8 of February,

Do not like what does or gives to the band these days but happy birthday to a man that has gone through a lot of things in the more reason time.

There is a singer and will be the singer till this is over and done for real. 65 years old, but in so many ways a guy that should have - in my mind stepped back from the stages a few years ago.

His name attached to my personal memories from a past lived and loved for so many reasons as well still holds this passion with a deep and honest feeling. I DO THINK there are extremely cool memories and adventures from the old days as Vince todays birthday Boy has been a fantastic cool guy on stage. Never ever the best singer not even close but he did what has been needed to create and deliver magic asthe band was still young dangerous and cool.

Still wish the band would stop and Vince find other passions and take care of himself. Now there are things in 2026 2027 that simply marks the boys in their late 60s and no longer cool live experiences. Just legendary and poking to the old days of strenght and fun times.

28 Of January,

December vanished as if stolen—my favorite season, gone before I could even breathe it in. I’ve always felt most alive in its cold embrace, but this year, it was only a fleeting ghost. January offered no mercy. It descended like a storm, every day unleashing another blow: bad news, broken things, bills multiplying, unexpected costs that clawed at what little comfort remained.

Sometimes I wonder if the universe has decided I’ve had enough good luck for one lifetime and is now making me pay in installments. The truth is simple and merciless: our jobs don’t bring in enough. When something breaks, we can’t just fix it and move on. The struggle sinks in, a weight you wear in your bones.

This isn’t just about me—my partner is suffering too, and the pain in their eyes haunts me. It’s a kind of helplessness that gnaws at my soul, watching someone I love unravel while I flail for solutions that never seem enough. The house feels colder. Money is tighter. Needs pile up like snowdrifts and there’s no warm fire to melt them away.

Stress is a beast that devours from the inside out. My blood pressure spikes with every new disaster. The scales mock me with kilos gained, a cruel tally of every sleepless night. There is little left that feels positive—each day is a new tightrope walk over an abyss. My partner even asked if I’d sell my collection, the one thing that anchors me, just to get us back on track. But I can’t. It’s not an option.

Asking me to let go of my collection is like being told to choose which of my children should disappear. People laugh at the comparison, but that’s because they don’t understand how deep this passion runs. I have said it for decades—no one knows me in this, not truly. Collecting isn’t a hobby. It’s the blood in my veins, the breath in my chest. Without it, I am less. I am nobody.

January brought little “Crue”—no new gems for the shelves. And honestly, that’s fine. My mind hasn’t been where it should be, anyway. Death and loss have gripped the steering wheel. It’s terrifying how the years can become a procession of painful news, each one adding another stone to the burden you already carry.

Getting older feels like a betrayal. I used to believe every year brought new possibilities. Now, it’s just missed chances and fading dreams, the slow erosion of a life I wanted to build. I ache for the days when I could save up for things that let me feel alive—adventures, discoveries, the thrill of the hunt. Now those days seem unreachable, and the weight of that truth is suffocating. It follows me everywhere: in quiet moments, in restless sleep, in the heavy silence that fills the room. I have lived with these thoughts for years, and they have become a burden—a shadow that will not lift.

Turbulence is my constant companion. My mind is a battlefield, haunted by the question of what chances and choices remain before time runs out. It doesn’t look good. I am forced to rethink everything, to lower my expectations just to grasp at something that still brings joy. The bigger dreams? They are ashes now, and for someone like me, mourning their loss is agony. If passion is denied—if what defines you is stripped away—then the soul withers. It is a kind of death long before the real one, a hollowing that makes you old and empty faster than anything else.

All I can do is pray for the 2026 tour, for the anniversary of the debut album, for some last fragments of meaning. Maybe, with luck, I can rest my mind in acceptance—find peace in the small victories, even if the big ones are gone forever.

This is what it means to live with passion—to have it burn so deeply that its absence chills you to the core. Life’s burdens are real, and they leave scars that never truly fade. But as long as there is hope for another tour, another day, another chance to hold onto what matters, I will keep fighting. Even when the world feels spine-chillingly cold, I refuse to let the last embers of passion die out. Because without them, there is nothing left but darkness.

17 January,

Forty-Five Years of The Raw and Sentimental Story of my life

Forty-five years ago, four outsiders came together in Los Angeles not searching for glory but for survival. Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, and Vince Neil didn’t know they’d spark a movement—they just wanted to play, to rebel, to escape the noise of ordinary life with noise of their own. The result was Mötley Crüe: a band forged in chaos, kicking open the door to a world that wanted to shut them out. The fact is, this wasn’t about becoming legends. It was about living hard, playing loud, and defying everything that told them no.

January 17th, 1981 wasn’t marked by fanfare, but by raw electricity—a jam session that would change rock history. The lineup locked in place, the first songs written, the hunger undeniable. “All we needed was a laugh,” they said, and it’s true. They laughed in the face of rejection, laughed through broken amps and busted dreams, laughed as they risked everything to chase a sound that could set hearts on fire. And out of that refusal to quit came a legacy built on sweat, scars, and wild hope.

The Fanbase That Never Blinked

All the headlines—fights, overdoses, rehab, public feuds, glitter and lies—mean little compared to one simple fact: the fans never left. Through years of chaos, the Crüeheads stood in the pouring rain, raised their fists in crowded arenas, and kept the faith when the rest of the world called it a lost cause. This isn’t just loyalty; it’s family. Every show, every album, every battered ticket stub is proof that, in a world quick to cast aside the broken, the Crüeheads stayed—through the darkness and the light.

Living the Crüe: An Unconventional Life

Finding Mötley Crüe was never about fitting in. For some, it happened in the sticky heat of adolescence, for others in the cold clarity of adulthood. The music became a lifeline, a challenge to live without apology. It’s not easy to explain the way it changes you—the way you see yourself in every lyric about pain and resilience, every defiant riff. For those of us who collect, who pour our devotion into physical reminders, it’s not just memorabilia. It’s proof we survived. The rules have changed; the collecting is quieter, more private, but the emotions are sharper than ever.

Loss and Bittersweet Memories

This anniversary is heavy. I sit here with mixed emotions, ticket stubs in hand, listening to songs that predate the band’s fame. I’m reminded of everything that’s gone—youth, innocence, loved ones. My uncle died last night, on the last day of the band’s 44th year. That sting of loss weaves into the music, the memories. I don’t chase concerts anymore, don’t need the crowds or the chaos. I collect because I can’t let go. It’s harder now, lonelier, but true. I’m still here, and so are the Crüe.

Gratitude and Hope—Without Illusions

To every Crüehead, every misfit who found a place in this strange circus: thank you. You are the pulse that kept this band alive when everything else fell apart. It’s not always pretty, not always easy, and the band is not what it once was. But the music endures. The wild ride continues, even as it shifts and fades.

Kickstart Our Hearts—Forever

Forty-five years. Through addiction, betrayal, survival, and the relentless march of time, Mötley Crüe endures. So do we. This is not a fairy tale; it’s not sanitized or easy. It’s sentimental because of the scars, and it’s raw because of the truth. We’re still collecting, still remembering, still holding out hope for another dream fulfilled. Here’s to the band, the fans, and the mad, beautiful journey that made us who we are.Happy birthday, Mötley Crüe—and thank you for everything, broken and beautiful.