Wo ist der K Vier?

The goth chick in front of me smiles indulgently and points not more than 50 yards away while saying in perfectly NON-accented English.

"Right over THERE."

Hahaha. Yeah. Fuck you. Try getting from Kentucky to Ohio and see if all of that language proficiency helps you there.

But the club is totally swank, the pre-show food is swank, in fact the whole deal is so swank (and we finally got our OWN equipment) that we celebrate by breaking out some of the www.skullgame.com porn and dialing it in on the laptop while various stagehands and helpers wander in at the floating and inimitable sounds of fuck drifting through this old Nazi stronghold.

Perfect.

I mean on one level it's totally fucking SAD but that's what MAKES it perfect.

So we play. A man with long gray hair, a tube top and no shoes dances all night�the same mincing vaguely Axl Rose-esque hip-switching thing. The whole show. And as anyone who knows me can attest to I have this weird thing with feet and so his feet begin to move beyond the periphery of my consciousness to centerstage and suddenly the whole place starts to smell like feet, HIS feet and I am overwhelmed with the human dimension of horror and I can feel his feet drawing my eyes, inexorably, to the source of my present mania and then finally I give in mid-song and LOOK at his feet and they were as horrible as I had anticipated and I scream a la The Tell-Tale Heart and fall to the ground. Now as this doesn't at all deviate from the normal OXBOW flow of things no one in the audience is nonethewiser, however, it takes a whole carafe of red wine post-show to shake his feet and I am only slightly mollified by the fact that we sold (minus those fucking thieving Germans who stole our shit without paying for it) 200 Euros worth of our coffee coasters, er, CDs.