The CH3 Eye on TV: LOST

So there we are, Monday evening at the stoic CH3 training camp located high in the San Bernardino mountains. A few shows coming up ya know, so gotta get back in shape in the usual manner–namely, doing the Greased Lightning number from Grease in front of the full length mirror. Hey-works for us!!

Uh huh Uh huh...I Got a Gun!

Well Sir, Alf suddenly stopped the music and refused to practice any longer. Seems his program was ready to start, that’s right– LOST!

Have you heard of this show? Yeah, me either…..

But in a nutshell it’s about a fine group of people that crash their helicopter on a deserted island. Sounds boring, I know. But get this–these people have back stories, ya dig? So each week we get to fill in their past lives, while following them through the jungle.
Now, I’m no Gene Shalit, but I predict ABC has a winner on their hands with this sitcom!!!!

And then to make things even nuttier, these peolple start to encounter other people on the island, even settlements and all sorts of technological marvels–and time travel! Oh yes-Did I mention the time travel??

Hold me, I’m starting to hear the circus music in my head again!!!!

Wha wha? But how did they...But I thought that..? Oh I just can't keep up with this show!!

But forget the setting and plot twists, brother! As with all good shows it’s all about the characters, and did they put together a stellar cast!!

L-R: Adam Sandler, the retard asian guy from Sopranos, Kate Beckinsale, Apu and Rivers Cuomo....

…and what? At the 48:05:001 minute mark of last night’s episode, Look at the sweet stunt casting/product placement!

Anchoring the cast is the always fine Terry O’Quinn, doing his best with the goopy dialogue….

mmm....am I off the show now or not? I got an offer from CSI Chino Hills on the table ya know!

And whoo, does he play the crotchety/lovable old guy character to the hilt, people!
What, Gerald McRaney wasn’t available?
Still waiting by the phone for his John From Cincinatti walk on?

.....um, yeah-but we got to say cocksucker on HBO!

Much has been made about the diversity of the cast, and we here at the CH3 Asian Anti-Defamation chapter heartily applaud ABC’s use of not one, but three coolies in this show!!

My car? A 2002 Honda Civic with 98 grand in modifications...why do you ask?

Hear hear! It’s about time we’re starting to see some finely drawn Asian characters on the major networks! We’ve come a long way, baby!

Oh, you got some Arab terrorist in there too, as well as the 2 hunky crackers that look like part of Keith Urban’s backing band….but give me my glasses, will ya, because I didn’t see any brothas representin’ on the island.

In fact, the only black charcter was a cloud of smoke!!

And wait a minute….this all-powerful spirit, embodied in cloud, where have I seen this stunt before?
Apparently they just couldn’t get enough of this plot device, last seen in the 1994 miniseries The Stand….

...m-o-o-n spells ripoff!

But our favorite character has to be the jolly jolly fat man, Hurley, played by Jorge Garcia….
Talk about casting to your audience! This guy looks like he’s been to ComicCon, yes??

According to Wikipedia, he played bass in Poison Idea 1998-2001....

Anyway, in episode one, we catch up with our heroes after some bomb went off down in the well, and there’s apparently some confusion as the time has changed, people are missing, there’s two of other people, a little boy wishes people into the cornfield….

OK, I'll explain it one last time...we're here, but we're also there, but we're not really....ah fuck it, let's have a drink!

Sheesh, enough with the plot twists, already! It’s no wonder Jersey Shore is kicking their ass in the ratings! Who wants to work this hard watching TV???

We get drunk, we fight, we hook up...what's the big whoop?

Jesus Christ, it’s as like trying to follow the Adolescents’ history, and at least they give us a goddamn map:

Look closely and you'll find Mike Love in there for a short time early 90's!

I guess anything goes when it comes to plot twists, am I right? In fact, we got the inside scoop on next week’s show, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the new character that is introduced as he suddenly appears from the mysterious jungle…..

What yer hearing is the sound of a thousand fanboys cumming....

Watch Lost on the ABC televison network, 9pm Mondays

Happy Anniversary: Alex’s Bar

Kimm stands with the man named after the bar.

