I awoke last month in an alternate reality, but one so nearly like my own that it took most of the first morning here before I realized I was not where I should have been.
Just about everything was as I remembered it. You expect that when you wake up — that the same comforter is on the bed as when you turned out the lights last night, that the shade of paint on the walls hasn’t changed in the last eight hours, that the clock radio snooze button still waits for your blind reach where it always waits.
All this was unchanged, and as such it went unnoticed. I mean, you don’t wake up anticipating that things are different. You take for granted that nothing has altered in the night. It’s only when things are all wrong that you immediately notice.
You don’t wake up and think, “Oh look. No one broke in last night and changed the carpet out for tile while I was asleep.”
As it was on this particular morning, I got up, found my clothes, made coffee, shaved. I kissed my wife as she tried to stay asleep, and went out to my car.
That’s when I noticed that something was different about my shoes.
I could blame it on the fact that I generally dress in half-light, trying not to disturb my wife. Or maybe the fact that I’m slow to wake up, even shaving or brushing my teeth on autopilot, without being fully aware. I slipped on my shoes in the dark and walked around the house in them that morning without noticing a difference — they fit the same as my sense-memory recalled, after all. They were broken in and fit my feet. That’s another thing you don’t think about after a while. New shoes feel odd on your feet, but shoes you’ve had for a while don’t. You know how they’re supposed to feel. You don’t think about them.
But then you’re walking to the car in the morning sun and see the color and design of them and you know.
You know these are not your shoes, even if they fit your feet. You look around then, and recognize everything surrounding you. That is definitely your house, your car, your yard. That was your wife you kissed, the smell of her and taste of her skin was right. You look down at the ID card on the lanyard around your neck and know that it’s exactly as you recall.
But the shoes are wrong. You never in your life owned a pair of shoes this particular shade of brown or with that odd swirl of shaped leather on the outer sides of the heel and toe.
This is not your world.
And you begin to wonder what else has changed. When the other shoe will drop, so to speak. And that’s where I’ve been for a month now: observing and cataloging my surroundings, checking the details against my memory. So far, however, nothing else seems out of whack. This world is not so very different from the one I recall.
Life’s the same, except for my shoes.
——
(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
from the '366 Days' project
(With apologies to The Cars, and thanks to Lou, who put this song on a mix CD.)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Monday, August 09, 2010
Time Out
The little girl stood in the middle of the park, staring at the grass. Around her, other children played on monkey bars and swing sets. They played chase and kicked balls and laughed. She stared at the ground, not moving, not speaking.
Sometimes, the other kids would bump into her then reel away in fright. It wasn’t that she was hideous to look at; in fact, she was a cute little girl, with long blonde hair and stylish clothing. But something about her made their skin crawl, made their hair stand on end. They would back away quickly and run off to their parents or to join the other children and pretend nothing was wrong. She gave no notice, made no response.
Eventually one of the mothers standing around the park walked over and kneeled beside her.
“Are you sorry that you spoke to me so disrespectfully?” the woman asked in a gentle voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. “I won’t do it again."
The woman shook her head. “That’s what you said the last time. How do I know you’ll remember this time?”
The girl stared at the ground. She didn’t move. She whispered.
“Please, mommy. Please may I have my soul back?”
_____
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
from the '366 Days' project
Sometimes, the other kids would bump into her then reel away in fright. It wasn’t that she was hideous to look at; in fact, she was a cute little girl, with long blonde hair and stylish clothing. But something about her made their skin crawl, made their hair stand on end. They would back away quickly and run off to their parents or to join the other children and pretend nothing was wrong. She gave no notice, made no response.
Eventually one of the mothers standing around the park walked over and kneeled beside her.
“Are you sorry that you spoke to me so disrespectfully?” the woman asked in a gentle voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. “I won’t do it again."
The woman shook her head. “That’s what you said the last time. How do I know you’ll remember this time?”
The girl stared at the ground. She didn’t move. She whispered.
“Please, mommy. Please may I have my soul back?”
_____
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
from the '366 Days' project
Friday, August 06, 2010
Patterns of Forever
The woman had a severe sunburn. I winced when she came up to the counter and said she wanted a tat. She didn’t ask how much or pause to let me ask about her burn. She pulled up her loose shirt tail and showed me the pattern on her stomach.
