I walk back down the miles of stairway, excited as ever, considering these two interesting facts:
A) I never had an actual agreement with anyone to do an interview with Rollins
B) I don't have a single question prepared
After two hours of waiting, Mitchell walks from Rollins' dressing room, and explains that Rollins is now ready for my interview. Behind the door, I hear loud yelling about why journalists are all scum. The door opens wide however, and out comes Henry Rollins. He stands a single foot from my face, chest muscles practically poking two inches up my nose. Mitchell introduces Rollins and myself. Rollins sticks out his hand, which I instinctively shake with my hand, my body having taken the strong posture of a wet rag.
"So," I say, "what movies have you been in?"
"All of them?" Rollins asks.
"I've been in a lot."
"Would you do another nude scene?" I ask.
"I guess," he says. "I would never sign on to do it, and then wimp out."
Rollins makes a hand gesture to imply he would rather be asked questions more relevant to his years and years of artistic accomplishment. I'm happy to comply.
"Would you do another nude scene right now?" I ask.
"Okay then," I say, "you're a punk rock star. Does getting tattoos even hurt anymore?"
"I haven't been tattooed in years," Rollins explains. "I could never recommend it to anybody. Now, I can give you a lesson in bodily pain. I'll take you to the gym and show you what pain is, you little motherfucker."
It takes a second or thirty for me to regain the ability to speak.
"Um," I say, trembling, "I think this interview is over."
Rollins smiles, nods his head in agreement, and makes a wonderfully cheerful comment about fucking my mother.