Saturday, January 14, 2012
Tour Diary Europe Edition by Zack Kouns
I've accidentally eaten cat food on five continents (and counting) due to either mislabeling or drunken abandon (or an admixture of the two) and the cat food in France takes the cake! Dear friends, I recommend the Liver Pate on the French equivalent of Entertainer Crackers. 4 out of 5 Parisien Kitty Cats agree! Yours in meows and purrs, -Zack Kouns esq
Below is Zack's previous tour diary from Spring 2011 tour with Nightburger that somehow was never posted.
Beleaguered and harrowed by tenebrous and darksome dreams, I struck out in search of a meal in Lexington, KY. I was fortunate enough to discover a street vendor whose exotic fare included roasted human hearts and genitals, a meal I greedily consumed with a rare gusto found only in the pentinent sinner who has fasted for weeks and is only now able to enjoy his feast with peace in his wounded heart and atonement in his grieving spirit. The heart tasted like pain and fear. The genitals were garnished with poisonous weeds and tasted bitter and unfulfilled. With a full belly and a naturally inquisitive and restless mind, I saw and made avail of a brief opportunity to peer into the ghastly trailer when the proprietors left for a short break. Finding the back door unlocked, I discovered a grisly scene: black corpses decapitated and delicately carved up, heads on a spit with bulging eyes and knives between their teeth. Bringing the minimal extent of my anthropological insight to bear, I surveyed bone structure etc and decided that the cadavers were likely Haitian.
In a park in St Louis I was lucky enough to witness a touching familial scene: a young mother softly and amateurishly plays a large Ney flute which triggers a recondite response from her ginger headed toddler who, once the flute is sounded begins clawing at her mother's genitals in a desperate attempt to return to the security and warmth of her womb.
Walking toward a Mediterranean restaurant in Atlanta, I became ill and began violently heaving and vomiting. Two bearded passerbys watched and waited until I was finished, then immediately began greedily lapping up the mixture of bile, string cheese and gas station coffee off the filthy asphalt. Conclusion: there is a shortage of good restaurants in Atlanta?
In Chapel Hill, my dear friend Noah was killed in a tragic wildlife attack. While driving with his gal Christine he made a pit stop to use the restroom. When he returned, a clever and surreptitious lion had put on Christine's clothing and had taken her place in the front seat of the car. As they casually conversed, Noah quickly became aware that his traveling companion was in fact not his sweetheart. When the lion knew he was discovered he sprang into action and brutally dispatched his victim in a hail of teeth and claws and human blood. I was called in to identify the body and seeing my good pal lifeless in a freezing morgue was more burden than I care to shoulder, so I brought him forth from the watches of the darkest night and helped him to the car so we could make the Nashville show on time. Life everlasting. Everlasting Life.
In Richmond, a dozen or so crazed, Bacchic, drunken revelers (including this foolish adventurer) made a follied voyage to a canal like drainage ditch hidden in the dark, Virginian woods to continue a concert began at Gary Stevens' nearby house. By chance, we stumbled upon an esoteric ritual: several initiates in dark gray robes with the emblem of a pierced heart embroidered on the center of the chest and off white muslin hooded masks shrouding their faces were gathered in a circle in the dark reciting circular phrases composed in a lost tongue with a quiet and subtle intensity that shocked with it's propulsive, rhythmic tone. Once we were discovered, we were deemed hostile intruders and they fell upon us with knives in a frenzied, ecstatic trance and killed every last one of us. I awoke in the morning covered in blood and returned from the dark countries of the hereafter. Everlasting Life. Life Everlasting.
Coiling around Rocky's statued boxing glove outside of the Philadelphia Museum of Art was a serpent whose head was a small, blossoming azalea bush.
Exit 16B in Maryland on 68E: A question mark on the “Attractions” sign. On this harrowed earth, man is forever charged with uncovering and digesting the mysterious caprices of the Divine. Winding through a treacherous mountain pass, I discover a pride of lions falling upon an abandoned convenience store: drinking gasoline by the gallon, tearing open Jerky and mixed nut packages in search of bloody entrails; in search of their primeval savagery, lost to the tragic beasts unindigenously stranded in a foreign land by a recondite third party who often communicates with atrocity and farce.