The CH3 Test Kitchen: Top Ramen

Test Subject:

Nissin Top Ramen, Oriental Flavor

What was that?
Did I just detect a roll of the eyes, a weary sigh?

Oh I know, I know–you shudder at those salty memories of your dorm days, when you would huddle in a dark corner and eat Top Ramen plain out of your Mickey Mouse bowl–all the while sending weepy texts to your slut of a girlfriend back home–
Man up, ya fuckin Emo!

Nah man—for today’s recipe, we’re gonna take a clue from the fellas up in County, where the traditional Spread illustrates how we can make this pantry staple into something glorious!

Now here's a million dollar idea for yer new theme restaurant!

Heh. Well, let’s not go that far.
I assume we all have a pot of water and a lethal heat source, so we’ll leave the cans of tuna and cooking in Hefty garbage bags to Lil Joker and Pelón.

Besides, you can find a slimy bowl of goddamned Udon all over town, and ya can’t stumble out of a club at closing time without falling into another 24 hour Pho joint, true.
But a decent Ramen?
Good luck brother.

All the rare, good joints are packed with somber Japanese corporate ex-pats, who are none too happy about being housed at the Costa Mesa Ramada the past 15 months.
These poor people are clearly in no mood to put up with sloppy punkers invading their last refuge, so let’s leave Mentatsu to them, aiight?

Leave us alone, roundeye hipster foodie!

Ingredients:
Top Ramen (1 pkg)
Green Onions (4 stalks)
Huy Fong Chili Garlic (4 Tbsp)
Spam (1/2 Tin)
Ichimi Togarashi (2 Tsp)
White Cadillac Slippers (2)
Soft Boiled Egg (1)

Have these handy at all times!

What’s that ya say?
You don’t have these ingredients handy?

Duh–that’s what those shitty Korean sushi joints are there for!
Go in and order a California Roll and a Diet Coke, and when they go to fetch that awful junk ya simply load up your pockets with all the condiments on the table.
Oh, don’t worry, they expect that behavior from ya— that’s why they use imitation imitation crab meat!

Preparation:
Alrighty, let’s put some water to boil.
Famously, those little flavor packets contain the sodium equivalent of a square foot of the Bonneville salt flats, so I suggest doubling the specified quantity of water:

….or, just roll with what’s on hand–ya got me?

What?

While that’s bubbling away, let’s turn out attention to the protein, eh?

Yes, we’re using Spam, ya got a problem with that your highness?

And besides, we all know it’s fuckin 3:30 am after a night pounding Jager at Alex’s that you’re attempting to cook this, so doubtful yer gonna find a fresh Tonkatsu filet lying about, am I right?

In fact, the salty gamy flavor of this…er, meat…blends perfectly with this dish.
It’s well known that this handy canned meat product tastes uncannily of human flesh, thus its unparalleled popularity along the islands of Pacifc Oceania, their citizens the last to reluctantly abandon cannibalism.

How do you think those fuckin huge bouncers at Alpine Village got that way, huh?!

....hey bruddah---you got a hand stamp, huh?!

If Spam is not available, the following meat products may be substituted in a pinch:
Slim Jims.
Pork Rinds.
Char Siu Pork.
Beef Jerky.
Google Images of Spam on Android Tablet.

…and hey hey! since when do they put hidden prizes in the cans? Nifty!

If you find the golden Agent Orange button ya get to visit the factory!

While the noodles seep in the broth, slice off 4 generous slices of the meat.
Feed one to the dog. Now will you-please- stop following me around the kitchen? Huh?!

Ah jeez, now she's got the taste for flesh!

Now julianne the slices into pinky-finger sized spears—
quit looking at your pinky finger! Pay attention!-
and sear off with stalks of green onion.

mnmn

Spam and scallion stalks in first, pour ramen and broth over and let sit five minutes.

Top with sliced egg and chopped green onion.

Serving Suggestion:

Presentation is everything, people.
Yeah, yeah, I know yer crocked and stumbling around in your boxers at the moment, but have a little respect and eat this right, ok?

See, yer first mistake is, you try to eat this wonderful dish out of yer chiipped, standard size soup bowl or-Good Lord!-right out of the pan!
Yeah, we see ya, ya uncouth bastard!

Nah man–you need a proper ceramic noodle bowl, not plastic, not metal, and big—Big!

To give you an idea, here I’ve parked my R75/6 next to the bowl we’re using:

And we’ll be using the correct utensils, kids.
One proper Wonton sized spoon, one wooden pair of chopsticks.

...tools of the trade...

And would it kill ya, huh? if you quit calling them Choptsticks? Alright?
These are hashi (箸), got it?
Doesn’t that sound better or at least slightly less racist, hmmm?
–And stop rubbing them together, you trying to make a fuckin fire or something?

Did I just see you using one for a spear?!
Would you quit leaving them in the bowl crossed up!
How were you people raised?!

Know what? Maybe you should stick to a plastic fork.....

Do not -Repeat: Do Not attempt to eat this in bed.
You will pass out, be scalded, and then constantly make us check out your stupid Sailor Jerry breast piece you had done to cover up the scars.

No, we have to eat this on the couch while watching TV to fully appreciate the complex flavors.
Watch anything playing on IFC, preferably a showing of Bad Lieutenant–the real one!

....been there, brother!

Serve piping hot on a clean Tshirt, which serves as both a potholder for this molten bowl of goodness and also a a handy napkin:

Call us old fashioned, be we use the traditional Darkness T, although I’ve heard a Frampton concert Tee or a Black Flag No Values shirt work equally well …..I know, kooky, right?

