"We are Motörhead and we play rock & roll"

Motörhead
with Reverend Horton Heat and Nashville Pussy
The Pageant
St. Louis, MO
9/23/09

1. Iron Fist

2. Stay Clean

3. Be My Baby

4. Rock Out

5. Metropolis

6. Over The Top

7. One Night Stand

8. I Got Mine

9. The Thousand Names of God

10. Another Perfect Day

11. In The Name of Tragedy

12. Jus Cos You Got The Power

13. Going To Brazil

14. Killed By Death

15. Bomber

-----------------

16. Whorehouse Blues

17. Ace of Spades

18. Overkill

Archives...a good place for a Stick Up

The rain reminds me of you
Your defiance to walk into it all without an umbrella
Somehow, it’s becoming on you
Don’t ask me to describe it, just agree with me on this one
Some people can get away with it and look none the worse for wear
Others are crumbled to a grimy reside in the puddles





The grating sound of a leaf blower cuts through everything and slices into what’s left of my inner peace. Why don’t you take that thing, shove it up your ass, and blow your mind. Can’t we all just get along? Fuck you.




Beat me over the head with your foam-covered bat
Beat me senseless until I fall to the floor in a fit of laughter
Until the blood flows like a high pressure washer and the body works overtime to keep up
Please excuse the spittle and traces of blood on the foam
Consider it a token of my appreciation
You may have to get it dry cleaned so send me the bill
I’m good for it
I promise
I’ll return the favor when the time is right
You’ll see
I’m good for it, I tell you
When I strike it rich, there will be a foam-covered bat for each day of the week
My calendar will fill immediately but there’s always time for you




I want to evolve until it feels like everything is moving backwards
Until the numbers become one mass teetering on the brink of zero
Tumbling through the fractions in between
Grab a number and take your seat
The good times are set to roll
They’ll roll over you like a turbocharged steamroller, if you’re not careful




Chisel a hole into the foundation
Spray paint your name across the frame
Place your personal agenda on a flyer and let the sun bake it on permanently




I’ve got more troubles than I’d like to admit
The kind that kill sunshine in the middle of the night
Burn down all traces of myself to the ground
Vulnerable to my own scrutiny and guilty in the eyes of my inner peers




I've always been fascinated with dictionaries and who makes up the crap within their covers. Now I know. I walked into the workplace and coined a phrase myself. BOOM! Right on the spot.

The new word/phrase for the English language is "Toiletesque." To use it in a sentence, "The Longfellow building smells rather toiletesque today." And it does. It’s sort of a mix between a toilet and sauerkraut.




I am the F-word.




Page after page of unparalleled horror
Reactions run across the spectrum
Spilling into every crevass and covering every speck of available space
I feel ashamed to be of the same species




Shit happens and hope floats.




Why is the alphabet in that particular order? Who decided that A ranks higher than V or even the taildragger of the bunch, Z. Does A have better PR people or does Z just not give a shit? Maybe Z was taking a pee when the order was being decided and due to the tardiness, the alphabeticians threw it at the ass end of the alphabetic conga line as punishment. Once a few kids learned the song, the writing was on the wall and it happened to be written in many a classroom for all to see. We can probably blame the songwriters of the Alphabet Song for this bullshit.

Most things in life progress, change, and often grow larger. Perhaps we could use some more letters in the alphabet. I don’t think we have enough squiggly letters. How about a new letter that adds a few more kinks and curves and makes a cursive E look positively silly. On the other side of the coin, do we even need 26 letters at our disposal? I might be willing to give up on a few just to simplify life a tad.

quote of the day

"Kanye is my co-pilot."

silence is golden

The only thing coming out of your mouth that makes sense is the silence between your words.

Still airing out the archives...

