Twas The Last Week Of Exams...

Ugh.

People who know me know that I adore the holidays.  Christmastime is easily my favorite part of the year, and it has only gotten better since my kids showed up.  As a teacher, this week, when exams mean less time with whiny teenagers and the winter break looms, are especially enjoyable each year.

But not today.  This has been one of the worst mornings I've had in recent memory.  Yesterday, the day when I was supposed to be writing my exams and doing a dozen or so other important tasks at work, the ENTIRE FUCKING COUNTY lost the ability to use our computers to access email, get on the internet, get to our grades, or even pull up our files and documents (say, an exam you were writing.)  So I was not able to get done all the work I needed to do.  I tried writing as much of it as I could offline and at home, but I also needed to cook hash brown casserole for the English department brunch this morning.

So when I arrived at school this morning, I was extremely harried, desperate to finish my exam, which I had to give to my first class of the day at 10:30.  We got there by 7:30 a.m., and the brunch was at 9, so I had an hour and a half to get it all written, printed, proofed, reprinted and copied.

I ended up being late to the brunch, and when I walked in with my casserole (I'm not super proud of how it turned out,) the place was packed, every seat filled with chatting coworkers.

I immediately hated everything.

There was no good reason for it, all the stress just built up inside my and crystallized into a jagged shard of crankiness.  I set my casserole down, grabbed a quick plate of food without speaking to anyone and left without a word.

I retreated to my room to seethe at the universe.  I wasn't mad at anyone (well, maybe at whomever screwed up the network yesterday,) I simply felt overwhelmed with mean, angry feelings, like I had transformed into the Incredible Sulk.

I had straight-up lost the Christmas spirit.

I felt like I was ready to beat Cindy-Lou Who to death with Tiny Tim's crutch and burn down Oh Christmas Tree with a menorah (I believe in being inclusive.)  I was certainly no fit company.  But unfortunately, I HAD to go up to the plan room (where the brunch was a-brunching,) in order to make photocopies.

So I went back up, still in a humbuggy huff. I needed to make a key for my brand new exam (new textbook!  Yay!) so I actually retreated into the storage closet and sat upon a stack of copy paper boxes to take my own exam like a holiday gargoyle (the "I Hate Myself on the shelf?")

I took care of what I had to do, and made a few pleasantries and scuttled back to my hate-cave to stew in my anti-Christmas juices.

It would be great to say that I had an epiphany there.  It would be awesome to explain how I was visited by the ghosts of department gatherings past, present and future, or how an angel showed my what life would be like without me, or that some hydrocephalic child explained to me the real meaning of Christmas and my heart grew three sizes (much to the alarm of my cardiologist.)

But none of these very special episodes happened, and instead I was visited by hiccups.  Miserable, constant, painful fucking hiccups.  Someone up there was definitely pissing in my egg nog today.

I was a cantankerous old humbug with no trace of holiday joy in my wizened, blackened heart.  And I was struck by an overpowering sense of familiarity.  I had seen this story before, about a cantankerous bastard who turns his back on humanity is just a general hateful asshole.  Scrooge?  Nah, poorer than that.  The Grinch?  Noooo, this story lacked meter.  Old Man Potter?  Hmm.. not in black and white.

Then it hit me; I knew what miserable cuss I was acting like:

I was acting like me in the 90's.

For those who may never have met that asshole, let me tell you he was the absolute worst.  I fucking hate that guy, and if I ever got the chance to pay him back for all the grief he has caused me, I would kick his smirking ass up one side of the street and then probably stop because that sounds exhausting.

But I got rid of him!  I exiled him to the phantom zone, sealed him away with the elder sign, and tore up the recipe for the elixir I drank to transform into him.

In a panic, I rushed to check a mirror.  Sure enough, my fuzzy dome had sprouted greasy hair that formed itself into a comb-over.  A beat-up black Ghost Rider T-shirt had wrapped itself around my torso, and a faded black trench coat began unfurling down my back.

He was returning.

I rushed home to hug my children.  That failed utterly, because they are in what is colloquially known as a 'testing phase.’  Normally that is fine, as we are a science-friendly household, and testing is part of learning.  But since the current test seems to be along the lines of ‘what exactly do I have to do to force my father to murder me?’ it’s not exactly good for what ails me.

I was fading fast, going code blue (or red and green as is contextually appropriate,) and in need of some holiday cheer, stat.  Any minute now, I was going to run screaming into the night, black coat flapping, hijack a VW beetle and start blasting Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill at full volume.  Something had to be done.

So I started writing this.

You see, that was the worst part about that guy; he never actually did anything.  He whinged about his problems to anyone who would listen, but he lacked a proper outlet, a means to channel that whining into something worth reading.

That guy needed a blog, so he could whine on the internet, where that kind of self-aggrandizing behavior is seen as normal.  So I wrote, I found humor in those infinitesimal tragedies that compose real life like molecules of everyday misery.  And I sent him away.

Christmas spirit restored.  Returning to DEFCON 2.  But I heard him sneer, as he slouched out of sight; “Merry Christmas to all, and I’ll be back New Year’s Night!”

A Leg Up, So To Speak

Life isn't fair.

We are not all dealt the same hand at birth, and with each new deal, some of us just get handed better cards; it's simply the luck of the draw.  And I for one have been exceedingly lucky in this game, all things considered.

Like most of you reading this, I had the extreme good fortune not to be born with Down syndrome, or any form of mental retardation.  I was spared the pain of cystic fibrosis, or juvenile diabetes, or any congenital heart defects.  All of my organs functioned as they were supposed to do (with two notable exceptions...#organshaming.)  Growing up, I did not require breathing tubes, daily injections, special leg braces (those came much later,) a rigid support to correct a spinal disorder, a helmet to correct a skull defect, or a plastic bubble to prevent me from suffering a fatal allergic reaction.  I was able to go outside, run and play with my friends, and never had to schedule my activities around medications or treatments.  I never had to have awkward and repetitive conversations with my peers about the unusual medical equipment that was always with me, or to explain why part of me 'looked funny.'   I got to swim without plugs in my ears, run without worrying about damaging my bones, and if I got a cut or a scrape, my mom just had to reach for a band-aid, not the telephone.

Likewise, I was lucky enough to be born in the first world.  Born in a country of unparalleled freedoms, where no one had to worry thatthe secret police would storm into my home because of the opinions my parents espoused.  Or where political unrest meant my street might become a war zone, threatening everyone who lived there with being caught in a deadly crossfire.  Or in an area where crime was so rampant that my parents would fear to send me out to play in broad daylight. Nor did I live in an area of crippling poverty, a victim of disintegrating infrastructure. No, I got to live in a functional democracy (I don't care what you cynics try to say, you should check out the rest of the world before you try to discredit our government,) with the freedoms of speech, religion and assembly guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.  I lived in a quiet, rural neighborhood within walking distance of close relatives who helped take care of me.  The streets were smoothly paved and well-lit at night, teachers, police and firefighters were all just 'people in my neighborhood,' and the water was safe to drink.

