An 8am boarding call means a 4:30am wake-up call, when yer talking LAX!

Oh sure, we usually take to the skies from our beloved Long Beach airport, where the leisurely small town atmosphere allows you to saunter in just minutes before your flight.

We sometimes arrive in pajama bottoms 12 minutes before doors close and get waved through TSA precheck with just a chiding nod: Barney letting Otis come in to lock himself up after a night of hanging around some white trash moonshine still.

But we all fall victim to our sensible greed when choosing those Expedia flights months before.

Why, here’s Spirit Airlines going to Chicago, same time as Jet Blue, and at half the cost!

It’s not until the morning of flight, whilst you are stuck in the middle of a cattle call in front of Marriott’s 40 dollah a day parking that the regrets begin.  That budget airline is now asking for 50 bucks per carry on and  4 dollars for a cup of water.  You curse your former self for not shelling out for the Even More Room seats on Jet Blue-blah.

Hah–luckily it’s no big deal, these early mornings, as we’ve become infected with that Old Man superpower of getting up way too early every day.

Left to our own, it’s bedtime 9:45 on the Laz boy Recliner as Stranger Things scrolls through a whole season while we snore away , oblivious.  But we’re up and clattering around the kitchen at 6am, whistling show tunes to the delight of every hungover teenager trying to sleep upstairs.

Mmmm! Revenge, is this what it tastes like?

We hit Chicago in plenty of time to enjoy the late Summer weather, but the town is packed.

The ol CH3 luck of booking a show in direct competition to another show across town holds true. Tonight we are the spiky little Liar’s Club, while across town there is some sort of little gathering called Riot Fest?  Hmm, shall have to google that one!

But it turns out  a fine night indeed, a packed room of the true knuckleheads of Chicago and beyond.

Our pals in Airstream Futures kick it off with their guitar driven fury. Really excellent stuff, and when their new album is finally released sometime in the next decade you should check it out-hah!

And then it;’s our Midwestern bro homies, Destroy Everything take to the stage and do that thing: bratty punk vocals over tasteful guitars, a Midwestern sound as familiar as Mom vacuuming outside your doorway as you try to masturbate with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

These turn and burns are somehow even more exhausting than proper tours, the constant movement in so little time.

It seems we were just jolted awake by some digital peep minutes ago on the infancy of a new day, a few thousand miles away.  Hours are lost in mid-flight, we play and have precious time to catch up with friends and then it is suddenly 4 am.

We’re now out on the sidewalk alone, and  the sudden lack of movement threatens to topple us over as if the sheer momentum of the planet’s rotation has finally caught up.   A sensible late night snack at Shwarma Inn and to bed by 5am.

Out on the road at noon, and we set our inner autopilots North toward our beloved temple of the Moo Cow, the Mars Cheese Castle!

Nicky has not been yet, and we regale him with tales of golden blocks of Cheddar, creamy Bries and nutty Comte’ blends.  Of the communal vat of pub cheese that sits atop the bar, into which Anthony threatens to insert his face and not come out until lactose sated.

But as we pull up to the glorious gates, we are met with disastrous news:

Anthony jumps out and begins licking the block walls of the castle, though I keep telling  him they are simply asbestos laced cinder block.  He is beside himself, so we mosey over to then neighboring cheese shack and let him gobble up 3 pounds worth of cheese and sausage samples.

Disaster averted, it’s a short jaunt up the 94 to Milwaukee and the Harley Museum.

Oh, you know our feeling toward the American brand, its embodiment of Kid Rock in clunky V twin form, but haven’t we always held a soft spot for those goofy AMF years and the  wacky Italian 2 strokes they used to shill under the HD brand?

Why, what I’d do to have that Rapido back in the garage!

Besides, they do serve a decent burnt tips app in the cafe, so we call it lunch break before taking the museum tour.

The swanky Hampton Inn, Green Bay boasts Serta brand foam top mattresses, decent sheets within the acceptable 800 count range, and hypoallergenic  pillows (available by request).

