Showers are often therapeutic and relaxing. Also, during the winter, they're much warmer than the air outside the bathroom, so you don't want to get out as soon you've finished. But standing under the water doing nothing is boring. What do you do?
Simple. Pick up a bottle of shampoo and start reading the back. Not only do you learn all sorts of fantastic, sesquapedalian terms, such as dimethicone, ethylhexyl methoxycinnamate, butylphenyl methylpropional, citrus medica limonum peel extract, and oh, my personal favorite, guar hydroxypropyltrimonium chloride, but you also learn how to apply this "fortifying shampoo with active fruit concentrate" in four different languages. Now you can get out of the shower feeling good about the time you spent there. You can also feel good about your hair care products because your shampoo actually ayuda a mantener un color duradero y brillo deslumbrante en el cabello teñido (As Chris Farley might put it, for those of you who don't habla Español, that's Spanish for..."helps provide lasting color and brilliant shine to color-treated hair." Not that your hair is color-treated; of course it isn't. "I simply relate what was told to me by the Chinese [shampoo bottle]" [the allusion is, of course, to Eugene Field's The Duel]).
You know, people often read when they're bored. Unfortunately, they're often bored by reading. Not to mention, they are bored still further by reading which is assigned. Gasp. If they must concentrate on "one story and one story only" (from Robert Graves' "To Juan at the Winter Solstice"), they often become frustrated, enraged, and even depressed. The result: they put Steinbeck down, pick up Rowling, and Monday's report remains unwritten, another perspective unexplained and, worse still, unformed. What a waste. Another unnecessary tragedy facilitated by assignments.
But what else can we do? If we allow the children to choose what they read, they will automatically gravitate toward the easiest and most exciting books, while the most important classics will go on as they are used to, uncracked and covered with sedentary particles of dusty decades? What else can we do but assign the children to read?
Well, first of all, take the Harvard Classics, all 52 volumes, and put them on the bottom shelf where Harry Potter used to be, and move him to the next shelf up. We should not be interested in creating a visual hierarchy of literature so much as forming an accessible library.
Second, let the children choose what they read, for the most part anyway. Reading something is better than reading nothing, which will most certainly happen if the children learn nothing in school except to hate literature in general. Anything which tampers with and infringes upon the right of the children to read what they wish will be automatically met with rebellion and dislike, so we ought to avoid that inasmuch as we are able.
Third, parents ought to be an example to their stewardships and read the things they wish their children to read. Often, that will cut in TV watching time and other things, but children whose parents read will be more prone to reading themselves.
Fourth, just because a book is considered a classic does not make it old and boring, and children ought to understand that. Good literature remains forever fresh and transcendent of other factors, like "peace [which] comes dropping... / from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings" (from W.B. Yeats "The Lake Isle of Innisfree").
Fifth and finally, what is needed is more exposure. Period. If people are willing to read shampoo bottles and cereal boxes and billboards and road signs, why shouldn't we post literature in those places too, in addition to the lists of meaningless ingredients, mindless mazes and pathetic puzzles, and advertisments for laser hair removal?
Just imagine it: a little boy reads an excerpt from Henry V on the back of his mom's headrest in the car as they head to soccer practice; a teenage girl scans a passage from Shelley on her hairspray bottle; a pair of rambunctious twins suddenly quiet down in the back seat because they noticed a quotation from Confucius on a Macdonald's billboard near the mall; an entire family swarms to breakfast because they want the handy-dandy package of literary trading cards at the bottom of the cereal box.
"You got a Tolkien? No fair! I've been looking for that one forever!"
"Well, I've got it now."
"But I need it to complete my fantasy and science fiction series. I found an Arthur C. Clarke in the Cheerios yesterday and now I just need Tolkien."
"Too bad, I'm keeping it."
"Look, I'll trade you for it."
"What do you want to give me?"
"Um, like, what do you say I give you two Dickens and one Verne for Tolkien?"
"Throw in that Robert Frost rookie card, and you've got a deal. Then my American poets collection is all done; well, all except for Ginsberg and Plath. Bobby Harris in my math class has duplicates of them, but he won't trade unless I give up a Steinbeck All-Star card, and my H.G. Wells in mint condition."
"Well, how about just Frost for Tolkien? Straight up?"
"Done."
So, thus we see a potential cure for--at least a combatant against--illiteracy and anti-homework sentiment: Byron on boxes, and Marlowe on milk jugs; bright copper Carrolls and warm woolen Miltons; brown paper packages tied up with Twain; these are...well, you get the point.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Book Review: The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
When you think of Hemingway, what is the first thing that comes to mind?
"Ugh, Hemingway."
"Uh, Hemingway?"
"Aaaah, Hemingway."
"Hmm, Hemingway."
"Hemingway, Hemingway. Isn't that the guy who shot himself in Sun Valley, Idaho? So much for a vacation, huh?"
"Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who spent half of his life hanging around Picasso trying to nail his leftovers" (from film Ten Things I Hate about You)
Any of these reactions may work for you. If you are the sort of person who says, "Hmm, Hemingway," you might as well know that is same reaction I used to have should someone in the room have the gall to mention that name in my presence. I used to tell my English teachers how little I thought of Hemingway's work, not because I thought he was a horrible writer but because I actually thought little of it. In fact, I tried hard not think of it at all. I had read the first five stories in The Collected Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, put the book down, and based my judgment of the man's work solely upon them. And why should I not? Each story, it seemed to me, ended with either disillusionment or death, hardly inspiring topics. Of course, the theme of death is completely in keeping with a personal philosophy of Hemingway's, namely that "all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you" (from Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon), and Hemingway was nothing if not a true-story tell. However, the feeling of melancholy which accompanied my reading of Hemingway forced me to put the book away for a long time and not think of it if I could help it. Being an English major though, the subject of Hemingway is bound to come up sooner rather than later, and you might as well develop an opinion in that case, whether positive or negative, because he simply won't be avoided. Consequently, my opinion became negative.
However, I had two college professors--if not more--and several friends who thought quite a lot of Hemingway's books, and since I have a lot of respect for these individuals in the way of their literary tastes, I came to the conclusion that Hemingway must have some merit, and I ought to consider attempting the unthinkable task of reading (gulp) Hemingway again. The short stories would obviously only take me down the same path as the previous time, so I was compelled to think of another strategy.
A friend of mine suggested The Old Man and the Sea as a possibility. I mulled it over for a while and ultimately did nothing about it. I had plenty of other things to do without wasting my time with Hemingway.
