A Modest Plan

"Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears – the glasses, the business suit – that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself, he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race."

This is the part of Kill Bill just before Bill gets killed. I was thinking about this, staring at the big red "S" on the wall, instead of sleeping. Plant mechanics disallow me from shutting the big white light in my room until it's 6. And now that it's 6, I feel more like writing than sleeping.

Superman stands for truth, justice and the American way. What better way to market a lifestyle than God's human vessel dressed in red and blue. I think "they" got to me too. I happen to love Superman. He has heat vision and flies. Nothing penetrates his skin and nothing messes his hair. And faster than a speeding bullet, he becomes SuperVoyeur with the nifty X-ray vision. And unlike gods of today, it's not the powers that make him or the absence of a tragedy that define him. It's the utter disinterest in his passion for saving the world. He doesn't growl to himself about how it's his duty or his responsibility, he merely acknowledges his superior disposition and does his job. And then, he has the balls to go into human costume and deal with women and deadlines. I respect that.
Now if I had those cojonies, I'd march up to the northernmost room in the house and tell my dad that I wanted to keep Monty and that was it. What actually was "it" was that some time ago, a certain individual had an evil dream about me parading my snake on a leash and getting eaten by a cat. Much parallel, i borrowed from my cousin her weird glass art project and fitted in an energy saver, made it nice and sandy and put Monty in his new quarters, proud of my presentable snake. And then my dad, the analogous alpha billa, sees him and denies my pleas of letting me keep Monty. And for these reasons, juvenile later turning postal, I want my own place. Where I can garden and read, smoke and be free. And sleep comma dream.