Has it really been ten years?

Oh sure, you’d been down Anaheim Boulevard before. Maybe you had to pick up a bitchin West Coast Choppers hoodie for your nephew’s birthday –and they didn’t sell that crap at Walmart back then, brother! You had to venture down the mean streets of Long Beach, or the LBC as I understand all the cool wiggers refer to it!

Or perhaps you had an intense hankering for a Special over at Joe Jost’s—and screw the fact that it’s a Tuesday afternoon and you’re still in the work truck with a load of Italian Ceramic floor tile that’s supposed to be at the jobsite!
Fuck it, you can already taste the pickled egg being washed down by Pabst, the heft of the schooner like a child’s skull in your paw. mmmm….a frosty, delicious skull….!

Have I died? Is this Heaven?

Then one day you noticed the red awning, the plain lettering on the door.

To be sure, the modest front doesn’t betray the hijinks inside. No, it’s the back of the joint that first gives you a clue of the mayhem that awaits your night.

You stamp out your smoke and cough up the cover charge and are suddenly transported into the room of dreams and nightmares, for this place has been the maker of both!
The red walls, the velvet paintings– the sickly sweet odor of last night’s booze and the perfumed necks of a dozen rockabilly skanks. You are already drunk, and you’re still standing in line for your first highball of the night!

Buckle in, pal, because your evening is gonna get a whole lot more interesting….

Blah! We're drunk and happy and unemployed!

Alex’s has become our favorite place to play, though a lot of fans prefer not to see us play there. Why, I don’t know—

...ummm, how about you shut the fuck up and play a song for me? Huh?! How about that?

Yes, we’ve been known to have a smart cocktail or two up on that stage, but it’s really just part of the act! Listen, if you want to see some sober headed bald guys preach to you about the whales between their folk songs, the bus is leaving for Gillman St in ten minutes, hippy!

No, this is a place for drinkers that want to get drunk, bands that want to play loud, and people that want to yell You suck! when a well intentioned frontman *ahem* prefers to describe the mornings’ bowel movement instead of playing a 30 year old song!

So it was a no brainer when the time came to film the CH3 epic,One More for all My True Friends .

...and we can hang the dead goat right up there~!

Yep....

So many memorable nights that you can’t quite remember, but it’s the crew that makes a bar. Alex’s has become that comfort zone we all need, a place to relax amongst the people you love!

Come sundown, the herd gathers at the watering hole.

Maybe there’s no better time, really, than a lazy sunday afternoon at the bar, when there’s no goddamn band making a racket up there. A few of the local neighbors wander in, lured by free potato salad and a chance to see what the hell all these crazy kids see in this place.
You can finally get to sit at the bar, usually packed 5 deep on a Friday night.

Somebody’s tapping away at a laptop, a weepy couple are breaking up for the second time in a month. As the jukebox switches songs you can hear the gentle beeping of a tow truck backing up, another poor schmuck parked at AutoZone…..

So you order another Newcastle, and hell, why not? -a quick Jameson’s to guide the afternoon into another night. A van pulls up in the parking lot, Pennsylvania plates, and a weary touring band comes into the bar, blinking at the dark. They look around the room and you can just hear their thoughts: Fuck yeah, this is a cool place….

Cheers to a decade down the throat!

Play This Riff!

So when yer a band with *ahem* history, like your ol pals here at the CH3 retirement community, you go through your fair share of guitars over the years.

Ah, guitars! Do you remember?

The thrill of holding that sacred LesPaul in Guitar Center, the heady perfume of the oiled wood and crushed velvet when you opened the hardshell case…..
When you were just a kid, and had your fragile heart set on that blonde telecaster in the pawn. You finally got your hands on an Ibanez, and though it wasn’t some American made icon, it was yours, goddammit!

Your own guitar to massage and torture through the night……

Japanese guitars in the garage...

And it still holds the mystery, eh? I mean, that’s quite a piece of furniture you’re holding on your lap when you think about it. Six meager strings stretched across some plank, a few inches of wire and magnet, all coming together as your invitation to the party.

