Squeaky Dark

Superman comics ignited my desire for large, hulking (pun intended) muscles, when I was a kid. Boy, wouldn't they be of help against my nemesis, my brother, who already had the muscles I dreamt of. I pushed against the floor, but each push-up looked more like a full body heave. I'd collapse, frustrated that I was never going to get strong, or at least strong enough to beat him or even defend myself against his bullying.

So, I'd have to watch someone else fight evil. Christopher Reeve's classic, chiseled features in the 1978 version of Superman were fine, but he was nowhere near the behemoth in the panels of my comics. I watched as Supes flu through to truth, justice, and the American way, feeling empty. At home, I flipped through the piles of comics stored in the hermetically sealed, specially designed, suitcase I kept them in (It was an old Samsonite I wrapped in plastic). Superman was S-H-R-E-D-D-E-D-E-D.

WTF!

Batman outnumbered my Supermans by 10 to 1. He was dark. Complicated. Orphaned. And as badass as superheroes are allowed to be. It was 11 years before I saw another superhero movie. This time, Michael Keaton was caped and cowled, to play Batman. But it was Jack Nicholson's range as a character actor that stole the show. His interpretation of The Joker was flawless.

There were 4 Batman movies, each trumping the last in terms of awfulness. Keaton stayed on for two, Kilmer signed on for one, and the campy, bastardized, neon version with George Clooney, buried the franchise.

It was revived by Christopher Nolan in 2005. DC twice attempted to reintroduce Superman but failed miserable. Which proves my point about my generation. We like our heroes dark and brooding with checkered pasts, who have great big voids they can't fill unless they don a Jungian Archetype and overcompensate on a grandiose scale, like Nolan's Batman. (I credit Nolan here, but it was the 50 years of character exploration by the numerous writers and artists that contributed to Batman's depth).

Maybe my generation is more introspective, seeking to answer why one would fight to the death for an ideology, good or evil.  This is where Nolan succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. So Warner, owners of DC, asked him to dust off the Man of Steel and see what he could do with Superman. Nolan didn't direct but his influence is woven throughout the plot. Superman is an alien, asked by his earth father to hide his powers, caused by living under only one sun. Clark Kent toils with how the world might react to him should he ever reveal that he is Superman. He wanders, alone and lonely, conflicted about whether to help or manipulate these puny humans?

Rent it or buy it on Tuesday and see for yourself if you haven't already. You'll be happy you did.

Sweet Caroline, and Oh Yeah, F#@k You Cancer!

Not a great way to wake up, truth be told. I slept in. If you call insomnia until 3:30am, then passing out till 8am, sleeping in. I made coffee. Checked the blog. One reader. Thanks whoever you are (It was probably me).

I click on the TV.

Food Network.

Always!

But the Food Network must be run by aging, pot smoking, hippies cuz it's one of the only channels that takes the wee hours off and doesn't wake up till 9:30.

I perused the 200's, the movie graveyard for those of us fortunate enough to grow up in the golden age of the 80's. The decade that produced nothing, added nothing to American culture, (probably weakened it), and was the only decade that said, "Sure, its fine keep it short in the front and long in the back."

The Jazz Singer caught my eye. I pressed select.

You see, Neil Diamond was one of my mother's favorite singers. He, and Bob Seger, filled the airwaves of my dysfunctional home in Peabody, MA. It was a time you knew it to be OK to come out of hiding and enjoy a little free roaming without the threat of taking a beating. She'd sashay, cleaning, chain smoking, and singing. She always got the words wrong. No, Mum, it's not sweet calamine, it's Sweet Caroline.

I'm pretty sure it's sweet calamine. She'd argue.

Yeah, Mum, he's singing about a mosquito bite. 

For all her short comings, she was, and is, my hero.

I miss her dearly.

Cancer took her. Or more accurately, she invited it to take her.

So I spent the morning crying. I texted my sister Jess, but she undoubtedly had the same sleepless night, a family affliction. Maybe because it was anything but peaceful. I remember waking at 2am by the sounds of Mom, drunk, taking my door off its hinges, swearing at the screwdriver for its inability to work in her drunk, unsteady hands.

"Mum, why are you taking my door off." I asked, ignoring the fact that 12 hours earlier I was suspended from school for telling a teacher to go fuck herself.

"Cuz I don't believe for a second that just cuz you're sleeping, you won't fuck something up. I'm taking your door, you get it back when you're not grounded anymore. In like, 50 years."

She lied. I was out in two days. Mom didn't suffer fools well.

So fuck you, cancer. Eat a fat bag of dicks!

You took the one person who could save me from myself.

Lonely is as Lonely Does

As of late, all I know or feel is how alone I am. Someone once told me, We're all alone, we are born alone and will die alone, no one can experience those things with us, the question is, are you lonely?

I always have and always will answer yes to that. Recent revelations have uncovered discordance in what I say VS. what I do. 

If behavior is motivated solely by belief (argue against it all you want, its true), then I believe that being alone and lonely is worth more to me than being among friends. Because I always, always, act accordingly.

I wonder why?

Truly, why?

What do I gain by being where I am right now. Alone, in the dark, the flicker of my TV providing the room's only light. I listen and watch the world go by, hating every minute by myself. Yet, I end up here every time. Something's amiss.

I figured it out.

I push them away to save them, same as if I jumped in front of a bullet or speeding train. I protect them from me. Not a single one of them can say they're not better off now. They are. And maybe I am too. The same wise man quoted above also told me I don't get into relationships.

I take hostages.

I am what my parents made me. If I were you, had every experience you had through your eyes, processed by your brain, I'd be you. No one is self made. Beliefs are rooted to the soul. Leopards can't change their spots, only their outlook on what those spots represent, beauty, ugliness, camouflage. 

For two days now I have cried, deep, heaving, sobs. Throwing up pain as if poisoned. This realization as savior, not victim, hurts more than it's healed.    

I trudge. I wade. I step as if through crude. 

I'm tired, lonely, and full of regret.

I am neither normal, nor are my circumstances. But how long can I use that as an excuse?

Not much longer...