Middle Age Punk Goes to the Punk Rock Museum

As an aging Punk Rock enthusiast I like to keep myself abreast of all the latest Punk Rock happenings and goings on. One such happening I’ve been eyeballing with great enthusiasm over the last several months has been the development, emergence, construction, and hoopla around The Punk Rock Museum.

The story goes that Fat Michael, of Punk Rock stalwarts NOFX, rounded up some friends with deeper pockets to invest in a building that Fat Michael would then persuade fellow Punk Rock practitioners, collectors, participants, historians, and artists to fill with their assorted Punk rock doodads, whats-its, paraphernalia, outfits, and art pieces, that when assembled together would form the history and ongoing story of Punk Rock. And he did just that, thusly creating the aforementioned The Punk Rock Museum, which opened it’s doors to the punk rock populace and general masses in April of the year twenty twenty-three, it’s home being the sunny, cacophonous blizzard of excess, Las Vegas, Nevada.

Naturally, I was fascinated by such a place. A single location that would house some of the most influential and historically significant artifacts that make up the Punk Rock scene and formed the building blocks of my self-attributed “punk-ness” and deeply internalized DIY (do it yourself) ethics. I had to fucking see this. I had to stand in this place. The problem being that where I currently stood was in Aurora, a suburb of Denver, Colorado, a mere 766 miles from The Punk Rock Museum’s Las Vegas home. Being a middle-aged punk with a boring ol’ day job and life obligations would also pose a problem. I’d have to wait for an opportunity to present itself…

Not wanting to miss out on a single iota of information about the museum I began following it’s social media feeds, keeping me in a constant loop of updates. I watched as day after day the museum came together, slowly filling itself up with iconic punk artifact after icon punk artifact. As the digital images flickered by my rarely blinking eyes I sighed with ennui for the day I would get to visit.

As the day of the museums opening drew closer, the punks behind the scenes came up with a brilliant promotional idea: guided tours of the museum by actual Punk Rock musicians culled from a veritable smorgasbord of Punk Rock’s who’s who. April would see tours hosted by Louichi Mayorga of Suicidal Tendencies, Don Bolles of the Germs, Fat Michael and Smelly of NOFX, Roger Miret of Agnostic Front, Warren Fitzgerald of The (fucking awesome) Vandals, Pete Koller of Sick of it All, Jennifer Finch of L7, and Chris #2 of Anti-Flag, among many more. I was awestruck. How fucking rad would that be to get a guided tour through the Punk Rock timeline by some bonafide, legit, Punk Rockers?

Then, it happened. The opportunity I was waiting for.

While out to a birthday celebratory dinner for my mother-in-law, an idea was brought into existence that my brother-in-law would indeed be reaching his twenty-first rotation around the sun in May and we should all mark the occasion the way most Americans think the twenty-fist year should be marked, with a trip to Las Vegas. Las Vegas. Home of The Punk Rock Museum.

Plans were made, flight tickets were purchased, motel rooms were reserved, and we’d all be off to Las Vegas that Memorial Day weekend to welcome a fresh-faced, twenty-one year old into the ever-exciting, never depressing world of adults with some state sanctioned depravity.

After everything was booked I rushed to the information super highway to secure tickets to The Punk Rock Museum. On their website was a long list of punk rockers giving guided tours in the month of May and as I scanned the list I became saddened that none of them were lining up with our time in Vegas.

But what’s this? At the bottom? A guided tour, at 5PM, on that Friday, the day of our arrival? Guided by who? WHO?

By CJ fucking Ramone, of the fucking Ramones, one of two remaining Ramones left, unless you count Steve Ramone, who may or may not exist, and is most definitely a story for another time.

I was beside myself with glee. It was decided I would purchase one ticket for myself to tour the museum with CJ Ramone and my wife and in-laws would purchase regular, and much cheaper, tickets, to guide themselves. All that was left to do was wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. Until finally the day arrived and we were all packed into a Frontier Airlines’ flying bus at 5AM in the morning, westward bound for Las Vegas.

We arrived bright and earlier, due to the time change, and the sun had already started it’s fiery, heat-oppressing climb into the sky. An Uber-er ushered us to downtown Las Vegas. Fremont Street more precisely, a strip of city block festooned with casinos that have been around the block, multiple musical stages that despite conventional sound mechanics all have musicians playing on them at the same time, a huckster every three feet to make sure you don’t get far without buying some bullshit or attending some sort of property timeshare, unescapable presentation, scantily clad showgirls, and an endless horde of tourists all sipping frozen, fruity flavored, booze-laden beverages from a yard-long tube, all contained under a constantly lit roof dazzling the crowds with light show after light show. However, at 7:30AM it’s entirely empty, barely resembling the neon lit madness that now slumbers waiting the later hour to unleash itself.

We had plenty of time to kill. Our gambling exploits lasted all of forty American dollars and about twenty-seven minutes. While the in-laws were more dutiful in their gaming, my wife and I ventured out into Fremont Street to be met by a rapidly growing amount of Punk Rock enthusiasts. I was not the only one here to participate in some punk ecstasy, it was also Punk Rock Bowling’s weekend to celebrate. Punk Rock Bowling, a musical that spans four days, includes three days of musical acts and a night of smaller venue shows celebrating all things punk, and maybe bowling despite the lack of bowling, had drawn a large army of punk rockers to downtown Vegas looking to kill time before the festivities kicked off. Everywhere you looked were punk band t-shirts covered by jean jackets littered with punk band patches and metal studs topped off by heads with all colors of the rainbow hair. It made Vegas feel like a place for me. Had I planned better I would have remembered the bowling fest and perhaps purchased tickets and seen one of my all-time favorite bands, Bad Religion, who were headlining Saturday night, but alas, I had not. Fret not, I would have my punk moment later.

