San Diego III

So we have a Myspace page, yeah. Facebook, Twitter, sure.
All that crap.

I’m sure in a few months we’ll have some goddamn Iphone app that lets you match CH3 drink for drink on any given night on tour. You know, so you can stay in sync with your favorite band member!

*chime* Anthony Thompson alert *chime* now drink 24 ounces of Pabst Blue Ribbon and insult a celebrity.

Gotta keep up with times, ya know! In theory, all these delicious tools are there to help us promote the band, spread the word. It’s a new day when all you have to do is digitally cut and paste up a flyer, photobucket it, and send it out enmasse to everyone within a 75 mile radius of the show zip code.

Personally, I miss the day of scissor and glue, the trip to Kinko’s in the middle of the night.
The stacks of flyers hand delivered to Zed’s, only to be quickly tossed in the trash by the China White guys when they followed us in with their flyers…..

Selling for 15 bucks on ebay..and to think we used to wipe with these things!

But most of the time, these various web sites seem to be there solely to allow young bands to contact us, pleading to get on a show. It’s tough, hell yeah! We rarely have any say in the lineup, but was it really that long ago when we had to kiss ass to get that opening slot on a thursday night?
Eh, guess it was.

...and this we vow, Commandatore' We will bring in 45 people and let all the bands use our drumset!

After the Black Flag gig, things started to fall into place for the band. In an early interview with No Mag, Henry put us in his list of top 5 acts (when we played good). I think he changed his opinion a few months later when he had to step over my drunken body onstage at the Minutemen compound in San Pedro. Heh….nice shoes, Hank!

We were getting some good words written about the ep, the cool kids started coming around to the shows, and Robbie called one fateful day and told us it was time to come back to the studio and record the full length follow up!

The gun, the hands, the cheesy font--and yet it all works!

But best of all, we were getting called all the time to be on these shows. Amazing gigs–the first closing of Al’s Bar with Circle Jerks. Huge daytime fests at the Olympic Auditorium…..A gig with Fear!
And an actual concert, I guess you would call it-with security guards and a huge stage-opening for the Professionals!

I guess a couple of these guys were in a band before, am I right?

I know now we were experiencing that zone of popularity, when the thing is no longer in your hands. We were as baffled as the other local bands were jealous of our fortune. It seemed like every time Kimm came to practice he had another gig set up, playing with one of our heroes, or I would answer the phone and what? It’s Craig Lee on the line, and he wants a quote for Thursday’s LA Weekly!
It was a nice ride, and we don’t hold our breath that this train will come back any time soon to pick us up again…..

One day Kimm came into the garage, jotting something down in the little planner he always held, the days’ answer to the Blackberry. Larry and I were already in there with Burton, trying to play Temples of Syrinx. Kimm looks up, puts hands to ears, arches eyebrows in question. “What the fuck was that?” says he when we cut it out in mid We are the Priests!

“That, my friend, was a lil something by a band called Rush.”
“Rush. Oh my God. That was not Rush.”

Burton immediately goes into some Neil Peart solo, about the only thing he really practiced. Fuckin drummers. Not like we had any songs of our own we needed to work on, wot? Kimm and I had to continue our conversation over the P.A., shouting over the ridiculous drum fills.

“TOLD YOU. RUSH. WHAT’S UP DID JAY CALL?”
“NAH. HEY ARE WE ALL FREE ON THE 12TH? BURTON SHUT UP! FUCK! Okay, we good on the 12th? It’s a Friday.”
I look around the garage, Larry nods, Burton shrugs. Burton had brought a huge Iron Maiden poster to staple up behind his set.

I looked at Eddie, he seemed fine.

“Yeah, we’re good, what it be?”

Kimm grinned, made us wait a moment, and I knew it was something good.
“Get this–San Diego, the California Theatre….With. The. Cramps!”

Oh man.

Larry: Cramps!
Me: Fuck Yeah!
Burton: Which ones are the Cramps?

ah do you understand??

This is what I was talking about. These shows seemingly appeared out of thin air. And before you know it, we’re sharing a dressing room with a band that we were covering-badly-just a few months earlier in the garage.

“Fuckin Awesome Kimm..when is it again?”
“12th. Friday. I’ll confirm tomorrow.”
“Whew. Cramps. Really? We should practice huh?”

Kimm strapped on the Red Ibanez Destroyer and tuned up.
“Alright then gentlemen. Shall we?”

Forever geeks at heart.....

“And the Meek shall inherit the earth….1-2-3-4!”

Click to hear the Temple of Syrinx suite from 2112!

San Diego II

As the 5 freeway makes one more long curving dip Southbound, say around San Clemente, the Pacific suddenly appears over your starboard shoulder.