Now, was that not worth it?

Now don’t ya feel better about yourself?
You resisted the siren call of Taco Bell and Tommy’s, you came home and made a fine hot meal all by your lonesome!
I’m so proud of you guys!

Ah jeez—you took it up to bed, didn’t you?

I wondered why the dog was getting so chubby!

Foodie

Let’s be honest here, people: Isn’t this whole Internet Food thing just about fucked out by now, hmm?

Oh, we’re as guilty as anyone, this obsession with chow.

The vivid descriptions of fatty snacks in the middle of the night, the tales of bizarre meats served en-stick, doled out by shady characters in the back alleys of cities we pass through:
What blog entry would be complete without ‘em?

Prague: Roasted pork knuckle before meeting Mr. Anthony......

...and after!

When did it become okay, I would ask ya, to make everyone at the table freeze, fork in hand, as their plate of rapidly cooling food has its goddamned picture taken?
God forbid one fingerling potato disappears from the canvas before we capture the dish at 5 megapixels, jot down notes on the composition of protein to carb, and then snap the photo again—just to be sure!

....better snap it again hon...I think the goat cheese blinked!

We stalk the latest food truck to come rolling on the scene, searching Twitter for its next appearance as if scanning the clouds above for the proof of a God.

And that’s why you find yourself standing in an industrial parking lot, 11pm on a Tuesday night in Vernon.
A line 20 deep, just to be the next one baptized by the latest kooky concoction!

And then what? Do we just go home, hands over contented bellies, and revel within inner dialogue of the meal we’ve just enjoyed?

Hell no. We take to Yelp, bragging that we’ve gone and done it—we’ve experienced the fusion pickled herring and head cheese tamale before our slacker pals had a chance.
(It was a bit too cloying and obvious for Jen, but I thought the combination really worked!)

RT @foodtrekker5: Broke my vegan streak with the latest in sustainable protein kebabbs.....#Nutty!

And we make chefs- god help us! -celebrities.
What have we done?

These are the cartoon superheroes for today's kids? Sheesh, and I thought Superfriends was pathetic!

Facebook posts reflect these obsessions now, and if we had to endure photos of the weekend in Taos and posted videos of juggling cats, well, wasn’t that at least more of an insight to our friends’ mindsets than their hankering for Icelandic yak meat or last night’s shocking appearance of a pebble in the ceviche?

Dear God......

…it’s the irony, is that it? Is that what you kids crave so much these days?

Oh, the delicious irony of having tough punkers and mundane office workers, suddenly become digitally published gourmands.
Ho, the funny, funny disjointed image: those tattooed forearms kneading a ball of dough!

Hey–here’s irony for ya: why don’t you knuckleheads pay your child support or put some decent exhaust systems on your rat bikes, huh? Really mindfuck the stereotype!

...pffft---cupcakes?

...I think we all know who won this one!

I know.
We can all relate to food, this much is true.

But ingestion and digestion– do these remain truly the only things we share communicably within the human experience?–really?

Heh–I can think of another function we all share, but yer not going to see us start recording and expounding on every bowel movement we experience on the road…oh, wait- already did!

Oh you laugh, but can’t ya just see it?
The next craze, reviewing the toilet facilities of the very restaurants that we’ve already put through the wringer:

The Men’s room in the back of Lazy Ox Canteen is dreadful, serviceable at best. Lack of paper in stall # 2, burnt lightbulb over the far left sink. Will not be going back!

Ted checks in on Facebook!

Oh I don’t know. It’s harmless, I guess.
If our National Discourse has been reduced to debates on the merits of Five Guys over In n Out, so be it.

Just don’t go dragging us down with your silly chatter about food.
We have better things to think about, people!

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*

But really, Five Guys?
Gimmee a fuckin break!

The CH3 Year in Review 2011

Last gig of the year, the Ball Ball @ The Airliner, December 22

Well sir, let’s look at the ‘ol calendar, shall we?

Uh huh…..It’s well into our first week of January:

*It’s currently 85 degrees outside.
*The Clippers are off to a good start.
*Rick Santorum only missed winning the Iowa Caucus by a cunt hair.

Wheeee! Hold me, Mother, because I’m in bizarro world again!!

....go ahead and google Santorum why don't ya? I'll wait......

Yeah, yeah, I know about 2012…it’s the year we’re all gonna ride this big fiery ball into oblivion, is that it?
Because some pinche Mayan calendar maker, all hopped up on coca leaves and fermented beet juice passes out mid job, the world is supposed to end?

...yeah, but according to this, we were gonna have flying cars by 1978 too!

Listen, I got news for you, it already did end!
Yeah, that funny little Rapture that was predicted for Oct 21 by the religious nutjob?

It actually happened!

Problem was, Jesus couldn’t find a single person worth taking back up yonder with him.
No, I’m pretty sure the world has already ended, and we’ve just been too busy posting funny cat videos on Facebook and ripping off movies from the Internet to notice.

How else do you explain the wild popularity of Katy Perry and the continued existence of Fashion Island?

Anywhoo, it must be that time of year for the CH3 recap, so let’s get started people!

...each one of these entries represents a night of confusion and excess, a morning after hungover with despair. You're Welcome!

Looking at the chthree.com show roster, we see here that the mighty Chingón Tres played an ungodly 26 shows in 2011.

Unfortunately, most of the shows looked like this:

The view from behind the microphone. Still want to be in a traveling band kid?

