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.
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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.
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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.

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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.

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Happy Valentine's Day. This is art.