The Rollins Cure
| March 9, 2011 | Posted by Chin.Musik under Jon Konrath |
Many people these days become writers to talk about zombies and vampires. I started because I was trying to avoid becoming one.
It’s the typical tale: boy meets girl, girl leaves boy, boy consumes mass amounts of ethanol beverages. And why not? This was college, Indiana, 1993. I worked on my minor in blackout drinking, late nights of Coors and the “should I call her” game until I passed out watching Beavis and Butthead. I flunked out of my CS degree and drifted back toward the factories, boxing the same spindle for the next 40 years. Didn’t care, though. A girl leaving you for her accounting professor can do that.
My buddy Ray and I used to have late night phone marathons. He moved back home, defeated, to a land of factory workers that didn’t care much for book learnin’. We discussed zombies, Lemmy from Motorhead, and why life became so tragic when the illusions of childhood ended and the responsibility of adulthood loomed like a death sentence.
“You need to listen to these Henry Rollins tapes,” he told me after one of my hour-long drunken monologues on women.
“The Black Flag singer? What’s he talk about?”
“Just stuff, life on the road, writing. It’s like those Jello Biafra tapes, but not political and way more intense. You really need to check it out.”
The next afternoon, I bought his latest double album at the place I sold back CDs for beer money. I lived in a student ghetto miles from campus, and with no car, spent hours each day walking across Bloomington’s 1,937 acres. My walkman converted Duracells into propulsion, and I needed new material to make the walks bearable.
On that cold November day, I popped in side one, tape one of The Boxed Life for the long leg home. Rollins laid it all out: depression, travel, strength over adversity, facing life alone. I burned through those four sides of tales, and wanted to be him. I memorized those albums, cut off my hair, bought a half ton of used iron and lifted religiously. I devoured every Henry Miller and Charles Bukowski book I could find.
Rollins mentioned carrying notebooks, jotting down bits of life while stuck in airports and train stations. I got a spiral notepad and scribbled down everything I saw, every thought that bothered me. During odd snippets of wasted time during the day, while eating alone or sitting in hallways between classes, I poured memories onto college ruled pages.
The fat became muscle, the scars turned to stories. I took writing classes, graduated, drove a U-Haul west until I ran out of road. I got a job working on this new thing called the internet, but at night, I’d hide in my studio apartment, the Kingdome in the background, and type away at my first book. I replaced those paper journals with rumored.com, and went gonzo posting my dispatches there. It’s been 15 years, and I’m still posting. No full back tattoo, though.
Jon Konrath is a writer living in Oakland, California. He’s written five books and a failed lit journal. His hobbies include Civil War surgery reenactment and being the Washington Nationals of his fantasy baseball league. He can be found at rumored.com.
[...] head on over and read The Rollins Cure over at chinmusik.net. And check out the rest of the stuff Randy’s been posting – [...]
Jon-
I liked this piece a alot. Under what circumstances would you go for the full back tattoo? And don’t worry about the girl that dumped you for the accounting professor; everybody knows bean-counters have micro-pricks.
MasterChin
Now that I’m north of 40, it would take a lot for me to get any tattoo. Fortunately (or not), when I was in my 20s and would have given it more serious thought, tattoos cost a larger chunk of my discretionary income. So if I had to choose between getting something pithy inked on my arm or blowing a ton of money on Amazon, I’d choose the latter.
[...] a guest post at Chin Musik, Jon Konrath (The Wrath of Kon) talks a little about his love for Rollins and how it inspired his writing career. The fat became muscle, the scars turned to [...]