The Pilgrimage

Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train going anywhere
--"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey

Six years ago I was that Journey-song protagonist. In my case, "anywhere" is taken as College Park, and it was my car, The Blue Biscuit, rather than the midnight train (although The Midnight Train would be a good car name). Anyway, last week I journeyed back to the Motherland, south of Detroit, still believein'.

But like most homecomings, I never really got there. (Of course literally I did—and on time, despite a Northwest airline strike.) Every year, home seems more foreign.

It started with the refrigerator. My first Christmas back home after grad school (I lived at home during college), I went for a cold drink but was distracted by the strange heft of the refridgerator door. "Did we get a new refridgerator?" I asked. We hadn't. The aphorism needs some work, but isn't home where your motions are automatic? I closed the door and then opened it again, forgetting what I was looking for. "Are you looking for a pop?" my dad asked. Again it felt strange to hear pop, not soda, which I was already used to. I could readjust to these minor changes though, like going back to your BMX bike after riding a 10-speed.

But with time the 10-speed turns to a car and then a plane. Sometimes you find this happening while literally on a plane. A year or so later I flew to a conference in Texas and returned home—but not to Detroit, to Washington, DC. And it felt like home. Detroit was fading from my life. I could see it—or rather not see it—right there on my return ticket.

Several years after leaving home I quite suddenly noticed a Michigan accent. I always thought the Midwest was neutral—indeed the model American accent is a Midwestern newscaster—but now in Michigan I hear nasal vowels shifted towards 'a', overly stressed consonants, clipped endings of words, and the occasional 'Ohh yah'. It is somewhat subtle—my girlfriend Heather, who's come with me on two Michigan trips now, only notices when I point it out with an impression—which often sounds exaggerated, like a mix between Fargo and the Saturday Night Live 'Da Bears' skit. So I wonder: How do I sound to people in Michigan? I've asked, but no one (aside from a Canadian acquaintance) has said I sound Southern or otherwise different. The Michigan accent seems to vary from person to person—maybe my new accent is within the variation. There is, however, at least one Michigan regionalism I haven't lost: using the past tense for the past participle of some irregular verbs, for example "should've went" instead of "should've gone." I often catch myself, but sometimes the past tense slips.

Something else past is starting to slip too: my memories. I forget directions to what used to be familiar places (though they come back fast). I forget how much open space (as opposed to trees) there is too, and how run down things look. My parents live in the suburbs south of Detroit, in an area called Downriver. The name sounds like a euphemism, and unfortuneately it's apt. There are a lot of dilapitated buildings; many are vacant. Considering its proximity to Detroit, it's not surprising there are a lot of auto-related businesses: collision auto shops, auto junk shops, used car lots, oil change garages, brake and muffler shops, transmission repair shops. Since Detroit is the Motor City, Downriver might be called Used-Transmission Township, or maybe Old-Camshaft County.

I also forgot about the proliferation of bars. This may be an aspect where Downriver was ahead of the times: before the police started caring about drinking and driving in the late 70s, Downriver had already solved the problem. Most people have a bar (or two) within walking (or even crawling) distance. The bars may not be the most attractive establishments, but most do have one or more karoake nights a week! Also, Bingo seems to be more popular than I remember, though maybe that's because I've always been younger than their target demographic.

I'm not selling my hometown very well; there's good stuff too. Indeed Great stuff! The Great Lakes are everything you ever wanted in an ocean, without the hurricanes (a benefit this week's tragic events in the Gulf only underline). But I should stop, because you're never a reliable source about your hometown. Of Detroit, as of my own self, I'm probably both more fond and more critical.

So maybe you should just go and see for yourself. That is, if you haven't already went.

Feelgood, Ph.D.

Last evening I indulged my more high brow artistic sensibilities and attended the Motley Crue "Carnival of Sins" concert.

Actually, "multimedia exhibition" would be more appropos, since interspersed throughout the concert were various videos (many with nudes), clips from a claymation movie "Disaster" (with the astute tagline, "In outer space no one can hear you fart") and the "Motley Crue Titty Cam." The last item was a participatory piece, with Tommy Lee, the band's percussionist, training the camera on various members of the audience, blurring the line between performer and audience.

