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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

No More Echoes

It is December 31, with only a few hours of daylight left in 2008. The past three years have been an insane roller coaster of depression, elation, confusion and contusions. The end of 2006 was bad. All of 2007 was worse. And 2008 was a goddamn train wreck. I cannot afford to have another echo of the past three years. It would ruin me.
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Here's a recap of the past 12 months, starting with the bad: I was temporarily homeless and living out of a plastic bag. I got a black eye. A friend died too young. I spent much of the year in a deep state of loneliness and depression. The good: I wrote a lot, much of it very painful yet very, very good. I contributed to a story that won a national journalism award. I learned things about myself I never knew before. I went to the Bahamas for a short vacation. My work took me to Salt Lake City and St. Louis and Chicago and Seattle and Las Vegas and Phoenix and San Antonio and Toronto and Washington, D.C. I learned of a soon-to-be addition to my sister's family.
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I don't know what 2009 will hold. I can't say that it's starting off on good footing or poor, because I will start it without a reliable source of income and no health benefits. It's a change, and that's a positive, I suppose. Tomorrow I am jobless. Tomorrow I am an island. Tomorrow I am a mercenary. But at least there will be a tomorrow.
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This is not the life I want. This is not the life I envisioned having. So I will change it. I will embrace new things. I will go new places. I will get in even better shape than I am now. I will work harder to be happy and involve more people in my life. I will enrich myself. I will write more short stories, hopefully even a few that won't make the reader want to leap from the nearest tall building. I will finish the novel -- my fourth -- that I began in February. I will love. And I will live. All this sounds so unbelievably childish and corny, but it's helping me. Besides, who else is reading this but me?
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Yes, I will live a better life this year. I won't pretend to know what that entails just yet. But 2009, wherever it leads me, will be good.

The Night Before

Christmas Eve has arrived. It's snowing ... not here, but somewhere. Outside my window, all I see is wet, brown grass. How festive.
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Pardon my mood, dour as it is. The prospect of being unemployed in 7 days, in the midst of the worst economic times of the past 70 years, has beaten me down a bit. But I brought this upon myself, so I suppose this suffering is deserved. Or at least self-imposed.
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I'm not sure what happens next. Not sure at all. I don't know where I will live, what I will do, how much money I will make, what I will be like, how I will think or even what I will look like. I have become a mess. But that's OK for now because I am changing. I am a tarantula just after molting -- weak and vulnerable.
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I am fortunate. I have no real problems other than indecision, depression and a general malaise that makes me want to do not much of anything. I have days where life looks wonderful, where all I want to do is laugh. I also have days where nothing makes sense and I want nothing more than to sit in a dark room and brood and think my way to oblivion.
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I am lonely and have been for some time. My social skills, once abundant and frequently used, have dwindled. I second-guess myself. The sound of laughter makes me wonder, "Is that directed at me?" I have no confidence. My self-esteem ... kaput. I say all this for a reason: to voice it and leave it there, in the open -- removing the poison from my body. It worked once before. Let's see if it works a second time.
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I am thankful for the good in my life. I am thankful for this wonderful world, for its natural beauty, for my place in it. All I want is to get my head straight and start taking chances and making tough decisions and ... well, start living my damn life again. That is what I wish for myself.
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Merry Christmas, 2008.

Swinging Dead Cats

Soon it all comes to an end. More than nine years of what has become an unexpected career. On Dec. 31 -- a few weeks away -- I am unemployed after resigning from what has been the best job I've ever had. I needed to do something new. That's the only reason. I needed some new scenery, and I needed to be part of something, part of a team. So it all ends. And I start anew.
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I've been extremely fortuntate because it's been a great job, really. It has taken me to 40 of the lower 48 states. It has put me up in some of the nicest hotels in the country. It has introduced me to people I will never, ever forget. And it has given me experiences that will forever be burned in my brain.
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One of those experiences occurred a couple of weeks ago. I'm thinking of it now. (Cue blurry effect that suggests I'm remembering something important, as seen in sitcoms.)
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I'm in Utah this time, just outside of Salt Lake City. I'm visiting someone I might call a friend, someone I met in this strange industry in which my company does business more than three years ago. He's a Mormon, yes, but as a friend of mine once said, "You can't swing a dead cat in Utah without hitting a Mormon." I never knew he was a Mormon till this trip. All this time and I never knew he was a Mormon. That's probably because Mormoms are as normal and as human as anyone else.

