Marty Beckerman is an 18-year-old humor and opinion columnist living in tropical Anchorage, Alaska. His award-winning writing has appeared most frequently in The Anchorage Daily News, though occasionally manages to pop up in finer national publications.

It should be noted that Beckerman was forever banished from The Anchorage Daily News on July 25, 2000, after asking a cheerleader how it feels to be a urine stain on the toilet seat of America.

As it turns out, neither the cheerleader nor Beckerman's editor found that interview question particularly amusing.

Beckerman's first book, Death to All Cheerleaders: One Adolescent Journalist's Cheerful Diatribe Against Teenage Plasticity was published September 2000 on Infected Press.

Author's Note: Shortly after writing this piece, I was fired from my position at The Anchorage Daily News. Although three and a half months later I was (luckily) rehired, I felt at the time that my editors were unjustified in their penalty. In retrospect, however, this article was a journalistic misstep and an overall dumb mistake in the first place. It's also hilarious.

I stand in the lobby of Anchorage's Wendy Williamson Auditorium, somewhat excited to see Henry Rollins' one-man show. Rollins, as your average punk rocker should know, was singer and screaming lunatic for the revolutionary hardcore band Black Flag during the 1980s. These days, Rollins fronts his own band, called - get ready for a really creative name - "Rollins Band." In addition, he keeps busy touring the country with his critically-acclaimed stand-up comedy routine, which he's here to perform tonight.

I entered the lobby of the Williamson a minute ago, expecting to see maybe twenty-five people, tops. I was wrong. Rollins' concert had completely sold out the 900-seat Williamson, and about fifty people were on the waiting list. Presently, realizing I have no chance of getting a ticket, I approach a nearby security guard.

"I'm Marty Beckerman, with the paper," I say.

"So?" the guard asks.

"Well, do you think I could get a seat if I did a review of Rollins' show?"

"Do you have a ticket?"

"No," I reply.

"No," the guard answers.

Defeated, I try a slightly more professional journalistic method: sneaking backstage. I walk to the rear of the theater, where I find - surprise! - another damn security guard. Nonetheless, I introduce myself.

"So do you have an interview with Rollins or what?" the bouncer asks.

"Yes," I lie, "an interview with Rollins is exactly what I have."

The guard makes a phone call, and a man named Shane Mitchell - who seems to be in charge of something or other here at the Williamson Auditorium - approaches me from backstage. After a bit more lying on my part, Mitchell takes me into the Williamson sound booth to watch the show.

A few minutes after taking my seat in the sound booth, Rollins walks on-stage, wearing a black sweater and more than a few layers of excess muscle tissue. One of the lighting people in the sound booth comments on how Rollins is known to bench-press over 370 pounds in his daily workout. From the looks of the man, I honestly wouldn't be surprised. Henry Rollins is larger than the average bus, and most likely consumes more gasoline.

Rollins spends the next three hours performing various profanity-laced comedy pieces and leftist social commentary. His monologue covers such topics as world politics, the flaws of organized religion, and what it was like to do a nude scene for one of his big-screen movies.

"You want to do that interview of yours now?" Mitchell asks, after the show.

"Sweet," I reply. "I mean, uh, 'yes.'"

"Just hang out backstage for thirty minutes. It should be fine with Rollins."

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.

"Um, please?"

"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.

(Cold silence.)

"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."