Superteam iPad Program (XtraNormal)

Episode III of "The Paragon" begins after Bowie has rescued team captain Muffy from an attack by the Russian Robot Brigade. In the aftermath, Muffy asks him to think about implementing an iPad program for their team.

Superteam iPad Program
by: hermietheelf

Horn Dog: Technidiot (XtraNormal)

Episode II of my XtraNormal series, "The Paragon."

Muffy, team captain to The Paragon, confronts Horn Dog after he misses the rescheduled team meeting. Horn Dog apparently has trouble with modern technology. Anyone who met Horn Dog in Episode I ("Horn Puppy & Crew Cuts") will have no trouble believing this.

Horn Dog: Technidiot
by: hermietheelf


Dear creators and writers of "Archer,"
Please feel free to find these episodes so uncontrollably hilarious that you contact me at bottomoftheglass@gmail.com and ask me if I would be interested in writing with you. Or, better, creating a show that came on after "Archer." Peace out, hippie.

XtraNormal Fiction: Episode One

Arwen (Acoustic) - Sam Gray (mp3)
Humdrum - Pallers (mp3)

My first series on XtraNormal went to the heart of the issue: the absurdities of groupthink in a school environment. While inspired directly by my experiences at my own job, by the people who surround me every day, it wasn't so much intended as a slam on them as it was on the way educators and administrators are in general.

However, when I showed off my creations to friends and spouse, the resounding response I got was: "You'd best not let these get out. It would be bad for you, professionally speaking." Well, I can ignore one voice, but ignoring five or six is a different story.

So I went back to the drawing board. Rather than creating characters who were mash-ups of several people I knew from work* talking in a school environment, I added one extra degree of separation. Rather than seeing the absurdities of school through the administrators and teachers, I decided to reveal it through the parents. And, just in case it still hit too close to home, I made the parents superheroes.

Yes, this has sorta already been done by The Incredibles, but not like this.

The group is named The Paragon after a supergroup a friend and I invented in the '80s. So far, my characters are Horn Dog, Bowie, and Muffy. Horn Dog is the father to Horn Puppy, the freshman high school student at a local private school. Bowie is the single bachelor with a British accent and a mullet (translate: you just know he gets laid). And Muffy is the S&M ripoff who has ascended to the elected role of group leader.

Enough talk. Here's Episode 1.

Horn Puppy and Crew Cuts

Rorschach Test

Melancholy Bridge - Kacy Crowley (mp3)
Lonely Boy - Andrew Gold (mp3)

An old man lives there. His clothes are raggedy, and he wears a moth-eaten sportscoat over torn white pajamas. His hair and overlong beard are more salt than pepper. And overalls. He has overalls on, too. But not a dog. His dog died many years before. As did his wife. She died many years before the dog. And he didn’t have any children. Or maybe he did, and they left him. They gave up on him. Maybe he wasn’t there enough for them, and now it’s irreparable.

It’s quite possible I have crossed over Thrasher Bridge a thousand times in my life. The bridge, which crosses over the Chickamauga Dam in Chattanooga, looks out to the west upon a railroad bridge some 300 yards away. Atop that old, bronzed and rusted metal structure, in the middle of the water’s width, sits a once-white house now gray from time and pollution. The house has no yard. It has no porch or deck. It barely has room for a front door and a walkway wide enough to stand outside.

I first remember seeing it when I was five or six. No telling how long it had been there. Must’ve been a bitch to build.

In railroad-speak, I’m sure this house has a very specific and vital function. In fact, it’s probably not called a house at all. Probably has some railroady name like “overlook station” or something. But I formed my story on this one early in life, and I’m not about to go let an education get in the way of my imagination in this particular instance.

Because this house has been the focus of my attention off and on for more than 30 years, how I see it and the characters I’ve invented to live in that structure have become an undeniable Rorschach Test on where I am at a given moment.

As a small kid, I remember thinking that house must be awesome. It’s so high up you could see practically anything. You had this awesome pool surrounding your house. You could dive in right off the front stoop. You could hop a train as it passed underneath and travel practically the whole world. Anything was possible.

In my teenage years, I thought more about Rapunzel. The house was a prison, and some teenage boy had been locked away up there. His job was merely to observe and report on all he saw from his perch. His punishment was to be limited in his interactions to merely that: observing and reporting. He could never actually do. Only see.