Then, one wintery Saturday, around 4:30 p.m., I took my usual weekend constitutional a mile down the street, right for three blocks, up one more, across the K-Mart shopping plaza, and up two or three more blocks to the thrift store. I frequented this particular with some frequency to buy books.
After entering the toasty, though oddly aromatic store, I made my directly to the bookshelves. On the far shelf, among the other paperbacks, I found a like-new edition of The Old Man and the Sea. Seventy-five cents. I was determined not to buy a book I might have ended up hating. But the gray-and-red cover beckoned to me as the store's fluorescent lighting glinted off the book's glossy paper finish. Very well, I thought; I have avoided you long enough, Hemingway. But if you disappoint me again, you and I are done.
I sat down on one of the musty, brown sofas in the back corner of the store and began to read.
And I read.
And I read.
And for two hours I read.
During that time, I looked up every so often, only to see that a middle-aged Hispanic man had taken up permanent residence in an old leather recliner not five feet from me. He smiled, somewhat creepily. I imagine that was his way though. After all, he was missing teeth; he could not have done otherwise. I read some more.
I was not disappointed.
I finished the book around the store's closing time, and my respect for Ernest had been rejuvenated. More than rejuvenated, it had been created ex nihilo. I paid for it, as well as a few others, and walked slowly home, immersed in thought, sideways snowflakes, and a toothy wind.
Plot Summary: The story centers around a Cuban (a man, not a cigar) who catches a giant marlin (a fish, not a baseball player) in the Gulf of Mexico. His battle against the large fish and voracious sharks who would rob him of it leads to his statement, "But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but never defeated," which happens to be one of my favorite quotations from the book.
I can say no more about the story line itself because I do not wish to give anything away or make you feel like there is no point in reading it now. However, I will say that this book will force you into introspection and make you question your own purpose and will to achieve your personal goals in life. I know that sounds odd because I am describing a work which came from the typewriter of a man like Hemingway who shot himself, but it's true. I felt it when I read it the first time. I felt it when I read it the second time. I do not belive there is an individual alive who cannot relate in some way to the little Cuban fisherman who must fight physically and mentally against time, nature, and his own body and mind.
And thus, at last, we see in the fisherman the real Hemingway, a man who ultimately may have lost his fish, his fight, his nerve perhaps. Maybe his fingers cramped, his mind weakened, his stomach starved. Regardless, Ernest, "you stand at the blackboard.../ in the picture I have of you" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"), you "dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher" (from Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California"), and in your work we find "the singing locust of the soul unshelled, / and all we mean or wish to mean" (from Richard Wilbur's "Advice to a Prophet").
"Ugh, Hemingway."
"Uh, Hemingway?"
"Aaaah, Hemingway."
"Hmm, Hemingway."
"Hemingway, Hemingway. Isn't that the guy who shot himself in Sun Valley, Idaho? So much for a vacation, huh?"
"Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who spent half of his life hanging around Picasso trying to nail his leftovers" (from film Ten Things I Hate about You)
Any of these reactions may work for you. If you are the sort of person who says, "Hmm, Hemingway," you might as well know that is same reaction I used to have should someone in the room have the gall to mention that name in my presence. I used to tell my English teachers how little I thought of Hemingway's work, not because I thought he was a horrible writer but because I actually thought little of it. In fact, I tried hard not think of it at all. I had read the first five stories in The Collected Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, put the book down, and based my judgment of the man's work solely upon them. And why should I not? Each story, it seemed to me, ended with either disillusionment or death, hardly inspiring topics. Of course, the theme of death is completely in keeping with a personal philosophy of Hemingway's, namely that "all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you" (from Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon), and Hemingway was nothing if not a true-story tell. However, the feeling of melancholy which accompanied my reading of Hemingway forced me to put the book away for a long time and not think of it if I could help it. Being an English major though, the subject of Hemingway is bound to come up sooner rather than later, and you might as well develop an opinion in that case, whether positive or negative, because he simply won't be avoided. Consequently, my opinion became negative.
However, I had two college professors--if not more--and several friends who thought quite a lot of Hemingway's books, and since I have a lot of respect for these individuals in the way of their literary tastes, I came to the conclusion that Hemingway must have some merit, and I ought to consider attempting the unthinkable task of reading (gulp) Hemingway again. The short stories would obviously only take me down the same path as the previous time, so I was compelled to think of another strategy.
A friend of mine suggested The Old Man and the Sea as a possibility. I mulled it over for a while and ultimately did nothing about it. I had plenty of other things to do without wasting my time with Hemingway.
Then, one wintery Saturday, around 4:30 p.m., I took my usual weekend constitutional a mile down the street, right for three blocks, up one more, across the K-Mart shopping plaza, and up two or three more blocks to the thrift store. I frequented this particular with some frequency to buy books.
After entering the toasty, though oddly aromatic store, I made my directly to the bookshelves. On the far shelf, among the other paperbacks, I found a like-new edition of The Old Man and the Sea. Seventy-five cents. I was determined not to buy a book I might have ended up hating. But the gray-and-red cover beckoned to me as the store's fluorescent lighting glinted off the book's glossy paper finish. Very well, I thought; I have avoided you long enough, Hemingway. But if you disappoint me again, you and I are done.
I sat down on one of the musty, brown sofas in the back corner of the store and began to read.
And I read.
And I read.
And for two hours I read.
During that time, I looked up every so often, only to see that a middle-aged Hispanic man had taken up permanent residence in an old leather recliner not five feet from me. He smiled, somewhat creepily. I imagine that was his way though. After all, he was missing teeth; he could not have done otherwise. I read some more.
I was not disappointed.
I finished the book around the store's closing time, and my respect for Ernest had been rejuvenated. More than rejuvenated, it had been created ex nihilo. I paid for it, as well as a few others, and walked slowly home, immersed in thought, sideways snowflakes, and a toothy wind.
Plot Summary: The story centers around a Cuban (a man, not a cigar) who catches a giant marlin (a fish, not a baseball player) in the Gulf of Mexico. His battle against the large fish and voracious sharks who would rob him of it leads to his statement, "But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but never defeated," which happens to be one of my favorite quotations from the book.
I can say no more about the story line itself because I do not wish to give anything away or make you feel like there is no point in reading it now. However, I will say that this book will force you into introspection and make you question your own purpose and will to achieve your personal goals in life. I know that sounds odd because I am describing a work which came from the typewriter of a man like Hemingway who shot himself, but it's true. I felt it when I read it the first time. I felt it when I read it the second time. I do not belive there is an individual alive who cannot relate in some way to the little Cuban fisherman who must fight physically and mentally against time, nature, and his own body and mind.
