Remember that chick in high school whose Dad was a personal trainer? She was mousey and quiet and really attainable even though she could do gymnastics and shit, but to date her you'd have to have dinner with her family first? So you'd go to her creepy house with a torture-chamber looking workout room in the basement and you're sweating balls at the table with your hands folded and this big bald motherfucker steps in with a carving knife and he's so fucking intense- even when he's being nice, even when he's chatting- asbout everything he says that you jet out of there as soon as you finish the extra slice of pie her Mom baked you and you don't even kiss her goodbye because you know that you'll never, ever be able to get it up for her again?
That's what seeing a Henry Rollins spoken word show is like. It just leaves you fucking impotent for a couple hours. Monday night he performed at Columbia College for an audience of 250, which meant it took a good 20 minutes for the room to stop laughing extra hard at every single thing he said and just that long for me to get the cynical chip off my shoulder and enjoy the show. He's a good performer, he's kinda like the dumb punk's Jello Biafra (albeit way more open minded) or maybe Susan Powter's male counterpart, or the lder brother that liked to prove he was the smart and down to Earth one as he beat the shit out of little kid Dennis Miller.
He always does well in Chicago. One of the discs of "Think Tank" was recorded at the House of Blues here. He's just so intense (there's no other word). When Jello Biafra gave a talk at Loyola a couple years back, they had to pull him off the stage after over three hours. Roillins is the same way, unrelenting, except he puts the same intensity towards whatever he's saying so the bureaucratic bungling of Hurricane Katrina is weighted the same as masturbating on the Trans Siberian express, or Dave Barry-ish tales about taking care of a friend's toddler for 20 minutes or comically mistranslated signs in Japan. He brought the house down early calling Barbara Bush the "6 nippled, hairy chested mother of our president". There was no real way to top that, but he kept going, and nobody wanted him to leave any more than he did.
I saw a bunch of cats from the reading that night at the empty bottle, where the aptly titled honky tonk whiskey rockers Hony played with the more sludgey Nebula. Older girls with sleeve jobs, all beautiful. Everyone was a small catalyst away from throwing shit, but it was still the empty bottle so they mostly just stood still. There was still some serious hootin/holerin for theserious beards in Honky, which outshined Nebula a great deal. One question: is it a new fashion in the fake ID crowd to dress to the nines below the belt but dress like a lumberjack's wife above? Iunno, good times.
Cost: Free
What I missed: Environmental Encroachment pirate parade in Wicker Park
Reason I went: Geographic proximity to yogaclass
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