Bone

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Super Bowl commercials

This blog really isn't about Super Bowl commercials.

I thought it prudent to title this one something other than its true objective, because one of my friends saw the title of a previous post ("Fitting in"), though it was gonna be another one of my whine-fests and respectfully declined from pursuing it further. He told me this, so I'm resorting to subterfuge to drag you in.

This one's about being alone. And it's not a whine-fest at all, because I'm alone a great deal of the time, and it's more often than not by choice. I don't have to be.

Being alone's not so bad. It really isn't.

There's some bad stuff associated with solitude, sure. I get into a lot more trouble when I'm alone, that's certain. Today, I'm out bumming around, running errands, going to the library, heading out to Batavia to take a look-see at the old BMW I just purchased (don't get your panties in a bunch. I'm not yuppie material, for one, and besides, this one's gonna need some spit and polish, not to mention a few trips to eBay and perhaps the local boneyard before it's presentable as yuppie-material), dropping a check into State Farm's drop box to cover the insurance on the Mystery Machine. I'm on Rt. 30 (heading due west, giggle) and some yokel in a Volvo XC90 pulls out in front. The speed limit's 50 and he's doing 45, so I pass the guy. As I get back in the lane, he gives me the high beams, which means he's pissed. I give him the finger. Look, man, just go the speed limit, will ya? Of course, though, the light at the next intersection's red, and there's no one in the turn lane next to me, so he pulls up alongside and rolls the window down and starts yelling. I've got the windows up and I'm playing the stereo way too loud, so I can't (nor do I want to) hear what he's saying. I'm a guy, though, and so I have to do the guy things, which is raise my eyebrows and beckon in a "You want some?" gesture. This other schmuck, who's wearing a black beret like Sly in Rambo 9, starts laughing. Not an "oh pshaw" dismissive kind of laugh, but an "are you serious?" type. It's funny, 'cause he's right, and he must have seen that in my face that I can't fight. If I had stepped out of the van, I'm sure the 6 foot 5 and the combat boots might have given him pause, but there's something in my face, my mannerisms, that tells this dude, as it must tell everybody, that I'm a paper tiger and talk the talk but can't, and never will, walk the walk.

Would that have happened if I'd had somebody else in the car? I doubt it, but then I wouldn't have passed the guy for fear of scaring my passenger.

This has happened many times before. I was once beaten unconscious and thrown into the bed of my own pickup truck, back in the day when I was 120 pounds wet and couldn't grow the merest scrap of a beard to camouflage my nanciness. I once had an empty beer bottle thrown at me while on the bike, while on another occasion (also on the bike) I had a guy pull a knife on me. I've had lit firecrackers thrown into my open windows, and been spit on countless times. I doubt any of these would have happened if I'd had a wingman, but then I don't think I would have gotten into these situations in the first place.

Why, then, do I choose to be alone so much?

There's a few reasons that I think would satisfy the curious. Not dating anybody, not playing out as much as I'd like, and all (not most, but all) of my friends live at least a half an hour away. I proudly hold my outpost out here on the Southern Border, after which you run pretty much into cornfields until Springfield. But that's not really the reason. I've got a car, and it gets pretty good gas mileage when it runs (right now, it doesn't, and while the Mystery Machine is more than willing, I tire of watching the gas gauge plummet with every brush of the loud pedal). Let's see if we can put the situation into better perspective. (Ponder, ponder…ah, there it is.) Read further if you're so inclined.

