Thoughts on the Birthday of Henry Rollins
...And How Did He Know Amsterdam Was the Center of Hell?...
In the volume "The Eternal Hazing," there exists a correspondence I had with Marc van der Holst, the animating spirit behind the formation of De Avonden, a band of literary inclination inspired by Reve. Henry Rollins of Black Flag, not exactly our hero, yet in some paradoxical manner, he is. He's inescapable. Marc and I lack an abundance of intimidating musculature.
An exemplary appearance by Mr. van der Holst
Both Marc and I are aficionados of James Tate's oeuvre and not particularly of Henry Rollins. Yet, celebrating James Tate on his natal day would likely attract no audience, I surmise. Furthermore, he passed away in 2015.
Marc's petition to the Letterenfonds was met with rejection. The reasons remain obscured to me, but I endeavored to ameliorate the situation by ordering pastries from his parents to indulge the objection committee of the Letterenfonds, to no avail; the fund showed no interest whatsoever, compelling me to bring Bossche bollen myself. This incident forms but a minor backdrop to Operation Bosschebol.
Not surprisingly, no grant was awarded, as it brims with clichés. "We're not going home yet, Jesus!"
But the lack of another band...oh, what does it matter. Yesterday, I was taken aback to see Aafke Romeijn posting on Threads. In my mind, she had long since vanished into the obscurity of fame, after I had once advised her to write in Dutch, ages ago. To my astonishment, she mentioned her first radio feature, after numerous albums and books in Dutch – one wonders, what drives these people? What's the underlying issue? Must one produce ten albums to earn a single slot amidst the commercial dross? Who are the orchestrators behind this?
I now harbor guilt for ever suggesting she sing in Dutch. Behold, the beautiful song "Glass Shards," garnering 181 viewers in two years:
Thus, we shall turn our attention to the anniversary of Henry Rollins. Have you seen his video "Liar" from the nineties on MTV?
Yet, it remains compelling! The narrative revolves around vulnerability, highlighting how it attracts a host of parasites and predators. Hahahaha! Suckers! Suckers!
I find myself unable to resist mentioning my latest poetry collection, wherein I illuminate only facets of fascism that, in my view, have remained oddly overlooked, such as the entanglement of the Nazis with Germany's psychiatric industry. The Rijnland bastards.
Rollins knew it all. Liars!!! Spawn of Satan!! And he managed to feature on MTV. "Sugar-coated Swill," as Jello Biafra would say, but Rollins made his mark nonetheless. Things haven't improved since the nineties. Yet, consider that setting:
Ladies and gentlemen, am I mad? That's unmistakably...Amsterdam? Rollins had it figured out in the nineties. It's the epicenter of hell. When I recently observed the Council of Culture issuing an urgent advisory due to Amsterdammers distributing funds among themselves, I thought, ah, a Rollins Moment in the subsidy culture.
How did Rollins discern in the nineties that Amsterdam was hell's nucleus?
A fan of Henry Rollins once remarked about this video, lamenting not heeding its lesson in the '90s, which could have spared much heartache if only listened to at first.
...You will echo the sentiment regarding this post from Martinus Benders in twenty years. If only...
Happy Birthday, Henry Rollins! You are our Muscle-bound Prophet! Bombarding Children for Freedom! The simultaneous emptying of all dutch Twitter accounts of the Great Corona Heroes. Oops, sorry, sorry, sorry.
What Rollins critiques here is a mechanism ensuring your perpetual downfall, as those groveling, apologetic figures merit not just a second chance but third and fourth ones. It's reminiscent of Matthijs van Nieuwkerk, always rife with apologies. Sorry! Sorry!
Suckers!
Martinus Benders, 14-02-2024
Oh, a noteworthy intervention by Bart van der Pligt:
Camus knew it back in the 50s.
"Have you noticed that the canal belts of Amsterdam correspond to the circles of hell? The hell of citizens, naturally, populated with nasty dreams. For those who come from outside and gradually penetrate the deeper circles, life with its crimes becomes ever darker, ever more compact. Here we sit in the innermost circle." (Albert Camus, The Fall)