Shit From an Old Notebook

I Wanna Disconnect Myself: A Thing About the First Time I Met Henry Rollins (Slight Return)

/ Rev. Joel / 1 Comment

In the interest of posting somewhat regularly, I’m gonna share a thing here that was previously published on my old blog, Stay Heavy. I think it’s pretty funny, and maybe you will too. I did some light editing before I mashed that “Publish” button, on account of I’m a better writer now than I was eight years ago. I also added some YouTube clips and a few footnotes.

_________________________

The second time I met Henry Rollins was embarrassing for me, but only in retrospect. I somehow experienced very little embarrassment while it was happening, and frankly, the fact that I wasn’t too embarrassed from the first meeting to even try to talk to him a second time is very out of character, but depression can lead to poor decision making. I was definitely nervous, but I was also uncharacteristically confident in the moment, and that confidence is responsible for the better part of my retrospective embarrassment.

This song contains bibles full of truth.

I went with my buddy Owen to see Rollins Band in Cincinnati in the summer of 1999, and afterward, we hung around the bus because I wanted to give Mr. Rollins a copy of this self-printed collection of poems and journal entries I’d put together. I wish that last part wasn’t true.

My writing back then was heavily influenced by Rollinses writing, especially his earlier writings, and I put the book together during a real big sad time in my life.1 As if all the words inside the book weren’t embarrassing enough, I also included a hand-written note inside, encouraging him to contact me with any thoughts or feedback he might have. I wish that wasn’t true.

Here’s a sample:2

For E—–
You are the devil
You are evil
In its purest form
You crushed my pitiful heart
You left it bleeding and
Bruised and
Destroyed and
I hope You have a
Merry Christmas

That’s actually one of the few that I don’t hate, although I think it’d be funnier if the last line was “Happy birthday” instead of “Merry Christmas”. Dig how I capitalized “You” in the penultimate line. Only a true Poet could come up with something so profound.

The only part of the entire experience that does not currently embarrass me is the fact that he liked the title (All Aboard the Joel Train), which, as it happens, is the only part of the entire book (aside from the poem above) that does not currently embarrass me. Putting the book together helped me work through some shit, but I definitely wish I hadn’t given out so many copies so freely.

Watching this live on TV was a transformative experience. Immediately after the song ended, I went into my bedroom and called a girl up and asked her to prom and I didn’t even throw up once.

But we were talking about the first time I met Henry Rollins. That was embarrassing then and now, but it’s also pretty hilarious, and hilarity is why we’re here today.

A whole mess of us (Travis, Darin, Casey, and Casey’s cousin Stacey3) drove up to Indianapolis to see Rollins Band on their tour for 1997’s supremely underrated Come in and Burn. Skunk Anansie opened, and none of us knew what to make of them, although I never forgot their song “Yes It’s Fucking Political”. I’ve listened to them since, and they’re great. I’d definitely like to see them live again, with my more sophisticated middle-aged musical palette.

Still relevant.

Rollins Band was amazing. The crowd was great. Melvin Gibbses bass is still causing my insides to jiggle thirty years on. When the show ended, everyone (Travis and myself excluded) wanted to hang around the bus to try and meet the band, and especially Rollins.

Touch your fear, don’t be afraid.

I should point out that it’s not like Travis and I didn’t wanna meet Henry Rollins. Shit, we wanted to be his best friends. But as voracious readers of his writing and listeners to his music and spoken word performances, we knew that he wasn’t into the whole shaking hands/small talk thing (which I totally get – small talk is the fucking worst), and he wanted people to be happy with the band pouring their hearts and souls and guts out all over the stage (which I also totally get), and we didn’t wanna look foolish in front of Henry.

In short, we thought we were pretty fucking cool.

Anyway, we’re all hangin around the bus, along with some other like-minded fans, and the entire band comes out (sans Rollins), and they’re extremely friendly and more than happy to chat with us for a bit. I told Melvin he was a “bass god”, which embarrassed him, but I stand by that assertion. They all signed stuff for us, and it was cool, and then Rollins came out and began to make the rounds.

Casey showed him his driver’s license, which indicated that they have the same birthday (2.13), and Rollins said “cool, are you a genius too?” and we all laughed, and then everybody else talked to him, one after the other, and I made Travis let me go last to give me as much time as possible to think of something cool and memorable to say to the man who was, at the time, one of my idols, and frankly is one of the reasons I’m still here today.4

It finally comes down to me.

Go time. 

My Brain: Don’t be nervous. You’re cool. Say something cool.