Do you see people?

These are the things that matter to us now, keep your goddamned minibars and local hallucinogens–we need naps!

But it’s not 12 minutes into REM when we hear the racket from the street–

Tonight only, from Hollywood California, supporting Chicago’s own Destroy Everything…

Ah jesus, now what?

And there on the streets of lovely Green Bay, those goddamn Destroy Everything kids have commandeered the very aural airspace to hype the show with their Blues Brother Speaker set on the patrol car.

Sleep is now impossible.

I peer down at the streets, see whole clumps of conventioneers holding palms to their ears, shielding their children’s eyes to the sight.

It sounds like an Ice Cream man reading his suicide note aloud over a continuous loop of Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Ah well, time to hit the night anyway.

We make our way over to The Lyric Room on Green Bay’s revitalized Broadway district.

It’s a proper lounge with a music hall attached, and the vibe is very up indeed for this Saturday night.

We’re not sure why, but we have somehow earned a little pocket of goodwill way up yonder in this tight Wisconsin community.  We’re told that these hearty Midwesterners even forgive us for the outlandish hair and costume jewelry of the Enigma Records era.

Hell, they even seem to enjoy those songs!

And so when Kevin Neal came into the club with the Airborne canvas that his late brother Brian had painted as a young lad years ago, it was a our very honor to hang it up as backdrop for the night.

And that’s the kind of night it was.

In the name of–god help us— Scoobfest!, this was a night of remembrance and reunion.  We were thankful to witness these old friends catching up after so many years, and though we didn’t know every face in the room, it was a true honor to think we may have lent some soundtrack to the wild memories they all shared.

We are taught yet again: a new thing to take home, to take to heart, to guard as a shiny family heirloom given to us with graciousness and with love.

And once again the night has gotten very late, very quick.

We have every intention of begging off, slipping away to the sublime comforts offered by the corporate motel chain, while the party rages on behind us.

But no.

We are, as always, the last in the club, and the last on the deserted street after.

Chatting with the last of the laughing locals, intoxicated on lagers and friendship, amidst piles of guitar cabinets scattered on the sidewalk like toys tossed aside by a cranky child unwilling to go down for her nap.

Plans are made to hit the all night diner for a last meal, a last chat with friends.

Turns out we’re not ready to go down , not quite yet, either.

We go right into Manzanar now, and as I grab for the F# I can tell the strings have dropped a half step at least in this heat.   I look out at the sun baked field, where a few hardy punkers have the sand to start a fledgling mid day pit, but the reasonable ones stay back in whatever shade can be found.
A beer can comes sailing toward the stage, and I savor the baptism of a few precious drops of cooling liquid as it just misses my head.

We’ve drawn one of the very first slots of the day, but console ourselves with the fact that the sun is at least at the far reach of it’s radius directly overhead, and the next poor bands will be playing straight into its blazing stare.

But what the hell, it’s a rare invite to play a big fest, so who are we to bitch about set times?

Ah, 1982, is that you I hear scratching at the backdoor of my battered hippocampus?

The Eastern Front up yonder Berkeley was indeed our first big daytime fest, but I don’t recall any water bottle filling stations or safe spaces back then, brother!

That day was hot and grimy, and quickly dissolved into a drunken mess, sort of an Altamount for the punkers who would’ve welcomed a stab to the gut over a trip into those bubbling porta potties in the north forty.

A few hazy images, of us drinking from our warm Old English jugs at 10 am and trying to lure a squad of new wave chicks into the Blue and White, while Grant & Bob from Husker Du could only shake their head  at our antics as they walked past.

Stevo got into a mortal battle with a gopher who had the bad idea to poke its head above ground, the Vandals singer ultimately removing the rodent’s trachea with a pocketknife.

