Piss & Vinegar [memoirs of an asshole]
Lost Weekend In Hell (part 2 I fucked a cowgirl)

When I awoke it was three days later and I became aware of a very uncomfortable stabbing pain in my back. I opened my eyes and the light shot into my head like a hammer full of piss and vinegar. Slowly like a fog lifting off a filthy harbor my senses came back to me. First was pain, and then came fear. I realized I was lying across the front seat of a car and the stick shift was poking me in the back and I had no idea where I was.

I bolted up like a shot.
I didn’t know whose car I was in, I didn’t where the fuck I was, nor did I know why I had a Barbie doll in my back pocket?
Then I saw it, an empty bottle of mescal, that evil amber liquid from Mexico with the worm in the bottom, that sick little bastard floating around in the bottle; mocking me, daring me to drink more.
As soon as I saw the mescal it made sense, if I had been drinking that shit all bets were off. MESCAL IS EVIL, EVIL SHIT!
The Hopi Indians refer to it as Ambrosia. I like to call it asshole in a bottle, because if you drink enough of it you are going to act like an asshole; guaranteed. It is not a question of if; it is a question of when.
I began to slowly scan the interior of the car looking for clues that might fill in some of the holes in my memory. This is what I found:
One Empty bag of Doritos (taco flavor), five crushed Blue Ribbon brand beer cans, two empty Marlboro lights cigarette packs, money and many, many empty paper flaps which had contained various illicit powders.
I knew I had been acting like a complete asshole, but at least I was alive, had my pants on, and I had my money. Right now, all I needed to do was figure out where I was, and get back to the hotel. Once I was back at the hotel I could try to figure out what kind of trouble I was in.

I climbed out of the car only to realize I had slept in a derelict car on the side of the street in a very run down industrial part of town. Deserted factories and the decaying remnants of business lay silent all around me like the guardians of broken promises for a better life and the American dream..
How I got here or why I came here was still unclear, but I knew there had to be some mitigating factor in my choice of locations. However with my luck and my current state of affairs it was most likely some drunken decision based on logic like: “Hey I play in an industrial band, I should go to the industrial part of town!”

I started to go through my jacket pockets looking for clues about my previous nights activities: a receipt, a ticket a bus pass anything. There was nothing! Just more empty cigarette packs and broken Doritos.
The hotel I had been staying in was called the Astoria or the Aritzia or Astro or some shit like that. It was your basic fleabag hotel full of D grade hookers, pimps and junkies: cheap, weird and it nowhere to be seen.“Fucking awesome I have no idea where my hotel is or even what it is called!”

Fuck! I didn’t even have my room key! Not only was I totally lost, but also if I did manage to find my hotel again I had no key to get in.
I really wanted to take a shower and wash the sick taste from my mouth. Anyone who has gone on a serious chemical binge can tell you that your skins feels oily and smells of chemicals as your body desperately tries to pump the poison out of your system. I felt like a shaved monkey dipped into cleaning fluid and I smelled like stale cigarettes and KY jelly.
This was not a good start to my day.

I climbed out of the car and slowly started to wander off in the direction I hoped would lead me to a road with a taxi. My head was still pounding and I was seriously lost. At this point I was beginning to get scared because I had no idea where I was and had no real plan to get back to the hotel, “fuck I didn’t even know what the hotel was called how in the fuck was I going to get back to it!”
I stuck my hand in my jeans pocket and pulled out all the paper inside, I had money a ticket stub and a phone number
“Ahhh a phone number! A phone number this could be the connection to my lost memories, or at least a way to get back to the hotel.”
After walking what seemed to be forever I found a working payphone, it is amazing how many trashed payphones there are in Detroit. Apparently people in Detroit hate phones and like to take out pent up aggression on them.
Eventually I found a working, albeit decrepit phone and I called the number scrawled across the paper.
“Hello?” her voice was raspy and hung over.
“Yea, ahhh… hi my name is Jeff, and I found your phone number in my pocket, do you know me?” I felt like a complete asshole saying this but desperation had overcome my pride and I just needed some help.
“Hun… Oh Jeff..Hey baby where you at? What the fuck happened to you? We were worried after you took off.”
“Listen, I am really fucking lost here and I need some help getting back to my hotel, do you know where I was staying?”
“NO, sorry baby… but you can come here and we can sort it out, you got a pen? I will give you my address.”
Amazingly I did have a pen and I wrote her address down and quickly headed off in search of a cab. The weight of desperation had been lifted off my shoulders and I had the slightest glimmer of hope.

