Snowflakes whirled gently against the window of Cyrus Foley's room at the New York State Recovery Center. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, sighing impatiently.
Edmund O'Hurley sat on the bed, looking nervously around the room.
"You got some pretty flowers, Cyrus."
Cyrus continued to look out the window.
"The nurses bring 'em. Everyone has the same ones."
A silence descended in the room. The wind whipped angrily outside.
"Cyrus...I'm sorry I ain't been around much to see you. It being the holidays..."
Cyrus finally turned from the window.
"They told me you came. While I was out."
"You were out for a real long time. I just didn't want to see you like that."
July 4th, 1936; Cyrus Foley was the lone person inside the First Manhattan bank when the first floor collapsed, trapping him inside. American Justice quickly rescued him from the rubble, and he was whisked off to the hospital. But by then, the damage was done. The L1, L2, and L3 vertebrae were completely crushed. He sustained internal damage, and surgery was necessary to stop several massive bleeds in his organs. His spleen was damaged beyond repair and removed. He also suffered from a skull fracture that resulted in a hemorrhage and stroke during surgery. Luckily, he survived the surgery, but remained in a coma for over a month and a half, and was not aware of his surroundings for another two weeks. After nearly five months of rehab in the hospital, he was transferred to the recovery center for further treatment.
"A nurse was sayin' you're doin' really well, Cyrus."
"Not well enough to walk."
Edmund looked down bashfully. Cyrus saw the look.
"I'm sorry Edmund. I'm sorry. It's just such a bitch of a thing being in this chair. Such a bitch. Y'know it just changes everything. Not one single thing is the same now. I can't even look you in the face when you're standing."
The 6'6" Irishman smiled. "Not that you ever could."
Finally, a small smile broke across Cyrus' lips.
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Gerald Bryce had always been an avid reader of newspapers. He read as many as he could get his hands on, sometimes four or five a day. The day after he walked away with 500,000 dollars in cash, all six of the newspapers he managed to find ran his heist on the front page. He clipped out all the stories, posting them on the wall of his apartment. But it wasn't until the last clipping, a late edition, that he found a detail that was not in the others. He had known that people would get hurt. He had even figured that someone might die. But the thought of a man being stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life was something he could scarcely comprehend. Bringing death to capitalism was one thing. But sentencing a man to a life of imprisonment was something entirely different. And horrific.
He read the newspapers avidly in the coming weeks, searching for any clues about Cyrus' status. After awhile, the papers stopped reporting. The story ran cold. And Gerald Bryce began to have nightmares.
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With Cyrus in recovery, both hero and villain were frozen in stasis. But the nation around them was moving. And it had not forgotten the newest sensation. The New Yorker pitted American Justice against all sorts of theoretical villains in it's weekly cartoon, while on the west coast, the topic was getting an even more popular treatment: the still blossoming world of talking pictures.
Twentieth Century Fox (recently merged, pulling Fox studios out of the gutter) released the very first super hero picture in 1937: The Face of Justice. The film, starring leading man Tyrone Power, was essentially a super hero remake of the uber popular Tyrone Power film "The Mark of Zorro" (which was itself a remake of Douglas Fairbanks' hit). Power played the mild mannered socialite Jonathan Summers who shed his foppish exterior during the nighttime to assume the moniker Justice.
The film was an absolute smash, almost rivaling The Mark of Zorro. At the Academy Awards it was, to the surprise of many, nominated for Best Picture, though it lost to The Life of Emile Zola (dir. Henry Blanke). It did, however, win an award for Best Cinematography and set the stage for decades of super hero films that would follow.
With the success of The Face of Justice, the idea of vigilantism became more widespread:
In California, an unknown performer from Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus began to do work as a hero in the streets of Sacramento. The masked hero was a rather impressive acrobat, and although he didn't do much in the way of catching criminals, he was an excellent showman, and did much to pave the way for "L.A. Heroes" that would come after him. Some believe that he was the famous clown Emmet Kelly, but Kelly denied this even until his death in 1979.
Elsewhere in the Golden State, highway patrolman Larry Cecemsky decided to trade in his regular uniform for a bright blue and red outfit his wife had sewn for him, including a large cape featuring the American Flag. Drivers caught speeding were stunned by the bright character riding behind them and pulled over immediately. Cecemsky was at first suspended for a day for failing to wear his uniform. Though later on he would attend events at schools in his super hero outfit preaching safety.
However not all acts of early super heroism turned out with such bright results. In Idaho, a firefighter named Blake Underhill donned his firefighting gear, called himself The Forester, and proceeded to break up a bar fight. With an ax. He was sentenced to death, marking him as the first "hero" ever punished by the law and with the worst consequences. (As an interesting note, Underhill is one of two people ever put to death by law in Idaho.)
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Cyrus Foley could do nothing but smile as he sat in the dark movie theater. He was one of thousands of people who saw Tyrone Power in his newest blockbuster. And the story seemed plausible enough. He supposed that it actually made less sense for the beloved superhero to be an immigrant that had kids he had trouble feeding all the time. That would have felt like fiction. Who would really believe that the pride of the neighborhood was a guy who would have been laughed out of most of the banks he stood guard in?
Cyrus wheeled himself out of the back row and through the doors before the movie was even over. He didn't have the patience he used to, and spending a long time in the chair made him fidget. Besides, he knew how the story would end. The bad guy would end up in jail. Tyrone Power would lay a big kiss on that dame in the picture, and they'd go off together. Of course next year she'd get kidnapped or something and Power would have to put his costume back on to save her. Truth can be so much stranger than fiction. Yes indeed.
Cyrus didn't notice, or even think to look around for, the thin, almost gaunt figure that followed him out of the theater and on to the street.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The History of Superheroes in America: 1936
In 1936, American Justice caught the break that would propel him into national status.
Jack "Machine Gun" McGurn was being hunted in Central City. The G Men were cracking down hard on gangsters and bank robbers in the city, and the heat was on for McGurn. After 1931, when Al Capone went down for tax evasion, McGurn had been left out to fend for himself, which was something he found difficult in the crowded market of Central City. So by the time 1936 came around, he was finding getting by to be something of a challenge.
McGurn headed to New York, hoping to find a fresh start. But what he ended up finding was a rude awakening.
The fact is, what happened on February 3rd, 1936 was absolutely accidental. But by the end of the day, it didn't matter how it happened.
McGurn's hands were shaking, but just barely. The muzzle of his Thompson submachine gun wavered, but held firm at the bank teller's head. The bank teller, a young blonde man, was breathing hard. Hands shaking, he stuffed the money into the burlap sack. McGurn flashed him a quick smile as he took the bag away. He kept the muzzle trained on the man as he backed away from the counter and through the revolving doors.
And from the revolving doors, he ran straight into American Justice.
Cyrus had brought American Justice out to the bank that day so they could both see the bank manager in person; he had been working on a deal to get the bank to hire American Justice as a guard a couple times a week. Good for the bank, good for American Justice (not to mention, good for Cyrus Foley). What they didn't expect was to run smack into one of America's most wanted.
McGurn's head bounced off the metal chest plates and from there, he slipped and fell down the steps of the First Bank of Brooklyn, his gun clattering into the street. The pedestrians around the bank flew into a panic at the sight of the gun. Which was good for our hero, because no one heard the frenzied hiss of Cyrus Foley (who was nothing if not a self described opportunist). "Get him, Justice!" And with a shove, American Justice was bounding down the steps, hot on the trail of McGurn, who was busy scrambling for his gun.
A strong right hook later, McGurn was out cold. The police arrived soon after (with the press hot on their tail), and by the end of the hour, American Justice was well on his way to becoming a bona fide sensation. The front page of the New York Times on February 4th, 1936 read "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" and featured a smiling American justice holding up the unconscious Jack McGurn.
American Justice had arrived.
The next few months were a blur for both American Justice and Cyrus Foley. As Foley writes in his memoirs,
"After McGurn went down, 1936 became a blur. All of a sudden, everyone in the world seemed to want a piece of American Justice. Every newspaper, every radio show, even [New York mayor] Fiorello La Guardia wanted to meet the big guy. And of course, I was more than happy to take whatever windfalls came out of that. Wherever the big guy went, I was right behind. People'd see him, and see me right behind. Hear his name, but hear my voice (I was doing all the speaking for him then).
The big guy was a little camera shy, but he had more than enough money to buy presents for the kiddies, new dresses for the wife. Me on the other hand, I spent most nights out in the city, becoming a regular barfly. Most places I'd go, drinks'd be comped (everyone liked havin' a celebrity in the bar). Women'd come up; attention like I'd never had. It was a hell of a ride for those months.
Of course, in those months we also got soft. We were in the gym once a week at best. Spent more time publicizing and enjoying ourselves and less time out on the street. If we'd have paid more attention...if we'd have been on hour toes...things on July 4th would probably have turned out different."
But things were not different. And they were not prepared. And July 4th took them, and everyone else, by complete surprise.
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Almost seven months previous to that date, a young man was standing in a beautifully decorated, leather lined office, fighting for his livelihood.
He was tall and lean. Not spindly, but thin enough that he was called Ichabod in his youth. When looking at him, one could not help but be drawn to his eyes. A pale blue, almost gray, they burned like a wildfire, engulfing all he gazed upon. His long fingers, nails bitten to the quick, were pressed hard against the back of the chair he was leaning on. His usually well styled hair was now standing in a tussled mop, the stress of the situation seeming to scream out of him in all directions. He was lean, fit, and intense. His name was Gerald Bryce.
Gerald stared at the man across from him, Harold W. Dodds, president of Princeton University. There was a long, angry silence. No words crossed the oak desk that Woodrow Wilson had bought during his time as president of the university. Neither man was quite sure what to say, though the issue that brought them here was incredibly clear:
On the last day of the previous semester, Professor Gerald Bryce, during the final class session of his Economics 101 class, had given an incredibly simple exam. It had but one question: Why doesn't capitalism work?
