Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Growing up, my dad watched a lot of TV. It was kinda his thing. He loves the shit. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he hates his own life so much that he likes to live vicariously through the stupid little people on the screen. Either way it made me steer clear of it for most of my adult life. I have quite a love hate relationship with the “idiot box” myself. We had a roommate at Irma house who insisted that we get cable. We informed her that she should go for it, but not expect a single cent from us and for some god-awful reason she paid the whole thing. Those are the times I like to call the Dark Ages. All I did for the 2 months that she lived there was smoke pot and watch TV. Thank god it was only 2 months and thank god that when I smoke pot now it makes me feel like some carnie is trying to enter my soul and shit in it. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “TV aint punk, that shits got all them dang ole commercials that make you buy all the consumer crap like McDonalds and Join the Army and shit.” I agree. However it has also brought us such wonderful shows as LOST, Daisy of Love, etc. Lost is about a bunch of fucking assholes who get stuck on some weird demon Island that just keeps trick fucking into a coma, while the latter is a “reality show” about some trollop who is on the search for love via a bunch of douche bags picked by a panel of TV executives with a sick sense of humor and hearts of solid shit. I read. I listen to records. I create. I’m an artist, but goddamn if I won’t just sit in front of this dumb fucking box and just zone out every once in a while. I’m a coward.
Now I don’t want this column to be about me or my father’s TV consumption, I want this column to talk about why I Logan Dean Worrell could survive a 70 year+ term in a maximum security prison. Well, in the State of Indiana at least. I was flipping the channels in my new house (same situation, I don’t pay, but lord knows I play) and I come across a show called Locked Up Indiana. Now, it’s on CNBC so how brain liquefying could this really be? I was hooked once I saw this guy named Curtis who was locked up for 164 years for killing his entire family when he was 16(he’s now 34) receive a pet cat. A pet cat in prison you say? Yes a pet cat. He named her some weird as born again name like Falcore or whatever. Needless to say I was hooked on this show like an ex junkie hooked on snickers bars. There was Carl who was doing a stint for aggravated b&e. He was doing 70 years. Mother fucker had face tattoos for days like if leftover crack threw up on his face. Looked like he’d been road hard a put up wet. So far prison didn’t look so bad. Then they had some other guy who was watching TV which he had in his cell all to himself. Spacious too. Homeboy was even smoking a cigarette while giving an interview. So let me get this straight…. I can smoke, watch TV, get a college degree, have my own room with a cool bunk bed, and get 3 free meals a day, sick face tattoos, and a cat. I’m no scientist or anything, but what are the down sides other than being around the most dangerous mentally deranged psychotic mother fuckers on earth? I guess the no sex part, but that shit is overrated any way. I jack off with my own tears most nights at home, why not do it and meet some new friends at the same time?
Bullshit, right? Dont believe me? Fuck that, let me tell you what life on the outside gets you, countless ridicule from peers and loved ones, a house full of people, a dog who once licked my nuts while I was sleeping only to immedialty lick my face, a job serving yuppie assholes for peanuts, bills I can’t pay, nonexistent face tattoos, and most importantly, no fucking cat! I’m not necessarily a cat person per say, but I can learn. Yes, I’m about a buck 50 soaking wet, pasty as fuck , with a pair nice legs, but I really think I got a shot it in the big house. The only thing that would really a bum me out is not having my records. Wait actually fuck that, I saw Shawshank redemption and that redneck dude was listening to a bunch of Hank Williams records. Done deal. Now all I got to do is figure out the perfect crime to commit that insures I’m not gonna be fucked in the joint. Bank Robbery? No, can’t do it. All those dudes get shot before they get locked. Backfire. Murder? Maybe, only I don’t really hate anyone enough to kill em. I could kill a cop. Yeah that’s it. I’m gonna kill me a cop. A big fat white cop. Then ill defend myself to save money for commissary and smokes, give the judge the old 2 finger fuck off wanker punk as fuck salute, and there it is freedom. My cat shall be named Knuckles the cat and together we will run cell block 4. Knuckles and me. A modern day Ebony and Ivory. Together Forever. The first face tattoo I’m gonna get is victim in pain on my forehead followed by the Mi Vida Loca dots next to my eye. Interesting side note, A couple of months ago I had just gotten home from work to find my roommate Randa tattooing some hipster girls face stick and poke style in the living room. She was getting the Mi Vida Loca dots on her face. The next day she got locked up for possession of heroin. Girl fucked up. She aint Mexican and this aint Indiana. I digress, Ok let’s face facts, I would die in prison, but I do think I would make the best of it if I wasn’t brutally raped within the first 20 minutes inside. Like I’ve said before, I’m too cute for that shit. Ive been told by people for years how horriable prison is. I believe em. That place got brown water, horrific violence, and unexceptable living conditions. So yeah, it’s the straight and narrow for me from now on. No more living my life like a David Allan Coe record. I wanna live. I wanna live. I wanna live.