You sit in your bedroom on a lonely November midnight, your ol pal in your hands and the hurt of the world in your heart. As you sit there alone, weepily pawing at the srings, what else can result, but another instant rock and roll classic!
You’ve transformed your inexpressible longing into a song now, something that will live on in the car radios of America’s youth for, well- forever!

Heh. Either that or you get loaded and spend the night playing the riff to Rock Bottom over and over in a masturbatory stupor!

(Listen to Rock Bottom, the baddest riff ever!)

I suppose a bit of the romance wears off, am I right? We grab the guitars night after night, and they feel as familiar and obligatory as the bloodied crop to the Dominatrix.

Just a tool, it seems after a while—the hammer to the roofer, the condom to the crack whore…..

In fact, it wasn’t all that long ago when they took the guitar from me altogether, and left me to my own devices up on the stage…..

Listen, just be glad there's no YouTube evidence of this period.

Oh, I gave it a go alright, lurching around under the stage lights like some Down’s Syndrome afflicted offspring of Joey Ramone and Steven Tyler.

But it just wasn’t the same. Where is the phallic sword that guided you through so many nights before? Weapon and shield, the guitar is something you can hide behind or thrust out at a threatening world.

Besides, what the hell do you do- lead singers I mean- during the goddamn guitar solo??
Dance around like Mike Love? Or, God help me, play air guitar??

...mmmm....yeah. I could do the ol' jack off the mic stand routine, but I did that during the last song, mate!

It was just too much. Before ya knew it, I was hanging the wood around my neck again.
Safe and shielded once again, naked no more!

...uh, the strings are on the other side ya nut!

You grow older, and you fall in love with the guitar all over again, it seems.

Also, you mourn those beauties that will never return, foolishly pawned for Vegas gas money back when they didn’t seem that important.

By God, If I ever get that Rickenbacker 425 back, I’ll be one happy fellow!!

She's out there somewhere!

So it was a pleasant surprise when our pal Bob Balch from Fu Manchu called and told us about his groovy new site, Play This Riff and asked us to give him an interview!

Bob wanted to come in and check out the gear and run through a few songs. Pretty flattering, we thought. We’re not known as the most technical guitar gods out there, and truth be told, we usually just choose the night’s guitars to coordinate with our outfits!

The B&W collection...I'm thinking one of these will look smashing with the pink shirt!

And we don’t always handle these babies with the gentle respect they deserve….!

I give up, people! Take out the trash!!

But we’re the goddamn best CH3 guitarists playing CH3 songs out there right now goddammit! So we invited Bob down to the plush CH3 rehearsal complex/test kitchen for a little tour

An exclusive look into the CH3 equipment bunker. Not pictured: Fog machine, treadmill, oxygen tank.

And showed off some of the rare axes:

Oh my...what a rude guitar!

Then we ran through a few songs for the cameras–and hey! Only took us 4 takes to nail Catholic Boy! Not like we’ve been playing the song for 30 years or anything, eh?

And bonus, Bob was kind enough to jot down the tabs for the songs

See them little squiggly things? That's music, Ma!!

Why didn’t we have this kind of stuff when we were kids, huh?

Oh, you goddamn punks think you’re so smart, with your icephones and carbonite lattes and websites that teach you all the hard earned secrets of the guitar!
Hell, when we were your age all we had were two rocks with used dental floss stretched between….now get off my lawn!!

Do yourself a favor and sign up for Play This Riff !

The CH3 Year in Review: 2009

Well, that damn Christmas tree is finally out of the house and sits yellowing on the curb, a dehydrated monument to the excess of holidays just past.

The eggnog curdles in the fridge, and if I never again hear Wham!’s Last Christmas played over the CVS Pharmacy PA system, I will count myself a lucky man.

Please. Kill. Me.

And for this, the 50th entry of the Channel 3 Blog, join us as we recap the year that was: 2009 through the bleary eyeballs of yer ol pals in CH3!

The year began as it often does, a trip to Vegas for BYO’s annual Punk Rock Bowling Tournament. We finished a dismal 162 out of 163 in our bracket, though we claim shenanigans as Alf was absent most of his turns. Seems he was trying to ride the animatronic bear in the Laser Bar woods, the scamp!