I love that part of the drive, when you leave the numbing concrete of the suburbs and you finally see the landscape give way to the vast blue ocean. Even better when yer in the back of the ol Blue and White Chevy, cold Coors Banquet in hand, 999 casette playing distortionally full blast on the Blaupunkt. Loud as the music plays, it is still no competition to the roar of the crew: Duane’s braying laugh, Kimm and Larry arguing out a set list, Chris yelling at all the backseat drinkers to keep their beers down on the fuckin’ freeway. A chick is screaming from somewhere in the gear compartment, begging for a bathroom stop. We’re going to San Diego to play with Black Flag!

The Blue and White....Home on the Road

After the call from Kimm, I went back out to the Fmart parking lot where Richard was still glaring at the stray cart lodged up against the Datsun. I stepped around him and pulled it back, wiped off the black scuff mark with a spit moistened thumb. No Harm Done. “Heh. Sorry about that Richard. No more calls, got it.”

“Get back to work Magrann. You just lost your break.”
“Yeah, I was gonna ask you about that. What’s the chance of cutting out early tonight?”

He looked like I’d just asked to shit on his beard.

My work day-in fact my entire career in the food services industry- ended 90 seconds later with my vest and clip on tie draped over Richard’s fat head. As I waited for the blue and white to pick me up out on South Street, I looked back and saw Black Chuck walking out to the parking lot, his head hanging low, resigned to the task that was now his. Heh.

An hour 15 minutes later I was sipping that cold Coors Banquet and watching the sun being pulled into the blue sea, singing along to Titanic Reaction. And an hour after that we pulled into some rec center outside of downtown San Diego.

We're here!!!

The promoter was hopping around the parking lot, relieved we’d finally made it, yelling at the kids to throw away their beers and get inside the club. This was some last minute gig, and he thanked us for being able to make it down on such short notice—also, something about Black Flag trying out their new singer, some out of towner named Henry. Oh, and we were supposed to be onstage, like, now!

We loaded the gear in and up a flight of stairs, right onto a low stage facing a hardwood dance floor. We set up fast and tuned guitars with shaking hands, trying to look like we didn’t care in front of the SD punkers who didn’t know much about us. Maybe they heard the EP, but we looked a lot goofier than the record sounded-that’s true.

What the...? But they sound like they have mohawks!

You could smoke indoors back then, and the air was blue with Clove cigarette smoke. Kimm and I checked the stage volume, someone cut the Buzzcocks off the PA, and we turned to face the crowd. We kicked it off with Got a Gun.

Sometimes when you play a gig everyting goes wrong, and you remember that. Pants split on stage, someone kicks the mic right into your face and splits your lower lip in two. But truthfully, most of the time the shows are like the rest. You play the songs you’ve rehearsed a thousand times and you do the set on auto pilot for a bored crowd, then you pack it off the stage and look for a cold beer.

But sometimes, sometimes it all goes right.

On this night the crowd wanted to hear music, they wanted it, to connect their boredom and rage with loud guitars and drums. The guitars stayed in tune, Burton didn’t forget any countoffs, the pit grew with every song. Though the stage was low, the ceiling was maybe a standard 8 footer and covered with acoustic cottage cheese. With every windmill of my arm (because now we’re feeding off the boiling crowd and pulling off the rockstar moves that have been performed only for the bedroom mirror), I would hit my knuckles right up into the ceiling. With every song my knuckles grew bloodier, and the pickguard of the Rickenbacker was soon spider webbed in red.

We end the set, soaked in honest sweat and breathing hard. When we get the guitars back to the shared dressing room, Dez and Chuck actually come over and talk to us!

Understand- Maybe 13 months earlier, Kimm and I stood in the back of the Fleetwood and watched a Black Flag set.
It was a frightening and exhilarating thing to behold, and truthfully made us wonder if we had the sand to exist in this world.

Now, I’m standing there with Dez, and he’s shaking his head as he holds my bloodied hand in his.

Chuck and Kimm continued talking, a conversation that would lead to our first real tour of the Southwest. Henry Rollins came over and introduced himself, he seemed a little keyed up for the gig, one of his first with the band. He said he’d heard the EP and liked it.

Hey! Who's the new guy?

A loose and magical night. Later, when they went into Revenge, Henry tensed up those neck muscles like only he can, and screamed the words into the mic: It’s not my imagination, I’ve got a gun on my back! But the band didn’t kick in on cue, just turned to each other and laughed as Henry almost fell off the riser with the momentum unanswered. I don’t know…standing there on the side of the stage, we felt like we were in on the joke, musicians.