After the winter break, Gerald had been asked to not return to his post. Which quickly brought him to the office of the president. Which quickly brought him to the current stalemate he was facing. There was no winning this battle. Gerald knew it before he even walked through the door. And now, with angry tears welling up in his eyes, Gerald gave the statement that would, many years from then, be inscripted on his gravestone:
"You can kick me out. But that doesn't mean I'm not right."
And he left.
He spent the end rest of the winter months in a deep depression. In the office that day he had been firm and resolute. Now, sitting in his bare flat, he realized that that job had been one of his defining features, like a cheekbone or a dimple. How do you get along with cheekbones?
He pined for a month. Sat gloomily as the snow whipped around outside. It was hard enough finding a job for men who were big and strong and willing to work. Much harder to find a job with a strong mind, but a weak body. What was he going to do?
By the end of January, he was still out of work. Worse yet, his savings was beginning to dwindle. A few months and he'd be completely broke. He had no direction, no guide. No purpose whatsoever.
That is, until February 4th, 1936. "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" read the front page of the Times. And there he was. A big smile. Bright eyes. Draped in the stars and stripes. The big, stupid, ugly grin of Capitalism splashed across the front page. And all of a sudden, there was purpose.
By the end of February, the plan was drafted. He thought long and hard about the idea behind American Justice. About the entire package. American Justice used his brawn to spread the ideals of Capitalism and the American way. So what about the opposite? Someone who abandoned strength in favor of intelligence, to present a view to counter the capitalist fat cats that were running the nation. Someone who favored the people and favored benefiting everyone as opposed to throwing people behind bars.
It started with something Dodds had said while Gerald was being fired. He had tried to brush him off, saying that they needed the classroom to be converted into a chemistry lab. That they had already begun the conversion. Gerald searched through the boxes he brought home from his office. And found what he was looking for.
He opened the door quietly, slipping the spare key into his pocket. It was a Saturday (February 22nd by that point), and the chances of anyone finding him were slim, but he still didn't want to take any chances.
True to his word, Dodds and the university had already converted his old classroom for a new batch of chemistry students. The tables and chairs had been replaced by lab tables, equipped with gas nozzles, with cabinets underneath. A trip to the library a week before had told him what he required. Hands shaking, he looked through boxes and bottles, searching for the chemicals he needed.
His hands didn't stop shaking till he was back at his apartment. He carefully set the box of chemicals down on his kitchen table. And from there, the work began.
Gerald refused to ever detail what chemicals he used or what process he undertook in order to make the explosives. But by the middle of March, he was finished, and able to move on to the next phase of his plan.
He bought almost and entire bolt of fabric to build the costume, and it took him almost a full month of work to complete it; he had never touched needle to thread before and his fumbling hands were unready for the difficulties that making an entire suit brought. At the end of the month, he tried it on. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry; the suit fit so badly, the seams were jagged and crooked, and one sleeve was half the size of the other.
The next day he brought the remaining fabric to a seamstress that lived in his building. A few extra bills assured her silence, and two weeks later, the suit was ready.
On April 12th, he was able to wear the suit for the first time. As he described it in his autobiography, "Battling the Gods of Capitalism":
"The suit was absolutely magnificent. A deep red from tip to toe. Red shirt, red pants (loose enough to move in of course). Red gloves. Matched with boots I bought and a mask Mariska [the seamstress] made me (just an eye mask like Douglas Fairbanks as Zorro). I could feel the power coursing through my veins just wearing the suit. I felt powerful. Brilliant. Magnificent. Menacing. Menacing. That was it. The perfect word for all of it."
The final step in the plan took place at the the New York County Courthouse. The most important part of the plan was, in fact, the easiest. The clerk smiled, slightly bored, and was more than happy to hand over the original blueprints to the First Bank of Manhattan. Gerald sat and studied them for a full day, making notes and plans. The clerk read a novel.
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July 4th was incredibly humid day. The mercury wasn't much above 80, but with 90% humidity, the city felt like a pressure cooker, ready to explode.
Trying hard to ride on the coattails of the new upswing of patriotism American Justice had brought to the Burroughs, the city decided that a Fourth of July parade was the perfect idea.
Thousands of people turned out to line up along the parade route that wound its way through the streets of Manhattan. American flags waved in nearly every hand; children sat on the shoulders of their parents, watching as huge balloons and floats passed by. And at the back of the parade was a huge red, white, and blue eagle with American Justice perched on top.
Cyrus Foley watched in awe from his spot at the bottom of the eagle float, waving a huge American flag and looking out over the crowd. Never in his life had he achieved such incredible success. Never had he been in a position of such power. He was in the prime of his life and his career.
So he thought.
Half way through the parade route, a large balloon was casting a shadow over the First Bank of Manhattan. The bank was closed for the holiday, and to any passers-by that might look in, the bank was truly closed for business. However, inside the doors, the bank was bustling with activity. A solitary man, dressed from head to toe in bright crimson, was busy in the basement, carefully unpacking a dozen duffel bags onto the stone tile floor.
As the parade was half way through, a beat cop named Timothy Moen was walking by the First Bank of Manhattan. He had passed by the bank several times that day, as it marked the northern border of his beat. He of course knew that the bank was closed, so he hadn't paid much attention to the lobby (which he usually did on normal days). But as he passed by the final time, something caught his eye: strapped to all of the marble pillars in the bank lobby were very large, overstuffed bags. Timothy had just long enough to formulate the question in his mind before his world went dark.
The giant eagle was just passing the large glass doors of the bank when they exploded. The bombs ripped through the lobby of the bank, sending a fine mist of glass raining over the crowd. But what followed the glass was a complete surprise: money. The sky above the crowed was completely darkened by thousands of bills of all denominations. The crowd was scrambling over each other, fighting to stuff the bills in their pockets. Police were scrambling, trying to control the crowd while fighting them to get to the gaping doors of the bank. A solid five minutes passed before the police finally pushed the crowds away from the door, and only after almost fifty uniformed policeman came to the scene.
When the bombs went off, the concussion knocked American Justice off his perch and on to the floor of the float below. Cyrus rushed to him, frantically trying to get him back on his feet. A few fretful moments passed with American Justice almost unconscious, but finally he was up and on his feet, leaping off the float and making his way for the doors.
An ambulance arrived by the time there was a group ready to enter the bank. Six hesitant policeman drew their guns and entered the bank, lead by American Justice (with Cyrus Foley at the rear of the group).
As they passed through the doors, they noticed the strange amount of smoke that had filled the room. It was far more than the bomb could have possibly made, and the amount was growing. The officers coughed and covered their faces, but American Justice pushed on, trying to make his way through the smoke.
"Stop!" cried a voice in the haze.
They froze without even thinking about it.
"Who are you?" shouted American Justice.
"You'll know soon enough! All you need to know now is that if you follow what I say, no one gets hurt."
"How do you know someone hasn't already been hurt?"
American Justice listen intently in the gloom, trying to find the source of the voice. He inched his way forward, trying to be as quiet as possible.
"I told you to stop!" The voice shrieked.
Everything was still and quiet for a long moment; only the smoke moved, slowly twisting in the choked sunlight.
"I have sat by for too long," the voice continued, "watching the capitalist pigs bleed the populace of this nation dry, crushing the soul of the proletariat under an iron fist. But today is the day that everything changes. Today is the day that the common man takes back his life. Today is the day that the people become truly free. The day they take their money and their livelihood away from the politicians and back where it really belongs: the hands of the people! You'll know soon. You'll understand. You're all to blind to see it now. But soon your eyes will be truly open and you'll join me in the cause! Today, the citizens of America gain back their freedom from the cruel tyrant of capitalism and take back what is rightfully theirs. Today, is our Independence day!"
The smoke began to clear, and the group was surprised to find a thin man in a large red cape standing in front of them. The police drew their guns back into position, but in an instant, another explosion ripped through the lobby, sending smoke and debris everywhere. The group made their way back to the entrance as the sound of crumbling stone sounded all around them. A scream was heard as the pillars collapsed, filling the lobby with rubble.
As the dust settled, the group sat, dazed, on the sidewalk. The police counted their number, and all were accounted for. American Justice kneeled on the curb, trying to catch his breath. His eyes still clearing, he called for Cyrus. But no one responded. Panicking, he jumped back to his feet. He looked around and, not finding Cyrus anywhere, rushed back into the bank.
He barely heard the policemen calling to him as the blood rushed through his ears. He pushed aside the large stones that had once been ceilings and walls, trying to find his friend. He screamed Cyrus' name over and over, pushing handfulls of gravel and rock back towards the entrance. Finally, he kneeled, looking into the smoky darkness of the bank, defeated.
"Is anyone there?"
The voice was small and strained, but American Justice knew it immediately. He bolted deep into the lobby, and after some searching, found Cyrus. He was covered in dust and dirt and on the edge of consciousness, but alive.
At the end of July 4th, half a dozen people ended up in the hospital, with injuries ranging from minor to critical. Timothy Moen, the beat cop that had witnessed the blast, suffered a severe concussion when his head struck the pavement. He died of a cranial hemorrhage a week later. Out of the survivors, the most severe injury was a patient with a broken spine who ended up as a permanent paraplegic.
That patient was Cyrus Foley.
On July 4th, 1936, the world changed yet again. Till then, people had witnessed the actions of a superhero against a normal world. But after the bank robbery, something completely new entered the fray. From then on, we would see the development of a completely new breed of human; the perfect foil to the completely idealistic superhero. For Independence Day of 1936 gave birth to the supervillain.
Jack "Machine Gun" McGurn was being hunted in Central City. The G Men were cracking down hard on gangsters and bank robbers in the city, and the heat was on for McGurn. After 1931, when Al Capone went down for tax evasion, McGurn had been left out to fend for himself, which was something he found difficult in the crowded market of Central City. So by the time 1936 came around, he was finding getting by to be something of a challenge.