My Voice: That was a really great show.

Rollins: Thanks very much, I appreciate that.

My Brain: You’re doin great. Just keep it cool.

My Voice: I really loved your part in The Chase. It’s like, the greatest movie of all time.

A lonesome train horn sounds in the distance. Otherwise, silence.

Rollins: Whoa.

My Brain: Jesus fuckin CHRIST.

My Voice: Um.

Rollins: Thank you, but you really should see more movies. Maybe check out A Streetcar Named Desire. It’s a lot better than The Chase.

My Brain: Jesusfuckinchrist.

My Voice: Um.

And, scene!

I swear upon all that is sacred and holy in the multiverse, I DID NOT EVER think The Chase was the greatest movie of all time, or even “like” the greatest movie of all time. Why did I tell Henry Rollins I thought that? Why did those words come out of my mouth?!

WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME?!?!

In case you are unfamiliar with the “greatest movie of all time”, here’s the synopsis from Wikipedia: “The Chase is a 1994 American action film directed by Adam Rifkin and starring Charlie Sheen and Kristy Swanson, depicting a wrongfully-convicted man who kidnaps a wealthy heiress and leads police on a lengthy car chase in an attempt to escape prison. It features Henry Rollins, Josh Mostel, and Ray Wise in supporting roles, with cameo appearances by pornographic film actor Ron Jeremy and Anthony Kiedis and Flea of the rock band Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

Why yes, they do have sex while speeding down the freeway during the chase. That’s not even the dumbest part of the movie.

Rollins and Mostel play the cops who are in primary pursuit throughout the titular chase, and they have a Cops-style camera crew in the car with them. Rollins enthusiastically plays the role of Over-the-Top Asshole Tough Guy Cop, and is easily the most consistently entertaining part of the entire movie, which I have to say again, I have never once almost though it to be the greatest movie of all time, even though I told Henry Rollins I thought that.

If The Chase sounds like it could be a pretty fun and/or really dumb movie, that’s because it is in fact both,5 but I have to make sure I’m being crystal clear about this: as much I used to enjoy watching The Chase, and as much as I thoroughly enjoyed Henry Rollins’ performance as an over-the-top asshole cop, I have never once even considered considering The Chase to be anywhere near even the bottom of any list of “Greatest Movies of All Time”, past or present, but for some reason, I told Henry Rollins I thought that.

I’m sure Travis talked to him about John Coltrane or something cool like that, but Henry Rollins definitely left that encounter thinking I was an idiot, and I can’t say that he was wrong to think that.

_________________________

This concludes the previously published content of today’s post. Thanks for reading. Why not tell a friend? I’ll leave you with a live performance of my favorite song from Come in and Burn. Put on some headphones and let that rumbling groove help you get your shit correct.

You’ll always say you hate me, but you’ll watch me anyway. It’s a pain you can’t resist.
  1. I’ve already kinda started, but I’m almost ready to really dig into my wilderness years. I can’t promise it’ll be exciting, but I assure you it will be awkward. ↩︎
  2. This poem was previously published in a poetry anthology called In-between Days, which is also a story for another time. ↩︎
  3. Darin, Casey, and Stacey were in a pretty badass band called Circle of Illusions, and Travis and I were their unofficial sometimes roadies and Number One Fans. I have something brewing in my brain about Circle of Illusions, too. When it rains it pours, eh? ↩︎
  4. At this point in my life, I was less than one year away from my discovery of The Bouncing Souls, which I wrote about previously. ↩︎
  5. Really good soundtrack, too. ↩︎

Here’s What I Learned Living Under My Rock: A Thing About Working, Writing, and Getting By

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

My friend Ryan gave me a book a couple of years ago called Several Short Sentences About Writing, by a dude named Verlyn Klinkenborg. I may’ve mentioned it on this blog before, but that was maybe on Facebook instead, or maybe it was just in my head. The book discusses the importance of the humble sentence. It aims to get the reader/writer to think about each sentence as almost an entity unto itself. No sentence is any more important than the other, because the sentence really is all there is. Without the sentence, there would be no paragraph. There would be no literature. It’s an interesting book, and it’s helped me become more confident in my writing. I remain a bit embarrassed about making it public, yet I persist in the practice.

Before I go on, I gotta get this outta the way: Verlyn Klinkenborg! Whatta name! I recommend shouting “Klinkenbooooooooorg!” as you shake your fist angrily at a cold, empty, uncaring sky. It’s fun.

