Honduh Daze
Whittier Bar
December 11, 2025
When I walked into Whittier Bar at Admiral and Lewis last Thursday to see the noise-punk duo Honduh Daze, the greeting was loud, raw, and intense. HNNNNN-GRRR-SKK-KK-KK-KRASH! I passed over the threshold into the throng of a hundred and into another dimension. The door slammed shut without a sound.
Tulsa is brimming with punk, now and always, and over the past year Honduh Daze has caught my attention. Seeing them at Whittier was a virgin experience for me. Not many of those are left, so I embraced the opportunity.
Worming my way to the bar, I shouted at the bartender, “Give me a Hamms.” I quit yelling when I was five, but 70 years later, here I was. Felt good. Shouting and hooting were allowed—encouraged—tonight. Turning towards the performers, I looked over the crowd of revelers: All were different. All looked happy. Some chose the moment to express their own punk spirit—a person led around by a chain attached to a metal neck cuff, some with helmets, others with the punk bravado of a dentist behaving badly (that might have been me)—as The Daze raged onstage at full volume. BAM, BAM, SKREE!
Who are Honduh Daze, and do they offer a great deal on cars during the month of December? Terry Ball and Jamie Weiner (given names Jason Baker and Marie McIntosh) are both politically-minded comedians who met in a bar in L.A. 15 years ago. It was kismet. What better way to approach the incongruities of life than entering formal comedy training and taking to the stage in the glitz of Southern California? But traditional comedy shops were not ready for them. The duo turned to smaller, independent venues that promoted local artists of all genres.
And so it went until karma took hold: playing music together. This wasn’t a stretch for guitar and synth player McIntosh, but it was a new task for Baker, who chose to learn the many rhythms of the drums. Loud rhythms. The kind that burst drum skins. Comedy chops fully intact, they massaged the inspiration of Honda Days into Honduh Daze and called their band’s brand Dealership Noise Punk.
Back to the present: A second Hamms arrives and a person taps on my shoulder. He hands me a jar of bright orange earplugs. I take a few and pass them on. They fit great, but my ears, damaged perhaps by rock concerts of the ‘70s, prefer the unfiltered dissonant noise of the performers.
Weiner is the singer and guitar player and keyboardist, and sometimes she does all three simultaneously. Her short blue hair shakes back and forth like living room curtains being shaken by the family dog. Both arms show a cavalcade of tattoos. She strikes the strings of the guitar, screams and moans into the microphone, dances back and forth, and smashes her keyboard at random. Ball smashes his drums with the vitriol of a youngster who has just been told to take out the trash. His pink hair does not swish around like Weiner’s but appears to appear and disappear with the movement of his head, flashing like the warning lights of a railroad crossing signal.
Their show business outfits are dark blue Honda mechanic shirts with a Honda patch sewn over the right pocket and their show names on the left. The artwork on the back is a wild spray-painted drippy aesthetic version of the iconic Honda logo, seen when Ball swivels around on his stool, covering his ears with his hands, shaking his head and contorting like a man on fire.
A third Hamms paired with a shot arrives.
Between songs, other bands strut around the stage and smile at each other. Or they might look coolly at their set sheet. Or they look over the crowd, bantering a little. But not Honduh Daze. The first time it happens, I’m caught off guard. What are they doing? Wait a minute. They’re doing stand-up comedy. Ball stays behind his drum set, and Weiner is at the microphone. They don’t face each other. He’s screaming blue epithets; she couldn’t care less what he’s doing. What are they saying? Are they bashing Toyota? Yup.
Soon, they have convinced the adoring throng to show no respect for Honda’s rival. People are jumping up and down, their little fingers stuck up in the air disrespectfully. Having left the bar for a front row stand, I find myself laughing my ass off. The thumping music returns. Their last song of the night, “Still Life,” reminds us that “story is nothing / without context / propaganda by proxy / and nothing’s fair in love and war / now get better at love / and the better of war.” Honduh Daze’s lyrics expose societal issues, and they matter, but the rhythmic, musical emotions of the moment rule.
Dozens of dark blue balloons with Honda emblazoned in white cascade down on all of us in a balloon drop worthy of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. Weiner pleads desperately into her microphone, “Please, please, please! Two people have to buy Hondas to maintain our dealership contract.” Ball bursts to the front of the stage. He waves his arms, beseeching people with any credit to apply for a Honda loan. He rips paper sheets out of a three-ring notebook and flings them at the crowd. Sign up, he shouts. We shout back.
A second binder appears. On the front it says, “For those with no credit.” Ball bleats out a message: they really don’t need credit; send in this paperwork right away. Again, fans are pelted with sheets of Honduh sales agreements.
The large print promises a lifetime offer for a free Honduh Daze tattoo administered by Jamie Weiner. The fine print assures that she will learn how to tattoo real soon.
