The Umbrella December 5, 2009

I’ve never been good at determining when a storm will come.

I’m not talkin meteorology. I could care less about the weather. In fact, I hardly check it at all. Is it cold? I’ll wear coat. Is it warm? A t-shirt.

But why am I talking about weather? Isn’t that the thing people talk about when they have nothing else to say? I’m not that person who grasps at conversation. Not today. Today, I’m not speechless. I know exactly what I want to talk about, or at least, write about.

I’m writing because talking has never been my strongest suit.  I writing about the things that upset me. Or perhaps it’s thing, singular. I don’t know. I don’t know that it matters. But I’m writing about it anyways, because it’s never been easy for me to talk about.

I’m writing about pain and anger. They are, in their fashion, their own kinds of storms. The ones that build up and produce a thunder; the ones that drench with regret and bitterness.

But, like I said before, I’ve never been one to check the weather. I don’t hear the thunder. Not my own. I don’t feel the rain. Not until I’m wet with it. I realized tonight, at 3 in the morning, that something had been upsetting me, eating away at me for weeks . . . but I never heard it. I didn’t see it or feel it until the moment I allowed my thoughts to wander. It was not until I watched the pieces of memories float through my mind that I recognized how they fit together.

This always happens when I’m upset about something. It’s not that I want to let things stew, to let them build up inside of me until I’m so bitter or sad or angry that I just ex or implode. In fact I want the opposite. I want to know when I’m sad, so that I can fix it.

That’s when I realized something else. I realized that it has always been this way. Ever since I was small. I was always afraid of making my father angry. His mood swings were unpredictable, the result of alcoholism, I know, and some other things which I only suspect. One false move. A single tear. A frown. A laugh. A pout. A sigh. Might be enough to set him off, or it might not. There was no rhyme nor reason for a shift from happiness to anger, from laughter to shouting, from indifference to punishment. I never knew. So I learned to hide. To calculate til I knew for sure which emotion was appropriate for the occassion. Which attire the storm warranted. I became quite good at it. Too good.

Now that I am older and entering into relationships of my own choosing I see the skill I acquired. I never knew it was a skill before. I never saw it. It, like the storms within me, were hidden from view. Silenced.

I heard them tonight and looked deep to see them. Their presence made me cry. Not because of the pain and anger in and of themselves. This is something natural to all humans. Something we require to better ourselves and our lives. I cried because I had been conditioned to ignore them. As a child I had been playing make believe, pretending to be happy or sad or scared or content or angry in order to suit the needs of someone else. I saw with the vulnerable eyes of the young someone as unprotected as myself, my father. I determined never to hurt or upset him because I saw this tenderness. This brokeness. One false step on my part would cause him to either fall to pieces or explode.

I was protecting my father from himself. If he was angry and hurt me I would hide it so as not to make him feel guilty. This was wrong. Not that shielding a loved one is wrong, but by doing so I never allowed him to feel responsible for  his faults, thus disabling him from bettering himself. And, in a way, I disabled myself. Some people, like my father, feel too much, allowing their emotions to rule over them. I took the opposite route, I inhibit myself from feeling as much as possible so that nothing will rule over me. So that I can feel powerful and in control of my own life.

I see this now. And I will try, in the future, to keep sight of it. To see the storm when it is coming, when it has arrived, and not shy away from it, nor let it rule over me, but to feel and deal with it as it comes.

I love my father dearly. Perhaps I should be upset with him for what he has said and done in the past, but I’m not. I was. I cried about it at 3 this morning. I pondered, I projected, and most importantly I felt. And when I was done I let it go. Because, the truth is, someone hurt him a long time ago and he never figured out wholly how to deal with it. For him, all he ever heard was the storm. And that, in itself, is another problem altogether.