That’s when I noticed that the burn was only on her front half. The backs of her arms and legs were a normal shade made pale by the red on the front half of her body. Obviously, she’d fallen asleep lying on her back at the beach. But the pattern she showed me:
“It’s where he placed his hand,” she said. “I was drowsy, and when he came up out of the water and lay beside me on the blanket, I asked him to make sure I didn’t sleep, make sure to wake me so I would turn over and not burn. He said he would. He was out of breath from the boogie board and the waves, but he assured me he was wide awake.
“When I woke up, I was mad because he’d fallen asleep too. I shoved his hand aside. But he wasn’t asleep. Massive heart attack. Right there on the blanket beside me. Never made a sound. But he had reached for me there, at the end. He had reached for me and put his hand on my stomach. He tried to tell me. To wake me. He left it there while I slept and he went away.”
I looked at the pale pattern of a left hand print on the lower right side of her stomach. I told her what I’d charge to outline it in black. She waved her hand, dismissing the cost. She didn’t care what it cost.
“Make it red,” she said. “Fill in the pattern the same color as my skin is now. Make it last forever.”
___
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
From the '366 Days' project
That’s when I noticed that the burn was only on her front half. The backs of her arms and legs were a normal shade made pale by the red on the front half of her body. Obviously, she’d fallen asleep lying on her back at the beach. But the pattern she showed me:
“It’s where he placed his hand,” she said. “I was drowsy, and when he came up out of the water and lay beside me on the blanket, I asked him to make sure I didn’t sleep, make sure to wake me so I would turn over and not burn. He said he would. He was out of breath from the boogie board and the waves, but he assured me he was wide awake.
“When I woke up, I was mad because he’d fallen asleep too. I shoved his hand aside. But he wasn’t asleep. Massive heart attack. Right there on the blanket beside me. Never made a sound. But he had reached for me there, at the end. He had reached for me and put his hand on my stomach. He tried to tell me. To wake me. He left it there while I slept and he went away.”
I looked at the pale pattern of a left hand print on the lower right side of her stomach. I told her what I’d charge to outline it in black. She waved her hand, dismissing the cost. She didn’t care what it cost.
“Make it red,” she said. “Fill in the pattern the same color as my skin is now. Make it last forever.”
___
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
From the '366 Days' project
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
There are Worse Fates
It started as an itch. The bottoms of her feet and the palms of her hands. She tried various creams and unguents to no effect. Then the bumps formed, like warts, like rings and swirls of warts. Piles of warts, strands of warts.
She could no longer bear to have shoes on her feet. She tried dissolving the growths, had them frozen off, had them cut off, had them burned off. They always grew back, faster than before, thicker than before. She became despondent. She stopped going out at all.
The bumps grew from her hands and feet in thick strands. She couldn’t close her fingers for the dangling fleshy protuberances. She walked on mounds of skin that matted together under the soles of her feet. Eventually, she had to be fed and cleaned by a hired nurse who wore an environment suit for fear of catching the strange disease.
She was finally quarantined. Studied. Placed in a harness that allowed her feet to dangle off the ground and kept her arms stretched away from her body. Waited on constantly. Her strands of flesh would flutter along the tile and undulate in the air like the tentacles of some sea creature searching for food.
One day they wheeled a man into the room across the hall. She could see him through the observation windows between their rooms. He had stiff, bark-like structures growing out of his shoulders and the back of his head. He didn’t walk around much, just stood by a window in the sun. Tests showed the dark material was very similar to fingernails. It grew in stalks that the nurses would trim back every week. He couldn’t speak to her, nor she to him, but the medical students who studied them often carried messages back and forth for them.
She learned that his ailment had started as an itch. He had seen doctor after doctor, seeking an explanation. It appeared he was transforming into a tree, much as she was becoming some kind of anemone. The government worried that it was the beginning of a new plague, a genetic mutation. People were being tested, but no one really knew what to look for.
They heard a rumor about a girl down the hall whose body was producing stiff hairs all along her arms that split into growths that looked for all the world like feathers. And one nurse whispered about the boy whose body secreted calcium deposits that, overnight, sealed him inside a rocky cocoon. An MRI of the pod showed that he was still alive in there, hibernating.