Homer Simpson shakes his fists at a cold, empty, uncaring sky above the Box Factory and shouts "Klinkenbooooooooorg!" while Bart Simpson's lucky red hat sits on top of a double-corrugated, eight-fold, fourteen-gauge box.
Like this. Frinkiac, you’ve done it again.

So anyway, I was showering earlier, listening to Drug Church and shaving my head, as I often do after work, and I started thinking about the fact that I practically never sit down and write, even though I love to write, and even though I know that writing makes me feel better. Writing has always made me feel better, so why don’t I do it more often? Like for real?

When tired is the entire sum, that shit just makes you tiresome.

But I was talking about Several Short Sentences About Writing, by Verlyn Klinkenborg. I noticed the book on the shelf while I was getting dressed after my shower, and I was reminded of the humble sentence, and I crammed that memory together with my shower quandary and made a regular ol Frankenstein’s monster of a realization that I should sit down and write a few sentences, and see where it goes.

So far, right here.

I’ve been working in foodservice for almost 32 years now. (For the record, that’s 66.6% of my life so far spent preparing and/or delivering food to people. That’s both metal as fuck and a stone cold bummer.) For almost the entirety of my history as an employed human being, I’ve been keeping a journal in some form or another. I am in possession of dozens of my journals from as far back as late high school/early college. Sometimes I look through them. The reasons vary. One time I’ll be moved by nostalgia, one of my greatest enemies. The next, I’ll be in search of something hilarious I remember writing down, or the date of a concert. Maybe I can’t figure out what to write about, and I need some inspiration. It’s happened before.

Sometimes I’ll find a cool doodle I made, complete with song lyrics. I’m not sure what’s goin on here, other than a self-portrait of sorts, but I like it.

In this case, the song is “Disbelieve” by Drag the River.
Goddamn, whatta band!

A common subject in so very many of those journal entries is the fact that I don’t write often enough, and that I don’t wanna be working in foodservice when I’m 50. It’s recently come to my attention that I’m almost fifty years old. The way I figure it, in today’s economy, and going off the premise that we have at least two years left as a civilization, I’ve got maybe three options for not working in foodservice when I’m fifty goddamn years old. Here they are forthwith, in no particular order:

  1. Become dead.
  2. Become rich (preferably as fuck).
  3. Get into management (likely still foodservice, less standing, more meetings).

Thing is, as much as I dislike the foodservice industry, I’ve disliked every other industry I’ve worked in more. Retail, construction…I guess that’s pretty much it. I did some screen printing work for about a month in my early twenties. I enjoyed it, and my boss was cool, but I quit, on account of I didn’t like having to drive 30 minutes each way to work a second part-time job when my primary part-time job was driving around delivering pizza all night. What I’m saying is that where employment is involved, my current situation could be worse. It has been worse, even in the last couple of years.

So the new life plan I came up with in the shower is to keep workin for The Man and payin the bills until I can figure out how to get rich as fuck, and meanwhile to stop thinkin and talkin about writing, and sit the fuck down and write as much as I can, every chance I get, whether I show it to anyone else or not, just like I used to do all the time. Because I’m a writer, goddamnit, and I always have been. At best, I’ll write something I can feel comfortable sharing. At worst, I’ll feel better afterward.

“Remember, a writer writes, always.” – Larry Donner

That’s all I got for now. Thanks for reading. Tell your friends. And listen to Drag the River. You’re welcome.

Speaking of Daryl

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

My friend Chris made another comic out of one of my dumb stories. This is it. I like it a lot. The other one is fun too, but I like this one more. It’s also based on a true story. I apologize for the formatting. I don’t know how to make it better, and quite frankly I don’t care enough to take the time to figure it out right now.

Thanks for reading!

The Great Trumpet Will Sound

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

I had a crush on the same girl from kindergarten through 5th grade. In grade two a few of my friends and I would play this game at recess where some of the girls would snatch the hats off our heads (usually after a swift kick to the balls) and run, and we’d try to catch them. I should mention that the sole reason we wore hats outside at recess was so the girls would kick us in the balls and take them off our heads. Why were we into that? Who came up with the idea? Seriously, what the sincere, actual fuck?

Anyway, I always wanted Angie to take my hat, because I liked her, but when she did, I could never catch her, because she was easily the fastest girl in our class. She was probably the fastest person in our class, period. Fuck, could she run. I always wanted to do whatever Angie was doing, because I liked her, and that’s what I thought liking someone was all about. Doing the same things, together, all the time.

