by Homer Marrs
I just bought my first Mötley Crüe CD. I think I may be in love.
Yes, it is 2006, not 1985, and yes, I am a big gay homosexual redundant queerball faggot, not a strip-club bouncer. I don’t know what’s gotten over me. Preparing for an episode of QRadio recently, I went into Hollywood Video to rent “Walk the Line.” I came out with that and “Carnival of Sins,” a live Mötley Crüe concert video from 2005. Honestly, your Honor, I didn’t mean to rent the DVD. It leapt right off the wall and attacked me.
Let’s just say I didn’t know much about “Walk the Line” when it came up on the show the next night. I had been too busy shouting at the devil to prepare for the discussion properly.
I’d like to go on record as saying Johnny Cash has contributed more to music than the Crüe, and that Joaquin Phoenix has contributed more to my fantasies than Vince Neil (so far). But these guys have gotten under my skin like a new tattoo, and I’m afraid they might not leave. I’m afraid I’m becoming white trash with attitude one power-chord-infused misogynist lyric at a time.
Considering I majored in psychology, I guess I understand why—in psych lingo—I’m “responding” to this music so “positively.” (Remember: you didn’t really major in psych unless you believe afterward that you’re completely qualified to diagnose all psychological and mental oddities on your own, at will, without the aid of doctors or an actual understanding of the situation.) It’s all about opposites, and longing to be what we’re not. Or at least I hope.
Mötley Crüe represent, to me, the badass boys of the 1980s, who I secretly wanted to be like as a kid growing up. I was a nerd and a do-gooder, someone who had no business “smokin’ in the boys’ room,” someone you would never find “kickin’ ass on the wild side.” I liked safe, gay synth-pop, and then later, musical theater. The Crüe were pretty much verboten in our house, but that was a-okay by me. Curiously, one year, Santa did bring me an unrequested copy of Bon Jovi’s “Slippery When Wet,” I think to toughen me up, but it didn’t quite take.
When rock eventually made its way to my stereo, it was through the Smashing Pumpkins. They, Hole, Nirvana and all those angst-ridden ’90s bands were much more artsy and interesting to me, and I felt a connection with them. They seemed very against the loud-n-proud party rockers who came before them in the ’80s, so I was against them, too. My understanding was that they were one-dimensional goofballs singing about how big their members were, and the closest they could come to a metaphor was “Kickstart My Heart.”
Now that I’m grown and single, I find myself drawn to guys who are a little rough around the edges. Okay, a lot rough around the edges, to the extent that it causes huge compatibility problems. It’s nice for every yin to find its yang, but there’s a difference between “opposites attract” and “What the Hell could you two possibly have in common?” That’s where the Feisty Four come in.
Right now Vince, Nikki, Tommy and Mick are helping me fill a void, or helping me feel like I am, left by all the straight-and-narrow, right-brain choices I make. They’re helping me be that aggressive macho alpha I’ve always wanted to be, but ain’t, and ain’t really trying to be, either. They’re helping me forget all I learned in poetry class about saying something new, and helping me learn to enjoy bragging about how big I am