Golden Time

I've taken a bit of flak from people about the things I have posted here on my blog in regards to my son, vis a vis his mental faculties.  Whenever I joke about my concerns about Arthur's slower development rate when compared to his sister (especially regarding reading,) people warn me that one day he will read these things and his feelings will be hurt.

I say that hurt feelings are a small price to pay to get to the day when he actually can read my comments.

Look, I know he has to develop at his own speed, and he has shown progress of late.  But I'm just impatient.  I joke about being afraid that he is just a dim kid, but the only reason I'm comfortable making such jokes is that I know he isn't.  If you spend time with Arthur, you will quickly see that he is quite sharp, and his mental acuity has never been called into question.

My son is no dummy, and grasps concepts quickly.  When he really wants to learn something, he picks it up easily, but he's stubborn (pretty sure he gets that from his mother.)  He fights us tooth and nail when we try to teach him to read, and resists all our attempts to help him.  He's fine with letters, and has an ever-expanding collection of sight words, but he doesn't want to put in the effort to sound things out, and prefers to have people just tell him what the words are because he's lazy (again, has to be from his mom.)

And it's frustrating.  I so badly want to share the joy and wonder of reading with him, and I know he will love being able to read for himself.  He's got this big old brain that is constantly working, but whenever we sit down to do reading practice, he sits there with a goofy grin and intentionally fools around and get things wrong to get a reaction (definitely from his mom.)

Of course all of this is normal.  As someone who grew up hearing parents and teachers go on about blah blah potential, blah blah blah effort, blah blah blah wasting opportunities, blah blah blah no future, I truly get that you have to give kids their own time to do what they are going to do.

I know this.

Buuuuut...

I want it now.  I want him to live up to what he can do now.  I don't want to wait, I want time to move according to my schedule.

But being a parent is largely defined by being subject to the whims of time.  When you have children, time is always moving at the wrong speed for what is going on.  Everyone talks about how fast time goes by, saying 'if you blink, you'll miss it!'  And sure, when you look back, time can fly away from you in  rush of hazy memories, but while you are actually experiencing it, time can absolutely crawl.

Anyone who has ever had to potty-train a child understands this phenomenon.  What seems like such a natural, obvious process; "don't shit there, shit here!" and should be a brief transition period of a few weeks of work, drags on and on for what feels like an ice age.  And then come the inevitable relapses that bring on a sense of futility (in addition to extra laundry.)  If you want to experience eternity, try potty training for a week and then loop that experience.

It's like that with tons of skills that kids have to learn.  You know they are smart enough to get it, but their little brains sometimes need far more instruction and repetition than it seems should be necessary.  And you can't rush them, you just have to be patient and move at their speed.  But boy, will you wish you could fast forward through a lot of those times.

Even after they pick up how to do something, many kids will do their very best to make time dilate into infinity by performing tasks with all the headlong rush of a glacier climbing a staircase.

After an epoch of teaching our daughter how to tie shoes, she is now a total pro.  And if she's putting on her shoes to go play outside she's like a freaking Nascar pit crew.  But what's that?  Mommy and Daddy are running late and we need to get out the door quickly?  Cue up the oboes and bassoon on the soundtrack, because suddenly tying her shoes has become like a session low-impact tai chi in an osteoporosis ward, and her fingers can't move through the kata slowly and methodically enough.

98% of my son's actions throughout the waking day involve running with the speed and intensity of focus of a cheetah who's just seen a gazelle trip.  But once he determines that his parents have any actual destination and timetable, he goes from hare to tortoise fast enough to need anti-lock brakes.  Suddenly every rock, leaf or cloud is endlessly fascinating, and demands careful scrutiny that would do Natty Bumpo proud.

At dinner, when I set down his plate, he gulps his food down like the Sarlacc, so that I barely have a moment to take a bite of my own dinner before he's demanding seconds.  But mornings?  When we have to get going?  Well now each food must be chewed thoroughly according to the National Institute of Health guidelines.  Suddenly he must pick through his food as if he's looking for Wonka's golden ticket.  And I have never seen a boy who feels the need to put a cup of apple juice up to his lips and FAKE THAT HE IS DRINKING!  I swear, it's like he's a teamster on golden time or something.

It seems that children universally lack any respect for the concept of finite time, and do everything as if they have all the time in the world.  That is because for them, it basically is.  For a four year old, time doesn't even register as scarce commodity.  Their origin is a hazy mist of impressions and their future is an ever-changing whirlpool of possibility.

And that's all well and good for kids, but parents have things to do, places to go, and deadlines to meet.  We have responsibilities and schedules and stress, and we just don't have the time for lollygagging, woolgathering, or any other such tomfoolery (today's word selection is brought to you by Old Crankypants Brand liniment tonic, now available in wintergreen!)