McGurn headed to New York, hoping to find a fresh start. But what he ended up finding was a rude awakening.
The fact is, what happened on February 3rd, 1936 was absolutely accidental. But by the end of the day, it didn't matter how it happened.
McGurn's hands were shaking, but just barely. The muzzle of his Thompson submachine gun wavered, but held firm at the bank teller's head. The bank teller, a young blonde man, was breathing hard. Hands shaking, he stuffed the money into the burlap sack. McGurn flashed him a quick smile as he took the bag away. He kept the muzzle trained on the man as he backed away from the counter and through the revolving doors.
And from the revolving doors, he ran straight into American Justice.
Cyrus had brought American Justice out to the bank that day so they could both see the bank manager in person; he had been working on a deal to get the bank to hire American Justice as a guard a couple times a week. Good for the bank, good for American Justice (not to mention, good for Cyrus Foley). What they didn't expect was to run smack into one of America's most wanted.
McGurn's head bounced off the metal chest plates and from there, he slipped and fell down the steps of the First Bank of Brooklyn, his gun clattering into the street. The pedestrians around the bank flew into a panic at the sight of the gun. Which was good for our hero, because no one heard the frenzied hiss of Cyrus Foley (who was nothing if not a self described opportunist). "Get him, Justice!" And with a shove, American Justice was bounding down the steps, hot on the trail of McGurn, who was busy scrambling for his gun.
A strong right hook later, McGurn was out cold. The police arrived soon after (with the press hot on their tail), and by the end of the hour, American Justice was well on his way to becoming a bona fide sensation. The front page of the New York Times on February 4th, 1936 read "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" and featured a smiling American justice holding up the unconscious Jack McGurn.
American Justice had arrived.
The next few months were a blur for both American Justice and Cyrus Foley. As Foley writes in his memoirs,
"After McGurn went down, 1936 became a blur. All of a sudden, everyone in the world seemed to want a piece of American Justice. Every newspaper, every radio show, even [New York mayor] Fiorello La Guardia wanted to meet the big guy. And of course, I was more than happy to take whatever windfalls came out of that. Wherever the big guy went, I was right behind. People'd see him, and see me right behind. Hear his name, but hear my voice (I was doing all the speaking for him then).
The big guy was a little camera shy, but he had more than enough money to buy presents for the kiddies, new dresses for the wife. Me on the other hand, I spent most nights out in the city, becoming a regular barfly. Most places I'd go, drinks'd be comped (everyone liked havin' a celebrity in the bar). Women'd come up; attention like I'd never had. It was a hell of a ride for those months.
Of course, in those months we also got soft. We were in the gym once a week at best. Spent more time publicizing and enjoying ourselves and less time out on the street. If we'd have paid more attention...if we'd have been on hour toes...things on July 4th would probably have turned out different."
But things were not different. And they were not prepared. And July 4th took them, and everyone else, by complete surprise.
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Almost seven months previous to that date, a young man was standing in a beautifully decorated, leather lined office, fighting for his livelihood.
He was tall and lean. Not spindly, but thin enough that he was called Ichabod in his youth. When looking at him, one could not help but be drawn to his eyes. A pale blue, almost gray, they burned like a wildfire, engulfing all he gazed upon. His long fingers, nails bitten to the quick, were pressed hard against the back of the chair he was leaning on. His usually well styled hair was now standing in a tussled mop, the stress of the situation seeming to scream out of him in all directions. He was lean, fit, and intense. His name was Gerald Bryce.
Gerald stared at the man across from him, Harold W. Dodds, president of Princeton University. There was a long, angry silence. No words crossed the oak desk that Woodrow Wilson had bought during his time as president of the university. Neither man was quite sure what to say, though the issue that brought them here was incredibly clear:
On the last day of the previous semester, Professor Gerald Bryce, during the final class session of his Economics 101 class, had given an incredibly simple exam. It had but one question: Why doesn't capitalism work?
After the winter break, Gerald had been asked to not return to his post. Which quickly brought him to the office of the president. Which quickly brought him to the current stalemate he was facing. There was no winning this battle. Gerald knew it before he even walked through the door. And now, with angry tears welling up in his eyes, Gerald gave the statement that would, many years from then, be inscripted on his gravestone:
"You can kick me out. But that doesn't mean I'm not right."
And he left.
He spent the end rest of the winter months in a deep depression. In the office that day he had been firm and resolute. Now, sitting in his bare flat, he realized that that job had been one of his defining features, like a cheekbone or a dimple. How do you get along with cheekbones?
He pined for a month. Sat gloomily as the snow whipped around outside. It was hard enough finding a job for men who were big and strong and willing to work. Much harder to find a job with a strong mind, but a weak body. What was he going to do?
By the end of January, he was still out of work. Worse yet, his savings was beginning to dwindle. A few months and he'd be completely broke. He had no direction, no guide. No purpose whatsoever.
That is, until February 4th, 1936. "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" read the front page of the Times. And there he was. A big smile. Bright eyes. Draped in the stars and stripes. The big, stupid, ugly grin of Capitalism splashed across the front page. And all of a sudden, there was purpose.
By the end of February, the plan was drafted. He thought long and hard about the idea behind American Justice. About the entire package. American Justice used his brawn to spread the ideals of Capitalism and the American way. So what about the opposite? Someone who abandoned strength in favor of intelligence, to present a view to counter the capitalist fat cats that were running the nation. Someone who favored the people and favored benefiting everyone as opposed to throwing people behind bars.
It started with something Dodds had said while Gerald was being fired. He had tried to brush him off, saying that they needed the classroom to be converted into a chemistry lab. That they had already begun the conversion. Gerald searched through the boxes he brought home from his office. And found what he was looking for.
He opened the door quietly, slipping the spare key into his pocket. It was a Saturday (February 22nd by that point), and the chances of anyone finding him were slim, but he still didn't want to take any chances.
True to his word, Dodds and the university had already converted his old classroom for a new batch of chemistry students. The tables and chairs had been replaced by lab tables, equipped with gas nozzles, with cabinets underneath. A trip to the library a week before had told him what he required. Hands shaking, he looked through boxes and bottles, searching for the chemicals he needed.
His hands didn't stop shaking till he was back at his apartment. He carefully set the box of chemicals down on his kitchen table. And from there, the work began.
Gerald refused to ever detail what chemicals he used or what process he undertook in order to make the explosives. But by the middle of March, he was finished, and able to move on to the next phase of his plan.
He bought almost and entire bolt of fabric to build the costume, and it took him almost a full month of work to complete it; he had never touched needle to thread before and his fumbling hands were unready for the difficulties that making an entire suit brought. At the end of the month, he tried it on. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry; the suit fit so badly, the seams were jagged and crooked, and one sleeve was half the size of the other.
The next day he brought the remaining fabric to a seamstress that lived in his building. A few extra bills assured her silence, and two weeks later, the suit was ready.
On April 12th, he was able to wear the suit for the first time. As he described it in his autobiography, "Battling the Gods of Capitalism":
"The suit was absolutely magnificent. A deep red from tip to toe. Red shirt, red pants (loose enough to move in of course). Red gloves. Matched with boots I bought and a mask Mariska [the seamstress] made me (just an eye mask like Douglas Fairbanks as Zorro). I could feel the power coursing through my veins just wearing the suit. I felt powerful. Brilliant. Magnificent. Menacing. Menacing. That was it. The perfect word for all of it."
The final step in the plan took place at the the New York County Courthouse. The most important part of the plan was, in fact, the easiest. The clerk smiled, slightly bored, and was more than happy to hand over the original blueprints to the First Bank of Manhattan. Gerald sat and studied them for a full day, making notes and plans. The clerk read a novel.
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July 4th was incredibly humid day. The mercury wasn't much above 80, but with 90% humidity, the city felt like a pressure cooker, ready to explode.
Trying hard to ride on the coattails of the new upswing of patriotism American Justice had brought to the Burroughs, the city decided that a Fourth of July parade was the perfect idea.
Thousands of people turned out to line up along the parade route that wound its way through the streets of Manhattan. American flags waved in nearly every hand; children sat on the shoulders of their parents, watching as huge balloons and floats passed by. And at the back of the parade was a huge red, white, and blue eagle with American Justice perched on top.
Cyrus Foley watched in awe from his spot at the bottom of the eagle float, waving a huge American flag and looking out over the crowd. Never in his life had he achieved such incredible success. Never had he been in a position of such power. He was in the prime of his life and his career.
So he thought.
Half way through the parade route, a large balloon was casting a shadow over the First Bank of Manhattan. The bank was closed for the holiday, and to any passers-by that might look in, the bank was truly closed for business. However, inside the doors, the bank was bustling with activity. A solitary man, dressed from head to toe in bright crimson, was busy in the basement, carefully unpacking a dozen duffel bags onto the stone tile floor.
As the parade was half way through, a beat cop named Timothy Moen was walking by the First Bank of Manhattan. He had passed by the bank several times that day, as it marked the northern border of his beat. He of course knew that the bank was closed, so he hadn't paid much attention to the lobby (which he usually did on normal days). But as he passed by the final time, something caught his eye: strapped to all of the marble pillars in the bank lobby were very large, overstuffed bags. Timothy had just long enough to formulate the question in his mind before his world went dark.
The giant eagle was just passing the large glass doors of the bank when they exploded. The bombs ripped through the lobby of the bank, sending a fine mist of glass raining over the crowd. But what followed the glass was a complete surprise: money. The sky above the crowed was completely darkened by thousands of bills of all denominations. The crowd was scrambling over each other, fighting to stuff the bills in their pockets. Police were scrambling, trying to control the crowd while fighting them to get to the gaping doors of the bank. A solid five minutes passed before the police finally pushed the crowds away from the door, and only after almost fifty uniformed policeman came to the scene.
