Sundown

Into the sunset ...

New Scabs

My wounds will scab over eventually, I think on the return trip from Spring Mount, Pa. The backs of my legs have been rubbed raw, courtesy of a taut, coarse rope I used to crawl upside down across a thirty-foot stretch of open space nearly forty feet above the ground. I'm taking a canopy tour with the good folks from Spring Mountain Adventures: zip lines, rope bridges and other obstacles among the towering trees.

My hands are already red and aching after spanning a series of dangling, knotted ropes. It feels good in the sense that I am accomplishing something. Sometimes pain can be a good thing: "Pain is weakness leaving the body," and "Pain is the body letting the mind know it's doing something worthwhile," as others have said before me.

One of the zip lines spans nearly three-hundred feet if I remember correctly, guaranteeing the "zipper" speeds of at least forty-five miles per hour. Beneath me, chipmunks dance around charcoal-colored boulders, no doubt trying to evade the black rat snakes and rattlers who would love nothing more than to make a meal of them. We finish the course by rappelling down a man-made rock wall.

Speaking of snakes, I begin the day as I do most: walking to the coffee shop for fresh coffee. During the walk I came across a mature garter snake --- the same garter snake I've seen almost every day this summer. (That's him below.) I like to think there's an unspoken bond between us --- man and serpent. Or perhaps I unknowingly speak parseltongue, the language of snakes as described by J.K. Rowling, author of the "Harry Potter" books, one of which I am now reading. Or perhaps he's simply staying still so I don't eat him.

Struggle for Air

I am a fish taken from the stream, imposed upon a world of oxygen, sunshine and arid rock. I flop on a bed of stone and lose scales on the harsh edges of driftwood and broken slabs of shale. I leave my signature in odor and droplets of blood. I gasp for breath as I struggle, pondering when death will come, as I consider the pain of not breathing, as I worry over the probability of hungry predators roaming the shoreline in search of an easy meal. I eye the rushing water, mouth gaping, and yearn to be one with the current, but my body has failed: no strength left to rejoin me with the place I called home for so long. Perhaps I will make a stand, here, dying on this rock, and evolve in time to sprout legs and lungs, finding a new life altogether.

One Year Ago ...

From left: me, Pat Society, Kory Clarke from Warrior Soul, Danarchy. This photo is from a show I went to a year ago to see the now-defunct Warrior Soul in New York City. I can't believe 12 months have passed since then. My life is much, much different than that of the guy in this photo, on the far left. I remember getting back to the Philadelphia area the next morning around 6 a.m. I didn't have a place to call my own at the time so I fell asleep, in my car, in a quiet park in Warrington, Pa. It was a very good show, I recall, and the post-show falafel was spectacular.

Choosing Sides

I am a member of what some people might consider a notorious acronym: PETA, or People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. My affiliation with this group has, until recently, been based solely on like-mindedness and the occasional monetary contribution. On a recent Saturday afternoon I got involved.

/

I didn't know quite what to expect. I was nervous on the drive to downtown Philadelphia and the short walk to the steps of the soon-to-be-imploded Philadelphia Spectrum. There, along with maybe 10 other PETA members and/or animal lovers, I protested the Ringling Bros. Circus for instances of elephant abuse. I stood on the bare pavement and carried a black-and-white sign that read, in big block letters, "Ringling Beats Animals." I also passed out leaflets detailing a court case alleging such abuse under the Endangered Species Act --- a case that Ringling is, for its part, fighting.

/

There were no riots. There were no lobbed canisters of teargas or spent rubber bullets. There was, however, a PETA representative with a bullhorn talking about the bullhooks (one of which is pictured) that handlers use to coax elephants into performing silly little tricks, about how one baby elephant drowned while trying to escape a bullhook-armed handler and about other horrid details that have been captured on film and can be viewed online by anyone who wishes to see them. The circus-goers were mostly tolerant, if not respectful, and many of them asked questions, wondered why we were there, wondered what all the fuss was about.

/

I felt like an arrogant jerk at times, thinking these people paid good money to spend an afternoon with their families and be entertained by professional performers. Then I realized there are plenty of other ways to busy one's family that do not involve the ritual abuse/unneeded suffering of innocent animals that belong elsewhere. I got more aggressive in handing out the leaflets once I accepted this reality.

/

People can be such cruel creatures. And this cruelty extends far beyond the abuses man inflicts upon the animals he is supposed to care for or, at the very least, leave the hell alone. After the demonstration I drove two hours to the Jersey Shore for a few slices of boardwalk pizza.

/

I walked back to the car with a full belly and saw what appeared to be an argument between a man and a woman. I soon realized I had to walk past them to get to the car, making me uncomfortable but they left me no choice. Upon closer inspection I saw it was an older woman --- a mother or a grandmother --- and a young boy, no older than 10 or 11. She was screaming at him, humiliating him. He sobbed. Tear lines creased the bare skin of his cheeks.

/

And that's when I saw the belt.

/

No, I thought, she wouldn't dare. She proved me wrong and proceeded to whip him with the folded-over belt. She did it at least twice. I mumbled something under my breath and considered intervening. Yet I didn't feel it was my place and kept walking. I wondered, on the drive back to Philly, does this make me a hypocrite --- even a coward --- that I am willing to protest an organization that abuses helpless animals while I am silent as a fellow human abuses a helpless child for which she is supposed to care?

/

Perhaps if I had had a sign and some leaflets ...

Apologies to Pigs

I'm an alien. I must be, because I am so, so different from the people around me. Why, for example, do people insist on littering, not recycling and otherwise being lazy with things for which they are responsible? Exhibit I: Moronic muscleheads at the gym toss their plastic bottles into the trash, though I suppose that one can be excused because most of these guys, based on my interactions with them, are completely brainless and self-absorbed. (This is not sour grapes, by the way; I'm no musclehead, but I do keep myself in better shape than most.)

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Exhibit II: I ran in the Susan B. Komen Race for the Cure in downtown Philadelphia last weekend. It was a great experience, despite the flare-up in my wonky knee, complete with its share of do-gooding and generous companies offering free stuff to mostly appreciative participants. Yet, again, people leave their trash and otherwise unused freebies wherever they see fit: a half-eaten pretzel on the Art Museum steps, a bottle of water left at the "Rocky" statue's feet, etc. I suppose people figure picking up their own refuse and disposing of it properly should be someone else's problem ... and it ultimately becomes just that. I know everyone has things on their mind and everyone has problems, but how much sense does it take to not leave trash behind? It requires no thought and next to no action. It should be automatic.

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I'm no better than anyone else, of course. I have my own issues which must make other people want to yank out clumps of their own hair. But why ... why ... why litter? It infuriates me. Don't even get me started on smokers who toss their butts out their car windows or, even worse, idiots who leave still-burning butts in the middle of the woods, perilously close to tons of tinder in the form of fallen twigs and leaf litter. Then there are the smokers down the Jersey Shore who see the sand as one big ashtray. But I don't want to pick solely on smokers. I've seen countless pieces of left-behind trash at the Shore: used diapers, empty cans of Sunkist, grease-sopped pizza boxes, you name it. Why? So the seagulls can have something to chew on? So sea turtles can choke on it? So small children will have something to play with? So other people can have jobs cleaning up after troves of human pigs on vacation? WTF?

