a day in the life of logan.

I've been refereed to as a simple man whose extremely complicated. Complicated it seems to me means retarded. I think more accurately it would be safe to assume that I Logan Dean Worrell am self indulgent, lazy, neuritic and egotistical. Sitting around the house is alot of commitment. You got to have your whole day planned out and still be able to take a little time you good ole' number 1. Example, I know that today I would wake up when i deemed it warm enough to walk to the bathroom naked and once I had smoked a couple cigarettes, eating the cold bbq from last night would be the next move. I figured this would happen around 10 am. After that a possible early morning masturbation would commence followed by a trip to the video store to pick up about 3 dvds that only a teenage girl would watch. Sometime around 3 or 4 was the time I had allotted to completely amerce myself into organizing my records by genre and county of origin. Now, I knew all of this while falling asleep. This was the plan after all and deviating from the plan was just not and option.

This is what actually happened. It was cold and I decided that it was in my best interest to sleep till about 1pm. After my initial rise I chatted with Scott for about an hour while trying to subdue the piss that was building up inside of me. Like I said it was cold and basically sucked real fucking bad, so instead of making the 10 step voyage the water closet I relieved myself in the TOPO CHICO bottle full of cigarette that was sitting on my desk. I underestimated the amount of urine I needed to release so half way through I had to switch from the bottle to a left over WHATABURGER Styrofoam cup from earlier this weekend. This was beneficial for a couple reasons. One, is that I didnt have to waste my time walking to the toilet. Two is that I did get that chance to exercise my KEGAL muscle making my midday jack off sesh all that more exciting. After my piss explosion, it was time to leave the house. Of course I was starving, but duh to the fact that I wanted to save the BBQ for dinner I got my free stuff acquiring on. This is the point in the day when I go all around town going to places where I get free shit. I did that for about 3 hours and came home. Once, I got home I argued with the bank over the phone for awhile. If anybody asks I was out of the country taking care of my girlfriend who got hit by a car and that's what my account was overdrawn 200 bucks. After the nice Wells Fargo lady in the customer services dept. was done commending me for being such a selfless individual, I went ahead and went for round 2 on the hand job tip.

After that I just ended up sitting around eating cold BBQ sandwiches with bread I made Lucas bring home from work. Regardless of what I was supposed to do, I did nothing and still stayed up till 4 am for no reason at all.

Last week my house got broken into. Well not just my house, my fucking bedroom. I was woken up around 5am by a friend who was staying over, crawled out of my loft naked as the day I was born and low and behold there was a frat boysitting on the couch in my room. Now, I’m from Texas and we don’t play that game where I come from so, my first instinct was to shoot the motherfucker, get all Felix Havoc on him and shit. Seeing as I had sold my gun a few years prior, I was literally clueless on how to handle the situation. Do I call the fuzz? Do I run away? Do I take matters into my own hands and beat the Dave Mathews Band loving motherfucker with nothing but a dick and pair of black socks? After quickly reviewing my options, I decided that the third would be the most effective at the moment in time. Not being a big tough mean good ole boy I did the best I could with what I had, my dick and my socks. He wasn’t the best I ever had, so beating the ever living shit outta him wasn’t much, but damn was it weird. Remember that movie Eastern Promises? It was kinda like that only I ain’t good looking and I don’t believe he was of Russian descent. Needless to say, my roommates came into the living room where the smack down took place and helped me get the dude the fuck outta the house. It’s been kind of a rocky year for me and having to use that much force against a guy really made me feel like shit. He deserved it sure, but I’m getting tired of being the bad guy. That’s me through and through. The kind of guy that is willing to take one for the team, be made example of, or deliver the bad news and I’m getting real tired of it. What could I have done differently? Should I have called the cops? Being a punk I have some deep seeded hatred for the cops, which I know is not a unique sentiment in out community. Especially what my checked past with the man, I ain’t about to call the pigs. You tell me what do you think a cop would do if he got called to a punk house at 5am and found my naked, covered in tattoos, a 6inch beard having ass chilling over a beat down Frisbee golf enthusiast. Ill tell you what he’d do, TAKE ME TO FUCKING JAIL. Fuck that. I'm too old and too cute for that shit. On the bright side I did get to really impress a cute girl and my roommates now officially know who wears the pants in the family.