That was a quick pic of the year kick-off, a weekender up to the mid coast region.

Heh…. that was before they opened the doors.

Packed.
Swear to God.

And yes, we still maintain an actual, honest to God html website damn you!
Oh, I know that you young hipsters do all of your communications and networking through your precious Fbook these days, and can’t be bothered actually seeking out when your fifth favorite local punk band of all time is going to play next!

Oh, but just wait until Facebook is bought by Rupert Murdoch and they start charging 3.99 per month!
Then who’s gonna come crawling back, huh? huh?

Speaking of interwebby thingies, this blog you hold in your trembling paws at the moment— let’s look at those stats while we’re at it, hmmm?

We had over 18,000 visitors to the blog this year, and again–not one of you cheap bastards could be bothered with clicking through and buying a T shirt!

Oh, that’s alright, we’ve been steadily recording your IP addresses and feeding them to the Russian syndicate for some time now, using your bandwidth to spread virus and beastiality porn at will–so go ahead, keep reading, tightwad!!

There were a few series that garnered a lot of hits this year, like the in depth look at Rodney Bingenheimer, our beloved LA radio Icon.

But for the most part, most of you were only interested in embarassing photos of drunken hilarity that spilled out of posts such as the racy expose’ on the Pouzza Fest…..

C’est la vie!

A few travel snapshots for the kids back home:

Alfie waves g'bye to LBC. Did I fuckin' tell you?

.....studying at the feet of the Master!

Reggie's, Chicago

Punk Rock Bowling 2011, Las Vegas

The usual hijinks, San Francisco

Rips Cocktails, Phoenix

Rhino Records Pop Up, Westwood, CA

..the limo arrives! Pouzzafest, Montreal

The Charleston, Bremerton WA

Come on now, it looks like a good crowd from this shot, eh?! Atascadero CA

Boarding the ferry, Seattle

And god help us if we forget the food porn!
Yeh yeh, there were a few snacks in 2011:

Poutine #3, but who's counting?!

The ghosts of a Saturday night

Genius.

Ah, but a year winds down, as it always does, and thoughts turn to messy office parties and tacky decorations.
The holidays came and went, but not without a few final thoughts for the year……

If I never have to see that goddamned Santa Suit again, it will be too soon brother!

Sheesh, give a guy a red suit and suddenly we create a egomaniacal monster!

Oh yeah, this will be a real treat for the children walking by!

But thankfully the suit was torn to shreds at the final gig of the year, the Ball Ball at the Airliner in LA.

And now, things back to normal, lights taken down and the tree shredded to pulp, we can only look ahead.

With a weary sigh, we untangle the guitar cords and start to fill in the calendar for yet another year in the trenches.
Will the knees take another 365 out there?
Will the hairline cooperate and hang in there just one more time?

But-truly-ya know what?
We got nothing better to do.

Happy New Year!

....mere moments before Santa brought his sack out onstage!

The Santa Suit

T-Bone rolls into the shop, 25 minutes late, early for him.
“By God man,” I say. “What the fuck happened to ya?”

T rolls the eyes, shoots the grin, and the Rorschach test splayed across his wifebeater tells the story:
The Sriracha splotch, a meandering dribble of Jager.
The desperate smudges of lipstick, a shade unavailable in the Continental U.S. the past decade.

“Rough one,” he says. “Anything to drink?”

I throw him the package from Party City, all itchy asbestos-laden floss and clearly flammable crimson polyester.
“Suit up, Santa. The fellas are waiting”

We do the shoot quick, maybe 6 takes in all.
It’s early for everyone, and we mumble into coffee cups: varying degrees of hungover.

I Irish up the Folger’s, Brad rallies us to please put a little twinkle in them steps.

Santa is getting into character, and all the good booze is quickly drained.
“Really man? The Crown Black? I told ya to hit the goddamn Kessler first, didn’t I?”

Green Screen stuff is done. We head downtown for some bar action.

Tbone rides with me in the truck, and we listen to NPR doing a segment on the Higgs Boson.
European nuclear research scientists say they are close to discovering the elusive God Particle.

T is fascinated: The meaning and origin of life, explained finally by subatomic particle?
T points out that it really doesn’t have any bearing on his precious String Theory, and I can only agree with a shrug.

I’m riding goddamned Anaheim Boulevard with Santa in the front seat, a can of malt Liquor between his legs.
And you still want the meaning of life?

We get out in front of Steiner’s, and the cars start honking.
“Santa! Yo Santa! What up bitch?”

T flips them off and dances in the street.
An Ecuadoran family packed into a ’89 Tercel slows and stops in front of Santa.
They hold out a toddler to pull on Santa’s beard.

The suit, it has him now.
He’s seeing adoration he hasn’t seen, well…….. it’s been a while: We’ll put it that way.

He’s still and always will be our lil Eric.
But the beer gut, The tattoos crawling up his neck?
The Devil Clown lurking just beneath his boxers?

Whoa.

But now, enveloped in something warm and familiar, he’s brightening up the day.
Coloring the book.

A young woman comes up to him on the sidewalk: Clearly, she’s been crying.

“Sahnta Klowse. Oh Sahnta,” she says.
“Oh Ho,” says TBone. “And what , um, what do you want for Christmas little girl?”

She smiles then, shakes her head.
“Can I have a hug, Sahnta? Would that be ok?”

It’s fuckin’ magic.
Now it’s time to get into that dark bar and escape the fuckin’ magic.

It’s no use.
People see him, see that suit, and they can’t stop smiling.