Would you like to come with me to check out the ruins of the foundation of a turn-of-the-last-century church in Alton? It's a long drive, and while I'm there I'd like to stand next to the life-size statue of the world's tallest man, Robert Wadlow. On the way back I'd like to check out the world's largest ball of tin foil in Ballwin, Missouri, or Topeka, Kansas. Or, want to come with me to a pine forest in Michigan, where we can get out of the car and just listen to the trees talk? I'd also like to check out Muddy Waters' gravesite, and on the way back visit his house, and on the way there I'd like to drive through what's left of the Robert Taylor homes. Want to go with me to two levels beneath Wacker Drive? Down there there's a neat little brick-paved courtyard that has a spectacular view of the top floor of the John Hancock building, so you can be in the lowest spot in the city, literally and figuratively, and looking at one of the highest, in both capacities. You gotta dodge some homeless people, though, and be prepared to give a buck or two to the ones you can't avoid. While we're down there I'll take you to a place where you park your car and your front bumper is literally hanging over the Chicago River. Hope the parking brake works! On the way home, I'll take you to the Billy Goat Tavern and toss a burger down your throat, but I hope you like cheeps, because no fries.

Sometimes I just want to get on the road to be on the road, and I have a hard time finding people who want to come. Sure, you say you want to come now, but will you be as sure 5 hours from now? How about 10? That's the spooky part. I'd rather go by myself than go with someone who's friendly as we're leaving my driveway but wants to kill me 200 miles down the road. No thanks. Alone's better.

I like to see a ghostly two-track through the cornfields and stop, sometimes locking up all four (or the rear, if it's Moose we're talking about) and turn down it. You usually have someplace you want to go.

I like to stop along the expressway and park underneath an overpass and listen to the traffic pound past overhead. You're usually nervous.

I like to drive to the top floor of the Hollywood Casino parking garage in A-town and get out and fantasize about what's going on behind the lit windows of the tall building just to the southeast, or contemplate what a bitch it would be to have to change light bulbs in the large shooting star they keep lit up there all year round. You're usually cold and want to get back in the car.

I like to go to Reckless Records downtown and buy up all their used Disney movies, digging the hell out of the looks on the faces of the counter clerk at this mutant-tall biker dude with a skid-lid covered with stickers slapping down Bambi and 101 Dalmatians. You're usually pissed 'cause they have 7-inches of the Pink Lincolns and The Subhumans, but they don't have any Dave.

I like to stake out the Biograph Theater on Clark St. to see if I can catch a glimpse of the ghost of John Dillinger. You'd rather go into the Red Lion Pub across the street for an ale.

Even if you're not really thinking these things, I get nervous that you are and pull the plug. When I'm alone, I can take my time and not worry about what the person I'm with is thinking.

Other drawbacks of being alone a lot, however, are:

You start talking to yourself. If you do this only sporadically, as I do, often the sound of your own voice can scare you. "Who's there? Oh, it's just me." A cycle like this can often make you question your own sanity.

You think a lot. This can be good, for most people, but if you have some self-esteem issues, this can do more harm than good.

You feel lazy, as though there were something more productive you could be doing than just bumming around checking things out.

Oh well. Sometimes it's just fun. Or, if it isn't fun, it's at least comforting. I drive around doing things and listening to my iPod, with a playlist entitled "Alone." These aren't sad songs. They're alone songs. Tunes like "I Believe I can Fly." "Constant Craving" by k.d. lang. "Hey You" by Floyd. "At Seventeen" by Janice Ian. "Stairway to Heaven." "Mother Nature's Son." "Mercy Street." Instrumentals by William Coulter, Mark Knopfler and Andy McKee. Classical pieces like The Moldau by Smetena.

There's lots of people I enjoy being with, true enough. And I think (hope) there's people who enjoy being with me. But a good friend of mine once said (and here I'm paraphrasing), "Always leave 'em wanting more." What he meant, I think, was that it was better to appear somewhat rarely rather than have people become sick of him (us). I took that ball and am running for the end zone with it. The end zone's somewhere beyond that far hill. See it? You gotta look.

I'm a weird, quirky enough guy that I fear people will tire of me. It happens. I've been on long road trips during and after which I feared this greatly. Tell me it's all in my head, but I'm a believer. People get snappy and I take according measures. I'll just catch you on the flipside and you can tell me how it all ended over an ale.

This isn't to say that I enjoy being alone all the time. Truthfully, I enjoy your company, and if you've got something good going on, the chances are high that I'll be glad to join you. But if you're busy, have fun and don't worry about me—I'll find ways to divert myself.