I kinda realized that a bunch of dumb shit has happened to me over the years. Like when the van exploded and I lost all my shit. That was weak. It was absolutely the worst way to end a great tour. There I was minding my own business listening to George Lopez and next thing you know Im freezing my ass off on the side of the Highway watching everything I love go up in flames. The last thing I remember before the van we on fire was Eddie asking me why I was laughing since I didn’t get the jokes anyway, being white and all. I mean, no I didn’t get the jokes, but a lot of shit was real funny at that point in time. Now, very strange thoughts go through your head when you watch ALL YOUR SHIT being burnt beyond recognition. The first one being, what could I have possibly done to deserve this? Was it god-punishing Timmy for buying the BATHORY LP? Was it the goat or some shit we hit? Maybe a chubacabra. Was it those fine ass girls on the copy of the 2 LIVE CREW record in the trunk bumping and grinding too hard that I got the van all heated up? Who knows? What I do know is that I ended up riding in the back of a border patrol paddy wagon for and hour on our way to a shitty hotel in the desert. It would have been completely unbearable if it weren’t for the Nyquil and Tecate mix TJ and me got popping, I don’t know what Ida done. Calling my mom asking for bus fair for Timmy and me was kinda funny though. “ Hi mom, its me Logan, remember how you told me to be careful, well guess what just happened, oh and send money.” Almost got arrested in San Antone on the way back to Austin for fighting a security guard in the greyhound station. Bad day.

Who knows why this kinda shit happens. All I know is that there is no god and if there is one, he’s a fucking bastard. I'd like to take this time to address a couple things…. Pick your King is the greatest hardcore record off all not, not victim in pain as was otherwise thought. Check out the DESKONOCIDOS records that just came out because they are better then most of the stuff that you listen to you. Id also like to address that my good friend Bruce Rhoers is the best dude alive and all of you should stop and talk that man whenever you see him, buy him a beer and ask him about the time he saw the MC5. Trust me it’s a way better story then I could tell and they are a way than the time you saw WARKRIME.

Send hate mail to:

Sir Logan Esq.

3306 Larry Ln Unit A

Austin, Tx 78722

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

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:

Ldworrell@gmail.com

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?

Send bullshit to ldworrell@gmail.com

Those save the children ads can really fuck somebody up. Just add and little booze and a shitty day, maybe a menstrual cramp or 2, next thing you know, you’re sending 10% of your paycheck each month to Nigeria. This exact thing happened to my home girl Randa a couple months back. She was drinking watching TV, feeling kinda emotional or whatever, called the 1800IMFUKINHUNGRY whatever and gave them a credit card number over the phone. She had completely forgotten she had done it until a month later when Abakar sent her a letter. Abakar seemed like sweet enough of a kid I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing. Enclosed was a touching little drawing he drew for her and of course a picture of little Abakar. Kinda cruel, but I swear to god he looks just like a kid on the back of one of those CRASS records. Kid couldn’t draw for shit in my opinion. Seriously, a fucking palms tree, a couple birds, and some sand. Definitely not dealing with Van Gough, naw mean? Any who, I was really proud of her for doing something so selfless and it really stuck for the first couple months well until she was broke. “ Jesus, I'm so broke, I'm not even gonna have enough money to send Abakar his 23 dollars this month”- says Randa while drinking a beer staring at a cable TV in a central air-conditioned house. I'm sure he’ll understand. Maybe she should send him a snickers bar or maybe a Bob Ross paint by numbers book. Kid needs all the help he can get. I wonder is he can hook me up with any Nigerian psych records. I got money, just saying.