Then our boy Duane  decides it’s reasonable to tip one of those fetid Port a Potties onto its side, while a poor punker is still inside intent on the business at hand.  It was only Big John Macias from Circle One stepping into the mob, muscled arms raised, that stopped the subsequent lynching.

The day is mercifully finished at some shitbag motel, where Larry calmly pours a beer down the back of the television set, causing the poor Quasar to spark in protest for just a moment before surrendering its fuzzy image of Fred Mertz to darkness–a proper end to a day spent on the edge of reason,  kids in the wild, animals of the Savannah literally on the kill without a thought of nutrition, hydration or safety.  Punk.

It’s a new day when we roll into the Glen Helen Ampitheatre grounds for set up.
9:30 am, and we unload drinking sensible grande Americanos, not a 40 of Olde English in sight.

It’s already a balmy 101 degrees as we set up the merch, but everyone is cheerful and relaxed.

I mean, c’mon!  How can you not grin when you are doing a soundcheck at 11 am and look right across at a Hello Kitty jumpy next to a circus tent.

Jumpies, people-jumpies!

Its our first clue that the It’s Not Dead Festival is a going to be a bit different from that dusty day 35 years ago.  We are taken by golf cart back to the catering area, careful not to make too much noise as the idling tour buses contain the snoring headliners.

We are shown to our air conditioned trailer, and get this–we get the goddamn thing for the whole day!  Usually we are kicked out of  festival dressing rooms as soon as we are done playing, and stand like traumatized first time mothers kicked out of the maternity ward, holding backpacks bulging with energy drinks and waters swiped off the catering table.

It’s all fine hellos and catching up, as these big bills tend to be.  Call it high school reunion for the graying punkers, or perhaps more of a support group for the survivors.  All I know is that it’s grand to say hello to a lot of people we’ve known a damn long time!

Keeping the lucky streak intact, we once again draw the opening slot, so we ring out the first chords of the day on Stage 2 just as the first hardy souls come streaming into the Festival grounds.

The day holds, I don’t know, a million bands?  So the set times are just that: set.

We are given a serious lecture about not going over 30 minutes, so it’s all business at hand:  40 year old songs with a few of the new ones sprinkled in to keep the crew on its feet.  There is no time for the usual Rat Pack banter today baby!

We’re over and done while the majority of the crowd is still emptying their backpacks on the security tables, but we played our first set back from the long layoff, and it went pretty good.
We were able to pull off some of the  new songs  without messing up too many parts, kept our bone marrow from boiling over and suffered only minor heat stroke.
Work’s done, and it’s our turn to go be festival fans now!

Lyman and crew put their years of Warped experience to good use with this one, as there were cool-off misters and water bottle filling stations, not to mention a steady bank of ATM machines humming happily next to the merch booths!

Still, I worry about these kids, drinking so much alcohol in this unrelenting heat.
Let’s hydrate!  And sunscreen!  Have you goddamn people ever heard of it?

It is a major chat fest and band geek out for us, a rare treat to see bands like GBH and Buzzcocks betraying the road map of wrinkles upon face and putting out blistering sets of great sounding classics.

We eat lunch, do some interviews, huddle in the trailer when the white spots start dancing across our fields of vision.

The heat and the hellos, running from one stage to the next in classic festival juggling act fashion,  the day stretches on into weeks it seems.   Murphy’s Law is on at the same time as Buzzcocks,  Kevin Second’s acoustic set bleeds into GBH downbeat.

The temperature has settled begrudgingly at 106 degrees, as if it’s too hot for heat itself to make any more effort.

The day continues  and we’ve become a tribe now, communed in a battle against the merciless Sun.  All eyes on the hills above Glen Helen, that will soon be tucking this bastard fireball away for the night.
A resigned cheer goes up as the first shadows fall across the dusty field, and the unlit side stages go dark to the last horn blats of Voodoo Glow Skulls.
The crowd makes its way over to the main stage now, grateful for the relief of darkness, but burnt.