This communality would turn spiritual. Late in the concert, after thanking the audience profusely, Lee crouched down and asked God to bless each and every Motley Crue fan. He then lowered his head for a final blessing. "God," he said, "if you're listening..." Lee clasped his hands together in earnest. "God..." He yelled: "God, please bless all the fucking titties across America!"

Lee's contributions to the night's performance extended beyond the musical and benedictory. He also brought purpose with a dedication. The night's performance, he announced mid-concert, was dedicated to "The King." Did he mean Martin Luther? Elvis perhaps? God? You could almost smell the anticipation, or at least the second-hand marijuana. After a dramatic pause, Lee raised a fist and suprised us with a clever pun: "Fuc-king!"

Lee would also add the daring acrobatics that has become his trademark—and has paved the way for artists like the Cirque du Soleil. Near the end, as the band rested backstage, Lee flew on a harness between two elevated platforms where he played percussive instruments to a pre-recorded electronic beat and the repeating refrain: "Let's get fucked." The refrain seemed to be his motto, as Lee imbibed both beer and Jaegermeister throughout the night (adding more thrilling danger to the acrobatics) and offered the latter to various audience members.

The band has followed a typical "VH1, Behind The Music" trajectory: explosive stardom leading to excess, leading to personal tragedy, followed by more excess, leading to crash and burn, followed by rehab, leading to failed solo endeavors, followed by failed attempts to replace solo-minded singer, and culminating in a sober and triumphant reunion. Well, thanks to Lee, the reunion was triumphant anyways. He might have benefited from an additional harness keeping him on the proverbial wagon, but his drumming was solid.

The Crue—and here it was the band's vocalist, Vince Neil, taking the lead—would also raise urgent cultural questions throughout the night:
-Are us motherfuckers ready to fucking rock and roll?
-Can Motley Crue get a "hell yeah"?
-Can they get a "hell motherfucking yeah"?
-Can the audience make some fucking noise?
The questions may not have been profound, but they were profane. The band's principal songwriter and bass player, Nikki Sixx, also asked variations of these questions in a similar style. The guitarist Mick Mars was the only member not to address the audience, but his reticence only added more gravitas to his musicianship and inspiring perserverence in the face of a degenerative spinal condition.

Above all, the night was about the music. The songs were loosely organized chronologically, with the first act drawing heavily from their eponymous debut and "Shout at the Devil" albums, and the second act from their albums "Girls, girls, girls" and "Dr. Feelgood." Songs from "Theater of Pain" were included in both, serving as a thematic bridge between the acts. A song I've already forgotten, introduced as "some new shit," was likely from the new album "Red, White, and Crue." Also in a patriotic theme, the encore was a U.S.A. version of "Anarchy in the U.K."

This finale was clearly ironic: anarchy was no part of the night's festivities. Everything was tightly orchestrated, following the rules of kick ass rock and roll. When the night was over, the audience peacefully and orderly walked, stumbled, or passed out over the shoulder of a less drunken fan to the bottle-strewn parking lot.

As exhorted earlier by the band and audience members who knew the lyrics, no one went away mad. They just went away.

Dan's Inferno

This entry is pending publication elsewhere.

Weasel Boy

Today I looked like a rodent, because in the shower this morning I forgot to use shampoo. The realization came at work when my hair was suspiciously still wet. My un-shampooed head-oils "lock in the moisture," to put a positive beauty-term spin on it. Unfortuneately my hair just looked greasy and dirty, which is pretty much how it was. I also wore my glasses, which made my eyes look smaller, increasing the rodent effect. All day I avoided looking at mirrors.

So one might ask how it is one forgets to shampoo. (My girlfriend in fact did ask, and then laughed at my expense.) I don't know what to say. It was a Monday, and in the shower things happen so fast... after the dust (steam?) settles I guess anything is possible.

That reminds me: I mean to declare the tentative parenthetic insert (TPI) dead. I just made that term up, but there's an example in the last paragraph:"(steam?)". You've probably seen the technique before. It's so irritatingly literary. Though it seemed to work above (comments welcome), the little Dan in my head said "Delete." But I couldn't. Instead I wrote this paragraph. As I see it, there are three advantages to this paragraph compared with the simple delete option: a) I can keep my TPI, b) I can be the first (I think) to declare its death and, by implication, appear astute, c) since it's my rule, I can break it and paradoxically seem, not hackneyed, but edgy. Pretty weasel-y of me, eh?