Send hate mail to:
Logan Dean Worrell
3306 Larry Ln. Unit A
Austin, Tx 78722
“ You can’t be a punk and a Christian” – Brace Beldon
I was raised catholic. My mom was super into it when I was about knee high to grasshopper. I did the whole altar boy thing. Got my communion and went on the catholic retreats. The whole enchalida so to speak. It never really took . I always kinda figured that all these fucking people we just stupid and miss guided. Sheep if you will, ready to follow some sandle wearing mother fucker off a cliff or onto some crazy space ship headed to a mythical candy kingdom filled with magic and zombies. My whole life up to this point the thought of God was so forign to me. This cloud of dispair just looming over me has gotten to be so comfortable. Having to rely on myself to combat all the misfoutunes life throws my way has just been the norm. Maybe there’s another way. Someway out of this way I’m feeling. Who out there can help me out of thus rutt I’m in. Have I been wrong this whole time? Jesus can you hear me? Am I the misguided one?
Last week here at MRR HQ we received a letter from a gentleman who calls himself Drew Wardlow. Mr. Wardlow seems to be the singer for a hardcore band called DRY ROT. From what I hear, personally I don’t listen to their music, DRY ROT are some kind of neo Christian hardcore band from Ventura California. Could it be that in 2009 there are actually punks who also consider themselves Christians? The answer my friend is no there is not. There is no way humanly possible that a punk can be Christian. Mr. Wardlow it seems was writing the magazine for…well actually I’m not sure. No one is. I guess the poor little guy is sad because people are boycotting his band full of jesus freaks. Fuck it. Deal with it. Love it or leave it. I’ll go ahead and say it. You are not welcome in my scene. Wouldn’t yall be more comfortable with you own kind like, OVERCOME, LIVING SACRIFICE, UNASHAMED, JARS OF CLAY, or DC TALK? If tooth and nails is still putting out records I’m sure they would love your rag tag brand of b grade hardcore. They’d probably even give you heafty signing bonus. At the very least pass the basket for yall to help cover recording costs. Fuck you, you evil bastard. Fuck you. You are the antithesis of punk. I bet you support the troops too.
Now, I don’t wanna get in some long winded,weird debate and use a bunch of big words explaining why I hate Christians. The truth of the matter is that I just do . Christians are stupid. It’s a fact. Who cares if you go to the University of California at Santa Barbra? I don’t even know what an Institute for Theoretical Physics is. All I know is that yall mother fuckers think God hid dinosaurs in the ground to fuck with us. Shits weak. Now if DISCHARGE was Christian then maybe that would leave a little wiggle room. Christians are the new Nazis. Prove me wrong. They try to make everyone believe in what they believe and I have a theory that they want us all to look the same, red hair and blue eyes. I’m not just singling out Christians, I also have some serious issues with Hindus, but that’s for another time and place.
Tomorrow I head for the Canadian border for a few weeks of RnR. Its not easy being a punk rock superstar in this day in age. Dunken Donuts have been locking their dumpsters and don’t even get me started on the west squatting crisis. Times they are a changing here in good ole USA and frankly I feel I need a little “ Logan” time. Don’t make me explain all the reasons to you, just know that I work my ass off doing very little infreaquently as possible some of the time.