Child abuse was something I only heard about from after-school specials on the TV.  Like amoebic dysentery outbreaks and bread lines, it was something bad that happened to other kids, far away.  My home was not a 'broken' one, and I didn't have a single mom, a deadbeat dad, or an 'or legal guardian.'  Brothers and sisters were only available in the basic model, without any adjectival modifiers like half-, step-, or foster-.  I never had to lie to a police officer or bill collector on my parents' behalf, or learn to run when a signal was given.  I never had to worry about payday, when mommy or daddy would get drunk and beat me.  My parents never had to warn me about being alone with any of my aunts or uncles, or to never tell any of my cousins we had just bought a new appliance for fear that they would break in and steal it for drug money.  My parents loved me, my siblings loved me, and a whole tribe of family members on both sides loved me, and were always around to support and protect me.  When I did something well, I was praised and encouraged, and when I was punished, I always understood what I had done wrong, and knew not to do it again.  My parents had jobs, and taught me the value of a hard day's work.  I was lucky enough to be born to sober, intelligent people who read to me, made me do my homework, and encouraged me not only to go to college, but helped me pay for it when I got there.  They gave me the incomparable gift of language, and I never wanted for food or shelter.  And I was blessed enough to be raised by parents who instilled in me the Christian values of compassion, humility (well, they tried with that one at least,) and respect for the rights and dignity of all fellow humans, while still teaching me to keep an open mind about science, truth and rational thought, as well as accepting and respecting the rights of others to believe as they will.

There is nothing more humbling to me than to think of all the advantages that I was graced with, and that others were not.  The allotment of these advantages was in no way 'fair.'  I would not dream to have such hubris as to believe that all the things I was given at birth, handed to me as it were on a silver platter, were because I deserved them.  I no more believe that I was one of God's chosen elect than I would believe that the Norns had woven the skein of my life with golden thread.

It was dumb luck.

Plenty of people are born with much more potent advantages than I and subsequently went on to squander it all in ruinously self-destructive acts of stupidity.  While others were born with the merest fraction of the starting benefits I had, but nonetheless went on to perform feats that shame my own paltry catalog of successes and good deeds.  To try and find reason in why he got and she didn't is to court madness.  To quote the rapper Everlast: "you know where it ends, yo it usually depends on where you start."

I can't compare myself to anyone else, nor my road to theirs.  All I can do is keep my eyes on my own, both behind and in front, to better navigate my own route.  But it would be folly to ignore all the things that helped me along this road, all the people and events that helped guide me, provided me with directions or a steadying hand, or who flat out carried me over the rough parts.  Because as proud as I am of how far I've come, I know I didn't do it all alone.  I had plenty of benefits, advantages and blessings along the way.  I consider every single one of those factors in my background to be privileges.  Because that's what they are: privileges.

So why is it that the only one I'm supposed to acknowledge in public is that I am white?

Anyone who says being born white in America is not an advantage simply doesn't have eyes.  Of course being white has helped me, no rational person would disagree that being white eliminates a whole slew of potential pitfalls and obstacles at nearly every turn.  White privilege exists.

But to focus on that too much is deleterious in the long run.

Not to me, mind you.  Sure dismissing me or my accomplishments simply because I'm white is shitty, but it doesn't really hurt me, per se.  I mean, yeah, it's frustrating to have someone look at you and judge you as if they know everything about you and where you came from just because of the way you dress, or the music you listen to, and then write you off as a unique individual because of the color of you skin.  But they already have words for doing that to people, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the first guy to experience that from time to time, so I'm not going to whinge about little stuff like that.

But it hurts us all in the long run.  Because when you live in a society that has a serious problem with relations between people of different races (which we do,) and when there still exists inequity, injustice, and institutionalized discrimination (it's still a thing, y'all,) then the solution is not to point out the people who have more, it's about bringing everyone else to that level.

None of the great civil rights leaders made names for themselves (and helped bring about great advances for all people,) by taking about all the things that other people had.  They talked instead about how we should all be the same people.  Civil rights is human rights. and if you keep talking about 'white privilege' instead of 'not yet equally applied to everyone privilege,' all you're doing is denigrating people based on their race, and if that seems like a good plan to you, you may have missed the point.

What I'm saying is this:  there isn't supposed to be white privilege.  It's supposed to be everyone's privilege.  You shouldn't ascribe it to the white folks as if no one else is ever supposed to have it too, any more than you should blame white folks for having it.

I possess white privilege, but I am not my white privilege.  I am a man who has been extremely fortunate in this life.  I have had so many more advantages than many, and far less than some.  And whoever you are, and whether you feel you have had more or less than me, the only way we can possibly get along is if we judge each other by our actions, by what we do, not what we have.

The Dream Is Always The Same...

I have discussed my mental problems in previous posts.  But today I had an unfortunate experience, wherein my psychological issues, my weakness interfered with my role as a parent.  It is a frustrating and shameful event that still leaves me a little shaken, but what the Hell, right?  As long as I can get some chuckles out of it...

It started this morning when I was taking my kids out to a park.  Their mother was at school, interviewing a prospective new teacher (her misadventures in this area could form a wacky post in their own right, but she can make her own damn blog.)  So I took the two kids, aged 6 and 4 (I know, right?) to a park to play.

Side note:  This is the single best thing about being a teacher.  Forget that whole "reaching kids and molding new minds;" having summers off so that I can take my kids to the park on a weekday is the absolute fucking best.

Normally, I prefer to take the kids to the "Lizard Park," which is our name for the park just south of us, located on the Intercoastal Waterway.  It has a little playground with that super safe spongy rubbery material on the ground (which I like because it feels nice on the feet of old parents, forget about any safety concerns,) and a nature walk that goes right out over the water, in front of a little natural scrub area where the kids can watch the tiny crabs play.  Being located in the heart of old folks territory, it is sparsely attended, and often we are the only ones there.  Also there are a profusion of lizards, hence its nickname.  It is the best.

But naturally, my kids didn't want to go there.  They want to go to the "Pittle Park," so named because we once went there with our friends the Pittles.  Now this is a great park, with lots of space and plenty of playground equipment.  And the whole thing is canopied with shade trees , creating a cool respite from the morning heat, with many metal benches for parents.  I love this park as well.

But the problem is that this fine park is not located in old folks territory; it is located in the middle of town, and plenty of people like to bring their (naturally inferior because they are not mine,) children there to play.  So it tends to be crowded and chaotic.  This would not normally be a big deal, except that in the summer, busloads of kids from day camp show up, and a horde of 'big kids' swarm all over and make it difficult for little ones to play safely.  There have been many time that I have shown up to find no parking spaces available, even without the buses.

So normally, I tell them we can't go, and drive straight to the Lizard Park.  But today, they begged more than normal, so I made them a deal; I would drive to the park and see if it was too crowded.  If so, we would go to the Lizard Park, and there would be no whining (there's always whining.)  It meant driving in the opposite direction for a while, but what the Hell.

When we got to the Pittle Park, it was empty.  I don't mean 'sparsely attended,' I mean the only vehicles there were the city maintenance guys who cut the grass (they were on break.)  Well this was a rare opportunity so we hopped out of the car to see how long we could have the park to ourselves.  As the kids headed towards the see saw, I pointed out some spider webs in the little tree in the parking lot. These were the creations of spiny orb weavers, which are all over our part of Florida.