So when I found out Angie was gonna play trumpet in 5th grade band, I had no choice but to beg my parents to get me a trumpet. They finally relented, scoring me a used trumpet on payments at a local music store. This was gonna be the answer, I thought…all my Angie-related dreams were about to come true, and it would all begin with me sitting next to her in band practice.

I ended up being accidentally kinda good at the trumpet (or I was better than the other 5th graders, anyway), so I quickly earned the first chair position, which immediately made me nervous. I’ve never wanted to be in charge of anything, and I don’t much care for being looked at, but I accepted my new role with the all grace and aplomb that a 10-year-old boy can exhibit.

For our annual Christmas concert that December, the 5th and 6th grade bands were combined into a Super Band (not its real name), I assume with the purpose of shortening the overall concert time, since there were also choir performances slated for pretty much every grade, and ain’t nobody got time for that. Since the bands were combined, I was seated to the left of the 6th grade first chair trumpet, Jackie.

One of the songs we were performing that night was “Carol of the Bells”, and I was tasked with the heavy responsibility of beginning the song 100% solo. I was nervous, but at the same time, I was as confident as I’ve probably ever been in my life. The time came, the band director indicated that the floor was mine, and I began to blow a perfect rendition. She quickly waved me to a stop, did something with her hands that seemed to indicate that I should be playing louder, and started things up again. I once again played flawlessly, and as loud as I could possibly play, and she once again waved me to a stop, and did the same thing with her hands again.

I was sweating through my clothes at this point, beyond embarrassed, and wanting nothing more than to simply disappear forever. I was just about to start playing a third time, even louder this time (I don’t know if that would even have been possible), when Jackie leaned over to me and said “you’re in the wrong key”. Turns out while I was playing the notes correctly, I was indeed playing in the wrong key, and the band teacher’s hand motions didn’t mean that I should play louder, they meant that I should be playing an octave higher.

https://youtu.be/J0uGnm3dGvc
30 seconds in, that was me, but one entire octave too low.

Angie quit the trumpet after 6th grade, but my parents wouldn’t let me quit, as they’d paid a small fortune, relatively speaking, to satisfy my schoolboy crush – a crush that by then didn’t even exist anymore. I played on through 7th grade, at basketball games, concerts and the occasional football game, constantly regretting my shortsighted decision to learn how to play the trumpet.

Thankfully, my parents got tired of having to drive me to concerts and games, and upon completion of my 7th grade year, I was allowed to stop playing the trumpet. The cursed instrument went into our attic, where it stayed for the next decade, until I sold it to a former co-worker, and now…

I even had to google “key vs octave”. I still feel a mild twinge of panic when I hear “Carol of the Bells”, though. I’ll never forget that.

Pizza Monster: The Origin Story

/ Rev. Joel / 2 Comments

My pal Collin mentioned yesterday that he’d been reading this esteemed blog, and really wanted to know more about the time I ate 22 pieces of pizza. That story is the first of a few different instances of me becoming what the missus semi-affectionately refers to as “The Pizza Monster”. I’ll probably share the rest of those stories eventually, because they’re pretty funny, but for now, here’s the origin story of my alter ego, The Pizza Monster.

One night, about 30 minutes after finishing my supper (I don’t remember what we ate that night, but I can guarantee I ate seconds of everything, and probably thirds of some things), Travis called to see if I wanted to join him, his brother Tyler, and their mom on a trip to College Mall. I couldn’t turn down that offer – a chance to go to town on a school night? Fuck yeah that wide!

On the drive up, Travis told me we were also gonna go to Mr. Gatti’s after we were finished at the mall. At the time, I’d never been to a Mr. Gatti’s (or even heard of it), and said as much. Travis regaled me with tales of all-you-can-eat pizza, breadsticks, and cheesesticks, plus air hockey, Street Fighter II, skeeball, holy shit was I ever stoked! Travis mentioned that the last time he was there, he ate 20 slices of pizza. Before I even realized what was happening, I responded “I can eat more than that.”

Travis obviously accepted my challenge, and soon after – a mere 2 hours after I’d eaten essentially two full meals with my family – we began our contest. If you’ve ever been to Mr. Gatti’s, you know that not all their slices are cut evenly, so we placed no limitations on size, but we also didn’t purposely choose smaller pieces just to increase our count. We ate and ate and ate, and then we ate some more. When the final buzzer sounded, I’d eaten 22 slices, and Travis had eaten 23.

I want to take this opportunity to remind you that I’d eaten dinner not long before our journey began. We were also definitely guzzling root beers the entire time we ate. If I hadn’t begun the contest on a full stomach, who knows how much pizza I could’ve put away? I may still be there eating pizza to this day. 