OKay-Again, Gun on my back!....Oh, c'mon guys!

We loaded out of the club early Sunday morning. Wet with sweat, gulping at the fresh air, dizzy with the promise of, well, anything! after a gig like that. The local punks were on our side, helped carry out the gear. One crusty even surrendered Burton’s cymbals that had been swiped and hidden in the pizza oven. Nights like this don’t come often to a young band, and I think even then we knew that.

The promoter was pleased and pledged more great gigs in the future.

He made good on his promise, but with the very next trip down to San Diego we fucked up everything.

San Diego

Well, the goddamn time has changed and the days are as short as Alf’s pubis—that’s short, people!
It makes you long for the distant Summer evenings, when you would toddle out of the Irisher after Happy Hour and still have the golden glow of the sunset accompany you on the walk back over to O’Malleys….

And so goes 2009 as it comes to its own evening, yes?
It’s late in the year, and we no longer have the energy to lose the weight or dye the hair for these last few gigs.

Besides, I’m thinking a dash of grey will add to the roguish look, eh?

I’m imagining a little Joe Perry action:

Or, hey–maybe they’ll see a resemblance to this character!

Yeah, whatever—Me, I stay away from the Garnier Ultra shine #14 Blue/Black for a month and here’s the look I achieve:

Someone's looking fabulous!

Yer ol pals here at the CH3 ranch did a lot of travelin and serenadin’ these past 12 months, and just a couple more gigs on the calendar before we put a busy year to rest–

What’s this? Another gig down South? Goddamn, that makes it about a half dozen times we’ve played San Diego in the past year!

You know, we really enjoy travelin down the 5 and playing there. Lots of really cool friends and bands we know down yonder, and besides–they got some green chile burritos available at 3a.m. that make you Pavlovianally start drooling at last call !

Let's be honest---way better than groupies or drugs!

But it wasn’t always this way.

Oh no, there was a period of time–let’s say 1982 til the recent past or so–that CH3 was not welcome down in the Greater San Diego area.

What’s that? What happened Uncle Mike? Tell us a story!!

Well, alright, but then it’s straight up to bed with you feckin brats!!

Long, long ago….

Young and innocent, and we smelled like freshly shampooed puppies!

You see, way back when in the early days of this punk thingy, we had no internet, no myspace or facebook. No Hot Topic!
There was no Punk Rocker global community, and so the different cities would have their own little tribes. Many were the nights we would pull into the parking lot of some warehouse or abandoned roller rink, only to be met with the angry glares of the local crew, viciously guarding their own little scene from the outside invaders. You had to prove yourself worthy if you ever wanted to come back, and believe me brother–there were plenty of burgs that didn’t want to see our little act again!

We were fortunate to have an ep out on the powerhouse PoshBoy label, though, and that opened a lot of doors!

The EP was released and we were still scratching for local gigs–Cuckoo’s Nest on a weeknight, maybe a garage party in LaHabra. But reviews started coming in, a few copies got sold, and we were steadily getting offers to play bigger gigs!

One Saturday evening, as I was collecting the shopping carts in the Fedmart parking lot,

—hmmm? what? What’s a Fedmart you say?
Well, it’s a little before your time, but imagine a WalMart, only with a much lower class clientele-ya got me? A White Trash bonanza catering to the local families that arrived drunk and arguing, and left with their carts piled high. Gallons of blue label vodka and menthol cigarettes, that was their usual booty.

And after loading their pickup trucks with their nutritous supplies, do they bring their carts back to the front? Or even to the cart corral in the middle of the goddamn parking lot?

I think you know the answer.

No, they leave it to some poor schmuck, doing an eight hour– eight hour! –shift of doing nothing but collecting carts. Even bagging groceries was better than that gig, and I usually passed a Saturday afternoon doing just that.

There I’d be, silently nursing my hangover as I bundled the groceries. Jauntily snapping out two brown bags at the same time while winking at the Donna, (cougar cashier with bad skin), I would calculate the individual minutes left on my shift and the time it would take to be home, drinking a cold Coors Banquet in the shower.

Understand me–an easy job. At least compared to double fours humping shopping carts over a 2 acre parking lot…… Didn’t even need to expunge enough breath to ask, paper or plastic? —-it was even before that choice was an option!
Only the wisacres and hard asses pulled cart duty, rebels with big mouths who were always begging someone to clock them out while they went to meet their pot dealer at the Brique.

Do you want the Smirnoff in the bag ma'am? Or will you be drinking it on the way back to the car?

So where was I? Right.

One Saturday evening, as I was collecting the shopping carts…..wha? Why was I out there collecting the carts? That wot you say?