Abakar got me thinking. Fuck we are some lucky motherfuckers. More or less for my entire life if had nothing but first world problems. I don’t come from money or anything, cough, Brace, cough, but i've never had to eat of a trash unless I was trying to impress a I chose to, usually to impress a girl which is entirely different thing all together. I did get called “trash kid” when dad made me wear a trash bag for a raincoat while waiting for the bus. He said I didn’t need an actual raincoat since we lived in Texas and it never really rained anyway. Thanks Dad. Most of the people I know, myself included, live in reasonably nice house, are able to bathe on at least a semi regular basis, depending on preference, and can eat pretty much whatever we want, whenever we want. Right now in fact, i'm on a 2 and half-month vacation. A little work here and there, but hardly anything to bitch about, though im sure I will a bit. What a piece of shit I am.

I’ve shit myself 5 times in the past 2 years. Now, this fucks up my previous assumption that’d id at least shit myself 5 times during my entire adult life. That could still be case I suppose, I just can’t play Mexican roulette again till I'm dead or dying. I don’t know why I just told you that. I guess I just feel really comfortable around and for some reason. Ill always fined it really funny when people bet on a fart and lose, though I don’t particularly enjoy bathroom humor. It happens more then you’d think, btw.

Right now, I'm sitting at MRR headquarters once again finishing this column last minute. The first stop on this long strange trip is, in case you couldn’t figure it out, San Francisco. You locals got a great thing going on here, beautiful weather, great food, amazing people watching. Bailey, the lady I'm staying with, lives in the Castro. FUCK. Shit pops off down there. Now, I'm from Texas and the Castro is literally encompasses every reconvened notion of what we think of San Francisco to be. I love it. Shitless dudes, drag queens, and huge slides. It is kinda weird seeing so many babies being pushed around down there though. Whats that all about? I went into a sex shop called “ Does your mother know?” a couple of days ago to pick up a few things on the way home. Dude at the counter reminded me of the dog whisper. Really cute Puerto Rican guy, with maybe like a CRISS ANGEL vibe going on. Any who, as I was checking out he asked where I was headed, I told him my lady friends house and with that awesome Dog Whispers Puerto Rican lisp he said, ehh lady friend. Made me feel like a million bucks. Thanks Castro Street. You gave me confidence back .

Now to address a couple punk things…. DYS “Wolfpack” goes real fucking hard, still. I continue to like Bruce Rhoers more then most people and Dolores park a Saturday fucking sucks. As much I hate to admit it, SF’s WILD THING, is really good. DISCHARGE is also pretty good, if you like that sorta thing, you know, like perfect things. There’s this fest in Austin where I live called fun fun fun fest. It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to music. I put it up there with the SPICE GIRLS. Actually the SPICE GIRLS have way more integrity (INTEGRITY actually played FFF once too) then FUNFUNFUN because at least they don’t hide who they are. Its basically some yuppie with a Japanese tattoo sleeve who maybe used to be down, book a bunch of bands who broke up 20 years ago, who I'm sure had a really good reason to do so in the first place. I think last year BAD BRAINS played. How the fuck are you gonna put BB on the fest named after a BIG BOYS song. That’s not cute or funny, its just plain disrespectful. This year its just a kick in the dick over and over again. Fucking 7 seconds to Gorilla Biscuits to Dazing. Why must this man make such a mockery of my child hood? Leave the Reunion shows for the fucking Eagles.

Mexico

Walking on Water

I had just got home from an amazing trip when all of a sudden reality was thrown in my face by this stupid, white Rasta fuck who hangs out at my work. “Yo Ras, Ras?” Fuck it kills me.the closes place to Jamaica that assholes been was the reggae section at Best buy. Every time I hear that piece of shit call me Rasta a little piece of me dies. In an attempt to avoid further aggravation I bolted out back door holding 3 plates of bullshit making a B line for table 23. Once I got through the back do my coworker’s 3 year old daughter Olive was standing before me directly in my path. “Watch out Olive baby”, “fuck off Logan”, was her reply. Being told to fuck off by a 3 year old was an all time low for me. Why couldn’t I be back down south where the good times and the bowel movements flowed like wine.

I had spent the last few weeks touring around Mexico with my homies or to you less cultured individuals, my amigos. Mexico is a lot like summer camp, the foods good and you don’t wanna sit on any toilet seats. Everyone was so amazing and the weather was top notch. Being a Texan man such as myself, it was a very welcomed change to be able to go from 100+ degree weather to 70 degree weather with the crossing of a little imaginary line. The “scene” there is incredible. Everyone’s just trying to have fun. It seemed to me and my “amigos” that people there are just looking for one hell of a good time while trying the escape the same meaningless dull void that we also call life.

