I met drummer Bill Rieflin this way after a Chris Connelly show. (Though technically, this was when I was still under Trent's tutorship and was not spinning that night.) It was a brief conversation:

"Hi, I'm Bill. What's your name?"
"Phil."
"Ahh, rhymes with Bill."

A satisfied smile spread across his face, he nodded, then meandered away. Years later in Seattle I was in the Target next to my apartment and as my wife and I were getting ready to leave I spotted him checking out some pants. I debated going up to him as I certainly wouldn't expect him to remember. In the end I circled back and had yet another odd conversation with him; it was longer and I don't recall the exact details:

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to disturb you... but do you happen to be a drummer?"
Eyeing me suspiciously, "I have on occasion played the drums, yes."
"Is your name, Bill?"
Eyeing me more suspiciously with a cocked eyebrow, "I have been known by that name."

I recounted our first meeting, to which he responded that it had been a rather demoralizing tour. I expressed my admiration of his work and thanked him for his time.

Those Nights in Clubs and Smoke

Spurred by an old Sisters of Mercy song stuck in my head, I start having flashbacks of those ancient days when I actually went outside my home on a regular basis to things like "clubs" and "bars". Anyone who knows me well enough is aware that I used to be a gothic/industrial club DJ back in Phoenix. This was before the rash of people who thought they were DJs simply because they had a bunch of MP3s that they could cobble together as a playlist. No, I was of the legitimate variety with thousands of dollars buried in a CD and vinyl collection that ended up being pawned off during the darkest days of the dot-com bust and my various bouts of unemployment. I had learned from the previous house DJ of The Nile in Phoenix; whom I took over for, how to string songs together as an undulating wave of tempo and style. Anyone who happened to enjoy what I did can credit Trent for teaching me well.

Before and during my time as a player of other people's music, I went to a lot of small concerts and club shows. As I sit here now I can see brief glimpses of most of them. Unscrewing the light bulb above our booth so our clove cigarettes gave off a more dramatic visual effect from the candle on the table while we watched some godawful opening act who wore nothing but saran wrap crooned about shit and waved around a baby doll head on a stick. That night we were there to see The Wake "Tall tales of death and horror... exotic witches brew".

Another night, trying to impress the unbelievably hot goth girl by taking her to see Eva O Halo Experience with the very first tour outside Colorado by opening act Seraphim Shock (before he went all garters and nylons). (I'm re-living some of that night at the moment by spinning through 'Angel of Death'... "Take me please and flyyy awaaaay".) You know, I think I still have that 4 track demo tape by Seraphim Shock buried here somewhere. It was signed and everything. I was like, cool and stuff.

The Electric Hellfire Club opened for Christian Death and they were awful. Death themselves weren't that great, but they had a slickly produced stage act. Old-schoolers will recognize that as the Valor era and spit a curse appropriately. Though, I can't help some fondness for 'Sick of Love' and 'Church of No Return'.

En Esch of KMFDM was really friendly, but Sascha was kind of a dick. Chemlab and Sister Machine Gun opened and a group of us hung out with two of the Sister guys after the show. We played pinball because they were really into pinball. Then we went to a adult store because they were really into porn. I mean they were really into it. They were poring through domestic and imported porno mags the way I scanned through every single disc at Stinkweeds; my favorite local independent music store. Then Denny's and a strong suggestion to limit our egg consumption. Weird night. The first time I had seen KMFDM, I'm pretty sure someone dosed the big water cooler and I had my first preview of what an acid experience would be.

The opening act for Pigface was so loud that my headache lasted for days. I was young and impervious to ear damage of course. We all hoisted a guy over our heads until the asshole security guards hauled him down to the floor by his neck and his boot impacted with my forehead. Found out later that was a guy I had known from the local BBS's, but had never met. ( Hi, Jay). After security formed a wall at the front of the stage, we engaged in battle. The crowd surged forward to crush them into oblivion and they pushed back. This ebb and flow lasted the remainder of the show and during one song, En Esch gripped my hand and we pulled back and forth as he sang. I got to say "Hi" to Ogre of Skinny Puppy. As my old friend Kevin Gabler and I made our way back to the car, I was bruised, covered in a thick, filmy layer of sweat and cigarette smoke, and had a massive, throbbing pain permeating my skull meat. It was one of the best nights of my life.