Tbone does a few shuffling dance steps, pinches the bartender’s ass.

He drinks freely from the regulars’ glasses, and they can’t get enough of it.

Things start to get sloppy.
They always do.

Santa’s beard is smudged now, the white fur on his suit tells the story of multiple trips to the pavement.
I worry that the welcome is exhausted, the crew will see past the Suit and look into a darker, far more familiar fairytale.

But no.
As long as he has on some sort of combination of beard, hat and jacket, he can do no wrong.
People are filling the joint.
The word’s out on Facebook:
You gotta get down here! This Santa…he is a riot!!

And we pack up the gear and leave.
We leave Santa there, he doesn’t belong to us, not any more.

An ocean away, men huddle in the control room of a super collider, and they smash atoms against eachother.
They fall upon the leftover matter like crows on roadkill.

To see what it’s all about, see what makes man tick, is that it?

Yeah, well. They should’ve just asked us.

Our Last Gig: Hemet

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.

In the weeks to follow, many of the indigenous Soboba Tribe would fall, either to the firearms and hatchets of the white future, or -eventually- to the syphilitic strains that confounded their pure and untested immune systems.

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.

You win paleface.....of course, that comped Bloody Mary just cost ya eighty bucks!

Good to know a little local history, don’t ya think?

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…….

Paul warms his hands on Alf's freakishly warm skull. Next up...? my crotch!

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…!

Rock Legend you say? Hell, I'd take that kinda press any day!

We load into the swank Wheelhouse and are shown around by Taylor and Ted of Toxic Youth Productions, two kids that really run a nice night!

Backstage at the rink...

...Kimm resorts to labeling his food after losing his last lunch to the fuckin' break room thief!

Anthony makes yet another child cry with his bleak stories of killing Santa's Reindeer for jerky......

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.

...back to werk!

And then, as usual, we start to play songs only we get a kick out of, oh, I don’t know….
Last Time I Drank anybody?
Hangin Around?, say there’s a real pip the kids will go wild for!

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:

Kimm givin Jeff the ol what's what!

The latest Muppety-Star Wars combo tat...don't ask!

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!

Oh sure....now the crowd wakes up!

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!

...uh oh...

Hey joto!---no parkin on the dance floor!

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 starts flagellating himself then, furtively at first, then more vigorously.
He stands before God and Nature, and he claims subservience to neither.
And finally, erect and prompted, he lets fly onto the awaiting soil.

He has claimed the land, totally.
It was not enough to baptize this new land, no.

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

Jed Hemet:: Visionary

Green Bay, WI

Come with us now, a short jaunt up the 94 from Chicago, to a wonderland of all things Dairy and Curdled!

Yes, yes, I’m talking of the Museum of Lactose-Tolerance, it’s the
Mars Cheese Castle!

A castle made of cheese? What, are they monitoring our dreams?!

Listen, what the fuck you think we’re gonna do when we see this palace off the side of the road, hmmm?
We pull the swanky Lincoln MKX rental off in Kenosha and approach the forboding complex.

Oh, sure, I’ve been to Versailles, and wandered those stodgy grounds imagining the Rennaissance body odors and itch of heavy brocade….. but c’mon man! this is the Cheese Castle we’re talkin’!

Cheese!

After taking a few clandestine licks at the stately block walls and confirming– sadly— that the Castle wasn’t actually made of cheese, we sit down to lunch at the Mars Tavern.

The ham and cheese...yeh, there's ham in there somewheres!

We are delighted to find a community vat of creamy sharp cheddar stationed on the bar and wonder aloud why we can’t have one of these, say, at Alex’s Bar, hmmm?
I’ll tell ya why—Probably because you goddamn hipsters would dose it with X or defile it with American Spirit butts, that’s why!!

We can’t have anything nice back home!!

The Crock o Cheese!

Alf prepares to jump the cheese moat!

We waddle back to the car, dizzy from fromage overload, and prepare for the rest of the ride up to Green Bay.

And just a lil snack for the drive, mmmkay?

We do these little target weekenders, and it’s one anchor night that starts the ball rolling.
And then we unfold the road map and draw a 300 mile radius arc, try to find another town that’ll have us for a second show—

Milwaukee, Madison, Detroit, Indianapolis….what lucky town will get us this time around?

What fearless promoter, he of faith and vision, will book us with wild dreams of a packed house and after hours handjobs, only to have to tearfully pay us the guarantee despite the shameful turnout?

Some guidance from the Destroy Everything boys lead us to contact Mr. James up yonder, and he assures us this is a town we should play.
He tells us of sincere fans, some of them actually preferring the Enigma releases to the hardcore stuff!
This we gotta see.

We’ve never been, and the fact that the Packers are playing the Vikings on this date seals the deal.

So we put the game on the radio and watch the Cheese Castle growing smaller in the rearview mirror, like a block of Velveeta suffering in the bowels of a microwave.
We aim for Lambeau, the plan to meet up with James by halftime.

Ah, the frozen...er, soggy Tundra!

Driving North, with the Fall colors bursting from the trees, and the inevitable raindrops starting to baptize the windshield, we listen to an uneven first half.
The Vikings score again in the 2nd, and our boys can only respond with a FG.
We fear going into a town that has just seen its beloved team drop its first game of the season.
They will be in no mood for our shenanigans, surely!

The Packers are down a TD going into the half, but a late 45 yd field goal pulls them within 4 by halftime.
We pile into Lambeau with high hopes, and though the game is being played in Minnesota, the stadium is still alive with adrenaline…..

