Lemmy Kilmister’s Death Was Announced on my Birthday.
I always loved the way Lemmy just did not give a fuck. He lived his life on his own terms, was fully responsible for his actions, and was finally killed by death. He was a deviant dirtbag other worldly swamp creature who knew how to growl, masterfully.
Why should he care what anyone thought of him? Why should I?! He lived to be 70 years old, that’s like 200 in rockstar years. Most people who live and party at his level don’t make it past 26. He was a dirty dog that partied the hardest, pickled liver, coal tar lungs, full of all the wrong substances, except for rock and roll. He has fucked over 1000 women.
Diabetes, cigarettes, alcohol and speed. The cancerous tumors in his brain and neck were the nail in the coffin. He died two days after being diagnosed, four days after his 70th birthday. His friends joked that he would outlive us all, only the good die young, and so on.
He was all about that bass, an explosive personality, a beast of a man, a next level human, I wish I could have partied with him. Run my fingers through his black wiry mutton chops, mustache and mountainous power moles.
Motörhead music is a war cry. Lemmy sang like he had rocks in his throat. It is about fucking women and getting wasted, fast, loud, a grimy version of punk and metal, it is powerful shit.
I heard the news of his death while I was at my drag/karaoke/taco birthday party. My wine drunk mother just got done lecturing me on how I am not leading a good “christian” lifestyle and handed me a bag of pink daisy razorblades and deodorant. I shoved a taco down my gullet, strapped on my mustache and mullet, painted on a 6’oclock shadow, and partied on. I drank so much whiskey and sang so hard that night. A friend of mine did a great rendition of Ace of Spades.
Lemmy was not a typically “beautiful” man, but neither am I. Just like a John Waters character, Lemmy personified trashy lush wonderfulness. He was a perfect kind of filth, often on the “ugliest celebrities” tabloid lists.
People like him make me feel better about my flaws because we are ALL flawed. He looked great in cut off jean shorts, a ragged band shirt, bolo tie, shades, bullett belt, and crossbones cowboy hat, though. Nobody can deny that.
I had to pay tribute to him in my most recent burlesque show. The best part is that I already owned the whole costume. I jumped on the bar and tore layers of grimy costume off of me to The Ace of Spades.
The denim shorts were riding up my vagina. The long black wig itched, the pubey looking fake chest hair was falling off in clumps, my chops and stache were smudged, my rhinestone moles were still on, I smelled like yesterday, my hangover was strong. It was the right way to do it. Chugging beers and shooting Jack Daniels all night with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
I regret nothing. Except the fact that I glued the moles on the wrong side of my face, and I was called out on it INSTANTLY. I was impressed. Well, my name is Hemmy, Lemmy’s lesbian cousin.
It was an incredible show, all of my friends did crazy performances in my honor. We were celebrating my birth and the life of a legend in the same night. To celebrate birth and death simultaneously is interesting.
I think about life and death often because it is something we all have to do, it is certain. Who would come to my funeral I wonder? Do I make as much of an impact as I think? Will people think that I was an asshole or remember me fondly?
I want to drink that bottle of whiskey and eat the greasy steak sandwich, stay up all night dancing and screaming, loving, living, not regretting a moment. We may live till 70, or 100 even, but we might also die today of a brain tumor or a gun shot or a car accident or even drown in our own fucking cereal bowl. You never know. We are all lucky to have gotten this far. Each year on my birthday I really step back and think about how far I have come and what I need to do to keep evolving.
I often abuse my body with alcohol and drugs, bacon over veggies, party time excellent over eight hours of sleep. I’ve never enjoyed the gym. I once went to a gym where the women’s fitness room was facing a McDonalds. Running toward the high calorie shitty food that will eventually be my slow cholesterol filled demise. Lovely.
I know so many people, myself included, that pay for gym memberships and don’t even use them. Jump on the yearly fad of this year, I will be different. Wishful thinking that they will become healthier versions of themselves. Less fat, soft, and shitty.
My mom’s ass hangs out of her jeans, rolling over the top like a perfect little muffin. I’ve worked in a plus size store where women had unrealistic visions of what they looked like in their clothes. I have always felt fantastic and proud in my body, the only time I felt moments of self consciousness were when someone else mocked me or told me how I looked was abject or wrong. Fuck those people, they are jealous of the way I look, I am just myself, just like Lemmy was unapolagetically himself.
YOLO. Another year has passed. “Maybe this will be MY year,” magically all the shit that went awry the year before will be wiped away. I am now 29 years old, 2016 is my last year before turning 30, it’s like a power hour, and I have still never had a New Year’s midnight kiss. Not that passionate one that people write about, daydream about, make movie moments about.
So I wonder if the new me I want to be is just more assertive version of what I am now. Less pathetic longing and more doing, grab the face I want and kiss it, embrace the lips I yearn for, or move on and find a new driving force of lust. This year I want to take charge of what I want. My happiness is up to me. My art and success are up to me. I have no control of others, I should not become consumed by selfish notions of true love and that be all end all kind of life affirming passion.
I need to open my eyes and have new years REVELATIONS not resolutions: I need to be more dramatic, make it count, be more like Lemmy. I am going to find myself by traveling and making art because I must. I am going to own my desire. This is a year of sexual awakening.
I am sick and tired of unrequited love and being held down by gender normatives and societal standards. I want to open up my lifestyle and try things outside of my comfort zone.
My life is nowhere near perfect, it is a constant work in progress. I want to take advice from those who are already doing it, and those who have already left their mark on this world and have left us. The art you make will never die, even when your body rots.
“Death is an inevitability, isn’t it? You become more aware of that when you get to my age. I don’t worry about it. I’m ready for it. When I go, I want to go doing what I do best. If I died tomorrow, I couldn’t complain. It’s been good.”
– Ian ‘Lemmy’ Kilmister (1945-2015)
