GRABBINGSAND

So here is the thing. Why is it that we receive so much inspiration from dissatisfaction? Why does contentment breed complacency and a settling? Or maybe we are never content, but fear of motion keeps us still and comfortable, ignoring the mud at our feet that we wish were tile. When I started this job, I felt a surge of promise. It felt like a new thing, but the overwhelming suspicion is that the feeling was not new, that I had felt the same rush of enthusiasm when I started the job previous, and the job previous, and the job previous. I don’t ever expect to live the dream of Allen Ginsberg, getting by and getting what I need based on my looks alone, but shouldn’t there come a time where we find a place that accepts our flaws by embracing our gifts?

“When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.” - Allen Ginsberg, America

It is just incredibly frustrating. Or maybe I am only bitching because I have been eating beans from a can, macaroni from a box, and still I find myself trapezing precariously from paycheck to paycheck. What is it that I am doing wrong? I realized before that I had a slight problem, that I was spending a bit too much money on the things I don’t need like CDs and random magazines to occupy my mind during lunch, and even that lunch itself could be moved from the restaurant to my own kitchen (such is the benefit of living near your place of employ). So cold turkey I quit. No, that is a lie. Let’s say I am weening, allowing occasional extravagances that are piling up slowly and stealthilly to consume any hopes for savings.

What are the things that drive us mad? Other people and the repercussions of their actions toward us, or our actions towards them. And money. People are relatively easy to handle on the local level. Wars, poverty, corruption, they are all issues created by people above us and the most we can do is lob idealogical notions at the powers-that-seem-to-be until our pitching arm grows too sore, hoping that those powers will step down from their dias and reestablish a connection with their misplaced compassion. But the things within arms length, those we can typically can a handle on. Make an apology, defend an opinion, declare an affection. When you have a face to place with a name, and that face is before you, you have been afforded an opportunity to find some kind of peace. It is when these fences of position and stance picket up between us that things become unwieldy. What drives us mad, to return to my point, is when we can no longer see the person to whom we are speaking, but instead we see the flourescent lights of our society glint sickly off a faded porcelain mask that says “policeman” or “bank teller” or “homeless” or even “lover.” We should be able to talk to one another, find an understanding, but instead we forget. Or more often, they forget, and when someone forgets you are human, there is little you can do but agree.

And money. What more can really be said about money than we already know? While to give it credit with the development and nurture of evil is extreme and unfounded, since evil existed long before the almighty dollar, we have to admit that lack of money or excess of money will push us all into positions that we never considered. I think at this time that if I had a better job, or a second job, that I will have more money and therefore have to worry about the presence (or lack thereof) of money in my life. I hate to admit it, but money is making me do things now. I am not stealing a car, robbing a bank, mugging the mayor, but I am letting my personal satisfaction, my happiness, be the second or third motivator for my direction in life instead of the first. I will quite possibly get a second job, and this job will take up so much of my free and available time. I will have two supervisors to whom I will answer. All to collect two paychecks instead of one.

But right now I see no other options.

I want to go home, curl up on the couch, eat decent food, and then sleep. When I wake up, the situations will all still be there, but I might be able to see them a bit clearer. And maybe the next time I look in the mirror, I won’t see that damned mask.

As I was watching X-Men this weekend, both times, I thought about a forgotten age of made-for-television superhero movies. Luckilly, this age occurred when I was a little television-addicted kid. I am referring to the late 70s, the era of disco, of polyester, of funk-influenced tv-themes. I need to reflect on this, I think…

Okay. In the 70s, we had Spiderman. When the made-for-television movie came out in 1977, it was plenty to capture my attention. After all, I already knew the guy from a trusted source: Electric Company. Admittedly, I was five, and I did not bother to wonder why Spidey’s eyes were these silver mesh things, not white. Nor did it bother me that Spiderman never seemed to actually be in New York City. Yes, I know he was supposed to be, but since when is Manhattan ever so brightly lit by sunshine? And how did Peter Parker, nerdy scientist, manage to blow-dry his hair into perfect formation, even when it had just been trapped under a blue and red Spidey mask? But it appealed to kids in a way that didn’t feel to patronizing, and it led me to the comic books. And Spiderman was just the beginning.

That year also introduced the us all to Bill Bixby’s long suffering, pickup truck driving Bruce Banner, and we all know that you just didn’t want to make him angry, ’cause you wouldn’t like him when he was angry. 1978 saw the second Spidey TV movie (the wittily titled “Spiderman Strikes Back”), and 1979 brought in Captain America. Once again we saw a complete Burbank rewrite of the Captain America story, no more of this World War II stuff from the comics. Instead, we got a Captain that rode a red, white and blue motorcycle, with the windscreen doubling as his shield (a throwable one that would come back like a boomerang). And he wore a motorcycle helmet. There were others. Dr. Strange (1978) was creepy, and had the potential to become a series. (Most of the hero movies were actually pilots, and amazingly about half were picked up.)