Just a little pep talk after anthony's second gutter ball....

Late January found us up in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest with our pals in DOA, a couple shows in Seattle and Portland.
The rains were merciful, the Pho sublime, and we learned that PDX International is not a half bad place to watch a Superbowl game.

Kimm has a case of the Seattle Surprise! El Corazon Jan 30

Half time with Springsteen? meh. Bring back the kids from Up with People, that’s what we say!!

Now these fuckers know how to rock the crowd!

February, cruel bitch of a month that it is, does not disappoint with its gray montony. Things are broken up by the first Alex’s gig of the year and the NOFX party…..

Feb 4 NOFX party @ Fonda Theatre, Hollywood

Wrappin up February at Alex's...

The late winter lull was strangely quiet. Hmmm… don’t have much to report on the band front, but perhaps you might enjoy this video of a cat coughing up a hairball: Enjoy!

We welcomed the Vernal Equinox in proper fashion, a trip out to Rosemead!
This post, Spikes in Rosemead was the first in our popular Our Last Gig series, and made an International Media Star of our man Paulie.

...this is what he does in front of the mirror at home. All day long.

A couple warmups for the Summer, and then onto June with a couple shows with the Circle Jerks, at the San Diego and Anaheim House of Blues….Houses of Blue? Blue Horses? —eh, you know…those big corporate clubs where a Vodka Soda costs 12 bucks!

Things warm up in the pit....Summer's comin!

The year half over now, and got the devastating news. Old chum Fat Paul passed on. The man will be missed!

July wanes and we are off to Europe.

After a quick Transatlantic flight, and a brief bout of jetlag induced delirium, we are rolling across the Continent.
If you’d care, you can always peruse the 2009 European Diary for the full story.

But trust me, the trip can be summarized nicely by the following images:

Sausage...

Yet more sausage...

Sausage with curry sauce....because we're fuckin nutty that way!!!

We finally lured Ant and Alf back to the States in time for the last shows of the Warped Tour . We set out on this journey with every intention of losing those pesky extra 6 kilos of wurst weight we picked up in Europe, but it was not meant to be!

Christ! Gotta go on a diet after this!

What a wonderful way to wrap up the Summer with friends and pretend the bitter realities of the darkening sky weren’t just over the horizon!

This is either before the set, or Anthony has just given up!

Alf's view of the world..no wonder he's a little off, hmmm?

One fine Fall day, I think it was late October, the four of us were lying in an open meadow, the patient Earth cooling beneath our backs. Idly chatting, we each picked a cloud and interpreted its shape.

A Pony.
Amputee riding a hermaphroditic elephant.
An Advair inhaler.

By God, I love being in a band!

...and that one looks like the funny smelling Uncle that used to sleep over in Mom's room!

Where were we?
Ah.
Summer’s over, and the year speeds up toward its own demise. A quick jaunt out to Vegas:

What a world, when yer 3rd billed under Bingo!

And then onto the Holiday season and wrapping things up in proper fashion: Back to Alex’s Bar!

Hijinks, I tells ya...Hijinks!!

The celebrations over now, we all seem relieved that 2009 is over. With every hope that the future holds fluffier towels and colder beer, it’s onto 2010~~!

You know it's gotta be true if it's written on baked goods!

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.

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 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 IV

A full beer can arced the darkening sky and landed with a solid thunk on the van roof, the sound solid and somber as a coffin lid being slammed shut. I glanced back and saw the shillouettes of the San Diego punkers gathered around the stage door, the tips of their cigarettes whirling as fireflies underneath the lone lightbulb that lit the entrance. You could tell they were regrouping for another assault on the Blue and White, and I asked Chris to get us the fuck out of there as the rest of the crew inside yelled and taunted the punkers across the parking lot.

Time to go.

My poor baby! What've they done to ya??

I would ask you: who doesn’t want to be part of a gang, hmmm?

I don’t know, to one day be asked to sit at the cool kid table at lunch, or to finally- wordlessly- be allowed to walk home with the dangerous guys. The kids who cut classes and smoked cigarettes in their vans.