Why is it that every time someone is about to take a photograph they want the subject to smile? Why not a really intense grimace like someone who happens to be passing a kidney stone the size of Vermont? How about an expression of deep sadness or even a homicidal glare? No, we get stuck with the smile. One facial expression in the Crayola 64 pack of expressions. It seems like we are only presenting one facet of the human diamond. I figure even those that process film must be really sick of all the faked smiles and lame poses. If for no other reason, we should rework our photographic poses and expressions to break up the monotony for those fine folks. I am guessing this is the precedent set down from ancient portraits and we get the smiles. Thank you, Mona Lisa, thank you.




Of all the cowboys in history, Twinkie the Kid is obviously the most ruthless of the bunch. You don’t want to piss that bastard off. He’s a golden, cream-filled timebomb ready to go off as only a snack cake desperado can go off. It’s not a pretty sight, so avoid him at all costs.




A Toilet By Another Name Is Still A Toilet

It’s amazing that something as relatively simple as a toilet can be so complex in the context of society. For instance, the home version of the toilet is called the “bathroom.” The land-locked, grounded public version is called a “rest room.” Take the same public toilet and put it 30,000 feet in the air or on the high seas and it’s called a lavatory. It can get incredibly complicated and I suppose if anything is going to get utterly confusing, it might as well be a toilet. The toilet has done and continues to do the dirty job and thus deserves the glory. All hail the toilet. We salute you.

The term “bathroom” seems a little vague considering all that goes on in said location. It implies that it is simply a place to bathe and leaves out the awesome presence of the toilet. I’m sure that it could possibly give the sensitive and emotionally fragile toilet some kind of inferiority complex. But dammit, the toilet is in the bathroom and let it roar.

The next on the agenda is the misleading “rest room.” This is the toilet available for mass public consumption in such luxurious locations like elementary schools, shopping malls, flea markets, football stadiums and numerous other nifty locations. I will never understand the rationale behind the decision to name these franchises of human elimination a “rest room”, because I personally find no rest or relaxation in them. I’m too busy trying to open doors with my feet like Pele. I end up getting quite a workout in these places. I’d like to think that I invented the concept of the foot flush. However, I’d be willing to bet that someone else kicked the flusher before I even entered the scene.

If “rest room” is a swirling stream of confusion, then I won’t even try to figure out “lavatory.” I’ve never experienced the high seas variation, but I have taken to the friendly skies and I hear they have lavatories on airplanes. I will confess that I’ve never had the guts to use what I will call the “aerial pisser.” In my whacked out reasoning, I figure the mere procedure of flushing is somehow diverting precious energy from the engine. I would hate to be responsible for sending a plane full of people into the ground at a high rate of speed simply because I didn’t visit the ground-attached facilities, or rest room, back at the airport. In fact, there was a time when I nearly had to use the air sickness bag because I didn’t want to use the aerial pisser. By the time that I worked up the nerve to visit the 30,000 feet facilities, the captain put on the “Do not leave for seat for anything” sign and we proceeded to hit some gnarly turbulence. I will add that I did not have an aerial accident, but when we landed, I was hauling it through the airport like a pre-double homicide O.J. Simpson in his prime. True story.

This leaves one more on the list. Yes, the bastard son of the toilet—the porta-john. I was completely paralyzed with fear when it came to the concept of the porta-john. For many years, I evaded them for any acceptable eliminatory substitute. Be it a tree, a desolate stretch of multi-lane highway or anywhere conjured up by a lukewarm creative mind. But as I once learned at a music festival in downtown Nashville, desperate times call for a place to urinate. It was either sink beneath my prima donna levels of existence or walk across Hell’s half acre in heavy traffic back to the hotel. Laziness beat out fear that day and I opted for the porta-john. Other than fearing that I’d drop my possessions into the abyss, it wasn’t an entirely terrible experience. Actually, it was inspiring as a human being to face the fictitious fear and conquer it. Now I wish all toilets had the charm and charisma of the porta-john.

Don’t even get me started on Depends undergarments.




