Archie’s Ice Cream Closes Its Doors

When I first heard there was a rock n’ roll ice cream shop that hosted live bands, I immediately thought, “I want to go to there”. Never mind that its Tustin location was some 44 miles from my home in Burbank, which could cost you up to 2 hours in So-Cal traffic, it was worth the trip!

And Archie’s did not disappoint. Not only did it serve delectable ice cream, it was decorated floor to ceiling (literally) with autographed pictures of the coolest rock stars ever! My family band went there every year for three consecutive years in a row to play and we brought my son’s and daughter’s band out there as well.

I’m so glad we all had the pleasure of performing on what I will always consider to be hallowed grounds.

It was always fun playing Archie’s. More than the cool atmosphere and great ice cream, it was imbibed with the spirit of its owner Shant Keuilian, a genuinely nice guy who loved to support local bands and innately understood the meaning of rock n’ roll.

Today, I heard the sad news that Archie’s will be closing its doors for the last time on Sept. 28. As another rock n roll institution bites the dust, I feel it necessary to give it the respect it deserves although a mere blog does not seem like enough.

Shant continues to keep the spirit of rock alive by visiting live events in the Archie’s Rock n’ Roll Ice Cream Truck, so if you see him out there, be sure to tell him The CheeseBergens say hello.

In the meantime, please enjoy this brief documentary created by Ryan Jachetta Films, that can truly tell you what rock n roll is all about.

Stupid Punk Song (CheeseBergens’ Video Release)


Hello followers and friends! If you are reading this, you probably already know that I have passed on, which is precisely why I haven’t been around the blogosphere much to read your blogs lately. As I look into this batch of molten chocolate that will seal my fate, I contemplate the meaningless of life and all that comes with it.

This video is one of the few things I will leave behind to mark my legacy. If you like or comment, my soul may become light, giving me one last chance to ascend to heaven. Otherwise I am doomed to rot in hell for all eternity, but who am I to make your feel guilty?

Locked And Loaded

Don’t ask me why I titled this blog Locked and Loaded…other than that the guy I was writing about has the last name Gunn. That was actually my original title for the article but thankfully, the editor decided to change it at the last minute, sparing me some embarrassment, yet, here I am embarrassing myself just the same. Anyway, some of you may be interested in this one as this guy not only managed to end up playing with his idol, Marky Ramone of The Ramones, but also ended up publishing a book without even trying. Some people, am I right? Well here is the link.

Also, fun though this column may be, I am running low on people who have an interesting story and are willing to be candid with me, from the hard rock, punk or metal communities. Go figure, right? Anyway, in the unlikely event that you know anyone who fits this bill, send them my way, thanks!


Pretty Clothes


I’ve been floating in 1975
Between Mick Jagger and Stayin’ Alive
Cause that old Beatles haircut just would not do
Said Johnny Rotten so I died it blue

With old bell bottoms from my mom
Put on my shades and I’m Elton John
With platform shoes so fine and showy
I must be Prince or David Bowie

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Verse 2:

I’m feeling a little bit down these days
I dress like John Lennon in his heroin phase
My sister’s dressed up just like dead great eccentrics
Somewhere between Joplin and Hendrix

My mother she laughs at my short little skirts
And wonders why I rip all my tee shirts
Searching the wardrobe for that perfect blouse
And if I don’t find it well I don’t leave the house

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Verse 3:

On a shopping spree of the Lower East Side
I pack all my bags as I swallow my pride
I’ll haggle I’ll bargain I’ll buy it by mail
Just blindfold and guide me to a sign that says sale

Lookin’ all over for my pretty stuff
And no matter how much its never enough
Cause I’m lookin so fine from my head to my toes
I never have money but I always have clothes

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Go go boots seersucker suits
Consult my wardrobe dye my roots
Bell bottom blues front page news
Psycho psychedelic hues
Color me silver color me gold
But never mess my pretty clothes

I’ve been a bit braindead this weekend so decided to post lyrics from a song from my old band Sisters Grimm.

The Audition

I told them we were gonna be
The biggest thing alive
And that they’d have to be between
18 and 25

We’re set to take the world by storm
When we go out on tour
With music sounding nothing like
Whatever came before

Must have gear and attitude
Prepared to sell your soul
For the gods of sex and drugs
And of course rock n’ roll

Looking for a six string slinger
With a pretty face
A monster drummer, heavy thumper
Down to play the bass

Must have chops, cool amps and wear
some awesome leather clothes
And remember I’m the boss
Whatever I say goes

I can’t afford to pay you but
We’re sure to achieve greatness
And you will not be sorry when
We all are rich and famous

So come on down tomorrow, make it
Between 8 and 10
Be impressive and for sure
I’ll see you losers then!

