[Look for your weekly fix from the one and only Henry Rollins right here on West Coast Sound every Thursday, and come back tomorrow for the awesomely annotated playlist for his Saturday KCRW broadcast.]
I have come to the conclusion that it's a waste of time to have too much pride in anything. Perhaps it's good to have a sense of duty, a jealous zeal to protect or improve, but pride ultimately is only that which stands vulnerable to offense and degradation. Pride is a thing that I have tried to abandon completely. Try as I might, pride still creeps into many of the things I do.
Repetition and a dedication to consistency as a standard make me prey to pride. I, through some insecurity or unresolved/undealt-with issues, tend to overdo everything. I put a lot of time into all tasks I obligate myself to, perhaps too much.
A few nights ago, I did a show in the Midwest. The audience, whom I overcare about to the point of obsession, was great to me. After the show, the impact of three days of multiple flights, hotels, shows and not much sleep started to make its presence known.
I packed my gear and considered the next several hours of my life. There would be, at best, two hours of sleep and then two flights back to Los Angeles, a few hours to even out and then off to the radio station for what looks like my last Saturday shift. I have been moved to Sunday nights, 8 p.m.
As I was gathering my possessions, now that the show was behind me, I returned to the thoughts I had been dwelling on before showtime. Pride told me to quit my post at the radio station, that I had wasted four years working idiotically hard to make a consistently exceptional show and that my considerable efforts had only landed me one of the loneliest time slots the airwaves offer. Pride was making me very angry and confused. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I knew I had to stow these feelings because I still had tasks ahead of me before I got back to the hotel.
After giving the backstage one last check, I headed downstairs. There were people gathered by the exit door who wanted to meet me. There was the girl I had put on the guest list and secured a seat on the side of the stage so she could watch the show and not have to deal with her intense crowd-anxiety issues. There were people in bands who gave me their CDs and asked me to listen to them and tell them what I thought. I don't know where they think I can get the time to do this, but I know they mean well. There was the man who asked me to sign his arm so he could get it tattooed the next day. There were others who just wanted to get their ticket stubs signed and do a photo. Not a problem.