/

May a demon rise from the pits of hell and @#$% them in the rear end! Twice!

Picking Up Pieces

I'm still in California. My body might have returned four months ago, but my mind remains there --- on a trail in the middle of Redwood National Forest, wary of cougars in the shadow of towering redwoods and sequoias.

/

It was a last-minute trip to recharge the batteries. I went for a week and decided to start my journey in San Francisco. I didn't know where the trip would take me, though I ended up in a small town near Oregon's southwestern tip, hugging the coastline. I had a goal: wind down while preparing for the task ahead. I succeeded, because I don't recall ever being so relaxed. My mind busied itself with things to do and roads to maneuver and problems to worry about, but none of it seemed real --- or at least none of it seemed pressing. It was a gift. For a week I could wander as a vagabond with empty pockets, a full gas tank and some of the most magnificent scenery this country has to offer.

/

I sought the ragged fins of great whites along the rocky coastlines, yet saw not a one. I ate vegetarian sushi and some of the best bean burritos Humboldt County has to offer. I woke up early and stayed up late. I drank bad wine. I listened to too many episodes of "This American Life." I wandered while those around me labored. I knew what it meant to "just live." I spent money only on necessities and the simplest of comforts: food and drink, shelter, fossil fuels.

/

A piece of me never returned from that trail. There, standing on a bed of soft dirt and pine needles, I closed my eyes and absorbed the soft, sweet-smelling wind that snaked past the trunks of centuries-old giants and rustled the fronds of prehistoric-seeming ferns. I listened to nothing: no traffic, no airplanes, no engines wheezing, no blustering car horns, no needless chatter, no dogs barking, no neighbors yammering through paper-thin walls, no ugly babies crying, no basketballs bouncing, no phones ringing --- nothing but silence. Only then did I realize the damage I have done to my ears over the past two decades. There was no noise, making the ringing in my head almost deafening.

/

It's quite easy to see why real estate is so expensive along the West Coast. Yet the crazed, oversized cities such as Los Angeles and San Diego have no pulse to me. Instead, give me the ruggedness and rawness and flowering hillsides of Northern California and Oregon.

/

I did my best to leave behind fear of the unknown and failed relationships and broken dreams and feelings of inadequacy and childhood disappointment and unrealistic expectations. I cast off much of this debris in those seven days, but I also left some things out there I would like to have back. I hope to go back someday soon and reconcile the two, picking up those pieces I never intended to lose.

Frosted Future

More thoughts, strung together ... no pattern. Snapshots from year 36.

/

Black eyes. Clean floors. Pizza. A full glass of chianti. Cloudy days. Sunshine. Hurricanes, tornadoes and other natural disasters. The existence of god, or "God." Satanists. Demons. Werewolves. Babies. Lightning. Drowning. Skin cancer. Nine years. The end of something. Infinity. Dirty fingers. The Onion. Metallica's "Fade to Black." Naked breasts. Singles. Singles between naked breasts. The cruelty of zippers. Empty water bottles. The confidence to name one's son "Basil."

/

The stupidity of horse racing. Animal carcasses on conveyor belts. Bloody hooks. A $30 steak. Sushi. Broccoli. "Chick'n." Refried beans. Infantile jokes. Poems. Poets. Haiku. Tabi shoes --- "Footwear for ninjas! Buy now!" People draped in shadow. 9/11. President Taft. Sea monsters. Skullcaps. Firecrackers. Sparklers. Shaggy blankets. Orgasms. Origami. Salami. John the Baptist's head on a silver platter. Third shift at the local 7-Eleven. This. Vinyl records. Mohawks. Safety pins. Orange cones in the road, knocked over. Blank stares. Hockey pucks. Shoelaces. Feathery branches. Podcasts. Learning Russian. "Vodku." Ivan Drago. Calendar pages turning too quickly. Bank accounts. An empty wallet. Living in a cardboard box.

/

The definition of "future considerations." NPR. Trigonometry. Ira Glass. "All Things Considered." Signifying monkeys. Costa Rica. Elbows. Warts. Skin tags. Surgery ... "with no anesthesia / Feel the knife pierce you intensely." Not-yet-written books about charcoal. Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser rolls. Cheesesteaks. Arteries. An early death. Fat men. Napkins. Cobblestone streets. Hanging gardens. Iraq. The letter "Q." Pleases and thank yous. Voodoo. Reticulated pythons. Stitches. Driftwood. Kicks to the groin.

/

A broken orbital bone. Steve Larmer. Book signings. Wyoming. Cool breezes. The thrumming loudness of silence. (It exists.) "Teenagers from Mars." (And we don't care!) Guys named Tor and Oleg. Wasabi. Cartoons about barbarians. Giant spiders. IMdB. The fact that flies have to vomit on their food in order to eat it. The irrelevance of Marilyn Monroe ... or Marilyn Manson, for that matter. Kids named "Chicago." Surfing. Sunburn. Sand crabs. Barbecues on the beach. Scrimscaw. Graverobber telling me "Zydrate comes in a little glass vial / A little glass vial? / A little glass vial." The Oregon coast. Time.

/

Piano lessons. Harvey Keitel. Piano lessons with a nude Harvey Keitel. Sorrow. Crying. Obituaries. "Falling Down" starring Michael Douglas. Thrash metal. Trash cans. Forearms. Receding hairlines. Bankers. BMWs. Biostatistics. Shrimp cocktail. Anything fried. Eastern newts in the "red eft" phase. Newspapers. "Rad" --- the best '80s movie ever made. Lavender. Vermont. Fried cheese. Mountains. Nepal. Freezing to death. Finding oneself. Conquering nature. Conquering fear. Conquering the self. Accomplishing something. Finding contentment.

The Wall

I had a dream about god last night. I don't remember exactly what message the dream was supposed to have for me, but I do know he was not happy with me. He stood over me, glowering. There were pine trees and a brook and a steep hill. That's all I recall.

/

So I woke up this morning, considered my work load and took off for a walk in the woods, to High Rocks Vista near Point Pleasant, Pa. This is a haven for rock climbers year-round and ice climbers in the winter, and it's the only place I would refer to as "my sanctuary" within two hours of my front door --- especially now, as spring has officially taken hold. On this warm April day, I found a comfortable spot on a sheer bluff overlooking Tohickon Creek and listened to the creek pass by, its waters swollen with winter melt. I lay down on a slab of red rock and simply ... existed. I took a few minutes to dream up a short story about the grisly demise of a through-hiker styled after someone I know too well and then read from a book ("The Monsters of Templeton" by Lauren Groff) for two more hours.

/

Vultures circled overhead. A red-headed woodpecker tapped on the bark of a tree whose branches stretched into the open space above the Tohickon. The sun warmed my stubbly face. My legs dangled over the wall of rock. All the stress of my life melted away. I had no problems. I had no responsibilities. Life was perfect. I was alone and unmolested. I could breathe again. And I smiled.