A lot of those were best nights of my life. In those moments where I'm not a misanthropic curmudgeon, I miss those moments the most. In my early twenties with little responsibility, no direction, and the ability to stay awake for up to 36 hours at a time. Packing into various bars that hadn't known what exactly it was they had gotten themselves into by booking acts they didn't really understand. Though I'm sure they were thankful that goths were often content to sit back and feign disinterest as opposed to the average drunken machismo they might face for the typical college band. Filling my truck with up to 6 cases of CDs, my mixer and other gear, and heading deep into Mesa to set up at the dirty little club we all adored. Occasionally catching the end of some concert I had little interest in, or meeting bands back stage as they were getting ready to leave while I was waiting to set up.*

I also took that hot goth girl to see a special preview of 'The Crow' where the band Machines of Loving Grace sat 2 rows behind us. Then there was the time Kevin and I took her to hang out at Ken Jackson's place and we watched my copy of Skinny Puppy's 'Ain't It Dead Yet?' on video. I wish I could remember her name.

*Detail fragment

Sickened

Feeling a little sick at the moment. I'm riding the bus home from work, happily tapping my fingers to the rhythm of Information Society's cover of Numan's "Are Friends Electric?" And staring blankly out the window. Suddenly in my field of vision are a couple of guys standing at a stop on the other side of the street. The one facing my direction has his shirt clutched in hand, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. In the peripheral of my immediately focused vision are a variety of tattoos, but I can't make out their detail. The majority of my attention is drawn to his bulging, pale white belly... upon which is etched a giant fucking swastika. Not the proper religious symbol from the East. I have never claimed to be a pacifist, but I understand the wisdom and greatly admire those who practice. It is my failing in this regard when I desperately want to beat the people that represent the grisly filth of Nazism and hate to an unrecognizable pulp. I become guilty of my own hatred. I try to avoid thinking that it's justified in the face of some asshole with a swastika, but it's difficult.

Marketing.

Have you seen those ads for Miracle Whip? A while ago, it was the 20-something hipsters being rowdy and enjoying Miracle Whip. Now it's a newly wed couple arguing over whether their children will eat mayo or Miracle Whip.

I think I may have the next logical step for their advertising campaign. Keep in mind I have no idea how to actually write a script. I'm totally faking this.

INT: Household kitchen. Boring, grey decor featuring a boring, disinterested man.

CENTER [3/4 SHOT]: Man slowly and lifelessly spreads generic brand mayo on warm white bread that tears under the butter knife.

VO: [Dull as can be] It puts the mayo on the sandwich.

CUT TO BLACK

[PARTY MUSIC THUMPING. SOUNDS OF PEOPLE EXCITED, HAVING RAUCOUS FUN]

CUT TO PARTY SCENE

INT: Dozens of people are partying in a large, vibrantly decorated house.

FOREGROUND: A young, attractive man covered in a light sheen of glitter spreads Miracle Whip on fresh white bread. He is whipping his head to the beat enthusiasticly.

CLOSE-UP [HEADSHOT]: An attractive woman with a variety of facial piercing bites heartily into a white bread sandwich that appears to have only Miracle Whip as a filling. Miracle Whip gushes from the edges of the sandwich.

CENTER [3/4 SHOT]: Another attractive woman with bright blonde hair and a bountiful bosom in a bright red tank top is dancing. She pulls a squeeze bottle of Miracle Whip up from below camera frame and points it toward her chest. Miracle Whip erupts from the bottle as she squeezes copious amounts onto her face, neck, and chest.

VO [EXCITED]: Miracle Whip. This is not your parents' sandwich topping.

CUT TO PREVIOUS SCENE WITH MAYO MAN.

CLOSE-UP [HEADSHOT]: (Man sighs heavily).

CUT TO PARTY SCENE

FOREGROUND: An attractive couple slips into a bathroom with a plate of sandwich ingredients and a jar of Miracle Whip. They are giggling. One suspects they are about to do something nasty.