I suppose the era ended in 1981, though the final note was a good one. 1981 was the year that The Greatest American Hero debuted, and I cannot decide if it was the concept or the theme song that hooked me. Or maybe I just wanted to have hair like William Katt. The story was simple, derived from its superhero predecessors: “You want to see a superhero? Fine. You put on the suit.” Each week would find Katt dealing with some major dilemma while running around in a superhero suit with no owner’s manual. It was funny and derivative, the cosmic introduction of the suit being a direct rip from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but it worked. Perhaps it killed the genre by putting too human of a face on the idea of a superhero. Or maybe with the first years of Reaganomics, America just didn’t have the imagination to spare on fantastical feats of daring do, deciding instead to make a rampaging Vietnam vet their hero of choice.

Of course, none of these renditions of established themes were really ever true to their comic book origins, the costumes were rarely as detailed or as interesting as the pulp paper page. Sometimes they were nothing like the comics at all, as in the unfortunate 1989 attempt to re-inflate the Hulk movie franchise. The Trial of the Incredible Hulk featured the appearance of Daredevil. For thirty plus years, the Daredevil character has appeared in the pages of Marvel Comics in a bright red costume. However, when “Solid Gold” escapee Rex Smith pulled on his DD outfit, it was black. Maybe it was left over from his failed hero-on-a-cycle series, Street Hawk.

I would probably groan superiorally at each of these movies if I found them on backwater cable today, but when you are six years old, seeing your heroes right there on the television, I mean, that is beyond cool. Your parents watched television for the news, the weather, and that information allowed them to plot out their day. You watched the friday night movie about The Incredible Hulk for the same reason. Two hours worth of movie equaled countless hours of playtime, redoing parts from the film, inventing your own plots, introducing your own villains. The movies provided a seed that the comics could not, and I think I know why.

It was a kind of justification. Sure, you might have felt somewhat silly for putting on your Superman pajamas and red socks (admit it, I know you did it), but then you saw some guy, some ADULT do it on television. An adult! Someone who wasn’t supposed to play anymore, who was supposed to take things seriously, someone who was all grown up. But yet, there they were. Proud as can be, polyester spandex from head to toe, playing superhero. Suddenly, your Superman p.j.s are more than the sum of their ill-fitting flannel worth, and you are ready to play….

Now. Where did I put those red socks….?

UPDATE: After hearing some feedback, and doing a bit of research (God, how I adore IMDB!), and blowing the dust off my own recollections, I have to admit that Spiderman was not necessarilly the first television superhero to catch my young eye and imagination. Two years prior to The Amazing Spiderman’s debut, Lynda Carter appeared on ABC in glorious red, blue and gold, appropriate attire for an Amazon ambassador from the Bermuda Triangle sent to help the Air Force kick Nazi booty. And kick booty she did, enough even for Wonder Woman survive the move a year later to rival CBS. She was practically the poster girl for the Bicentennial (you know, the reason some of your quarters have “drummer boys” on the back), and the vibrant flash of her outfits (they became functional, including a wetsuit for SCUBA diving) kept many an eye peeled.

So does that mean that someone in 1976 could have spotted a four-year-old version of me spinning around and making that “SPRAKISHPOW!!!” sound that accompanied WW’s transformation? In response I admit nothing, and it would take a magic lasso to get me to say otherwise.

So here is the thing. Why is it that we receive so much inspiration from dissatisfaction? Why does contentment breed complacency and a settling? Or maybe we are never content, but fear of motion keeps us still and comfortable, ignoring the mud at our feet that we wish were tile. When I started this job, I felt a surge of promise. It felt like a new thing, but the overwhelming suspicion is that the feeling was not new, that I had felt the same rush of enthusiasm when I started the job previous, and the job previous, and the job previous. I don’t ever expect to live the dream of Allen Ginsberg, getting by and getting what I need based on my looks alone, but shouldn’t there come a time where we find a place that accepts our flaws by embracing our gifts?

“When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.” - Allen Ginsberg, America

It is just incredibly frustrating. Or maybe I am only bitching because I have been eating beans from a can, macaroni from a box, and still I find myself trapezing precariously from paycheck to paycheck. What is it that I am doing wrong? I realized before that I had a slight problem, that I was spending a bit too much money on the things I don’t need like CDs and random magazines to occupy my mind during lunch, and even that lunch itself could be moved from the restaurant to my own kitchen (such is the benefit of living near your place of employ). So cold turkey I quit. No, that is a lie. Let’s say I am weening, allowing occasional extravagances that are piling up slowly and stealthilly to consume any hopes for savings.