Still Fighting

Drives to the mountains always afford lots of time to ponder the path I've taken to my current situation and the future path I am likely to take. I was fortunate enough to have the time this weekend, on my 36th birthday, for another extended hike to the mountains that overlook Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. I didn't like the direction I saw myself heading. Better put, I didn't like what the proverbial crystal ball showed me because right now it's so damn murky.
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There's nothing worse than uncertainty. Well, that's a lie. There are lots of things, millions of things worse than certainty --- cancer being one of them --- but uncertainty can be very stressful. I know I will eventually recover from my current funk and restart my life, but right now I am knee-deep in mud. I've read numerous self-help books. I've subjected myself --- and my bank account --- to psychotherapy for more than three years. I've gained the advice of people I trust and those who have been here before me. Some of it has been helpful, but here I sit: mired. I have grown very tired of the word "but." I must strike it from my vocabulary. A co-worker once spoke of the power of the word "and." So let me try that sentence again: Some of it has been helpful, and here I sit: mired. Wow. That felt almost cathartic. :)
/
I had one question to answer during the hour-long drive to my mountain destination: What do I have to show for my first 36 years? I have four years till my 40th birthday and my list of achievements includes a 10-year-old Toyota I hope to one day push off a cliff, a house I'm embarrassed to live in, no job, few decent job prospects, etc. This is not self-pity; it's merely a realistic inventory. To my credit I have a nice blender, an avocado knife, an orange backpack I can't live without, and a growing book collection. (I have lots of other things, of course, but it's just stuff.) By society's standards, however, I am a failure. By that I mean I have no children. But that's all right; I've never wanted children and I can't imagine myself ever having children. Maybe that's because there's so much uncertainty in my own life. (Or maybe "Still Fighting It" from Ben Folds has had a more profound influence on me than I thought: It hurts to grow up / But everybody does.) I do have two dogs I love dearly, but they will most likely be dead within five to seven years. My other accomplishments seem rather ordinary, if not altogether forgettable. Again, this is not self-pity. This is fact.
/
So where do I go from here? I don't seem to serve a purpose other than finding new ways to entertain myself. Even that is becoming difficult to do. Here's what I know: Everyone screws up, me included. And this, I am sure, is the valley in a life of uninspiring peaks. I am thankful for my health and my experiences and for who I am and for my place in this world. I'm thankful for countless things, to tell the truth. But I am not content. And I'm not afraid to say it: I want more.

No Hope

I wrote the following story for horror magazine Rue Morgue a few years ago, but it never found life there. It's about a small, quirky town I used to visit in my teen years, mainly to buy punk albums from indie record shops, feed ducks or simply walk across the spider-riddled bridge into Lambertville, N.J., because I had nothing else better to do. I returned there not too long ago, and it just didn't fit me anymore. It's funny how time alters things.

The Most Haunted Town in America

The wraith of a maligned vice president mingles with slaughtered pigs

and other restless spirits in New Hope, Pa.

Within an hour's drive of Philadelphia, along the chocolaty seam known as the Delaware River, lies the once-sleepy Bucks County borough called New Hope. Dubbed "No Hope" by sour locals, New Hope is also known in some circles as the most haunted town in America.
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New Hope's rich history, quirkiness and artistic nobility have begun to butt heads with Wal-Mart-era consumerism. (For example, Starbucks has snatched up a prime corner in a shuttered bank-cum-fallout shelter.) While corporate tenants have driven out a few independent retailers and residents tiring of weekend bottlenecks, New Hope's longest-tenured inhabitants --- a diverse cast of graveyard spooks --- aren't going anywhere anytime soon.
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"This area is so rich in history," says Adele Gamble, proprietor of Ghost Tours, a local firm that conducts lantern-lit tours of New Hope's most famous haunts. "George Washington's troops endured so much hardship here; many of them froze to death. Plus, New Hope has always attracted actors and artists. You have all these tortured, sensitive souls in one concentrated area."
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The storied Logan Inn along New Hope's main drag sits at the town's supernatural epicenter. During America's Revolutionary War, Washington's troops used the inn's basement as a makeshift morgue and crematorium; Gamble says the cellar's spiritual energy is strong enough to raise her hackles. Visitors continue to report sightings of soldier spirits --- some headless --- guarding the inn, which went up in the 1720s. Unexplained phenomena have sent some guests unexpectedly packing in the middle of their stay, while some thrill-seekers overnight at the Logan thirsting for an otherworldly encounter.
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A ghost that leaves traces of tobacco smoke or the scent of lavender haunts at least one of the inn's 16 guestrooms, according to reports from past visitors. The inn also has a famous phantom: Aaron Burr, vice president to Thomas Jefferson in the early 1800s. In 1804, Burr absconded to New Hope and stayed at the Logan after murdering political rival Alexander Hamilton in a duel. What has been described as Burr's ghost sometimes appears in the halls of the inn or along a mule-tramped towpath that runs behind it.
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Gamble, who runs Ghost Tours apart from her full-time job, has been soaking in New Hope's spiritual energy for the better part of 25 years. One of her most memorable encounters occurred during her "initiation." The late Adi-Kent Thomas Jeffrey, an author and ghost expert who modeled her own tours after those in England, had been holding a seance one Halloween night. The location: a house formerly occupied by a late-19th century primitive artist, butcher and reformed carnie named Joseph Pickett.
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She recalls sitting by the window next to an antique hutch, away from the seance's other participants. An unseen force grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked back her head. She screamed, "Something has me!" And something --- or someone --- definitely did. In the room with them hovered the apparition of a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a handlebar mustache, a white shirt and suspenders: Joseph Pickett's specter. She has had at least one other dust-up with Pickett in the time since.
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An unassuming multistory house near a bridge that overlooks the towpath has served Gamble as another reliable source of ghost sightings. During her tours she likes to recite the tale of a rock band that once tried to use the house as rehearsal space. But when the musicians plugged in their amplifiers, an ungodly squealing belched from the speakers; the amplifiers worked just fine everywhere else. The problem persisted, ultimately driving the band from the building. Gamble says the property had been used long ago as a slaughterhouse, and "little piggies" slain there must have channeled their cries through the band's equipment.
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She has plenty of other stories about that particular building, which housed a fencing academy in the late 1990s. One tale has to do with a girl visiting friends who lived in a converted apartment there. While sitting in a chair, the girl felt a cat's tongue rake her skin. But as she bent to pet the cat, she saw a ghostly piglet licking her hand instead.
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Other notable New Hope ghosts include a blond hitchhiker with crystal-blue eyes who was killed while thumbing for a ride late one night; a stately woman in a long, high-collared dress; sobbing children; and an impish phantasm that, according to Gamble, once pulled a man off a ladder. Despite the mischief, Gamble likens most ghosts --- at least the ones on her tours --- to Casper: harmless and well behaved.
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"I'm not afraid of them because I believe you attract what you are, and I won't let myself be affected by negative energy," she insists. "But I always ask permission from the ghosts. They were here before I was, and they'll be here when I'm gone."

Backup Plan

I don't know what to do. Honestly, I am genuinely perplexed. I'm talking, of course, about the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs, which begin tonight. I picked the Chicago Blackhawks and the Calgary Flames to meet in the Western Conference Finals, yet here they are, going after each other's throats in the opening round.

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In the Eastern Conference, things are looking a bit more palatable. I've picked the Carolina Hurricanes to match up against the Boston Bruins in the Conference Finals. But honestly, as long as the Philadelphia Flyers lose horribly -- preferably in a four-game sweep in the opening round, courtesy of cross-state rivals the Pittsburgh Penguins -- I will be more than happy. My distaste for the Flyers dates back more than two decades, when they inexplicably traded defencemen Brad McCrimmon to the Calgary Flames. His trade led to the slow but sure demise of what had been a close-to-unstoppable franchise in the late 1980s.