When the bombs went off, the concussion knocked American Justice off his perch and on to the floor of the float below. Cyrus rushed to him, frantically trying to get him back on his feet. A few fretful moments passed with American Justice almost unconscious, but finally he was up and on his feet, leaping off the float and making his way for the doors.
An ambulance arrived by the time there was a group ready to enter the bank. Six hesitant policeman drew their guns and entered the bank, lead by American Justice (with Cyrus Foley at the rear of the group).
As they passed through the doors, they noticed the strange amount of smoke that had filled the room. It was far more than the bomb could have possibly made, and the amount was growing. The officers coughed and covered their faces, but American Justice pushed on, trying to make his way through the smoke.
"Stop!" cried a voice in the haze.
They froze without even thinking about it.
"Who are you?" shouted American Justice.
"You'll know soon enough! All you need to know now is that if you follow what I say, no one gets hurt."
"How do you know someone hasn't already been hurt?"
American Justice listen intently in the gloom, trying to find the source of the voice. He inched his way forward, trying to be as quiet as possible.
"I told you to stop!" The voice shrieked.
Everything was still and quiet for a long moment; only the smoke moved, slowly twisting in the choked sunlight.
"I have sat by for too long," the voice continued, "watching the capitalist pigs bleed the populace of this nation dry, crushing the soul of the proletariat under an iron fist. But today is the day that everything changes. Today is the day that the common man takes back his life. Today is the day that the people become truly free. The day they take their money and their livelihood away from the politicians and back where it really belongs: the hands of the people! You'll know soon. You'll understand. You're all to blind to see it now. But soon your eyes will be truly open and you'll join me in the cause! Today, the citizens of America gain back their freedom from the cruel tyrant of capitalism and take back what is rightfully theirs. Today, is our Independence day!"
The smoke began to clear, and the group was surprised to find a thin man in a large red cape standing in front of them. The police drew their guns back into position, but in an instant, another explosion ripped through the lobby, sending smoke and debris everywhere. The group made their way back to the entrance as the sound of crumbling stone sounded all around them. A scream was heard as the pillars collapsed, filling the lobby with rubble.
As the dust settled, the group sat, dazed, on the sidewalk. The police counted their number, and all were accounted for. American Justice kneeled on the curb, trying to catch his breath. His eyes still clearing, he called for Cyrus. But no one responded. Panicking, he jumped back to his feet. He looked around and, not finding Cyrus anywhere, rushed back into the bank.
He barely heard the policemen calling to him as the blood rushed through his ears. He pushed aside the large stones that had once been ceilings and walls, trying to find his friend. He screamed Cyrus' name over and over, pushing handfulls of gravel and rock back towards the entrance. Finally, he kneeled, looking into the smoky darkness of the bank, defeated.
"Is anyone there?"
The voice was small and strained, but American Justice knew it immediately. He bolted deep into the lobby, and after some searching, found Cyrus. He was covered in dust and dirt and on the edge of consciousness, but alive.
At the end of July 4th, half a dozen people ended up in the hospital, with injuries ranging from minor to critical. Timothy Moen, the beat cop that had witnessed the blast, suffered a severe concussion when his head struck the pavement. He died of a cranial hemorrhage a week later. Out of the survivors, the most severe injury was a patient with a broken spine who ended up as a permanent paraplegic.
That patient was Cyrus Foley.
On July 4th, 1936, the world changed yet again. Till then, people had witnessed the actions of a superhero against a normal world. But after the bank robbery, something completely new entered the fray. From then on, we would see the development of a completely new breed of human; the perfect foil to the completely idealistic superhero. For Independence Day of 1936 gave birth to the supervillain.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The History of Superheroes in America: 1935
The turn of the new year brought about an event that instantly changed the course of American history.
Cyrus Foley had spent the winter months planning the big reveal of his big creation, and he found the perfect opportunity.
January 1st, 1935 saw a near capacity crowd at Madison Square Garden. In an effort to boost morale in the city, an event had been proposed to sell nickel and dime tickets to one of the most highly anticipated professional wrestling matches of the year. Grizzly Johnson, one of the most feared and hated men in the sport, was taking on the current champion, and all expectations were on him winning handily.
Grizzly Johnson took the title quickly, which led the way for what was the be the true main event of the evening. A few palms had been greased and a few winks and nods exchanged with Cyrus and organizers of the match that led to Grizzly taking the stadium microphone and presenting a challenge to the crowd, asking for someone who thought themselves man enough to step up and face him in the ring. Jeers and laughs ripped through the crowd as men all over nudged buddies and brothers, trying to get someone to step up and take the challenge. But before anyone could build up the courage (liquid or otherwise), the back doors to the arena burst open and in walked, as Cyrus describes:
"He was the biggest damn thing in the whole building, including the columns holding it all up. We'd painted his armor red, white, and blue, so he came striding down the aisle (me right behind him, of course) looking like a great big American flag, gleaming in the lights of Madison Square Garden. You could feel the whole energy of the place change as he walked in. Every eye was focused on him. Sons trying to scoot higher on the shoulders of their fathers. Guys nudging each other trying to get a better look. Everyone dead silent trying to figure out what exactly came in the doors." (Foley)
They entered the ring; the diminutive Foley next to the massive red white and blue hulk that O'Hurley had become. Foley took the microphone from Grizzly (who of course was in on the whole thing).
From The New York Times January 2, 1935:
"The manager, Cyrus Foley, took the microphone and addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, you are privy to one of the greatest events in American history. In 1776, a group of politicians watched the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In 1863, a group of soldiers heard the Gettysburg Address. And tonight, a group of New Yorkers, the best kind of people in the world, get to be witness to the birth of a whole different kind of American. A servant to the public. In fact, a servant to America. A proponent of capitalism. Of democracy. A being who stands for all that is good and true about America. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine and soon to be a friend of yours, the world's first true superhero: American Justice!"
Flashbulbs exploded all over the arena, as Edmund, now American Justice, flashed a million dollar grin back at the crowd. Grizzly Johnson, playing his part to a T, pushed Cyrus out of the way, presenting a challenge to American Justice. The crowd roared as Grizzley laid a right hook on American Justice that glanced off of his metal armor with a resounding "Ping!". The crowd rose to their feet as American Justice threw his opponent against the ropes and sent him careening out of the ring with a clothesline.
Madison Square Garden was buzzing with excitement long after American Justice had left the arena. Men stood around their seats, chatting up people they barely knew, ecstatic over what they had just seen. Cyrus Foley's plan had worked perfectly. American Justice became an instant sensation, and the genesis of superheroes had occurred.
The next few weeks was a whirlwind of interviews, both with newspapers and on the radio (though it should be noted that American Justice never actually spoke in the interviews. Cyrus Foley did all the talking.) Though never carried as "front page" news, the publicity lasted almost until spring, finally dying down when another economic slump hit and FDR and his actions were back on the front page.
By the time April came around, American Justice had left the news entirely. Cyrus Foley decided he needed something new and exciting to get his protege back into the limelight. Something bold. Something out of left field. Actual crime fighting perhaps?
Cyrus worked with Edmund in the gym, boosting both his muscles and his confidence, though under his veneer of bravado, Cyrus was feeling extremely nervous. As strong and as tough as Edmund was, he'd never actually seen him in action. When set against real criminals on the street, would he be able to make it?
Months passed with Edmund in training, and the small well of income supporting the operation were drying up. It was time to put him out there, whether or not he was ready.
July 3rd was an extremely hot day. The lines for the soup kitchens were extremely long, men dressed for work standing disgustedly, waiting for loaves of bread. The mercury rising towards 100, bringing tensions right along with it.
Cyrus drove his car slowly through the streets, waiting for something to happen. Edmund, in his full American Justice gear, sat in the back seat, hand on the handle of the suicide door, sweat dripping down his face.
It didn't take long till they caught the break they were waiting for. The car was turning a corner when all of a sudden, a plate glass window in a building shattered, littering the sidewalk with shards of glass. Right behind the hail of glass came the cause of the destruction, the chair he used as a battering ram still in his hands. The man never noticed the suicide door opening and the gleaming metal hulk spring out onto the sidewalk. He was too busy keeping the bag of money closed to notice the giant metal hand close around the back of his shirt. And by time he realized something was wrong, he was up in the air, a haymaker of a left hook heading towards his face.
The next morning, a smile had exploded onto Cyrus Foley, his small frame covered entirely with a grin. He let his hands trace over the newspapers spread across his desk. The Post, The Gazette, and even the Times couldn't resist putting American Justice all over the front page. Cyrus' phone had been ringing all morning, people asking for American Justice to make appearances, cut ribbons, with requests for photo ops at any business that had money to guard. Almost a dozen banks had asked for American Justice to be a "guard for a day".
1935 was turning out splendidly.
Cyrus Foley had spent the winter months planning the big reveal of his big creation, and he found the perfect opportunity.
January 1st, 1935 saw a near capacity crowd at Madison Square Garden. In an effort to boost morale in the city, an event had been proposed to sell nickel and dime tickets to one of the most highly anticipated professional wrestling matches of the year. Grizzly Johnson, one of the most feared and hated men in the sport, was taking on the current champion, and all expectations were on him winning handily.
Grizzly Johnson took the title quickly, which led the way for what was the be the true main event of the evening. A few palms had been greased and a few winks and nods exchanged with Cyrus and organizers of the match that led to Grizzly taking the stadium microphone and presenting a challenge to the crowd, asking for someone who thought themselves man enough to step up and face him in the ring. Jeers and laughs ripped through the crowd as men all over nudged buddies and brothers, trying to get someone to step up and take the challenge. But before anyone could build up the courage (liquid or otherwise), the back doors to the arena burst open and in walked, as Cyrus describes:
"He was the biggest damn thing in the whole building, including the columns holding it all up. We'd painted his armor red, white, and blue, so he came striding down the aisle (me right behind him, of course) looking like a great big American flag, gleaming in the lights of Madison Square Garden. You could feel the whole energy of the place change as he walked in. Every eye was focused on him. Sons trying to scoot higher on the shoulders of their fathers. Guys nudging each other trying to get a better look. Everyone dead silent trying to figure out what exactly came in the doors." (Foley)
They entered the ring; the diminutive Foley next to the massive red white and blue hulk that O'Hurley had become. Foley took the microphone from Grizzly (who of course was in on the whole thing).
