Last night Maud (with Max reluctantly in tow) came over to watch Sarah Palin’s Alaska, a show so insipid that a link to its TLC website would be as useless as tits on a boar. You don’t care about this show and you don’t need to learn anything more about it than you already know. As the opening credits rolled, N joked that we should make up a drinking game but frankly, that would’ve resulted at least one of us being airlifted to a hospital for acute alcohol poisoning. A preferable game would’ve been Russian roulette. Losing outcome: You have to watch the rest of Sarah Palin’s Alaska.

Anyhow, more on that some other time.

I started the rest of this post so long ago that it’s about Henry Rollins and his stupid tirade at the Cakeshop here in NYC. This stopped being relevant a week ago, but oh well. I’m fucking lazy.

If you don’t feel like watching it, the great Nitsuh Abebe has written a play-by-play of it.

Maybe some folks in the punk scene are bored with him that way. Random kids at this particular venue, though, are not likely to care. They are not as annoyed by their elders as punks like Rollins used to be. And to most of them, he is just a guy who was in a legendary punk band (Black Flag), was painted red on MTV when they were kids (Liar), and likes to talk a lot. He is no more in the way than, say, Betty White is in the way of younger actresses. The only person in this room freaking out about Henry Rollins’s cred is Henry Rollins.

Witness Rollins’ sad display of insecurity. And his weird grope-y and chauvinistic behavior. And the ultimate reflexive irony of a tattooed, posturing millionaire accusing a woman (whoops, I mean “chick”) of being a tattooed trust-fund hipster. I don’t doubt that the woman who shouted “Get in the van!” was doing it to goad him. (Had I been there, I’d have been tempted to shout something stupid at him too. But it would probably be either “Hey guys, the lead singer from the Misfits is here!” or “Look, it’s the 6th lead singer of Black Flag!”) But fucking RISE ABOVE, Henry. Don’t take the bait. Don’t use your companion as some sort of Integrity Shield. And for fuck’s sake, keep your hands off of women you barely know. (To me, the most uncomfortable moments in that video are when Rollins grabs onto Neshat like she was about to float off into space and I swear, her shoulders visibly stiffen. Or maybe that’s transference, because mine are stiffening right now as I type this.)

Remember this, Henry. We won’t be calling your integrity into question because you’re “old” and “in the way.” We will be calling you out for Johnny Mnemonic. For The Gap. FOR YOUR FAMOUS GRAMMY-WINNING SPOKEN WORD ALBUM.

Full disclosure: I am already on the record as considering Rollins a turgid, parochial moron.* I’ve always disliked him. Say what you will about Jello Biafra, but he hangs out with terminally ill kids (and not in the Tim Yohannon way, if you get what I’m saying**) and has never bragged about his FAMOUS BOOKS. I’m on Team Jello.

*Weirdly enough, the most brutal critique of that essay was almost totally focused on my hatred of Henry Rollins and why it was so wrong of me and I’m an idiot and Rollins is a god and I will bet you $5 that the shitbag who wrote it beats off on the regular to that Rollins Cakeshop video. (You see what I did there?)
**Nothing like some micro-scene slandering of a dead guy, right?

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