Who doesn’t want to belong?

Goin in heavy....

Back down the 5 freeway again, sunset after the daylight savings change, and the clouds gather as we crest the San Clemente curve. We’re not listening to 999 this time though, no–it’s an english Oi! compilation, and the beer we hold is not our beloved Coors Banquet but its darker and sinister stepmother, Olde English 800….

The old Blue and White seems always packed with new faces now, and whenever we load up for a gig there are new names to remember, and new hands- heavy with broken knuckles- to shake.

In the months that have passed since our last trip down South, things have changed. We’re a harcdcore band now, and we are to reckoned with, yeah? We’ve had our picture taken in a dozen tough poses, encouraged by the photographers to knock off the goofy grins and look mean!
The Choc thrift store polyester leisure suits have been replaced by leathers, Docs and fanny kilts. My Mom ventured down to Poseur on Melrose and got me some Brit import bondage pants….Thanks Mom!

Meaning business, bub!

In the van this time down, we have Chris at the wheel as usual and Duane riding shotgun, but we’re also packing along big Oren, a teenager who could easily pass for a 47 year old longshoreman. Also, Olly and his crew from L.A., maybe a couple other Wollum boys, and some silent punk girls with serious eye makeup and self inflicted cigarette burns. Jeff from Wasted Youth is making out with Larry’s kid sister in the gear compartment.

This cannot end well.

So how was the Cramps gig ya ask?

Oh, we never played the gig. In fact, I don’t think Kimm or I ever got out of the van.

When we finally pulled into the parking lot, woozily bloated from the Malt Liquor and charged on English football chants, the van door slid open full. The clatter of empty cans hitting asphalt our intro song, malevolent as black hail on a church roof.

Duane led the charge, and seven men jumped out of the van and headed inside the theatre. Kimm and I stayed in the van to change shirts, and maybe have 3 minutes of silence before surrendering to the night ahead.
And as fast as they were out, Duane and the crew came running back to the van, jumped in laughing and cussing, recounting a roundhouse right that someone had just thrown to knock a fool out cold.

The victim? Oh, gee. That would be the promoter.

This was a popular man in San Diego, and as word spread around the parking lot, the San Diego punkers started for the van. Apparently, the Cramps wanted the venue cleared for soundcheck, but our boys wanted to stay and watch! An argument broke out.

Well, what ya gonna do, really? but throw a punch?

And now fights were breaking out all around the van, we are being yelled at to get the fuck out of San Diego and never come back. Cops are on the way.

We hate you now. Leave.

If you know me or Kimm at all, ya know we’re not known for clearing the room with our fists. We’ve had maybe one physical brawl over the course of our 30 years (and as I recall that was with each other!)

But now we were getting a reputation as troublemakers, thanks in no small part to the manicacs we welcomed along for the ride. We would check with promoters after a gig, only to find we owed them due to the 3 microphones stolen. Or tires would be mysteriouly slashed, and a bartender is threatening to call the cops if we weren’t gone soon.

But, really. Who’s fault was that? Why couldn’t I have the strength to stand and say enough!?

When we first started playing those backyard parties we were the goofy kids, and had a hard time getting the tough guys or cute girls to give us a listen. Now that we had a little cred, not to mention a big guest list and a tank full of gas, we didn’t have much of a problem filling the van.

I ask you again: Who doesn’t want to belong?

A new day for you, kids.....

We drove away, and I looked over at Kimm across the dark van. We saw each other’s eyes for a moment, not possibly knowing that this one night would be the foreshadow to a couple full years of riots, threats, cancelled shows and animosity with a handful of other bands.

We pulled away from the cursing crowd, and distanced ourselves from an opportunity lost. I like to think that I had the romance to look back at that diminishing light as the van pulled away, that even in the midst of the bleeding and yelling, I was as conscience and forlorn as Gatsby staring at his distant green light at the end of a dock across Egg Harbor.

But we know better than that now, don’t we?
I was too young, too drunk or stupid, to recognize it as anything more than a lightbulb.

Merry Christmas!

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!)