She lived on the 5th floor of an old tenement building with no elevator and tons of garbage littering the floors. I still could not even remember her name but I figured I would sort that out once I was inside, sitting down and safe.
When I finally got to her door the trepidation I felt as my knuckles rapped against her door was immense!
The door swings wide open and I cannot believe what I am looking at; she is a fucking cowgirl, Boots, hat, belt buckle the whole package!
“What in the fuck was I thinking A FUCKING COWGIRL!”
Actually she was totally hot, in a very smutty sort of way, in fact… on second thought I could get past this whole cowgirl thing…what the fuck….”
All this went through my mind in the one or two seconds after she opened her door and before she said, “Jeff, baby! come in, where you been?”
I really wished I knew the answer to that question.
I sat down on her couch and looked around her apt. It was actually very nice, and clean, Not what you would expect at all from the outside. The building was a fucking disaster, but she had made this her little haven, and it was sweet.
While I was sitting there trying to figure out my next move she jumped up and said, “you look like you need a shower! It is back there to the left. Get cleaned up. Towels are on the shelf above the toilet.”
Hot water cannot wash away the oily filth after a drug binge but it does go along way to making you feel human again. This baptismal cleansing was just what I needed to reload and get my shit back in order.
When I finally got out of the shower she was waiting on her bed, naked, and with breakfast.

Saddle up cowgirl the Rodeo is in town!

Know it all cunts and the smart phones that wreck them

A while back I was on tour and we were unfortunate enough to be sharing this part of the tour with a band of utter douchebags, I mean the kind of fuckwads you kick out of a drunken house party…

you know the type.

"The world owes me cuz I’m fabulous and all you stupids cunts are too fucking dumb to see it…" you know the type.

At this particular show I was standing at the merch table watching the twat de jour argue with a customer as to whether or not the band’s “new limited edition posters” were actually just retooled versions of images by famous artists mixed with temple carvings and details from Hindu texts like the Bhagavad Gita, a unique combination, but nonetheless still a reworked version of the originals.

I stood there and watched the debate heat up as the merch bitch started to get pissy and offended that anyone would dare tell him where the images came from, the customer remained cool, collected and insistent that he was in fact correct and the images were borrowed from the previously mentioned sources.

The customer knew his shit, just the fact that he busted out the names of the Bhagavad Gita and both artists in questions on the spot should have been a clue to the merch bitchboy that this guy was probably a well informed individual who actually knew what the fuck he was talking about.. Sissy pants however was far too in love with himself and the slightly vainglorious sense of self importance he managed to glean from his stint as an unpaid intern on a half-assed tour for a band way past in date of relevance.. in short he was a twat of the first order and nobody was gonna tell him nuthin’ bout nuthin’ cuz he knew more better.

At this point the customer looked over at me standing at my merch table and I smiled and gave him the “go for it dude” head nod, he turned back to sissy face pulled out his smart phone and within ten seconds had the pictures of the original works in question on his screen in full glorious in your face be’atch technicolor.

The merch guy looked at the screen, got red in the face and then looked away, the customer was not finished yet, he said and I quote..

“you know I was going to buy one of those posters and some other stuff from you guys, but you have been such an arrogant asshole to deal with I can not in good form support you or a band that has people like you working for them. thanks for ruining our night asshole…”


after the customer walked away in disgust the merch twat looks aver at me and says, “can you believe that asshole… Who the fuck does he think he is telling me about the poster ?”

I remember thinking at the time what fucking planet do you live on ?

Lost Weekend In Hell (part 1)

I was, 21 years old, still young and full of bravado. I was too young to know any better, and to stupid to care. I think the poets call it “young, dumb and full of cum.”

At the time, and I was traveling and working in the Eastern United States. My friend and I were wandering the streets of downtown Detroit in a drunken stupor.
For anyone who has never been there, Detroit is one of the craziest cities in the world. The difference between having a good time or getting shot in the face is a simple as right turn/ left turn; meaning sometimes it is just plain chance.
If you go downtown in Motown to party you takes your chances and rolls the dice.

10 minutes before I had seen a fully-grown man with one shoe drinking whiskey from a baby bottle, and arguing with his hand. Every second person that walked by us either asked if we wanted to pay for sex, or pay for drugs.
I am a moral person with strict rules of conduct so I refused to pay for sex, but because I am an idiot I eagerly paid for the drugs.
This was actually the first time I ever tried mescaline and it turned into what I like to call my “lost weekend from hell.” It turned out to be a 3-day trip into insanity. Suffice to say I woke up 3 days later in some stranger’s car with an empty bottle of tequila, a Barbie doll in my pocket, and the worst hangover of my life. My memories of the events are spotty at best. I have memories, but I am not sure if they happened to me, or if I was watching, or if I was even there. That is how fucked up mescaline and tequila are when taken together.
Alone each is quite ugly; in combination they are fucking retarded!