Yo, Lombardi's House y'all!

.....studying at the feet of the Master!

It is a stunning complex, and we are amazed to find free parking and an open atrium that—get this—actually welcomes its fans!

Say, what do ya think would happen if you tried this at Dodger Stadium or the Coliseum, eh?
Go ahead, stroll around those joints on a game day without a ticket and you’re gonna wake at the USC Medical Center with the ‘ol LAPD resisting arrest knot throbbing on forehead!

We check the Mall sized Packers Store, and the usual hijinks ensue:

Why, I'll moider ya bums!

..alright goddamnit, so I lost the model the cheesehead bet.......

And now we’re talking! They have their own Sportsbar right there in Lambeau, and we skip in merrily as the second half starts.

....no, there is no Moe or Larry Pub around the corner....but yer right-- that would be awesome!

Kickin it at Curly's Pub

We meet with our gracious hosts James and Chris, and we are promptly sat down before buckets of fried cheese and icy pints of Pale Ales……we would rather be no place else.

Hangin with James and Chris

Fried Cheese curds.....what, it's not like we've had any cheese in the last 20 minutes!

The Packers catch fire, and score 20 unanswered points in the 3rd.
James regales us with stories of the bands that have passed through town, the shows he’s put on and what it’s like to live in Green Bay.
These guys are proper gentlemen, and it’s been worth the drive just to meet them.

Of course, the Packers get the win, and we celebrate by crashing the Kiddie’s game arcade and acting like the happy fools we are!

....moments before Ant is sacked and out for the remainder of the season with pulled groin.....

World's lamest end-zone dance

But what was that? Oh right, we’re here in town to do a show!
So we make our way across town to Phatheadz and reunite with our beloved knuckleheads in Destroy Everything to start the night rollin!

What? You guys again?! Destroy fellas huddle barside....

We meet a dozen great people right away, and James wasn’t kidding:
These guys know good music when they hear it, goofy haircuts or not!

Oh, C'mon!!....is that goddamn album cover gonna haunt us for the rest of our lives or wot??

It feels like a magical night, and we hear stories, flattering stories of how much they enjoyed the records and how they wished certain friends could be here with them.

But it is our pleasure-truly-to be allowed into their town, and as the Destroy boys roar into their set, we toast the night and this town all over again.

DE take to the stage

Kimm and Mike watch the chaos from their private balcony....

The cheese, the beer, the football—It’s been a grand weekend!
And it’s the perfect capper, to be able to climb onstage and play a few songs for these people.

...setlists and Guiness on ice, we are a go!

Tomorrow, we’ll be back home, back to the realities of sitting in motherfuckin’ LA traffic or sighing through a stack of meaningless papers next to a searing computer monitor.

But for now, tonight, we’re a continent away and playing to a decent crowd of new friends on a rainy cold night in Green Bay.

You wish you could freeze certain times of your life, don’t ya?
You wish that you could keep them in your pocket for a time when you need a reminder of how good it can really be.

Chicago II

Touchdown at O’Hare on a crisp Fall afternoon, and it’s straight to The Berghoff for us—I told ya we were tourists, dammnit!

Kimm has been the week in Montreal on business, got in a day early and meets up barside looking refreshed and sparkly.
The rest of us, however, have spent another hellish day in the stratosphere, enduring the usual indignities of modern air travel.

Say, here’s fun: if you ever happen to be on my same flight, and lucky enough to have the seat directly in front of me, then by all means! — feel free to lean that fucker all the way back and pulverize whatever remains of Patella and Articular Cartllage!
Trust me, I don’t even feel it any more…..

Ah, but after a few pints and some sincere insults from the surly bartenders, we’re all feeling top notch once again.
Bring on the Autumnal dishes and let’s get this night going!

....yeah, we'll put up with a lot of abuse for a good sausage.....wait, what?

Down to the Southside to Reggie’s, to meet up with our chums in Destroy Everything.

We marvel, as always, at Brooks’ and Kimm’s doppleganger-esque profile and demeanor.
We make them trade jackets and underwear for our weary amusement:

One of these things is not like the other. (Hint-it's below the belt!)

Wandering the back stairways of the club, we find a record store, small cabaret and a true rock club within the same bunker.
We like!

...backstage, back home!

....and we thought we really found something unique here---goddamn you Facebook!

The night is already scrolling by too quickly, our West Coast biological clocks telling us we should still be in Happy Hour cocktail mode.
But it is a mere hour from downbeat, and the DE boys take to the stage in fine form.

Cheddar------ Destroying Everything....!

.....ah, here we have the classic constipated rockstar face, yes?

Brooks has gone all out and brought out his gleaming new Orange stack.
Kimm and I spy it from stage right and both run for it, calling dibs!

Kimm wins out when I take my eyes off the amp for a moment, fascinated by an actual sewer grate stage center!

....it is indeed a sewer cover. Your next question? Yes. It does.

We plug ‘em in and do that thing, and it is Saturday night in America, all over again……
Do yer self a favor a check out Punkvinyl!!

Was the club packed? Was the crowd insane?

Depends. Do you want the truth, or do ya want the Internet Truth, hmmmm?

Hell no, continuing our recent and quite charming habit of drawing quite meager crowds, there’s maybe 60 people in the whole joint.
And half of them are musicians in the other bands!!

The people that do show, though, are always the best.
And the highlight of the evening is the hangout afterwards with the crazy cats in this wacky town…..

....silliness ensues.....

mmmm...it's a MikeAdamCheddar sammich!