CUT TO BATHROOM INTERIOR [MID ANGLE FROM MIRROR CUTAWAY]: Disheveled, but mostly clothed, the woman is bent over the counter moaning in pleasure. The man stands behind her, thrusting, and making a sandwich on her naked back.

CLOSE-UP: Miracle Whip being spread on white bread atop a live, writhing, human table.

VO: Miracle Whip. Mmm, yeah... Miracle Whip.

CUT TO PREVIOUS PARTY SCENE: The party has escalated to a chaotic orgy. Most party goers are in various states of undress. There is a donkey in the background. Everyone has a jar or bottle of Miracle Whip in hand.

OVERHEAD [FULL SHOT]: The crowd raises their containers of Miracle Whip towards the camera.

CROWD [YELLING]: MIRACLE WHIP!!

CUT TO PRODUCT CLOSE-UP. OVERLAY PRODUCT LOGO.

END.

One shot, one kill.

With a look of grim determination on his face, Billy sat at the back of the bus steadfastly scanning the area for conflict. (I think I'll call him Billy... he looked like a "Billy") Billy appeared too young to have put in time with the Army, no wait, the Marines. Yeah, the Marines are cooler. Anyhow, too young to have done any kind of tour in the Marines, but don't say that to his face.

Billy looked tough. He looked like the kind of tough you read about in those journals. You know the ones I'm talking about; those American medical journals that discuss in great detail the case studies on the level of obesity among the average American. Billy sat squarely; no... roundly, into that 60lbs overweight category. Sure, he could fit inside a good hide, but maybe not one up in a tree. He could do a crawl towards a firing position, but the enemy might wonder why that hill kept getting closer. Just don't say that to his face.

Ready for any eventuality, Billy had only the best tools at his disposal. Strapped to his belt were no less than 4 of the most important tools someone in his capacity as a warrior would need. A 5 inch anodized aluminium LED flashlight. It could have been a MAG light, but probably not because those are more expensive. And not one of those rail mount tactical lights either, those are still a bit pricey. Next to that, his cell phone. One of those flip models in a little plastic carrying case to keep it secure when the shit hits the fan and everything goes F.U.B.A.R. On the other side of the light, a small nylon pouch with a velcro closure. You couldn't tell what was inside and that was the way he liked it. The element of surprise. You would be surprised that anything useful was in there. There was something else on the right hip, but it was obscured by his pudginess. You had better believe it was something important and useful though. He was prepared. When things went down, he would be ready. Ready to explode in a fiery ball of manufactured bravado that would fizzle into a squishy ball of impotence. Just don't say that to his face.

He had one if those mustaches. Not the Magnum P.I. kind, but the type you usually see on mall security guards.

Billy wore a shirt that explained it all. It was all official looking and everything. It had some leafy looking things around the edge, like the kind you see on official documents and stuff. Top secret documents. Yeah, like top secret kill orders for a target behind enemy lines. In the middle, a shrouded figure. A lone wolf. Death from afar. The sniper. Seen only in silhouette, but clearly outlined as a ghillie suit. The scope with its crosshairs would stare deep into your psyche. Nevermind that you shouldn't be able to see the scope, that was for like, effect and shit. Finally the statement, bold and powerful striking fear into the hearts of regular men. One shot, one kill. This was the final straw in Billy's backwoods shack of badass. Combined with all the other elements, this iss how you know that Billy is the kind of person with whom not to fuck... with, who... whom... yeah, don't fuck with Billy or Billy will fuck you up. Nevermind that all of this is just a front for an insecure, scared little boy that got picked on in school who will crumple as soon as things get too real. A fake macho facade that will get eaten by termites of fear at the first sign of real trouble. Billy would likely react the same way as the rest of us. No more brave or special than any other of the 13 people on the bus with him, including me. Just don't say that to his face.

Location : 22071-22299 Pacific Hwy, Edmonds, WA 98026,

Ye Olde HTC Dream, aka G1

My slightly less older phone, it is dead to me now as well.

Star Trek and X-Men

Of all the ridiculous crossovers... this one gobsmacks me the most.

Ridiculous Hummer

Tiny penis-mobile.

The Maw

Testing updated Pixelpipe app.