It makes me sad. But a moment’s sadness shouldn’t be allowed to ruin a lifetime of happiness. Storms come and go, but they always pass. The sky always reappears. You can’t ignore them, nor can you live your life under a cloud. You have to find a balance, an umbrella that opens and closes by your hand. An awareness of mind that can open and keep you dry when you need to  stay calm or close and go limp at your side when you need a good drenching. What you choose, what I choose, doesn’t seem to matter. It is contingent upon the storm or situation itself. What does matter is the awareness, the knowledge that you have an umbrella, a shield, a tool. And that it’s use doesn’t depend on the weather report, but on you.

Professional Education. What a Bitch. March 18, 2009

People no longer want education, they want profession.

Why do I go to college?

To learn?

Nice guess.

To challenge myself?

Not today.

To way lay the fateful but inevitable union of myself and the so called “real world”?

Getting closer.

I go to the University and get a four year degree so that I can get a job. (Or, at least I try to graduate in four years. The list of requirements gets longer as universities try to keep you and your parent’s pocketbooks and/or subsidized/unsubsidized loans in school).

Yip-fuckin-eee!

College is to Job, as Binoculars are to Voyeurism. Basically,college has become a means to an end. A tool for a trade.

Why don’t we just call the universities what they are? Votec.

A co-worker said this the other day and, I gotta say, it seems far from fallacious. Really, this idea has been right there the entire time, I just didn’t see it. People have been telling me as early as middle school to “Make good grades, graduate, go to college, graduate, get a job . . . die (which is, basically, graduating from life).” Okay, they don’t usually include the die part, I’m just filling in the blanks. But, the point is, all of us are told to go to school to get a job. Period. Why don’t they just tell us to join a guild, learn a trade? We’re not “Educated,” we’re “Artisans.” On the other “hand,” we do like our “pot/s” (Bad joke. There’s a little artisan/craftsman/college student humor for ya)

Apparently, I’m one of the few students who actually wants an education for educational purposes. I am strange because I accept education for what it is. I don’t want to use it to get a job. I just want to make other people feel stupid and inferior. (Is this a pretentious statement. . . yes. Do I care? Of course not, I’m pretentious. . . .)

Okay, (I’m kind of kidding about the stupid and inferior)  there are probably more than a few students who WANT an education. . . maybe like five. But, the thing is, I don’t even need a degree. The “professional” field I want to get into doesn’t require one. I just thought “Hey! Let’s go to college, get inspired, pretend to have some original thoughts, maybe ascertain some original thoughts in the process of processing other famous people’s original thoughts, and…I don’t know…learn something in the process.”

Who knows, on my way to attaining that off-white, non-recyclable, ink embossed certification, it could happen. The learning I mean.

What happened to getting a degree “just because?”

Was this idea never a reality?

What if I said, “Maybe I’ll get a masters some day.” Would that  be crazy? Because I wouldn’t be getting it because I needed it. At least I wouldn’t need it in a financial way. (There are other needs, but they appear to be becoming less important in this time of economic duress).

“Why would I want to do such a thing?” you may ask. (Besides the fact that I’m pretentious).

You bring up a good argument, even though it was just a question. I don’t “need” it, and I can’t pay for it without help. After all, Mom and Dad won’t dish the dough for my college forever. Four years and they’re quits. They’ve got to save up for that shack on the beach. The only reason they’ve invested in me  thus far is so that I can turn that shack into a condo one day with my handsome Bachelors (both of them), and provide them with their very own Swedish nursemaid named Hildi who will treat them right and divvy up the oxygen tanks equally and according to need.

But… where was I? Ah yes, Education! I can’t just go to school and get a Masters because I want to. It’s expensive. I’ve got to have a plan. My Masters needs to be not only educational, but profitable. I can’t just go get one because I want people to call me Master. Although it would have lasting entertainment value, it is lacking monetary value.

Education. . . Forget it I say! (At least the kind you pay for) And I mean this in the most facetious way possible.