Sinead starts wailing mournfully above the Chieftans for the usual Dropkicks intro of Foggy Dew as the exodus continues toward the sound:  A ghostly landscape of tired legs shuffling in  the dust, as if through  a smoky battlefield.

But there is plenty of laughter and smiles among  all these tired faces.

We start our checkout of the merch and begin loading out the boxes as Rancid kicks into Roots Radicals, Lars singing his guts out on the last night of their tour.

I walk back to do a  final sweep of the trailer, and pass the Grim crew at their motorhome, a big screen TV showing the McGregor/Mayweather debacle.

Tim Armstrong is now singing about hanging with Lars on 52nd and Broadway.  For a fleeting moment I sense the confluence as they sing about nothing more than friendship, while the bored looking champ fends off the feisty leprechaun, who is at least putting himself out there and leading with his heart.  I struggle to make the connection, but my brain is fried.

I step into the empty Star Wagon for the last time today, the little space that has been a godsend on this boiling day.  We had the rare luxury of coming back here to literally chill out, while the masses of true fans stayed in the dust and heat, rolling as one to their favorites.

I take every banana and water bottle left and feed my bursting backpack, as habits die hard, and take one last look around the trailer.
It’s quiet and cold in here now.
I feel that stab of punk rock guilt, to be standing here in comfort while a few thousand kids stand out there in the dirt and heat, singing along to their heroes.

For a fleeting moment, I consider taking one of the last beers out of the mini fridge and pouring it down the back of the plasma TV mounted amidships.
But what would that be?  An uneasy assurance to myself that I am still that carefree and careless punk of 3 decades back, that a true spirit lives on?

Instead I tidy up the trailer and put all the recyclables and garbage into the proper trash cans.

And when I leave I turn off the light.

We drive back down Grand Avenue yet again, slow now, creeping along city block like chickenhawks scanning the talent for that telltale bulge beneath mini skirt and fishnet.

The night’s warm, and the lights above stare down on shabby city sidewalks: casting halos of promise and hope, ultimately outnumbered by the expanses of darkness.

But it’s in those deep pockets of blackness that any proper city holds its nighttime treasures.
We’ve seen pharmaceuticals, outlawed since 1979, on sale by the dozen.
Albino Capuchin monkeys on leash?
A rusted tincture of chloroform, along with expired Girl Scout Cookies (Tagalongs!)?
Anything for a price!

Ah, but we’re not in the market, not yet anyway, for the hidden sweets of the city.

Tonight, we seek the ultimate prize: cheap curbside parking!

It’s no fucking use, and we resign ourselves to handing over fifteen bucks for the honor of parking in downtown LA on a Saturday night.

What the hell have they done to this town?

Was it really that long ago when Los Angeles was a scary fun ghost town on the weekends or any night after 8?
When the streets were wide open, shadowy playgrounds for the punks and bums,
the true princes of L.A.!

We could park on the goddamned sidewalk in front of Al’s Bar, and while the night away.
And only then, after a night of after-hours drinking and stumbling back to the car, would we feel that sweet tinge of danger.
The city would be even more quiet in the early morning hours, and long shadows would suddenly appear across our path.
And that tingle on the back of the neck, someone behind you now, only added to the excitement of the night.

But there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between punkers and homeless crackheads on those streets.
And they shuffled along at a respectful distance in our wake, slow and grumpy as any proper Hollywood zombies.

But now, oh brother, have things changed.
Downtown LA is a wonderland of restaurants and clubs now, lighting up the night with cheerful abandon.

Tonight the streets are alive with light and sound–the sound of young people …

As we herd into Casey’s Pub we’re assaulted by the whoo! and Har! of a dozen freshly minted adults.
Their youthful enthusiasm and cheerfulness grates on us immediately.
I can now appreciate the Grinch casting a disgusted glance down at the cheerful fucking carolers of Whooville…bah!