And thus, at last, we see in the fisherman the real Hemingway, a man who ultimately may have lost his fish, his fight, his nerve perhaps. Maybe his fingers cramped, his mind weakened, his stomach starved. Regardless, Ernest, "you stand at the blackboard.../ in the picture I have of you" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"), you "dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher" (from Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California"), and in your work we find "the singing locust of the soul unshelled, / and all we mean or wish to mean" (from Richard Wilbur's "Advice to a Prophet").
Saturday, January 8, 2011
"Try to Remember"
What is a souvenir?
Definition #1: French, verb, "to remember"
Definition #2: French, noun, "memory"
Definition #3: English, noun, "in theory, a small or large object intended to invoke memories or nostalgia of a person, place, or thing, generally foreign rather than domestic" (Note: Don't consult any dictionary; I made that definition up)
Definition 4: English, noun, "in practice, sometimes a piece of plastic, ceramic, or fabric of some kind which generally has no other utility that to sit on a shelf, in a drawer, or in a cupboard, collecting dust and living residents" (Note: That one was made up, as well)
In my opinion--neither expert nor humble--I would say that souvenirs comes in three types, which often dictates where they end up after they have been fondly looked over and scrutinized by the recipient (Yes, here comes another list).
1. The Good
This category consists of spoons, thimbles, silverware, china, books, certain kinds of clothing, and high-end decorating pieces like bottles of oil and vinegar, art, sculptures, pictures, etc. Not only do these sorts of things connect directly with the spirit and legacy of the place you visit, effectively invoking positive memories of the place you visited abroad, but they are also usable and displayable without shame or embarassment. As long as they hold their shape and color and contents, they will continue to be shown in the front room or the parlor if you happen to have one of those.
2. The Bad
DVDs, food items, and foreign currency fall into this genre of souvenirs. If you buy the DVDs in Europe, you won't be able to watch them when you come back to America anyway, so they'll ultimately end up going to a thrift store, where they will be purchased by an unlucky sap who thought he was getting a good deal on a Swedish-dubbed version of Chariots of Fire, or in the trash. Avoid buying your movies anywhere but in your native country.
Food items, while often tasty, do not serve well as souvenir because they don't last long enough. If you save them, they'll go bad; if you eat them, well, you'll no longer have them and ultimately it will be their absence, not the things themselves, that brings back memories, and that is hardly positive or effective.
Foreign currency ends up in a box in the closet, another addition to little brother's coin collection which he will have forever and never look at, except when he has something to add to it. The initial thrill of the gift is its only real joy.
3. The Ugly
These types of souvenirs generally only serve to conjure up negative images and impressions of the place in which they were purchased. They generally have little or no utility and you would not be caught dead displaying it or letting people know you have it. This category is a catch-all for all things hideous, strange, or tragically useless, things like the huge brown bierstein you bought in Hamburg for your father-in-law that has a big pair of lips on the drinking stem and says, Kuss mich, Specknacken!; the T-shirt you found at a street vendor's table in Munich that says, Boob inspektor; the Little Mermaid paperweight you got in Copenhagen that sports a black Elvis doo, a white jumpsuit with multi-colored sequins, and a pullstring that makes it sing "Blue Suede Shoes" in Danish.
So, when you're abroad and in a marketplace or store of some kind, ask yourself these questions:
1) When people think of this place, how do I want them to think of it?
2)When I think of this place, how do I want to remember it? Do I want to remember it by the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the London Bridge (when it's not falling down , of course), the Tower of Pisa, the Teatro Massimo, the Parthenon, and on and on and on? Or, do I want to remember it by the Mannequin Pis corkscrew with its brassy, spiral genitalia that seems to go on forever "like a record, baby, right, round, round" (from Dead or Alive song "You Spin Me Round")? (Note: For those of you who do not know what the Mannequin Pis is, it is a French statue of little boy urinating into a fountain).
If you think seriously about those questions, the memories incited by your souvenirs, whether pictures or postcards or leather wallets or shoes or books or bottles, will be directed toward the majesty of the places you have seen and not to some knick-knack you and yours may never find a use for.
I think I'll stick with this:
And if I may be so bold as to take C.S. Lewis out of context, "Here are beauties that will pierce like swords or burn like cold iron." Don't you agree?
Definition #1: French, verb, "to remember"
Definition #2: French, noun, "memory"
Definition #3: English, noun, "in theory, a small or large object intended to invoke memories or nostalgia of a person, place, or thing, generally foreign rather than domestic" (Note: Don't consult any dictionary; I made that definition up)
Definition 4: English, noun, "in practice, sometimes a piece of plastic, ceramic, or fabric of some kind which generally has no other utility that to sit on a shelf, in a drawer, or in a cupboard, collecting dust and living residents" (Note: That one was made up, as well)
In my opinion--neither expert nor humble--I would say that souvenirs comes in three types, which often dictates where they end up after they have been fondly looked over and scrutinized by the recipient (Yes, here comes another list).
1. The Good
This category consists of spoons, thimbles, silverware, china, books, certain kinds of clothing, and high-end decorating pieces like bottles of oil and vinegar, art, sculptures, pictures, etc. Not only do these sorts of things connect directly with the spirit and legacy of the place you visit, effectively invoking positive memories of the place you visited abroad, but they are also usable and displayable without shame or embarassment. As long as they hold their shape and color and contents, they will continue to be shown in the front room or the parlor if you happen to have one of those.
2. The Bad
DVDs, food items, and foreign currency fall into this genre of souvenirs. If you buy the DVDs in Europe, you won't be able to watch them when you come back to America anyway, so they'll ultimately end up going to a thrift store, where they will be purchased by an unlucky sap who thought he was getting a good deal on a Swedish-dubbed version of Chariots of Fire, or in the trash. Avoid buying your movies anywhere but in your native country.
Food items, while often tasty, do not serve well as souvenir because they don't last long enough. If you save them, they'll go bad; if you eat them, well, you'll no longer have them and ultimately it will be their absence, not the things themselves, that brings back memories, and that is hardly positive or effective.
Foreign currency ends up in a box in the closet, another addition to little brother's coin collection which he will have forever and never look at, except when he has something to add to it. The initial thrill of the gift is its only real joy.