/

But back to the West. Calgary has had its share of success; in 2004 it made it to the Finals only to lose in seven lousy games to the lowly Tampa Bay Lightning. (I thought for sure, by the way, that such an event was a clear sign of an impending apocalypse.) The Flames also won the Cup in 1989 ... thanks, in part, to the defensive prowess of McCrimmon. Chicago, on the other hand, hasn't been to the playoffs since 2002 and hasn't won a Cup in more than fifty years. They've got a good, young, exciting team. And they crushed Detroit in the final two games of the season. So I'm going with Chicago to make it to the Finals, versus, say, the Hurricanes. From there, whatever happens is all right with me.

/

As 20th-century bard Jim Morrison once said, "I don't know what's gonna happen, man, but I'm gonna get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames."

Recovering Days

Someone once told me, "Don't let your days pass as if they don't mean anything." But that's exactly what I have let myself do. I have become a hermit, an island. At least I realize it, and that means I can change it.

/

I recently had a conversation with my neighbor, who looks about as happy as I feel these days. He was lamenting the death of his childhood, rather the fact that he is so far removed from the joy and wonder he experienced as a child. He now has to settle for the experience of seeing such joy only in the face of his son. I imagine that's a great feeling, but it's one step removed, so I can't imagine it's nearly as fulfilling. But I've been wrong before.

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Out of the two of us, I think I'm the lucky one. I still experience such joy, the joy of a child, though it is fleeting. I still know how to play. I still know how to get lost in myself. I still know how to tap into that sense of discovery. I still know how to find happiness in silly things, simple things. I too lament the lack of joy in my life, but I know it's still within me. I just have to figure out a way to unlock whatever box I've stored it in.

/

I awoke yesterday morning to rays of brilliant sunlight filling the room. I had work to do, but life is indeed too short to be wasted solely on productivity. I decided to go hiking, to enjoy the sunshine and burn some calories. So I loaded my backpack and headed for Pulpit Rock, west of Hamburg, Pa. On the way there, along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the sunshine went in hiding and it began to snow. Part of me was disappointed. Another part of me was happy -- joyous -- that winter was not yet ready to relinquish its grip.

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It took me about an hour to reach the top of Pulpit Rock from the trailhead. I saw only one person along the way. Streams overflowed with winter meltwater. Trees flowered with buds. Egg sacs cradling unborn frog or newt larvae floated in cloudy masses at the edge of a small pond. Signs of change were everywhere, warning me that much time had passed and life was getting on with itself, whether I had anything to say about it or not. I climbed along the edges of large boulders at the lip of Pulpit Rock, then settled into a nook at the top to rest my ailing right knee. Gray clouds sent long shadows across the greening pastures and rolling hills of the Lehigh Valley (pictured). The sun showed its face every few minutes, then yielded to more clouds that sprinkled snow.

/

This, to me, meant the seasons hadn't yet turned, no matter what the calendar suggested, which meant I hadn't wasted a full season of days, which meant I still have time to stop listing and turn around this warship.

Clocks and Demonology

Sleep comes when it comes. It doesn't come much at all anymore, due to the confluence of boredom, worry, caffeine, the lack of consequences and cravings for entertainment and intelligence.
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In the past few years my sleeping schedule has become a strange sort of creature. I can subsist on a few hours of sleep per night until I crash at the end of the week. It's not uncommon for me to be awake at 4 a.m., watching Extenze infomercials and reruns of "King of Queens," or trolling the city's neighborhoods by car with a cup of coffee in hand. But I must admit I am always filled with dread, or at least a sense of heightened awareness, during the three o'clock hour.
/
A few years ago I made the mistake of seeing "The Exorcism of Emily Rose," an odd film starring Laura Linney that somewhat successfully blends horror with elements of courtroom drama. What I remember most about it is the idea of the "witching hour." Of course we've all heard of this. The witching hour is another name for 3 a.m. and the sixty minutes that follow, named so because it's the supposed inverse of the hour Christ died on the cross, and it's when the demons get to come out and tear things up.
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The film reminded me of a story my sister's friend told me when I was probably no older than six. Every Halloween, she said, Satan comes out to play. Any trick-or-treaters left on the streets past a reasonable hour -- say, 9:00 p.m. -- would be collected by Satan and his minions, never to be heard from again. This story has stuck with me all these years. During college I worked as a solo nighttime janitor for a kitchen facility. It was more than a little unnerving to be swabbing the floors on Halloween night, especially as midnight approached. I ran out of there after I finished my work for the night but fully expected to see Satan waiting for me at my car: arms crossed, cloven hoofs clopping against the asphalt, smoking a cigarette and checking his watch as if to suggest, "Where you been all my life, Billy boy?"
/
All the bad things that happened to the title character in "Emily Rose" occurred between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. I'm paranoid to begin with, and despite all the "satan metal" I've been listening to for the last twenty years, I must admit a deep, nagging fear of demons. I believe they are real, and not just in the alcoholism sense. (I also believe in werewolves and "devil deer," if that means anything.) It must be the Catholic upbringing, made worse by my purposeful straying from Christian territory.
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So if I'm already awake at 3 a.m., I flick on an extra light or two, and I always turn the TV to something uplifting ... or at least something not about demonic possession, ritual sacrifice or methods for inviting evil forces into one's place of residence. If I'm asleep and wake up anytime between 3 and 4 in the morning, I do one of two things: Sink deeper beneath the protective veneer of my blanket (because such subterfuge always fools a demon) or curl up a little closer to my trusty dog, Moose. This may sound silly, but I breathe a little easier when 3:59 turns to 4:00.
/
Still the notion raises a few questions: Do demons recognize Daylight Saving Time? Are they bound by it? What about time zones? And, of course, what befalls the poor soul whose house sits on the line between the Eastern and Central time zones? Does he have to deal with witching hours, plural? Perhaps, instead of wrestling with such ideas, I should simply take a swig off a bottle of NyQuil and let the mind take a break from itself. But where's the fun in that?

Serpent's Tale

It is officially spring here in Philadelphia's outer rim, though you wouldn't know it by looking out the window this very second. I was walking to the gym the other day and saw my first garter snake of the season. (This is not an actual photo of the snake I saw, by the way; thank you, Internet.) Much like seeing the first robin of spring, catching a glimpse of a snake outdoors in the Northeast this time of year means one of two things: a.) The weather is officially about to turn to the warmer side; or b.) The bugger escaped his human captors and is willing to risk death over being caged for the rest of his life. Considering the 67-degree weather, I think it was the former. More snakes and warm weather to come!