I want to go on this summer trip, right. I want to go to one of THE most PRESTIGIOUS universities in the WORLD, not just in the US, but in the WORLD. (Sorry about all the caps, or CAPS if you like, I got a little carried away) But in order to take this “little” trip, I’ll probably need to take out a loan.

The thing is, I’ve never had to take out a loan before. I know nothing of this “Loan Business” (And it is a business). Apparently, I’m spoiled. I’ve been sitting in the fridge all this time thinking I was fresh and new, but really I was fooling myself. I’m spoiled rotten. I’ve got goo for insides. It’s all mush, puss, mold, and moist salmonella seeping, oozing, and pooing from my insides to my outsides! (You take away the caps, you get exclamation points instead… I would apologize, but it’s probably going to happen again)!!!

I never knew, really knew, nor had to deal with the bitch that is interest rates. Why 6.8%? Why not 6.66%? I mean wouldn’t that be more appropriate? It is the devil’s beeper number, after all. Just call it and make a deal to pay off the bastard for the next ten years of your adult life while you work your way up through that “profession” that you went to school to get; that “profession” that doesn’t pay you enough to make your student loan payments because you, like everybody else at your job, only have a bachelor’s degree.

If you wanted a better paying job you should have gotten a master’s. Then you could spend the next 20 years of your life (instead of the Bachelor 10) paying students loans. Thankfully, your precious income has increased in conjunction with your interest rates. It’s comforting to know that by the time you are approximately 42-48 years old that you will finally be debt free. Or, at least you can stop worrying about the student loans and start paying off your credit cards and the mortgage on your home, which you had to take out because of debt that followed you from that special place of education, College.

I knew nothing of loans, nothing of interest rats, rates, whatever. Does any of it make any sense or, I don’t know, cents?

You have to spend money to make money. You have to make money to repay the money you spent. Unless, of course, you decide to do the pay-as-you-go plan. You pay for college as you go, but, like it’s analogous counterpart, the cell phone plan, you get less minutes (less hours) and none of the perks (no keggers, no friends, just responsibility).

Ah well. I would continue this rant but I’m about to pass out. I think student loans, finance, and interest rates may be the sleep aid I’ve been looking for to revamp my skewed sleeping schedule.

Until next time my debt-ed, yet educated, friends.

Good night.

The Beauty of Bile February 15, 2009

So, I just realized how much I love using the act of “throwing up” as a metaphor. Really, it’s quite fantastic if you think about it. There are very few metaphors that actually get a guttural response, but if you start talking about vomiting, especially as a reaction to something, anything that incurs disgust, people can actually feel what it is that you are referring to.

If something grosses us out, we gag. If someone or something offends us, we spit. And if something really bothers us, whether we are shunted about on a moving roller coaster, or sickened by how much we’ve eaten, or sickened at what we’ve eaten, or we see something or experience something too graphic, too horrible to bear, we purge it from our systems. We expel it.

If I say that “the sight of her dead father caused her to bend over and retch in agony; her insides wriggling and quenching so that nothing remained within; that everything, the whole disgusting mess, was brought to light,” you can feel it. You can feel the pain, the fear, and the horror of that girl. Everyone knows how horrible it feels to physically throw up, and everyone knows how mentally and physically it feels to want to get rid of certain feelings (e.g. grief for a dead father).

We know that sometimes the only way to feel better is to remove what is ailing us, to remove the aches, to remove feeling all together. Or, in other words, to up chuck.

Throwing up is both physical and metaphysical. It is a symbol of vulnerability. It is spiritual.

Example 1, Christianity: “Because you are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, I will spew you out of my mouth.” (Revelations 3:16)

Example 2, Buddhism: Nirvana or Nibanna is the “freedom from the endless cycle of personal reincarnations, with their consequent suffering, as a result of the extinction of individual passion, hatred, and delusion.” But the word itself, in the original Sanskrit nirvāṇam is translated as “a blowing out, extinction, nirvana,” with "nis-, nir-,” being “out, away,” and “vāti” meaning “it blows.” So, literally, the word nirvana means “to blow out or away.” Or, as I like to say, “to blow chunks.”

