The next morning over a breakfast of a even split of the last three donuts you where eating on the road here with your uncle he tells you of his band. Your fucking uncle's in a band! What the fuck! Its called Hell Milk. He says he's the found percussionist. He plays trash assembled into drum kits Mollkin style. You had no idea your wizened old 40 something uncle would be in a noise band. That's young people music you think. You ask if you can check out a session. He says there's one in a couple of days and there will be food. But he has nothing to offer until then. You go dumpster diving with him that night. You don't find anything you can stand to heat up uncle barney eats well. He's not picky.