/

Learning to Walk Again

"Everything in life is a compromise. You deal with it and move on."
/
Life is too strange for it to be one random coincidence after another. About two months ago I got to know a man named Fred. He's about 65 years old, maybe 70. A full beard and head of gray hair. Strong Southern accent, from a part of Texas not far from San Antonio. He walks slowly and with a slight limp. Reason is last year he had a stroke that debilitated the left side of his body. He still has no strength in his left arm.
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I spent one of the most depressing afternoons of my life with Fred, at a Chinese buffet directly across from my high school in Warminster, Pa. Sitting there in that restaurant, as I stared at the brick face of my alma mater, all I could think was, "My life has gone nowhere since graduation day, nearly 18 years ago." Across from us sat an old married couple; the wife was severely overweight and could barely walk. She didn't seem able to chew her food normally, not even Jell-O. Husband and wife both looked miserable. In fact, everyone in the restaurant looked miserable and invariably unsuccessful. After we left the restaurant I stopped at the wine store to buy a few bottles of red and then went home to break a knuckle on a stubborn piece of furniture.
/
I've seen Fred three times since that day in early January. He's got me doing some freelance work for him, writing about things such as alternative energy sources: algae, wind, biochar, etc. It reminds me of work I did 10 years ago when I was PR director for an advertising agency in the Philadelphia suburbs. Traveling in circles that seemed a bit too familiar further reinforced the feeling that life had taken me nowhere ... or I let it take me nowhere. But I've come to look past those feelings and actually learn something.
/
Getting to know Fred has reminded me of the Mitch Albom book, "Tuesdays with Morrie." He tells me about his many inventions, about how complicated things work, about engineering and physics principles I am supposed to understand and then craft into paragraphs of dumbed-down prose. He's also teaching me about things I never knew I cared about. The quote at the top of the page, for instance -- "Everything in life is a compromise ..." -- is one of his.
/
He's a brilliant man, so he's smart enough to not let "speed bumps" bother him or keep him from reaching his goals. He is a winner, despite all the hurdles that have been placed in front of him. For example, he never planned on losing a child but he did almost 20 years ago, and he never planned on having a stroke that would rob him of his mobility. He has recovered from surviving one his own children and has also learned to manage the aftereffects of his stroke -- yet another compromise. He's driving again. His steps are much surer. He's slowly regaining the use of his left hand so he can get back to tinkering in the metal shop and doing something as simple as turning the pages of a book he's reading. Clearly, he's a highly adaptable survivor.
/
Funny thing about Fred: He may be brilliant, but he's also a child in that he hasn't lost the sense of wonder that abandons so many of us once we hit high school. He still likes to learn new things. He still takes things apart to see how they work. Age hasn't stopped him from growing and challenging himself and getting dirty, even with hurdles that might seem insurmountable to other people.
/
The first time I met Fred, I honestly wasn't sure I wanted to meet him a second time because I thought working with him meant taking a step or two backward in my life. Now I see he's forcing me to move forward.

Second and Long

Here I sit, waving goodbye to yet another month ... and the first quarter of 2009. WTF? Time seems to be slipping by awfully fast considering that nothing has happened yet this year. It's 11 a.m. and I'm at a coffeehouse in Doylestown, Pa., sipping from a 20-ounce cup of black coffee and listening to vintage Cure and Twisted Sister songs. And to think, someone might suggest I'm doing nothing with my life. You can't stop rock n' roll, you know. Just ask Dee Snider.

/

I've been on the job hunt for nearly six months now, having sent resumes and clips and cover letters to anybody looking for a decent journalist. Packages containing my life's work have gone to Alaska, Colorado, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Vermont, Connecticut, Missouri, Virginia, Arizona, Oregon and probably a few places in between. I'm getting close to the next phase of my life, methinks, but close only counts in ... well, you know. I have dreams of the Chicago Blackhawks knocking on my door and asking me to join their communications team ... and then, serendipitously, one of their defencemen -- Duncan Keith, perhaps -- goes down with an injury, opening a slot for yours truly. I played ice hockey for six years post-college, after all. I'm a decent skater and play solid defence, as long as I don't have to touch the puck. The Blackhawks don't need to know I have zero puck-handling ability.

/

Or maybe all the writing I've done over the past few years will magically make its way into the hands of an agent who believes I'm the next Chuck Palahniuk or Michael Chabon (apologies to Chuck Palahniuk and Michael Chabon for comparing myself to them) and he/she signs me to a six-book deal with a six-figure advance. Everyone has to have a dream. I've been watching the TNT show "Trust Me" about the joys and perils of running an advertising agency in Chicago. That's got me lusting for a creative job like that. But I used to work for an agency -- two actually, one of them in the entertainment business -- and never found life to be quite like how it's portrayed on the small screen. Maybe I was running with the wrong crowd again.

/

I'm reminded of the funny-as-hell film "Dumb & Dumber," in which losers played by Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels stumble upon a new life. ("Tell her I have a rapist's wit.") Toward the end of the film, they are wandering aimlessly and waiting for a new opportunity to find them. On cue, a tour bus filled with bikini-clad women pulls up and one of the women asks for directions to town so they can find two guys to oil them up before whatever job it is they do in bikinis. Daniels' and Carrey's characters don't see the opening in front of them and merely point the girls in the opposite direction, lamenting that opportunity will find them one day. I sometimes feel I've let the same thing happen to me. I had a few job offers come my way early this year but turned them down for different reasons. But here I am, wondering when my ship will come in. Maybe it already came in -- twice! -- and I let it chug out of the harbor without me.

/

That's a bad way of looking at things, I suppose, though I am conscious of what I've left behind. I don't blame anyone. I made the choice with open eyes. But I soldier on, confident my life is about to change. It's always changing, isn't it? Isn't everyone's? I'm going to live somewhere else, do something else, working in a different industry than I have for the past nine years. And it's going to be great. I'll be part of a team. I'll be vital. I'll be important. I'll be making money. I'll be making decisions. And I'll be back on my feet, growing into a new, different and better person.

/

Tomorrow the second quarter of 2009 officially begins. It's going to be the best quarter, like, ever! I've got my fingers crossed that it will at least be a.) more interesting, b.) not quite as lonely, and c.) a lot less painful. Something's got to happen.

Slow Death of an Unhappy Man

Sometimes I feel as if I'm stuck between Steps 4 and 8 of the 12-step program. By that I mean I'm making an inventory of my life while wanting to apologize to those I have wronged as I plod toward the finish line. That list includes me for all the damage I've done in the past few years. "Hey, man. Sorry for ruining your life and stuff." "It's cool. I get it: You're lost. No harm and all that."
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I'm getting over the fact that I should not have quit the best job I've ever had. I'm getting over the fact that, in 2006, I was growing into the person I've always wanted to become but let him wither into a confused and frightened child. I'm getting over (or trying to, anyway) the fact that leaving my job cost me much more than I ever expected: time, money, friendships, identity, self-worth, growth and some other, even more important stuff I have no way of quantifying. Worse yet, I've hurt others along the way.
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Right now I'm reading "Dark Nights of the Soul" by Thomas Moore. (Coincidentally I'm also reading "The Woman Lit by Fireflies" from Jim Harrison, "The Jungle" from Upton Sinclair and a find-your-way kind of self-help book from Martha Beck.) A "dark night," the way Moore sees it, is any life-altering event that thrusts one into the throes of despair and introspection but ultimately shapes him or her into a stronger and wholly different person. I'm all for this brand of change, because the guy I see in the mirror every morning isn't someone I want to know anymore.
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Turns out that Moore has some experience in this area. He has lived a very colorful life. He's a monk. He's a musician. He's a philosopher. He's a prolific writer. And he's also very human, so he has had to confront his share of life changes. He has had failed relationships. He has lost things. But he has hope for the future. Such hope begins with living through these dark nights, or painful journeys, and finding a different person standing on the other side.
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He writes in "Dark Nights" about the importance of sorting out the detritus of one's life and starting over, which is the point where I now find myself. It's terrifying yet exciting because it deals with matters of death and rebirth. He also writes about living a life based on love and desire rather than one based on rationality and control. That's where I've been: I've tried to control my life from one second to the next, too often in the wrong circumstances. At times I've been complacent and let life take me where it wishes, while at other times I've kept too firm a grip on the steering wheel. I'm not sure what this force is, this repressive little imp, but it's made me an unhappy person who's afraid to take chances. I've lost so much of myself already. I don't want to waste any more time, but Moore tells me I can't rush the process.
/
There's a famous quote about the need to take control of one's own destiny lest someone else control it for him. It's a fine saying, and it applies to many situations ... but not all. So where does one draw the line? When does one exercise control by letting the brain lead, and when does one loosen the strings and let the heart do what it wants? Me, I've been a horrible judge.