I hate to do it, to fall back on the dreaded H word-hipsters!— when bitch-moaning over another memory shattered.
After all, weren’t we just as guilty of crashing some grumpy old drunks’ soaked reverie on some night 3 decades ago?
Were we any less happy and loud, just to be drinking ironically in the shadows of darkened office buildings?

A few Guinness and snacks put us back in a proper mood, and we even start to enjoy the company of these noisy children drunk off their asses.
Perhaps it was just low blood sugar that had us in a bad mood.
Gotta watch the diet, gramps!

On the way out, we walk the cool gray slabs of sidewalk toward the Redwood.
But this time, I can see the packs of youngsters giving an occasional glance back, up and away from the smartphones they use to plead with any Uber driver to come rescue them: They’re looking back at us.
They pull skirts down a few millimeters and pick up their pace, and it hits us then:
We are the zombies now!

Now we’re the creepy old men wandering the city streets, our punker casual outfits resembling nothing less than the glad rags that usually come with a hot meal and a bus voucher on Thanksgiving Day.

And as we round Hill Street and walk up to the welcoming buzz of the club, we congratulate each other on graduating to the other side of the cage bars:
Animals all, after all, of the zoo.

The ship is a-rocking tonight at the Redwood, we’ve got a full crew on hand, the sails are full and the barrels are full of grog and…..
ah fuck it, that’s about all the nautical crap left in the tank, alright?

Let’s just say it is a grand time aboard!

After catcing killer sets by The Ex-Gentlemen and The Plexikill, we wander up to the tiny bandstand and set up.

There is a confused lull as we try to sort out amps and tangled cords, for tonight is gonna be a crowded one up yonder.

But downbeat comes and off we go, 3 rival guitar amps joined in sonic sheet, not one man onstage willing to turn down!

It’s a rare treat to bring up some gentlemen from our past:
Mike Eldred’s up there now, along with Larry Kelley in fine form.

Maria comes up for Cheap, and we begin to look even more like a Southern Rock band: Go Jim Dandy! indeed!

And of course, our Euro-man Jay Lansford has been hogging the right side of the stage all night, adding outrageous harmonic riffs to anything that comes across his path!

We’re having a great time now, playing loud and sloppy.

But it is a bittersweet tour that has Jay here with us tonight.
Just a week before we said farewell to Jay’s lovely mother Sharon.

Sharon who always loved to come to the gigs and cheer her son on, and us as well when we were lucky enough to be in one of Jay’s countless acts.
And it wasn’t just a rare field trip out for her to see the band as it was, honestly, for most of our Mom’s.

Sharon really knew the music, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you when you were a little flat or a guitar was out of tune.

She’d seen us do the song before after all, and do it better!
So we would always try just a little harder, stand up straighter and play a little better when Sharon was on the barstool, watching.

And as with any funeral, any news of a Mom leaving us, we all can’t help but take that moment to reflect upon our own losses.
Our own Moms’ absence.

It hits me that we’ve all lost those dear creatures that loved us, and that love we often took for granted if even earned undeservedly.

What else is it we share, beside the years of laughs and music?
We’re Dads ourselves now, and that parenthood bonds us even closer than the years in van and club.

We’re going into the last song of the night now.
I look over to my right and then my left, and see us all up there:
Holding guitars, lost in a shared moment: Motherless.

It’s well after 2:30 am when we finally get out of the bar.
All the last call drinks have been downed, the amps and guitars have been hustled out to the sidewalk.

And it seems, finally, the city is ours once again.
It’s quiet and cool, the sidewalks free of the high heeled hordes.
There are no lines of people within their red velvet corrals, no more towncars prowling downtown for drunken sorority sisters on their way to Canters.

It’s 2 shades darker now, and that much more calm, just as we’d have it.

We say low goodbyes to each other there on the sidewalk, and go our separate ways for the night.

Walking alone now to the parking lot, guitar case in hand, the old thrill comes back.
Fine hairs on the neck stiffen as shadows appear on the sidewalk.

