I’ve always gotten a kick out of Henry Rollins’ storytelling. He’s smart and he’s on top of things. I saw him once at Fun Fun Fun Fest (aka “Dust Fest”) 2011. He’s how I figured out Occupy Wall Street wasn’t “the revolution.”
He can also be really damn funny. What an introduction to acid… Thank goodness his “guide” was looking forward to another Black Flag album.
Henry Rollins speaking in Belgium on the misinformed, traumatized American tough guy.
I know some guys disliked this one based on the comments, but he’s being kinder to the tough guy crowd than I think they realize.
I kinda liked it as it pointed out something I’ve come to understand. Whoever tries to pick a fight with you is usually going through something.
A lot of us are packed full of traumas never confronted, pushed into the unconscious, where they unfortunately do not stay. If only we could figure out how to stop that trauma from turning into somebody else’s…
I had a dream the other night that I can’t seem to shake.
I had just watched The Edge of Tomorrow and it got the wheels turning. All those versions of Tom Cruise’s character were different people. He started as an asshole. By the end he was not. How about all those in-between Tom Cruises? What kind of men were they?
I started the dream as “The Angel of Verdun,” then immediately became Lt. Col. Cage. Each wanted to save the other, just like in the movie.
But it stopped being about the movie and I was just regular old me, watching from a hill and seeing a flock of Me’s. Me from a million timelines. Everyone I could have been.
Ranks and ranks of me as far as the eye could see. All the men I didn’t want to be, each one in a trap I had somehow avoided. Lonely men who lived alone and became bitter and isolated.
Men marrying into the church, having to lie to himself and others that he still believed, bitter and isolated. Men who never jumped off the runaway conservative train and didn’t know how to get off. Me’s who never escaped.
It felt like one of those dreams Carl Jung talked about. The ones you are supposed to figure out. Dreams that are clearly messages from the unconscious. I’ve had a few of those over the years. I’m still puzzling over a couple of them.
What did this mean?
I think the fact I changed perspectives at the beginning was a clue. Something about connectedness.
Maybe that we should see a bit of ourselves in the people we don’t want to be if we can. If you’re one of those former conservatives who feels like they’ve escaped, there had to be timelines where you didn’t.
What got you into that backward mindset and what got you out? I’ll try to do that with this blog if I can. If it reaches any young version of me and helps them make better choices, I’ll be happy if it’s just one guy.
I’m also hoping the more enlightened folks among us will make room for redemption and be a friend when a friend is needed. Victims of misinformation are still victims. Many thanks to those who helped me out of my mental traps, even if they never got to see it happen.
When I was around 7 or 8, there was a little kid I used to see in the nursery of our Southern Baptist church. I’ll call him Avery. Avery was about 4.
This was the early 70s in a small Texas town, typical Baptist church. Avery’s parents were decent and very active. I think the father was a former preacher.
When adults asked Avery what he wanted to be when he grew up, Avery would say, “I’m going to be a princess and have a pretty dress like Cinderella.”
You could tell it bothered them. “No you’re not. You’re going to be a handsome young man and have beautiful children.”
Avery would argue back. “No, I’m going to have a pretty dress like Cinderella.” As long as I knew Avery, the answer never changed.
I’m not one of those people who calls himself an “ally.” What the hell do I know about trans issues? I’m old. I used to be on the “wrong” side of politics. I use the wrong pronouns half the time.
But I know being transgender is not made-up, or sinister. I remember Avery and I know what I saw. I’ve since met other trans people – and they’re people, with hobbies and interests. They just want to live.
When I see all the cruelty directed toward trans kids and their families, I think of Avery and wonder if they’ve had a happy life. I’ll never know, but I hope Avery got to wear that dress and feel like a princess if that’s what Avery wanted.
My wife just read me the New York Times article about Donald Trump getting indicted in New York. More dark clouds on the horizon it looks like. Maybe another street fight or two.
But there was something about that article that hit me funny…
How arresting the former Commander in Chief might work – he’d have Secret Service protection while he was being arrested.
How he will probably be fingerprinted but might not have to wear handcuffs, and if he does, whether they would cuff him in front or in back.
What a bind it would put primary opponent Ron DeSantis in if Trump defies the court and stays in Florida.
It just struck me how absurd all this is. It’s like a satire, like something Kurt Vonnegut would write. As much as Cat’s Cradle freaked me out, I love Kurt Vonnegut. Galapagos is also amazing.
It’s the way I deal, same way Vonnegut did when he wrote those two apocalypse stories. When shit goes bad, there’s almost always something funny about it too.
Whatever happens, you have to admit it’s a gripping story. If it was a movie it would be a blockbuster. I’d damn sure watch it. I’m already on the edge of my seat.
I bet Vonnegut is laughing bitterly at America right now, wherever he is. Not as funny as the ending of Galapagos, but pretty good.
Back in my newspaper days, most places I worked ost of the newspapers I worked at had a policy against anonymous letters to the editor.
If you allowed it, people would get in nastier and nastier fights and pretty soon you didn’t have any place to jump the front page news.
Funny how different things are now. Anonymous people are still stirring up trouble. At the same time we’re not anonymous enough.
Every time I open YouTube, I get an ad for the thing I was just talking about. Creepy.
Back then I just thought anonymous letters were chickenshit. I had to sign what I wrote.
If you got mad at something I wrote, you could call me up and chew me out.
Once a preacher got so mad at me, he preached a whole sermon about me. (He invited me tok the service, but I smelled a rat.)
One day I opened an anonymous letter that really pissed me off. They were mostly mad at us for making them buy political ads a month before the election.
Candidates had been getting their buddies to send letters to the editor so they didn’t have to spend money. They also thought I was slacking on local news and they hated my “worthless” features.
I was mainly pissed because they were right. I did write a lot of features. I liked ‘em and they helped fill up the paper.
Truth be told I liked covering the news, but I liked features more. If someone raised llamas or raced pigeons or flew a bomber during WWII, I could nerd out and produce a lot of copy. Plus pictures take up a lot of column inches.
At least I never did like an old editor of mine, who wrote features so long they had to be continued, sometimes over six editions.
One day a lady from the Republican Women came in and chewed me out over our letter policy.
She had an expensive cane she probably wanted to hit me with. She said something that sounded a little too familiar and suddenly I was hopping mad.
I heard my mouth say, “So you’re the one who sent me that anonymous letter!” I thought, Oh shit, I said that out loud. I am so fired.
But she grinned real big and said, “If I have something to say to you, I’ll sign my name to it, don’t you worry about that!” I think she liked my gumption. Ended up kinda sorta friends.
Late Boomer's Den 
You must be logged in to post a comment.