For this, my third official column for Maximum Rock and Roll, I’d like to discuss the 90’s. Now, this has been on my mind for quite some time, ever since Pfeffer mentioned to me that a friend of his was working on a book about 90’s DIY. My first thought was, “Why the fuck would anybody wanna do that?” I still feel that way, but it got me thinking a lot about what I was doing during that time in my life. In 1996, I was in 7th grade, had just heard of a little thing called hardcore, and had just done heroin for the first time. Matt had just let me borrow a Minor Threat cd (which I to date have never returned) and together had just gone to our first punk show at a local cd store in Plano, TX, that did DIY shows, which was the fashion at the time. Plano, TX, living legends Mexican Breakfast played along with Richardson, TX, political kinda ska band Policy. I believe it was during the day and if I remember correctly I had a chain wallet down to my knees, which was the fashion at the time. Oh, also this one shitbag kid found a 3-legged albino hamster which he kept in his pocket and fed french fries.

What good came from the 90’s? Deathreat? Talk is Poison? Born Against? Yep, that’s pretty much it. Fuck, what a piece of shit time that was. I hate almost everything about it. Sure I had some good times, but all it really did was set me up for a lifetime of disappointment and horrible fucking haircuts. Every asshole and their mother had chili bowls and Jncos.

Around the same time as the Mexican Breakfast show, I had begun a long pen pal relationship with Fat Mike from NOFX. Living in the burbs, I didn’t know about many other bands outside the Fat Wreck Chords mailorder catalog, which in hindsight is fine seeing as I was only 14. Any who, I would write Mike letters and either he or his assistant would write me back. Usually it was one of them talking shit to me or just a box full of WIZO stickers and other random bullshit. One time I was feeling really crazy and kinda confused sexually so I sent Mike a copy of my 7th grade yearbook photo with a copy of my report card and a letter explaining that I got all F’s because I was punk as shit and didn’t give a fuck about learning nuthin. I was on the mailbox like a hawk for weeks. I just knew that Mike was gonna write me back, praise me on how fucking cool I looked, and ask me to run away with him to live happily ever after. Weeks went by and finally a manila envelope with the return address from Fat Wreck Chords came to my door. It was a letter from Mike asking me why I had the haircut of a Nazi girl. Also enclosed was a copy of the new Fat Wreck mailorder catalog. Sure enough, there was my picture on the cover of it. Full blown with an Oi cut, braces, and a collared shirt with a Propagandhi patch sewn on the pocket. Fuck was I stoked, until I realized that those assholes were making fun of me. It’s been 12 years, but someday I’m gonna meet that motherfucker and kick him square in the dick. If you’re reading this, Fat Mike, fuck you. I got your number, asshole.

My father was working as a bartender at the local VFW in Plano. He was kinda down on his luck, which to this day hasn’t really changed much. I ended up spending a lot of time hanging out at that bar listening to the vets talk about the war, women and other racist issues that were on their minds. He’d go to work and I’d leave the house and go over to a friend’s to read zines and listen to whatever band he had discovered. Most of the time they sucked, but that was the fashion at the time. In school there weren’t really punks. I mean there were, but all the jocks called us freaks. This was a total kick in the nuts because we really wanted to separate ourselves from the goth kids and the gay kids. It never really ended up happening, but it ended up being ok. There was this one guy named Chris Rutherford who had the unfortunate luck of being gay and Mexican during a time when MY SO CALLED LIFE was the hottest shit on tv. He was known as Ricky until the day we graduated. Poor dude. During lunch one day some random jock fuck head pushed Ricky too far. Walked up to him in the “cafitoriam,” tripped him, and called him faggot. This was a huge mistake. Ricky was a junior gold gloves boxer and just beat the ever loving shit out the cum stain. I have never enjoyed watching a person get beat more than that. Throughout the whole ordeal the whole school was chanting RICKY… RICKY… RICKY! It was a small victory for Ricky, but a huge one for the freaks. I should’nt really bag on hanging out with the goths too much. If it wasn’t for them buying the shitty, dirty acid I was selling, I never would’ve bought my first car.

Go out and get the new Hex Dispensers LP. It’s real good. Trust me on this. Hey, does anybody have the limited Talk is Poison 7” with the skeletons stamped on the center labels they don’t want or need? Just checking. Kinda need that shit.

A couple things I wanna share with you before I leave you for another month… the following are sayings my father taught me:

Put your brain in gear before you let out the clutch on your mouth.

If you going to Texas…don’t go.

Talk’s cheap, whisky cost money.

He’s like a calf looking at a new gate.

They shot Lincoln and let that sonofabitch live?

Rub a little dirt on it.

Don’t let your alligator mouth overload your hummingbird brain.

If you’re sick, die.

Send bullshit to: ldworrell@gmail.com