From The New York Times January 2, 1935:
"The manager, Cyrus Foley, took the microphone and addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, you are privy to one of the greatest events in American history. In 1776, a group of politicians watched the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In 1863, a group of soldiers heard the Gettysburg Address. And tonight, a group of New Yorkers, the best kind of people in the world, get to be witness to the birth of a whole different kind of American. A servant to the public. In fact, a servant to America. A proponent of capitalism. Of democracy. A being who stands for all that is good and true about America. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine and soon to be a friend of yours, the world's first true superhero: American Justice!"
Flashbulbs exploded all over the arena, as Edmund, now American Justice, flashed a million dollar grin back at the crowd. Grizzly Johnson, playing his part to a T, pushed Cyrus out of the way, presenting a challenge to American Justice. The crowd roared as Grizzley laid a right hook on American Justice that glanced off of his metal armor with a resounding "Ping!". The crowd rose to their feet as American Justice threw his opponent against the ropes and sent him careening out of the ring with a clothesline.
Madison Square Garden was buzzing with excitement long after American Justice had left the arena. Men stood around their seats, chatting up people they barely knew, ecstatic over what they had just seen. Cyrus Foley's plan had worked perfectly. American Justice became an instant sensation, and the genesis of superheroes had occurred.
The next few weeks was a whirlwind of interviews, both with newspapers and on the radio (though it should be noted that American Justice never actually spoke in the interviews. Cyrus Foley did all the talking.) Though never carried as "front page" news, the publicity lasted almost until spring, finally dying down when another economic slump hit and FDR and his actions were back on the front page.
By the time April came around, American Justice had left the news entirely. Cyrus Foley decided he needed something new and exciting to get his protege back into the limelight. Something bold. Something out of left field. Actual crime fighting perhaps?
Cyrus worked with Edmund in the gym, boosting both his muscles and his confidence, though under his veneer of bravado, Cyrus was feeling extremely nervous. As strong and as tough as Edmund was, he'd never actually seen him in action. When set against real criminals on the street, would he be able to make it?
Months passed with Edmund in training, and the small well of income supporting the operation were drying up. It was time to put him out there, whether or not he was ready.
July 3rd was an extremely hot day. The lines for the soup kitchens were extremely long, men dressed for work standing disgustedly, waiting for loaves of bread. The mercury rising towards 100, bringing tensions right along with it.
Cyrus drove his car slowly through the streets, waiting for something to happen. Edmund, in his full American Justice gear, sat in the back seat, hand on the handle of the suicide door, sweat dripping down his face.
It didn't take long till they caught the break they were waiting for. The car was turning a corner when all of a sudden, a plate glass window in a building shattered, littering the sidewalk with shards of glass. Right behind the hail of glass came the cause of the destruction, the chair he used as a battering ram still in his hands. The man never noticed the suicide door opening and the gleaming metal hulk spring out onto the sidewalk. He was too busy keeping the bag of money closed to notice the giant metal hand close around the back of his shirt. And by time he realized something was wrong, he was up in the air, a haymaker of a left hook heading towards his face.
The next morning, a smile had exploded onto Cyrus Foley, his small frame covered entirely with a grin. He let his hands trace over the newspapers spread across his desk. The Post, The Gazette, and even the Times couldn't resist putting American Justice all over the front page. Cyrus' phone had been ringing all morning, people asking for American Justice to make appearances, cut ribbons, with requests for photo ops at any business that had money to guard. Almost a dozen banks had asked for American Justice to be a "guard for a day".
1935 was turning out splendidly.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The History of Superheroes in America: 1934
Edmund O'Hurley took a break from crime fighting during the winter of 1933 and the beginning of '34. Work at the shop had slowed considerably, and he was forced to look for work doing odd jobs where he could find them for half the week. It was an incredibly tough winter. There wasn't much to eat. The cold and sadness of the harsh winter was creeping in on the small family. They made it through to see spring, but not by much. Another winter like that and who knows where they'd end up.
Spring came, and with it came an increase of work back at the shop. But not by much. The machinery of the Great Depression was in full swing now, and there weren't many people worrying about cars in 1934. O'Hurley's boss, a man of great integrity, wanted to keep Edmund on as long as he could. He liked Edmund (as most people did) and knew his family would have a rough go of it with Edmund out of a job. But the way things were heading, there wouldn't be a way to keep anyone in a job.
But with the increase in work (for the time being), came the opportunity to don the armor again. The people of the neighborhood had grown used to seeing the metal giant striding down the sidewalks a dusk. It was a comfort to everyone to know that even when everything else was falling apart, there was one man fighting for the good of everyone. And this was Edmund's biggest motivation to continue his fight. By the time summer began to creep in, there weren't many fights to be had. But he continued his beat anyway, knowing what hope it brought to those around him.
Then, something incredibly significant happened. Of course then, it probably seemed like something rather ordinary. Plain, even. But an event that would change the shape and course of America as a whole.
A young man was walking down the street. As he turned the corner, he saw a child run off of his front porch and down the sidewalk. The child zoomed past him and kept going. The turned, finally seeing the object of the child's attention. O'Hurley. Or, rather, the "metal giant" as people in the neighborhood called him. The child ran up to the giant and knocked on one of the plates on his legs. The giant looked down and smiled at the boy, ruffling up his hair. At first the young man wasn't sure of what he was seeing. But after a moment, it all clicked. He realized what O'Hurley was, even more than O'Hurley did. He realized that this was the man that was going to change everything. That this was the idea that was going to save America. It takes a very special man to put things together like that. He was brash. He was unafraid. He was 21 years old. He was Cyrus Foley.
From Foley's autobiography, "Creating God":
"He sparkled in the sun. It's a queer way of putting it, but it's true. The light reflected off of all of those metal plates and he absolutely sparkled. He was like a brand new Caddilac, but the difference was, no Caddilac in the world was going to walk and talk and save the nation. That's right. Even then, even right then standing on that sweltering street corner in Queens, I knew that he was going to be the thing that changed it all. He was going to be the deal maker. With him, with this idea, with this whole package I was going to change the world and I knew it in an instant. I walked right up to him, looked him dead in the face (now mind you, he was a good foot taller than me, and I was no midget) and I asked
"Hey guy, you got a name?" He looked a little puzzled.
"A name?"
"Yeah. A fancy name to go with that fancy suit."
"Well...no, I guess I don't."
"Well my name's Cyrus Foley. And the first thing we need to do is get you a name.""
That started one of the most famous collaborations in United States history. Edmund O'Hurley and Cyrus Foley. Combining passion and precision. Brawn with brains. They would start something unlike anything the world had seen before. The business of superheroes.
It would take all the rest of that year to create and fine tune the plan for O'Hurley's arrival onto the world stage. It was to be a finely orchestrated affair, with every cog of the machine in it's perfect place.
But by late December, everything was ready. The suit had been reworked, cleaned, painted. There was a name. A mission statement. Press releases. Photographs. The whole plan was put together and ready to explode.
And explode it did.
Spring came, and with it came an increase of work back at the shop. But not by much. The machinery of the Great Depression was in full swing now, and there weren't many people worrying about cars in 1934. O'Hurley's boss, a man of great integrity, wanted to keep Edmund on as long as he could. He liked Edmund (as most people did) and knew his family would have a rough go of it with Edmund out of a job. But the way things were heading, there wouldn't be a way to keep anyone in a job.
But with the increase in work (for the time being), came the opportunity to don the armor again. The people of the neighborhood had grown used to seeing the metal giant striding down the sidewalks a dusk. It was a comfort to everyone to know that even when everything else was falling apart, there was one man fighting for the good of everyone. And this was Edmund's biggest motivation to continue his fight. By the time summer began to creep in, there weren't many fights to be had. But he continued his beat anyway, knowing what hope it brought to those around him.
Then, something incredibly significant happened. Of course then, it probably seemed like something rather ordinary. Plain, even. But an event that would change the shape and course of America as a whole.
A young man was walking down the street. As he turned the corner, he saw a child run off of his front porch and down the sidewalk. The child zoomed past him and kept going. The turned, finally seeing the object of the child's attention. O'Hurley. Or, rather, the "metal giant" as people in the neighborhood called him. The child ran up to the giant and knocked on one of the plates on his legs. The giant looked down and smiled at the boy, ruffling up his hair. At first the young man wasn't sure of what he was seeing. But after a moment, it all clicked. He realized what O'Hurley was, even more than O'Hurley did. He realized that this was the man that was going to change everything. That this was the idea that was going to save America. It takes a very special man to put things together like that. He was brash. He was unafraid. He was 21 years old. He was Cyrus Foley.
From Foley's autobiography, "Creating God":
"He sparkled in the sun. It's a queer way of putting it, but it's true. The light reflected off of all of those metal plates and he absolutely sparkled. He was like a brand new Caddilac, but the difference was, no Caddilac in the world was going to walk and talk and save the nation. That's right. Even then, even right then standing on that sweltering street corner in Queens, I knew that he was going to be the thing that changed it all. He was going to be the deal maker. With him, with this idea, with this whole package I was going to change the world and I knew it in an instant. I walked right up to him, looked him dead in the face (now mind you, he was a good foot taller than me, and I was no midget) and I asked
"Hey guy, you got a name?" He looked a little puzzled.
"A name?"
