I didn’t just make him up for show. He came from a place that’s real.
Years back, when health issues started creeping in—when things didn’t feel right, when pain didn’t always have a clear reason—this image stuck with me. Something worn down. Stitched together. Still standing, but not untouched.
That’s Bert.
Read Bert’s story
I named him after my Uncle Bert in Oklahoma. One of the few places growing up that actually felt like I belonged.
Because the truth is, I wasn’t allowed at my step-grandfather’s house. Not even inside. I stayed on the porch.
So when we visited family, I stayed with Uncle Bert and my aunt—and that’s where the good memories are.
He taught me fiddle after I learned violin. Smoked a pipe—and that smell, I still remember it. Always liked that. Cigarettes? Never did.
And he had this way of making things feel different. He even had an imaginary dog named Ralph.
Late nights, just me, him, and Ralph, sitting in his camper at the edge of the garden. Pellet gun in hand, watching the dark, waiting for something to move. Protecting what was his.
Looking back, it almost feels like something out of a story. Or maybe something that never really left.
So yeah, Bert isn’t just a mascot.
Every band’s got one—like Iron Maiden with Eddie the Head, Megadeth with Vic Rattlehead, and Motörhead with Snaggletooth. But Bert feels different.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s not something I created, but something that found me. Something that’s been there longer than I realize.
Maybe he’s just a symbol. Maybe he’s something more.
Either way, he’s coming with me on this journey. And yeah, if you see him, just know he’s seen worse.