3. The Ugly
These types of souvenirs generally only serve to conjure up negative images and impressions of the place in which they were purchased. They generally have little or no utility and you would not be caught dead displaying it or letting people know you have it. This category is a catch-all for all things hideous, strange, or tragically useless, things like the huge brown bierstein you bought in Hamburg for your father-in-law that has a big pair of lips on the drinking stem and says, Kuss mich, Specknacken!; the T-shirt you found at a street vendor's table in Munich that says, Boob inspektor; the Little Mermaid paperweight you got in Copenhagen that sports a black Elvis doo, a white jumpsuit with multi-colored sequins, and a pullstring that makes it sing "Blue Suede Shoes" in Danish.
So, when you're abroad and in a marketplace or store of some kind, ask yourself these questions:
1) When people think of this place, how do I want them to think of it?
2)When I think of this place, how do I want to remember it? Do I want to remember it by the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the London Bridge (when it's not falling down , of course), the Tower of Pisa, the Teatro Massimo, the Parthenon, and on and on and on? Or, do I want to remember it by the Mannequin Pis corkscrew with its brassy, spiral genitalia that seems to go on forever "like a record, baby, right, round, round" (from Dead or Alive song "You Spin Me Round")? (Note: For those of you who do not know what the Mannequin Pis is, it is a French statue of little boy urinating into a fountain).
If you think seriously about those questions, the memories incited by your souvenirs, whether pictures or postcards or leather wallets or shoes or books or bottles, will be directed toward the majesty of the places you have seen and not to some knick-knack you and yours may never find a use for.
I think I'll stick with this:
 |
| Cathedral in Palermo, Sicily |
 |
| Piazza Politeama, Palermo, Sicily |
 |
| Teatro Massimo, Palermo, Sicily |
And if I may be so bold as to take C.S. Lewis out of context, "Here are beauties that will pierce like swords or burn like cold iron." Don't you agree?
Or maybe you can think of something better?
Friday, January 7, 2011
"Say My Name, Say My Name": No, Don't Say It!
Have you ever noticed how possessive children are of their toys? If another child happens to pick up and play with a particularly precious Playskool product, well, (insert chuckle here) lights out.
"Get over here!" (from the video game Mortal Kombat)
The robbed child will automatically begin to grab and kick and shove and bite and punch and slap and scream mean things like "Mine!" and "Gimme it back!" and "AAAAAAAHHHHHH! MOOOMMMMYYYY!"
"Finish him!" (also from Mortal Kombat)
More than likely, the fiasco will end with one of the children, toy--now broken--in hand, standing over his opponent's body, having effectively inflicted major boo-boos and owies and other superfluous injuries in recovering the property which rightfully belongs to him or her.
"Flawless victory!" (also from Mortal Kombat)
I use this snapshot of normal childhood interaction to illustrate by way of analogy a common behavioral pattern among adults, specifically female adults and their attachment to--guess what?--baby names.
Now, I am certain that the female readership will be offended by such a comparison, so before you start papering my comment board with nasty, retaliating remarks, allow me to explain that the comparison is not a perfect analogy, nor did I intend it to be. After all, you are adults and are not likely to grab and kick and shove and bite and punch and slap and scream mean things like "Mine!" and "Gimme it back!" No, the real analogy lies in the intensity of the possessiveness.
Now, (I'm telling you, put the pitchfork down) think for a minute: Suppose you tell a friend that you intend on naming your children Melanie and Marvin. However, your friend is having a baby two months before you do and decides to use the name Marvin for her new boy, even though she knows good and well that it's yours. Do you congratulate her on her fine taste in baby names? (We all the know the answer to that, don't we?) Or do you resent that woman for stealing a name you have liked for over a decade and a half? Not to mention, if you name your child Marvin now, people will think that you are copying her and not the other way around, and that is unforgiveable.
Does that sound about right?
Thank you (My comment board thanks you too).
However, I am not indicating that such behavior is unjustified. People ought to be mutually respectful of other people's stuff, including baby names, and if someone commits the unpardonable sin of baby-name theft, well, feel free to black list that...person. However (and this is what my older sister is doing and I think it's smart), I suggest that if you have a certain number of names you like, don't tell them to anyone. If you absolutely don't want the other kids playing with your toys, just leave them in the toybox. Simple. Goodbye, resentment. "Go, go, I would not have you back again" (from film Sense and Sensibility).
Of course, if that doesn't appeal to you because you like being able to share your your names with other, you can either plan on eventual rancor or accept another alternative: plan on giving your children awful names. That way, no person (at least, no sane person) would want them. You can share those all you want without the least threat of a name-heist. In my freshman year of college, my German 101 teacher showed our class an interesting website for potential baby names. If you go to the Utah Baby Namer (found at http://wesclark.com/ubn/), you'll find all of the horribly creative names you want and more. And when you read it, remember: these are real names given to real children by real parents (not pet owners).
So are you going to keep your names under lock and key? Continue telling people your names and being bitter about it later? Or name your children things like Justan Tru, Whisper, Vinyl, Jarna Natzhalena, Zestpoole, Delightra, or Gladell? Because I can guarantee your children will be the only ones on your block (and outside of Utah) with those names (By the way, this is what happens when you put too much fluoride in the drinking water).
Consider this my miniscule contribution to added peace on earth.
"Get over here!" (from the video game Mortal Kombat)
The robbed child will automatically begin to grab and kick and shove and bite and punch and slap and scream mean things like "Mine!" and "Gimme it back!" and "AAAAAAAHHHHHH! MOOOMMMMYYYY!"
"Finish him!" (also from Mortal Kombat)
More than likely, the fiasco will end with one of the children, toy--now broken--in hand, standing over his opponent's body, having effectively inflicted major boo-boos and owies and other superfluous injuries in recovering the property which rightfully belongs to him or her.
"Flawless victory!" (also from Mortal Kombat)
I use this snapshot of normal childhood interaction to illustrate by way of analogy a common behavioral pattern among adults, specifically female adults and their attachment to--guess what?--baby names.
Now, I am certain that the female readership will be offended by such a comparison, so before you start papering my comment board with nasty, retaliating remarks, allow me to explain that the comparison is not a perfect analogy, nor did I intend it to be. After all, you are adults and are not likely to grab and kick and shove and bite and punch and slap and scream mean things like "Mine!" and "Gimme it back!" No, the real analogy lies in the intensity of the possessiveness.
Now, (I'm telling you, put the pitchfork down) think for a minute: Suppose you tell a friend that you intend on naming your children Melanie and Marvin. However, your friend is having a baby two months before you do and decides to use the name Marvin for her new boy, even though she knows good and well that it's yours. Do you congratulate her on her fine taste in baby names? (We all the know the answer to that, don't we?) Or do you resent that woman for stealing a name you have liked for over a decade and a half? Not to mention, if you name your child Marvin now, people will think that you are copying her and not the other way around, and that is unforgiveable.