She wondered what he would be when he came out again.
She wondered what she was becoming. It couldn’t be worse than what she was before.
Before, she was alone.
___
She could no longer bear to have shoes on her feet. She tried dissolving the growths, had them frozen off, had them cut off, had them burned off. They always grew back, faster than before, thicker than before. She became despondent. She stopped going out at all.
The bumps grew from her hands and feet in thick strands. She couldn’t close her fingers for the dangling fleshy protuberances. She walked on mounds of skin that matted together under the soles of her feet. Eventually, she had to be fed and cleaned by a hired nurse who wore an environment suit for fear of catching the strange disease.
She was finally quarantined. Studied. Placed in a harness that allowed her feet to dangle off the ground and kept her arms stretched away from her body. Waited on constantly. Her strands of flesh would flutter along the tile and undulate in the air like the tentacles of some sea creature searching for food.
One day they wheeled a man into the room across the hall. She could see him through the observation windows between their rooms. He had stiff, bark-like structures growing out of his shoulders and the back of his head. He didn’t walk around much, just stood by a window in the sun. Tests showed the dark material was very similar to fingernails. It grew in stalks that the nurses would trim back every week. He couldn’t speak to her, nor she to him, but the medical students who studied them often carried messages back and forth for them.
She learned that his ailment had started as an itch. He had seen doctor after doctor, seeking an explanation. It appeared he was transforming into a tree, much as she was becoming some kind of anemone. The government worried that it was the beginning of a new plague, a genetic mutation. People were being tested, but no one really knew what to look for.
They heard a rumor about a girl down the hall whose body was producing stiff hairs all along her arms that split into growths that looked for all the world like feathers. And one nurse whispered about the boy whose body secreted calcium deposits that, overnight, sealed him inside a rocky cocoon. An MRI of the pod showed that he was still alive in there, hibernating.
She wondered what he would be when he came out again.
She wondered what she was becoming. It couldn’t be worse than what she was before.
Before, she was alone.
___
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
from the '366 Days' project
Thursday, July 29, 2010
My 15 minutes is up
It appears the former home online of my "366 Days" project has closed shop. The late great PCityLive.com, abandoned in 2009 by its creators in favor of eight5ifty.com, is no longer live to the interwebs. Since none of those stories is likely to see the light of day otherwise, I've decided to repost them here, once per week, as a sort of "best of" collection. Since my 15 minutes of fame passed away at PCityLive, we'll start with this tale of a future that's closer than you might think:
She answered the door in her rollers and housecoat. Who’d she have to impress these days? And the lights came up and she heard the familiar theme music, and even before she could cry, “Oh My Gawd!” the cameras pressed in on her, mics hovered, and androgynous people shook her hands, touched her curlers, pushed past her into the apartment.
Andy Warhol wore blue surgical gloves to shake the tips of her fingers. He threw the hand back over his shoulder and an assistant snapped those gloves off and a second pair onto his hand with practiced efficiency.
“Time?” he said.
“Fourteen fifty one.”
Andy swooped into the living room, pointing at the shelves of salt shakers arranged behind glass. He pointed at the 3V, where a smaller version of himself pointed at a 3V image of himself pointing at a 3V image of himself, into submicroscopic infinity.
“Look, I’m on the television,” he said. “I’m not just half-here, I’m here and a half!”
The cameras panned as he framed the woman of the house in his hands like a director framing a shot and said, “Agnes Ida Marzipan …”
“Mariposia,” she said.
“This is your fifteen minutes!”
Applause erupted all around from the speakers carried by some of the sexless persons now circling the living room. Agnes whirled and fluttered her hands in front of her face.
“Oh, I just love this show!”
“Of course you do.”
Everyone on earth watched the Andy Show. Every quarter hour an Andy-droid and its crew entered another random residence somewhere on the planet. Wherever humans were awake, and sometimes in places where they slept, there was always a chance of being the next person to claim his fifteen ticks of the clock. The machinery was always going, even when they slept.
“Tell me everything, darling,” Andy said, settling onto Agnes’ couch with a flourish and an assistant’s hastily-placed sanitary towel. “Quickly, though. I’m superficial.”