A New Path

I envision a day when I am free. I can almost see it, and that is a good sign. In this vision I am walking across a field with tall, green grasses and wildflowers with yellow and purple petals. Snow-capped mountains loom in the distance. A backpack weighs me down. The singletrack trail on which I walk is slightly worn, strewn with pebbles and bugs and the occasional toad. It's somewhere in Colorado, this place. Or Montana. Or Washington. Maybe even Oregon.

/

The exact location in this dream doesn't matter. What does matter is that I am free to walk where I wish, do what I wish. I am smiling wider than I have in some time. I have no deadlines to meet. I have no responsibilities. I am merely ... here. Who cares if a grizzly bear has caught my scent and has been tracking me for seven miles, waiting to pounce as I nod off beneath a sky rich with a million stars?

/

Thoughts of being mauled aside, I am optimistic today, and I think this represents a turning point -- a change in my mental state. Or maybe I'm just having a good morning. It could be the endorphins, after all. Or maybe it's the promise of freshly brewed coffee. Whatever it is, I am ready for a change. And better yet, I can begin to envision the change and the aftermath and the idea of being happy again. (Yay, me!) For so long I have settled for a life that I did not design. For so long I have followed someone else's footsteps. For so long I have done what I'm "supposed" to do. I'm sick of following the rules. The rules don't matter.

/

I don't know how I ended up here, especially considering my late teens and early 20s. I played bass in a punk-rock band and surrounded myself with people who did what they wanted, where they wanted, why they wanted. Punks, yes. Anarchists, sure. They didn't care about labels or anything like that. They were just living and doing exactly what they wanted to do. I was different from them, however. I had a good time touring and recording and rehearsing and just having friends, but I yearned for something more than the life I had been living. I just didn't know what it was then. And I knew that punk rock and I were parting ways. So I grew up, got a job I didn't want and did everything else I was supposed to do, only because it was what I was supposed to do. I became my father ... minus the children, of course.

/

I lived much too cautiously for my first 25 years. I settled for jobs that were below my abilities. I lived with my parents for longer than I should have. I was the good guy, the nice guy, the safe guy, the polite guy. I always did the right thing, and now I can't imagine why. I didn't realize the freedom that I had. Even after I moved out, I stayed close to home because ... why go anyplace else? I always wanted to leave, to live somewhere else, to meet different people. Philadelphia is a great city, but it never quite fit me, or me it. But I stayed, because I was supposed to. Because it was safe. Because everybody else did the same. I let the current take me. But then, one by one, everybody else moved away and did different things, experimented, tested themselves, tried on new lifestyles. But here I was, still plugging away at jobs I didn't really want, working hard and beginning to earn decent money ... but being bored as hell.

/

I was always ready for a change, always hungry to make it happen. Fear and other things got in the way. I see now that giving in to fear has hobbled me and kept me from growing. So I'm not going to be afraid anymore.

The Muse

I've had a few things on my mind lately, as anyone might. A good writer would weave such things into a finely told story. I'm simply going to make a list. Maybe there is a story tucked in here somewhere. Maybe all these things are related somehow. Or maybe this is another waste of a blog post.

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Jack Johnson's "Breakdown." Lung cancer. Salamander larvae in a vernal pool. Being jobless. Nightmares about witches. An unopened pack of bass strings. Weddings. Divorces. A dog sleeping on a bed in a room with open windows, a gentle breeze lifting the curtains. Andrew Wyeth paintings. Kale. Sweaty T-shirts stuffed under a car seat. The ugliness of the German language. Atomic bombs. Plain white panties. Ferris wheels. Charisma Carpenter. Signing bonuses. Upside-down crosses. People with buck teeth. Oregon. Rocky, sandy beaches. Phones that don't ring. Trees. "The Cannonball Run." Andy Dick. Melting snow. Charcoal. How to make charcoal. Three-hundred business cards I will never use again. Maps of places I would like to visit. Banjos. France. The color green. Chicago. The '80s. Run-on quotes. Rivers, lakes, streams and other bodies of water. Bayfield, Wisconsin. Werewolves. Brown eyes. Abraham Lincoln. Terrorism. Legwarmers. Calvados. The rabbit in my back yard. Being alone.

/

Empty notebooks. Quiet. Jennifer Weiner's next book. Taking a seat in row 17 of a Southwest Airlines jet. Esquire magazine. The Replacements. Google. Burmese pythons. My iPod. Mythology. The Police (the band, not the men in blue). Scylla and Charybdis. Blue Man Group. Saturday morning cartoons. Pop-Tarts. Meat. Meatless hot dogs. Depressing Josh Ritter songs. Hot nights in May. Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast." Arizona. Jail. Pentagrams. Elvis impersonators. Right-side-up crucifixes. Speeding tickets. Concert tickets. War. Peace. North Korea. Israel. Ivory Coast. Kansas. Alternative energy. "Rocky IV." Soap made from animal fat. Cracker Jack. People I hate. People who hate me. High-school wrestling. Teeth. Edward Hopper. Broken ankles. Mustard. Solitaire. Bad paint jobs. Tattoos I'll never have. Jokes. Throwing chairs through windows. Crying.

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Siberian tigers being reclassified as Amur tigers because there are so few of them left, all crammed into the Amur River basin. Mexican food. James Taylor songs that suck. Yellow trains. Text messages. Disappointment. Bloody noses. Guns. Knives. Spent bullet casings. Hope. More disappointment. Holidays. Long walks. Contemplative drives to the mountains. Slurpees. Salads. Utah. Snow. Sunrises. Stars. Blankets. Warmth. Dead fish. "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog." CCCP. Finger pointing. Sixteen dollars. Being homeless. Sitting on a bench, holding hands on a quiet Saturday afternoon. Snakes. Misunderstandings. Breakups. Flights of red wine. Slippery slopes. Cookies. Needles. Tears. Paying it forward. Blank checks. Health-care bills. Sleepless nights. McLean, Virginia. Falling down stairs. "Fringe." Walks by the lake. Bruises. Panic.