Anyway back to the tattoo, so my friend and I, drugs beginning to course through our veins, are wandering around the underbelly of Detroit, loaded on cheap wine, stoned on mescaline and whatever pills we could find looking for adventure. I see this seedy looking biker tattoo shop called “Fister’s” and my buddy says, “Hey fucker lets get a tattoo!”
I look at the shop and say, like a complete idiot, “Duh, ok”

Mistake number one.

We walk into the shop and sitting behind a counter is one of the scariest people I have ever seen. This guy was the classic biker, dirty, fat, stupid and mean. He looks up at us and manages to say over a mouth full of half-chewed burrito,
“What the fuck do you faggots want?”
I am looking at this classic example of human garbage. Sitting there in this filthy, cramped, little shop, chewing his food like a pig, stringy, greasy hairs hanging down across his face like fetid moss.
The walls are covered with pictures of classically moronic biker tattoos like: snakes wrapped around knives, anchors that say mom, and naked, big titty bimbos, rendered with all the talent of a 4 year old and box of crayons.

Mental note number one avoid colors
Seizing all of my courage and stupidity I speak,

Mistake number two.

“Ah yea I wanted to get a tattoo.”
“No shit dumb-ass. I just thought you fags came in here for some company.” He laughs and makes a sound like someone choking on wet noodles. Eventually, his laughing/coughing fit ends in a mouthful of phlegm, which he spits into a nearby ashtray. “Yea, so which one of you faggots wants to go first?”
My friend pushes me forward and says, “He does,”
Thanks asshole, I think to myself.
After trying to explain what I wanted and where, I finally gave up trying to communicate with words to this Neanderthal and drew a picture of my tattoo and then point to the spot below my belt where I want it.

Mistake number three

Spooner, that’s this sleazebag’s name, looks at me and says,” well drop them panties boy, lets get this thing done.”
I realize he means that I have to take my pants and underwear off! I get a very bad feeling. “Couldn’t I just pull my pants down to my knees?”
“What the fuck bitch?” he bellows, “you think we having a conversation here boy? You want the fucking tattie or not?”
I slowly strip naked from the waist down and climb up on his tattoo table. As soon as I sit down I realize I am sitting naked, facing the door, if anyone walks into the shop the first thing they will see is me.
About the time I have this realization the door swings open and two super-hot, in a sleazy way, girls come walking in.
They look at me, horrified I look at them, and they begin to laugh. I don’t know about you, but having a woman laugh when she sees my package is not really the reaction I am hoping for.
Something more along the lines of let me bow down in its majesty or Oh my God! You know anything but friggin’ giggles.

Mental note number two: get bigger penis.

Spooner says.” I am busy, sit down if you want to wait.” They look at each other, giggle and say, “No problem we will wait.”
They proceed to sit right in front of the tattoo table and giggle for the entire 45 minutes it takes this fat retard Spooner to finish my tattoo.
Finally, after 45 of the worst minutes of my life, it’s over and I stand up. At this point the taller of the 2 girls says, “we changed our minds, we’ll come back later.”
They explode into a fit of laughter and run out the door.
Spooner looks up at me and says, “Hey, fucknuts I think your boyfriend is waiting for you outside. Pay me and get the fuck out!”
I stumbled out of the shop into the street and now the pills and the mescaline are starting to really kick in.
I am not really sure if I just left the shop or if the shop just left me.
The entire street has a slow-motion neon look to it and I begin to laugh hysterically a bellow at the sky. Suddenly I see the two girls from earlier standing just down the street talking. I saunter/stumble over and ask if they have seen my penis?

I pull my shit together and say in my best voice, “Excuse me would you two lovely ladies like to get a few drinks and possibly share a bite to eat?”
More than likely what I actually said sounded more like, “BLAAAGUHHmmmmmAHBBBBBBBBBBGGGAAAAAUUUUUrrrrrrrrrrr”

I am pretty sure I was drooling and still laughing like a fucking maniac but to me at the time it seemed entirely reasonable. I think my buddy was behind me pissing on the curb somewhere but I didn’t really care, you see I was locked into pussy mode and no matter how stupid I actually looked, to me I was sure I looked the apex of charm and poise.

To be continued Part II Link here

Her new one turned out well. #tattoos #chickswithink #tatts #ink #bodyart  (at Chris Ni Project)

Her new one turned out well. #tattoos #chickswithink #tatts #ink #bodyart (at Chris Ni Project)


The following conversation took place during the last Roughhausen US tour, the actual location was some rural town in Oklahoma. I use the word town liberally because if memory serves, this “town” was a gas station, beer store, 2 hotels and a KFC.