Agnes perched close beside him and giggled. She clutched the hems of her housecoat and straightened the cloth. She opened her mouth.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Andy said, and some of the assistants suppressed giggles of their own. “It’s so natural and historic, like a museum of things that people don’t need to have.”
“Oh, ah,” said Agnes. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome!”
The speakers roared with applause, which echoed on the 3V. Andy stood and circled the room. He paused at the hallway and rested his chin on the back of one hand. He rested an elbow on an arm he wrapped around his chest.
“Time?” he said.
“Thirteen twenty.”
“Ida Marginalia,” Andy said, motioning her to come to him.
“Mariposia,” she said.
“What an interesting name you have dear. Show me everything.”
He indicated the hallway. She paused as she passed him, looking for the cameras, but they were everywhere. There was one floating in the hallway already. It tracked her as she led him and the entourage, pointing out the bathroom — “What lovely towels! So absorbent and functional!” — and then to her bedroom, where an assistant threw a white drop cloth over the bed and Andy flung himself down. He patted the edge of the bed, and Agnes blushed. She checked her housecoat, touched her rollers nervously. She perched on the very edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.
“Time?”
“Ten eighteen.”
“So, Mrs. Marijuana …”
“Marzipan - I mean -”
“Agnes. Don’t be so nervous. We’re all people here, aren’t we? And some more than others.”
“I guess so, Mr. Warhol.”
“Please, call me Andy. Everyone does.”
“I’m nervous, Andy.”
“I said don’t be. It’s not like we’re going to do anything. And not doing it is so much more exciting, don’t you think?”
She shook her head, not because she disagreed with him, but because she didn’t know what else to do. She looked around the room at all the beautiful people, the floating cameras, the lights, the hovering microphones. It was all too real. Her eyes landed on a photograph.
“Andy, that’s my husband there. He passed in ‘32.”
Andy rose from the bed like a specter and bent to look at the old 2D picture. A camera zoomed in to get the shot.
“The late Mr. Maharaja,” said Andy. “Are you sure he isn’t just out at a department store?”
“His name was Melvin,” she said.
“Is that what it says on his tombstone? I want mine to say ‘Figment.’”
She started to rise, one hand to her mouth. She was beginning to realize that this wasn’t what she had expected, though she had watched the Andy Show all her life. She felt a flash of anger.
“Time?”
“Seven twelve.”
Andy glided to the door and into the hall and the beautiful people swarmed after him. Agnes watched him retreating and knew her time was running out. What else would he ask? Where else would he pry?
“Kitchen!” he announced.
Agnes felt her embarrassment escalate. She’d not cleaned the kitchen since her supper, and he would find a mess in there to transmit to the world.
She reached in her bedside table and grabbed what she kept in there.
“Andy, wait! I have something else to show you!”
She pushed through the mass of pale, tall people in the hall and found Andy sitting it the little table in her breakfast nook. An assistant was dropping a white apron over his head. It had a Campbell’s soup can logo on the front.
“Yes dear?”
Agnes leveled the old revolver at Andy and pulled the trigger. Gasps and screams came out of the speakers floating behind her. A couple of the assistants fainted. She fired again and again, putting three holes in Andy’s chest. Fluids and sparks popped out, smoke rose from his mouth.
“Not again,” he said.
Agnes screeched. “You’re plastic!”
He patted the dripping fluids, and coughed a smoke ring into the air. “I always wanted to be plastic.”
One of the assistants took the gun from Agnes. “Fifteen!” he called, and everyone turned to the door.
Helped by others of the entourage, Andy stumbled past Agnes, trailing smoke and dripping something milky onto the floor.
“This must be what life is like,” he said.
The door shut behind them and Agnes stood alone in her apartment. On the 3V, another Andy-droid was walking into someone’s tent in the refugee camps outside St. Louis.
Agnes sat on the couch and reached for the remote. She turned the sound up.
It was her favorite show.
__
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
Andy, Where’s My 15 Minutes?
She answered the door in her rollers and housecoat. Who’d she have to impress these days? And the lights came up and she heard the familiar theme music, and even before she could cry, “Oh My Gawd!” the cameras pressed in on her, mics hovered, and androgynous people shook her hands, touched her curlers, pushed past her into the apartment.
