Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I dont drink, but sometimes I do.

I am pretty chill dude. I dont do a whole lot, but what I do, I do pretty well. I spend most days sitting in random parks across the world listening to Funkadelic and chain smoking. However, a good buddy of ours died, so I, Logan Dean Worrell, decided to get fucking wasted for a special one day only kinda jam. Bruce would have wanted it that way.

The day started about noon. Had a few Tecates during the service and then headed over to the Parkside for the wake.

By now, I had a pretty good buzz going. Feeling the juices flowing. I remember this feeling. It confused me. I was having fun being really charming and not feeling nauseas at all. This was not to last.

After the service, Dougie was suposed to go home and sleep it off seeing as that he was gonna have to play a show in a few hours. I told him to not even play that fucking game and to get in the fucking car. This is him wasted about an hour after that eating raw chicken about 3 hours before he was schedule to play.

The Rumblers ( the car club Bruce belonged to) threw this whole shindig together. There was fried chicken, fried asparagus, and fried hot dogs. Shit was popping off and that was a good thing, because honestly I had been doing much eating today. My mission was not to eat a lot of delicious food, it was to get shit faced fucking drunk and honor Bruce.

Allan McNaughton couldn't be bothered taking a photo with good ole' Logan, he was too busy looking up how to get from the Parkside to the Royal Mile using nothing but the MUNI. Jerk.

Cissie is not a judge. She is however, more the willing to make a drunken Logan look stupid as fuck. Cissie is an expert in drunken Logan. She has seen me fall off the wagon many time and doesn't bat an eye when she is needed to call me an idiot.

Grant couldn't be bothered to pay for his own drinks. Fuck that noise. Dude is punk and is gonna live his life by his own rules. You gotta respect that. Oh, he also had another full flask in the pocket for when this one ran out.

We are friends. We share everything. Hot dogs, Drinks, Women. Whatever. He was hungry. Who the fuck am I to deny a man something he wants. I'm not the fucking cops.

This is where shit starts to get a little bit hazy. I remember people telling me how cool and handsome I am. I remeber being a really good dancer.

Ooooook, This is who was telling me how cool and handsome I am. Btw. Try some Mentos. Get into it.

Sweatpants Paul also doesnt judge.

I have nothing to say about this.

These are the Young Offenders. Yes, the Young Offenders. They are not young. Not even close. Most are pushing damn near 50 i suppose. And as far as offending, One is a writer for Associated Press, One is a father of 2 and a caring devoted husband. They
sure as fuck dont offend, but the sure as fuck need to keep their day jobs.

So yeah, I liked it.

Dougie did eventually sneak out and take a nap, However it didnt seem to do much of anything.

Look at this mother fucker. He refuses to take a nice photo with his friends. Jesus, sorry to interupt your reading of the new MOUTH SEWN SHUT record in Razorcake. Fuck you too. Braveheart sucked. Haggis sucks. Bay City Rollers suck.

" I just took a whole bunch of MDMA, I think I'm gonna die. "

This is where it all ends. Me walking by Golden Gate park throwing up at 10am. It was fun, but I think I'm good not drinking again for awhile.