We pulled in at 9:30 pm after driving for 7 hours, checked into the motel, threw our shit into the room and stumbled, bleary eyed, across the street to dine at the Colonels finest emporium of slow death.

e.g.: walks in, takes one look at the dead eyes of the poor country dumb kid unfortunate enough to be forced to work at KFC in this mecca of excitement, culture and happenings and decides to mind fuk him. This poor bastard was probably eighteen years old, lived in chicken fuk no-where, had nothing to do and worked at KFC, in short he was in love with life and life was loving him.

e.g.: “hey you guys got any chicken in here?”

kid: “yup”

e.g.: “it is any good?”

kid: “yup”

e.g.: “is it fresh? are these local chickens?”

kid: “hun?”

e.g.: ” where does this chicken come from? I want to support the local economy, you know? buy from the local house of el poulet.. I mean do you eat it?”

kid: “hun?”

e.g.: “do you eat the chicken?”

kid: “nope”

e.g.: “why not you said it was good”

kid: “don’t like chicken”

e.g.: ” and you work at a chicken joint?”

kid: “yup.”

e.g.: “howz that working out for ya?”

kid: “not so good.”

e.g.: “can I get mine with only ten herbs and spices? that eleventh one, I don’t know… just not tasty…”

kid: “hun?”

i was just about to get in on the action when his girlfriend came in and started to give him shit for talking with some other girl on the telephone…. He had more than enough misery to last a lifetime. You think your life sucks ? Guess again.


I sat at my mixing desk watching a mosquito. She lay upside down twitching and struggling to right herself.

Fighting so desperately to extend her humble ten day life span for just another few moments, and then I thought about how many of us do everything we can to quicken our exit.

We in our infinite wisdom try to escape from what every other living creature fights to hold on to….

Something that I dearly love died in my arms this week and it was fucking horrible, one of the most painful things I have ever done, but if something you love is dying you owe it to them to hold them in your arms and love them when they go.

Something that I dearly love died in my arms this week and it was fucking horrible, one of the most painful things I have ever done, but if something you love is dying you owe it to them to hold them in your arms and love them when they go.

Oh ! the Humanity

During a DJ set I was playing a drunk party slut stumbles up to the table, bumps into booth, spills a drink and then says…

~ are you gonna keep playing this metal shit all night or are you gonna play something I can dance to?

~ oh really, what would you like to hear then?

~ something I can dance to, not this ministry stuff (it was Propellerheads ! :O)

~ such as? give me a name..

~ I don’t know somthin’ I can dance to

~ like what? I need a name, what song? what artist?

~ just not this. I want to dance, can’t you play something I can dance to?

~ you come up here to complain about my set and you can’t even come up with the name of a song you want to hear? How about you go fuck yourself and the no-name-fuck-ass horse you came in on?

~ You can’t talk to me like that.

~ I think I just did, now fuck off

I could do that

I have this conversation at least once a month: talking with a musician/band or client and the topic eventually turns to bitter lamentations about downloading and the death of the music industry….

how nobody buys CDs anymore, music is ostensibly free… they can’t make money anymore…. blah blah blah… same old same old.

Generally, I talk about adjusting your money making model, redeveloping your product(s), finding new revenue streams„„ yea it sucks, it really sucks, but it happened; so you can either spend the next 20 years being a bitter whining old hack, or you can look at what IS happening now and change with it… adapt or die right?

a few angry accusatory comments later I usually get the “so what are you doing then?”

Obviously, I don’t lay out my entire new model out for them, this is a business after-all and I did spent lots of time and effort devising and refining my art, talents and skills.. I had to work for it, so do you.

What I do is speak in generalities, possibilities.. I mention writing scores or incidental music, both of which, aside from production, work provide a large portion of my income. Meaning I am a whore, I write for television; that insipid, inane, silly music that pollutes the background of every Wanker-Citizen Cane-wanna be commercial … I write some of that and I get paid.

95% of the time this is the reply, “Oh fuck yea! I can do that! Hook me up how do I do that?”

here is where it gets ugly…

You know that super cool cutting-edge techo centric ad with the kick ass electro soundtrack? yea that is not the job, those come up twice a year… if you are lucky. Think about it how many of those ads you actually see? …right? . not many, what you see are silly ads with stupid music, selling shit that nobody really needs.

That, unfortunately is the job. Writing whimsical, dumb ass - frolic in the park stupid shit.

The majority of the work which is thrown at you is writing music for the lowest common denominator. You are writing music for ads aimed at people who think Jersey Shore is “kick ass!” and Honey BOO BOO “is a real hoot!” Sure you can write a 4/4 time old school, done to death, cliche EBM stomper , but can you write a 5/4 time waltz or a quirky 5/7 skipping stumbling bunny hop for a dog food commercial?

You can do that, really ?

How about for just 3 days you actually listen the the music in TV ads, and think about how it’s constructed and then imagine spending 8 hours in a small room with the fuck tard director that thinks his diet yogurt commercial is “on the cutting edge and socially relevant with a message man!”

You can do that? then get off your fucking bitter tear stained soapbox and show me.

it’s a good day to get fucked up