But tonight, we’re not scared. Not in the least.
We have, each of us, someone watching over us.

Thanks for photos: Martin Wong @ http://www.giantrobot.com

Jeddah Hemet climbed down from the wagon at daybreak, and surveyed the valley below with a satisfied grunt. It had been a hard journey, crossing the pass in the dead of winter, and there were sacrifices to be made, to be sure. He allowed his tongue the singular pleasure of probing between latter molars, where he could still taste the gristly thigh meat of Cousin Jasper.
But now was not the time to mourn the past, for the verdant valley stretched along what we now know as the San Jacinto would be a suitable place to stop:
Home.
He unbuttoned his canvas trousers then and urinated upon the foundation of his new life, christening the land that would serve his wives and children well.

But revenge would someday be theirs, as the last remaining elders of the tribe would eventually drain every meager cent earned in the bubbling meth labs of the new century.
A fortune made in the name of progress, vanished within the draw poker slots of the local Casino:
A white man’s fortune wiped out, five quarters at a time.

Back after another goddamn layoff, this time out to the wilds of the inland and-yes!– back to a roller rink!

Help me out here, people: Just what the hell is it about roller rinks that makes them the logical place to put on punk gigs?

Oh yeah, we’ve played a few in our day:

Is it the stubborn funk of sweat socks and pubescent pheromones?
The thirsty expanse of parquet, always ready to drink more blood from a skinned elbow or knee?

Maybe it’s because it just sounds so goddamned good in those joints, ya think?

We load in for the long drive out yonder, and realize we haven’t touched guitar or stick since the last road trip out to the Midwest.
We pray that the scamps at American Airlines didn’t take their frustrations out on the baggage, and that we can remember the chords to Manzanar……I mean, we’ve only played that goddamn song twelve thousand times after all!

Ah, but it’s good.
To load back into a car and drive out to a gig with the fellas, yuck it up a little…….

Besides, it’s been a while since we played with D.I., will be nice to catch up with those guys and see what’s been happening in their world…!

We play:
We start the set furiously, five fast ones in a row without a stop.

If we could only keep up the pace, the kids, we’d have em!

But we’re out of practice, out of shape.
I sing from the throat and forget to breathe, corpuscles scream for oxygen and I start to see the familiar spots swimming before my eyes.
Anthony looks longingly at the beer bottle sweating on his amp during songs, wishing only for a break long enough to grab it and empty it by half.
As I try to go straight into number six Alf shouts at me to Stop, goddmnit! and fumbles for the Advair inhaler.

And then the pit starts to lose steam, it slows, the kids tentatively dancing with confused looks upon their brows, waiting for the point in the song that it will surely kick into double time.

But alas, it never happens.
The slow songs stay slow, and the pit dissipates finally, like a stadium Wave at a weekday Dodger game, kept alive only by the drunks and tourists with no shame.

Show biz pros that we are, we pull a few oldies out of the back pocket and end the set fast, but the damage is already done.
Out in the darkness there are a dozen young faces illuminated by the azure glow of smartphone screens, and I can only imagine the deservedly cruel critiques being shelled out on Fbook.

Mom was right! These guys still suck!

Heh.

It’s time to adjourn to the bar, where we catch up with a few friendly faces:

And then D.I. takes to the stage, and they sound just great.
Casey has the motivated sparkle of the newly cleansed, and they sound tight.
*cough*
No Fair! Somebody’s been practicing!

We wrap up the night in the usual way: a few hilarious cocktails, a few welcome urgings to Paulie to get on the dancefloor and shake what God gave him!

We load out and prep for the weird ride home, another Roller Rink under the belt.

The parking lot is busy, Moms coming to pick up their kids at the rink, couples making out in the shadows, someone pukes on a shrub.

Kimm and I look at each other, wordlessly, and I can tell he’s thinking what I am:

Again?
Still?