"Yeah. A fancy name to go with that fancy suit."
"Well...no, I guess I don't."
"Well my name's Cyrus Foley. And the first thing we need to do is get you a name.""
That started one of the most famous collaborations in United States history. Edmund O'Hurley and Cyrus Foley. Combining passion and precision. Brawn with brains. They would start something unlike anything the world had seen before. The business of superheroes.
It would take all the rest of that year to create and fine tune the plan for O'Hurley's arrival onto the world stage. It was to be a finely orchestrated affair, with every cog of the machine in it's perfect place.
But by late December, everything was ready. The suit had been reworked, cleaned, painted. There was a name. A mission statement. Press releases. Photographs. The whole plan was put together and ready to explode.
And explode it did.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The History of Superheroes in America: 1933
So this is some back work related to my big fat project I am working on now. Enjoy.
The summer of 1933 was hot. Unbearably so. The burrough of Brooklyn was absolutely melting under the summer sun. Between the heat and the Depression, tempers were growing hot. Tensions were beginning to rise. Violence was becoming more common. Looting. Stabbing. Rape. Brooklyn was nearing it's breaking point.
In the middle of all of this madness was 29 year old Irish immigrant Edmund O'Hurley. O'Hurley moved his wife and son from Ireland in 1931. His father had been around during the potato famine, so when he felt the luck shifting in his homeland, he decided to move out of there before things got too bad. He figured that if there was anywhere that could be safe from this global depression, it would be America. The land of opportunity. The land that greeted you with lady liberty. The land where fighting for your rights and beliefs was part of the heritage.
But things hadn't gotten much better, as much as he hoped and prayed. America, for all its promise and reputation, was no better off than Ireland. He surveyed his neighborhood every day on his walk to work (he being among the lucky ones to still have a job). He had always been a whiz with his hands. There was very little he couldn't fix. Even when his jobs had gone from wagon wheels to car engines, he fixed them just the same. A man who could do so much with his hands was invaluable to those who still had things to fix. Those wishing to hold on to their lifestyle, even in the ruination of the Great Depression. He surveyed his neighborhood and watched as the repo men threw countless families out of their homes. Watched his neighbors turn into the legion of homeless. Watched his neighborhood turn to nothing but sorrow.
In the summer of 1933, people had had enough. And one of those people was Edmund O'Hurley. He'd had enough of the situation. Enough of the times. Enough of the repo men and the Depression and the sadness and fear that gripped America. He wanted to see the America that existed in his dreams. The liberty and freedom and hope that fell across his lips in his evening prayers. He was ready for change.
And change is what he did.
Working after hours in the shop, he began to construct, piece by piece, the engine for his new America. Turning scrap metal into hope. Bolts and rivets into justice and liberty. And on Sunday, August 6th, 1933, Edmund O'Hurley kissed his wife and son and became something far more than an ordinary man.
Edmund O'Hurley became America's first superhero.
People weren't sure what to make of this metal plated object that walked down the sidewalk at dusk. Many innocent people shied away, hiding in the shadows, fearing the worst. But O'Hurley expected this. These were people who were already afraid. So it would only make sense that they would continue being afraid, even when they were safe.
He recalled years later that the first "bad guy" he encountered was a pimp infamous for violence against women and children. "Everyone knew he beat up women" O'Hurley wrote in his memoir. "The damn spic had this pack of young girls, I mean real young. Still teenagers, they were. And you'd always see them with shiners from where he'd hit 'em. He was a mean bastard. And I knew he was the first guy I wanted to pick a fight with."
Armed with nothing but his metal outfit and his Irish temper, he tapped the pimp on the shoulder. The pimp turned and...well, Mr. O'Hurley says it all best.
"He turned, his eyes got as big as dinner plates. Didn't even know what he was looking at at first. But that changed real quick. 'Hey you!' I said. 'Get out of my neighborhood!' I had hoped I would say something better than that, but I really wasn't prepared too good. And you know, he laughed. I mean, I probably looked a damn fool out there in my metal suit. But he laughed just the same. And I socked him. Oh he wasn't laughin' then, I'll tell you. Socked him right in the jaw and down he went. Metal glove right in the kisser and don't you know he was sporting a couple of real shiners once he finally picked himself up. And you know, he packed up and got out of the neighborhood after that. By god, he did."
News spread fast in the neighborhood about the metal giant who fought for justice. Six days a week, Edmund O'Hurley worked as a mechanic. But on that seventh day, the nameless superhero roamed the streets. Fighting for good. For justice.
Fighting for America.
The summer of 1933 was hot. Unbearably so. The burrough of Brooklyn was absolutely melting under the summer sun. Between the heat and the Depression, tempers were growing hot. Tensions were beginning to rise. Violence was becoming more common. Looting. Stabbing. Rape. Brooklyn was nearing it's breaking point.
In the middle of all of this madness was 29 year old Irish immigrant Edmund O'Hurley. O'Hurley moved his wife and son from Ireland in 1931. His father had been around during the potato famine, so when he felt the luck shifting in his homeland, he decided to move out of there before things got too bad. He figured that if there was anywhere that could be safe from this global depression, it would be America. The land of opportunity. The land that greeted you with lady liberty. The land where fighting for your rights and beliefs was part of the heritage.
But things hadn't gotten much better, as much as he hoped and prayed. America, for all its promise and reputation, was no better off than Ireland. He surveyed his neighborhood every day on his walk to work (he being among the lucky ones to still have a job). He had always been a whiz with his hands. There was very little he couldn't fix. Even when his jobs had gone from wagon wheels to car engines, he fixed them just the same. A man who could do so much with his hands was invaluable to those who still had things to fix. Those wishing to hold on to their lifestyle, even in the ruination of the Great Depression. He surveyed his neighborhood and watched as the repo men threw countless families out of their homes. Watched his neighbors turn into the legion of homeless. Watched his neighborhood turn to nothing but sorrow.
In the summer of 1933, people had had enough. And one of those people was Edmund O'Hurley. He'd had enough of the situation. Enough of the times. Enough of the repo men and the Depression and the sadness and fear that gripped America. He wanted to see the America that existed in his dreams. The liberty and freedom and hope that fell across his lips in his evening prayers. He was ready for change.
And change is what he did.
Working after hours in the shop, he began to construct, piece by piece, the engine for his new America. Turning scrap metal into hope. Bolts and rivets into justice and liberty. And on Sunday, August 6th, 1933, Edmund O'Hurley kissed his wife and son and became something far more than an ordinary man.
Edmund O'Hurley became America's first superhero.
People weren't sure what to make of this metal plated object that walked down the sidewalk at dusk. Many innocent people shied away, hiding in the shadows, fearing the worst. But O'Hurley expected this. These were people who were already afraid. So it would only make sense that they would continue being afraid, even when they were safe.
He recalled years later that the first "bad guy" he encountered was a pimp infamous for violence against women and children. "Everyone knew he beat up women" O'Hurley wrote in his memoir. "The damn spic had this pack of young girls, I mean real young. Still teenagers, they were. And you'd always see them with shiners from where he'd hit 'em. He was a mean bastard. And I knew he was the first guy I wanted to pick a fight with."
Armed with nothing but his metal outfit and his Irish temper, he tapped the pimp on the shoulder. The pimp turned and...well, Mr. O'Hurley says it all best.
"He turned, his eyes got as big as dinner plates. Didn't even know what he was looking at at first. But that changed real quick. 'Hey you!' I said. 'Get out of my neighborhood!' I had hoped I would say something better than that, but I really wasn't prepared too good. And you know, he laughed. I mean, I probably looked a damn fool out there in my metal suit. But he laughed just the same. And I socked him. Oh he wasn't laughin' then, I'll tell you. Socked him right in the jaw and down he went. Metal glove right in the kisser and don't you know he was sporting a couple of real shiners once he finally picked himself up. And you know, he packed up and got out of the neighborhood after that. By god, he did."
News spread fast in the neighborhood about the metal giant who fought for justice. Six days a week, Edmund O'Hurley worked as a mechanic. But on that seventh day, the nameless superhero roamed the streets. Fighting for good. For justice.
Fighting for America.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
It's been quite a few days...
And I apologize for not writing. I'm sure there's at least one person who checks every couple of days, and I am sure they have ended up a bit dissapointed.
I have been a little under the weather the past few days. Still keeping busy. Doing a LOT of work. But been a little ill and not much in the mood to write. But I am working on something to post tomorrow. So stay tuned.
Well...actually, it'll be today, as the clock just rolled over to midnight.
I'm supposed to make this brief and go to bed. But I suppose it has been days since I've written anything. No reason I can't give the writing muscles a little workout, right?
I have been watching a lot of CSI lately. (The seventh season, to be exact) And what I notice is that serial killers are a hell of a lot of fun to write. And I think that's universal for everyone who tackles the subject.
With a serial killer, what you get to do is be as elaborate and descriptive and absolutely evil as possible. The more obsessive the killer is, the more interesting. The more evil, the more interesting. And, most importantly, the more human the killer is, the more we want to know about them. A serial killer who just hacks people up because he's a nutjob isn't very interesting. But if you can give him true motive, true skill, and a touch of panache, you've got yourself a compelling story. Just look at some of the more interesting movie characters of all time. Hannibal Lector. The Joker (Heath Ledger's of course). Micheal Corleone. Anton Chugar (If you haven't seen No Country For Old Men, go run and get it!). Ruthless, cold blooded killers yet we are fascinated by their actions and motives.
No one is too fascinated the transparency of Prince Valiant.
Or Superman, for that matter.
Till Later...
--Paul
I have been a little under the weather the past few days. Still keeping busy. Doing a LOT of work. But been a little ill and not much in the mood to write. But I am working on something to post tomorrow. So stay tuned.
Well...actually, it'll be today, as the clock just rolled over to midnight.