Does that sound about right?
Thank you (My comment board thanks you too).
However, I am not indicating that such behavior is unjustified. People ought to be mutually respectful of other people's stuff, including baby names, and if someone commits the unpardonable sin of baby-name theft, well, feel free to black list that...person. However (and this is what my older sister is doing and I think it's smart), I suggest that if you have a certain number of names you like, don't tell them to anyone. If you absolutely don't want the other kids playing with your toys, just leave them in the toybox. Simple. Goodbye, resentment. "Go, go, I would not have you back again" (from film Sense and Sensibility).
Of course, if that doesn't appeal to you because you like being able to share your your names with other, you can either plan on eventual rancor or accept another alternative: plan on giving your children awful names. That way, no person (at least, no sane person) would want them. You can share those all you want without the least threat of a name-heist. In my freshman year of college, my German 101 teacher showed our class an interesting website for potential baby names. If you go to the Utah Baby Namer (found at http://wesclark.com/ubn/), you'll find all of the horribly creative names you want and more. And when you read it, remember: these are real names given to real children by real parents (not pet owners).
So are you going to keep your names under lock and key? Continue telling people your names and being bitter about it later? Or name your children things like Justan Tru, Whisper, Vinyl, Jarna Natzhalena, Zestpoole, Delightra, or Gladell? Because I can guarantee your children will be the only ones on your block (and outside of Utah) with those names (By the way, this is what happens when you put too much fluoride in the drinking water).
Consider this my miniscule contribution to added peace on earth.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
"Darkness Falls Across the Land"
(Read this first part with a really deep voice, like James Lipton, James Earl Jones, or Barry White)
June 25, 2009. Do you remember what happened?
I do.
I was home alone, working on a novel. At approximately 2:00 p.m. my sister called.
I answered.
"Did you hear that Michael Jackson died today?" she said.
Unable to believe that such a horrible thing could have happened, I chided her, telling her to peddle her unfunny jokes at someone else's door (or phone, as the case may be).
She insisted it was the truth.
When at last it sunk in that I was not, in fact, the victim of a prank call (but rather the recipient of the most earth-shattering breaking news in years), I hung up the phone and sank to the ground in a heap. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks, and I wildly pounded the beige carpet in our living room with my fists like I were beating a tom-tom.
"Why?" I shouted. The neighbors must have heard me exclaim. I'm sure they were asking the same question, though. I was merely voicing what they themselves felt. "Why? You could have taken anyone! Anyone at all! Tito, Randy, Janet, Jesse, Vincent, Reggie, Samuel, Bo, any of them would have done! Why Michael?"
After venting for two minutes straight, I put on my Thriller record album and listened to "P.Y.T", "Beat It" and "The Girl is Mine" over and over and over and over, imagining that I, not Paul McCartney, was singing a duet with MJ. I even went to the kitchen and found an old white spandex glove in a box on one of the pantry shelves, put it on, and just stared it. "Who's bad?" I cried. "I'm bad!" But I couldn't make myself believe it. Not with my face soaked the way it was, my eyes as red as a Chinese flag, my lip quivering like a Jew's harp. I wanted to believe I was bad; I simply could not....
You're not buying this, are you? No? Good.
Actually, my reaction to the news on June 25, 2009 was somewhat mellow in comparison to what I just described. My sister told me the news over the phone. I said, "Oh, that's too bad." I think she wanted me to act more distraught than I did, but I simply did not have it in me that afternoon to tear my hair out and scream like a little child. I, a mere fan of Michael Jackson, preferred to leave the serious grieving to the Michael Jackson worshipers.
[Note: If you are wondering, yes, there are indeed Michael Jackson worshipers. I went on Hotmail and typed michaeljacksonisgod in the Hotmail address box. It said that name was unavailable, but I could have michaeljacksonisgod1910. Then, I tried MichaelJacksonIsGod; it was also unavailable, but I could have MichaelJacksonIsGod1924. I can only conclude that close to 4,000 Hotmail users, if not more, think that Michael Jackson is god. I would not be surprised if at some future date, people start building churches to him and put his memorabilia inside so that people can make pilgrimages just to see a shiny glove or a wornout pair of dancing shoes as if they were the bones of St. Peter, nails from the cross, or John the Baptist's left sandal. I think Neverland theme park already does this]
Suddenly, on June 25, 2009, the words "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" referred to the death of the world's most beloved Jackson instead of the terrorist attacks on 9/1l. Suddenly, the words of William Blake, "When the stars threw down their spears, / And watered heaven with their tears" (from "The Tyger"), made sense to everyone. Suddenly, another Nostradamus prophecy had come to pass. What? Nostradamus predicted Michael Jackson's death? Well, I'm no expert on 16th century prophecy, but read it for yourself:
June 25, 2009. Do you remember what happened?
I do.
I was home alone, working on a novel. At approximately 2:00 p.m. my sister called.
I answered.
"Did you hear that Michael Jackson died today?" she said.
Unable to believe that such a horrible thing could have happened, I chided her, telling her to peddle her unfunny jokes at someone else's door (or phone, as the case may be).
She insisted it was the truth.
When at last it sunk in that I was not, in fact, the victim of a prank call (but rather the recipient of the most earth-shattering breaking news in years), I hung up the phone and sank to the ground in a heap. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks, and I wildly pounded the beige carpet in our living room with my fists like I were beating a tom-tom.
"Why?" I shouted. The neighbors must have heard me exclaim. I'm sure they were asking the same question, though. I was merely voicing what they themselves felt. "Why? You could have taken anyone! Anyone at all! Tito, Randy, Janet, Jesse, Vincent, Reggie, Samuel, Bo, any of them would have done! Why Michael?"
After venting for two minutes straight, I put on my Thriller record album and listened to "P.Y.T", "Beat It" and "The Girl is Mine" over and over and over and over, imagining that I, not Paul McCartney, was singing a duet with MJ. I even went to the kitchen and found an old white spandex glove in a box on one of the pantry shelves, put it on, and just stared it. "Who's bad?" I cried. "I'm bad!" But I couldn't make myself believe it. Not with my face soaked the way it was, my eyes as red as a Chinese flag, my lip quivering like a Jew's harp. I wanted to believe I was bad; I simply could not....
You're not buying this, are you? No? Good.