In my 20s, I thought the house would make the perfect location for a superhero base. He could get anywhere in the city quickly by way of rail, water or roadways, and the metallic column supporting his house could easily hide vehicles specific to each need, because no one looked that closely. He could have a secret drop that went alllll the way to the bottom of the river -- kinda like the firepole Batman would ride to his cave in the TV show. It was both the perfect Fortress of Solitude and efficient gateway to anywhere.

Lately, I’ve seen that sad old man. Loved ones have died. He’s living up there by choice, a prison of his own choosing. In some sense, he’s similar to the Rapunzel character of my teenage vision, but now he’s his own warden, his own captor, and the only reason he doesn’t come down is because he doesn’t want to, or can’t find the courage, or doesn’t see the point.

Prior to this latest version, the house's primary resident has always been some direct version of myself. The wild and fancy free version of childhood. The trapped teenage prisoner. The superhero atop a world of possibility. But this last one, the old man, I try to imagine him as someone else.

At times, I think this is because I’ve grown wiser, that I've begun connecting the house and its fancied inhabitant with the people around me, with circumstances beyond my own self-absorption. Other times, I’m pretty sure it’s because I’ve memorized that scene from The Empire Strikes Back, and I know if the light saber slices off that old man's facade, the face emerging from the smoke just might perfectly reflect my own.

Anyways.

Anyways, it's a cool house to stare at whilst driving across the bridge.

"I Am Pagliacci"

Walking Through Syrup - Ned's Atomic Dustbin (mp3)
Fitz and Dizzyspells - Andrew Bird (mp3)

Most of us flock to careers to either escape or defeat our personal demons. For Batman, Spider-Man and a bevy of other superheroes, their careers are an attempt to avenge the deaths of loved ones. Fittingly, this little vignette comes from the most-acclaimed comic book series of all time:

A man goes to the doctor. Says he's depressed. He says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. The doctor says "The treatment is simple. The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him, that should pick you up." The man bursts into tears. He says "But doctor... I am Pagliacci."  --  WATCHMEN

I first read this passage in 1986. I was 14. This little vignette branded my brain. It stuck in there as easily and permanently as Meg Ryan's fake orgasm in When Harry Met Sally. I wrote the word "Pagliacci" in my class notebooks when I was bored. Often I would doodle around the word with squiggles or sketches, but mostly I just drew little tear droplets. Sometimes just a single tear off the end of the crook of the "g".

How is it possible to be so haunted by a 69-word story? Why does Pagliacci seem so real?

SIDETRACK WACKY CAREER THEORY #1:

I have a wacky career theory.

One of the reasons such a high proportion of gay men have found a home in the performing and fine arts is because, for the greater part of the 20th Century, the odds of accepting and being comfortable with their own identity in their formative years was difficult bordering on impossible. The closet doors stayed closed for many understandable reasons, especially until early adulthood if not later. Hell, homosexuality was still identified as a mental illness in 1977, so being openly gay was in many places no cooler than being openly psychopathic.

In such an environment, gay people -- I'd argue gay men in particular -- learned how to act from the first days they began to understand themselves, their desires. At that young age, they began to act. Act straight. Act like they thought society expected them to act. Whatever persona they projected, for most of them, it wasn't their true selves. It was some collection of little parts of themselves combined with behaviors and ticks from the world around them.

To use the vernacular of Malcolm Gladwell's "10,000 Hours," those who lived in the closet had a massive jump on the rest of us. We acted in plays or skits; they acted all day, every day, sometimes from the minute they awoke to the moment their eyes shut for sleep.

I've always imagined Rock Hudson, sitting in his movie premiers, secretly laughing at everyone around him. If I have to live this fucking heterosexual lie, I'm gonna bleed you small-minded people for every penny I can. I don't mean to suggest Hudson was a mean or vengeful guy. But if he or any other closeted actor took twisted joy in their successes, how can anyone blame them? What's one more acting job -- the role of the boring straight Hollywood star -- in the bunch? Why not cash in on it?

While I've never exactly seen this theory written or expressed, I struggle to believe it's either original or all that controversial. Maybe it is, but since it doesn't seem particularly insulting to suggest that they're more naturally gifted at an art our culture values, I'd like to think it's not. (Great documentary on the subject: The Celluloid Closet.)

