How Mick Mars Became the Hero I Didn’t Know I Needed, Or: How The Dirt Gave Me the Warm and Fuzzies

My life came to a halt over the past week due to a painful Dysautonomia flare.  That’s actually quite dramatic, as the cadence is more likened to an infuriating rush hour traffic roll.  But regardless of our individual circumstances, life continues in a modified manner and we go on.  However, by Sunday I was on day 5 of a migraine that just would not end.  The cumulative effect of this, combined with my normal arthritis and hypermobility pain, made me an absolute treasure of a human to be around.  Sorry, everyone.

Despite my husband’s attempts throughout the week to convince me that the food and furniture in our home did not actually smell like hot, rotting garbage I still wanted to vomit everywhere.  For me a migraine will mean stabbing eye pain, nausea, and neck spasms that are only worsened by lights, smells, and movement, respectively.  The absolute last thing in the world I want to do during one is anything loud or fragrant.  So naturally my husband suggested we watch the new Mötley Crüe biopic, The Dirt, Sunday night.  Great. Loud metal and partying.  Fun for my metal loving husband, not so much for reserved me.

I crankily agreed to watching the movie under the full assumption that I would ignore it and nap in my comfy chair.  However, I was completely drawn into the action and characters despite having a migraine and began watching it with my right eye covered to relieve some of the pain.  I recall that my husband even mocked me saying, “but I don’t want to watch The Dirt,” after I grumbled when he paused the movie for a drink.  But, the details are cloudy. Again, he loves metal and it’s not my favorite.

Scene after scene of cute metal guys with hair so beautiful it still makes me cry with envy came and went, but then my (now) favorite curmudgeon of all time appeared.  I was in no way put off by Mick Mars’ cranky, hostile attitude because I could relate wholeheartedly; in that moment I was a wounded animal and wanted everyone to get the hell away immediately (sorry, husband).  The film then explained how Mars has ankylosing spondylitis and provided education on the disease, but did not make him a victim despite his joints fusing together.  My mind exploded.  I became enthralled and it took me a little bit of time to realize I was no longer covering my eye and sitting up straight to watch the film.

The man wanted to accomplish tasks and pulled no punches from those around him in order to do so.  Even though the movie portrays Mötley Crüe partying constantly it makes clear the toll ankylosing spondylitis took on Mars.  I think those character nuances may be missed by those without chronic pain, as he is sometimes referred to as “old man” in the film, but they would definitely be recognizable to anyone that lives with the sort.  His direct and short speech, slow movements, and more reserved nature are tell-tale signs to us living with pain. The man is saving his spoons to be a rock star, damn it.

There is even a scene in the film where he is alone in a hotel room, surrounded by prescription medication, then cuts to other members out partying.  The isolating nature of his pain, and essentially the pain of all whom live with it, was not ignored in this film in any way.  Nor was the nod to prescription abuse.  The writers did not tokenize Mars as “the disabled one” but showed him for who he was at that time, a PLATFORM SHOE WEARING, guitar playing machine who just happened to have a debilitating condition.

Can we appreciate the fact THE MAN WORE PLATFORM SHOES TO PERFORM WHILE HIS BODY GLUED HIS BONES TOGETHER.

Damn, girl. Just damn.

My favorite part of the movie is when Mars is discharged from the hospital post hip surgery and stoically gets up from his wheelchair to return to normalcy.  That’s what we do with chronic pain- we confront the issue, deal with it, and we carry on. Not only was this film super entertaining for someone who knew literally nothing about Mötley Crüe, but it literally snapped me out of my piss poor attitude funk just in time to wear leather leggings to work on Monday morning. If we can all learn something from Mars it’s that if you’re going to do the thing really do the thing.

So, thank you, Mick Mars.  You are now my patron saint of pain, which admittedly is a pretty metal thing to say for someone who is in no way metal at all.