Actually, my reaction to the news on June 25, 2009 was somewhat mellow in comparison to what I just described. My sister told me the news over the phone. I said, "Oh, that's too bad." I think she wanted me to act more distraught than I did, but I simply did not have it in me that afternoon to tear my hair out and scream like a little child. I, a mere fan of Michael Jackson, preferred to leave the serious grieving to the Michael Jackson worshipers.
[Note: If you are wondering, yes, there are indeed Michael Jackson worshipers. I went on Hotmail and typed michaeljacksonisgod in the Hotmail address box. It said that name was unavailable, but I could have michaeljacksonisgod1910. Then, I tried MichaelJacksonIsGod; it was also unavailable, but I could have MichaelJacksonIsGod1924. I can only conclude that close to 4,000 Hotmail users, if not more, think that Michael Jackson is god. I would not be surprised if at some future date, people start building churches to him and put his memorabilia inside so that people can make pilgrimages just to see a shiny glove or a wornout pair of dancing shoes as if they were the bones of St. Peter, nails from the cross, or John the Baptist's left sandal. I think Neverland theme park already does this]
Suddenly, on June 25, 2009, the words "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" referred to the death of the world's most beloved Jackson instead of the terrorist attacks on 9/1l. Suddenly, the words of William Blake, "When the stars threw down their spears, / And watered heaven with their tears" (from "The Tyger"), made sense to everyone. Suddenly, another Nostradamus prophecy had come to pass. What? Nostradamus predicted Michael Jackson's death? Well, I'm no expert on 16th century prophecy, but read it for yourself:
Because of conflict, a King [Michael Jackson] shall abandon his kingdom [his fans and Neverland],
The greatest chief shall fail in time of need [his doctor]
Dead, slain [MJ again],
Few shall escape [the other Jacksons]
All cut off [Lisa Marie]
One shall be witness of it
[us; see the line from MJ's song "We Are the World":
"When the world must come together as one"]
(from Charles A. Ward's The Oracles of Nostradamus)
There can be no doubt that his death was truly a notable event (by the way, that prophecy doesn't really talk about Michael Jackson's death; I'm not sure what it is referring to, but it isn't that). My question is, why did he have to release this last CD? I'm certain there are and will be people out there who will purchase and praise the posthumous album Michael and place it on the same level as his other albums simply because it's Michael Jackson and he's singing (of course, I'm certain those same people would probably purchase and praise and place an album of Michael Jackson burping the alphabet on the same level as his others ones as well). Don't get me wrong; I am not disparaging this new album. It's actually a pretty good album, in fact; it's just not the same Michael I've been listening to all these years, so the hoped-for sentimental attachment is not there. So, go ahead, buy it, hold it, squeeze it, love it, call it George (from Looney Tunes); I will remain content with my vinyl Thriller album, which allows me to listen to "P.Y.T", "Beat It", and "The Girl Is Mine" over and over and over and over. I like it better, even if it is scratched, is scratched, is scratched, is scratched, is scratched, is scratched, is scratched.
"Who's bad?"
"I'm bad!"
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
"'I'll Be Watching You"
My mom used to read to my siblings and me from William J. Bennett's The Book of Virtues, a thick collection of poetry, folk and fairy tales, and essays whose objective, essentially, involved the instruction of children for the better. For example, the Story of the Fisherman and His Wife taught us the importance of being content with what we have. The poem about a group of nasty individuals called the Goops talked about having good hygiene and table manners. And so on and so forth.
Most of the stories in The Book of Virtues were quite instructive and instrumental in helping us know what we ought to do. However, there were a few things in the book that really did not fit in. How they made it into a collection of this genre, I will never know.
For example, Bennett includes an excerpt from Macbeth, which involves Lord and Lady Macbeth as they plot to kill the king and take his throne. I believe the intended moral in that piece is the importance of keeping your word, and if you say you will do something, you must do it, even if it involves a conspiracy to assassinate the ruling authority, who happens to be a beloved and good individual, in order to succeed him as king. What a moral to teach to young children. I'm in tears just thinking about it.
Oh, here's another good one: "The Story of Augustus, Who Would Not Have Any Soup," a regular classic in the making. This little poem comes from a collection of German cautionary tales for children, in which the principle of choices and consequences is taught with disastrous results. In the poem, the boy Augustus, "a chubby lad" with "fat, ruddy cheeks" decides one day he does not wish to eat his soup. Unfortunately, this sort of pickiness continues for five days and poor picky-nicky Augustus ends up dead from starvation. Why his parents did not offer him something else, I do not know; however, that is apparently beyond the scope of this poem.
[Note: Just in case you are sadistic enough to use such tricks to break your children of their bad habits, the name of the book I have just mentioned is Der Struwwelpeter or (Slovenly Peter in English) and the author is Heinrich Hoffmann. It not only addresses the consequences of being picky but also playing with matches (you get burned to a crisp and your cats will cry on your ashes); being cruel to animals (they will attack you and bite your leg until you bleed); making fun of black people (you'll get dipped in an inkpot and turned black yourself; no, I'm not making this up); shooting rabbits for fun (they'll steal your gun while you're taking a nap and shoot at you, forcing you to jump in a well to avoid the bullet; I told you, I'm not making this up); sucking your thumb (a man with big scissors will come and cut your thumbs off); tipping in your chair (you'll end up pulling the tablecloth and all of the food onto yourself when you fall over backwards, leaving Mom and Dad very cross because you ruined their dinner); not watching where you're going (you'll wind up in a river); and going outside when it's windy (the wind will catch your umbrella, lift you up, and carry you away, and no one will see you ever again).]
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, The Book of Virtues. Despite some of its more ghastly tales, it really is a book of good qualities. One redeeming story, which I remember after all these years is the story called "Someone Sees You."
A man decides to steal some wheat from his neighbor, and he has his daughter stand as a lookout. Three times she calls to him, "Someone sees you," and three times he scurries out of the field, looks around, and sees no one. A fourth time she calls, "Someone sees you." Finally, he says angrily, "Why do keep saying that? There's no one around."
She replies, "Father, someone sees you from above."
The innocence of children is a remarkable force for keeping adults in line.
Oh, is that what you were getting at with this introduction? you ask. It's about time. Why do you say that?
Because children are verbal and behavioral parrots. If they copy an inappropriate action, or if they repeat a naughty word they heard, it tells those around them to watch themselves more closely because, truly, someone is watching (and listening) from below.
For example, my little sister used to say "Bammit!" (obviously a close approximation of another word) all the time. No doubt she heard something like it on TV (I never said it...around her, so she could not have gotten it from me).
