31st
Evil Creatures Do Southeast Asia Part 3
I’m sorry this update is late. It’s been a real bitch finding a computer on this seemingly endless road trip through the backwaters of Myanmar. From roadside bars to underground fight clubs, from school dances to a boomer-ridden festival deep in the heart of the Bago Yuma forest, we’ve been playing the best shows of our lives to throbbing crowds of screaming fans. The locals are throwing money at us like it’s going out of style, and we’ve encountered numerous species of hallucinogenic flora previously unknown to Western society, rock-n-rollers or otherwise.
Despite all the kicks, though, or perhaps because of them, the drag is starting to set in. Our drummer and keyboardist, Vin and Van, are our only connections to the local culture. Though their wisdom and knowledge have constantly prevented us from eating gastronomically suspect things, catching VD, or offending local politicians and celebrities, they cannot prevent the slow destruction of our psyches.
The three of us are beginning to get on each other’s nerves. Cassidy has become critical of my recently acquired addiction to ketamine, and my habit of chewing iboga root before gigs. Warsame became belligerent with us after he caught and ate a giant mosquito, which had apparently recently fed on a victim of one of our acid orgies—he spent the next day in a cruel rage, smashing guitars and beating the owners of noodle shops and bars. I think Cass lost a crucial part of himself in Bangkok, when he saw the woman he had fallen in love with—a hooker with a heart of gold and a penis—die in the midst of a nasty gangbang.
We think it was a heart attack, from the coke we were shooting into her taint. Jesus god, her body was already getting stiff by the time everyone had finished their business on her makeup-caked face, locked for eternity in an epic grimace.
What have we done?
Our girlfriends have been reading this tour diary. We just received messages that they have decided to leave us, when we arrived at the hotel. There was talk of restraining orders…the Vietnamese porn starlet I had with me left for home when my uncontrollable weeping fit reached its second hour.
Indeed, this is a bleak time—I am uncertain of our ability to continue as I write this screed, looking out over downtown Mandalay from my thirteenth-floor suite.
But perhaps our confidence will be bolstered at tomorrow night’s show, when we are set to meet our mysterious benefactor’s next agent, a Russian nicknamed Rasputin who, it is said, was personally responsible for the destruction of an entire French army unit at the battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954. Vin and Van tell us he is wise in the ways of magic, an alchemist of great renown who will brew us a tincture of amazing power to restore the purity of our souls.
I pray that this is true—pray to the bizarre Jungle gods we now worship. They have brought us great wealth, artistic satisfaction, and gigantic mounds of insane pussy. Perhaps now, if I perform the right ritual sacrifices upon the pentacle I’ve prepared, they will bring us solace.
I hope I have enough stray dogs.