This theory doesn't have to limit itself to closeted gays. Anyone who grew up developing a carefully-crafted veneer, or multiple personas, or other ways of adapting to a troubled or challenging adolescence, would also be more easily suited to the world of acting. Which is why so many great actors and actresses, when they're not gay, need at least 10 different therapists.

WACKY CAREER THEORY #2:

In a similar vein, depressives flock to the role of comedian. Not all clowns are Pagliacci, but many are.

Artie Lange's story, while very sad, is so unoriginal as to be, well, kind of depressing (link is to a phone interview with a New York Post reporter). The short version: Artie Lange is a comedian and right-hand man of Howard Stern. They spend their time on the radio mocking strippers for growing up sexually abused and being burdened with a bunch of psycho-baggage while asking them to strip and do naughty things. All the while, these radio jokesters struggle with their own demons.

Some have died. Belushi, Farley, Ray Combs, Richard Jeni, Lenny Bruce. Some have fled from themselves, or struggled from here to get there. Many have found themselves embroiled in scandal with drugs or other embarrasments. Murphy, Chase, Kinison, Pryor. This isn't by any means a comprehensive list. Roseanne Barr is/was a walking checklist of disorders.

But if Hollywood is best made for people who grew up pretending not to be themselves, then the comedy circuit is best made for people whose humor is borne as a desperate and essential coping mechanism.

I leave you with Flunky the Clown, the funniest, least laughed-at skit ever to grace Dave's old show.

"Who Are You? Who. Areyou?"

Two Faces - Bruce Springsteen (mp3)
Who Knows - The Replacements (mp3)

There's this scene early on in The Breakfast Club involving my alter-ego, Brian Jones (Anthony Michael Hall). In it, the geek is contemplating the essay topic assigned by his principal for detention: Who do you think you are? Brian is sitting in his chair, screwing around with a pen and clasping it to his lip and teeth, and asking himself, "Who are you? Who. Areyou?" And he looks over to see the cool street-smart John Bender (Judd Nelson) staring hot needles into his soul. Brian shamefully removes the pen from his mouth, avoids eye contact, and huddles back over his solitary sheet of paper.

In that one throwaway moment of an arguably throwaway movie, Brian's question is asked twice and answered twice. It's first answered by how he's comfortable seeing himself: goofy, internal, capable of entertaining himself with otherwise tedious academic assignments. The second answer comes from the Bender's stare and Brian's reaction: aware of his inferiority, ashamed of his geek-ness, afraid and easily intimidated yet so eager to please in the hopes of just moving one rung up the social ladder. His weaknesses and flaws seem less acceptable under the glare of someone else's biased and calloused stare.

Comic books have always owned my heart because, at their core, most of them serve to remind the reader that a person is usually more than what any single person knows or sees. Oftentimes, the superhero side and their alter-ego have different personalities and different interests, and the public usually has opposite opinions of one versus the other.

Batman (scary, vigilante) and Bruce Wayne (popular corporate rich boy).
Clark Kent (awkward, homely) and Superman (composed, alien).
Hulk (huge, stupid, green) and Bruce Banner (brilliant, scrawny-ass white boy).
Ironically, some of the best villains have the same problem.

I could go on, but I noticed you yawning.

Point being, this is on my mind is because I just saw The Wrestler, which blew me away. In this movie, the two main characters -- played by Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei -- both struggle with the shitty side of being a superhero. Mickey plays both trailer park grocery store clerk Robin Ramzinski and veteran pro wrestler Randy "The Ram" Robinson. Marisa plays both single guarded-heart mother Pam and hot aging stripper Cassidey. Both are constantly struggling to figure out how to balance their dual personalities.

If you watch the movie in the near future -- and if you haven't, you really should -- I beg you to pay attention to just how many times these characters struggle with their names, with who they are and who they want to be. It was heartbreaking.

I'm not a very phobic person. Can't think of many things that scare me unreasonable amounts, that wake me up in the middle of the night, that paralyze me. But here's one: the fear of not being known. And I'm not talking about fame or popularity, not remotely. What I'm talking about is being understood.

Much like my beloved superheroes, whose inspiration for do-gooding stems from some tragic past experience, my fear seems to drive my personality. I'm extroverted; I share embarrassing stories; I write silly confessional blogs; I try -- too hard, often -- to stand out, in the hope that just maybe I can get out there enough to be, ultimately, understood. If I can just get enough of the puzzle out of my head and into the hands of all the people I meet, all the people who know me, just maybe the puzzle can be put together eventually. I'd sure as hell hate to die holding onto too many of the pieces.