The “blowing” represents the purging or outword push, the turning away from wrong views, wrong intentions, wrong speech, wrong actions, wrong livelihoods, wrong efforts, wrong mindedness, and wrong concentration by getting rid of those “chunks” of suffering, hatred, and delusion which reside on the inside, whether in the pits of our stomachs or the depths of our souls.

Who knew vomit could be the key to spiritual awakening?

But the metaphor for throwing up doesn’t stop there.

What happens after we blow these chunks? What do we feel when the pain has subsided, when the knots have unfurled, and the guts have stopped churning?

We feel relief. Sweet relief with a side of burning acid that coats our throats and mouths. To remind us, perhaps, that although we’ve gotten whatever it was that we ingested (whether physical food or mental anguish) out of our system, their will always be a trail, something bitter and sour left behind. The metaphor for vomiting is that we can push what is hiding in the dark into the light, we can disgorge and we can eject. But, every time we  heave and ho, the residue from our refuse, the bile from our belly, will remain on our tongues long after the source has been flushed. Puke’s passage and the rancor it leaves behind is a physical memory to past regurgitations.

So my people go forth and gag, heave, retch, spit up, throw up, disgorge, regurgitate, eject, expel, and spew! For these are verbs guaranteed to make you writhe and squirm. They are delightfully disgusting tools you can use to conjure and invoke the most pleasant pain and suffering.

These are words to make you feel. They are detoxifying. They are freeing. Take them in and then push them out. This. . . this is the beauty of bile.

The Importance of/in a Story January 17, 2009

When I read a story, or when I watch one in a movie, on television, or on stage, I find that the element which intrigues me the most is the relationships between the characters, and how they react to each other.

I ask myself, “What makes them sad? What pisses them off? What elevates them? What pushes them over the edge?” In essence, when I see, hear, read a story, I want to know “What makes these people tick?” I want to know what their individual stories are, and how these stories determine the course of the overall plot.

Each character is like a rivulet, a creek, a crack in the pavement overflowing with water from the hose. And, at some point or other, these bubbling, brewing brooks meet up with other similar tributaries in order to form a stream (or rapids. . . whichever:).

This stream is the overall story.

But it’s not just this one plot or one story line flowing at a steady, rolling pace. It’s this tumultuous hodgepodge, this intertwining and interweaving of these different characters each with their own pasts, their own paths, and their own emotions coming together, perhaps by chance, but most likely because they are compelled by the forces of their own natures. It is a compulsion that brings them together in one torrential river, in one crazy story.

The characters, like the tributaries, each come from different places. They all have their own sources, and they all have their own paths that they have traversed in order to reach this point. And when they do reach this point they discover they are all on the same course, and that somehow (because they have no other choice) they’ve got to flow together. They have to interact.

Sometimes the results of these interactions are as smooth as a still pond (If that’s possible. To quote a famous Buddhist poem, “The old pond/ a frog jumps in/ Kerplunk!”), and then sometimes (okay, who are we kidding here? USUALLY) they are far from smooth. Usually, these characters go right over that cliff in a rush of churning water and spray. They don’t just fall in a smooth current, they crash into the rocks below! And they do it with a loud rush that ends in an even louder boom. (Sidenote/segway/tangent on this confusing metaphor: Really, they shouldn’t be called waterfalls but rather watercrashes. The word fall just doesn’t possess the volume needed to describe what the water does.)

But that crash, that boom, that collision of the different characters with their different paths, traveling from different sources, and then mixing together and then failing together, or maybe even succeeding together. . . that. . . that. . .that right there is what makes a damn fine story.

That’s what makes it interesting.

It’s not genre, it’s not politics, it’s not science, or any other gimmick. Those are just settings, frameworks, backgrounds. Because really, when it all comes down to it, people aren’t going to connect to government conspiracy, murder mystery, science fiction, romantic comedy, or law and order.