I just roadied for an American band on the west coast for a couple weeks and I’d like to take this time to share with you a few things that I’ve learned. People in Californina are fucking jerks. They don’t say thank you when you hold doors for them and they don’t say excuse you when the bump into you on the street. Everyone either a fucking scum bag hobo or a retared hippie burnout scum bag hobo. I can’t smoke anywhere and the tap water tastes like dog shit. Where the fuck are the smokers right? I support the right to marry, but what about my right to kill myself with dangerious chemicals produced by the worlds biggest pieces of shit? Fucking Washington fat cats. I’m gonna make a support my right to smoke sign for my window. Its gonna have smokey the bear with a camel light dangling from his mouth riding a hourse saying welcome to flavor country. My friends out here are top notch, but goddamn you fuckers are really testing my limits. Also, when someone tells me they are actually from California I immediately shut down almost as if they had just told me they were Christian. One more thing, what the fuck is the big fasination with girlie t’s? And for the record, I’ll still tip you even if you suck, but goddamn I’ll hate myself for it.
In closing, I’d like to tell all my people out there one thing, Burn down as many fucking churches as you can. Drive through church parking lots going 60 and just pick those little conservative fucks off left and right. Spit in the faces of those Morman shit bags that come to your doors, and please please beat the piss out of those Krishna dumb fucks dancing in the park. CRO MAG SKINHEAD BREAKOUT.
Send bibles to:
It’s been about two months since I’ve seen the beautiful Austin, Texas skyline, eaten a taco, or jerked off in my own bed. Seeing as that I only have one day left of the spiritual journey, I figure it’s about time that I sit back and reflect on these wonderful times. During the past couple years it’s been proven to me over and over again that being punk is about the people, rather than the music. Discharge is great and everything, but what makes Discharge really great is when you’re sitting around with a bunch of tight homies, someone plays ‘em, and the only thing that makes sense to do is start throwing bottles and tackling each other regardless of what environment you may be in. It’s about singing along to the records, loud as a mutha fucker, saying the wrong lyrics half the time. It’s about just bullshitting, and telling stories. If you’re still punk only for the music, then brother, you’re missing the point. By far, the best part of my trip has been seeing some good ole’ friends, and meeting so many good new friends. Not having much money or sense didn’t stop me from having some good times, and if it wasn’t for my friends I’d have been dead from starvation long ago.
After I left the San Francisco Bay, I headed northeast to Toronto, Canada. It’s fucking cold in Canada. Everything’s fucking cold there. Plus to top it off, everybody eats ice cream all the fucking time. Are you kidding me? Now I know I’m a product of the Texas educational system, but I was sure as fuck taught to drink hot cocoa when it’s cold, and fucking ice cream when it’s hot. Zoë even had a Dairy Queen not even a block from her place. They didn’t sell chicken fingers though, total bullshit. Zoë got me a nice place to live during my time there, which was amazing. It wasn’t much, but it was the biggest closet I’ve lived in for quite sometime. My buddy’s in high school was pretty choice though (It came equipped with a black light poster of an alien wearing a Dr. Seuss hat with a message that read, “Take me to your dealer.”). My Canadian closet did have a sick poster of Dave Mustang, and a RAMMER boom box. There were two solid job leads I had cooking out there. One was to be a douche bag that hands out fliers at snowboard conventions, and the other one was to jack off on the Internet for money. Now, one of these jobs involved something I knew a great deal about, and the other was a whole new world that I was completely unaware of. I’ll give you a hint, the first time I had ever seen a snowboard in real life a month ago, but I’ve been polishing the one eyed gofer twice a day since I was 12, and sometimes more on sick days in junior high. I was prepared to lower my standards of what I was willing to do for a buck, for some reason it didn’t really seem to bother me. It’s only natural right? One of my dudes got me a DJ gig playing records the day before the Fucked Up weekend. That didn’t go so well. Apparently people in Canada aren’t ready for true art in its purist form yet. So I had to sacrifice myself and took a pint glass or two in the arm, which was lucky for me, because if you dumb Canadian bastards weren’t so goddamn drunk off “cider” or whatever the fuck you drink, you might have actually hit my beautiful face. And that sir would have been a tragedy it its own self. All and all, Toronto was great. Some great cheap food was eaten, some good weed was smoked, and some good times were had. The Jamaican patties in Kensington Market are a must: only a buck.