Don’t know if I ever told you about your Uncle Duane, did I?

For the love of God, Duane--do not take a drink while I'm in the room!

Ah, gee, he was a swell guy alright. In fact, I believe he got me that swell job at the Fedmart.

See, I was just a college kid at the time, doing my term paper on Mesopotamian Influence on Early Egypt and practicing in the garage most every evening. But Mom was getting a little fed up with my 6 unit workload and constant monitoring of the Twilight Zone reruns that played 6 times a day on KTLA channel 5…

Oh, for fuck sake! It's a cookbook ya dummies! How many times have I warned ya?!

So I figured a part time job would be the best way to keep the peace and insure our practice privileges, at least for a while anyway. Rockstardom right around the corner and all that don’t ya know….

So Duane gets me into The ‘Mart and all is fine for a while: me putting the frozen chicken in the bottom/marshmallows on top, Duane sweating his ass off in the parking lot, pushing a 25 yard long line of carts back to the store front, they only to be used and scattered again. Sweet.

Goddamn you! I just put that fucking thing back!!

Long story short, they pushed DW about as far as you can, which is to say 3 weeks into the job. Something about spending too long behind the Snack Bar soda fountain while a line of irritated alcoholics waited at the empty Cart Poole.
I can still remember Duane flipping off Richard the Creepy Shift Manager and throwing his apron into Black Chuck’s face. Duane looked at me and raised an eyebrow, an invitation to throw off my humiliating costume as well and join him at the Brique for a night of drinking and boasting.

Sadly, I shrugged and turned back to my bags, figuring correctly that it wouldn’t be the last job Duane would get me into or fired out of.

So there I am, resplendent in red vest over short sleeve button up with brown polyester clip-on tie, minding my own business. I slide a 24 pack of Lucky Lager out of a cart’s lower tray, gentle as birthing a foal into the new day of a misty meadow. That’s when Richard the Creepy Shift Manager tapped me on the shoulder. “Magrann-you got the cart shift. Now.”

Fuckin Duane.

It’s 3 weeks later and I’m still pulling Cart duty evey Saturday. I know it’s a punishment, especially because Richard sees me ride to Fmart on the back of Duane’s Interceptor 500. Duane never misses a chance to rev the throttle and squeak a meager burnout on the Mart’s front sidewalk, and Richard the CSM never tires of pointing me out to the hot parking lot.

The ocean I swam. Over and over and over....

One scorching Saturday, let’s say 4pm, I’m humping the line back to the front. Saturdays are the worst, because you have so many goddamn carts out there and the lot is so full, you can’t possibly get them back to the store before they run out. A vicious circle, so you start lining up more and more carts, and on this day I’ve got as many as I can possibly steer from way back here. Richard the Creepy Shift Manager comes out of the automatic doors and yells for me: “Magrann! Phone! Personal Call!”

I abandoned my conga line of shopping carts, allowing the first one in the row to break free and bump harmlessly into a Datsun B210 in the handicap space. Richard glared at me as I walked past him into the store. “What I tell you about personal calls, huh?!” I rolled my eyes in response and went to the phone behind the information booth/cigarette dispensary.

The cold air of the store’s guts shock me for a moment, and I struggle with the dark spots that swim before my eyes. Black Chuck shakes his head, the fuckin kiss ass.

“Yeah, what?” I say, phone to my sweating head. It’s Kimm on the line. I can hear Duane in the background.

“How’s the cart business?”
“Fuck you. What?”
“Dude. can you get off, like right now?”

“No. I don’t know. What’s up?”

“Dude,” and I can hear Kimm grinning. “We got a show with Black Flag. Tonight. San Diego.”

Oh, but you kids are tired, ain’t ya? We’ll finish this story up another day. Maybe.

Our Last Gig: Las Vegas

No, we didn't make it on the marquee. We did, however, urinate beneath it's sublime neon glow---so we got that goin for us!

Rolled into Vegas around sundown, or I should say rolled past Vegas! Texas Station is located way North of town, right between the What the Hell? and Where the Fuck Are We? highways….

Kimm checks in. What a world, when yer 3rd billed under Bingo!

Loaded into the South Padre lounge and then immediately headed to the all you can eat buffet:

The Feast Around the World. Tomorrow: the Loose Bowel Movements Around Interstate 15

Tell me: What makes us eat like ravenous kennel dogs when we are unleashed upon an open buffet?
I mean, at home you probably wouldn’t consider a weekday dinner consisiting of menudo, baklava, pasta puttanesca, sushi and crawfish etoufee—would you?

