seem to be doing nothing on a Saturday night, so wouldn’t they be interested in coming out to the club hmm?

But we are met with only blank stares when we try to explain just what we are trying to achieve here.
What? You want us to see 4 men on a cramped stage, sweating trough a setlist of 30 year old songs?

And for a 6 euro cover charge? Pffft.
Yeh, right gramps.

Ah, but tomorrow’s electro fest, (90 euro for 2 day pass), and they are all in.
This generation is right there when it comes to dancing to a beat only they can extract from the lone Swede Dj, hopped up on cut rate Ecstasy and toxic glow sticks.

It seems to us , this DJ business, it’s about as exciting as watching somebody onstage typing.
But that’s just us.

But what do we know? We are clearly the suckers here, lugging Marshall and Ampeg across the steaming continent, while ‘ol Dane up there has his set list for the night on a Macbook pro, private jet purring patiently upon tarmac to whisk him to Ibiza for the late night set.

This concludes today’s grumpy old fart rant.
Join us tomorrow for a discourse on baggy pants and Aviator shades.

We get outside of Kiel before pulling into that beloved German institution, the roadhouse.
We top off not only with diesel, but also a sensible lunch of Schnitzel and Spaetzel, all commodities surely bonded by the same petroleum based mushroom gravy!

I axe ya, why can’t we have this kind of stuff at home?
Oh, you can keep your Chevron Quik-Marts with the Subway kiosks brother!

I’m talking hearty German delicacies and Frosty Hefeweisens to go, not to mention the charming Euro porn displayed eye level, right next to the latest Game of Thrones paperbacks—what’s not to like!?

It is not long before the ominous tower of Berlin comes into view, it’s globed peak rumored to be either a rotating restaurant or a ward for the criminally insane.

And then it’s back to one of the truly great clubs of the world—we’re talking Wild at Heart, with convivial hosts Uly and Lea!!

We meet up with our new besties, the lads in Top Buzzer, and run through some quick soundchecks before a generous meal.

And then the night begins and time starts flying, as it does.
The long Berlin dusk finally gives into the dark, and the sinister shadows of the gray architecture are held at bay by the sparkling chums and chuckles that fill the night!

We get up there and do the damn thing, and the crowd is fantastic.
A mixture of actual fans and depraved citizens of the streets, they urge us on every song.
We play an encore, then 3, our guitar strings already rusting over with the sweat that has rained upon them.
We love ya Berlin!

And then it’s wacky time, the dj starts in with the early Jam tracks and those tiny frozen blocks of Jagermeister soon accompany every pilsner!

And so it goes, another night in the books.
We come back to the Hostel exhausted, happy, ready to lay down upon those tweedy thin pillows without a care about how many dreadlocked nogggins have lay there before.

The first light of dawn comes through the curtains as we finally fall to sleep, and we hear the first ponks of the early bird table tennis tournament getting started.
Some wise guy fires up the Daft Punk in the courtyard.

And we smile.

Ah, you kids–

Dear seat 36 C:
Hey.
It’s me, 37 C.

Oh, you know….those 2 pesky lumps that have been lodged against your back the entire flight?
That’s me.
Those are my goddamned knees.

Yes, I know it’s a long flight. I’m on the same plane, remember?

Oh 36 C, you rascal.

I sized you up the moment you boarded, all Juicy sweats and Sharper Image neck pillow, a warrior ready to take on this eleven hour descent into hell.
It must be torture, you being all of 4 foot 10 inch tall, being wedged into these business class seats.

Bring it back sweetheart.
Oh—- that crunch and crackle you hear? Just kneecap and ligament, hon.
Don’t mind me.

And when you first slammed your full weight back into my abused legs, and you just couldn’t figure out why you couldn’t achieve that extra 2 inches of recline?

And then you turned fully around and gave me the dirty look and bitched me out in Tagalog?

Good Times….

Atlantic crossing, it’s one of those necessary evils, like having major dental work or painting the inside of a vaulted living room.

You will somehow get it done, but that doesn’t calm the dread you feel for days prior.
And you can’t quite believe you’re going to do it once again, not until the cabin doors shut with the finality of the hanging judge’s gavel coming down upon the last syllable of the word: GUILTY.

Heh.
Oh 36C, what are we gonna do with you?

Now what are you doing up there, some sort of bikram yoga?

Or are you just bouncing back in your seat to see if you can compress my femurs another millimeter?

You go, lady!

When we hit the ground at Heathrow, the day is not even half done, as we are connecting to Hamburg, then it’s off to Kiel for show one.
Oh, I know, trey-six, I usually get there a day early and drown the jet lag away with pints of Guiness a day or 2 before show one.

But time is tight this year, you see, and so it’s a hella long day of travel and then onto stage. We can do it.
The usual hi jinks, flight delays at Heathrow, the British Airways flight idling on tarmac a full 40 minutes before the welcomed throaty thrill of acceleration.

What’s that 36C? How was the legroom on that flight?
Oh, couldn’t say, as the feeling hasn’t returned to my nether regions, but thanks for asking!

We’re through Customs and baggage in no time and we meet up with our man Frank the Tank and the Euro van version 2013!

And then it’s a short drive along the Autobahn on a sultry Summer evening.

It’s all coming back to us now. The lush green of the fields, the outrageous bloom of sunflowers along the road. It is not 10 minutes before someone cracks the first Ausfarht joke, and we know we’re back.

Scuabude is the swinging club for the night, and it’s there we are reconnected with madman Booker Benny.
Benny’s been a busy bee, booking not just us, but TSOL and the Stitches for this Summer.
And yet he still finds time to sit us down for a homecooked meal!

The show is just great, all sweat and stupid jokes, the four of us acting like the clueless yanks we are, pleading for someone with a bottle opener to rescue us every other song.

And just like that we’re out in the warm night, gulping down breaths of the sweet Summer air and peeling off clothes that are stuck to body with the glue of honest sweat.

Wet as if we’d spent the night frolicking in the fountains in front of Gatsby’s manicured lawns.

Oh 36C, you should have seen us!

With a second wind that surprised us, we toasted the night again and again with our Euro pals. And when we finally lay our head down upon suspect Hostel pillows, we are still not sleepy.

It’s been days—days!– since we last slept, but the adrenaline buzz of the night, the pressurized cabin air in our bowels and the syrupy Jagermeister swimming our veins keeps us awake for a few moments more.

Just enough time to jot this note to you, ol 36C, ol buddy.

And I wonder where you are now and what you are doing, and how you can possibly recline easily in the comfort of your hotel room— without the familiar pressure of my knees against your back.

Yours, 37C.