Jeddah completes his morning constitutional and shakes his weathered member as a northwest wind whispers against his manhood and stirs a more primal urge.
He holds fast, measuring the subtle response of blood flowing into spongy tissue.
Then he thinks better of it, and holds himself out to the growing sunlight.

He had to fertilize it—-literally— before buttoning up his trousers, rousing the womenfolk, and unloading the wagon.

It’s with happy hearts and twinkling eyes that we journey South toward the new Shakedown in San Diego.

The trusty road crew has gone ahead, so we have time to meander along the darkening coastline.

Radio plays a Clash song, and cupped hands are held out of open windows to float along the jetstream: Flesh colored birds rushing home to the nest, bellies filled with crickets to be regurgitated into the mouths of the next generation.

First stop is The Fish Joint in Oceanside, where the crew knows their audience, brother!

The Misfits’ Walk Among Us blasts out of the speakers on a continuous loop as we fall upon dish after amazing dish.
It’s Danzig’s pleading moan that drives us to consume one nigiri jewel after another…….

We finally beg them to stop, but really—who can say no to just one more sliver of fresh water eel or garlic infused halibut, reclining majestically on it’s final pillow of fluffy sushi rice, hmmm?

We thank our gracious hosts for the lovely food and hospitality and waddle back out to the ride.
Sated on rice, delicious sea creatures and countless missles of Sapporo, we squeeze behind the steering wheel and make our way down to the club.

The Shakedown is the new hep joint down yonder, and for good reason!

Dead Ted started things off with a bang, booking Fear, DI, Agent O, etc within the first couple weeks, leaving all the other San Diego clubs scrambling to book their venues with Whitesnake cover bands and puppet acts!

Now yer talkin Punk Rock club bub!
This joint serves a fine selection of Malt Liquors, giant cannisters of PBR, and the usual assorted brown liquids that make for a funny night!

Plus, these people treat the bands like champs, providing booze, snacks, not to mention swanky sleeping arrangements for the fellas to steal a quick pre-show snuggle!

We take to the stage and, Bonus! they play a steady stream of Korean slasher Porn behind you while yer playin!

What, have these guys been eavesdropping on our dreams or somethin’ ??

A few techinical problems, but that’s why we pay such a handsome salary to Tbone, sound/light/stage technician extraordinaire!

But here’s where things quickly went strange:

Dawn breaks clear on Saturday morning.
The incessant bark of the seagull, the jackhammer knock of the Ecuadoran maid.

These are the things that bring us out of a sweet sleep, only to confront what has been witnessed.

We drive a few listless miles North, each of us trying to grasp how to explain this to the wives and kids back home.
We have looked directly into the eyes of the demon clown…and he was angry!

Nothing a quick stop at Capn’ Keno’s in Carlsbad won’t fix!

We gulp Bloody Marys in the feeble hope they will erase the pictures that have been burned onto retina and cornea alike!

Men have returned from wars with a distant, gray look in their eyes.
They have witnessed the unspeakable, and yet these hardy men go on to lead productive lives. Am i right?

So with country gravy greased fingers, we make pinky promises to never speak of the night again.

That goes for you too.

Okay kids, listen.

I know how much y’all look forward to the Our Last Gig feature.
I mean, really—apparently some of you plan your whole weekends around it, right?

Sure, you love to read the wild exploits of your heroes, maybe under the covers late at night, flashlight gripped in your sweaty palm. Maybe you close your eyes and drift off to sleep imagining: Hey. Maybe one day I can go along, be one of the fellas! Gee, wouldn’t that be somethin!

But we’re busy men over here—- and Punk Rock Bowling is calling people!!!

Let’s see…we have guitars to restring, flasks to fill—need to get our balls drilled —and also attend to the bowling balls–Hey 0!!!

