Holy shit, folks! I’m home. Sorry for the dead air over here but I’ve been out in the land of cranberry, cress and brie sandwiches, uncircumcised dongs, hot beer, white guy tapdancing, chocolate eggs, leather pants, high fashion crocs, casual trains, water mit gas, stinky backpacker kids, cobblestone alleys full of used rubbers and insane driving for the past three weeks. It was a great trip, but it’s wonderful to be home.

For those of you who don’t know, the past month saw me and my traveling companion, Dan Andriano (of Alkaline Trio/Falcon/Emergency Room fame) hitting the vast cornfields of the UK and mainland Europe, bringing our unique take on troubadorism (rambling buffoonery and virtuosity, respectively) to every bustling city, sleepy hamlet and picturesque mountain village in the whole goddamned place, all via the miracle of rail travel. In eighteen days, we played eighteen shows, ate McDonalds 4 times, rented exactly one gigantic luxury car, slept together in the same bed 12 times, farted all over each other on an hourly basis, were unwittingly complicit in at least one suicide, taught one cab driver how to yell “you dumb dildos!” at people he doesn’t like and spent at least one night poledancing in a (probably) drug addled 80’s disco.  We made about a thousand friends and even annexed our buddy Sam Russo into the international touring incarnation of the Falcon (which is sort of like being the guy in charge of shoveling snow in Kenya, in that it’s an extremely coveted position). We ate things that were made of bread and we ate things that were made of cheese. At times, we ate bread and cheese combined. We washed these items (arbitrarily called ‘sandwiches,’ ‘baguettes’, ‘toasts’, or ‘panini’ [which, by the way, is plural already. I don’t want to bum everyone out by going on a DFW-esque grammar rant {if for no other reason than because I’m not much of a grammarian myself} but calling a selection of Panini ‘paninis’ is patently mongoloidian and offends me to the core of my delicate sensibilities]) down with any number of lovely, room temperature beers. On special occasions, we were even given ice, and overall we were met with nothing but unflagging courtesy and kindness, even (dare I say especially) in Paris, where a young man named Francois (no shit!) took us gently by the hand and showed us what it means to be men, and also how to navigate and exploit the Eurorail system with what seemed at the time to be the greatest of ease.

Were there misadventures? Certainly. I don’t want to give too much away, but  somebody died, some trains went to the wrong tracks and at least once we got on the right train going the wrong way. I found myself coated with a greasy sheen of sweat about 90% of the time and at a particularly dark moment I found myself looking, slackjawed into a picture window at about 350 chocolate covered labiae.

There were also great times, including the time three stoned assholes and their angry, sleep deprived, Tapout loving roommate told us that an empty, spiderweb encrusted room (without even a lightbulb) was “a nice place to sleep full of couches and bedding” and we foolishly believed them. There was the time that we ordered some food only to discover that it was only tangentially related to our idea of what ‘pizza’ or ‘a hamburger’ is (this was every single meal, every single day) and there were times when people got on stage, while Dan was playing to pose for photos mid-set. There were German compliments (“I like your music, but your shirt designs are terrible”) and French compliments (“are you in Alkaline Trio? No? Oh. [walks away]”) and even a moment in a skyscraper(!!!!) in London where I awoke to a Loaded (like Maxim, but English) model shining a light on my face, making the deliriously exhausted me believe that I was getting either A) abducted by aliens or B) arrested by a SWAT team, only to discover, after she and her friends finally, mercifully left me alone in my sheen of terror sweat, that my nuts were hanging out of my underwear.

I told so many jokes on stage that I’m pretty sure that next time I go out I’m not even bringing a guitar.  I drank more shots than I have in the whole last year combined. I saw Dan Andriano broken to the core of his being, only to be built up, stronger than he’s ever been before and finally, I spent three hundred dollars texting dickjokes to my friends back home.

All in all, the whole thing was a grand success and I’m gonna go through it day by day, here, at Bad Sandwich Chronicles starting tomorrow. Are you turds ready for some football?

Good. See you in hell.

It’s good to be back. Thanks for your patience.



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7 Responses to EURO TOUR JOURNAL: The Prologue

  1. acorn says:

    Ha that’s an awesome picture.

  2. mr meme says:

    Venez et vous vous amusez comme l’histoire se déroule avec de l’humeur, le drame et l’intrigue.

  3. Christophe says:

    Bummed I had to miss the show in Bruges… But mixing my own demos seemed a little more important. Come back soon to Euroland.

  4. thedollardrafts says:

    awesome… welcome home bk

  5. Austin says:

    It’s been so long since my morning dump gave any meaning to my life. Can’t tell you how happy I am to have new BSC updates while I’m debating whether to push out or pinch off.

  6. dustyfloors says:

    That picture’s great. This is going bring meaning to my work day again!!

  7. QueenBee says:

    Um. That photo simultaneously gives me a lady-boner and kills all possibilities of ever getting a lady-boner again.

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