In the end, people always connect with people.

People are the story.

Finals! December 11, 2008

I hate finals.

Hate, it is supposedly a strong word. I say it is not strong enough to describe what I feel about my finals.

How about duhate? Du, the latin prefix meaning two or double, is a nice additive to the word. It takes hate and then doubles it. Duhate = double hate.

I duhate finals.

Especially, because while preparing for the finals I have no time to read my comics, which is just sad.

I cannot wait until break. I am going to fill my head with so many things I don’t need to know, nor should ever know, so as to push out or replace all knowledge gleaned from this semester.

Okay, probably not. I actually really enjoyed what I learned from this semester. I know I know, I’m a dork. I like writing stories, reading literature, and learning about history and philosophy (all things I got to do this semester), and I think I’m not only a more intelligent person because of it, but also a better thinker.

Yet, with the end of these classes comes those looming tests and papers that I simply abhor. And, since they have deterred me from reading my comics, and thus kept me from my regular discussion of comics, I hiss at and dismiss them as ridiculous rights of passage not actually conducive to learning, but rather stressful and the very perpetuators of cramming, which, we all know, is that famed process of shoving all possible information that can be fit into one’s mind in one night, and then forgetting it all the following day.

Is this the right way to learn? Is this learning?

Of course, you could say, what the hell were you doing all semester to have this kind of workload? That’s what you get for procastinating.

And I, of course, would answer yes, it’s true, some of this is my fault. And then, some of it is just too much. As in, some of the classes just give too much work. There are only so many hours in the day.

I wish I could survive on two hours of sleep.

Then maybe I could finish reading Great Expectations.

You might as well just call me Pip. I am, as I prepare for the end of this semester and perhaps the end of my own great expectations, like him, a “small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry.”

Ah well. I’ll get through.

“So it goes.” (Slaughterhouse-five)

November 30, 2008

This last week I attempted writing my own comic book. Well, that’s not accurate, I didn’t attempt, I did write my own comic.

And let me just say this about it.

It was hard.

I didn’t walk into this whole comic writing thing thinking it would be a breeze by any means. But I guess I just didn’t realize the amount of time, effort, and most of all planning that goes into writing a comic book.

Oh yes, it’s all about the planning.

You don’t just have to write the dialogue and internal thoughts of the character, you have to direct. You have to plan out each panel. You have to describe exactly what you want the artist to draw in those panels. And, most of all, you have to place and position those panels in such a way (in conjunction with the dialogue and thoughts of the characters) so that they visually convey the story.

It’s writing a story with pictures. Really, the words are only there to add detail, to aid in understanding, the real story lies in the visuals.

You have to ask yourself, is the reader going to understand what the hell I’m talking about if I show them this and then this? Or should I show them this instead?

Even if you can’t draw you have to inhabit the mind of the artist. Does what I’m doing here visually convey a message? And is that picture strong enough to guide the reader to some deeper meaning?

Now, that said, it was also a lot of fun. Yes, I had to do a large amount of research for it. (I’m not sure if that’s typical or not, but for what I wanted to write about, the research needed to be done.) But, in the end, it just made the overall product better. And I was proud of myself for putting forth so much effort.

Also, any cool thing you’ve ever wanted to see being done in a comic is a possibility because you are the one doing the writing.  Any character that you wanted to see, any event, any dialogue is right there at your fingertips. You just have to put it down on paper.

I don’t know if anything will ever come of my comic. But i loved doing it. And, let me tell ya, I’ve got plenty of ideas for following issues.

Watchmen: Part 2 November 24, 2008

Okay, so I read the rest of Watchmen.

It has, overall, left me with conflicting feelings.

I think that the only way I can determine exactly what I think of this graphic novel is to weigh the pros against the cons. (Yes, I actually do this on a regular basis. Perhaps it is a bit too anal, but honestly it just makes me feel better. What can I say, lists give me a secure feeling. They are structured and to the point.)