This cute little guy

Now these guys are tiny, and one generally only sees their brightly colored carapace in the circular webs they spin.  The important thing about this species (outside their ubiquity,) is that they do not 'activate' my arachnophobia.  Like all phobias, it doesn't make any logical sense.  For whatever reason, when I see one of these little guys, they just look cute, and the kids and I just talk about them clinically and go about our day.

So I didn't even concern myself with them and took a seat on a bench to watch the kids.  Now, even though I was not thinking about spiders, my senses still overreact whenever I feel anything brush against me.  So when I felt something on the back of my head when I sat down, I leaped up instantly, running my hand over my hair.  I laughed at myself for being so silly, and was thankful that there was no one else around to laugh at my ridiculous overreaction.  I figured it was probably a fly or bug that buzzed by me, and looked around for it.  Then I noticed a strand of webbing attached to the bench.  That was what I had brushed against.  But since I had seen the spiny orb weavers, I was not overly panicked or anything.  I sort of chuckled again, in an almost 'oh you silly little guys' attitude.

Then I looked up.

Following the strand of webbing I found a large web built by an entirely different species of spider:

THIS motherfucker.

That there is a nephila spider, a species of Golden Silk Orb Weaver, one member of the species commonly called 'banana spiders.'  They grow to the size of human hand, and they spin massive webs solely for the purpose of entangling arachnophobes (citation needed.)

This thing was staring down at me with eight eyes full of malice.  These are my number one least favorite species of spider, and the number three reason I want to move the hell out of Florida (number one is the heat, and as for number two, you know who you are.)

So now my phobia was activated.  As I've mentioned before, the thing about a phobia is that I'm not afraid of spiders per se.  I am fully aware that I have nothing whatsoever to fear from these mindless creatures, and that not only would such a creature do everything in its power to avoid any contact with me, but even if it were hell-bent on violence towards me, it could do no more damage than a mosquito bite.  There is no logical reason to fear such spiders, and a normal human being would have ignored the silent presence of this beneficial animal.

But I am not a normal human being; I have a specific form of brain damage.  I explain the phenomenon of having a phobia like this:  you know when you see something that threatens you, like an angry dog, or a car careening towards you, or maniac wielding lawn equipment, and your body floods you with adrenaline and 'run away' juice?  That's what happens when I see a spider; my body reacts as if I was in danger.  And just like when you just barely avoid a car accident or run away from an angry dog or maniac, you get all keyed up and its hard to relax.  When I have an 'incident' of arachnophobia, that's how it feels.  Once I see a spider I'm on hyper-alert, and I can't calm down.

I use terms like 'activate my phobia,' or an 'incident' of arachnophobia because it sounds ridiculously over dramatic to say I had an 'attack' of arachnophobia.  'Attacks' are what people with serious conditions get, and they are no fun from what I hear.   They are not momentary freak-outs that give you some discomfort, they are genuine mental breaks that interrupt your normal functioning and ruin your whole day.

 Today I had an attack of arachnophobia.

"Over one lousy spider?" you ask, sitting comfortable and smug as you read this.  Well no, not from one lousy spider as you will see if you give me a damn minute to finish the story you insensitive jerk (God, you can be such an ass some times.)

No, at first I was simply freaked out, which is normal.  I calmly backed away from the bench and went over to where the kids were playing.  I started looking around for another bench since I'm pretty sure I've developed a heel spur in my right foot recently, and needed to sit down.  I walked over to the two benches that are back to back in the middle and then stopped.

As my position shifted, the sunlight glinted off the weblines that anchored to the backs of these benches as well.  Following them up (I know, I know,) I spotted more of the hated nephila spiders claiming these seats as their own.  I started to become discomfited by this, but I kept my cool mostly.  I moved deeper into the park following the kids, extremely wary of any webs that might obstruct me.  Arthur wanted help on the balancing thingy, so I handed Grace the bottle of water and my notepad (I write while the kids are playing.)  When he was done playing, I noticed Grace was empty handed.  When I asked her where she had put the stuff, she pointed to the last bench.

This was a dilemma.  Perhaps this bench would be different.  And my foot had begun to hurt.  And my stuff was there.  Right there.  On that inviting bench.  So I moved carefully forward.  Now if you can, try to picture this; here I am, a grown man standing in the middle of a playground on a sunny day, inching forward towards a bench sitting on the edge of the park as if I feared it were an IED.  My kids continued to play around me, oblivious to the existential horror that gripped their father.

And then I saw it.  There was, of course, yet another obscenely large spider using the back of this bench as an anchoring point for its web of evil.  I was a good twenty feet away, and I still saw it, hanging unnaturally in space high above.  I was seized with the need to document this.

Can you see it?  If you look at the round tree in the middle of the picture, track upwards.you will see a tiiiiny black speck jut below the cloud.  That's it.  That's the creature that tipped me onto the downward slope of insanity.  I realize it does not look too big to you, but that's because the photo does not do it justice, and because your brain is not damaged.

I could not move.  I stood in the open clearing, feeling completely trapped.  But even then, as my breathing began to get a little erratic, and my chest started feeling a little tight, I was in control.  I could just stand here, watching the kids, doing my dadly duties, ignoring my aching foot, and maintaining my cool.  All I had to do was stand there and not keep looking around.

God-damned phobia.

I could not help looking around the tops of the trees, like one of those hapless fools in a horror movie who insist on checking out that noise in the basement.  And I don't need to tell you what I found.

Florida in the summertime is very hot and wet (shit, Florida is hot and wet in every season, but summer is just moreso.)  Consequently, flying insects proliferate.  This means a nearly inexhaustible food supply for spiders, and any biologist will tell you that when you have an abundant food supply, the population of predators will similarly explode to insane amounts.

The treetops were rife with webs.  You can't see them at first, but the glittering lines of silk become visible as the light shifts, and then you see their sinister architects hanging in mid air, suspended above you like hideous satellites, gazing down upon you like capricious gods, ready to deliver judgments of terror upon you, descending upon strands of thread like eight-legged swords of Damocles.

This is when I had a full-on attack.

At this point I need to tell you the rest of the story.  Because I know you may think me a complete pussy for breaking down just because there were a bunch of harmless spiders in the tree tops above me, but there's something you do not realize: this was a nightmare.   I don't mean to liken it to the kind of situation that one would experience in a nightmare, the way we describe traffic or a large amount of paperwork as a nightmare (if you actually do have bad dreams about traffic and paperwork, you may have serious problems.)  I mean to say that this situation is literally my nightmare.

I am not a person who is habitually plagued by bad dreams, but I do have them from time to time, as nearly everyone does.  But my dreams, almost without exception, are always about the same thing.  It should come as no surprise to you that they involve spiders, but they are always painfully specific as to the details.