And so I waited there at 8
And I was pretty sure
That there would be line of people
Snaking out the door

All who worshipped gods of rock
And goth and heavy metal
But instead just a tumbleweed
I sat to watch dust settle

And hoped someone would come in soon
That had the moves like Jagger
Instead I got a man who dragged
With him a balailaka

Clearly he would have had to be
Bout 90 if a day
And soused he offered me a swig
Off his opened Claret

An older bloke behind him came
As our triangle player
I told him he could have the job
If he knew any Slayer

A man mutt’ring obscenties
Said he would play the trumpet
A chick brought in some bongos looking
Every bit a strumpet

Fore I knew it, at the door
Another ancient fellow
Who said he heard we needed someone
Who could play the cello

And to round our line up out
There was a rather cute
Girl dressed up like a geisha who
Said she’d play the flute

And of course in order to
Enhance the balailaka
We got some chick named Gill who said
She played some mean maracas

And though this isn’t quite the band
On which I had been set
I just figured “oh what the hell
I’lll take what I can get”

There aren’t many groupies and
We rarely will get paid
But we really don’t sound bad if they
Turn up their hearing aids

We play funerals and bingo games
Nursing homes and more
So catch us at a gig on our
Lock Up Your Grandma’s Tour

But just in between you and I
I’ve a sneaking suspicion
My band mates erred that day and they
Came for the wrong audition

They made a right ‘stead of a left
But don’t you dare to tell them
That this is not in fact the back up
Band for Willie Nelson.

Over the weekend, my friend and fellow blogger Inchcock made this graphic for his blog Marissa’s New Band, which in turn inspired this poem. Pictured are fellow bloggers Shirley Blamey on lingerie and congas, Rachel Carrera on geisha dress and flute, Danny Soz on trumpet, Mike Steeden on balailaka, Duncan on cello, Inchcock on triangle and Gill on maracas.


Cover Band Man

Step down old man, step down, step down,
Cause there’s a fresh face here in town,
He’s cool, he’s hot, he’s now, he’s new,
He does your schtick better than you.

He tours the world he’s got it made,
I hear he’s even getting laid,
By a whole group of hot, young chicks,
Who come while looking at your pics.

They wonder if you’re still alive,
He’s running through your life’s archive,
It doesn’t take long to discover,
That the music this guy covers,
Clearly wins popular vote,
As the best stuff you ever wrote.

And now it is so clear to see,
You’re not the man you used to be,
You can’t compete, you’ll only loose,
A cover band man fills your shoes.

Who will never know the hindrances,
Drama or creative differences,
Or have everyone sing the tune,
Of crap you wrote in your bedroom.

But play the verses to the letter,
Just like you and sometimes better,
And you wish you had only knew,
How fun it could be to be you.

Inspired by on online conversation I had with Mark Bialczak,


Trikki Gunns

His vinyl jeans so tight that they
Muffin top his belly,
He thinks he’s a weird emo kid,
Folks think he’s old and smelly.

We know his real name is Eugene,
But Eugene’s have no fun,
Combined a cat’s and porn star’s names,
And now he’s Trikki Gunns.

The 80s already happened,
Time to update his look,
Got him some green extensions,
Wrote songs with grungy hooks.

He saw Marilyn Manson,
The white contacts he wears,
First thing next morning he ran out,
And he got himself a pair.

Now he caught up with the cool kids,
He’s looking lean and mean,
Somewhere near 1999,
Though it’s 2015.

No club in town that you could say,
His band didn’t play there,
The crowds are getting thinner,
Much like his graying his hair.

In his mind he’s a heartbreaker,
A rebel, he’s the bomb,
Taking the ladies to the home,
That he shares with his mom.

For though they’re few and far between,
He manages to score,
He says it’s just a place to lay
His head in between tours.

And thinks of that old song he knew,
Wonders if it’s a lie,
Can you be too old to rock n roll,
If you’re too young to die?


The Mysterious Case of The Disappearing Drummers

Lisa Kaos was wild on stage,
But a bit of an addict I’m afraid,
We could tell you what drug she was on,
Judging by the speed of the song.

Then came reliable Dawn McGrath,
Who had a penchant for Cabbage Patch,
A bit of a prude, I’m telling you,
As a rock drummer that would not do.

Then along came Frankie, wild man,
Great for drumming and banging tin cans,
But better sent off to the forest,
Than hitting on the lead guitarist.

Tim was glam as glam could ever be,
But it all ended quickly you see,
For soon came in the call for the chap,
The 80s wanted their drummer back.

So it became like musical chairs,
Changing drummers more than underwear,
Until I’m afraid we got the rap,
For being a bit like Spinal Tap.

But not one drummer did we fire,
Too potent was our rock desire,
We put up with them ’til they turned into,
Green globules on the drum stool.


The Girl From Brooklyn

She swore that she would be,
Anything but what she was,
A hardcore biker mama,
After the highest buzz.

Out ’til all hours of the night,
Always raising hell,
Then she changed her name to Jezo Black,
(Short for Jezebel).

And swore her tattoos and her travels,
Her life experience,
Would serve to separate her from,
The girl that she was then.

So they took the girl out of Brooklyn,
To live a life of sin,
Only what would happen,
When she decided to come back in?

Which is exactly what did occur,
When with her new, cool, city friends,
She decided to see a concert,
Located where the D train ends.

Though she tried to hide under tables,
And avoid the stare,
Of a girl who’s conversation started,
“Hey, I know you from somewhere!”

And despite the mystique she laid out,
To me, she was from then on known,
As a plain, little girl from Brooklyn,
By the name of Laurie Cohen.