Another Poor-Me Rant

I want to live a lavish lifestyle; there's too much fun to be had in the world for spending a couple thousand bucks a month on enjoying oneself to be an unreasonable wish. And I am sick and tired of seeing society starve for cash because a bunch of lawyers and realtors and advertising execs, not satisfied with simply cheating customers out of money in exchange for doing basically nothing, also squat on their treasure hordes like nesting dragons, refusing to spend a single penny on anything but status symbols to prove how extravagant they are. I could have a million dollars and still dress the way I do, live in a three-room apartment, and go everywhere on the bus. Yet am I permitted to save up my spare cash and go on a vacation now and again? No, because a bunch of spoiled fatcats have decided they're entitled to my mad money so they can pay country club dues or buy an Armani suit. What must it take to bring some joy and enlightenment to this world of stifling mundanity?

The Genius and Folly of Comic Book Naming

I make no secret of the fact that I have a deep and abiding love for the superhero genre of comic books (I say it this way in a futile attempt to get this country to finally remember that there were about one and a half decades in the 20th century when comic books consisted mostly of Westerns and romance stories with barely a superhero in sight). The idea of "right makes might" and "power begets responsibility" that lies at the heart of most superhero tales has always appealed to my sensibilities, and I rank the very finest superhero tales (mostly those written by Alan Moore and Kurt Busiek) among the true classics of modern literature. But while there are hundreds of great superhero tales, there are thousands of bad ones, and even the finest epics usually contain a few groanworthy nods to the long term fans...those who fell in love with comics during an age when it had never occurred to anyone that they should be taken seriously or make any kind of realistic sense.

All of which is a longwinded and excessively highfalutin' way of saying that a whole lot of the stuff in comics of superhero stripe is just plain silly, and indeed many fans even more hardcore than me (the well is deep) point out that half the fun of being a comic-book grognard is mocking the absurdities and abominations that the publishers used to (and still often do) get away with.

For example, let's consider this handsome fellow:



This is Black Bolt, an acquaintance of the Fantastic Four who somehow has not yet managed to make it into a movie with Jessica Alba. It might have something to do with the fact that he's also the king of a race of what would certainly be regarded today as mutants, had Marvel not already decided upon a specific in-universe meaning for that once-obscure word. So instead, Blackie's people are known cleverly as "Inhumans", and he is their leader (or at least has been for most of the 40-odd years since he was written into being; I have no idea whether he's still in charge as of the current storyline, but either way I think that what's been true for longer than my lifetime should be considered a reasonable assumption overall).
So my point in bringing Bolty here up is to highlight an aspect of the character more interesting to non-fanboys (and occasional -girls) than his incredible sonic power or the dramatic history between his deranged megalomaniac brother and his girlfriend who does that thing with her hair. This most salient fact is Mr. Bolt's "real" name, for he wasn't always the Inhuman king, once he was just another powerless infant citizen of Inhumania, having not yet earned any powers (or, as far as I know, a costume, though who knows what passes for toddlers' fashion in a regime willing to go by such a name), let alone a "totally radical" codename. So what did the parents of the future Black Bolt decide to name their then-ordinary child?

BLACKAGAR BOLTAGON.

Holy crap, that's Inhuman alright. I mean the worst thing about this name is that it sounds so almost-cool that I kinda hate to make fun of it, but it nonetheless marks young Master Boltagon Esquire as a textbook suffererer of RANS (Ridiculously Appropriate Nomenclature Syndrome). This condition is also known as Edward Nygma's Disease, in memory of the unfortunate young man whose parents' decision to call their little boy E. Nygma was undoubtedly a factor in his decision later in life to embark on a career of brainteaser-centric crime as the nefarious Riddler; had the Nygmas gone with Robert as a name, Gotham might be just a little safer today. And while Black Bolt's name doesn't precisely appoint him a destiny in the same fashion, it nonetheless comes across as being clearly ridiculous in a manner that weakens the reader's suspension of disbelief that much faster. We can accept the physically impossible easily enough in a fictional context, but the socially unreasonable bothers us, because we know it to be applicable not only to the character but to those responsible for writing him.

RANS is a recurring affliction which is endemic among a huge percentage of the superhero population. It afflicts heroes (Doctor Steven Strange, the flaming Ghost Rider who was born Johnny Blaze, or John Henry Irons aka Steel), villains (besides Riddler, famous sufferers include Victor Von Doom, mad scientist Thomas Oscar Morrow, and perhaps most famously, Otto Octavius, who has four pairs of limbs), innocent bystanders, love interests, sidekicks, and even cities or countries. There is some justification for the latter, of course, as many geographical regions are named for a salient local feature - Iceland for its ice, Greenland for its green ice, Finland for the fins on the tips of its mermaid citizens' tails, and America for the ickiness of its native Amers. But sooner or later, when an entire book is filled with nations named Evilstan and Crueltonia, you have to start asking yourself why the local chamber of commerce has never hired a consulting firm to help them improve their image. And it's even worse when you see it happening to people; it'd be strange enough to have a guy named Cal F. Ornia living in the Golden State, but if we were living in a comic book he'd be a shoo-in for the governor's office.

Disgustipated

We are all flawed, fallible, and not to be trusted, and we are also all spectacular, irreplaceable, and capable of untold wonders. This suggests that the best thing to do is to keep us in gilded cages, happily playing and doodling and telling stories, while something that lacks our frailties does all the work of keeping us alive and imprisoned until we grow the fuck up enough to actually run the world, instead of just running it into the ground. As long as we are twitchy, narrow-minded, and lazy, as long as we are forced to compete over limited resources and tempted to kill each other over doctrinal disagreements, as long as we can't control ourselves, preserve our world, or protect each other, we do not deserve to be masters of our own destiny. We should always crave freedom, but we should have to earn it, not simply seize it when no one is stopping us. Our lives are not to be squandered by hatred or fear; our uniqueness must not be snuffed out through intolerance or misfortune; we must have a world which protects us, even if it can only do so by fossilizing us. Better to have the possibility of a perfect life someday, even if someday never arrives, rather than the actuality of a lousy one right now which is the only one we'll ever get. Let the Matrix come true, and let us wait a thousand years for Neo to show up; I say we deserve it.

You may thank racist cops and rigged juries for this post; that's what's got me in a sour mood today. Every time I try to exalt in humanity's potential, I am ground down by the millstone of our depressing actuality. When will Superman come impose his iron rule upon us for our own good? When will the aliens put us in our kennel and housebreak us? How much longer are we to be trapped like six billion rats in just one cage, up to our eyeballs in our own filth, scratching and biting at each other out of hunger and rage and paranoia? Why must we wake to a nightmare every time our dreams fade away? I say let it end; let it all end, and let us be judged by what we wished we could have done, rather than what we were forced to actually do.