Naturally, when you're from a country dominated by the output of an enormous southern behemoth that owned the last century, trips down in that direction assume an atmosphere of magic. Could I really be in the place that sent men to the moon, that totally won all those wars no fooling, that invented atomic bombs and lapdances and jazz and rock and roll and goatse?
Arriving in Memphis, then, was an eye-opening voyage into the heart of the culture of America. Walking down the street from some shitty record studio I looked up and saw what I had come to see:
That's right, an entire Hostess™/Wonder™ BAKERY, smelling of the sweet stuff that dominated my dreams and taunted me from television commercials and comic books for most of my life. I cursed and adored Twinkie the Kid™; Hostess™ products were not distributed in my province.
And now, in Memphis, home of legendary food, there it was in front of me.
I opened the door and went in. There were offices but no facilities for grateful consumers. Was this some kind of joke? They gave me strange looks and told me to leave. I was CRUSHED. I left, and cried.
As I looked up, puffy-eyed, I saw another vision across the street:
Yes, an entire store full of factory-fresh Hostess™ products, waiting for me. I was saved! Fuck the blues! Memphis has saved my life! Who invented that blues crap anyway?
Breakfast porn for those so inclined: