Do I Come Here Often? by Henry Rollins

Author:Henry Rollins
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: 2.13.61
Published: 2011-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

8.28.91 11:33 p.m. LA CA: I’m back in my room. I did the set hours ago. We played ok, it was a last-show-of-the-tour type show for me. I fall into that shit from time to time. At one point, someone threw a shoe at me. Right after that, someone spat at me. I usually don’t give a fuck about shit like that, but today it got to me. I told the crowd that next time they want to spit, they should come up real close and do it in my face and I’ll take my turn. Fuck these people, throwing shit. It was raining when we played. After we finished, it got worse, got colder. While the next band played, steam came from the pit. We did a photo session for Rip magazine. I did this interview with some kid. He was asking the “idiot with no respect for your time” questions. “When you piss, do you aim for the water or the back of the bowl?” Shit like that just makes me want to smack the guy for an answer. I can usually keep myself together. Today, it was impossible. I told the guy that if he asked more bitch questions, I was out of there. He had only a few questions after that. At that point, I had all I could take of the Lolla bullshit. Luckily for me, I left soon after. Before I left, someone was talking about the band No Means No and their shirt that makes fun of my back tattoo. I said that I wanted to get my cut. Our bass player said that it was a parody and that I couldn’t get anything from it. Of course I wasn’t talking about any legal shit. I was talking about fucking their shit up when I run into them. The bass player said that I should just take it as a joke and relax. At that moment I had the overwhelming urge to smack him like the bitch that he is. Not that he would ever be able to handle anyone doing anything to him-he’d shit his pants. I don’t look forward to working with him on this album. He’s such a weak piece of shit.

So I got out of there and it felt great. I’m sick of people recognizing me and I’m sick of answering questions. I flew back and when I got out in front of my place, the driver started giving me shit, telling me to hurry up and get my money out. I am proud of myself, I didn’t do anything. I gave him his money and he took off. I was setting up the punch. I was losing control. I could feel it. That shithead will never know how close he came to getting fucked up.

Good to be in my room. There were twelve messages on my machine. Good for me that I took the tape out when I left after the Irvine shows. There’s nothing for me to listen to.

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