Andy Warhol wore blue surgical gloves to shake the tips of her fingers. He threw the hand back over his shoulder and an assistant snapped those gloves off and a second pair onto his hand with practiced efficiency.
“Time?” he said.
“Fourteen fifty one.”
Andy swooped into the living room, pointing at the shelves of salt shakers arranged behind glass. He pointed at the 3V, where a smaller version of himself pointed at a 3V image of himself pointing at a 3V image of himself, into submicroscopic infinity.
“Look, I’m on the television,” he said. “I’m not just half-here, I’m here and a half!”
The cameras panned as he framed the woman of the house in his hands like a director framing a shot and said, “Agnes Ida Marzipan …”
“Mariposia,” she said.
“This is your fifteen minutes!”
“Oh, I just love this show!”
“Of course you do.”
Everyone on earth watched the Andy Show. Every quarter hour an Andy-droid and its crew entered another random residence somewhere on the planet. Wherever humans were awake, and sometimes in places where they slept, there was always a chance of being the next person to claim his fifteen ticks of the clock. The machinery was always going, even when they slept.
“Tell me everything, darling,” Andy said, settling onto Agnes’ couch with a flourish and an assistant’s hastily-placed sanitary towel. “Quickly, though. I’m superficial.”
Agnes perched close beside him and giggled. She clutched the hems of her housecoat and straightened the cloth. She opened her mouth.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Andy said, and some of the assistants suppressed giggles of their own. “It’s so natural and historic, like a museum of things that people don’t need to have.”
“Oh, ah,” said Agnes. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome!”
The speakers roared with applause, which echoed on the 3V. Andy stood and circled the room. He paused at the hallway and rested his chin on the back of one hand. He rested an elbow on an arm he wrapped around his chest.
“Time?” he said.
“Thirteen twenty.”
“Ida Marginalia,” Andy said, motioning her to come to him.
“Mariposia,” she said.
“What an interesting name you have dear. Show me everything.”
He indicated the hallway. She paused as she passed him, looking for the cameras, but they were everywhere. There was one floating in the hallway already. It tracked her as she led him and the entourage, pointing out the bathroom — “What lovely towels! So absorbent and functional!” — and then to her bedroom, where an assistant threw a white drop cloth over the bed and Andy flung himself down. He patted the edge of the bed, and Agnes blushed. She checked her housecoat, touched her rollers nervously. She perched on the very edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.
“Time?”
“Ten eighteen.”
“So, Mrs. Marijuana …”
“Marzipan - I mean -”
“Agnes. Don’t be so nervous. We’re all people here, aren’t we? And some more than others.”
“I guess so, Mr. Warhol.”
“Please, call me Andy. Everyone does.”
“I’m nervous, Andy.”
“I said don’t be. It’s not like we’re going to do anything. And not doing it is so much more exciting, don’t you think?”
She shook her head, not because she disagreed with him, but because she didn’t know what else to do. She looked around the room at all the beautiful people, the floating cameras, the lights, the hovering microphones. It was all too real. Her eyes landed on a photograph.
“Andy, that’s my husband there. He passed in ‘32.”
Andy rose from the bed like a specter and bent to look at the old 2D picture. A camera zoomed in to get the shot.
“The late Mr. Maharaja,” said Andy. “Are you sure he isn’t just out at a department store?”
“His name was Melvin,” she said.
“Is that what it says on his tombstone? I want mine to say ‘Figment.’”
She started to rise, one hand to her mouth. She was beginning to realize that this wasn’t what she had expected, though she had watched the Andy Show all her life. She felt a flash of anger.
“Time?”
“Seven twelve.”
Andy glided to the door and into the hall and the beautiful people swarmed after him. Agnes watched him retreating and knew her time was running out. What else would he ask? Where else would he pry?
“Kitchen!” he announced.
Agnes felt her embarrassment escalate. She’d not cleaned the kitchen since her supper, and he would find a mess in there to transmit to the world.
She reached in her bedside table and grabbed what she kept in there.
“Andy, wait! I have something else to show you!”
She pushed through the mass of pale, tall people in the hall and found Andy sitting it the little table in her breakfast nook. An assistant was dropping a white apron over his head. It had a Campbell’s soup can logo on the front.
“Yes dear?”
