Familiarity Returns

I'm premiscuous when it comes to these super-duper comic book summer blockbuster movies.

You name it, and I'm fainting in utter holy-shit-I-can't-believe-it's-coming hysteria.

"Star Wars." "Spider-Man." "X-Men."

And, yes, now "Superman Returns."

It has already altered my day-to-day life.

Take my recent visit to the comic book store:

I hadn't been to the neighborhood comic book store in nearly a year, but something clicked when I plugged in a VHS of the original 1978 Christopher Reeve "Superman" for my 6-year-old son, who, like his Daddy, really kind of wishes there was another "Summer Of Vader" to define these lazy, sweltering days.

I remembered being 6 years old myself, leaping ever upwards with a red cape tied around my neck, absolutely sure that if I tried hard enough I would fly. It was still conceivable, within reasonable reach.

---

I remember my first comic book, "Alpha Flight #1" in 1984 that I bought for 60 cents at the Magik Market down the street. Since then, I always had to decide whether I wanted to read about Canadian super-heroes or a Man Of Steel instead of finish off both sides of the Nerds box with just a few bottoms-up.

I walked into the comic store this week, partly looking for a Superman comic book for my son since I got him so worked up over seeing the new movie and partly because I wanted to feel that sense of amazing possibility again.

I'm back there again, in the Magik Market, as soon as I walk into the comic book store and catch a glimpse of a cover splash of Superman or Hawkeye or Green Lantern or Colossus or Hulk or Nightcrawler.

It brings me to familiar conversation:

The owner's happy to see me. It's a been a while.

"So, what've you been working on there at the newspaper?"

"You know, I wanted to do something on the long-awaited return of Superman to the big screen, but ... well ... somehow ... I just didn't get around to it."

But here I am, a little late, but back again. Like I should be.

The owner's apprentice with the Whitesnake-esque raging mullet loves talking about, you know, what comic book guys are thinking about as they exist entirely in their own parallel worlds.

"Hey man, I've got a story for you," David Coverdale tells me. "Jet packs. Why don't we have jet packs? I mean, weren't we all supposed to be flying around in jet packs by now? Aren't we far enough along?"

Back home, I am.

"I know, man," I respond, instantly, as if it had been buried in my subconscious and Professor X were triggering my latent memories. "I thought by now we'd have a lightsaber. And why aren't the cars all flying around like they told us in 'The Jetsons?'"

"All I need is a jet pack," he says.

"I think it's all a plot by Big Oil," I decide, confidantly and prepared for a bubblegum executive summary on the theory.

"No, jet packs wouldn't run on gas," he says.

"I know," I tell him, with one foot out the door, because I simply must get back to work. "The corporate overlords don't want to see any advancement in fuel efficiency. These jet packs would run on ethanol. Or hyrdogen. Or something we don't even know about. It would be revolutionary. They don't want that."

He smiles and shakes his head.

"I don't know, man."

I walk to my vehicle, dressed in my business casual, a smile on my face.

And shaking my head, too.

"Why don't I have my own jet pack?"

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I don't hate spammers.

Not when I can just drop the hammer with a little click. In any case, I only have to deal with them at work, and, you know, I'm getting paid. This isn't a personal problem, because I'm of the philosophy that you should give out your personal email address the same way you'd give out that picture of your 9th grade mullet (which is why so few email me).

I simply observe and smirk, comfortable in knowing that if any of these damn things screws up my computer ... well, it's not my computer, anyway.

I'll even open up the ones with the subject line: "???????? ??? ? ? ?????? ? ???"

I figure they've really, really, really got a question. Like super-grab-your-elbow-to-hold-up-your-hand-in-class enthusiasm.

I'm no expert, but it appears keywords are crucial to the success of these spammers.

The only other explanation is that someone has a refreshingly insidious sense of humor.

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If these guys make a lot of money doing this, they deserve it.

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From Down Here

I love the South.

No, really.

We're stupid, we're backwards, we talk funny, we don't like fancy words, we don't wear seatbelts or motorcycle helmets, we kill each other, we want religion in our (horrible) public schools, we don't want anyone telling us what to do with our land, we don't like taxes, we don't have up-to-date roads, we don't care much for professional sports, we pledge our love to a university whether we never finished high school or not, we aren't vegetarians, we're fat, we can't drink beer on Sundays, we have beaches, we have mountains, our weather is splendidly hot, our winters drop just enough snow to make it novel, the only train we ride is an Amtrak to another state, we can't imagine warm tea and we have no idea what a toll both is.

Yes, I love the South.

But being in Chicago for this past extended weekend made me see my homeland and heritage from a different perspective.

We here in the South are always overcoming something -- something that regions like the Midwest and West have already overcome because they aren't as stubborn as we are.

I realized that while I love the place that is all I know ... it's painfully, pathologically, stubbornly, forever fighting off history that it refuses to leave behind.

What it must be like to be free of that, where those who came before us said, "Screw this provincial, caste-obsessing stew of passive-aggressive defiance: Let's head West."

I will always hold a torch for the dysfunctional culture of the South (because that's just what we're supposed to do). And I will defend it to the end, with a strangely superior air of "yeah-tell-me-something-I-don't-already-know-that's-fucked-up-about-where-I'm-from."

But, deep down, relunctantly, I know that these Midwestern folk have an open, accepting perspective borne of a willingness to change that we can only hope will rub off on us if only slightly.

Once we get over ourselves.

It Didn't Do It

"It is what it is, it did what it do, and we came out with a victory."



What?

Leave it to Rasheed Wallace to impart such a gem of wisdom.