So, here are the pros:

The story was more interesting as it reached the end. This could be attributed to the fact that more action was taking place at the end of the comic.

I liked how the story was developed. The themes and characters intertwined nicely. The presentation of art panels was thoughtful and well planned.

It was somewhat historically influenced. Although, history was skewed to give it a fictional flavor (or, to give it that “we’re all going to die” or “it’s the end of the world” viewpoint.

There were recurring references to certain people (Veidt), objects (nostalgia, the anti-rape poster), diners (Gunga something… Gunga Diner?). It was kind of fun to see these things hidden in the back ground. Or to recognize that Rorschach was referencing a line from the pirate comic (the one the kid at the newsstand was reading) when he was on the owlship.

I liked the pirate comic and that it occurred simultaneously with the actual comic. It’s dark theme of a man who becomes the very thing/person/monster that destroyed his world is almost poetic, in a masochistic kind of way. It also reflects the overall theme of what’s going on with some of the Watchmen. Rorschach, Veidt, the Comedian, in the end they all become the monsters they used to strive to fight and destroy.

And then the Cons:

The story was more interesting as it reached the end. This may have been because of the fact that I was almost to the end of the comic.

Slow-paced.

Depressing. There is no upside. Moore gives you a glimmer of hope that things may turn out alright and then snatches it away again.

The characters. I didn’t like or connect with any of them. Perhaps, this is what the writer was trying to achieve. Perhaps, he wanted us to not like the characters in order to point out how messed up the human race is, and how worthless/unlikeable/despicable we all really are.

Here are some of my own character descriptions. (You may see why I don’t like these characters).

Laurie is bitter. She never stops bitching and whining until the end, when she’s a blond (Is there a correlation… I don’t know:)

Dr. Manhattan is apathetic. Why should we care about him if he doesn’t care about us? Yes, he has that moment at the end when he’s like “Ya know, I think there’s something nice about the human race,” but then, after Veidt’s stunt, he’s just like “Ah well, it’s only a million lives lost… Oooh, is that neutron about to bond with that atom?”

The owl guy just lets everybody push him around. This is great for Laurie since she clearly has control issues and needs a man she can push around, but it’s not so interesting for the reader.

I might actually like Rorschach. . . if he wasn’t a right wing extremist murderer. Although he is the obvious crazy in the bunch, he is also the only one who tries to do what’s right at the end of the comic. The only person who wants justice for the all the people who were killed is a crazed killer; now that’s irony.

I don’t really understand Veidt’s personality. I didn’t realize that “geniuses” and “intellectuals” were so prone to moral fanaticism that is more similar to some sort of religious quest than to the pursuit of a world which values knowledge.

The Comedian is just afraid. He’d rather kill or rape to get what he wants then actually have to deal with people.

So, basically, people are all scum.

The world is a horrible place.

People should hate everything and everybody because of these previous two principles.

So, those are the pros and cons. Now, here is my opinion. I thought the comic was well-written and well-planned. However, I disliked the characters and I thought the storyline dragged. Really, did it have to go on for that long? I understand what was going on in the story. I understand the point the author is trying to make, or at least, I think I understand his point; that apathy, not caring, can be just as bad as having a hand in the hurt and destruction; that everything needs checks and balances. Who watches the Watchmen? Someone has to, because heroes are just as messed up as we are. And I like that point. I think it’s important. But I didn’t enjoy reading the story. I think, since other comics have made a similar statement (although I don’t know if they did it so dramatically), that there may have been a more interesting way to say this message.

And that’s all I’m saying about that.

Watchmen: Part 1 November 9, 2008

Yes, I did it.

I finally gave in.

I’m reading that well-known, bright yellow, bound pulp. You know the one, the one that you can actually smell the scum and garbage oozing from the pages. The one where you can actually see the despair radiating from the ink like sonic waves. The one that quietly invites you in, while all the time whispering “no.”