What are the things that drive us mad? Other people and the repercussions of their actions toward us, or our actions towards them. And money. People are relatively easy to handle on the local level. Wars, poverty, corruption, they are all issues created by people above us and the most we can do is lob idealogical notions at the powers-that-seem-to-be until our pitching arm grows too sore, hoping that those powers will step down from their dias and reestablish a connection with their misplaced compassion. But the things within arms length, those we can typically can a handle on. Make an apology, defend an opinion, declare an affection. When you have a face to place with a name, and that face is before you, you have been afforded an opportunity to find some kind of peace. It is when these fences of position and stance picket up between us that things become unwieldy. What drives us mad, to return to my point, is when we can no longer see the person to whom we are speaking, but instead we see the flourescent lights of our society glint sickly off a faded porcelain mask that says “policeman” or “bank teller” or “homeless” or even “lover.” We should be able to talk to one another, find an understanding, but instead we forget. Or more often, they forget, and when someone forgets you are human, there is little you can do but agree.

And money. What more can really be said about money than we already know? While to give it credit with the development and nurture of evil is extreme and unfounded, since evil existed long before the almighty dollar, we have to admit that lack of money or excess of money will push us all into positions that we never considered. I think at this time that if I had a better job, or a second job, that I will have more money and therefore have to worry about the presence (or lack thereof) of money in my life. I hate to admit it, but money is making me do things now. I am not stealing a car, robbing a bank, mugging the mayor, but I am letting my personal satisfaction, my happiness, be the second or third motivator for my direction in life instead of the first. I will quite possibly get a second job, and this job will take up so much of my free and available time. I will have two supervisors to whom I will answer. All to collect two paychecks instead of one.

But right now I see no other options.

I want to go home, curl up on the couch, eat decent food, and then sleep. When I wake up, the situations will all still be there, but I might be able to see them a bit clearer. And maybe the next time I look in the mirror, I won’t see that damned mask.

If you have taken a look at the photos, then you have an idea of the sights one might behold at DragonCon. To give you a further idea, I think a list is in order. Entitle this The Things I Saw (yeah, originality is running like water from a porcelain tap this morning, let me tell you….)

Stormtroopers - Lots of them. Most of them looking like they had just walked off the set of The Empire Strikes Back, all shiny and white. Looking official and about as intimidating as a snowman with a shotgun. (Think about it long enough, it’ll give you the willies.) There seemed to be this Imperial Forces aura of fraternity. These guys in their plastic suits seemed to find each other very quickly on the first day of the Con, then for most of the remaining weekend their numbers slightly grew until Saturday saw this roving collection of Troopers, Imperial Guards (the guys in red armor), an Emperor, some Darth Mauls, a couple of Vaders (one tall, one not) and two guys dressed like the Troopers from Return of the Jedi, complete with these unwieldy landspeeders strapped between their legs, those brown air bike things that they used to zip around the California Redwoods …. er …. I mean, Endor.

Jedi - Despite any misgivings I or anyone else might have had about last years Star Wars entry (The Phantom Menace), it would appear that the life of a Jedi is a desired thing again. There were times when the concourse of the Hyatt was awash in that subdued chocolate brown of an Obi-Wan robe as parades of Jedi would make their way from one event to another. Like the Stormtroopers, they Jedi found each other quickly and congealed into a single mass. I decided while standing in line at registration (for two hours) that I would pick one of the Jedi to watch throughout the rest of the Con, just to see if the look and style would remain consistent. The little padawan (watch the movie - I think it means apprentice) looked to be about 18 or so, female, under 5 foot, dedicated enough to have cropped her black hair into that unfortunate spikey formation that afflicted Ewan McGregor in Menace, complete with rat tail braid slinking down her right shoulder. And sure enough, I did not even have to make an effort to get a daily update on the little Jedi, as she was always meandering by the information desk. The robe never left her shoulders, but it was interesting that the off-white Jedi uniform of Thursday became a t-shirt and jeans ensemble on Friday, then on Saturday night evolved into this black leather bodysuit thing. Perhaps that was her Jedi stealth outfit, but it would be better to accept that even a Jedi has to let her hair down sometimes (even if it is only an inch or so long).

Corsets -Many, many variations on the basic idea of bodily restraint and shaping. And one would think that Rennaissance Fairs have this market cornered…. think again.

Other Sights - It was a test of obscure reference. In addition to the Star Wars regulars and the Star Trek folk (Federation, Klingon, and I think the girl in blue paint with the little knobs on her forehead was an Andoran), there were various Sailor Moons, a few Poison Ivys (of Batman fame), several cavaliers (not sure why pirates are cool again…. :shrug:), a Wolverine with aluminum foil claws, other random X-men, several Doctor Whos, women that could have been comic book characters but looked like practicing dominatrices, several angels and a few faeries, Rorschach (from Alan Moore’s Watchmen series - now that is obscure), the Toxic Avenger, Princess Mononoke, and goths. Lots and lots of goths.

Man, I really need a costume…