Every nightmare I have involves me being in some place, some place that is densely packed with objects, be they trees, or pillars, or piles of old furniture or cave walls, but an area that leaves little open space.  In the nightmare, I must navigate this area.  But as I attempt this, I notice a spider web blocking my progress, a spider suspended in the center of it.  I can't see the web or the spider at first, and only right before I walk into it do they come into focus.  I back up cautiously and seek an alternate route, but time and time again I find myself thwarted, my attempts to escape stymied by the continuing discovery of more and more arachnids and their silken demesnes.  In the end, I can move nowhere, trapped like a fly in... well, you know.

The nightmare ends when I wake up.  There is no resolution, I simply awaken, creeped out and harrowed.  But today, I found myself trapped in this nightmare, unable to awake, locked inside my own subconscious' darkest scenario.

This was seriously uncool.

I did not scream, I did not fetal up (the ground is mulch, and you just know there are spiders in there,) and I did not, NOT lose my cool.  I had my panic attack like a gentleman; with stuff upper lip and quivering sanity.  What I did do was to calmly inform the children that we could not stay.  I told them that Daddy was having an attack of arachnophobia, and that we had to fall back to the extraction point using flamethrowers, and reminded them to fire in short, controlled bursts (but then again, I always advise them that.)  I told Grace to walk over to the bench and get our things (you shut the hell up!  She's not arachnophobic, and I already told you there was no good reason to fear spiders.)

We calmly packed up and walked back to the car at an even pace, head bobbing slightly to try and use the sunlight to pick up any trace of spider silk that might block the way, and not looking back to see if the things were following us.

Like a grown-up.

We got in the car, where I had a nice breathe and drank some water, and then we drove to the Lizard Park.  We had a lovely time, and I only saw one web there, occupied by a friendly spiny orb weaver, who got a "you're okay, man" nod from me.

I cannot say if I will ever be able to return to the Pittle Park (which may have to be renamed,) and I am not especially proud of this incident.  I pride myself on being a good parent, and on always putting the needs of my kids before my own comfort, but I failed at that today.  I could have stayed of course, rooted to the spot in stark terror, foot aching, as every little rustling noise ate into my mental well-being (fucking squirrels,) but I don't know if that really would have been the best for my kids.  No one wants to be the kid at school whose dad has PTSD over garden pests, so maybe the Lizard Park was the best choice, who can say?

In the calm light of my home, and with many intervening hours to provide perspective, it is easy to laugh it off, but this is one of the worst kind of experiences; the kind where the impact upon you is so laughably out of proportion with the seriousness, and which end up just making you look the fool.

I wonder if I will dream tonight.

Up, Up And All Rise!

Not too long ago, I wrote a fun little post about how sports would be changed in the world of Marvel comics.  It showed how the existence of superpowered humans and other factors prevalent in the four-color world would have a major impact on sports and athletics in general.

I thought I would continue that theme, but this time illustrating how the legal system would be affected in such a world.  The forces of law & order (the concept, not the show,) face enough challenges in our world, one can only imagine the extra burdens placed upon the legal system in a universe with superheroes.

Oh, and since I focused on Marvel last time, I figured I'd use the DC universe this go around, just in the interest of equal time.

To begin with, let's look at the legalities of superheroes themselves:  Part of the charm of most super heroes (at least the more street-level, 'beat up crooks' types,) is that they serve justice even when the law doesn't allow for such things.   Much has been made about Batman frequently being viewed as a criminal by the police, and indeed, it is often held up as a testament to James Gordon's brilliance that he was the only cop with the wisdom to reach out to the Dark Knight for his quasi-official help.  They are heroic vigilantes, and we never question their right to take the law into their own hands and protect us from evil, as long as they wear a costume.

But let's look at how they protect us.  When Superman or Wonder Woman defend the White House from Darkseid's parademons or Doctor Fate and Zatanna banish an elder demon's eldritch horde, everyone cheers when the last evil minion disappears in a boom tube/puff of brimstone.  But what about domestic threats?  If Green Lantern foils an armed robbery by ski-masked thugs, can said thugs sue for damages from his glowing green fists?

Those are American citizens, criminals though they might be, and as such are entitled to certain inalienable (we'll discuss how that term works in a world with real aliens another time,) rights.  Being the guardian of Sector 2814 gives GL no civil authority to arrest them, even if they are in the act of committing a crime.  If they suffer injuries during the act, from whom can they seek redress?

There are legal precedents for private citizens working to stop crimes and apprehend criminals, but they do not account for individuals repeatedly charging into tense situations involving armed assailants.  Having these civilians at the crime scene could jeopardize the legal cases against the "alleged" criminals.  If the police storm in to the bank and find a half a dozen men tied up courtesy of our hero, what can they be charged with?  Being in a bank during a robbery?

Likewise, if Blue Beetle (either one,) stops some thieves fleeing a jewelry store, beats them up and leaves them tied to a lamp post (Spidey style,) along with the loot, who can serve as eyewitness?  A costumed vigilante isn't going to show up in court to testify, he'd have to reveal his identity, which would negate the whole point of concealing it in the first place.  And even if the prosecution used such testimony, if the witness' identity could not be verified (he is wearing a mask after all,) the whole case will no doubt be tossed.

And even if they are on security cameras, can any subsequent arrest be valid?  The involvement of an outsider (who does all the work, frankly,) surely disrupts the normal procedure, and could easily form the basis of a strong defense by any attorney.

Even if the legal system adapts to having criminals apprehended by masked vigilantes, what about the villains themselves?  Most of them run around masked as well.  If the Flash pursues an 'alleged' freeze gun wielding bank rober, who happened to be wearing a blue fur-lined parka and snow-blind goggles, and a few minutes later he delivers one Leonard Snart, alias Captain Cold, is there any real proof that Mr. Snart is in fact guilty of the crime?  Is there not reasonable doubt of his identity because of the mask? (hey, lots of people have freeze guns these days...)

You see, that's the big sticking point: reasonable doubt.  In a world with paranormal and supernatural powers, what couldn't be reasonable doubt?  Mr. Snart has previously had violent clashes with the speedster known as the Flash (and does anybody even know if that is the same guy in that suit?) thus establishing bad blood between them, who's to say that the Flash didn't just put that uniform on Leonard using super speed just to frame him?  A clever lawyer could do wonders with such a defense, there's a whole bar full of brightly costumed loonies to alibi Snart, and the Flash can't even swear in to testify in his own defense.

But that is just the tip of the iceberg (no pun intended.)  The very existence of shapechangers can establish reasonable doubt.  Let's say you're no super villain, you're just a small-time crook who's run afoul of the Martian Manhunter.  You get busted because eyewitnesses place you at the scene of the robbery.  Your lawyer concocts a tale of how you were actually at home during the time of the robbery, and this is all just a frame-up by the green menace.  Remember that the burden of proof is on the prosecution, and is there any way to prove that J'onn J'onzz didn't use his shape-changing powers to impersonate you?  At least one person on that jury is likely to be afraid of aliens (and does he even have a green card?) and there's your hung jury.

DNA evidence proves it was really you who did the deed?  Why that could have been planted there microscopically by Ray Palmer as the Atom.  Or transmogrified on an atomic level by Firestorm, or placed there magically by Zatanna.