NOTE TO EDITOR: No caption necessary

We reluctantly say our goodbyes, not nearly enough time to hang out in this city.
We head up State towards the swanky Travelodge, but not before stopping into the South Loop Club for some late night chow, because that’s how we roll!

.....just a light late night snack for me, thanks!

We chat away whatever remains of this long ass day into night.
I look down the bar and see the rhythm section is getting cranky, our usual signal to call it a night:

Uh oh...someone need a nap...yes you do!

And so Kimm and I carry the sleeping kids up to the room in our arms, lay them to bed and take off their shoes.
And we stand there in the doorway for a moment, just a perfect golden moment, and marvel once again at how fast they grow!

...angels when they're sleeping! Farting, snoring angels!

Chicago

Ah, Chicago, you drunken slut of a town—-God How we missed ya!

The hair is dyed, the pajamas are packed, and we’ve stashed enough Immodium and Zantac to see us through the upcoming weekend.

Tomorrow's planned breakfast......

....& pre-lunch snack!

A plan to meet up with ol pals in Destroy Everything, a gig Saturday at Reggie’s, and then a quick jaunt up to Green Bay for a Sunday nighter: Downbeat right after the Packers demolish the Vikings…….!

Phat Headz? If this place is not a hip-hop smoke shop, we're gonna be really disappointed....

Fond memories come flooding back:

Taking in a late season Cubs game, years before they installed lighting at Wrigley.
We were thrilled to see people stream out of the office buildings at 11 am on a Wednesday, already tearing neckties from collar and downing beers as they walked
to the ballpark.

No matter that the team was a good 21 games out of first, these people were gonna go see their goddamn team through til the end, not like the dismal late season attendance of Southern California ballparks…hell no!
It made us ashamed of our own city.

Where was our goddamned commitment to blowing off work, drinking during the day and cheering on a team with no chance to play the post season—huh?!

Afterward, sitting in the Cubby Bear, with the August sun still high in the sky and pitchers of Old Style sweating on the table, Drummer Noal has the charisma and steadiness of hand to pierce a curious waitress’ supple pink bosom with a match-blackened safety pin.
The charmed lass looks at her newly accesorized nipple in wonder, then scampers off to the kitchen to show the rest of the gals

Our work here is done!

Rest in Peace, Brother....!

We’d stay the week at our dear old pals the Suckows, and Mr Mike would graciously allow us to grill Brats in the backyard while he was at work, only to come home and find we’d drank all the Extra Old Style in the house…..

The Mikes fuckin around, Euro '07

Then he’d shoo us off to spend our days at the lake, Barbecueing chicken thighs at the Articles of Faith picnic spot and swimming in the strangely salt free waters of Lake Michigan!

The fellas make a break for it, Lake Michgan

Late nights exploring the exotic drinking locales, ordering another round in disbelief at 4 fuckin a.m.!
Have we gone to heaven?!, we’d ask each other over generous buckets of Jack and tinkiling ice cubes.

One night Doug and I jumped out of the Blue and White, had the fellas go around the block while we ran inside 1,000 Liquors to grab a 12 pack.
Once inside the store, we discovered a doorway that lead right into a proper dive bar connected to the store!
We were thrilled as teens finding a black garbage bag full of Hustlers in the riverbed underpass.

One by one, the rest of the fellas would jump out of the van to find out where the hell we were, only to order up a highball themselves and pull up a stool.

...we're here!

Poor Jackie, behind the wheel, cursed to inevitably circle the block solo, finally double parked our van full of gear and succumbed to the siren call of bourbon and lager as well….good times!

Kimm, Jack, Doug, stowaway, Summer 1983

And yeah—Mr. Smartass!—–we’ve actually played some more recent gigs as well.

Memories Bar, 2007:

Oh, I guess we couldn't get the hairspray through security, is that it?!

Destroy Everything being Destructive....grrr!

Riotfest, 2005

Riotfest

One of these people is an actor, acting quite drunk. The rest? Real drunks!!

What is it about this town that makes us act unabashedly like the kook tourists we really are?

Waiting 2 hours in line to get to the top of Sears tower?
Eating overpriced veal chops at Harry Caray’s?

—count us in!

Let's see..mortgage payment or veal chop, which shall it be?! I think we know the answer, hmmm?

And so we’re heading back once more, to visit a nuttly little town that we love.

And like that one funny Uncle, the one who only sees you maybe every third Christmas, his schedule determined by parole board or shady out of state employment, we’ll come back bearing gifts.

He smells faintly of Old Spice and Old Grandad, and hugs you overlong before holding you at arms length and looking you over with sparkling eyes.
And then he says it, just like the last time and the time before that: he wonders at how much you’ve changed, but how ya never looked better!

Extra Pix courtesy of MXV @ Punk Vault

Steve Jobs, Punker

Driving home Wednesday with all intentions of sitting down at the ‘ol Macbook and jotting down yet another self fellating entry, maybe a lil weekend preview:

Friday at The Vault in Temecula, an all ages wonderland where the kids rule the joint.
No Bar!

Mom drops them off in the industrial parking lot with a smile, looking forward to a full night of uninterrupted shopping at Ross and a half dozen Cadillac Margaritas at the local TGIF.
Meanwhile, Junior has his chance to smoke cigs in the alley, load up on Rockstars and go crazy in the pit.
When Mater shows up buzzed and happy, the kid is sweaty and grinning, a few bruises from the pit and a text message buzzing in his pocket: that tatted cutie he bumped into while wating in the merch line.
Win Win!