*Yes, it was great to get to Pittsburgh as the Pens demolished Montreal.
*We dug playing in the squat that is 222 Ormby and hope they’ll have us back.
*We spent the night in Mars, just becasue we always wanted to say that.
*Primanti Bros? pfft–of course!
*Cleveland?–hate to say it, but it rocks.
*Mr. Paul has one of the greatest clubs in America at Now That’s Class
*Now That’s Class is next to the toughest gay bar in America. Trust us.

And on our flight home? Fuckin Jim Brown…! Nuff said.

Hmmm….well, that really doesn’t live up to the ol CH3 blog standards, does it?
I mean, you don’t come here for a few dry sentences and a photo album of our weekend, do ya?

Here’s a shot of Alf with the weekend kickoff:
7:10 am: Shots of double espresso vodka in the Gardener garage bar.

Meh.
No, you intellectuals need some goddamn content!

So let’s go ahead and copy and paste a thrilling 1979 interview conducted by ABC Sports with daredevil Legend Evel Knievel!

ABC Sports
You’re one of the greatest self-promoters sport has ever seen, how does it feel?

Evel Knievel
I used to race motorcycles and really didn’t win enough to eat lunch, let alone dinner. All over the United States I raced, and I felt the motorcycling public would support a daredevil show like Joey Chitwood and his Auto Daredevils, so I formed a whole show.

I always was very good at promoting things and having teams. I had my own hockey team, Senior A team. It just comes naturally to me. I don’t have any problem doing it. I started it, and when I got hurt the show stopped, but the jump got so much publicity I just kept adding cars and just kept jumping further and further. I guess you might say I was part motorcycle rider and part show.

ABC Sports
Were you trying to appeal to patriotism by wearing the red, white and blue uniform?

Knievel
No, I wasn’t trying to appeal to anybody’s patriotism by wearing the red, white and blue. I really detested the publicity motorcycling was getting at the time I started in the ’60s. I didn’t like the Hell’s Angels at all. So I just took off the black leather jacket and put on a white one — red, white and blue. I’m glad I did. I thought I made the right decision.

ABC Sports
When did you decide you were going to risk your life?

Knievel
Well, I really didn’t want to risk my life. But the further the jumps got, the more cars and trucks and buses I jumped, it became a life-risking profession, not just a show.

ABC Sports
Talk a little bit about your injuries.

Knievel
I’ve had between 35 and 40 operations. Thirty-some of them were major open-reduction operations where they cut me open, put steel into me, sewed me up, then took it back out a year or so later. I’ve had some real serious open-reduction operations and I just underwent a liver transplant a short time ago.

I know what that’s all about and believe me, I feel sorry for anybody that has to go through the operations. Liver, heart and kidney transplants, it’s a tough way to go.

ABC Sports
Do you feel lucky to be alive?

Knievel
Yes, I feel lucky to be alive. I’ve always felt there was somebody watching over me. I see these other young fellas jumping and there’s been several of them killed and very badly injured. I trained myself to relax when I knew I was going to go over these handlebars. I think that’s probably what saved my life — just knowing what to do.

ABC Sports
Are you saying that there’s a way to crash?

Knievel
When you crash, it’s like a baby falling out of a hotel window. They don’t know what’s happening, so they’re relaxed. Most of them live through a fall of any distance because they are relaxed. They don’t tighten up. I felt that was the right way for me to do things, and I practiced it and I did it.

ABC Sports
Did you feel indestructible or bulletproof?

Knievel
I did feel bulletproof. I thought I could handle a motorcycle as good as any man in the world and I was very competent and capable at what I was doing. But the bulletproof feeling, after I missed so many times, became a feeling of anxiety. I always felt I could fall many times in life but I’d never been a failure as long as I tried to get up, to continue on, in any way that I could. I think that’s what helped me through my career.

I think the crashing I did and the spills I took, of course, got a lot of publicity. I think if I hadn’t been hurt so many times and didn’t get up, didn’t continue and speak with a positive mental attitude, I don’t really believe I would have become so popular. I think Americans identified with me during the ’70s, I really do. I think I have some wonderful loyal fans around the country.