Clearly I came into Henry Rollins much too late in life to have any relevance whatsoever.
I picked up "Do I Come Here Often" at Half Price Books Records and Magazines (or HPB for short) for $2.
Clearly I would have gleaned more enjoyment from the 2 Wendy's Doublestacks I could have spent that money on because by page 30, I was done.
This is what people with money did in 1996 before blogs. They journaled. Then they published their journals in the form of an easy to digest and read on the train and look interesting and semi-hip whilst doing it book.
And I'm reading this thing. This book that was written in 1996 when he was in his 30's and he's whining about shit like he's some 19yr old trust fund baby who wonders why the world isn't the way he thinks it should be.
And I just had to give it a big old "WTF, Mate?" I'm missing something. I think what I'm missing is timeliness. If I had started reading/listening/giving two rips about Rollins back when he was in his prime (like back in high school when Ian was reading/listening/giving two rips about him), he might have had some impact on my life or at least my outlook.
Perhaps I put too much hope and expectation in a 2 dollar tome. I was expecting some words of wisdom from the dude who did vocal duties for part of the life of Black Flag (thanks to Kara P for me even knowing who the violent femmes, dead kennedys, black flag even were let alone having ever heard them). But still...damn. I was looking for some kind of nugget.
Clearly I didn't find it. By page 30 I had given up. Repetitive journal entries about "different-town-same-routine-killed-last-night-tired-today-want-to-be-back-touring-with-the-band" just got old. And I had very nearly lost the script (but hadn't completely abandoned hope by this point)...and that's when he really lost me.
A chapter on how great David Lee Roth is. That pretty much did me in. I'm not going to lie. I've been known to play me a little Van Halen. And in the context of Van Halen, Roth is the consumate showman...but fugg, dude, he was NOT a musical genius (in my humble opinion). He just had charisma out the ass (insert your own sodomy joke here). So, if I was about off the Rollins train by then, that chapter was the bullet on the tracks that send the train careening to sudden "CHiPS"-car-rolling-downhill-and-exploding-for-no-reason (other than to give me another excuse to misuse the mighty hyphen).
So. I'm mostly done reading Rollins now. I'm guessing he probably has a blog or some shite like that out there, so I might give that a gander. But in the Venn Diagram that is my life and Rollins', I don't see too many things intersecting. This is probably a good thing.
And now, the chicken fettucini is done so I must go (note to self, don't listen to a Paul Oakenfold set whilst waiting for the timer to go off...the beeping of the timer blends in surprisingly well).
The house lights are down. The audience an invisible mass gathered with a low jumbled murmuring sit restless, somewhere out there in a cloud...
It's 5:40 AM on a Wednesday. I have been up for an hour. I have an outline for a work in progress that I intended to work on this mornin...
If the title surprises you, it should. The post that follows saddens me. It saddens me that in this day and age I even have to post somethin...
There are roughly three hours left in NaNo. And I'm fried. Not literally because it's Ohio. And it's November. My brain is ki...