Parents need to get kids ready for school, get to work, pick up kids from school, get them fed, bathed, homeworked and pajama-ed so that they can get them to sleep early enough to do all the other crap they need to do.  And if kids insist on moving at a snail's pace, this throws a monkey wrench into the orderly works of the daily grind.

Children don't realize how valuable time is, and so they need to learn to move, work, eat, and develop skills faster.

But then again, while time is a one-way street, it is also a double-edged sword.

It may take an eternity of long slow hours in the bathroom for a child to use the potty seat, but eternity gets a lot faster once they learn to drive.  And you may find yourself regretting all those times you admonished your child to hurry up and eat once they are bolting down their dinner to hurry out the door  to hang out with their friends.  And that wearisome tugging on your child's hand in order to get them to keep up with you as you walk becomes a much heavier pulling on your heart when watching their back recede in the distance as they take off down the road to their own destiny, leaving you clutching nothing but hope and memories.

And for some parents...

Some parents must bear the burden of wanting every one of those wasted seconds back.  Must sit helplessly by a hospital bed begging for more time, hoping for one more day for the treatment to take hold, one more hour together to say all that needs to be said, one more minute for them to open their eyes just to say goodbye.

For some parents, there is no such thing as wasted time.

So you know what Arthur?  You take your own time learning to read.  I'll wait as long as you need.
You take all the time in the world, buddy.

Destructive Criticism

I was actually doing pretty well.  It was a beautiful cold day (in the 40's in the morning, a rare treat for South Florida,) I was early into school and got a good parking spot, I had all my photocopies ready to go, and everything seemed five by five.

I had told my Senior English classes that I would be giving them their big writing assignment today.  I had been talking about it for the last two weeks or so, as we finished reading Hamlet.  So they knew it was coming, and they were to pick up the packet describing the assignment as they completed their final tests.  It was all so simple and organized.

And then Sharcayla happened.

That's not her real name of course, it's just the closest I can come to her actual name without being unprofessional.  Perhaps I should take a moment to describe this individual before discussing the incident.

Sharcayla is one of those kids whose name is well known at school.  Hers is a name that comes up in the planning room on a regular basis, especially at the beginning of the year, where you will hear someone say "you have THAT kid?  Good luck!"  She is the type of kid who usually has a different list of teachers at the end of the year than she had at the beginning, as guidance and administration often have to move her from class to class due to problems with other students or teachers.  Her name popped up on the suspension lists with regularity in past years, usually for fighting.  She is one of those girls I've discussed before, a girl who lives every moment of her life with her back in a corner, every interaction with people (especially adults,) is a confrontation, every relationship an adversarial one.

And her face.  She has a permanent case of what can only be described as 'stank-face.'  Seriously, at any given moment when she is in my classroom, her face is contorted in a look of abject disgust and effrontery as if someone had just shoved an offensive political tract made of dog shit and rotten cabbage right under her nose.  She is perpetually repulsed and incensed at whatever is presented to her, be it a weekly vocabulary quiz or a hearty "good morning."  As far as I can tell, her only other face is highly expressive rolling of her eyes and neck, meant to convey her utter contempt and dismissal of the source of her initial stank face reaction.

When I saw that I would be graced with Sharcayla's presence this year, I was assured that she had improved with age, and as a senior, was ready to put all her ratchetude behind her and graduate with her class.  And true enough, she passed the first semester with...well she passed, and that is all that matters.

But every week, every class day, I give them work and get a double dose of the standard stank-face/eye roll combo, and I just have to shake my head and roll with it, because that's Sharcayla, and what are you going to do?

Today however I could not.

The big writing assignment (the approach of which, I remind you, had been presaged by portents and harbingers, in the form of me repeatedly fucking telling them,) has to do with Hamlet.  Now, I have not taught Hamlet in over ten years, since it has been that long since I have taught honors level English, and Macbeth has been the prescribed Shakespearean play for regular Seniors in all those years (which I adore.)

But with our new textbook (vileness and hatred!) Hamlet is back on the menu.  But that means I don't have any assignments on file that I like (I need to constantly update my stuff, and I can't abide using someone else's materials.)  So I've been making all new quizzes and such, and I wanted to come up with a really good writing assignment, one that would challenge them, but was still something they could do.  I sort of have to aim at the center of mass when it comes to ability level; these kids are not the best at self-motivation, and years of standardized test prep have mauled their sense of wonder and intellectual curiosity.

Nobody does literary research papers anymore.  Most kids at some point or another will write a paper on some topic (why dress codes are bad!) and have to bring in some evidence from the internet (there is literally no other source for information than the internet.  Accept that.)  But I feel that there are some valuable skills involved with analyzing a work of fiction to provide evidence for a claim.  But I can't expect my kids to be able to do an old fashioned research paper with citations, resources or literary criticisms and such.  And yes, that does make me sad and demoralized to commit that to writing, and I'm going to need a minute to myself.