Agnes leveled the old revolver at Andy and pulled the trigger. Gasps and screams came out of the speakers floating behind her. A couple of the assistants fainted. She fired again and again, putting three holes in Andy’s chest. Fluids and sparks popped out, smoke rose from his mouth.
“Not again,” he said.
Agnes screeched. “You’re plastic!”
He patted the dripping fluids, and coughed a smoke ring into the air. “I always wanted to be plastic.”
One of the assistants took the gun from Agnes. “Fifteen!” he called, and everyone turned to the door.
Helped by others of the entourage, Andy stumbled past Agnes, trailing smoke and dripping something milky onto the floor.
“This must be what life is like,” he said.
The door shut behind them and Agnes stood alone in her apartment. On the 3V, another Andy-droid was walking into someone’s tent in the refugee camps outside St. Louis.
Agnes sat on the couch and reached for the remote. She turned the sound up.
It was her favorite show.
__
(c) 2010 by Tony Simmons
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Some links and a tale of runaway dogs
Here's my column from Sunday's paper regarding the 50th anniversary of "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Here's my blog on newsherald.com about my observations while waiting for the courthouse to open Monday morning.
Here's a rewritten version of my "Batwoman: Elegy" review.
And here's a story I probably should have kept to myself:
It’s possible to earn someone’s praise when you don’t deserve it. It’s especially guilt-inducing, however, when you know someone else kept the faith while you were ready to give up.
I had such a moment recently after two stray dogs showed up in our front yard. We had been working in the back yard and heard the dogs barking when they cornered our cat near the privacy fence. They were friendly pups, however. One had no collar, and the other had a collar but no tag. I tried to run them off, but my wife saw they were panting rapidly, overheated on this dry 90-degree day, and she got them a big bowl full of water.
“We need to find their home,” she said, and I looked at the afternoon sun. If we lost much time seeking the owners, then we’d never finish our project, I said.
But there’s no arguing when she gets that certain look in her eye, so I got the leashes for our dogs and put them on the strays, and we started walking door to door in our cul-de-sac. We were pretty sure the pooches had no ties to one of our immediate neighbors, and that turned out to be true. I suggested calling Animal Control.
“One more block,” my wife said.
We crossed a State Avenue to try to the opposite cul-de-sac, with exactly the same luck. The sun was dropping lower. I suggested these dogs could have come from literally anywhere. We could spend the rest of the evening at this, and we were planning to leave town the next day — the dogs would have to go to a shelter soon.
“One more street,” she said.
We loaded the dogs into the back of my truck, and my wife sat with them as we drove to the next block over. Some kids playing in a yard said they had seen the dogs earlier, and they thought the duo may have come from a house on the next block to the north.
We drove there, where a woman watering her lawn told us she had seen the dogs running through traffic north-to-south. She wished us luck.
We could do this for hours, I said to my wife. I was convinced we were wasting our time. We should just call Animal Control, I said.
“Just one more house,” she said.
We drove to the next block to the north and stopped at the first house. A woman who answered the door told me she didn’t recognize the dogs, but she thought the neighbor across the street had one that was similar. Just one more house, I thought. I knocked on this door, and the man who responded said he was pretty sure the next house over had dogs like those two.
“Just one more house,” I said.
The young woman who answered the door this time barely had time to say hello before she spotted the taller of the two dogs sitting by my wife in the bed of the truck. She called to her mother that someone had brought their dogs home. We learned later that some workers had left their back gate open and the dogs had gone exploring.
“I’ve been praying to St. Anthony to bring my dogs home,” the second woman said. (Among many other jobs, Anthony is the patron saint of lost articles, the seekers of lost articles, and animals.)
“Well,” I said, looking away, “my name’s Anthony, but I’m no saint.”
Here's my blog on newsherald.com about my observations while waiting for the courthouse to open Monday morning.
Here's a rewritten version of my "Batwoman: Elegy" review.
And here's a story I probably should have kept to myself:
St. Anthony and the Runaway Dogs
It’s possible to earn someone’s praise when you don’t deserve it. It’s especially guilt-inducing, however, when you know someone else kept the faith while you were ready to give up.