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Childhood homes. Bowling alleys. Neon. Niagara Falls. ("Niagara Falls!") Tongues fighting each other. Danzig versus Shakira. Standing in parking lots at 3 a.m. Standing in parking lots at 10 p.m. Standing in parking lots and sitting in cars. Lonely hotel rooms. "Tropic Thunder." Chinese beer. Comfortable beds. Squid. Jesus riding a hippo. Steam. Bottle openers. Broken wine bottles. Veins. Staple guns. Steel cages. "Seinfeld" reruns. Apartment hunting. Pubic hair. Reverting. Avoidance. Books about murder. Books about suicide. The Teletubbies dancing to "Spellbound" from Dimmu Borgir. Ninjas. The word "turbo." Being on stage. Fluffy gray cats. Stains. Condoms. Cable TV. Waking up tired. Drunk-driving fatalities in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Stones. Assignments. Snow Patrol. Therapy. Czech food. Dry feet. Red toenails. Coffee. Cinnamon. Fear. Avocados. Shrimp. Turbans. Shoveling snow. Reproduction. O'Hare versus Midway. Accents. Pez dispensers. Nipples. Climbing staircases. Missed opportunities. News reports. Resignations. Relief. Fleeting happiness. Seattle. Holes in the ground.

/

Flesh-colored bras. Madison, Wisconsin. Sad songs. Ska. Late-night phone calls. Twelve dollars. Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight." Obama versus McCain. Short stories from Joe Hill. Shampoo. Rust. Hot tea. Primates. Urges. Short stories about death. Suppression. Repression. Depression. Riding in taxis with Russians named Alex. The lyrics "Will you ever / No you may never / See me on the other side of this life." Black dresses. Bar bands. Smoky rooms. Vomiting. Pictures of small children. Nights that end too quickly. Bathroom breaks. Leaning. Waiting. Hoping. Ants. Area codes. Paintings in waiting rooms. Baseball games. Nice hotels. Awards. The Chicago Blackhawks. The solitary pain of January 1. Threats. Beards. Love. The future. Happy endings.

Sabotaging Selves

My mood is darker than usual. Here I sit in this all-too-comfortable spot, typing away, where I have spent too much of my life. It seems I cannot escape it. Or I have not let myself escape it. And that is probably the most frustrating part.
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A recent article in The Atlantic spoke of the idea that a single person contains a plural community, made up of different selves who have different desires and want different things. I am not speaking of schizophrenia or anything of the sort. Studies of the brain and, more so, of human behavior suggest that many people have something inside -- a compulsion? -- that makes them go down one path one day, then take another the next, all the while following the advice of what they always assumed was a singular, united governor. Put another way, one self tries to fool, if not sabotage, the other. Perhaps this is what Walt Whitman was referring to when he wrote that he was "large" and "contained multitudes." If each of us truly does have multiple selves, then happiness is an impossibility. This internal tug-of-war has been my struggle the past few years.
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I am trying my damnedest to get myself together, to get the selves working toward the same goal. But it has not been easy. Given my state of employment or complete lack thereof, I have nothing to do but write and read and think and exercise: all solitary acts. It hasn't been too bad of a time, and sometimes even refreshing, other than the deleterious effects on my bank account. That said, considering all the time I have spent thinking about what happens next, it almost seems like my brain is a weapon that gets used against me. So I am keeping it busy doing things other than contemplating my current situation or the trajectory of my future. I read an average of one book a week. I am trying to learn to speak Russian. (Spasibo!) And I spend as much time as possible outdoors -- away from this goddamn computer.
/
I find I am at my happiest and calmest and most clearheaded when I walk in the woods, alone. Nothing matters out there. Nothing. Out there, among the trees and the wind and the sunshine and the uncorrupted air, nothing is a problem. And it seems walking in the woods is the only time that all of my multiple selves come into alignment. This week I took extended hikes to different parts of Pennsylvania: the Pinnacle in Hamburg; and Mount Tammany in Delaware Water Gap, on the western border of northern New Jersey.

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It's February, so it is cold and remote in the northeastern part of the state. Between both hikes -- the Pinnacle takes about four hours to finish, Tammany about three hours -- I see a grand total of one person. Other than worry every so often about bears with empty stomachs coming groggily out of hibernation, the brain does nothing but think its way through the maze it has been given.

Too Fast for Love

Motley Crue is the worst band in the world. I hate them. They suck. Except that they don't at all. In fact, they put on one of the best live shows I have ever witnessed.
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I am in Omaha, Nebraska, with a friend from Chicago, here to see Motley Crue, Hinder and Theory of a Deadman at the Qwest Center. (Will someone please tell them they spelled "Quest" wrong? Seems like you should check something like that before you put it on the face of a building and a mammoth sign overlooking the highway.) I am familiar with Theory of a Deadman from my days writing for a now-defunct indie music magazine called ROCKPILE. Otherwise, I have no skin in this game. I never expected in a million years that I would fly 1,000 miles and drive another 500 to see Vince Neil, Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx and Mick Mars play their "hits." Yet here I am, in the second row and close enough to get sweat upon.
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The day so far has been full of promise. We meet a guy named Sparky -- I almost accidentally call him "Spanky" no less than 10 times -- who DJs for a rock station in Lincoln, Nebraska. He's the one who gets us into the show and sets up a "meet & greet" (moronic term) with the guys from Theory. The band is actually very cool when they come out to mingle with the commoners. My friend and I are standing among a dozen or so other folks that give me the very strong impression that we do not belong there. These are blue-collar folks from America's heartland. In this world of theirs, pseudo-'80s metal icons are still their heroes, still deserving their adoration. I confess I have had my share of heroes that probably never deserved my worship, so I don't fault them in the least. I just don't belong here. I suddenly feel a pang of homesickness, or some other feeling that makes me want to be somewhere else, with someone else.
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After we have our picture taken with the guys from Theory (left; that's me in the green Cubs hat), we tag along with Sparky's group to a nearby bar called the Mattress Factory. Nothing much happens. An hour later we return to the arena and wander in the sea of metalheads, meatheads, fat people, skinny people, normal people, seemingly normal people, security guards, moms trying to forget they are moms, alcoholics, drug addicts, sex addicts, gamers, thugs, idiots, losers, nerds, geeks, bleached-blonde bimbos, white-collar rich guys and, to my knowledge, at least one person dressed like the Gimp from "Pulp Fiction." I down a cup of red wine before we descend the stairs to find our seats.
/
The event begins with Theory, and they put on a good, energetic show. They top off their set with the anthemic "I Hate My Life." For some reason this song has particular significance to me. Even after Theory's set ends, the song makes me wonder where life will take me. I get up and wander the halls of the Qwest Center until I hear the second band -- Hinder -- take the stage. I get back to my seat during a break between songs.
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Hinder's lead singer looks interesting. He's thin, other than a roll of fat around his midsection, that I surmise is the result of hard living on the road. Bras of all colors and cup sizes dangle from the drum kit and microphone stand. It makes me wonder if they are trophies from recent conquests or merely props bought at the nearby Wal-Mart. Going in I am not familiar with Hinder's catalog. Their most popular song is "Lips of an Angel," about a man and a woman who have moved on from a past relationship and have found new partners, only they have not moved on at all and still love each other deeply. Some people hate the song because they think it's about so-called homewreckers. I don't think it's about that at all.
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Motley Crue comes on next, and at first Vince Neil sounds so good I am convinced he is lip-synching. Nikki Sixx at first looks disinterested and unhappy to be in Omaha. Mick Mars appears to be gaunt and broken, but he can still play very well. (I later learn he has some horrible spinal condition that prevents him standing up straight.) Tommy Lee is hidden behind his drum kit. I feel it is important for me to reiterate that I am no Motley Crue fan. I thought they were at best a marginal cock-rock band who wrote simple, stupid, uncomplicated songs about sex, drugs and other excesses. At worst they were a joke I never quite got. That's what I used to think, anyway. Now, in the middle of this show, I think they are incredible performers and competent musicians. I might even consider logging onto iTunes and buying some of their songs, namely "Dr. Feelgood," "Too Fast for Love" and even some of the new stuff.
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I have a seen a ton of bands in the past twenty years, and I almost feel guilty saying Motley Crue puts on a better show than any one of them. But if that's the case, I guess I'm saying the foursome of Neil, Lee, Sixx and Mars outperforms Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Iron Maiden, Anthrax, Danzig, Warrior Soul, Soundgarden, The Cult, The Cure, Josh Rouse, The Buzzcocks, Aerosmith, the Black Crowes, John Mellencamp, Matthew Sweet, The Bridges, GBH, DRI, Sick of it All, The Misfits, Gwar, Queensryche, Dimmu Borgir, Doomriders, Trouble, Def Leppard, New Kids on the Block and a few more I certainly must be missing. Or maybe my memory isn't nearly as good as I think it is.
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Motley Crue's stage show is well-produced and complements the music. During "Shout at the Devil," an oversized screen behind the drum riser shows image after image of George W. Bush sticking up his middle finger. Flames rim the arena's dasher boards. Ultimately Bush's profile morphs into the actual devil on the screen -- horns, green scales and all. Once that ends, the screen shows two improbably gorgeous women making out. They are naked and blonde and well-endowed, and they are inserting their fingers in places we don't quite get to see. What fun! This spectacle is interspersed with images of rockets shelling presumably Middle Eastern locales, followed by dead bodies being heaped into holes in the ground and other suggestions of unpleasantness. I ignore the morbid stuff and focus intently on the girl-on-girl action. And I don't even like blondes!
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The show ends with an encore call for "Home Sweet Home." After the last note is played we file out of the arena and walk back to the hotel, where we stay for about five minutes before heading back to the Mattress Factory -- the only game in town for food of any sort late into the evening on a Tuesday night in Omaha. We drink. We eat. Then we find our way back to the hotel in a cold, stiff wind. The next morning we pile back into the car and begin the ten-hour return trek to glorious Chicago. In the passenger seat, I have a singular thought as I consider the miles ahead of us: Please let a mountain range have sprouted in Iowa so I have something to look at other than barren cornfields and windmills and the occasional Kum & Go convenience store.

