Carl Dosterosky, for as long as he or anyone else can remember, has wanted to be a superhero. He started collecting comics almost as soon as he could read. At first he wanted to be Superman, the ultimate superhero. As he got a little older he wanted to be Spiderman because he seemed more real, more feasible. In his teens he went through a Wolverine phase, a Daredevil phase, and a Batman phase. But at the heart of Carl’s desire wasn’t any one superhero. He’d take any of them as long as he was recognized as one.
After about sophomore year in high school, Carl refrained from sharing his deepest desire with people. It wasn’t generally received favorably. He graduated high school without much fanfare, and without getting bitten by a radioactive arachnid or being exposed to gamma rays. He went through college similarly ingloriously without drinking a fellow co-ed’s chemistry experiment or training with a secret society of dark ninjas. But still, Carl dreamed of someday becoming a superhero.
It was a mild October afternoon when Carl, now a data entry technician at PolyGlobal Worldwide Industries Inc., walked into the Penultimate National Bank during a holdup. Unfortunately for Carl, he was engrossed in the latest issue of The New Avengers and didn’t notice the five gunmen holding hostage some thirty seven people face down on the floor with their hands behind their heads. So he nonchalantly walked through the prostrate crowd and bumped into the fiercest gunman of the group. A large man with large muscles and a large gun to go with his large grimace. Carl said, “Oh, excuse me.” before even looking up. But when he did, he nearly fainted. The odd thing was, the large gunman with the large muscles and large gun had lost his large grimace and looked himself like he might faint. He started to stammer and then practically lost his footing as he scrambled to escape the bank while yelling to his cohorts, “Let’s get outta here!” Carl was rather puzzled, and increasingly so as the bank patrons and employees started coming over to him to thank and praise his good deed. When the bank manager finally said to him, “I never believed there really were superheroes.” it dawned on him. Despite not having any obvious power, like super strength or shooting flames from his hands, or being able to fly, he had the power to have people believe that he was a superhero.
-friday
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Incomparable Protagonist (Installment 2)
“Do you smell that?”
The meaning of this question is pretty obvious. But the reactions Tom Northfarm got to it over the years were not what you might expect. Mostly, people would look at him a little puzzled and ask, “Smell what?” When he responded by describing an odor that couldn’t possibly be in the vicinity, invariably the respondents would say, “Uh, no.” With the added “idiot” or “freak” or “weirdo” left out but still very much understood. It was things like being in the boys locker room after gym class and asking if anyone smelled guava juice that would earn him extra scorn, taunts referencing his sexual preference, and occasional beat downs. It was the beat downs that finally convinced him to keep his odor inquiries to himself.
Tom yearned to talk about what he was smelling with someone, anyone. But he had no takers. Everyone wrote him off as a weirdo. Even his own parents thought he was rather odd. But he knew, deep within his gut, that he really was smelling the things he was describing.
It didn’t take him long to deduce that since no one else ever smelled what he smelled, than he must be smelling odors from farther away. But how far? That was the real question. He wanted to do experiments to figure it out. But he couldn’t plant odiferous objects himself because knowing what he was smelling could make him believe he was smelling it rather than actually smelling it. And he wasn’t about to take anyone into his confidence in order to have them plant smells for him.
One summer his senior year in high school he decided it was time to put in a concerted effort to find one of the smells. He set his alarm for 5 am. He got up, packed a backpack with some food and water, left a note for his parents, and walked out the front door. He stood on the front steps of his house for a few moments, feeling the crisp summer breeze on his face, then he inhaled a deep breath through his nose.
Several smells came to him, but the strongest was the smell of wet dog and rubber. So he set off walking. He turned left out of his house and the smell got stronger so he continued. At the corner he went straight but soon the smell got just a tad weaker, so he went back to the corner and turned left. Again it weakened so he turned around and kept on and the smell grew again. He continued on this way, mapping out his route, for over seven hours. It was about 1 pm when he came to a small park with a creek running through it. He went towards the creek and there he found a drainage pipe coming off the western embankment and inside he heard the anxious whines of a trapped canine. He peered in but couldn’t see much in the darkness. So he shimmied into the pipe and as his eyes adjusted he noticed a beagle wedged in the drain by an old tire. He let the dog sniff him and talked calmly to it to gain its confidence. Then he grasped the dogs collar and gently pulled while simultaneously pushing the top of the tire. It only took about five careful mintues and he had the poor dog free. He scooted backwards out of the drain with the dog and sat on the bank with it while the dog wagged and licked him appreciatively. He sat there for a few moments exhausted but satisfied, contemplating the fact that he was holding a dog he had first smelled over 20 miles away.
There was an address on the collar. He remembered the street from his wanderings and brought the dog back to its home. The owners were extremely grateful and asked how on earth he found him. “I smelled him.” Said Tom.