Yup, you guessed it (and if you didn’t just reread the title smart one) this week I’m reading Moore’s Watchmen. (I probably didn’t have to preface the title with Moore, I just thought the guy should have his due)

Yes, I repeat, I’m reading Watchmen, like everybody else. . . Everybody.

Since the movie is coming out everyone, not just comic fans, is reading this book.

But I can’t help that. I have to read it if I am ever to be that courageous comic connosiuer, even if I’m not too thrilled about it.

I know, I know, I’ve heard what you people are saying. You’re saying, “It’s the Mecca of comic books!”
You’re saying, “You have to read Watchmen!” You’re saying, “Man, I forgot just how good this is, you should read it too.”

Alright, alright, I heard you, and I’m reading it.

But, let me tell you, it is a drawn out process. Usually I can pick up a graphic novel and have it finished in a couple hours (if it’s long, if it’s not then less). I like to take my time, absorb the visuals and such.

But, for some reason, I am having a really difficult time doing that with this comic.

It’s not that it isn’t interesting, I think I’m just used to a faster paced comic.

Pretty much all that has happened so far is some ex-heroes have been killed, physically, and then other heroes are in the process of dying mentally and spiritually. Yippee.

Sure, who wouldn’t want to read about heroes who have given up? Who wouldn’t want to read about the heroes who haven’t given up, the crazy red-headed ones, the ones who like cold beans and ink stained masks? Yes, that’s how I like my heroes, screwy, scary and smelly. I mean, it’s either that or the pot-bellied owl, the bitter ex-girlfriend, or the atom man who looks like the lovechild of Starman and Smurfette.

Of course, I shouldn’t be so judgemental as I’m only about half way through it. So maybe the heroes grab a hold of some gumption, some real resolve. Otherwise Moore has painted (or written. . . whatever) another clear depiction of the attrocities cradled by a sad mother earth. Thank you Mr. Moore for reminding us of the horrible things we, as humans, are capable of us. We appreciate your honesty, for telling us why we are really dying (and I don’t mean physically), for informing us that we are destroying ourselves.

Superman’s Not as Super as I Thought (And I Like It) November 3, 2008

What I never thought would happen has finally occurred.

Never in my wildest of comic dreams did I think that me, I, the lover of dark heroes, the pursuer of complex characters with deep inner turmoil, would be interested in the man who is the opposite of dark. That I would be interested in knowing more about the man who is all about light.

I’m talking, of course, about the guy who gets his power from the sun itself, Superman.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, that I like him. I like Superman. Which is strange, because I never thought of myself as a Superman fan.

For some reason, maybe because he is damn near indestructible and almost all powerful, I thought Superman just had it too easy. I thought to myself, “What could this near perfect person have to offer me? There’s no way I can relate to this guy.”

But I was wrong in these assumptions. Superman has difficulties of his own. Being perfect is not all it’s cracked up to be. And, interestingly enough, it is exactly these “perfections” (this is actually a misnomer, but I’ll use it for articulation’s sake) that cause problems for him.

Geoff Johns, in his comic Superman: Legion of Superheroes, illustrates these difficulties. He shows that because he was strange (Superman is an alien after all, and what can be more “alienating,” pardon the pun, than that?) he often had problems fitting in. He had to hide who he was from everyone around him.

There is, actually, this great quote from Kill Bill (I know I’m such a nerd) that talks about how Superman has to pretend to be like everyone else.

[Kill Bill Vol. 2, Bill's trying to make some crappy philosophical point to Beatrix. Although he's pretty much full of it, what he says right here is actually interesting.]

“Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there’s the superhero and there’s the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he’s Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn’t become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he’s Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red “S”, that’s the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears – the glasses, the business suit – that’s the costume. That’s the costume Superman wears to blend in with us.”