I had such a moment recently after two stray dogs showed up in our front yard. We had been working in the back yard and heard the dogs barking when they cornered our cat near the privacy fence. They were friendly pups, however. One had no collar, and the other had a collar but no tag. I tried to run them off, but my wife saw they were panting rapidly, overheated on this dry 90-degree day, and she got them a big bowl full of water.
“We need to find their home,” she said, and I looked at the afternoon sun. If we lost much time seeking the owners, then we’d never finish our project, I said.
But there’s no arguing when she gets that certain look in her eye, so I got the leashes for our dogs and put them on the strays, and we started walking door to door in our cul-de-sac. We were pretty sure the pooches had no ties to one of our immediate neighbors, and that turned out to be true. I suggested calling Animal Control.
“One more block,” my wife said.
We crossed a State Avenue to try to the opposite cul-de-sac, with exactly the same luck. The sun was dropping lower. I suggested these dogs could have come from literally anywhere. We could spend the rest of the evening at this, and we were planning to leave town the next day — the dogs would have to go to a shelter soon.
“One more street,” she said.
We loaded the dogs into the back of my truck, and my wife sat with them as we drove to the next block over. Some kids playing in a yard said they had seen the dogs earlier, and they thought the duo may have come from a house on the next block to the north.
We drove there, where a woman watering her lawn told us she had seen the dogs running through traffic north-to-south. She wished us luck.
We could do this for hours, I said to my wife. I was convinced we were wasting our time. We should just call Animal Control, I said.
“Just one more house,” she said.
We drove to the next block to the north and stopped at the first house. A woman who answered the door told me she didn’t recognize the dogs, but she thought the neighbor across the street had one that was similar. Just one more house, I thought. I knocked on this door, and the man who responded said he was pretty sure the next house over had dogs like those two.
“Just one more house,” I said.
The young woman who answered the door this time barely had time to say hello before she spotted the taller of the two dogs sitting by my wife in the bed of the truck. She called to her mother that someone had brought their dogs home. We learned later that some workers had left their back gate open and the dogs had gone exploring.
“I’ve been praying to St. Anthony to bring my dogs home,” the second woman said. (Among many other jobs, Anthony is the patron saint of lost articles, the seekers of lost articles, and animals.)
“Well,” I said, looking away, “my name’s Anthony, but I’m no saint.”
Peace.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Superman and Wonder Woman
...sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g...But not really. I just thought it was funny.
MEANWHILE....
DC Comics sends me preview/review materials from time to time, and when I like something I write about it. Recently, DC sent me copies of Superman No. 700 and Wonder Woman No. 600. (Those numbers supposedly reflect the number of times their comics have published since their inception, because both of them have had relaunches over the years and their current series are far from the double-naughts shown.) Both issues are "event" issues, good jumping-on points for people who don't normally read their books. I'd be amazed if such a thing actually worked; that is, that regular monthly readership significantly increased beyond the special issues, even though both of them herald a "bold, new" direction for their titular stars.
That's because I find the "bold, new" directions kind of lame and old instead.
In Superman's book, the Man of Steel has been off-planet for a while saving the universe. He comes back to earth and during a press conference or something a woman slaps him in the face and blames him for not being on Earth when her husband was dying of a brain tumor. She seems to think a guy who has a journalism degree from Metropolis U could have used his X-ray vision and heat vision to perform surgery. Okay, so he's pretty smart, but let's face it: Superman is no brain surgeon. Anyway, her anger guilts him into thinking that maybe he doesn't spend enough time among the little people, so he decides to walk across America and get back in touch with folks on the ground.
OK, I'll buy that. Could make for interesting stories, I guess. I mean, it worked for several seasons of The Incredible Hulk. And it even worked for a 12-issue mini series called "Midnight Nation" written by J. Michael Straczinski (of Babylon 5) back in the 1990s. The same guy who's writing this 12-issue arc of Superman. So, the idea is neither bold nor new, not for the writer or the reader. Add to this, however, the fact that DC is promoting this "epic" by asking people to write a short essay to enter their hometowns in a contest: Superman could visit YOUR TOWN during his journey. Small print: Any town within 50 miles of a handful of specific major cities is eligible, and NONE of those cities is a Southern state. So, apparently, Superman loves the USA so long as its north of the Mason-Dixon or west of Texas.