Oh sure, you try to start off sensibly. You have a simple entree, maybe a few crunchy appetizers…

Spaghetti. Meatballs. Fried Shrimp. Crab Cake.

…but, what’s that? TBone found some Cajun food over in the corner next to the frosty machines!

Gumbo. Jambalaya. Dirty Rice.

And, huh? Seafood?!–oh, right, it’s Friday! The chilled seafood bar is in full swing, and though I would usually question the wisdom of eating raw oysters that have been sitting in the bacteria biodome that is a las vegas casino, it seems naturally fine tonight! Did I mention we’ve been drinking?

Crab Legs, Oysters, Shrimp.

Things begin to blur at this point. Not even hungry, we eye the plates of the people who have just returned from the buffet, only to bolt out of our chairs and head back to the food! Wait’ll the fellas get a load of this plate!!

Pizza. BBQ Ribs. Chicken.

Things have gotten silly now. Nationalities and flavors, entrees and desserts—they have all begun to melt together in our contest of culinary one-upmanship!….

Collard Greens, Chow Mein. Bean Salad.

Thankfully, we slow down, and eventually stop eating altogether. We come together in silence as we behold the mesmerizing sight of Tbone tackling an endless supply of crab legs!

TBone tries the utensils provided to extract the crabby goodness.....

...only to abandon the tools and use the mouthful of weapons the good Lord blessed him with....

...urp? Bird gets a little ahead of himself and swallows a oyster shell sideways.

Then we played the show.
*
*
*
*
Saturday: Up and at em, down to the casino floor for load out and a lil video poker!

10am, back at the bar, and the fellas are hungry for breakfast!

Bloody Mary? check. Coors Light? check. Fatburger with fried egg? Oh hell yes!

Tomorrow we start the diet my little monkeys--but for now, mangia, mangia!!

Alright then, great roadtrip, guys!

Again: Our Last Gig: Las Vegas

Wha? Christ Almighty, what’s with all the complaints about our recent gig coverage? Apparently, some of you people don;t care about our culinary exploits and want to hear about, what? Actual gig news??
We go out of our way to spread the mighty CH3 seed throughout this great Nation, and then we come home and bring you all the details of our travels–and it’s still not enough?!

We’ve received hundreds of emails demanding actual proof that we really played in Las Vegas, as well as a dozen marriage proposals for Tbone.

oooh--his eyes are so dreamy!

What? You can’t trust us? It should be enough for your old buddies here at the CH3 information desk to tell you we went out and played a show.
Frankly, I find it a little insulting that you would demand photographic proof that we actually made it to the stage and played a gig.

Besides, we lost the camera.
And by lost the camera, I don’t mean misplaced it in the casino. No, we ran out of chips to split the Aces with fifty in the hole, so we put the digital down as a marker.

I really hope a one Miss Candace Petersson, StationCasino employee#4516b, hometown Akron Ohio, enjoys the Cannon D1400 Sure Shot. Bitch.

Knock yourself out, Sister--I hope you enjoy all the GG Elvis pix that are still on the memory chip!

Thank God our old pals at Big Wheel Mag were on hand to record the festivities!

A combined age of 97 years on this Earth....!!

Birthday Boy Kimm tries to stand upright and play a guitar at the same time: But it's so Goddamn easy when yer sober!!

Let's see: All you can eat crablegs+nine beers+a warm shot of Patron. Oh yeah, I gotta remember this combination!

Let's speed things up, bitches! The blackjack tables are callin to me!

In my sleep, I tells ya! That's how long I've been playing these same fuckin songs!

(Happy? Check out Big Wheel Magazine for all your news and gig updates, and leave us alone, Goddamnit!)

Gamblin’ Time!

Kimm's birthday, a CH3 gig, and Las Vegas...sounds like a peaceful weekend to me!

So the road show rolls into a nutty little town we like to call Las Vegas this weekend, eh?

When you’ve been around as long as yer ol pals in CH3, you develop a certain history with the cities you visit on a periodic basis.
Yeh, we’ve seen this burg grow from a classless little hick hole to the classless monument to excess that it is today!

This is how we like to remember the joint....

And don’t give me that crap about the Wynn art collection or Tommy Keller’s slop houses raising the cultural bar!
Listen, if I’m gonna drop three hundred goddamn dollars at Bouchon or Nobu, it’s not gonna be in a place where I have to look at a faded cougar on an oxygen tank play penny slots, Brother!

Sure, keep goin' Ma! The kids back home in the holler don't need no shoes this winter!

Besides, you wanna talk about fine dining when any sane man is gonna stroll down the strip for a 99 cent half pound dog at Slots of Fun??!