And I find myself holding onto puzzle pieces even when I think I'm being honest and revealing. Or, as one friend put it, many of us think we're being open and revealing, but we're just opening and revealing very particular things we want people to see, which makes it all that much easier to hide the parts we want to keep hidden.

Even when we're out there in the open, we cast shadows.

We're all puzzles, and no matter how romanticized your notion of life, you can't just hand over that whole puzzle to just a single person. We're too complex and contradictory and confusing for one person to utterly grasp. Hell, most of us can't even manage to figure ourselves out without relying on those around us who know us and deal with us regularly.

Thank God we don't have to be utterly grasped in order to be utterly loved.

The list of possible songs to go with this topic are legion, and most of them pretty darn good, so I went with a crowd-pleaser and a personal favorite. Both bands should be a part of any collection, so head over to iTunes or Amazon.com!

Superflood

Superman Song - Crash Test Dummies (mp3)
Trans-Neptunian Object #1 - Kay Hanley (mp3)

"Why are you messing with the fantasy? We know about the reality. Don't mess with the fantasy, okay?" -- Gary (Anthony Michael Hall), from Weird Science

When Huey Lewis sang the gawd-awful song "Hip to Be Square," he couldn't possibly have envisioned a time when a comic book convention had transformed into one of the most compelling annual events in the entertainment calendar. San Diego's Comic Con 2008, the Kentucky Derby of comic book conventions, is arguably a hotter ticket to most fans of pop culture than Sundance or even the Oscars.

Entertainment Weekly now has a special section on its web site focused solely on the adventures and revelations surrounding the convention, a reminder of just how much of our current slate of movies, television shows and video games surround the fantastical, the supernatural and the scientifically fictitious. As a retired comic book fanatic, I keep thinking Hollywood will finally tire of the superhero genre and move on to other under-resourced concepts, like musical westerns or chick-flick anime, but each summer seems to bring a new crop of really kick-ass films based on comic books and graphic novels. (I just used this picture 'cuz I think Selma Blair is scrumdiliumptious even if she is maybe a little crazy.)

This year's crop of comic book movies seems to suggest the tide is only rising. Don't even get me started on next year's comic valhalla: Watchmen. Suffice it to say I had five different people email me on the day the trailer broke, which is four more than I've ever had contact me on the day of a movie trailer's release. Hell, one dude on Rotten Tomatoes broke down the damn trailer in a 10-page, nigh-frame-by-frame essay.

All of this has me drifting into an age-old question and spending hours of time (mostly whilst on the crapper, since that's the only place parents can get privacy): What super power do I most covet?

At one time, I most wanted to be invisible. But what sounds cool in theory turns out to be an ability useful mostly for only nefarious or unethical purposes. In fact, I just can't think of many uses for invisibility that aren't out and out naughty or evil.

About the same time I was fascinated by invisibility, my buddies and I were mocking a particularly useless superhero named Cypher. He was a mutant (like the X-Men, born with powers that "sprout" during adolescence) who understood all languages, a walking Tower of Babel, if you will, who could even understand computer languages.

Twenty-five or so years later, Cypher's power seems pretty damn cool. In a world where information is power, and you had the power to comprehend any other human being, or understand any form of computer code, you're suddenly capable of communicating with almost anyone or anything, human or machine. It's almost the opposite of being invisible. Suddenly you're a potential conduit to anyone at any time.

Can't say it's The Best Superpower. Too many others qualify, so long as we can all agree that most great superpowers require some serious suspension of disbelief. I'm still mighty fond of telekinesis.

Any geeks or closet geeks (or, for the overly defensive, totally non-geeks) want to weigh in on this? What's the best or coolest superpower? The most enviable? The lamest?

"Superman Song" is from the Crash Test Dummies' first album, The Ghosts That Haunt Me and can't be found on Amazon.com or iTunes. "Trans-Neptunian Object #1" is from Kay Hanley's first and only true full-length solo album, Cherry Marmalade, available only on iTunes.

BONUS FEATURE! All true superhero lovers will enjoy this brilliant piece of work: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, created by Buffy & Firefly mastermind Joss Whedon: