Henry Rollins

'Look who’s standing over there.'

Browsing casually through the Avant Garde CD section, grey hair cropped typically close to his skull, muscle-bound and tattooed, was Henry Rollins.

I was eighteen, and spending every waking moment listening to Black Flag, Minor Threat, Circle Jerks, and basically every other hardcore band an angsty teen can think of.  I dropped my bundle.

'That’s Henry Rollins.  That’s Henry Rollins!'

I stared at his back for a few minutes, blissfully unaware of the stalker-esque vibes I was sending off, thinking desperately of something to say to him.  He was an intimidating looking man, and I had seen the videos of him shutting down teenagers who dared to approach him.  I was loathe to make the same mistake.

My colleague wisely suggested I get him to sign a copy Get in the Van, Rollins’ book of memoirs.  We happened to have a copy in stock, and the plan was for me to purchase it, casually approach him, and ask him for his autograph.

By this stage, he had ambled over to the magazine rack which was directly in front of the counter, and was less than half a metre away from me, and facing my direction.  Grasping the book, I stepped forward, cleared my throat – and ran downstairs to hide in the office until he left.