Ya know what would hit the spot after this? I'm thinkin 25 cent shrimp cocktail and a Heimlich maneuver!

Over the years, we’ve done Vegas a hundred different times and a hundred different ways. From the Bellagio waterfront suites to sleeping it off in the downtown parking garage, this town has always welcomed us with open arms and then kicked our asses back down Interstate 15.

But there’s always been one constant: Yeah, you got it–Gambling!

Ah, hell yeah! Tell Alf he doesn't have to pass out the whore flyers on the Strip any more!

What is it about gambling that sets the blood to boil, hmm?

Is it the thrill of risking what you really can’t afford to lose?
The chance—ever so slight!–of winning?

Actually winning— now there’s a concept!

To receive unearned monies, dropped down upon your grateful open palm like a feather. A reluctant gift from the last sad bird of an exotic and now extinct species?

Your reward in chips: the reduction of familiar monetary values to meaningless tokens. Kinda like buying a Youth Brigade T shirt!

Nah. We simply gamble for the free booze and this simple fact: They let ya get away with murder if yer gambling!!

I mean really, where else can you stumble through a ritzy lobby (or ride a wheelchair *ahem*), a smelly cigar on your lip and all your junk hanging out of your vomit-crusted trousers without getting kicked out on your ass? Just drop a coin in the video poker and they’ll bring you a bloody mary and a Keno card!!!

Keep yer eye on the tall Jap with the two wetbacks....
either they're counting cards or they're too drunk to count to 21!

It’s the spirit of Las Vegas that we love, that sleazy independence that has survived through shitty lounge acts and white tigers!
Come join your buddies out in the desert, won’t ya?-and give Kimm a kiss for luck.

(Need more push? Click the goddamn arrow below and listen to the coins clatter into the tray—it’s the sound of a million lucky angels with prosthetic wings, baby!!!)

Gamblin’ Time

Didn’t I learn a goddamn thing
Is it only half way through Lent?
This hundred bucks is getting awfully warm
And it ain’t going to the rent

I want a chance at something more
Or something different at least
Gimme a shot, a shot at hope
To get me through one more week

Is it wrong to use that cash
Well, her teeth are really pretty straight
Over under’s at fifty four
That one dude’s groin is strained

All I know about myself is nothing’s never enough
Screw the payment on the truck and the rest of that boring stuff
It’s gamblin’ time

In Sam’s Town I double down
The bitch held back my King

The frickin’ horse dropped down in class
She didn’t learn a goddamn thing

I dream of jet black roulette wheels on a velvet ocean of green
I hold the dice like wounded birds and then I set them free

Ode to Fall

Ah, Autumn! What is it about this time of year that makes us reflect on our lives?

Is it the gentle cooling of the Earth, gradually bringing our toasted synapses back onto the level playing field?
The changing folliage-yes, even here in Southern California!– reminding us of mortality’s ever vigilant watch on our fragile existence?

Photoshopped palm trees lining the greenbelt, Seal Beach CA

A man reverts back to his primal mammalian urges, seeking the comfort of warmth and family, fattening up for a hibernatory season.
It is time for cozy board games by the fire and the long patient stewing of thrifty cuts of beef!

psst--hey Dad, if you move green to sector H4, we can crush mom's spirit forever!

Fall is the season that ushers in our birthday season and the deliciously hectic swirl of holiday parties. Benefit shows and chilly dark nights on the road– visions of ominous brown liquids poured tall into buckets.

This? Shucks, we just call this the lemonade of the Autumnal Equinox, people!

Wicked hangovers that are endured only by fried egg sandwiches and Advil, eased by the mercifully short days that melt into yet another chilly night.
The chance to wear that smart tweed blazer you bought so long ago–July, wasn’t it?–on a drunken thrift store jag on Haight…..

And here at CH3 basecamp, we prepare for the next campaign after a well deserved Indian Summer’s sabatical.

...absent from the tabloid pages since Summer, the fellas resurface briefly at the recent Emmy awards.....

So let’s take a look at the upcoming social calendar, shall we? And we’ll brave the oncoming Beast of Darkness together!!

First show after a long layoff--lyrics are forgotten, fingers bleed...Alf shows up at the wrong club!

Record release party--Come help us christen the new baby! We're thinking of leaving the foreskin on this time...

CH3 in a casino lounge...I bet ya never saw this coming!

Come on out and join yer pals won’t ya? Cheers-M

RIP Fat Paul

The Man, the Legend....

So yer sittin there at the Gold Brique, watching the heavy glass pitchers of beer sweat, Credence on the Juke Box. Herman’s manning the bar and scolding us as we try to sneak tips on the bar. “That’s your money, young mister! Put away your change, you earned it, didn’t ya?”
Joyce chimes in from the corner stool and agrees with the old coot. They smile at each other, a shared secret long forgotten.