Even if they caught you red-handed, and apprehended you in the act with no super beings anywhere in sight, what about mind control?  Once again, just the fact that people with the ability to control others' actions are a legally established reality would utterly destroy the concept of reasonable doubt.  And what about clones?  Or alternate dimensional versions of yourself?  There are at least a dozen viable versions of "it wasn't me" defenses that would work in this world.

Superheroes have this happen all the time; the public sees them commit heinous crimes, but later the hero clears his or her good name by proving they were under mental domination by a vampire, it was really their Bizarro twin, or a clone, or one of the many robot duplicates they themselves created which had gone rogue (Superman has done all of these.)  The public and the law enforcement community accept this explanation, the real perpetrators are destroyed or carted off to jail and all is well.  Every criminal in the DCU has a potential defense there, and not only Lex Luthor (who has used this exact defense like a dozen times,) but also lowly Carl Blaszkiewicz, local plumbing contractor arrested for excessive parking violations.

And those are just the crimes that already appear on the books.  Think about how we would have to change the very criminal code to account for the new crimes that would exist.  Let's say that one of those mind controlling villains mentioned above (let's say Gorilla Grodd,) is actually caught red handed (red-brained?) in the act of controlling a hero's mind and ordering him to commit crimes (let's say robbery.)

With what exactly can the sinister simian be charged?  A case could perhaps be made on the charge of robbery, but how would the use of an unwilling accomplice affect the situation?  And what if it didn't commit a crime, but merely used this opportunity to humiliate the hero?  If Grodd forces his nemesis the Flash to strut around town nude, is there any charge that the civil authorities could bring against him?  Surely one cannot be charged with 'indecent exposure by proxy?'  Flash would have a shot at a suit for public defamation (if it was a really cold day,) but that would require revealing his real identity (Barry Allen) in court, which would be a terrible idea, since the DCF would be at his doorstep the next day, since Wally was under 18 when Barry made him Kid Flash and exposed him to all sorts of child endangerment.

But mind control isn't the only thing a brain can do in the DCU.  What if Psimon walks calmly into a Starbucks and straight up murders the barista with a psychic blast because she put to much foam in his latte?  How will the legal codes need to be altered to account for weapons that can't simply be tagged and sealed up in an evidence bag?  If the Atomic Skull (I know, I know,) fries a citizen with a blast of radiation from his hands, can he be tried with a deadly weapon?  I mean if I sat on your head you'd die too, but my ass is not classified as a deadly weapon (although I am aware of a number of petitions to that effect.)

And if such allowances are made, that can swing both ways.  If Superman turns and smiles at a random passerby, can that be construed as a threat?  Everyone knows he's packing some serious firepower behind his baby blues, and he just point both barrels at citizen.  And if he puts on a pair of shades, does he need to get a concealed carry permit?  Does the NRA cover lasers?  Or for that matter, exploding boomerangs?

What about those who never commit crimes personally, but create those who do?  If Professor T.O. Morrow creates an android with ice powers (Red Hailstorm?) and unleashes it to do his bidding, stealing money and equipment for its maker, of course he can be arrested and charged with the crimes.  But what if he serves his time and reforms, spending his days building toasters but his creation continues living the thug life (it really did choose him.)  Is Morrow still on the hook for every crime Red Hailstorm commits?  And what if the android is granted legal status like his older brother in the Justice League?  If Red Tornado turns evil (which happens like every other week; seriously, don't let robots on your team!) can the government come after Morrow for his crimes, too?

Now imagine if Wonder Woman battles Ares in downtown D.C., and in the process of the fight your home and all your possessions are destroyed.  Can your insurance company refuse to pay, citing it as an 'act of god?' (that capital G becomes very important at that point.)  If you sentence the time traveler Per Degaton to six months in jail, if he manages to warp forward the six months, is he allowed to just walk out, time served? And what about the legal hassles of heroes and villains dying and coming back to life?  Do they need a new social security number, and do past charges against them still stick?

So if you live in the DC universe, it may be all well and good that you have the unparalelled might of the  Justice League, but your Justice System is pretty much fucked.

What The Next Superman Reboot Movie Needs Less Of:

*Note:  This post was begun some time ago, before the announcement of the pending Superman/Batman film.

The two biggest drags on any Superman film are, in order: Superman and Clark Kent.

Now let me start by saying I am not one of those Superhaters, who feel the character is out of step with the modern world, and devoid of any value to today's comic readers and moviegoers.  And there sure is a whole lot of hate out there for the big blue boy scout.

For the record, I love Superman, and believe that he is still a culturally relevant character, with plenty of stories left to tell.  I feel any writer worth his or her salt can take the character and tell compelling, interesting stories that can resonate with audiences today, just as Siegel and Shuster's original stories did back in 1938.

However…

While new writers come on board the various Superman comics all the time, each bringing a new take on the classic character, they don't then retell his origin story.  Beyond the several reboots the company has done over the years, new writers simply pick up where others have left off, maintaining the basic story: infant Kal El is sent to Earth to save him from the destruction of his home world, Krypton.  Once here, the energy of our yellow sun gives him powers above and beyond those of mortal men, blah blah, locomotive, blah blah, speeding bullet, blah blah blah, mild-mannered reporter, lather, rinse, repeat.  We all know the story, so comic writers don't feel the need to retell it each new story.

Why then do filmmakers?

It is a certainty that films and comics are different media, and each requires a different approach.  But this is Superman for Christ's sake!  Surely every corner of the globe has heard his story by now?  Every new Superman movie has to go over this same material; retread old ground in the hopes of finding some new aspect that will make it worth watching the same origin story over again.

The most recent one tried to expand upon the story of Jor El and doomed Krypton, fleshing out that part of the story over what seemed like half the movie.  And to what effect?  By dividing up so much time between the two El men, the film dragged, giving us a film that was one part bland dystopian sci fi, one part mawkish Bill Bixby-era Incredible Hulk pastiche, with a splash of destruction porn in lieu of the supervillain-fighting action that people want to see.

You know, a Superman movie.

In comics, you have decades of stories on which to draw and build, and thousands of characters with which to interact.  In a film, you have two to three hours tops, so you need to tell a compelling story, and tell it fast.  Audiences want characters worth identifying with, and they don't want to have to sit through half the film before they meet the actual hero.  Luke was shown to be a whiny little bitch in the first twenty minutes of Star Wars, but once his aunt and uncle get flash fried, he mans up quick and makes with the stormtrooper-blasting, princess-saving, chasm-swinging and Death Star-exploding action without further delay (or whining.)

Movie Supermen these days seem unable to do that for some reason.  We spend so much time on him getting to Earth, then more time with him discovering his powers, then some angst over accepting his destiny, some soul-searching, etc.  And when does he get to fight the villain?  Will there even be a villain who is both interesting and a credible threat to a man of steel?

Perhaps the problem for film makers is that the character is hard to identify with in films.  I mean, if Superman is bulletproof and brimming with power, what can threaten him?  The comics have tons of top tier threats to ruin Supes' day, from ultra-powerful androids, nihilistic alien overlords and 5th dimensional imps to megalomaniacal super geniuses in kryptonite-powered battle suits.

But filmmakers seem loath to go for such "over-the-top" action, since audiences clearly do not want to see such goofy, comic book style cartoonish action.  That's why "The Avengers" bombed so badly at the box office, remember?