May 2, 4:45am

As Saturday gives way to Sunday, I sit in the dark listening to Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind at a low volume so the ghost of Saturday won’t be offended. It all amplifies the lonely melancholia that seeps into the bones of the early morning hours. The light of day would chase away the spirits and the routine would mute out the sadness until night falls. Saving it for times like this when I feel like the only person on Earth. I can’t reach out to touch you or call to you. I can only lie here feeling tragic as the music plays me to sleep.




The canine world will be disappointed to learn that perversion is now man’s best friend.

the unforgiving wheel

Sometimes, I feel just like a gerbil running around and around on a wheel. The eternal carousel that keeps me running, insensitive to my desires. The kind of endless nonsense that entertains and intrigues the mindless. These are the very people that laugh themselves hysterically at the most mundane of television sitcoms.

The wheel is thoroughly unforgiving like a traveling torture device that remains in place. It is like a vehicle bogged down in the mud or a swimmer fighting the tide. My mind tries to convince me that I'm moving forward and progressing, but the heart is sinking because it knows that it is truly stagnant.

The wheel becomes even more incarcerating than the cage that engulfs it. Many victories must be obtained before freedom can be achieved.

More Honky? You damn right.

It’s nothing more than a middle finger uplifted outside a driver’s side window. That’s not exactly a declaration of war or even an insult to your manhood. It’s simply a criticism of your judgment and your driving skills. Maybe even bridging the gap into your very existence. It’s official. The verdict is in. You suck.




You learned your attitude from a Snoop Dogg video. It’s silly for a 13-year old small-town white boy from Kentucky to act like a pimp. You know more about pimples than pimping. Until you get old enough to drive or Cadillac makes a bicycle, it’s time to take a long look at your style, my friend. Besides, you can’t very well wear a pimp-style hat with your head up your ass and you definitely can’t drive a Cadillac that way. If nothing else, it makes it incredibly difficult to buckle your seatbelt. It’s all about the seatbelt, you know.




Run Like Hell Or Walk Like A (Dead) Egyptian

Why is it that everyone wants to jog seems to do it on roads with virtually no shoulder or space to share? This has always been a mystery to me. As soon as the weather gets borderline pleasant, the daredevils take to the roads and get their exercise mojo working.

If someone wants to exercise, I am all for it. It's a good habit to start, but it's a bad habit to do your good habit where there is a good chance of getting your gravy licked by a SUV doing 45 mph. "I like to run to keep in shape." Well, that's fine, but you're probably going to get a little flabby when you recovering in a body cast at the local hospital.

Over the years, I've had to come to a complete stop to avoid oncoming traffic and the jogging jackass numerous times. That has become a thing of the past, because I am an asshole. For those that don't believe it, the verdict is in and the jury says that yes, I am an asshole. It's official.

So you may be asking yourself "What has changed? You can't just run over joggers." Unfortunately no, I can't do that and that's a damn shame. It is. But I do have options and they can be quite entertaining. I figure that life is short and it's important to get all the entertainment possible before buying the farm. I will provide a few of my own ideas and you can no doubt add your own to your repertoire.

If you find yourself faced with oncoming traffic and a jogger in your lane that refuses to break pace or take the ditch, I say give them the close shave treatment. All you have to do is get your side mirrors as close as humanly possible to the jogger and they should take the hint that you mean business. If this idea somehow damages your vehicle, it gives you the opportunity to get your own exercise by beating the person like a rented mule.

If the running person is going in the same direction as your vehicle (also known as "Going my way, Sailor"), why not roll up right behind them and lay on the horn? Part of exercise is elevating the heart rate and nothing shoots the heart rate through the roof like a loud, unexpected noise behind you. While most standard automotive horns will work nicely, it's always nice to provide a tune like the General Lee's "Dixie" horn. You can even give them motivation and incentive to continue running by riding directly behind them and revving the engine. They may have the pain of a thousand ice picks in their side, but I bet they will keep running to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

Sure, these ideas may seem just a little mean-spirited and I am perfectly okay with that. However, sometimes it is good to be kind and compassionate. It may come as a shock to some people, but I can be kind and yes, I can even be compassionate. Since exercise tends to make the body sweat and get funky, I like to help out. When you see Joe Jogger sweating like a New York waiter, drive beside him and then clean your windshield. The wayward spray should offer him a nice blast of liquid refreshment and take off a layer or two of sweaty funk. Feel free to add to the goodwill by offering some encouragement like a nice thumb's up and a smile before going on your way. I'll bet the person will offer their own gesture to show their gratitude.