Helen snores softly in the back office, the door cracked open just enough so we can peek in and catch a glimpse of her weathered bra-enormous! –glowing blue in the flicker of a Dodgers game.

Maybe ya just got back from throwing back a tumbler of Jack at the Embassy Lounge next door, and when you look around all you see are people you know. Maybe there’s a steaming basket of broasted chicken cooling on the table in front of you.

Jesus, the chicken’s always too damn hot, man!–and you always wake up on Saturday morning after the Brique with the fine first layer of skin burned off your palate. You say fuck it, dunk one of the potato logs into your pitcher of draft Bud, and take that first bite, juggling the molten goodness between tongue and molar while mouthing-ho-ho-!

As the Box switches songs, (Lodi to Traveling Man, there’s a good one!) there is a sweet pause in the music. In that moment of your life, you hear only the sound of laughing and cussing; it is the sound of your friends talking to each other.

By God, was there nothing better than a Friday night at the Brique??

You can imagine the sound of this beast, can't ya?

And yet, nothing made the picture complete as the sound of the ‘42 flathead coming off Norwalk, one last rev before shutting her down on the sidewalk right out front of the Brique.
You could easily hold your breath in the short pause it took a man to dismount and walk into the bar pulling off his gloves, for these were the golden nights long before a helmet law.

And there he was –Fat Paul.

Paul Avila, mechanical madman, community jewel, all around bon vivant around town.

After the Brique shut off the sign and Helen threatened to call the goddamn cops on us for the fourth time, you considered yourself a lucky man if you were invited along for after hours at Paul’s. A short jaunt up Norwalk blvd and you found the wonderland of Fat Paul’s house.

Though there might be a disassembled trike transmisson on the kitchen table, and the very real threat of live ammunition in the cupboard, Paul’s house felt as warm and welcoming as Grandmas. Besides, where else could you play with a taser gun at 3 in the morning?

.....

The years roll on, and somehow life becomes more complicated. But you still catch yourself looking down those familiar streets when you’re back in the old neighborhood, somehow hoping the Brique would suddenly be there again, Helen at the door and Fat Paul pulling in the driveway.

Paul passed away just before the Summer turned hazy, but it’s taken this season for all of us to absorb his passing and prepare to say a final farewell. Come join us Sunday at the Blue Dog to say GoodBye to a pal–Cheers!

You Lie!

Well, the fellas at CH3 Mission Control were all in a tizzy when they called me on the landline. Seems a tremendous overnight spike in Channel 3 Itunes activity crashed the entire Apple system, caused by ravenous purchases of the old track You Lie!

...we can't explain it, Sir! Also, we've been selling an unusual amount of Got A Gun XXL tees in Chino Hills!!

Apparently, the overnight downloads of that track funneled enough monies into Posh Boy’s pockets that he is currently in the market for a new villa in Bordeaux.

Wha? Well, a quick log onto the Huffington Post confirmed our suspicions…that scamp Joe Wilson was up to his old tricks!
Apparently, he tried to get a pit going last night during the Healthcare Reform speech by yelling You Lie!!, and then jumping off the Congressional bannister, knocking a beer out of the hand of Representative David Price (D – NC, 4th District).

I just want some Skank! I just want some Skank!

Heh–fuckin Joe! We remember when he used to hang out with his crew at the Galaxy Theatre and yell shit at us from the pit…but when ya called him out on it?
Silence.
Some things never change!

Who the fuck said that, huh?! Yeh, that's what I thought.....

And now, like clockwork, comes the official apology from Wilson’s office:
“This evening I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the President’s remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill. While I disagree with the President’s statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the President for this lack of civility.”

Oh brother. Apparently even the Republicans are condemning the outbust now too.

I know nothing!

Yeh, that’s because the Rebuplicans were salivating over Obama’s lowest approval ratings in months due to the Heathcare issues, and then Wilson decides to get all drunk before the gig and ruin it for everyone!!

Whatever. At least it got a little TMZ-style attention to the issue at hand.

And while we applaud Obama’s tackling of the Healthcare issues, just don’t get us started!
It’s well known that CH3 has been championing total Health Service overhaul since the early 80’s, when we proposed going back to a basic Commodities-based valuation of the Nation’s Healthcare.

In other words, a case of Syphyllis is gonna cost ya a basket of eggs, breast enlargement one veal calf..etc!!

Yes, we have goat....one vasectomy and and Coronary Artery Bypass Graft, if you please!