Two games after guaranteeing a victory against the Cleveland Cavaliers (but losing), this is how Rasheed Wallace summed up his Detroit Pistons finally shutting down LeBron James down a few weeks ago.

I never much noticed Rasheed Wallace before that quote, but I've become an admirer since.

Classic ... in a strange, puzzling kind of way.

The Miami Heat pimp-slapped the Detroit Pistons on Friday to make it to their first NBA Finals, where they'll play another first-time finalist, the Dallas Mavericks who last night knocked out the Phoenix Suns and my man Steve Nash.

Now that Rasheed is doing whatever it is he ... umm, do ... in the off-season, we don't have the pleasure of being enlightened by his sage ruminations.

This is the guy who lead the NBA in technical fouls -- again.

Who, when he thinks he's been wrongfully called for a foul (which is always), tells the shooter after missing the first free throw: "The ball don't lie!"

Who pops a 3 in someone's eye and tells them, "Don't worry young fella, I get paid for this. I get paid for doing this to you."

Who illustrates an Argentinan teammate's toughness by pointing out that "Carlos ain't no punk. They kidnap people where he's from."

Who tells the media speculating about his injuries, "I'm all right. I'll be ready to go. Don't send me to the glue factory yet."

Who refers to everybody as "cats," including officials: "A lot of them cats are felonious, man."

Who said to those who doubted the Pistons' chances of beating the Lakers for another title, "When it comes down to it, we'll smack 'em in the mouth with the trophy again."

Who nearing the traditional visit to the White House to meet the President after winning the '04 NBA title says he won't say anything to George Bush and adds, "I didn't vote for him. I'm not excited at all, it's just part of the thing."

Who to the media downplays any claim to divinity: "I'm not Jesus or nuthin."

Who puts his job in perspective: "Pressure? This isn't pressure and this is not pain. Afghanistan, Iraq and that other place, Croatia and Bosnia -- now, that is pressure. This ain't nothing but a little hoops."

And who, instead of wearing his championship ring, has boxing/pro wrestling-style belts made for the team after winning it all.



I'm going to miss that guy.

But not as much as Steve Nash, who is perhaps the most-awkward-looking MVP ever to dribble a basketball.



Not to worry, though: Stevie Wonder will now travel the world to perform charity, enjoy his second-straight NBA MVP award and think about next season when Amare Stoudamire will be healed and throwing down dunks instead of watching idly by in a horrendously bright three-piece suit.

What's An Argonaut, Anyway?

Well, Ricky's back ... again ...





... looking a little cleaner, with a new number and a new uniform ...





... in Canada, for the Toronto Argonauts of the Canadian Football League.

In 2005, the incredibly positive, eccentric, introspective, caring, self-centered, unpredictable Miami running back made his comeback to the Dolphins from his sudden "retirement" and marijuana suspension in 2004.

He finished strong in the voting for the National Football League's "Comeback Player Of The Year" award, and his once-scornful teammates voted him as the best team player for the Dolphins last season.

He returned in 2005 from his soul-searching voyages to the Australian outback and studies in holistic medicine to do what he's always done (besides confound jocks and journalists alike): play like a warrior for a cut-throat sport.

The only reason he's playing football is because a judge ruled that he owes the Dolphins $8 million for abruptly walking out on them and his contract Dolphins before the '04 season. Yet still, he played as hard as anybody in the league.

Earlier this year, the former NFL rushing leader and Heisman Trophy winner failed another drug test (not for marijuana, apparently).

And now, tonight, he played his first game in an Argonauts (what is one of those, anyway?) uniform.




As is always the case with Ricky, a positive force seems to attract so much unsolicited negativity.

It's everywhere -- on the news, in the lockerroom, in the fat guy's recliner -- but let's just stick with former Toronto Argonaut and Redskins quarterback and current ESPN analyst Joe Theismann.

This is the guy who, when he was at Notre Dame, changed the pronunciation of his last name from "THEE-sman" to "THI-sman" in an effort to make it rhyme with Heisman (the college trophy that Ricky won in 1998 with the University of Texas, but Theesman never managed to win).

Here's what Theesman had to say this week:

"I don't ever want to be mentioned in the same breath as Ricky Williams as a football player. He's a disgrace to the game. The man doesn't deserve to play football. He should go on with his life and treat his drug addictions or go do whatever he wants to do.

We have rules in the National Football League. It's real simple. Don't do drugs and you can play. It's a privilege to be able to play professional football. It's not some rite of passage. He's insulted the Miami Dolphins after they took him back and gave him a chance to play.

Now he insults the intelligence of everybody that thinks that doing drugs is OK. To me, it's the wrong message to send to kids. It's the wrong thing to be doing, and the Toronto Argonauts have embarrassed themselves as an organization signing him."

This venom directed toward a guy who founded his own charity and while he's in Toronto plans to teach free "karma yoga" classes several mornings a week before he heads to practice.

And who says things like this:

"I don't hold any hard feelings against him. I understand it's his job to say things. The thing about people, if you meet a positive person, you'll never have anything negative to say."

And this ...

"The way I look at it, life is a journey, and through that journey, there's dark forests, there's beautiful mountains, there's beautiful lakes, there's pristine views, and sometimes there's dark places. But as you keep on going with your head up and you stay on the journey, you always reach your destination."

And this ...

"When I was a kid, I planted a seed to be a rich and famous pro athlete and I thought it would be happiness. The flower was ripe when I won the Heisman Trophy. And I didn't have another seed to plant."

And this ...

"One thing about Toronto, is everyone here is so nice."

Yeah, let's string him up.

And all the kids can look up and know, "This is a horrible person to be."

Are they selling those #27 Argonauts jerseys yet?