To those that may think these ideas are a bit extreme, I say maybe so. However, paved roads were built and maintained for automobiles. There are plenty of available areas that are much safer for walking and running, such as parks, golf courses, sidewalks, treadmills, etc. Chances are good that you won't see me driving my truck in these places, but if you keep running on my roads, asshole, that may soon change.

Next topic: People who insist on moving hellacious farm machinery on narrow roads during times of heavy traffic.




I gave up devil worship for Lent.



Tonight has me feeling like I’ve been beaten for days on end by an angry, tire tool-toting mob. This event occurred after being mauled by a pack of disgruntled grizzly bears and being pelted by a quarry of boulders. Yes, it was a rough day and the repercussions and effects are lingering. The prior days are stacked and warehoused within my bones. To say that they add up is a vast understatement. I’ve spent so much time waiting for something better to come along and it has become obvious that better times were detained at the border. At this very moment, they are probably bending over in a dimly-lit room waiting for the inevitable cavity search. By the time this takes place, the better times are bruised, violated, and generally lacking a sense of humor. This is the condition that they arrive in my life—walking a pained, bow-legged walk with a four pack a day nicotine habit and absolutely no trace of positivity in sight. Such is life. It is what you make it and I’d like to make it out alive without a cavity search.




Late at night, you’re all that’s on my mind. I’ve spent the day trying to figure you out, trying to make sense of it all and somehow retain a trace of dignity. Forget sanity, it doesn’t even fit into the same frame without throwing off the composition.




We can send humans into space and back, transmit data across the world instantaneously, offer hundreds of channels of television programming (although 99% of it is basically shit) and yet we cannot invent cough syrup that doesn’t taste like a combination of paint thinner and something that dropped out of a raccoon’s ass. Perhaps the intent is to concoct a mixture that is so nasty that the cough immediately wants to go to a more peaceful environment.

Quote of the Day.

The house of cards is inching closer to 52 pick-up.


(2nd place: Sally sold seashells by the seashore...because she lost her ass in the stock market.)

extremely honky...gruff yet lovable

That’s not to say there’s no hope. But a homeless man has better chances of hooking up with a super model than we have of getting out alive.




What’s the point of carrying on when you know the outcome? There is no intense drama, no big surprise. This is it, chief. As good as it gets and that’s not saying a lot. There’s no hidden subtext or symbolism to carry you through the lean months. It’s do or die and the do is getting increasingly difficult. Put on your walking shoes and go where the wind takes you.




I draw imaginary lines along my wrists to pinpoint my exit. Tiny lines that cut across the grain within and go against all that we live for. These lines mark the threshold of freedom like an emotional border between black and white, here and there. For something so seemingly opposite, there is no true difference. One is as good as the other when you’ve already left the building. Call it what you like and make yourself happy. I’m sure that some so-called expert will have an explanation from a nicely bound book with faux leather cover and gold lettering. It’s amazing that so much time, effort, and detail goes into something so incredibly insignificant and yet we can’t cure what ails us. As long as the outer shell looks okay, fuck the rest.




From a bottle of Diet Rite:

WARNING!Contents under pressure. Cap may blow off causing eye or other serious injury. Point away from face and people, especially while opening.

I feel a lot like that bottle today.




It is what it is, but what the fuck is it?




The older she gets the more Christina Ricci looks like a space alien. She went from goth chick vampire girl to ET in a matter of like five years.