I'm supposed to make this brief and go to bed. But I suppose it has been days since I've written anything. No reason I can't give the writing muscles a little workout, right?
I have been watching a lot of CSI lately. (The seventh season, to be exact) And what I notice is that serial killers are a hell of a lot of fun to write. And I think that's universal for everyone who tackles the subject.
With a serial killer, what you get to do is be as elaborate and descriptive and absolutely evil as possible. The more obsessive the killer is, the more interesting. The more evil, the more interesting. And, most importantly, the more human the killer is, the more we want to know about them. A serial killer who just hacks people up because he's a nutjob isn't very interesting. But if you can give him true motive, true skill, and a touch of panache, you've got yourself a compelling story. Just look at some of the more interesting movie characters of all time. Hannibal Lector. The Joker (Heath Ledger's of course). Micheal Corleone. Anton Chugar (If you haven't seen No Country For Old Men, go run and get it!). Ruthless, cold blooded killers yet we are fascinated by their actions and motives.
No one is too fascinated the transparency of Prince Valiant.
Or Superman, for that matter.
Till Later...
--Paul
Saturday, January 3, 2009
My time in the Followspot...
Last night I had the privileged to perform for at the theatre of my friend and teacher Kestutis Nakas. He is the organizer of "Followspot Theatre", which is a performance art theatre here in Chicago.
I have wanted to perform for a few months, so I was absolutely thrilled to finally have the chance.
Below is a video of the entire evening. It is taken from a website of another performance artist. So about the video:
It will take a bit to load.
When it loads, you want to find a button that says "on demand". That will bring up a couple of videos. Clock on the one marked "live performance" (it has a picture of me on it, funny enough).
You will probably want to find the button that says "full screen" so it's not tiny.
My performance starts at about the 20 minute mark. Watch the whole video or just skip to mine. Either way, it's a good video to watch.
It will be a bit slow, but that's ok.
I have removed the video so the page will run faster. Let me know if you want the link.
Here is the original text for the piece you are watching.
(Music starts. Lights up. He is in the space. He carries a case. He opens the case delicately. As though it were full of fine glassware. He sets up his “temple of time”, arranging the clocks in a clock formation as he speaks)
I have wanted to perform for a few months, so I was absolutely thrilled to finally have the chance.
Below is a video of the entire evening. It is taken from a website of another performance artist. So about the video:
It will take a bit to load.
When it loads, you want to find a button that says "on demand". That will bring up a couple of videos. Clock on the one marked "live performance" (it has a picture of me on it, funny enough).
You will probably want to find the button that says "full screen" so it's not tiny.
My performance starts at about the 20 minute mark. Watch the whole video or just skip to mine. Either way, it's a good video to watch.
It will be a bit slow, but that's ok.
I have removed the video so the page will run faster. Let me know if you want the link.
Here is the original text for the piece you are watching.
(Music starts. Lights up. He is in the space. He carries a case. He opens the case delicately. As though it were full of fine glassware. He sets up his “temple of time”, arranging the clocks in a clock formation as he speaks)
I am at the grave of my mother. A place I have never been. The air is thick. The moisture clings to my lungs in this fertile ground. Her grave is well kept. (He scoffs) I kneel before her. I stare her stone effigy in the face. It is as cold as I am. Almost laughing, almost vomiting, I plunge my hands into the soft earth. My fingers digging deep, pushing past the worms and rich, pungent soil, breaking through roots and memories and time, I reach my prize. I wrench it from the earth and it makes fleshy sucking sound and I push back thoughts of horror. I turn the steel box in my hand, the moonlight catching, reflecting back on the flecks of dirt and blood that streak my cheeks. This is what’s left. All that fits inside this box. An eternity of heartache, broken down to its base elements. I pry the box open with my fingernails, not noticing the blood that runs down my arm. I tip the box, letting the ashes, soft like lullabies, flow into the open mouth of the hourglass. I place the cap and sit, watching the sooty seconds fly their course. For a moment, I am joyous. In this moment, the final success is mine. Then, in the next, I realize the agonizing truth. The ashes are hers. The seconds, mine. I gaze in horror as my time flies by, knowing that its end spells mine. (He places the hourglass, completing his temple.)
I have a very particular obsession. One that has followed me through my childhood, and continues to haunt my thoughts and dreams. Sometimes I feel as though I can sit and feel the seconds as they drift past me. Like an early spring breeze across my brow. But that’s not true. Because often, I feel like time is whirring past me, screeching like a dying bird and I can’t stop as my life spins out of control around me. I can do nothing to control time. And for that, I am obsessed with it.
When I was in second grade…no, before that, you have to understand a little something about my childhood. When I was growing up, we were poor. I mean poor. Dirt poor. Like, the only things we exchanged for Christmas were nervous glances. So in the second grade, there comes a day in class where we are going to learn how to tell time. And we’re all sitting on the big area rug, getting ready to learn, and the teacher’s aid pulls me aside, away from everyone else. She asked me what happened, and I don’t understand. She tells me my pants are ripped. I look down…I hadn’t seen it before. I had no idea. But my pants were…tattered. Rags. Eight years old and no one had told me before I left for school that my pants were full of holes. They sent me to the principal’s office, and then they sent me home. I didn’t learn to tell time that day. I didn’t learn for years.
But there’s something very comforting about a clock. In the face of a clock, I am reminded that time is not always our enemy. In the gentle face of a clock, time runs round in circles. Time repeats. Time is unending. In this circular time, I can return to places I have been. Change the mistakes of the past. Live, even for a moment, in the happy meadows of memory.
I have a question for you. A real question, that I want you to answer in your heads. All of you. Everyone. If you could return to a moment in your past, good or bad, to change it or not, if you could go to a moment…what moment would that be?
Do you have your answer?
(At this point, the music will rise and I will take one clock and enter the audience. I will hand the clock to that person and have them sit where the clock was. Repeating this until there are twelve people with twelve clocks seated in the circle. One by one, they will share their moment.)
If I were to go back to a moment…three years ago, sitting at my computer, reading a message from a girl I do not know. Answering that message will begin one of the most terrible points in my life. Change that…and who knows what else changes. I don’t know what I would do.
But this is one of the harsh realities of our time. In our time, we cannot travel back to the past. We must make choices in the moment, living with the consequences for the rest of our lives. In this world, in this universe, time is not a circle. It is a line. A string. Elegant, certainly. But with a beginning and an end. This…this is what worries me so much. What keeps me thinking about it. Because what happens when the string runs out? What happens when all the time has slipped out of our grasp. When there are no more seconds and no more minutes, no more hours…what becomes of us? What happens beyond the cutting of the string? I do not know. And none of us ever will.
Friday, January 2, 2009
There is a simple elegance...
...in the Muppets.
I know. Seems odd, doesn't it? My last post was about cartoons. This is about Muppets. What am I, 12?
But no. I have been watching quite a bit of The Muppet Show lately. And thinking about the basic ideas in life that we can glean from it.
Sometimes progress is not always in the right direction. Just ask Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. Perhaps it's because your gorilla detector doesn't work. Perhaps it's the fact that exploding hats are fairly impractical. Maybe some clown put the all purpose softener on your table. In any case, we learn that progress is only worthwhile when it points us in a better direction. Countless studies about the television watching habits of albino squirrels do us no good. Not when there's cancer to cure, correct? And in a more literal sense, we see that pointless progress can have an immediate detrimental effect to those around us. Even those loyal and caring towards us. Right, Beaker?
Being different can be an incredible struggle. Now, if this were typical children's television, there would be a lesson about acceptance in here. But sometimes, there just isn't. Sometimes, you are always different. And sometimes, it's something that can't be fixed, and the best you can do is like yourself for who you are. Take Gonzo for instance. He's a...well no one is really sure just what the hell he is. Frankly, he manages to be weird in a world where everyone is weird (and things like Sweetums exist). He's wierd. And really, he constantly has to deal with the fact that not everyone accepts him. That he often sticks out and is single out for it. But, in the long run, he learns that loving yourself is the only way to be loved by others. And isn't that universal? Isn't the most important love the one we have for ourselves?
Comedy is hard. And this applies not just for comedy, but in a larger sense, for any time you have to put yourself out there and hope that people like you. Maybe it's a presentation at work. A marriage proposal. A seduction. A class. A performance. We learn hard and fast that selling yourself is a difficult business. And no one showed us this better than Fozzie Bear. Fozzie put himself out there night after night. And night after night, his act died in the front row. It was cathardic for us. Being able to watch another suffer and laugh because of it. We saw ourselves in every presentation. Every failed romance. We saw ourselves failing in front of a crowd, and were finally able to laugh because it was someone else. And the most fabulous thing about Fozzie was that he show that a true performer never dies. That as many times as he failed, it just made him more excited to try again the next night. Always deterimed to knock 'em dead.
Sticking to your beliefs, right or wrong, is difficult in a troubled world. In our world today, we have a lot of people on opposite sides of issues. But often what we don't see is that there are many many people stuck in the middle. Choosing neither right nor wrong. Here nor there. People who are afraid to commit themselves to a decision. Afraid to stand up for an ideal. So it is noble to see someone who sticks to their guns and fights for their beliefs, even if you don't agree with their position. In a world full of liberalism, romance, chaos, and confusion we find Sam the Eagle. Pillar of conservatism. Made a bufoon by his hatred of all "wierdos". And yet there is something respectable about him. Sam does fight hard to maintain order. And he does it for all the right reasons. His love for the United States, his undying patriotism pushes him to action at all times. Of course, Sam also teaches us a lesson we here in America have sorely learned: blind patriotism can be a dangerous weapon. For there are those that would strike down the "wierdos". Who would rid the country of liberalism and confusion. Who would lead the patriotically blind into the depths of conservative hell rather than concede one point to the left. So Sam is someone to be respected and feared. Watched carefully. As long as he is a buffoon, what is the harm? Unless, of course, you elect that buffoon to president, hm?