I would think DC could find something for Supes to do along the Gulf Coast this year. He could at least get into an argument with Aquaman somewhere out among the oil soaked beaches. Or maybe he could walk through Oklahoma City; this is, after all, the 15th anniversary year of the bombing there. But no, he'll go to Denver, Las Vegas, Seattle, and so on.
MEANWHILE...
Diana Prince, who was enough of a feminist icon to be featured on the cover of Ms. Magazine back in the day, is now considered more up-to-date by putting her in black pants, a red bustier, and a tiny Members Only jacket (see below). Loads of geek sites have had their say, and many poked fun listing all the ways this is NOT a costume for today (hit all those links for examples), as it went out of style in comics back in the 1990s. And I have to ask you: If they dressed Superman in black pants and a red shirt and a blue jacket, would you recognize him? I'm thinking this is a way to establish a costume that will translate to a "serious" movie, much as they took Wolverine out of his yellow Spandex and put him in black leather for the X-men films.
So yeah, sometimes it ain't easy to be a DC fanboy. But then, it's not like I was buying either of these comics anyway.
Of the two issues they provided, I enjoyed the WW better. Both had three short storylines written and illustrated by creators with a tie to the characters, but whereas the Superman issue seemed more of a disjointed hodgepodge used to fill space ("Gosh, we have a special issue coming up; what do we have sitting around that we could shove into it?") the WW issue had super-special all over it, with several full-page mini-posters by some of the best artists in the business, stories that tied loose ends in the Amazon's ongoing continuity, and a strange lead-in to the "altered time line" that gives us the all-new, less powerful, "I don't know who I am" cliche of a super heroine. Yeah, the final third of the book leaves me cynical and cold, but that opening sequence by George Perez is pretty cool.
Here's a preview of Superman 700 in case you're interested (pdf format).
Here's a preview of Wonder Woman 600 (also a pdf) but it doesn't get to the new costume/alternative history.
And just for chuckles, here's a preview of Batman 700, which I have not read and can't comment on.
Thus ends the rant. For now.
Got any thoughts? Preferences? Read any good comics lately?
Peace.
MEANWHILE....
DC Comics sends me preview/review materials from time to time, and when I like something I write about it. Recently, DC sent me copies of Superman No. 700 and Wonder Woman No. 600. (Those numbers supposedly reflect the number of times their comics have published since their inception, because both of them have had relaunches over the years and their current series are far from the double-naughts shown.) Both issues are "event" issues, good jumping-on points for people who don't normally read their books. I'd be amazed if such a thing actually worked; that is, that regular monthly readership significantly increased beyond the special issues, even though both of them herald a "bold, new" direction for their titular stars.
That's because I find the "bold, new" directions kind of lame and old instead.
OK, I'll buy that. Could make for interesting stories, I guess. I mean, it worked for several seasons of The Incredible Hulk. And it even worked for a 12-issue mini series called "Midnight Nation" written by J. Michael Straczinski (of Babylon 5) back in the 1990s. The same guy who's writing this 12-issue arc of Superman. So, the idea is neither bold nor new, not for the writer or the reader. Add to this, however, the fact that DC is promoting this "epic" by asking people to write a short essay to enter their hometowns in a contest: Superman could visit YOUR TOWN during his journey. Small print: Any town within 50 miles of a handful of specific major cities is eligible, and NONE of those cities is a Southern state. So, apparently, Superman loves the USA so long as its north of the Mason-Dixon or west of Texas.
I would think DC could find something for Supes to do along the Gulf Coast this year. He could at least get into an argument with Aquaman somewhere out among the oil soaked beaches. Or maybe he could walk through Oklahoma City; this is, after all, the 15th anniversary year of the bombing there. But no, he'll go to Denver, Las Vegas, Seattle, and so on.
MEANWHILE...
So yeah, sometimes it ain't easy to be a DC fanboy. But then, it's not like I was buying either of these comics anyway.
Here's a preview of Superman 700 in case you're interested (pdf format).
Here's a preview of Wonder Woman 600 (also a pdf) but it doesn't get to the new costume/alternative history.
And just for chuckles, here's a preview of Batman 700, which I have not read and can't comment on.
Thus ends the rant. For now.
Got any thoughts? Preferences? Read any good comics lately?
Peace.
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