Then later came as were Uber-ed away from our motel, the said about that place the better, to The Punk Rock Museum for our 5PM time slots.

The museum was packed, likely due to the unusual amount of punks in town but I would not have to wait for admittance for I had the golden ticket, a guided tour with CJ Ramone. I was admitted directly into the gift shop. No time for the gift shop now, I would need to return after the tour to peruse the goods available. I was then shown into the first room with the other tour-ers, a black-walled room that featured large photos of Punk Rock luminaries completed with matching quotes about what punk means to them, to wait for CJ Ramones arrival and subsequent tour.

I. Was. So. Fucking. Excited.

In short time in struts CJ Ramone, looking like a New York City street Santa Clause, black Yankees baseball team hat, a large, fully white beard, a black t-shirt and two pints of Guinness beer, one in each hand, then proceeds to tell us how we have a home here and how happy he is to see us.

I could have died right fucking there on the spot but I needed to go on living for there was still an entire tour ahead.

So, with that, the tour began. CJ led us from room to room. The museum was setup in a way that started with punk’s origins and each subsequent room expanded on the scene from there. Each new room CJ would stop, drink some beer, and launch into another amazing story about the bands in that room, his time with the Ramones, some crazy shenanigans he and notable punks got into together. Each story was just as captivating, and hilarious, and inspired as the last. I won’t tell you the sordid details, I was there and it was special for me so you missed out but them’s the breaks.

It was hard to peruse all the illustrious items that were on display and follow CJ and his stories. The museum is so packed to the rafters with iconic and crucial punk items could have spent days examining each and every one. It was a bit overwhelming, but in a way that was entirely comforting.

As we roamed from room to room and CJ spun his yarns I took in as much as I could but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

Now, I don’t say this to brag, or to flex, but for the sake of explaining. I’ve stood and stared into the eyes of the Mona Lisa, surrounded by a million tourists, surrounded by the Louvre museum in Paris, France. I’ve stood under the Sistine Chapel’s Michelangelo painted ceiling. I’ve seen countless works of art that grace the pages of every art history one-oh-one text book, and they’re fine and they’re swell but they didn’t move me in the way people saw masterpieces of art move them. I didn’t get that feeling until, me being a bit ahead of the tour group in all my excitement, turned the corner and came face to face with the original, hand-painted artwork that graced the cover to my all-time favorite Bad Religion album, “Against the Grain,” painted by Joy Aoki. I was stunned, stopped dead in my tracks, the original, hanging there in front of me. I was overcome by emotions. As CJ and the crew rounded the corner I felt a bit misty in my eyes. “Don’t cry in from of CJ Ramone, you delicate flower,” I urged myself. CJ stood in front of the painting and for the life of me I don’t remember what he said in that room. I was overwhelmed by the muted greens and purples of the stylized corn stocks, with that one, golden yellow cob facing the opposite direction. As the group pressed on I snapped out of my stupor. We weren’t done yet.

Each room was an explosion of punk historical awesomeness. CJ, rarely stopping his storytelling except to take another swig of Guinness, never faltered or slowed down. Perhaps the most exuberant person in the whole place.

My wife texted to inform me they had finished their perusal of the museums goods and her folks had Uber-ed away, back to Fremont to resume the gambling, but her and her brother were at the museum bar, the “Triple Down,” and would wait for me there. I responded that I thought the tour was nearing completion but we were on our way upstairs to see the tattoo parlor, the room of playable guitars donated by legit punk musicians, and, in true Las Vegas style, the hopeless romantic city that it is, the wedding chapel where our entire tour group was about to be guests at a Punk Rock wedding. The happy couple stood by the wedding officiant as they read their nuptials, beaming at each other in loving bliss as they were pronounced man and wife in front of me, an assorted rabble of punk rockers, CJ Ramone, and two customers in the process of getting ink permanently drilled into their skin.

The tour pressed on into the final room containing stories and artifacts of where the punk genre resides currently and CJ brought the tour to an end by repeating we had a home there and thanking us for being there, but first, a group photo, taken by his suddenly appearing wife and sweet little dog.

As the group disbanded I brought my emotional, quivering, overjoyed body to CJ and gathered the resilience to thank him and ask for a photo which he graciously obliged. I then took a spin around the room to take it all in and headed to the Triple Down to meet up with my wife and brother-in-law, where I was anxiously awaiting one last treat.

According to their social media correspondence, the Triple Down bar featured an exclusive adult beverage. Named “The Fletcher” after the towering guitar player of the band Pennywise, it’s a full-size tube of Pringles brand potato chips, emptied into a basket, then the tube is filled to the brim with Coca-Cola and vodka.

“I’ll take one Fletcher, please,” I informed the barkeep, and, just for good measure, a Pabst’s Blue Ribbon Tall Boy because what is more punk than paying for an overpriced can of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon. I took my drinks and my chips outside to find my waiting and smiling wife to regale her with the tales of my recent journey, one which I would not soon recover from, nor would I want to recover from.