Has anyone ever actually shot a telephone due to persistent ringing? Maybe I can be the first. I can only hope that I time it just right so that the bullet hits the phone right as a telemarketer calls.




Fill in the blanks with what you want me to say. Shape my empty expression with the way you want me to look and tell me how I should feel. Happy?




Lower your expectations to the lowest possible level so that any outcome seems like a winning lottery ticket.

With my winning ticket, the world would never hear from me again and this rambling bullshit that you’re reading right now would end in mid-sentence. There would be a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa than finding me. My expectations are at rock bottom and things still seem like shit. I guess it’s time to go subterranean.




I want transcriptions of a thousand obscene phone calls written across the sky in a font similar to Times New Roman. I want metal objects thrown through panes of glass and entire cities to scream at top volume and see how far the noise carries. It could very well make the tree that fell in the forest that no one was around to hear feel self-conscious. I’m okay with that. I’m sure that the woodland creatures that lived in or on that tree heard it, but they were too shaken up from the concussion to comment at the time. I bet they’re pretty pissed off about it now. I want to stage a new Hands Across America event with every American, legal or otherwise, flipping obscene hand gestures towards Canada. This would show our gratitude for sending us Mike Myers, Celine Dion, Paul Schaffer, and Canadian musical powerhouse, Loverboy. The Canadians can stage their own event to thank us for the countless rappers and boy bands that we’ve exported and thus infected the world. I don’t know of many Canadian rappers, but then again, I cling to the idea that the shit never existed in the first place. American, Canadian, Australian…shit is shit, no matter the geographic location.




Bad decisions and bad tattoos linger like tear gas.




Martha Stewart nailed for whatever it is that she was nailed for. I envision angry mobs of interior decorators, gays, and fans of that kind of thing taking to the streets to rip down wallpaper and anything mauve. I bet it would be an interesting sight, if not a Kodak moment.




I see your cities of dust
Nothing was lost and there’s nothing to win
Rats ruling the cages of rust
While everything else rots in a pool of sin




I’d sell my own ass if it wasn’t attached
Fairly low mileage but it’s dented and scratched




There’s a fine line between love and hate.
I’m straddling the fence on the issue when it comes to you.




In my dream, I never existed
My existence is in the dream
My existence is the dream itself
This life disappears with the dawn
The moment I open my eyes, I am no longer there




You talk like you have something to say
I listen like I care
If it gets any less interesting, we’ll be in trouble
I’ll simply stare blankly until it happens




If this is as good as it gets, then we’re fucked. This isn’t a beer commercial and we’re not in Kansas anymore. We were never there to begin with, so that should come as no big surprise. If you’re waiting for the beer to arrive, then you’re in the wrong place, champ. This room is strictly non-alcoholic. Although these floor tiles are mildly intoxicating, if not nauseating. The artwork hanging on the wall isn’t much better, but that’s beside the point. I’m sure that it makes sense to someone. Unfortunately, I am not that person. It looks like Walt Disney puked on canvas. If I stared at it long enough, I’m inclined to think that I might do the same thing.

Never mind the tonk, here's the Honky

night time
nothing more than crickets chirping
and the sound of dew forming on the grass
my mind is equally vacant and tranquil
slowly giving in to the night
darkness engulfs me
in the visual silence
my mind fills in the blanks around me
to soften the harshness of life
to the point of nothingness




My eyes are bloodshot from insomnia. The night was not kind to me and the morning was a brutal attack on my sleep. I was beaten into motion to greet the day and to say that I was reluctant would be a major understatement. The combination of my green eyes and the bloodshot condition is rather festive and borderline Christmas-y. I’m guessing the next logical step is to make some kind of glasses out of Christmas wreaths or a giant Christmas wreath sombrero. Classy enough to be worn at formal shindigs and informal enough to be worn at convenience stores without drawing too many worried stares from employees and patrons alike.