Listen, if Joe wanted to man up and take on the Prez, you don’t just namecheck your favorite CH3 song and then go hide by the chicks’ bathrooms! You gotta go for the stage dive like those nutty punkers over in South Korean Paliament, am I right?

Up the Punx!

Then they really get things boiling in the pit!!

Gaaa! I lost my shoe!!

Click the shiny arrow to hear You Lie by CH3!!

The CH3 Eye on TV: True Blood

We were all thrilled here at the CH3 entertainment offices when the advance copies of HBO’s True Blood Sunday Finale arrived via DHL. Oh sure, we’re usually more interested in the more cerebral offerings of subscription cable, and haven’t really been tuning into the the Big H since they totally screwed up with the Sopranos finale….

Really? Journey? Hey, thanks for the fuckin ear worm, Chase!

Hey sue us! This is scary good fun for the whole family.
See, in this sitcom, vampires are out in the real world and trying to get along with the rest of us! Kinda like Will and Grace, when you think about it….
But oh man, hilarious hijinks ensue when the locals start mixing with the vampires, people start getting killed, regular people start drinking vampire blood—whooo boy!

All they need is Don Knotts and Tim Conway as the local law and they’d be onto Television Gold!

...well if you didn't sneeze, I didn't sneeze...gaaaa! L-L-let's get outta here!!

In this, the second season of True Blood, the sleepy redneck town of Bon Temps has been cursed by the evil Maenad, some kind of crazy beast that eats raw meat and gives everyone these real cool Marilyn Manson contacts so they can have non stop sex and parties.
Alf asks: where do I sign up??

The evil presence is played by some Dom bitch that was on thirty-something or a Summer’s Eve commercial, I know I’ve seen her somewhere before——but on here–evil!

Dionysius commands you to stay morning fresh all day long!!!!

I’ll tell you what, this cougar looks like she’s having a grand time chewing on the scenery. In fact, I have to keep reminding myself that this is actually on broadcast television, the acting is so deliciously bad! They tell me Anna Paquin, who plays main character Sookie Stackhouse, actually won an Oscar when she was just a kid for the Piano! Lemmee guess–she didn’t try a Southern accent in that one, am I right?

Shoulda quit while you were ahead, kid!

Meanwhile-meanwhile!- our boy Keitel goes commando in that and Bad Lieutenant and gets zilch?!! I hereby turn in my Academy card– good day sir!

Nudity and crack smokin? That's what we call acting!!!

Anyhoo, in an effort to save the town from turning into some Norwegian Black Metal festival, (though believe me, Brother-that would be an improvement over this hick hole!), the Vampires go rescue other Vampires and the hicks go rescue other hicks, all the while wondering “What are we gonna do, Bill?? What are we gonna DO?!?!”

Christ, I haven’t seen this much over the top emoting since the Dino and Lewis reunion on the ‘76 MDA telethon…

Just hug me, ya fuckin greaseball-- Frank's watching!!

Our girl Sookie is in love with Bill, a Civil War era vamp. But get this–Bill’s a good vampire!! He prefers not to drink Human blood any more, and tries to get all the vampires and humans to just get along, and gee, wouldn’t it be nice if……..snnnnore!

Listen, If I wanted to watch a blood sucking monster with a conscience I’d be watching Oprah *rimshot* zing-Hey0!!!

Pussy

If some hot Vampire-Lesbo action ever broke out between Sookie and that one Ginger babe, you just know ol Wet Blanket Bill would put a stop to that!

Sookah! Give her back her panties and come watch Huel Howser with me!

Sheesh–but don’t worry– it’s over on the other side of town where all the cool kids hang out, a Vampire nightclub called Fangtasia!!! FANG-tasia, do you get it?!

This is a seedy, yet oddly familiar nightclub where all sorts of otherwordly beasts gather to worship the night and drink exotic potions that make them lose their minds….

Mein Gott!!! Back to Hell, wretched Beasts!!!

This place is run by Erik—meow!! Now you’re talkin Vampire! This guy cheats, steals, kills–that’s how we like our Vampires, am I right?

Come to me, Children of the Night..I hid a bottle of Jager in Alex's office!!

Anyways, in the thrilling Sunday finale, the vampire bad asses team up with the local yokels and chase off the hot party broad. Booo!
But then, local folk Tara and her cousin Lafayette are gruesomely killed, when Tara’s Mom Lettie Mae comes to embody the Dark Lord and rips out their hearts-Shocking!

Now what tha fuck is HBO gonna do with us? Put us with Larry David?

*SPOILER ALERT* Don’t read the preceeding statement if you…oh, right.
Shit-sorry about that.