To my brothers in East Lansing, young G-Men loving Jewish home boys, and the man himself... This one goes out to Plaxico Burress. How rare is the gesture that inspires sympathy, disgust, and gratitude. News is still leaking out but initial reports are that you shot yourself in an injured right leg, already a spot of injury. If you cite "medicinal purposes" as the reason for your gun shot I promise to fly to New York City and award you the Gold Medal of Comedy. Don't write off my offer, Eugene Levy will be presiding over the ceremonies. If the stars align, bringing me for a week long stay to East Lansing, I have half a mind to produce a sitcom centered around the zany antics of Plaxico Burress and Charles Rogers. Michigan State Wide Receivers: formed in tragic mold and deserving of a Tennessee Williams two act. Would they be willing to settle for a buddy comedy? I promise a motorcycle with a sidecar.
Consider the Pelican.
Man's domain is the Earth. We traverse the sky, explore the sea, but such endeavors are done with the feebleness of a toddler wearing training wheels far too long. In wind or water, we foray forth in little manifestations of land. A boat and a plane do not capture the essence of these environs, they merely preserve land so it might be brought to such places. There are three phases to the Earth. With all human ingenuity, we will never master anything outside of our own domain. We don't belong in these places and our presence, unnatural and forced, shoddily imitates the birds and fish, mocking the planet.
Thinking about things like this makes me think that humans are really very silly.
I came to think of this yesterday morning when Andrew McNally and I were living a poem or maybe a short story about the Young and Hungry Portuguese.
Two young men ride bicycles through a darkened city, peddling peddling forever peddling as civilization slowly wanes and land begins to sink; slowly giving way to the Ocean. They take off their shirts, wade into the waves, and find a baseball in the tide. The play catch as fog forms all around them.
I collapsed upon the beach, turning my eyes towards the glittery horizon. In the distance, I saw a black dot dizzily flitting about above me. Thinking this was some sort of strange visual phenomenon, I was intrigued following the black dot as it got closer and came into full form, revealing itself to be a Pelican. The Pelican came to rest upon the waves for a moment before sashaying forth in a sudden burst of natural I'm hungry instincts. It shot into the sky, swooped down and scooped a helpless fish in its malformed mouth, inextricably shaped for exactly such a purpose. The Pelican arced above me, coming to rest behind me on the shore, feasting on the fruits of versatility. At precisely this moment, a plane took off from the nearby LAX Airport, utilizing hundreds of years of ingenuity, sixty million dollars, and jet thrusters to soar far over the Pelican and into the far off Pacific.
Maybe it was headed to China. Maybe to the Philippines. I usually love looking up and wondering where a plane was headed but I didn't now. Being human suddenly seemed like such a let down.
I could easily delve into semantics and scientific subsets, but for generality's sake there are three phases to the planet. The ground, the water, and the sky. Many creatures possess the ability to interact with all three but few (if any) marry the world together like the Sea Bird. Their abilities leave them ill-suited for any particular place, but the coalescence of all three elements allows their true nature, and thus beauty to display itself. As man, all endeavors are limited to terrestrial dealings.
Sitting in the sand in a suddenly finite universe, painfully aware of my own small stature, my thoughts turned to Jennifer Lopez. J-lo or "Jenny for the Block" is probably one of the most powerful women on the planet with universes of Bronx cheering chicanas turning on her fingertips. (Note: This is meant as literal as there are certainly some people who find J-Lo's nails very important). For all of J-Lo's merits and influence, she will never master the Planet like Pelican.
The idea of a Super Hero is a profoundly fetishized cultural phenomenon that I've never quite understood to be frank. University discussions, y'know the kind where you wear track jackets and listening to Damien Rice, leave me ill-suited to argue this claim to hordes of Fanboys and I have no real reason, either. Plainly: the appeal doesn't resonate with me, but the reasons behind my disdain became clear yesterday. Back in May, I stuffed a bunch of Taco Bell down my pants and went to see a movie entitled Iron Man. The nebulous affair regarded the exploits of a raging alcoholic and playboy without explaining the dangers of STD's and unwanted pregnancies lurking behind such irresponsibility. At the very least I would have expected some lesions flecking his forehead. Aside from his ardent vice, Iron Man is made special, thus super, as the pimpled vernacular would have it from a metallic suit allowing him to swoop through the air like a hummingbird and smash through walls like a two-story tall brahma bull with opposable thumbs that also shoot out missiles. Despite the vitriol dripping from my fingers in the tongue in cheek cavalcade, I enjoyed the film a great deal. Watching a Super Hero, especially one played to the apex of impish charm by Robert Downey Jr., perform amazing feats tantalizes and torments the imagination as it stretches the capped confines of human potential.
If something like Iron Man were to occur in reality, it would unquestionably stand as the most amazing event in human history. Even the most ardent of Christians would weep at the altar wondering why Jesus never shot rockets at Pontius Pilot. If we are going to play hypotheticals, let us grant the Pelican powers of abstract thought and a full understanding of human kinesiology and physics. As the world heaped praise on the new Iron Man, the Pelican would scoff in haste. Soured by the human experience, the Pelican would surmisably head to a local watering hole for Whiskey Tonics (the favorite adult beverage of all sea faring birds). After two or three drinks, depending on how much the Pelican ate that day, he would turn to the bar room television that would either be showing news of the real life Iron Man or speculation on where LeBron James will sign in 2010.
The Pelican gives a loud scoff, aided by its mouths amazing acoustics, the call would rattle around the bar, drawing the ire of the bartender. The barkeep, a sage old Irish soul, would turn to the Pelican.
"What you aren't impressed?"
"Hell no. He's just wearing a suit."
"Mighty fine suit though. Let's see you invent something like that."
"Let's see him and his amazing suit go in the water."
"They can't do that. He'd be electrocuted."
"Exactly."
The Pelican would walk out without paying his tab. I couldn't blame him.
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