Next up was good ole’ Montreal. Texas and Montreal have a long history of friendship going back to the wagon days. The Quebecquah are a rare breed to say the least. They can drink more than you, party way longer than you, and dance better than the cast of Soul Train. They will piss on your couch, and not skip a beat. They are hands down the punkest people on the fucking planet, and are not afraid to show it. I stayed with my old roommates from Texas, Simon and Alanna, and their roommate, notorious couch pisser Simone. I ate poutine (french fries, gravy and cheese curds) sometimes twice a day the whole time I was there. Someday I’m gonna open a poutine place down in Austin and make a million fucking dollars. Me and Lanny played Boggle and Skip-Bo a lot because it was colder than a by god all the goddamn time. While other days I just spent walking around watching the leaves change. During my time there the Varning from Montreal fest was going on which included a ton of third rate d beat bands, and a handful of truly amazing bands. Illegal was by far the best, along with Complications and Perdition from NYC. Perdition were so CUTE. Kinda like the Jonas Brother of d beat punk: just adorable. Check them out as soon as you can. Soon as I get home I plan on lining my walls with magazine cutouts of their faces, which I’m gonna kiss every night before I go to sleep. Simone has pissed on three of my couches, in three different visits to my town. So before I left Montreal, I made sure to leave a little time to piss on his bed as my own little was of saying, “Fuck you, I love you”. I’m sure to catch a serious ass beating next time I’m there, but I wouldn’t have stayed in the kitchen if I couldn’t have taken the heat. Another amazing stay with amazing people, so far so good.
My last stop on my voyage was in Bridgewater Corners, Vermont. It was actually quite unexpected. A couple buddies in Montreal were headed to Boston, and seeing as I need a ride to Vermont eventually to catch a flight, I figured why not go a few days early and save a little bus fare. I’m not known for my financial stability, so staying with some family in bum fuck Vermont sounded like the right thing to do. Bridgewater Corners is not a town or a city; it’s a village. There is a general store, a town hall that also doubles as a movie theatre, and a pizza place, which actually isn’t that bad. My family up here teaches English at the local high school. (Yes I see the irony in the fact that I can barely speak the language yet my family’s bread and butter is made from teaching it.) I was left with a pickem up truck, and some directions to some historical sites of interest. There was one other catch; the other occupant in the house was my aunt’s 93-year-old mother, Louise. Now, I had never met her before though she claims we had when I was like 4 or some shit, but she’s 93 so what the fuck does she know anyway. Let me tell you, she’s an absolute delight. Ms. Louise is super on the ball for a 93-year-old, and funny as hell, too. It’s basically just been her and I hanging out every day, just bullshitting around town, wrecking shop, and getting into trouble. Ms. Louise somehow knew where Joe Perry’s from Aerosmiths house was, so we went over there for a bit. He’s a nice guy actually, kinda small though. Not like Danzig small, more like Dio small. Motherfucker must be older than baseball. He assured me that the rumors of Aerosmith breaking up were false, which was a relief to Ms. Louise who celebrates their entire catalogue sans the ugly Get a Grip years. JP gave me Alicia Silverstone’s digits while we were chilling. Shes aight. Not my style, but I would, naw mean? I’d have to say the hanging out with Ms. Louise was definitely a highlight of my trip. She might not do as much cocaine as the Montreal contingent, but she did have her hospice caretaker make me every meal I ate for a week, and that shit was tight. On the last day I had to take her to the doctor to get her blood levels checked, and when the receptionist asked if I was her grandson she said “No, he’s my friend.” Adorable. Let the record show that I fucking hate old people. Oh, she also tried to set me up on a date with the girl who works at the bank. That woman can fucking hustle. Which reminds me of a joke: What does it taste like to go down on a 93-year-old lady? Well, Depends? Get it?
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