For my money, there are very few, if any, diseases with a name as cool as scurvy. It seems to float on the air like a helium-filled balloon. I can just imagine a hipper-than-thou beatnik pirate saying “Man, that scurvy is groovy.” This chap would be decked out in his bell-bottom pirate pants, a tie-dyed peace symbol on the eye patch, and a pirate ship built by Volkswagen. Of course, the ship has to have the obligatory Jerry Garcia sticker and maybe a line of the dancing Grateful Dead bears. A boat like that is probably what pissed off the shark in Jaws. If I was a shark, a giant killer whale, or even the Loch Ness Monster, I wouldn’t want an ugly ass boat like that sailing overhead in my ocean. I’d be raising some underwater hell to beat the band.

While scurvy sounds groovy, herpes has a happy sound to it…until you get it. Then it’s your ass, well, maybe not exactly the ass. But you must admit, herpes has a much perkier sound to it than syphilis.

There are others that don’t sound happy at all. As a diabetic, it’s a little disheartening to have a disease with both “die” and “beat” in the pronunciation. The fact that they moved “die” to the front of the choo-choo sucks, but it gives diabetics an edge and makes them meaner than the average bear.




I’m in constant amazement that some people actually give a flying fuck about the on-again/off-again love life of Ben and J-Lo. I am equally surprised that anyone would willingly call themselves “J-Lo.” But I really shouldn’t be surprised since our world seems to embrace flaccid entertainment like the so-called reality shows and even worse, yuppie horseshit like “Friends.” With friends like “Friends,” I’ll stick with enemies.




It’s good to hear your voice
on a night like this
when all I want to do is die
my saving grace in the darkest hours
and the light at the end of the tunnel
give me your strength
show me what it means to be alive
and push the blood through my veins
someday things will work out even for a moment
however fleeting it may be
that one moment would be enough to sustain me




“They’re all godless atheists and as you know, that’s the worst kind.”
--anonymous




floating effortlessly, endlessly
pick up my body and let the flow be my guide
close my eyes, open my mind
let the soul explode
destruction of the spectrum
sending fragments into the stratosphere
and into the darkest crevasses of emptiness
filled to capacity with everything
overflowing, spilling over the outer edges
washing over all that stop in their tracks
long enough to get a little on their shoes




Sometimes, I think I could sit thinking about nothing forever. So much of my life is spent with positively no thought passing from cell to cell. I savor these times, because it is a time when I’m not thinking about life. I tend to gravitate instantaneously between the two. A mere moment ago, I was floating in nothingness. I was nothing. I thought of nothing. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t there. I did this without leaving my chair or changing my physical plane of existence. It’s an out of body experience without the move.




Me, You, & Beethoven

We sought solace in Beethoven’s 5th. I didn’t like it so much, but I was trying to be polite. Hours and hours were spent in its grasp. Hours stacked upon hours that probably equal three weeks in dog years.

We listen to these things to seem like such enlightened individuals. Like a 100 watt bulb in a 60 watt world. It gives us that old world charm while we adjust the EQ on the Volvo’s CD player.

We sip our authentic Brazilian coffee, which is made from only the finest of the finest beans, and spend our evenings watching PBS and thinking about recycling. Those homeless people are such a drag while we make our way from the suburbs to our destination. Our Kenny G CD can only uplift so much, so we have to look the other way or drive faster. The new age jazz falls short of the emotional goal line, but it’s so safe and unthreatening. Our family values remain in tact while we listen to these songs devoid of any trace of the human existence.




Breathe in the dream
and exhale all that matters to you
Let it drift away and come back to haunt you.




She beat him senseless with a beef log from Swiss Colony. He had nothing to defend himself with but a half empty bag of pretzels and a box of Junior Mints. While it was the movie theater size, it was hardly enough to combat the wrath. A food fight to the death with life for the victor. Swing for the cheap seats and duck when the shit hits the fan. The giant deli tray can be yours, my friend.