The innocent, good clean charm of the Vault....

Then juxtapose that with the gig Saturday at The Shakedown in San Diego–I suppose the exact opposite of an all ages club.

In fact I think the entry age should be a minuimum of 32, the debauchery and foolishness that goes on within those cinderblock barriers!

Goddamn it, can you people not flip us off for 2 seconds while I take a photo to show Mom?

The Malt Liquor, yes, it flows like champagne, and the crowd is rowdy yet friendly.
As eager to buy ya a shot of cheap whiskey as they would box yer ears, both acts of endearment meant to cause residual pain.

Gaaaa! My eyes!!

But then they broke into All Things Considered and I learned, as we all did in a viral moment, that Apple founder Steve Jobs died.

I took the news with a sigh, not much more, heard he was sick, that’s too bad.

I was never one of those that stood in line for 2 days to get an Ipod Nano, not once spent a Saturday afternoon at the Genius Bar at the Grove Apple Store…you know, just hanging out, diggin the vibe.

Sure, they call it a Bar, but no drinks are served. Trust us.

But still, sad to see a good guy go, I crossed myself and took the offramp, and punched the radio preset from NPR across the breadth of the digital band to KROQ, where those cutting edge upstarts were playing Welcome to the Jungle!!
What fuckin year is this again?!

But the more I thought about it, the Apple lifestyle did in fact mean a lot to the musician, yeh?
Sure, to yer garden variety Angry Punk, Apple products suck!
Just another pacifier from the corporate enemy (oi!), but that —sigh–that goes for anything, really.

Oh, I’m sure over in the Subhumans headquarters they’re not too fond of Coca Cola or the Kia Hamsters either, but you can bet they take their goddamn Iphones along with them when they go on tour.

For the whole smart phone revolution seemed as if created just for punkers on the go.

That's either a punker up there or a Pokemon character.

In a true DIY sense, what punk band, on their own without an army of handlers, tour managers and roadies can be expected to drive all day to a strange town, navigate while promoting the gig on Facebook and locate any gas stations that sell beer on the way, hmmm?
That little slab of touchscreen in your back pocket, that thing made it all the easier to say, fuck off, I’ll do it myself!

These were what cellphones used to look like, kids! Big, huh?

So yeah, we all have a phone that does more than just chirp at the most embarassing times.

But Apple brings all these must-haves into the same stable: Sleek and simple computers, and howsabout them Ipads, huh?
Those wondrous toys that the most skeptical of us dismissed as another geek toy, until you held one in your sweaty paws at the Best Buy and decided you could not live without it.

And while I can appreciate Jobs’ integration of Japanese Calligriphic flow in establishing the Apple font and control, this device more importantly revolutionized the way we access porn and masturbate in hotel rooms……..

And what about Pixar, hmmm?

The simple story of an old man, a young boy, latex balloons and a length of garden hose. Insert pedophile joke here:

But come on now, it’s the fuckin Ipod that changed the whole thing.

Think back to those strange days just when music was getting converted to MP3′s.
Napster was a wonderland, you logged in and were blown back by the songs being shared by people.
And you thought, well, this is amazing!

I was finally able to get digital versions of the Rejected album, but more importantly, some poor misguided soul out there took the time to hook a turntable up to a computer somehow and burned it for us all—and he thought he was doing something worthwhile!

....just what the world needed: College of Love on your computer speakers!

So the internet opened it all up like the Wild West and digital versions of all your favorites were flying across the ether—-for free!

But what about those people creating the music, hmmmm?
We all thought it was over, the way music was recorded and packaged.
It was good, sure, that we could get our music in the hands of those who wanted it, but you can forget about packaging that cd again next Summer, brother!

Hell, I believe we were this close ! –to getting all our publishing back from Posh Boy for about 190 bucks…….

But then here came the Ipod, and more importnatly, Itunes…

.....oh look, your entire lifetime creative output is discounted to 3.99 this week!

And while far from perfect (What tha….MP4?!), Jobs and company seemingly found a logical, inevitable way to corral all those renegade songs back into a format we could all, if uneasily, live with.

So now you had your whole catalogue and more at the double click of the mouse, and guess what?
It turned out alright.

You were surprised that people still wanted to buy that song you wrote twenty-*cough* years ago, and that it meant enough to them that they would carry it along with them in these new devices.
And in a big way in gave a whole new boost, allowing some aging punk rockers (ahem) to get their fat asses off the couch and back in the van, for just one more Summer at least.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.
After all, the Ipod is well known to be manufactured by 12 year old Chinese girls at a price of 96 cents each, and Mr. Jobs was surely not alone in designing these toys.
And if it wasn’t Apple, someone else surely would’ve figured out we needed this stuff.

But maybe it wouldn’t have been presented with nearly as much charm and class.

Funny, with an army of unemployed hipsters camping out on the faux cobblestones of Wall Street, lunching on donated meals of Panera Steak Paninnis and Chai Lattes, how a person could be so mourned.

What? Even the Juggalos are bummin?!

A man as surely aligned as the face of a giant corporation is mourned with tears?

Because he became our Walt Disney, a man with a vision living in a world gone flat.

As with all things gone digital, viral, corrupted and deleted, our whole life has become compressed versions of reality.
And this world, we hold not in some monolithic slab of wires and circuit board, no–your whole life fits in your pocket, and soon to be non existant, physically, at all.

It will all be up in the clouds, as we all will someday.

