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I went to see Cowboys And Aliens at the weekend. It threw up some serious philosophical questions about life that I am still grappling with. Questions like, ‘How did Sam Rockwell come to be so fucking awesome?’ and, ‘Why isn’t it illegal for Olivia Wilde to wear clothes?’. I wasn’t able to answer those questions, but the question that really got me thinking was one that applies to my own life. There is a kid in the movie. In one of the scenes, Olivia Wilde’s character gives him a hug, to comfort him, because something tragic has just happened. Now I do not want to suggest that the film was not enthralling enough to keep me mesmerised for the entire duration, but this scene struck a chord with me and sent my brain off on a wild tangent about life. I mean here I am, a man of 24, and my only memory of female contact during my teenage years is the time during a school dance when I somehow worked up the courage to press my boy-boner into the thigh of the girl I liked while we shuffled from foot to foot for one whole slow song. And here he is. This kid. This fucking kid. And already he has had a hug from Olivia Wilde, the closest thing to human physical perfection ever captured on goddamn film. Not only that, but he got paid to do it. And shit, this is a pretty big movie, who knows what he will go on to do in the movie business. He could have a whole fucking lifetime of hugs from beautiful women ahead of him. And he’s just some kid. And it made me think, some people have all the fun, and the rest of us are shit out of luck. Why bother trying, when we are doomed to fulfil our mundane destinies without even a whiff of beauty or magic or art, never mind the nostril-flaring scent of a woman, made famous by Pacino in the film of the same name, and the one undoubtedly enjoyed by this fucking kid when, whilst being paid, he had his face mashed against Olivia Wilde’s bosom! Damn it I need a fucking beer to calm my jangled nerves…

Okay… Okay… So it got me thinking. And then I started to connect some dots in my head and eventually my mind was eased by a fifty year old man with big muscles and tattoos. A man called Henry Rollins. I went to see his spoken word gig a couple of weeks ago and it was the memory of the overwhelming energy I felt after the show that made me question my previous assertion, that we are all doomed to accept our fates. And that is because Henry Rollins is a walking testament to the philosophy that genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration.

Henry Rollins is a fucking badass. This is not a matter of opinion. This is one of those facts of life I touched on in my last article which, while they may appear subjective, are simply inalienable truths. If you don’t think Henry Rollins is a fucking badass, you are wrong. ANYWAY. I went to this gig alone because… well because I am a pig and it is becoming increasingly difficult to con women into going out with me. But also because I didn’t want some goddamn dame fucking up my Zen while I dug Henry’s musings. This was not just some night out for me. This was special. And if you need any proof of that, take the fact that I was sober. I had three whiskies the whole night, not because I was broke, but because I wanted to be fucking lucid during this thing. When this guy talks I drink it up like Daniel Day Lewis drinks a fucking milkshake. ANYWAY. So there I was at this gig and I was sober and my chair was really fucking uncomfortable and I didn’t even give a shit because I was going to see Henry Rollins in the flesh. And then he came out on stage like a walking espresso and did a two hour set of stories that were insightful and inspiring and hilarious, and all around me men and women alike were gazing in glassy-eyed wonderment at the physical manifestation of awesome standing centre stage, regaling us with stories of his absurd and badass adventures. And when I left I was buzzing in a completely different way to how I usually leave a gig, because Henry’s energy is infectious. And when I got home I didn’t mind so much that we live in a world of unfairness and inequality. A world in which millions of people starve every day while some others eat themselves so fat they can’t get out of bed. A world in which poor people die in wars created by rich men. A world in which some fucking kid gets to hug Olivia… Sorry. Point is, all of it seemed manageable, safe in the knowledge that there are dudes like Henry around. Now, to be fair, there really aren’t that many dudes like Henry. He’s one of a kind. He’s the kind of dude who, if your girlfriend left you for him, no matter how bummed out you were you’d just have to nod and tell her you understand, because deep down you know, you were thinking about leaving her for Henry Rollins too. But it’s okay, because there are lots of people listening to Henry and as guys like Henry are still drawing the sort of crowd that filled The Empire Music Hall a couple of weeks ago, there is still some hope in the world.

So where am I going with all of this? What does it all mean? To be honest I don’t know. I was hoping that if I started writing it would all just come together at the end. I suppose what I am saying is, don’t get too down when it seems like the odds are stacked against you. Sure, sometimes it seems like some people have all the luck, but even if you’re not born rich or good looking or you don’t find yourself hugging Olivia Wilde on screen as a teenager, don’t give up. Keep up the good fight. And when you need motivation to get back to the grindstone, check out some of Henry’s stuff. He is about as prolific as they come and there is no shortage of his material out there. Just don’t let your girlfriend in on it – Henry is a sexy man – the rest of us just can’t hope to compete. Fortunately, Henry is hard to please…

Henry Rollins official site.