Friends come and go. But when one sticks around, keep him till the end. Relationships don't last forever. Marriages don't (half, anyway). Jobs fail. Hell, whole economies fail. You may lost your wife, your house, your truck, and your dog (and end up in a country song), but chances are great that you'll never lose that friend. That person who sticks by you through thick and thin. We all have one. Haven't talked to them in two years? Just call them up. It's like you never stopped. Need a helping hand? A kind ear? A shoulder? There's someone there. And chances are, that person's just like you. So if you're a crotchety old curmudgeon, chances are, that person is to. Just like Statler and Waldorf. Funny enough, these two hecklers are two of the most popular and widely recognized muppets in creation. Perhaps it's because friendship truly is universal. Who among us hasn't sat with our friend and bashed the rest of the people we know. Our spouses. Our family. Our bosses. With this friend, we are safe in our lasting connection. That no matter what happens, we'll always have one person to call on. To sit in the balcony with and laugh at the comedians.
Love is painful. Hearts are broken easily. We find early that the only thing harder than comedy is love. And that first pain is always the most difficult. Love is always a struggle. People are different. People change. Hearts are always in motion. How can you maintain love with so much instability? But sometimes it happens. Sometimes it works. Sometimes you push through all the difficulty and all the pain and all the emotional baggage and you latch on to (and sometimes karate chop) the one you love. It's difficult. Difficult enough for people. Imagine if you aren't even the same species? Like Kermit and Miss Piggy. He pushes her away. She is overbearing. He is too focused on work. She spends to much time worrying about her looks. But how is that any different than all of the petty crap we do to the ones we love? How often do we treat the other like crap, even knowing that we love them? How often do we push them away, knowing that if they really left, we'd be heartbroken? How often do we focus on ourselves, hoping that the other will focus on us too? Love is hard. But if they can do it, why can't the rest of us?
And Finally...
It's not easy being green. I know. I ripped this one straight from Kermit's froggy lips to the page. But he said it better than i could, so it was no use trying to improve on it. Sometimes, you have to sit and think about your priorities. Maybe you have a great job. A lovely spouse. Fame. Fortune. Recognition. But even the best get lonely. Even the most celebrated can feel alone. Sometimes you have to sit and puzzle about it all. About how you fit in the universe. We all can find the peculiarities in ourselves. We can all see how we are different. Sometimes, that feels like a good thing. Sometimes, it just doesn't. Sometimes it feels like the barrier that prevents us from connecting to the world around us. Even if our unique qualities have their good sides, it is sometimes hard for us to see them past all the bad things.So we have to sit. Evaluate. Admit, once and awhile, that it's hard to keep going. That this can be a lonely world. And hopefully, at the end of that reflection, we come to realize that we aren't as alone as we thought we were. That we really are connected to the universe by our unique traits. That's what most of the versions of this famous song leave us with. Kermit, happy and content, knowing that green can be a great thing, and it's ok. But there's a reason I posted the version I did. Because sometimes, we come to the end of our reflection and realize that we are different. That sometimes we have issues no one can relate to. That the best we can do is open ourselves to our friends and loved ones, even if they don't have a solitary chance of understanding what's really going on with us. Sometimes, you go on because that is what's called for. You reconnect with the world because you have to. Sometimes you don't end up happy, but you hope for the future.
That's life. And that's the Muppets.
Till Later.
--Paul
I know. Seems odd, doesn't it? My last post was about cartoons. This is about Muppets. What am I, 12?
But no. I have been watching quite a bit of The Muppet Show lately. And thinking about the basic ideas in life that we can glean from it.
Sometimes progress is not always in the right direction. Just ask Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. Perhaps it's because your gorilla detector doesn't work. Perhaps it's the fact that exploding hats are fairly impractical. Maybe some clown put the all purpose softener on your table. In any case, we learn that progress is only worthwhile when it points us in a better direction. Countless studies about the television watching habits of albino squirrels do us no good. Not when there's cancer to cure, correct? And in a more literal sense, we see that pointless progress can have an immediate detrimental effect to those around us. Even those loyal and caring towards us. Right, Beaker?
Being different can be an incredible struggle. Now, if this were typical children's television, there would be a lesson about acceptance in here. But sometimes, there just isn't. Sometimes, you are always different. And sometimes, it's something that can't be fixed, and the best you can do is like yourself for who you are. Take Gonzo for instance. He's a...well no one is really sure just what the hell he is. Frankly, he manages to be weird in a world where everyone is weird (and things like Sweetums exist). He's wierd. And really, he constantly has to deal with the fact that not everyone accepts him. That he often sticks out and is single out for it. But, in the long run, he learns that loving yourself is the only way to be loved by others. And isn't that universal? Isn't the most important love the one we have for ourselves?
Comedy is hard. And this applies not just for comedy, but in a larger sense, for any time you have to put yourself out there and hope that people like you. Maybe it's a presentation at work. A marriage proposal. A seduction. A class. A performance. We learn hard and fast that selling yourself is a difficult business. And no one showed us this better than Fozzie Bear. Fozzie put himself out there night after night. And night after night, his act died in the front row. It was cathardic for us. Being able to watch another suffer and laugh because of it. We saw ourselves in every presentation. Every failed romance. We saw ourselves failing in front of a crowd, and were finally able to laugh because it was someone else. And the most fabulous thing about Fozzie was that he show that a true performer never dies. That as many times as he failed, it just made him more excited to try again the next night. Always deterimed to knock 'em dead.
Sticking to your beliefs, right or wrong, is difficult in a troubled world. In our world today, we have a lot of people on opposite sides of issues. But often what we don't see is that there are many many people stuck in the middle. Choosing neither right nor wrong. Here nor there. People who are afraid to commit themselves to a decision. Afraid to stand up for an ideal. So it is noble to see someone who sticks to their guns and fights for their beliefs, even if you don't agree with their position. In a world full of liberalism, romance, chaos, and confusion we find Sam the Eagle. Pillar of conservatism. Made a bufoon by his hatred of all "wierdos". And yet there is something respectable about him. Sam does fight hard to maintain order. And he does it for all the right reasons. His love for the United States, his undying patriotism pushes him to action at all times. Of course, Sam also teaches us a lesson we here in America have sorely learned: blind patriotism can be a dangerous weapon. For there are those that would strike down the "wierdos". Who would rid the country of liberalism and confusion. Who would lead the patriotically blind into the depths of conservative hell rather than concede one point to the left. So Sam is someone to be respected and feared. Watched carefully. As long as he is a buffoon, what is the harm? Unless, of course, you elect that buffoon to president, hm?
Friends come and go. But when one sticks around, keep him till the end. Relationships don't last forever. Marriages don't (half, anyway). Jobs fail. Hell, whole economies fail. You may lost your wife, your house, your truck, and your dog (and end up in a country song), but chances are great that you'll never lose that friend. That person who sticks by you through thick and thin. We all have one. Haven't talked to them in two years? Just call them up. It's like you never stopped. Need a helping hand? A kind ear? A shoulder? There's someone there. And chances are, that person's just like you. So if you're a crotchety old curmudgeon, chances are, that person is to. Just like Statler and Waldorf. Funny enough, these two hecklers are two of the most popular and widely recognized muppets in creation. Perhaps it's because friendship truly is universal. Who among us hasn't sat with our friend and bashed the rest of the people we know. Our spouses. Our family. Our bosses. With this friend, we are safe in our lasting connection. That no matter what happens, we'll always have one person to call on. To sit in the balcony with and laugh at the comedians.
Love is painful. Hearts are broken easily. We find early that the only thing harder than comedy is love. And that first pain is always the most difficult. Love is always a struggle. People are different. People change. Hearts are always in motion. How can you maintain love with so much instability? But sometimes it happens. Sometimes it works. Sometimes you push through all the difficulty and all the pain and all the emotional baggage and you latch on to (and sometimes karate chop) the one you love. It's difficult. Difficult enough for people. Imagine if you aren't even the same species? Like Kermit and Miss Piggy. He pushes her away. She is overbearing. He is too focused on work. She spends to much time worrying about her looks. But how is that any different than all of the petty crap we do to the ones we love? How often do we treat the other like crap, even knowing that we love them? How often do we push them away, knowing that if they really left, we'd be heartbroken? How often do we focus on ourselves, hoping that the other will focus on us too? Love is hard. But if they can do it, why can't the rest of us?
And Finally...
It's not easy being green. I know. I ripped this one straight from Kermit's froggy lips to the page. But he said it better than i could, so it was no use trying to improve on it. Sometimes, you have to sit and think about your priorities. Maybe you have a great job. A lovely spouse. Fame. Fortune. Recognition. But even the best get lonely. Even the most celebrated can feel alone. Sometimes you have to sit and puzzle about it all. About how you fit in the universe. We all can find the peculiarities in ourselves. We can all see how we are different. Sometimes, that feels like a good thing. Sometimes, it just doesn't. Sometimes it feels like the barrier that prevents us from connecting to the world around us. Even if our unique qualities have their good sides, it is sometimes hard for us to see them past all the bad things.So we have to sit. Evaluate. Admit, once and awhile, that it's hard to keep going. That this can be a lonely world. And hopefully, at the end of that reflection, we come to realize that we aren't as alone as we thought we were. That we really are connected to the universe by our unique traits. That's what most of the versions of this famous song leave us with. Kermit, happy and content, knowing that green can be a great thing, and it's ok. But there's a reason I posted the version I did. Because sometimes, we come to the end of our reflection and realize that we are different. That sometimes we have issues no one can relate to. That the best we can do is open ourselves to our friends and loved ones, even if they don't have a solitary chance of understanding what's really going on with us. Sometimes, you go on because that is what's called for. You reconnect with the world because you have to. Sometimes you don't end up happy, but you hope for the future.
That's life. And that's the Muppets.
Till Later.
--Paul
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