I’ve never been “in” to comic books. This is not to say I don’t like them; on the contrary, some of my favorite movies are based on comic book characters. For instance, I’m a big fan of the original Superman movies, or at least, the first two. The third one, with Richard Pryor and the ridiculous SuperComputer, is a bit dated now. And Batman is another of my favorites. Even Judge Dredd has a couple of redeeming moments that, if you time it just right and watch just a couple certain scenes when its on HBO19, make it OK. “I will not obey the law…I AM THE LAW!” Hilarious stuff.
This is not to say all comic book movies are good. Sin City, good. Hellboy, bad. SpiderMan, good. Constantine, bad. I’m fortunate to have as two of my good friends guys who’ve forgotten more about comics than I’ve ever known. And whenever one of these movies comes out, I can pick their brain to determine if its worth seeing.
Which brings me to X-Men.
My brother was a big fan of the cartoon years and years ago. He liked Iceman. And Wolverine. But mostly Iceman. So when the original movie came out, we went and saw it in the theater. I was entertained. Good movie.
So when the sequel came out, I wanted to go see it. Only, I never did. Well, not really. Sorta. Kinda. I’ll get to that. Anyway, to this day, I still have not seen it. Why? It is one of the great tragedies of my life, and simultaneously, one of my Top 10 Most Awesome Moments.
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Editors Note: The following was originally published on BeA Design Group on May 23, 2006, and was the last post BIPTO.
For years, my parents kept boxes and boxes of childhood artifacts belonging to my brother and I in their attic back in our hometown of Fort Dodge, Iowa. Baseball cards, books, action figures, schoolwork, artwork going back to preschool, and more were sealed up in plastic boxes, sandwiched amidst fiberglass insulation and the like. They always told us that once we had room to store them ourselves, we had to either take them home with us, or throw them out.
Of course, I not only didn’t throw this stuff out when I moved into my house last year, I brought every last thing back with me so I could look through it all before deciding what could be thrown out. There’s a wealth of creative inspiration in that old stuff.
Amidst one of the boxes, I found a manila A-4 envelope marked “LETTER PEOPLE” in faded blue Bic. The unmistakeable handwriting of one Tom Nemitz, circa 1985 no doubt.
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As I write this tonight, I just want to tell you that playing volleyball in sweatpants when its 90+ degrees is damn foolish. But I had no choice, you see. When your legs are just this side of Pantone 192 (I checked my swatch book and that’s the equivalent, or at least, it was on Monday morning) you could scare away any decent person with that stuff.
I mean, the lower ankle that showed beneath the sweatpant bottom was enough to make all three women on our team quesy. So aesthetically, really, it was the only decision.
Then we started playing. And the 30+ MPH wind gusts were blowing sand like a sandstorm in the desert. Slapping your body with little tiny particles of glass-like sand. Grittiness.
Even though I knew what a bad time it would be to dive on my severely burnt legs (and knees), once I got out there I couldn’t help it. The first time I did it, I skidded — the sharp, immediate pain literally smasmodically made me bounce up on impact and then gravity brought me down, and the cycle repeated. Three times. And then the ball was returned and hit me in the face. Good times.
People yelled at me “Don’t dive!” knowing that one more of those and I was a done sandwich. So ten minutes later I dove again, this time hitting sand with a force that would have been impressive to Ben Franklin, and was painful to watch for anyone else. Me, I yelled out “Ah, Son of a banana!”
Then we blew a 9-1 lead and lost 17-15. And then I was really pissed. I mean, physical pain is tolerable. But losing? Not so much.
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“A stupidity that belies your 28 years”
That’s how someone described my immense, heinous sunburn this weekend. Seriously, Sunday I was like a damn mummy, unable to bend my legs because the skin was too tight. I had constant chills, my body’s way of attempting to cool itself down. And of course, when you get goose bumps on sunburned skin, well, its quite comical.
Ordinarily, it would be foolish merely to be outside looking directly into the sun during the hottest part of the day for four hours with no sunscreen. Ordinarily. But even moreso when you had a possibly-cancerous mole removed two summers ago. Turned out not to be, but still, sorta frightening nonetheless. Plus now I have a nice scar on my back from where they cut it out. Which is kinda cool.
It takes a lot for me to burn. My complexion is pretty dark to begin with, so regular exposure does nothing to me but make it darker. But this was just dumb.
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First up today, got to apologize on behalf of my brother to Cliff. When my brother had called to invite him and his fiance to a party they were having, Cliff was busy but thought they could make it later in the evening. So when the party changed locations, we called and left a message. Of course, with our history of leaving multiple messages for him, one could not blame him for not checking the message. We felt horrible when they left one party early to head over, and then found out we weren’t there. So, sorry man.
Now then, on to the storytelling. So we’re at this party Saturday night, and the ladies are in the kitchen, while the guys are in the living room watching the NBA playoffs on the Flat Panel Plasma. So nice. Anyway, I don’t really follow the NBA, but I watch SportsCenter and I read the paper, so I can carry on a conversation about it with anyone not named Magic. Good thing too, as I ended up looking like a genius when I called the outcome of the Spurs/Mavericks game. Basically I just picked opposite of what that loudmouth Stephen A. Smith on ESPN had picked, and of course, I won. Of course.
My brother had brought a 40 of ASAHI beer, mainly because we have a rule: if a beer is $1.29, has a bitchin’ label, and its in another language, you have to buy it. No questions asked. Its a tough rule to follow sometimes. ASAHI, dubbed as a “beer for all seasons”, treated him well, especially in the paper bag. His wife thought he was nuts, sure, but then again, she was drinking root beer so she probably thought we were all nuts.
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