I remember watching the movie The Man from Snowy River with my family "when I was just lad" (from film Mary Poppins). In an argument between Jim and Harrison, Jim says, "You b------!" I will remind you, I was a child at the time and, for some strange reason, found the language comical. I repeated it. Loudly. That's right. I uttered, "You bossed it!" right in front of my mom. She consequently slapped the back of my head and told me not to say that word ever again (I swear, I have never again used the phrase "bossed it" since that day). But wait a minute. She, my mother, was the one who let me, a seven- or eight-year-old child, watch that movie in the first place. She should have slapped herself on the back of the head and left me alone.
Another time, I watched The Black Stallion (so I liked horse movies; so what?), and one of the characters called Alec Ramsay a name after driving what I think was a Volkswagen Vanagon over a small cliff. Once again, I thought it sounded funny, and I said it out loud (thank goodness, no one was around at that time to hear me). I mean, what isn't funny about calling someone a "son of a pinch," right? Later on, I found out that the man had actually said a bad word. Not that anyone would tell me what it was. Talk about shoddy instruction.
Personally, I think we cannot be too careful around our children in our behavior and vocabulary. They rely on our good examples in order to become good examples and good individuals themselves. My mom--as have many mothers--used to tell us, "Remember who you are!" whenever we went anywhere, but perhaps it's just as important for us to remember who they--the children--are.
That's right.
Polly want a cracker?
Most of the stories in The Book of Virtues were quite instructive and instrumental in helping us know what we ought to do. However, there were a few things in the book that really did not fit in. How they made it into a collection of this genre, I will never know.
For example, Bennett includes an excerpt from Macbeth, which involves Lord and Lady Macbeth as they plot to kill the king and take his throne. I believe the intended moral in that piece is the importance of keeping your word, and if you say you will do something, you must do it, even if it involves a conspiracy to assassinate the ruling authority, who happens to be a beloved and good individual, in order to succeed him as king. What a moral to teach to young children. I'm in tears just thinking about it.
Oh, here's another good one: "The Story of Augustus, Who Would Not Have Any Soup," a regular classic in the making. This little poem comes from a collection of German cautionary tales for children, in which the principle of choices and consequences is taught with disastrous results. In the poem, the boy Augustus, "a chubby lad" with "fat, ruddy cheeks" decides one day he does not wish to eat his soup. Unfortunately, this sort of pickiness continues for five days and poor picky-nicky Augustus ends up dead from starvation. Why his parents did not offer him something else, I do not know; however, that is apparently beyond the scope of this poem.
[Note: Just in case you are sadistic enough to use such tricks to break your children of their bad habits, the name of the book I have just mentioned is Der Struwwelpeter or (Slovenly Peter in English) and the author is Heinrich Hoffmann. It not only addresses the consequences of being picky but also playing with matches (you get burned to a crisp and your cats will cry on your ashes); being cruel to animals (they will attack you and bite your leg until you bleed); making fun of black people (you'll get dipped in an inkpot and turned black yourself; no, I'm not making this up); shooting rabbits for fun (they'll steal your gun while you're taking a nap and shoot at you, forcing you to jump in a well to avoid the bullet; I told you, I'm not making this up); sucking your thumb (a man with big scissors will come and cut your thumbs off); tipping in your chair (you'll end up pulling the tablecloth and all of the food onto yourself when you fall over backwards, leaving Mom and Dad very cross because you ruined their dinner); not watching where you're going (you'll wind up in a river); and going outside when it's windy (the wind will catch your umbrella, lift you up, and carry you away, and no one will see you ever again).]
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, The Book of Virtues. Despite some of its more ghastly tales, it really is a book of good qualities. One redeeming story, which I remember after all these years is the story called "Someone Sees You."
A man decides to steal some wheat from his neighbor, and he has his daughter stand as a lookout. Three times she calls to him, "Someone sees you," and three times he scurries out of the field, looks around, and sees no one. A fourth time she calls, "Someone sees you." Finally, he says angrily, "Why do keep saying that? There's no one around."
She replies, "Father, someone sees you from above."
The innocence of children is a remarkable force for keeping adults in line.
Oh, is that what you were getting at with this introduction? you ask. It's about time. Why do you say that?
Because children are verbal and behavioral parrots. If they copy an inappropriate action, or if they repeat a naughty word they heard, it tells those around them to watch themselves more closely because, truly, someone is watching (and listening) from below.
For example, my little sister used to say "Bammit!" (obviously a close approximation of another word) all the time. No doubt she heard something like it on TV (I never said it...around her, so she could not have gotten it from me).
I remember watching the movie The Man from Snowy River with my family "when I was just lad" (from film Mary Poppins). In an argument between Jim and Harrison, Jim says, "You b------!" I will remind you, I was a child at the time and, for some strange reason, found the language comical. I repeated it. Loudly. That's right. I uttered, "You bossed it!" right in front of my mom. She consequently slapped the back of my head and told me not to say that word ever again (I swear, I have never again used the phrase "bossed it" since that day). But wait a minute. She, my mother, was the one who let me, a seven- or eight-year-old child, watch that movie in the first place. She should have slapped herself on the back of the head and left me alone.
Another time, I watched The Black Stallion (so I liked horse movies; so what?), and one of the characters called Alec Ramsay a name after driving what I think was a Volkswagen Vanagon over a small cliff. Once again, I thought it sounded funny, and I said it out loud (thank goodness, no one was around at that time to hear me). I mean, what isn't funny about calling someone a "son of a pinch," right? Later on, I found out that the man had actually said a bad word. Not that anyone would tell me what it was. Talk about shoddy instruction.
Personally, I think we cannot be too careful around our children in our behavior and vocabulary. They rely on our good examples in order to become good examples and good individuals themselves. My mom--as have many mothers--used to tell us, "Remember who you are!" whenever we went anywhere, but perhaps it's just as important for us to remember who they--the children--are.
That's right.
Polly want a cracker?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
"I Can Be Your Hero": Uh, Which One?
Life presents us all with a slew of difficult and probing questions, some fairly abstract, such as, Who are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going? Why are you here? Others are more concrete and immediate, like, Who is your favorite sports team? What do you want to be when you grow up? How many children do you plan on having? Are you in favor of a playoff system in college football or do you want to keep the bowl games as they are?
However, my favorite questions, and perhaps the most irrelevant and improbable, are the hypothetical ones. You know, questions like, If you had to lose a body part in a tragic accident, which one would it be? If you could bungee jump from anywhere, where would it you do it? If Lady Gaga were an infomercial, which one would she be? (Ginsu Steak knives, in case you were wondering).
