This is part two.

Allow me to refresh your memory: I am an involuntary kidnapper. My three girlfriends (Noel, Tierra and Claire) and I drove to Chicago to eat a Dirtbomb/Detroit Cobra sandwich — or, should I say, a Detroit chili cheesedog. (Recall The Metro’s proximity to the Wrigleyville Dog hotdog restaurant.)

Things went wrong on Friday night. I was the unpaid babysitter and spent way too much money. We did, however, get to see the Detroit Cobras play a dance-inspiring show to a large crowd. So, my spirits were still high.

I’ve covered Saturday morning up to brunch at a vegan café in Wicker Park. I still ordered huevos rancheros, but usually I prefer to not have some paleface yuppie make them . . .

With breakfast down the hatch, we squeezed into my car. Patrick, the kidnapee, finally got in touch with the rest of his band, the Dirtbombs, by calling a Chicago thrift store called Strange Cargo. The owners of the store are originally from Detroit and are big fans of the Dirtbombs. Patrick knew the band had planned to visit the store the day after their show at The Metro.

While the rest of the Dirtbombs were browsing through Billy Idol sweatshirts and Masters of The Universe underoos, we were transporting Patrick to the Dairy State, first to Madison and then to Milwaukee.

As I mentioned in part one, the Dirtbombs had a show in Milwaukee at 7 p.m., and Patrick was stuck with us due to a phone-number miscommunication.

Patrick began to explain the mishap to bandmate Tom Potter.

“I’m in trouble,” Patrick told the carload after hanging up my cell phone. Tom had reminded Patrick that he, Patrick, had all of the money the promoter paid the band from last night’s show. We were on the highway out of town. Oops. No shopping spree today, boys.

Four coeds from Madison and one displaced Detroit Dirtbomb in a ’91 Honda Accord, aptly named the “li’l bitch,” made for one interesting dynamic. You could call it awkward. But really, after our adventures from the early morning, we were getting to know each other. Actually, this car ride was possibly the best time I had all weekend.

Many jokes were told — jokes that I just cannot publish. But take my word for it, Patrick has an encyclopedia of pirate, wild animal and Julio Iglesias-loving Siamese Twin jokes. Soundtrack this time included C.O.C.O., Sun Ra, Ludacris, N.E.R.D. and this amazing weird Norwegian band called Royksopp.

Once we returned to Madison, everyone took showers, threw on some new duds and got ready to squeeze back into the li’l bitch. This time, Tierra did not accompany us because she had to go to work.

The drive to Milwaukee was just as entertaining as the drive from Chicago but seemed really short in comparison. Patrick told me about Detroit. Everyone in bands in that city (which are starting to get a lot of attention in music press right now) seems to be friends.

And a lot of people overlap and collaborate. Patrick is in two bands, the Come-Ons and the Dirtbombs, and he conceptualized and took all of the photographs for the last White Stripes album, White Blood Cells. The Dirtbombs are in their 13th lineup, so I learned on a website. Don’t be confused — they have two drummers and two bass players, as well as one guitar player. And all of those mofos sing.

Jim Diamond, one bass player in the Dirtbombs, co-produced all of the Stripes’ albums.

Ben Blackwell, one of the band’s drummers, also works for a small Detroit record label called Italy Records. Italy put out a ton of singles (seven-inches) for bands such as the Soledad Brothers, Clone Defects, White Stripes and the Greenhorns.

Tom Potter plays fuzz bass in the Dirtbombs and is in another established act called Bantam Rooster. Tom told me later that his two bands share a booking agent. That reminds me that the Dirtbombs toured Europe with the Hives last summer, too.

I hate to talk about this band in terms of whom it’s screwed and whatnot, but this is a point of reference for the public. Okay?

I haven’t even talked about Mick Collins yet. In part one, I wrote about Mick as a punk/soul hero. Claire calls him underappreciated. Mick is the lead singer and plays guitar. He writes a lot of the lyrics and chose the soul songs they covered on their myriad seven-inches and recent album, Ultraglide in Black. You all know what that refers to . . . uh-huh.

And that brings me to Milwaukee.

The three of us girls-gone-wild dropped off the kidnapped drummer at the Cactus Club and went to a coffee shop to kill some time before the show. This time we knew we were on the list. Ten p.m. rolled around, and we returned to the venue.

The opening bands played, and then the main attraction stepped up on stage. We were seriously excited to finally see them play.

Tom introduced the rest of the band. You might call him their mouthpiece. He managed to piss off each of his bandmates by introducing Jim as “the Ron Jeremy of rock,” Ben as “the only reason we are better-looking than The Strokes,” Patrick as “the king of cunnilingus” and Mick as “the man whose cock is bigger than Jack White’s paycheck.” Actually, I think only Jim was pissed.

They started to play, and the audience, squeezed into this small venue, start to swing and bop and flail and thrash around to the pounding kick-drum and bass lines. You know, I don’t remember what songs they played, and that isn’t the point anyway. The point is that this band is some seriously rocking shit. My clothes were soaked through and through.

I think Mick broke a string, and the whole audience sighed, wiped their brows and awaited the next song.

Suddenly, Tom busts out a Detroit Booty House anthem: “What’s your name? Who you with? What’s your name? Who you with? Aaasss and titties. Aaasss and titties. Ass, ass, titties, titties. Aasss and titties.”

Then they break into one of their own little titties — I mean ditties. And the crowd goes wild.