So instead, we get a man of steel in our own, 'realistic' world, wherein he is unidentifiable to audiences because he is a god amongst us mortals.  So many go the other way, focusing on Clark Kent as the main identity.  Obviously audiences can identify more with him, as a man raised by humans, dealing with human trials and temptations.

But that guy is boring.  Again, stripped of all those years of continuity, Clark Kent is just not all that interesting in a two-hour film.

Filmmakers have to balance the tale of Jor and Lara El sending their child to Earth, Ma and Pa Kent finding him and training him, Clark joining the world and making tough choices, and then find some time to make a suitable villain and get in some good punching action, which doesn't arrive until the end of the film.  It's a tough job.

So how do we fix it?

I thought about some story ideas, from beginning in media res with battles against robots and such, with the story told in flashback, to simply ignoring the backstory entirely (which would be a great way to do a Justice League film; just ditch backstories and getting right to the formation of the league.)

These would all be great for fans of comic book action, but would be a poor draw for 'serious' filmmakers who want to do a serious study of the character.  And then I hit upon the ultimate idea for a Superman movie.  A truly engaging film, that makes an audience really ask new questions about characters they thought they knew.  One that was completely faithful to the visions of Siegel & Shuster and the other luminaries that have added to the Kryptonian mythos over the years, and yet still remained a compelling tale of humanity.

And all we have to do is take Superman and Clark Kent out of the spotlight.  The next Superman movie should not have either of them as protagonists.

Hear me out: Superman is ridiculously powerful, on that we can all agree.  And that can be a problem, because he's as powerful as a force of nature.  So why not treat him like one?  Keep Superman, the nigh-omnipotent being of mystery, and Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, in the background.  Focus instead on the two characters inextricably linked with the man of steel's destiny, and with whose experiences audiences can truly identify.

Instead of telling the dual stories of Clark Kent and Kal El, the next Superman film should focus on Lois Lane and Lex Luthor.

Consider this story:

We begin at LexCorp's Aerospace Division, where Lex's latest spaceplane prototype is returning from its maiden voyage.  This is a big deal, and all the media outlets are there.  Lois Lane is there, granted an exclusive interview with the great man himself on this auspicious day.

Lex, we learn, is the paragon of humanity; he is the wealthiest man in the world, and complete owner of the largest multinational corporation in existence.  The source of this success is his genius mind, and unparalleled ability at scientific innovation and invention.  He has developed his body to the peak of human perfection; mastering several martial arts and honing nearly every physical skill.  But in addition, he is a great philanthropist, helping people around the world with donations and the power of his inventions.  In short, he is the superman; the ultimate achievement of mankind, and the envy of all men.  Powerful and beloved worldwide, he seeks to conquer space simply because there is nothing left on Earth from him left to conquer. And of course, he has an absolutely amazing head of hair.

Lois has been granted this interview because of her own excellent reputation for ferreting out the truth, no matter how well hidden.  She is the top investigative journalist in the world, and like Lex, lacks for challenges.  Lex chose her specifically, taking on her probative questions like a challenge, knowing he has nothing to fear.  For Lois's part, she finds the whole situation dreary, and desperately longs for a real mystery to pursue.

But then, tragedy.  The spaceplane begins to wobble on approach; the thousands of spectators who have gathered for the landing are in jeopardy.  Lex springs instantly into action, a grin on his face.  He immediately calls emergency services and begins mobilizing his security forces to evacuate the crowds.  It is apparent that he revels in this opportunity to show how cool he is under pressure.  Lois meanwhile, is at least pleased to have a more interesting angle on the story.

But then, everything changes in an instant; the single inciting incident that alters the lives of both our protagonists.  As the spaceplane is about to plummet towards the ground, a streak of blue and red appears from the sky and saves the aircraft, effortlessly lowering it to the ground safely, and then flying off in a flutter of red cape.  The entire world witnesses this event.

And the story begins.

Or rather, both stories begin.  Our film divides its time between Lex and Lois as they go along their own separate character development arcs.  They both start at that single point (the inciting incident for those keeping track at home,) with the two of them standing, mouths agape at the window of Lex's office, with the reflection of the mystery man flying away on the surface of the glass.

For Lois, this marks the beginning of her obsession with tracking down this mystery man.  He is the ultimate story, and only the greatest reporter ever could hope to uncover the truth.  It s she who coins the term Superman as his 'nom de hero,' and she begins to doggedly pursue him throughout Metropolis.  Trailing behind her is the new cub reporter Clark Kent, who is hired on after Lois begins pursuing Superman, and who sort of surreptitiously tries to steer her away, but she never even looks him in the eye, pouring al her attention onto finding out the identity of Superman (this is called irony.)

Eventually she takes drastic steps and throws herself off the Daily Planet building to force him to save her.  She then uses the rescue to interview him, which he agrees to do if she will stop hounding him everywhere, and showing up at every dangerous event in metropolis in the hopes of cornering him (we see her come close to death several times along the way.)

In this interview, he gives her all the basic info; alien from a dying planet, sent here by his parents raised by kind and loving parents and all that jazz, all while moving around so that she never has a clear view of him (when he is carrying her in his arms, she has the wind in her eyes.)  More importantly, the audience is never given a very clear view of his face, or all of him in any one shot, 'Jaws'-style to maintain the mystery.

He tells her all this and leaves it up to her if she wants to reveal it, warning her that people may not like the truth.  She vehemently defends the people's right to know, and that there can be no peace with secrets, blah blah blah, even though he insists some secrets should stay that way.  After the interview, he asks her to use her media skills to try and find out if anyone died while she was interviewing him and taking him away from patrolling the city.  He flies off leaving her to consider if her obsession with uncovering the truth is actually what is best for Metropolis and the world.

When she publishes her story, revealing his extraterrestrial origins, there is a big backlash against him, with many citizens expressing fear and outrage at his 'duplicity' in looking like regular humans  Even though she continues to report on the great things he selflessly does for the citizens of Metropolis, people continue to post letters about him as an illegal alien and a menace to decent folk.  In one scene she watches Superman return a child to her parents, when someone throws a bottle at his head.

Meanwhile...

Lex's story is a much darker one (and far more interesting.)  Lex becomes a classic tragic hero, and we watch his inevitable descent into madness and ruin (spoiler alert.)  When Superman saves the spaceplane, Lex sees the utter ruination of his entire sense of self.  Lex spent his entire life climbing to the top; he was the absolute paragon of the human race, the top, A number one.  And in a flash of red an blue, he becomes just another mudbound mortal.  He is filled with unholy envy, driving him into a rage. Where Lois wants to expose Superman, Lex wants to destroy him.  He must destroy him, in order to salve his ego with the only balm, supremacy.

So Lex puts all of his personal genius, and all the resources of his vast corporate empire to the sole task of discovering how Superman's powers work, and how to replicate them.  Whatever the man of steel can do, Lex must be able to match it.

