Tumbled into Tumblr, wow this place is a mess.

I started a Tumblr account to keep a photo journal recently. No writing, or maybe the occasional quote… All B/W photos of traveling or road stuff while I’m out. I’ve begun to realize although Tumblr has been around for a long time I never really began to find its appeal.

Recently I ran across some quite dark pages, dealing with things like depression, anorexia, anxiety disorders and pretty much anything all related since they feed you posts by your tags. I admire the boldness of the writing and posts I’ve seen. I’m sure WordPress has similar communities but the format is more Twitter-ish (micro-blogging). Even though some of it is quite direct, there is a clarity of truth in a lot of it.

Raw understanding in writing or photos I think is rare. While managing life in a whirlwind of problems at once, sometimes a blind understanding eye or ear is a helpful and welcomed thing.


Apples For Eyes // Bandcamp

All of my recordings can now be downloaded for free at my bandcamp site. From acoustic, to loud punk, to pop punk to the concept work – they all have a new home now. A few of the tracks were on lockdown on my computer but I went ahead and pushed the whole catalog online.

Going back and listening to the stuff from 2012-2014 makes me realize the evolution of my writing and recording, that for some reason you have to keep on doing it. It’s all about survival. And even when you forget about the old stuff, life has its way of coming around full circle and things seem relevant again. There is much to see in that when maybe even in your own time a song had reference to one event, which later could even relate to the present. Funny how that works.


Kill the words falling.


I fucking hate this place..

It’s like throwing yourself into a car window at 80. You will come out with a mouth full of glass. And your options are a) swallow that glass, which will in time cut you deep enough to bleed you dead or b) you cough and spit that broken glass up. Which will also really wreck your life. It will leave marks and broken parts all across the floor. You will be able to see that disaster for what it was. I don’t have the time to let things kill me anymore. Maybe you do, but I don’t.

And 20 years later you would think that someone gets you. Finally. I mean I get it with people half my age, I get it. It is what it is, and as a very active musician they are everywhere. And yet you would think being wired for loyalty would attract like minds.

Never let your guard down. It really doesn’t matter. 20 years, 20 days, 20 minutes. 20 Arms flailing at you wrapped in razor wire are much easier to deal with than being forced to digest much worse things. That undeniable change that were rocks hailing against the rattling pane. You fucking knew.

I have dealt with a ton of shit in life. I’ve been thrown the shit stick my share of times. We all have. Life doesn’t owe you anything. And people are bred into their own self-destructive patterns that will spin things out of control into your court. And you choose whether or not to play a role in that part that follows.

Coming off 38 days sick and I’m fucking tired.

You want it. You got it. You fucking wear it.

Disaster Later / Disasterbater

I spent a time, a long long time
To make me think there was something left in me
A waste of time, in my head
Slowly rotting heart is the one that wins the game

We are nothing
There is nothing left inside – disaster later
We are nothing
There is nothing to decide – disasterbater

I won’t look back, to what you said
Doesn’t matter now I can’t see straight anymore
The red bird died, it died today
Rotting vines left inside all torn away

We are nothing
There is nothing left inside – disaster later
We are nothing
There is nothing to decide – disasterbater

I used to think, we had a place
Kill the words falling as they stack upon the floor
I know I’m wrong, I see your face
Gut clenched inside as I hear the closing door
I won’t look back, to what you said
Doesn’t matter now I can’t see straight anymore
The red bird dies, it dies today
Rotting vines left inside all torn away

Scott Free / Worm Suicide 2016


110 in 15.


Worm Suicide 2016 by Dave Prewitt / DaveTV.org

It’s been a year plus since I’ve sat here, and it reminds me of how an old jar of pennies smells like blood.

I’ve performed at least if not over 110 punk shows in the last 15 months. I’ve learned how to gear up for on and off stage in about 3 minutes. I can juggle standing in leg braces, playing guitar, singing and wrangling a pint glass of beer to my face with 90% success (so far). I’ve ridden hundreds of miles if not thousands, in a tour van next to a 6 x 3 foot window constructed entirely of shattered glass, cardboard and grey duct tape. I’ve vomited several times in my lap after shows, I’ve also vomited out said van door in an uncontrollable bellowing spill of how “this is what punk rock is, about, and should always be”.

I’ve had copious amounts of alcohol thrown at me, on me, and all over my equipment. I’ve played with numerous acts that if told I’d have gotten to share the stage with 15 years ago, I’d say you were bat shit crazy. I’ve been felt on by women after shows that I knew I’d never see again. I’ve falling in an out of lust more times than surgeries I’ve had – and in relation to, directly or indirectly, I have fallen drunk off the curb into the street at 2:30am on a cold New Years eve in South Texas. I’ve drunk more shots of poor whiskey on stage than that were good for me. I have taken photos with fans in places and wondered “why in the hell are they taking a selfie with me, I smell like ass”. I’ve played arenas. I’ve played house parties. I’ve played on a floor of a bar that slung more meth than Walter White. I’ve been offered every illicit substance on the planet in a bathroom complete with a half-inch of standing water, or piss or a mixture of both. I’ve slept in places, on things that 45-year-old bones shouldn’t be sleeping on.


Worm Suicide 2016 by Dave Prewitt / DaveTV.org

I’ve been mad at my band mates. I have also known they are the maddest thing for me. I’ve almost collapsed from stage heat, lights, physical exhaustion and a combination of alcohol poisoning. I’ve played sick with the shits, hung over with the shits, with mexican food shits and probably other shits just related to damage to my body over the years. I’ve learned how to find that energy to play one more song when you knew your set was done two songs ago. I’ve gotten to experience the feeling of one person coming up to the stage and saying “man that was great!”, and knowing that even though you weren’t getting paid enough that night, it was well enough now to have gotten to play.

I’m lucky. I’m beat up. I have dreams of kissing old girlfriends at times. I miss a lot of things. I have to scream because it’s all I have. This is probably only half of what I thought to write about. Probably the other half I forgot, or drank, or drowned out, or drowned in.

I think it’s too much for some. And a lot won’t get it. And a lot may get it years after it’s all done. And I guess at that time, then it will be enough.