September 25 - L'Emile Vache, Metz France

We are showing signs of wear.  I have the sniffles.  Greg’s sleep-deprivation driving is depriving the rest of us of sleep.  Mike has the sniffles. The wives remain silent, trapped in the middle seats.  Alan broke his toe on a Dutch bathroom.  He is walking with a limp now. We all look like post-housecleaning Wilma Flintstones.

For some reason, The Netherlands has crazy traffic on its rural bi-ways.  At least there are pretty cows and hot air balloons and car accidents to look at while you wait.  We drove through Luxembourg and it is that.

Metz is a great town.  Its people are warm and kind, and come with a sense of humor.  Across the street from L’Emile Vache is a castle with a river that flows underneath it.  You can walk through the castle.  You can run drunk through the castle in a dress if you’d like.  If you’re really stupid you can invincibly climb over the railings in your dress and realize it’s a 40-foot drop to delicious looking river below.  And you should get back to the club.

Ahhh, a proper club.  With a bar and food and ordinary townsfolk.  It was a free show and the turnout was a Metz mish mash of hipsters, straights, and gays.  We played with an Olympia band from Germany called Blockshot.  The singer was a female Mark Mothersbaugh, her dancing robotic and angular.  Very honest and funny and very German.

“This song is about Metz and how it kills itself.”

“When your heart breaks it creates more surface area.”

The keyboard player pounded his synthesizer in a way that made Mike miss John’s boxing glove flourishes with The Bitter Tears.  John!

We changed in the kitchen.  Tonight was my drunk show.  Both “Inbred Kings” and “The Companion” open without drums.  I used that time to get more beer.  The bartender put some liquor in my beer and I don’t know why I drank it. 

The rest of the night is a blur.  A cute French brunette talked to me while I was still wearing my nightie and we exchanged names on slips of paper.  I forgot that I had blue and yellow make up all over my face when I stumbled into a mellow tapas bar.  The slow dancing couples weren’t into my jaundiced tranny trip and I was told there were no more tapas.  Then some aggressive, happy men helped us load the van and initiated the topic of blow jobs.  They goofed up the windshield wipers and I stage dived into the hood of the van.  Greg thought this was really cool.

Mike and I walked the deserted streets of Metz until we found a late night doner kabob place.  The doner kabob continues its reign as my favorite late night drunk food.  The US needs doner, the enlightened man’s gyro.  Hop to it, Obama.

Hey!  L’Emile Vache put us up in a hotel!  With a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!!  My broken camera and drunken idiocy cannot erase from my mind the kindness and loveliness of Metz.  Suck it, Toulouse!