We see him combing through every piece of footage available of Superman in action, and working with scientists and inventors to mimic the various powers he exhibits.  We see him hiring mercenaries to stage high profile crimes in order to engage Superman, equipping them with the latest experimental weapons in order to field test them, and collecting all the blood and skin samples for analysis (he figures out the alien thing before Lois breaks the story.

Using this information, he begins to develop his answer to this threat; using enhancement drugs, cybernetic implants and various weapons and gear to create his armored battlesuit, designed to make him the equal (or better) of Superman.  When they are ready to test the suit interface, they point out that his fabulous hair will decrease the efficiency of the electrode leads, but only by a tiny margin, he shaves his head bald, showing us how obsessed he is with absolute perfection.

And all the while, he is working to undermine Superman's public image, planting stories and editorials stressing how dangerous this being could be, and painting him first as a lawless vigilante, and after his origin in made public, a dangerous alien invader.

Finally, after Lex has perfected his suit, and learned all he thinks he needs to defeat Superman, he needs to bring him to the place he has set up as the perfect ambush site.  For that, he needs bait, and since Supes has already shown he will fly to Lois Lane's rescue, he decides to kidnap her.

But Lois meanwhile, has finally broken the biggest story in history, she has discovered Superman's secret identity, that of mild-mannered Clark Kent.  Even after seeing all the harm that her last story did to Superman, she knows that the truth must be made public, because people have a right to know (even if this particular individual and his parents will undoubtedly suffer for it.)  She is typing the story when Lex captures her, and never even realizes the value of what is sitting on her computer screen.

So the big awesome fight happens, and it is both big and awesome, and will not involve destroying half of Metropolis and a death toll in the hundreds of thousands, thank you very much.  But it will be televised, showing the megalomaniac Lex Luthor all 'roided up and in his armored death suit mercilessly pummeling the sinister alien.  Lois (and maybe Jimmy) has the camera going the whole time, and provides a running commentary.  We see the public reactions go from cheering Lex to praying that Superman will get up and win.

And of course he does.

He summons the will to do so when Lex threatens Lois (or perhaps a random citizen caught in the crossfire,) and defeats Lex, stripping the high tech armor from him and leaving him alive, in police custody, before limping off into the night, permanently imprinted a hero in the minds of the people.

Of course Lois does not run the story, and we see her bring some chicken soup to her coworker Clark, who calls in the next morning with 'a really bad case of the flu,' studiously not looking at his hastily covered up bruises, and saying the gesture is nothing, since they all have to look out for one another.

We end with Lex being led into the prison yard (he did kidnap a lady remember,) his awesome battlesuit replaced by orange prison togs.  All the prisoners look up at the new fish brought in, and as he passes, they all nod respectfully, saying "Mr. Luthor."

And one prisoner looks at him and says reassuringly, "Don't worry, Mr. Luthor; you'll get him next time."

And Lex Luthor smiles.

And THAT is how you make a kick-ass Superman movie.  No origin story, no pontification on the nature of responsibility, no dreary dead dad flashbacks, just a good, solid story.

And no fucking Ben Affleck.

Settling Some Hash

So there are these missing girls in Nigeria.  A terrorist group whose name I will not deign to mention has kidnapped some 200 school girls and is holding them hostage, trying to get the Nigerian government to release some political prisoners.

This is of course despicable, and no sane person will gainsay that accusation.  Everyone, EVERYONE with a shred of decency agrees that this act was utterly evil, and completely devoid of any justice or morality.  It was the malicious act of irredeemably reprehensible men, and those perpetrators deserve the harshest justice that can be meted out to such villains.

But that is about all that anyone can agree on in the situation, and naturally I’m not going to waste time in condemning the malefactors, and expressing my sympathies with the victims, because of course I don’t need to; that should go entirely without saying.

But not everyone feels the same as I do (which I account the cause of most of the world’s suffering, but I might be somewhat biased on that subject.)  Indeed, some are so upset by this (starting with the understandably distraught parents of the missing girls,) they feel the need to express their outrage at such a malevolent act.

Many wish to draw attention to the plight of these girls, as they felt that the news media (both mainstream and whatever we are calling the ‘other side’ today,) did not make enough of a deal about it when it first happened (although to be fair, in America we did have football players kissing, so cut us some slack here, because priorities and all.)

But for others, they simply want to show that they too are horrified at the kidnapping, and about what they see as the Nigerian government’s unwillingness to act.  So they have joined an informal campaign to raise awareness of this crime, while simultaneously showing their support for those girls who have been taken from their families.

No one here is shocked that I am talking about what has come to be known as “hashtag activism.”  This is a hot topic right now, to the point that I think more people are focusing on the hashtag activism than on the atrocious deed itself.

Of course this phenomenon is not new; from Kony 2012 and beyond, people use social media like Facebook and that twit thing people are always referencing to show their support for important causes like kidnapped children.  But since these are the same platforms normally used to talk about the latest Justin Bieber outrage and last night’s episode of The Walking Dead, such attempts tend to look pathetic, pointless, and ineffective, while those celebrities and public figures who pass it on are viewed as attention whores jumping on the bandwagon.

Now usually when people see there hashtags, they will have one of two standard responses.  They will either respond with: “wow, I too believe in supporting this cause, I will hit the like/forward/retweet button and show that I am a part of this global community supporting/condemning this important issue,” or else they will say “whatever,” and move on with their lives.

But the situation was changed recently when First Lady Michelle Obama posted a picture of herself supporting the #Bringbackourgirls cause.  She just wrote it on a piece of paper and held it up in a photo looking appropriately sad (not a time for big smiles, people.)

Well that provoked the inevitable response.  Our country’s government (similar to the justice system in many ways,) is an adversarial system.  The various sides of an argument (okay yes, I realize there are really only two sides these days, but I mean in theory,) work to discredit and undermine the works of the other.  This is done with the clear and rational goal of promoting one’s own agenda at the expense of the opposition’s.

But today we do not just attack positions, we attack the people themselves, demonizing them as best we can in the hope of crushing their beliefs and driving them out of government and out of the public consciousness.  And if you should criticize this practice of constant smear attacks, you are certain to be targeted yourself (“ad hominem?  That sounds like some sort of faggotty foreign talk, buddy!”)

And the days of treating the president’s wife as a plain old civilian died long ago.  No matter what she says, no matter what she espouses ("the Nazis promoted healthy school lunches too!”) she is as much a target as her husband, and must be shouted down, no matter how little impact she actually has on the government (did it matter if Laura Bush had killed a guy in a traffic accident?  Did that have any bearing on her husband’s ability to lead?)

So of course the loudest voices on the opposition swooped in quickly to attack her hashtag activism, and began screeching about how pointless such sentimentality is.  And of course, this painted the whole concept of using social media to promote social causes as inherently Liberal (and therefore yet another heinous crime on par with kidnapping Nigerian girls.)

I’m really not here to argue about whether such campaigns are effective or worthwhile.  Personally, I’m one of those curmudgeonly types who rolls his eyes at such stuff and dismisses it all as yet another pointless aspect of modern society that eludes me, like texting, having pants sag down below the waist, or approaching science the same way as religion (picking and choosing the parts with which you agree.)