I Heart ...

I took a long walk on Valentine's Day. It got me thinking, as my walks often do. Love is weird. It's wonderful and stupid and cruel and painful. Clouds the mind and warps reality.

/

I recently watched "Roman Holiday," an old black-and-white starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. It's a great story, written by an accused communist who was later exonerated. Takes place in Italy. About a man and a woman who fall in love and all that, but they can't make it work for whatever reason. (That "whatever reason" is she's heir to the throne and can't shack up with a commoner ... a filthy journalist no less!) The movie is funny, as a lot of good movies were in the '50s, but there's no happy ending, really -- just the notion that both people will be OK and move along in their lives, maybe meet other people, maybe reproduce, maybe die an early death. There's no convenient epilogue to let you know how things turn out. But it's a great film, reminiscent of "Casablanca" in a way. The guy does not get the girl and goes on to live his own muddy and solitary existence, at least into the credits. It's a death of sorts.

/

Happy Valentine's Day. This is art.

Long Way from Hell

I can hear the Pacific roaring outside my window. I am in Brookings, Oregon, home of (apparently) the only place in the continental United States to have been bombed by the Japanese during World War II. I've been on the road for five days, heading out of San Francisco, up through the ultra-twisty Route 1, and ending up in Brookings, where I arrived in time to skip stones across the ocean as the sun sank into the water. Funny thing about Brookings: It's a mountain town on the coast, with nothing on the radio dial but Quiet Riot and Jesus talk.
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I've been able to shake the webs from my head and think clearly for the first time in a long time. I should have done this long ago. This trip has had its share of pluses and minuses, including a speeding ticket (going 71 in a 55 mph zone), for which I still have no clue how much it will cost me in terms of dollars and/or points. But I am glad I came here, for numerous reasons.

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Last time I was in San Francisco was 2004. I honestly remembered it being cleaner. The area surrounding the storied City Lights bookshop seems to have nosedived a bit. But the weather has been glorious and will be uncharacteristically pleasant for the rest of the week: 65 to 70 degrees and sunny. After San Francisco and a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge, I find myself at Muir Woods, where I complete one of the best hikes I've done in some time. It's wild here, in California. It feels familiar to me, and I never want to go home -- back to my apparent "life sentence" in Pennsylvania. At the top of a small mountain I find a clearing with nothing but treetops, open space and a perfect view of the Pacific Ocean. An oil freighter lingers out there, listing atop miles of open water.

/

After the hike, I make a right and head inland. Napa Valley is next. I arrive here, expecting to be wowed, but it is underwhelming. I want to like it but don't get the full experience. This place is to be enjoyed with fellow wine drinkers. I refrain from spending even $1 on a bottle of wine here (other than the $4.99 bottle I got at a dinky wine shop by the Napa Best Western) and move on. I head westward, toward the coast, and find myself back on Route 1.

/

For the next six hours, well into the night, I maneuver this demonic roadway. I take time to laugh at the impossible twists and turns. It's a roller coaster of a road, and it's easy to see how people die on it. The first 20 miles are a blast, but into mile 30 I merely want to be back on a normal road and find a hotel where I can crash, eat crappy food and zone out to mindless TV. Toward the end of the road I pull over, turn off the headlights and look up. The view alone is worth the trip. I have never seen more stars in my life. There are thousands, millions if I bothered to count. This, I figure, is what I will remember most when I recall this trip. An odd feeling comes over me. I get back in the car out of fear that a wandering bear or werewolf will tear out my throat. Out here, right now, this seems to be a completely rational thought.

/

Within an hour I find myself at the entrance to another Best Western in Humboldt County, California. After so many hours on the road, there is nothing better than eating a veggie burrito in a heated room and watching "Seinfeld" reruns in a comfortable bed. For the next three days I will discover mile after magnificent mile, but for now I am content watching the so-called idiot box and reading chapters of another Bukowski novel -- his last, "Pulp." In the next couple of days, I will take time for hikes, including one in Redwood National Forest, and other assorted stop-offs, such as the "Legend of Bigfoot" store (another bust) south of Eureka.

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My trip north ends on a Thursday night in Brookings. I spend my last wandering night in a hotel on the beach, quite literally. I buy a bottle of malbec at a local supermarket and pick up a "baked" pizza from the joint next door. It's not great, the pizza, but it's food. In the morning I consume a breakfast of eggs and oatmeal in a greasy spoon worthy of inclusion on the cable hit known as "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives." It's 11 a.m. by the time I have scoured the beach once more and am ready to leave. I have 300 miles to cover, give or take, till I can settle in for the night -- back in San Francisco.

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Eight hours later I find myself at another less than deluxe hotel, setting the alarm to wake me at 4 a.m. so I can make a dash for the airport -- back to Philadelphia by way of Las Vegas. As I fade into restless sleep I decide I will take what I learned from this trip and apply it to whatever happens next. Further, I decide I will begin to make things happen in a life that has come to a grinding standstill.