Posted by On June 9th, 2022 I drove into town* to see Henry Rollins. I had never seen an event at the Arts and Culture Centre before and I had basically no idea who Henry Rollins was except I knew he had been the main dude in Black Flag, which was an American olde-schoole punk band that I’ve never heard a note of, not once. I couldn’t name you a song. That didn’t matter much though, because Rollins was on a speaking tour and he didn’t sing a note.
I was pretty impressed with the venue. The floor seats perhaps six hundred with room for another three hundred or so up in the balcony and boxes. The entrances on either side of the balcony (where I was seated in the front row) and the grey concrete boxes that hung along both sides of the room reminded me of a mini National Arts Centre. I especially liked the, oh I don’t know, perhaps 15,000 small lights that dangled from the ceiling. It was a nice simple touch that added a level of class to the place. By the time those little lights dimmed and the featured attraction pounced onto the stage almost every seat was filled.
I was, unfortunately, dramatically more impressed with the room than I was with this Henry Rollins character. Without a word of introduction he rushed from the wings and took his place in the middle of the stage amid a phalanx of four(!) monitors, picked up his microphone and pounded us with a 2+ hour run-on sentence that was short on insight, philosophy, or comedy and rather tall on contradictions, business class whining, and humble-brags galore.
One thing’s for sure: Henry Rollins sure does talk a lot. I know, I know…he’s a public speaker. But still, it was a bit much. A lot bit much.
After a minute of “we-all-have-a-wooden-bowl-of-spinach-because-life-is-an-existential-flatline-facing-inevitable-death-because-I-hated-my-father-and-I-hated-my-mother-because-even-though-I-wasn’t-very-smart-by-the-age-of-nine-I-figured-out-that-my-parents-were-both-evil-and-ever-since-then-I’ve-looked-at-life-as-an-existential-flatline-facing-inevitable-death-so-I-take-the-proverbial-wooden-bowl-of-spinach-and-keep-adding-to-it-because-they-were-so-evil-they-made-me-hate-Christmas-but-I-love-buying-punk-records-on-ebay-and-life-is-an-existential-flatline-facing…,” I was thinking what the hell? After two nonstop minutes it struck me how very, very much I rely on punctuation to get through most daily conversations. After three steady minutes of it I was wondering if Rollins was somehow breathing through a blow-hole in the back of his head.
Dude, could you please just throw in the occasional comma? Maybe even a period here and there?
After twenty minutes of endless blah-blah-blah-blah-blah I was plenty ready to bail but I didn’t. I figured he’d move on from the “I hate my upper middle class parents” to some old punk rock war stories or insightful political commentary but nope. Aside from a few sideways comments showing he has the same disdain for Trump as most sane people do and a somewhat funny but definitely mean sidebar about his obsession for screwing fellow collectors out of cherished punk 45’s on ebay he went from a full hour of hating his parents to another full hour relating a wholly uninteresting tale of the time some guy from Finland was knocking on his door and ringing his bell and instead of answering it like a normal person Rollins called the cops on the guy, like three times.
When he finally finished his set a small contingent in the front few rows started a standing ovation that spread easily through the friendly, polite, and artistically respectful Newfoundland crowd. M’lady and I figured it best to join them lest we get beat up.
(I’m kidding of course. We remained defiantly seated.)
(Come on now, that’s just me kidding you again. We stood up too, and not because we thought we would get beat up if we didn’t. Sheesh. We stood up because we were in the front row and it would’ve been overtly conspicuous if we hadn’t. Henry Rollins would definitely have noticed and as eager new Newfoundlanders we figured joining the ovation was the friendly, polite, and artistically respectful way to go.)
*In Newfoundland, St. John’s is known province-wide as “town”. It’s so pervasive that if you lived in, say, Hickman’s Harbour (population 150) and you told your neighbour that you were driving to “town” they would not think that you were driving to Clarenville, a town of 8,000 people just twenty minutes away that is replete with grocery stores, restaurants, hardware stores and more. No, they would know that you were in fact travelling two hundred kilometres to St. John’s**.
**I’m often surprised to discover how many people don’t know that the “St. John’s” in Newfoundland is spelled with an apostrophied ess at the end while the “Saint John” in New Brunswick is not, but I’m never surprised when someone doesn’t know that the Newfoundland “Saint” is always abbreviated to “St.” whilst the New Brunswick one is never abbreviated. I think most Canadians know this instinctively but they might not realize it intellectually.
Ergo:
“Saint John’s” is wrong
“St. John” is wrong
“Saint John” is correct, and it’s in New Brunswick
“St. John’s” is correct, and it’s in Newfoundland***
***For the Americans out there: you’re pronouncing “Newfoundland” wrong. Imagine if the town of Newton, Massachusetts (where the fig newton was first produced, of course) had actually been called “Newtonland” instead. Well, aside from being just a way better name all-around, “Newtonland” would also very closely rhyme with “Newfoundland”.
We pretty much say it as if it’s spelt “Newf’nland” but to be honest, nobody’s really too concerned about it****. Just don’t call us late for dinner.
****Unlike people from Worcester, Massachusetts for example, or Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, for that matter. Go ahead and say either one of those the wrong way inside a 7-11 in the northeast US. If you just get laughed at you can consider yourself lucky.
Todd Man Out 