I do not twit, so I only know about these hashtags (which seems like a wasted name to me; I would have called them ‘waffle fries’ instead, but no one asked me,) when people on the news get upset about them.  So I’m not going to weigh in on whether they are A: a powerful means of getting important messages out to the world and bring social pressure on important figures like the military leaders and government officials of Nigeria, or B: a pointless waste of time for wooly-headed Liberals who think they can change the world by literally twiddling their thumbs instead of taking any real action.  Or C: a little from both.

Instead, I’m here to give you the D.

Because while I will agree that hashtag activism might or might not be a complete and utter waste of time, I can tell you with 100% certainty what is truly pointless, and that is the people who spend their time screeching about how ineffective it is.

I mean, think about it: you are taking the time to create and post a photo on the internet mocking people who are voicing (sort of) their support or condemnation of a cause in which they believe.  You never see a big outcry against tweeting that they are for Team Jacob (or Team Coco, or whatever frivolous crap people are talking about,) it’s only when people promote these hashtags about important stuff that the haters crawl out of the woodwork (or at least break out their photo editing software and the Impact fonts,) to decry such half-assed efforts.

And most of the ones I’ve seen are complaints that hashtag activists are simply jumping on the bandwagon (a valid argument,) and that they are trying to help by simply ‘raising awareness’ rather than actually doing something about it.

But the people who post these things are putting real work into showing how pointless these tweets are.  So their argument comes across as: “you people are all lazy!  I’ll show you how lazy you are by spending my time creating something and commenting about your hashtags while not doing anything about the situation either.”

Your whole ‘#you’renothelping’ attitude?  It’s not helping either.

Didn’t you get that lesson about “if you can’t improve on silence” when you were a kid?

But here’s the thing:  these pathetic attempts to raise awareness are really just cries of frustration.  There are serious problems in the world, and social media has brought these tragedies into our lives in a way never before seen in history.  And people feel empathy.  They see terrible shit that they can’t fix themselves.  So these silly little (probably pointless) tweets are really a way to vent that frustration.

So here’s something to consider:  If you’ve ever forwarded or retweeted some snarky comment about how stupid hashtag activism (hashtagtivism?) is, I want you to step outside for a moment.

No, I mean literally step outside.  Take a walk out to where your car is parked.  Now go around to the back of the car and look, and tell me what you see.  Any ribbon stickers back there?  Be honest, now.

If you’ve ever put a yellow ribbon sticker on your vehicle ‘to support the troops,’ answer this: did it help?  Did your yellow ribbon (or star-spangled version) do anything at all to actually support the troops?  Did it stop any bullets or uncover any IED’s?  Did it send body armor to a soldier on the line of duty, or deliver medical care or morale-boosting letters from home?  Did the money you paid to Wal Mart or wherever actually go towards the soldiers?

Or did you do it because you believed in supporting the brave men and women in harm’s way?  Did you do it to show your support, because that seemed like all you could personally do?

And bumper sticker empathy doesn’t just come in yellow: have the proliferation of stickers cured breast cancer, autism, or toe fungus?  Obviously not, and I doubt most of the people who slap those stickers on the back of their cars believe that they are striking a mighty blow in the struggle for these causes, but rather they want to show their support.  To show that they care, and even though they have no power whatsoever (not even the First Lady,) to fix this problem, they care about it, that they want to see a positive ending to the story.

And if such token gestures still piss you off, I want you to go out this Sunday and drive around.  And every time you pass a church or other house of worship, I want you to go inside.  And when they get to the part where they ask parishioners to pray for the sick, the needy, or soldiers in the line of fire, I want you to stand up, look them all in the face and tell the congregation, with that same air of smug superiority, that they are wasting their time, and that openly displaying their thought and feelings in the hope that someone will hear their hopes and help a bad situation is stupid and pointless.

Because we could spend all day arguing about whether or not a flood of tweets will ever have any real social impact, but you know what?  You know what I know with absolute certainty?

That wouldn’t actually help anything.

Life, the Universe, and Everything

Today is my birthday.

I turned 42 today, and as much as I am expected (nigh obliged to,) make a Douglas Adams joke, I shall forbear to instead deal with a more serious issue.

I turned 42 today.  Do you realize how close that is to fifty?  Do you realize how far away that is from thirty?  Do you realize I can't even remember twenty?  I mean 42?  Forty-fucking TWO?  Are you kidding me?

That's just so awesome.

I haven't been this elated since I turned 41.  And it's not because I'm stoked about my birthday because of any special celebration on this day; I've never been a big 'birthday blowout' kind of guy.  I don't even take the day off from work or anything; my lovely coworkers got me cards and some very nice office supplies and an excellent home-made "candy bar ice cream pie," all of which I really and truly appreciate, but other than that, it was a regular day.  I went to work, did my job, brought the kids to the library and came home to cook dinner for my family.  Just another day.

But what this day represents to me is far more important to me than any party could ever be.  I am a year older.  I have aged enough that the numerical metric of my lifespan is moved forward by one standard increment.  Ding, motherfucker, I just leveled up.

And I'm proud of this achievement.

But not everyone sees it this way.  Most of my coworkers (overwhelmingly females older than myself,) make jokes about denying their age, or remarking with only partially mocking horror at the realizations of how old they are.  Several of them engage in the time-honored tradition of remaining thirty-nine in perpetuity, a joke that was old when Wilde spun it.

But I have spent the day crowing about my new age, like a kid who just turned ten.  I do that pretty much every year.  I am just so psyched (in my own, low-key sort of way,) about racking up another year like I just painted another plane silhouette on the side of my fighter (I've surely made ace by now.)  Why would someone voluntarily deny their age?

I guess it's a healthy person thing.

I mean, if you've lived your whole life taking the idea of seeing forty for granted, I guess I can see how it could be seen as distressing, or at least how one could joke about it.  But for other folks, every year is like a damn medal pinned to your chest.

My mother was diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease when I was a mere lad of nineteen.  When she learned that she had PKD, my siblings and I were informed that any of us could have ticking time bombs inside us as well (spoiler alert: it was all three of us.)  Now don't get me wrong, if you absolutely HAD to choose a disease to have, you could sure do worse than good ol' PKD.

But the fact is, the threat of death by kidney failure is still real, hanging over your head like the scalpel of Damocles.  Because even if you do end up lucky enough to get a kidney transplant, (which my sister did on this very day a few years ago, yet another reason to celebrate,)  the condition is still likely to statistically shorten your life.

So I can thrust out my jaw defiantly and say that I never took statistics, but no amount of giant balls (which I no longer have, remember,) or pithy one-liners can guarantee you continued health.  Either death or dialysis (arguably better,) remain real possibilities.

So I'm not twenty-nine, I'm not thirty-nine, I'm not even thirty-nine and a half.  I am, (to quote Oscar Wilde again,) fully forty-two.

I am proud of that number.  I am proud of every grey hair crawling out of my beard, every centimeter backwards that my hairline inexorably creeps each year, and if I wasn't so fat that my skin is always stretched tight I'd be proud of every wrinkle.

Because I am alive.  I've made it; the reaper has been denied for another year.  PKD can kiss my ass.

Because I'm forty-fucking-two.

And that makes me one hoopy frood.