Travis, by the way, stands at least 6’5″, and can still destroy some pizza to this day. About five years ago, I saw him devour two New York-style slices (each bigger than my certified XL head) like they were a couple of potato chips, and as recently as three years ago, he ate a large pizza and an order of breadsticks by himself.

As for me, I still wanna eat all the pizza in the world, and I still eat too much of it every single time I eat it (did I mention that I’m a Pizza Monster?), but I’ve never again come close to the glory of that day in 1993 when I consumed 2-3 days’ worth of calories in a mere 4 hours.

Shit From An Old Notebook (with Apologies to the Minutemen)

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

This blog is the natural extension of an old-school cut and paste ‘zine I started working on when I still lived in Austin. My homeboy Jimmy, from back in the day, advised that I just do it online, because it would be cheaper and easier, and in standard Jimmy vs. Joel fashion, I ignored his arguments and instead spent the better part of 5 years putting together 2 issues of Doppelgänger! (A Zine With Some Stuff in It). I’m fairly pleased with the first issue (though some of it strikes me as a little embarrassing now), and I’m mostly satisfied with Issue #2, but not long after I made that one, I started to get happier, and the need to cut and paste my troubles away began to dissipate. I started the layout for issue #3 about 7 or 8 years ago, and it remains unfinished to this day, in a box labelled “Zine Stuff”, stashed in my closet next to a box full of old VHS tapes that I simply cannot bear to part with.

Long story short, Jimmy was ultimately right, as he often is, but at the time, old-school was the only way. I needed the tactile element of creation at that point. Twelve years later, I still enjoy the tactile element, but I’m much more aware of the necessity of getting it out there while there’s still time.  It’s later than you think, friends.

At some point in the past week or so, it occurred to me that in addition to providing you with fresh, cutting-edge content (ha!), I could also use this space to reprint stuff from my old ‘zines/notebooks. If nothing else, it’ll keep the blog active. The title of this post, by the way, is stolen from a song by the Minutemen. You should listen to them.

You might be asking, Joel, what the hell is the point of all this? That’s almost always a fair question when you’re talking to me. The point is, here’s some shit from an old notebook (and Issue #2 of Doppelgänger!), edited slightly for clarity (date unknown, but sometime pre-2008):

Here’s something to think about: how fucking funny would it be if professional wrestling, circa 1980’s, was absolutely and totally real? Like, f’rinstance, what if Dusty Rhodes really wore that wristband, vest, tights, and kneeboot ensemble, all black with yellow polka-dots, all the time? What if the Ultimate Warrior, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan, and “Macho Man” Randy Savage really talked like that, all the time? Just imagine if Koko B. Ware, George “The Animal” Steele, “Ravishing” Rick Rude, Hulk Hogan, Mr. Perfect, the Honky-Tonk Man, and the Bushwackers were all completely and utterly real…

One step further now: imagine if your regular life was like professional wrestling, circa 1980’s. Like if your actual life was in danger at all times because of a grudge between you and a guy who wears a mask and a gold sequined robe. Or if, for some reason, you and your cousin (each of you with a fondness for leather and spikes) had a feud with two pig-farming brothers who lived down the road, and your days were peppered with the risk of cheap shots from brass knuckles, handfuls of sand, and other “foreign objects”. Or if your life-long best friend suddenly took off his pink fringed vest to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with a picture of himself with his new best friend…

And of course: everyone would have their own theme song, and some people would have managers and/or bodyguards, but other than our running feuds, we’d live the lives that we normally lead. For example, “Dangerous Dave” Jackson of St. Louis, Missouri might drive to work every day at the Anheuser-Busch brewery every day while listening to a song about being a true American patriot. Meanwhile, his arch-nemesis, a filthy-rich trust fund socialite from Massachusetts named Phineas Vanderbilt, a.k.a. “Mr. Moneybags”, would sit at mahogany desk and count his money while listening to a song about how rich and powerful he is, his bodyguard Rufus ever vigilant over his left shoulder…

So to repeat my original question: how fucking funny would it be if professional wrestling, circa 1980’s, was absolutely and totally real? Now that I have these images in my mind, I can’t imagine anything funnier.

That’s that. For the record, I can imagine funnier things now, but this scenario still cracks me up. There’ll certainly be further installments of “Shit From an Old Notebook” in the days and weeks to come. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope you’ll visit again soon. In the meantime, find me on facebook and instagram @clockwisecircle. And tell your friends, won’t you?