The Food:

“Mexican” food or as BSA calls it, “normal” food is gods gifts to punks. Want it vegan? No problem. Want to get down with some carne? Fuck yeah you do. Want it vegan but secretly want them to fuck up your order thus giving you a weird get out of jail “I don’t know how to say no cheese in Spanish” free card. No Problem. Down there they have these things called Tortas or sandwiches as we call them in the Texas. Now tortas are just like sandwiches except that they taste way better then sandwiches. Also a popular traditional Mexican dish is something called a taco. Now, bear with me if you can. A taco is kinda like a burrito or little donkey except it actually stays together when you try to eat. No napkins required. Remember that name Yankees. Taco. Often times while dinning you will be entertained by traditional Mexican folk music. In Morelia we had the pleasure of dinning with crust punk while lulled into an eating frenzy with the powerful rhythms of the Village People and MC Hammer. No shit. Oh well, it beats shitty crust. There’s also this food called….. Well I forgot what its called, but its supposed to taste like fish though its just tvp and bullshit. Anyway, it sucks.

The Terrain:

Mexico has a vast plethora of geographical landscapes for your traveling pleasure. Wither you fancy the deserts of Nuevo Leon or the lush mountainous forests of the state of Mexico, south of the Rio Grande has got a little but for everyone. I swear I saw a chubacabra fucking a jackalope in the desert by Sal Tillo, but I guess it could’ve just been a mirage or a KFC or something. I think my favorite is definitely the mountains. We don’t really have those things here in big Tex, we have something more like big hills which rich people use to build houses on so they can continually be able to look down upon and keep a watchful eye of the poor. We played one of the shows up in the mountains of Mexico City at a squat. We played on the roof while it was raining. It was kinda like a poor mans Woodstock, but for actual poor people, not some rich kids with too much time, money, and bad acid on their hands. There were some cholos from the states trying to get in the show for free who wanted us to get them in. Not on my watch.

Oh, a cholo is just an asshole with style. See Despise You.

The People:

I love Mexicans. Ive been touring with em for years and goddamn I love em. Keep the Dutch. Send more Mexicans. I had so much fun with the people down there that is brought tears to my eyes when I had to leave. Our generous host bought us into their homes, their country, and their hearts. There was Tio, one of my favorites. I know Tio means uncle in Spanish, but I still found myself calling him uncle Tio most of the time.

Tio like 2 things, drinking and Swedish Pop music, which dramatically differed from his appearance. I always preferred it when he drove. Mother fucker drove fast as hell with no disregard for stop sings, traffic signals, and lanes. You can’t drive in Mexico City on certain days so for the seconds Mexico show we had to take trains and then later random cars to get to the show. On the way home, Tio drove us back to Roger’s house during a torrential downpour. The streets got flooded due to the horrible drainage system, but Tio decided during theses hazardes conditions that the best way to get home was a drive real fucking fast thus getting us there in a hurry. If it would have been that I had already shit in a bush by the venue I would’ve right there in his car. Mastur was our driver for the majority of the trip. He also liked equal parts shitty crust and Swedish pop music. Ok, 70- 30 crust to pop, but who’s counting. His dad “Don Master” came to the last show with us in Monterrey. That dude knows how to party and smoke. A friend of Masters gave us some organic tobacco from Oaxaca he has grown. Matt, Master, and I took pulls off that shit like little babies, Don Master took a puff and just shrugged and said he had better. We were green.

That about sums up my Mexican adventure, I miss it more and more everyday. Europe aint got shit on you Mexico. You’re like the Geto Boys and their like Soulja Boy. You got more balls then a dude with 3 balls. No to get back to work and make coffee and serve food to worthless hippies who don’t care if I live or die just so long as I don’t scuff up their yoga mat with my shoes.

No to get back to work and make coffee and serve food to worthless hippies who don’t care if I live or die just so long as I don’t scuff up their yoga mat with my shoes.