jakorte's blog

3/23: Rollins.

On the most surprising March 23rd ever, the estimated 2.5/3 full Michigan Theatre (capable of holding a smart 1,710 people)housed no audience and entertained no performance. For three continual, no breaks, no big breaths, no sips or swigs of water, no regrouping, no wandering more than two foot from center stage, no looking away from the audience, no time allowed for applause, no brow mopping, effortless one man, white-hot spotlight, spoken-reveal hours, this is one centered dude. Rollins communicated with a freshly formed cohesive community. Leveled out from second one, syllable one, word one, he made no attempt to capture our attention, but rather carefully collected it, cradled, coddled and cherished our presence welcoming us into his heart and hearty move-it-forward world in a refreshing, respect inspired rant.

Mind blowing lightening speed, hilarity, severity, clarity, mind marauding, simpatico symphonic parallel divergence, massive overload, motivational power-infusing, books are great but your life is your adventure, exhausted, breath holding, laughing, no time for clapping, rant and recall, crazy incredible, cross generational, I’ve been there laughter and I’ve never been there laughter, veterans / suicide rate - you may not ever be able to walk this off, but you will be able to walk with it – I believe in you, all you need to do is respect yourself so other can respect you, too. As long as you’ve got Tom Waites records and omelettes, you can always keep going. Put on the records, eat the food and keep going. If you’ve got an opinion, don’t hide behind the first amendment – defend it. Come through the front door and state your case, sign your name in big ass John Hancock – king don’t need his spectacles – letters. Racist? I’ve got a record collection that will turn you around. I wish I liked myself a tenth as much as Newt likes himself. 50 is the decade of hilarity. I don’t want no satisfaction. Turning 50- a complete finally: it is here, moment – that passes. Oh, well, on the eve of that great event in NYC celebration around mouthfuls of tuna fish sandwich – reality descends: as far as maturity goes – this is it!. Lincoln and Rollins 2/12 & 2/13. Three year national geographic project. I am not workaholic, I am a work slut (How to steer an alligator – jodi’s idea for blog title)(or how to steer anyone with honesty and stories.) I hate inactivity; books are cool but your own adventure is where it’s at. Uma (Humour), the nation and the generation that gave America The Ramones on ipod and pizza delivery. I don’t get scared. I believe my intent is good I can negotiate myself out of anything. (at the corner of Lincoln and Rollins (jodi idea)).

No wavers, no wavering, we are his muse, his inspiration, his fix, his fix-it’s. Launched into it full force, from the crest of the roller coaster, no climbing preamble. Words/scenes ran together, turned back upon themselves and intertwined, like watching Jack's bean stalk grow at an alarming speed, too fast for our puny processors, but not for our hearts to follow along. Radiating intent and purpose, sending forth intertwining mind vines ‘til we believed we were one sharing the stream of consciousness, a collective of empowered previous observers and admirers, family in an intimate way. He readily admits to reading email and letters, saves many, mostly those from veterans and families writing of suicide notes and military shame. He answers - not because he’s that important - but because we are. If we’re reaching out there must be a reason.

Different parts made different people squeamish. One extremely loud (at what I deemed inappropriately timed) laugh at a phrase we’ve heard repeated, repeatedly been horrified by , and which is unacceptable. The one where the Obama family’s portrait is compared to something out of the planet of the apes. The laugh was followed by a split second judgment rendering , a collective audience intake, without a moment’s pause by Rollins, as if he didn’t hear it, and he had to have heard it. We heard it in the balcony. Old punk, new punk, severely under tattooed for the evening. Under the influence of one long intellectual orgasm, my noddle-limp limp back to the parking garage attests to that. As does the craving for stoner food sparked by the dozen or so close-mic audio-toke punctuation marks. Pointing out the brilliant and ridiculous not in the world around us, but in our world. Fix things, here now, sharing departure guilt and self-flagellation for our benefit, there’s always more good to be done, and if you have to be angry to do it, be angry.

Scrambled brains: super processor, the man is a machine. Said his piece, waved and was gone. But he switched me on; I can’t switch off. Hyped up on Rollins, I want to catch that virus, contagion, electric socket energization. Three hours. Three hours!

… in the morning I am a wreck. A happy wreck. In appropriate Rollins speak: a fucking happy wreck. Like we’re the Rollins/Korte/My Generation wonder twins or wonder triplets or wonder mega-thousands. Activated, united, power. We can. We can.