Okay, so I decided to do a literary research essay.  I called it that because I couldn't bring myself to call it a research paper.  It was very basic; I gave them a number of questions, such as "did Horatio actually help Hamlet in the long run?" which they could answer, thus forming a thesis statement.  Then they had to give three (the magic number) reasons to support their thesis, and cite where in the story they obtained their evidence (act and scene, not even line numbers or anything.)

I thought this was a pretty straightforward assignment, and wrote exhaustive directions to explain it in as much detail as possible, so that even after I explained it in person, if they had questions outside of class, they could read the directions.  There was a planning sheet attached to it, and a clear description of how grading would be assigned.  The work was not too demanding, but still covered the all-important skill of drawing support from a work of fiction.  I was actually rather proud of this assignment.

"This is bullshit!"

And with that, I utterly lost my composure.  I had just started to go over the packet with them, and had gotten as far as "you will be writing a research essay..." when Sharcayla felt the need to make that comment.  She didn't shout it; she simply said it in a conversational tone, accompanied by one of her finest shit-sniffing sneers.

And it was just too much for me.  I mean, I should have just let her vulgar insult and dismissal of everything I value slide, because that is what a teacher is supposed to do today.  I was supposed to abandon any trace of personal or professional pride whatsoever and just say to myself "boy, I need to work a lot harder to reach this student, who is just as valuable and capable as any of the other students!"

But what I instead thought was: "fuck this little bitch!"  I know I am supposed to see these burgeoning adults as precious little snowflakes, but here was an eighteen-year-old pile of smug anger and self-assured entitlement taking a public dump over everything I was trying to do for her.  And it was too much.  I just wanted to slap the stank right off her face and tell her exactly what I thought of her and what she could do with her opinions on my assignment.

To quote Mike Birbiglia, "what I should have said was nothing."  I did not scream or rant, but I could not restrain myself from raising my eyebrows and saying "I'm sorry Sharcayla, you feel that writing an essay in Senior English class is bullshit?"

This was a mistake.  I knew it was a mistake before I said it, but my (genteel) berserker rage just took over.  Because you can't engage a girl like Sharcayla.  She has nothing to lose, and will never, CAN never back down.  As soon as I bothered to try to talk to her, there was no other possible scenario, and she simply slipped into a well-worn groove.

She raised her voice and dialed her 'I don't give a shit' attitude to maximum.  She just sat there with arms folded, her chin jutting out and her upper lip curled up like a Disney villain intoning "I don't care" to everything I said.

My fit passed quickly, the anger I felt at her outburst replaced by a crushing wave of sadness.  Sadness at the futility of it all.  Sadness that I had lost my temper, no matter how reservedly.  And sadness that this was just the way it is, and the way it will continue to be.

Kids like Sharcayla are a fact of life.  Much could be said about the many factors that produce such an individual, and scaffolds could be erected for the nature vs nurture debates that could arise from such a discussion, but none of that matters in the least.

The bottom line is that there is a person in my class who has an epic-level case of lousy attitude, and I'm not going to fix that.  Officially, no child is supposed to be left behind.  But you try teaching high school.

You're not only going to find that some kids aren't just left behind, but they intentionally run backwards.  And some of them?

You're going to want to back the bus over them.

Sigh.  I know this all seems terribly maudlin of me (and perhaps more than a touch "somebody call the authorities" troubling,) but it's just part of the job.  No matter where you work, I'm sure you have encountered customers or coworkers that inspire thoughts that would make Mister Rogers very disappointed with you, but you learn to deal with them.

And that's what I am doing, too.  It is a constant, ongoing struggle to be better and better, and to smile when I want to scream, just like anyone else.  I have to focus on the kids that are actually here to learn, and who do not feel the need to challenge everything you do.

But teenagers, man.

Fuck that kid.

**Edit**

I wrote this post last night, but did not post it then.  So I am sitting in my classroom during planning this morning, and as I was about to hit the "post" button, another kid from that same class yesterday stopped by my room.  This is another student who is famous for having a lousy attitude, and who is in my class because I agreed to take her from a colleague who was convinced that she would be forced to murder this child if she remained in her class.

This student stopped in my class and said, "Mr. Crumpler, there was something I meant to say to you.  I felt so bad yesterday when Sharcayla said she thought your assignment was bullshit.  I mean, who says that?"

So there you go.  There are still kids who hold to some basic elements of decorum and decency, and it is they that I need to focus on.  And I think this is a better ending to this tale.

Still pissed though.

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.