One of the hypothetical questions which is not as cut-and-dried as the rest is, If you were a superhero or mutant, whose powers would you want? To me, it's almost impossible to answer. Well, let me rephrase that. It's almost impossible to give only one answer. For instance, I like the idea of having an adamantium skeleton and metal claws, but I'd also like to teleport. Without the purple skin and pointed tail, that is. Also, it would be nice to have Jean Gray's telekinetic and psychic powers, if one could somehow separate them from the orneriness and instability of thePhoenix
In the end, I always have to compromise by making a list of the top five mutants or superheroes whose powers I would choose to have (I'm always making lists, aren't I?).
5. Mystique
Pro: You can just about be anyone you want to be.
Con: You can't be yourself. After all, you're blue and scaly and that scares people. Not to mention, should you ever lose your powers, you'll be abandoned and left naked in the back of a semi-truck until the Feds show up and capture you. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
4. Batman
Pro: You're a millionaire. Correction: You're a billionaire. Wait a minute, this just in: You're a multi-billionaire. Pretty good, huh? Also, you have a lot of cool toys at your disposal. Not bad for a guy without mutant capabilities.
Con: You have to hang out with Robin and Batgirl sometimes. Also, you have to stand back and watch while George Clooney and Val Kilmer make hash out of your superhero legacy.
3. Spiderman
Pro: Your superior intellect and agility help you win out in the end. No matter what.
Con: You always get the h--- beat out of you first. Oh, well, comes with the job I guess. Of course, it doesn't help when Kingpin rounds up the Sinister Six to take care of you. Then you really receive a good, ol'-fashioned beatdown. Tough luck.
2. Beast, a.k.a Hank McCoy
Pro: You're strong. You're smarter than everyone, too. In fact, you could blend right in with the rest of the world if you weren't all blue and hairy.
Con: You're all blue and hairy. Also, you probably have to use a lint brush on your suits fifty times a day, if not more.
1. Superman
Pro: In theory, no one can beat you.
Con: In reality, no one can beat you. Except Doomsday. And Lex Luthor. And Zod. And his cronies. And Bizarro. And anyone with a certain green rock in their pocket. [By the way, does it not seem strange that kryptonite isn't that hard to find? Simply visit your local museum or corn field and you can receive the power to beat Superman (hey, that sounds like the introduction for an infomercial. "Gotta git us some more of that kryptonite, boys. It's selling like hot cakes! Everyone wants a piece of Superman's...". Never mind)].
Questions, questions, questions. We hear so many questions. Why are they so difficult to answer? Perhaps, and this is my opinion, perhaps some of them are not meant to be answered. Or, at least, not comfortably or quickly. Some questions, such as the one we have just answered, deserve time and introspection and rumination. If someone is pressing you for an immediate answer, you don't need to know right away and you can say so. For example, if your friend Bertha May asks you, "If you were a tree, what kind would you be?" You can look that girl in the eye and say, "Can I get back to you?"
Of course, she may not be the understanding type.
"No, you have to tell me now!" she screams, her voice crackling with fury and frustration at your lack of cooperation.
My advice: Tell the beech to wait.
However, my favorite questions, and perhaps the most irrelevant and improbable, are the hypothetical ones. You know, questions like, If you had to lose a body part in a tragic accident, which one would it be? If you could bungee jump from anywhere, where would it you do it? If Lady Gaga were an infomercial, which one would she be? (Ginsu Steak knives, in case you were wondering).
One of the hypothetical questions which is not as cut-and-dried as the rest is, If you were a superhero or mutant, whose powers would you want? To me, it's almost impossible to answer. Well, let me rephrase that. It's almost impossible to give only one answer. For instance, I like the idea of having an adamantium skeleton and metal claws, but I'd also like to teleport. Without the purple skin and pointed tail, that is. Also, it would be nice to have Jean Gray's telekinetic and psychic powers, if one could somehow separate them from the orneriness and instability of the
In the end, I always have to compromise by making a list of the top five mutants or superheroes whose powers I would choose to have (I'm always making lists, aren't I?).
5. Mystique
Pro: You can just about be anyone you want to be.
Con: You can't be yourself. After all, you're blue and scaly and that scares people. Not to mention, should you ever lose your powers, you'll be abandoned and left naked in the back of a semi-truck until the Feds show up and capture you. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
4. Batman
Pro: You're a millionaire. Correction: You're a billionaire. Wait a minute, this just in: You're a multi-billionaire. Pretty good, huh? Also, you have a lot of cool toys at your disposal. Not bad for a guy without mutant capabilities.
Con: You have to hang out with Robin and Batgirl sometimes. Also, you have to stand back and watch while George Clooney and Val Kilmer make hash out of your superhero legacy.
3. Spiderman
Pro: Your superior intellect and agility help you win out in the end. No matter what.
Con: You always get the h--- beat out of you first. Oh, well, comes with the job I guess. Of course, it doesn't help when Kingpin rounds up the Sinister Six to take care of you. Then you really receive a good, ol'-fashioned beatdown. Tough luck.
2. Beast, a.k.a Hank McCoy
Pro: You're strong. You're smarter than everyone, too. In fact, you could blend right in with the rest of the world if you weren't all blue and hairy.
Con: You're all blue and hairy. Also, you probably have to use a lint brush on your suits fifty times a day, if not more.
1. Superman
Pro: In theory, no one can beat you.
Con: In reality, no one can beat you. Except Doomsday. And Lex Luthor. And Zod. And his cronies. And Bizarro. And anyone with a certain green rock in their pocket. [By the way, does it not seem strange that kryptonite isn't that hard to find? Simply visit your local museum or corn field and you can receive the power to beat Superman (hey, that sounds like the introduction for an infomercial. "Gotta git us some more of that kryptonite, boys. It's selling like hot cakes! Everyone wants a piece of Superman's...". Never mind)].
Questions, questions, questions. We hear so many questions. Why are they so difficult to answer? Perhaps, and this is my opinion, perhaps some of them are not meant to be answered. Or, at least, not comfortably or quickly. Some questions, such as the one we have just answered, deserve time and introspection and rumination. If someone is pressing you for an immediate answer, you don't need to know right away and you can say so. For example, if your friend Bertha May asks you, "If you were a tree, what kind would you be?" You can look that girl in the eye and say, "Can I get back to you?"
Of course, she may not be the understanding type.
"No, you have to tell me now!" she screams, her voice crackling with fury and frustration at your lack of cooperation.
My advice: Tell the beech to wait.
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