I was last here in July 2005, when my life was much different. It was summer then, obviously, and the weather is much colder than the 90 degrees it had been on my last visit. I'm cold on a frigid November morning; I had to scrape frost from the windshield of my rental car. I look up and there they are: snow-capped mountains, surrounding me. Parts of the Wasatch Range, apparently (above). I can't imagine what it's like to wake up every morning, look out the window and see this staring back at me.
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One thing I've noticed about Utahans. They grew up outdoors. They grew up hiking, climbing, riding ATVs, hunting (OK, so they're not perfect), and doing pretty much everything else outdoors. For them, it is as natural as brushing one's teeth; it's who they are. Here, in Philly, or in other parts of the country, Chicago for instance, spending time outdoors is strange and dangerous and stupid. Here, it's part of living in Utah.
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So I head through downtown Salt Lake City and find myself at a used-car lot, where I can see my breath on the bare concrete. It's 7:30 a.m., and I'm here for what's known as a "car-crushing event." I smack a car with a sledgehammer, because it's allowed, and wait for the festivities to begin. Moments later an impossibly loud engine roars to life, and the oversized monster truck -- it's dubbed the Monster Trakker -- tears around the parking lot. It then crushes two cars beneath each of its 600-pound tires. A few turns later and the cars are reduced to compressed shrapnel. (Check it out below.) I check my watch: barely 10 a.m. What a way to start the day.

I head to North Salt Lake, where I conduct a few print interviews, oversee a photo shoot and wrap up a couple of TV interviews for later use. Within two hours I'm at a terrific sushi place -- the word "sumo" is part of the name, so I know it's good -- and suddenly it's over. I'm free and off to do whatever I want for the rest of the evening.
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I get dinner at a Mexican place that's almost not worth mentioning, then decide to catch a hockey game at a nearby arena. I walk a half-mile in 20-degree weather. The ticket costs me $12. I walk the stairs, peek into the arena and see lots of empty seats. I decide to forget about where they told me to sit and find a spot all by myself, right by the exit. I always make sure I know where the exits are. I buy a beer ($8) and some garlic fries ($5) to pare the unfortunate burrito (OK band name!) from memory.
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I let loose a decent exhale -- really letting it out, relaxing -- for the first time in at least an hour and watch the Utah Grizzlies and the Las Vegas Wranglers beat each other to a paste. The Ferraro brothers, who used to play for the New York Rangers a million miles away, now suit up for the Wranglers. It's a good game, but the Grizzlies can barely penetrate the Wranglers' zone. It's Vegas' night here in Utah. The Wranglers look NHL-ready, while the Grizzlies look like a bunch of guys with whom a lowly beer-league player like me used to play.
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I have one of those experiences you never, ever forget during the second intermission. It's one of those things I could never buy, one of those things I'll always remember when I think about my nine years reporting on an industry with which I've never felt quite in touch. The JumboTron shows a graphic called "Save of the Game," sponsored by one of the local churches. As the screen shows save after glorious save from the respective goaltenders, the speakers spout a song called "Jesus Is My Friend." It reminds me of ska, with some of the most ridiculous lyrics ever spoken.
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I have no problems with faith. I do have some problems with organized religion, but only because I believe man gets in the way of a good thing. If it gives you strength and think it makes you a better person, that's wonderful. But I'm getting away from my point.
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I am laughing out loud at this song: "He is like a mountie / He always gets his man / And he will zap you any way he can." Glorious! While I'm am practically rolling in the aisle, I realize no one else is. Such is life in Salt Lake City. Please, please, PLEASE click here and watch this rendition of "Jesus Is My Friend," by Sonseed. /

I leave the arena in the cold and head back to my hotel, alone of course, knowing I have to get up early and catch a flight back to Philly by way of Chicago. I realize this is probably the last trip I'll ever take as a member of my current editorial team. I am sad. I am lonely. I am afraid. But I am excited at the prospect of getting back on track and discovering what it is I am meant to do with the life they have given me.