When you think about Superman this way, you actually have to feel kind of sorry for the guy. Yes, he gained this loving family when he reached earth, but he’s also experienced loss. He basically lost his entire planet, his race, his family (Although they have brought back his cousin Supergirl, and more recently a whole slew of Kryptonians, but that’s been a long time in coming). That’s hard stuff right there. Yes, he’s still this wheat field Kansan boy, but he’s also this powerful and intelligent outsider. He will never quite belong, but he will always try to even if it is futile.

This is why I really liked Johns comic. It started out by pointing out what an outsider Superman was. It stated point blank that Superman only really felt at home among aliens, but also that he could never live anywhere but on his adopted home, Earth. This is a contradiction… and frankly, it’s what makes me like Superman more. A hero must have his/her weaknesses. Without them, how can we, the readers, relate? When I’m reading a comic book, I want to feel like I could have an actual conversation with the character portrayed. I’ve got to be interested enough to want to ask questions.

I feel like now I have questions for Superman.

JLA: The Lightning Saga, Superman: New Krypton Special, and Why: Must Comic Titles Always Include Colons? October 27, 2008

There will be no feelings this week, just comics.

Unless, of course, I’m feeling about comics. Then it’s alright.

Let’s see… I read JLA: The Lightning Saga ( If you are reading that in your head, I think the voice you should use should be that of James Earl Jones. Can’t you just imagine him saying that? !”THE LIGHTNING SAGA”! I don’t know if writing it like that helps you imagine a deep voice, but I thought I’d give it a try… I’m silly, I know). Anyway…

I read JLA: The Lightning Saga this week (You read it in James Earl Jones’ voice didn’t you?) and it was pretty good. It was a bit confusing at times, I don’t know if this was because Geoff Johns and Brad Meltzer traded off writing it or what. Not that it wasn’t interesting or that I didn’t enjoy it, it just didn’t always seem linear. I don’t know, maybe I was just tired when I read it.

The artwork, however, was fantastic. I loved the colors and I especially liked the two page spreads. The first of which gorillas of all things are riding on dinosaurs, raptors to be specific, and then the one where all the superheroes are fighting with the computer octopus thing. It was eye candy all the way through. I’m a visual person, so when you have these complicated drawings with ten different things going on at the same time it drives I crazy (pardon the pun), in a good way.

But let’s step away from JLA: The Lightning Saga (The voice happened again, didn’t it? “Luke, I am…”) and turn to other comics.

This week Superman: New Krypton Special was released. I mention this because A) I had the pleasure of meeting one of the writers, Sterling Gates, since this weekend he was doing a signing at the local comic store, and B) because it’s a really good comic. Supergirl, who I’ve written about before, was featured in it and it served to help continue her story, which was cool.

It also presented this huge dilemma for her and Superman. Basically, for reasons that I’m not going to take the time to explain, there are 100,000 kryptonians now on earth. All of whom have super powers.

So it begs the question: What makes Superman and Supergirl special?

With all these people out there with the ability to save (or destroy, but the writers haven’t gotten that far yet) what sets Superman and Supergirl apart?

Now, people might be upset with this. They may say things like “Aren’t there enough superheroes already?” or “We like to read about them because they are special, one of a kind, not because they are one in one hundred thousand.”

But I do not concur with these dissenters (although they may be completely imaginary), I think this problem creates an interesting dynamic. It will show that there is more to being a superhero than just having powers. It takes gumption (yes I use that word), compassion, time etc., to do what a superhero does, not just the fact that the sunlight makes them strong, or allows them to fly, or zap people with their eyeballs.

Oh, switching topics here like the true ADD wannabe that I am, I have to say that whoever decided to put the whale in the comic , thank you. It made me giggle. . . like a girl.

There are some silly people over there at DC and I must say I like it.

Although, I’m not sure how Superman and Supergirl could have left it on the balcony like that. How could they go into dinner with the smell of rotting whale right outside the open window? There is no way that the stench would not ruin anyone’s dinner, I don’t care how superhuman you are. Dead fish stink. And dead whale… well you can imagine.