The Walk of Fame

Dive bar, that’s a term that gets tossed around a lot these days, like serious actress, or
non-contagious, am I right?

Oh, the hipsters find some place that still serves beer in the can or–get this!–has an actual jukebox full of 45′s.
The kids furiously wave their hands over glowing Ipads, like Priests trying to rub the semen off of bibles, sending out tweets and updates on the delicious irony of this joint.

And a before ya know it, they’ve chased out the honest neighborhood drunks, installed kitschy black velvet paintings of Cantinflas above the bar, and the internet jukebox starts blaring Johnny Cash at 110 decibels.
You look down the bar and it’s all fedoras and pork chop sideburns, hovering over tallboys of PBR and squawking smartphones.

Bleh.

Take a ride around Hollywood, and a few of the old places survive:

....for all my friends!

Sadly, most of the good ones are gone…

And this is what they call.....

.....fuckin progress?!

There was a time when your Friday night was already planned for you, bub!
No searching the internet for where to go or what to do, nah.

You parked your car -free!- off of Argyle and you were set for the night:
The true Hollywood Walk of Fame, that between the Cathay De Grande and the Firefly!

I know, I know......., you actually cut across that empty parking lot, but tell that to Google Maps!

Ah, Cathay, home of a thousand hangovers and bad decisions!

It must’ve been quite something in the day, but by the time the punks and lowlifes inherited the space, its velvety smooth makeup had worn and cracked, and she now looked like the weary middle aged whore of the Boulevard: Discounted by half, but still game for a good night, goddamnit!

We must’ve played there a dozen times at least, usually a 3am set on a Thursday night (or was that Friday morning?)
The crowd would be done for the night, nursing that precious final Bud ordered at last call, loafing around til they got a ride to the Zero One.

The late Ed, Ed the Buffalohead!

We’d spend the night pestering Dobbs for free beer or pawing at one of the Pandoras in a darkened booth.

And when told that yet another band has shown up and pushed our set back another hour, no problem!
That was our cue to saunter out into the warm Summer night and make our way over to Vine off Hollywood, and settle into the Firefly…..

Where everybody knows your name. Unfortunately that name is on the 86'd list!

Firefly , where the drink wells would regularly be set aflame, where the special was 2 bucks for a shot of hideous gin or whisky and a Budweiser.

Reason # 6 why we don't pass out, head down on the bar anymore.....

Oh, stop drooling, mate…it was only a 7 oz bottle of Bud we’re talking about…..but still! 2 bucks?!

....gaaaa! Either the beers are shrinking or I've grown hideously large! Either way, bad news!

Clever, clever boys that we were, we would set up camp just in front of the stacked Budweiser cases next to the bathroom and clandestinely exchange empties for full warm beers all night long.

.....yeah, but they can't guard that stash all night, now can they?

Drinking shot after shot of bathtub gin, holding wee beer bottles that made us look like
twinkle-eyed giants, we passed the night singing along to the jukebox and hitting up any chums who may wander in to buy a round.

Perhaps Keith Morris or Bob Forrest, back in their tottering days, when they would come rolling in after being kicked out of The Roxy or The Palace.

Bob attempts to pursuade Kimm into moving into a little place he knows of in Pasadena........

And now a round of Flaming Blue Jesus’, a shot of 151 and Ouzo lit aflame, we’d hold them aloft a moment before extinguishing and choking down the molten licorice:
The wan blue flames flickered like the hopeful torches of an approaching search party.

Someone thankfully has the bright notion to glance at a watch, and we are corralled back up the street, back into the Cathay.

But by now the bridge is guarded by a new troll, malodorous as a goat, witty as a Catskills headliner:
ElDuce!

Breakfast time!

Drummer of the The Mentors, victim of Courtney Love, ElDuce was the soul of that little stretch of Hollywood.

Oh, he might stop you at the door and threaten to pull out your lower lip with the pliers in his back pocket, or wave his precious pecker at the ladies in your group.

El Duce introduces El Pepe into the mix......

But by the end of the night, you could usually find him curled up inside the front door, naked as an innocent baby and snoring through the sweet dreams of the blessed!

Pandora Bambi and Eldon strike the pose, Kimm holds his tongue.

So you played your sloppy set and dreaded the thought of hauling the gear back up those stairs, but really— where else would ya rather be?

And if you were lucky, the doors would already be locked, and you were invited to stay for an after hours session, only to emerge blinking and reeling into the bright sunlight of another Hollywood morning.

And then you’d put on the sunglasses that you knew you might very well need when you grabbed them the night before, on your way out to the Cathay.

Firefly:

Freewading lady on a Saturday night
Swingin downtown on the Hollywood Vine
Walk on Stars, piss through walls
Drink with bag ladies all dressed like New York Dolls

I wanna bite you and tell you lies
Been drinkin’ Specials at the Firefly
Hollywood, and no one tells the truth
I don’t like actors and musicians and writers too
And I don’t like you

Them Angel feathers are beatin mighty loud tonight
I can’t believe in Love, but then again I might
I feel so cheap, I love these lies
Come on out and try to catch a Firefly

I got an agent, his pants are tight
My name is on the list for every show tonight
Line ‘em up, flaming blue
Another one of these and you’ll think you’re Elvis too
But then, who asked you?

There ain’t no respect in this Goddamn town
They kicked Jesus Christ when he was down
Show them all what it’s all about
I’m the Motherfucker mama warned you about

I feel so good I live a lie
Come on out, I’ll teach you how to fly
I feel so cheap, I’m so alive
Firefly