-friday
The meaning of this question is pretty obvious. But the reactions Tom Northfarm got to it over the years were not what you might expect. Mostly, people would look at him a little puzzled and ask, “Smell what?” When he responded by describing an odor that couldn’t possibly be in the vicinity, invariably the respondents would say, “Uh, no.” With the added “idiot” or “freak” or “weirdo” left out but still very much understood. It was things like being in the boys locker room after gym class and asking if anyone smelled guava juice that would earn him extra scorn, taunts referencing his sexual preference, and occasional beat downs. It was the beat downs that finally convinced him to keep his odor inquiries to himself.
Tom yearned to talk about what he was smelling with someone, anyone. But he had no takers. Everyone wrote him off as a weirdo. Even his own parents thought he was rather odd. But he knew, deep within his gut, that he really was smelling the things he was describing.
It didn’t take him long to deduce that since no one else ever smelled what he smelled, than he must be smelling odors from farther away. But how far? That was the real question. He wanted to do experiments to figure it out. But he couldn’t plant odiferous objects himself because knowing what he was smelling could make him believe he was smelling it rather than actually smelling it. And he wasn’t about to take anyone into his confidence in order to have them plant smells for him.
One summer his senior year in high school he decided it was time to put in a concerted effort to find one of the smells. He set his alarm for 5 am. He got up, packed a backpack with some food and water, left a note for his parents, and walked out the front door. He stood on the front steps of his house for a few moments, feeling the crisp summer breeze on his face, then he inhaled a deep breath through his nose.
Several smells came to him, but the strongest was the smell of wet dog and rubber. So he set off walking. He turned left out of his house and the smell got stronger so he continued. At the corner he went straight but soon the smell got just a tad weaker, so he went back to the corner and turned left. Again it weakened so he turned around and kept on and the smell grew again. He continued on this way, mapping out his route, for over seven hours. It was about 1 pm when he came to a small park with a creek running through it. He went towards the creek and there he found a drainage pipe coming off the western embankment and inside he heard the anxious whines of a trapped canine. He peered in but couldn’t see much in the darkness. So he shimmied into the pipe and as his eyes adjusted he noticed a beagle wedged in the drain by an old tire. He let the dog sniff him and talked calmly to it to gain its confidence. Then he grasped the dogs collar and gently pulled while simultaneously pushing the top of the tire. It only took about five careful mintues and he had the poor dog free. He scooted backwards out of the drain with the dog and sat on the bank with it while the dog wagged and licked him appreciatively. He sat there for a few moments exhausted but satisfied, contemplating the fact that he was holding a dog he had first smelled over 20 miles away.
There was an address on the collar. He remembered the street from his wanderings and brought the dog back to its home. The owners were extremely grateful and asked how on earth he found him. “I smelled him.” Said Tom.
-friday
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Incomparable Protagonist (Installment 1)
When Johnny Pamplemousse was seven or eight (I forget the specific date of this particular occurrence) he woke up in the middle of the night with a strange craving. It was strange for several reasons. First of all, he was not generally prone to waking up in the middle of the night. Secondly, on those rare nights when he did wake up, he did not want for food. And last, if he were to crave some food, it would most likely be peanut butter, or maybe ice cream. But on this night, the date of which I forget, he craved raisins. It's not that he didn't like raisins. They were fine as far as Johnny was concerned. But they certainly weren't among his favorite snacks. And he couldn't recall ever having a craving for them, day or night, before. But, on this night, he woke up, he woke up hungry, and he craved raisins. So the logical next step was for Johnny to search out some raisins.
He headed downstairs to the kitchen. He first checked the pantry, no raisins. Next he checked the cabinets, no raisins. He even looked in the refrigerator, no raisins. And his craving seemed to be growing stronger. On top of that, he had no desire to eat anything else besides raisins. He actually felt like he was going a little bit crazy. All he could think of was raisins. He just had to have some.
He found himself in the living room, kneeling next to the coffee table in the darkness. He wasn't exactly praying, per se, but he was staring at the ceiling, holding his upturned hands out, and just yearning with all his might for raisins. A moment passed. Then, something rather odd happened. Slowly, at first, but then with steadily increasing speed, raisins just started appearing in little Johnny's hands. He just stayed kneeling, staring stunned at his hands as raisins flowed over his fingers onto the coffee table. Not until they started spilling over the sides of the table did he make any type of reaction. He tried to close his hands but the as the raisins continued to appear, they forced his fists open and burst out onto the living room floor. He was starting to panic. Again, he looked up to the ceiling and screamed in his head "Stoooooooooooooooooooooooooop!" And they did.
-friday
He headed downstairs to the kitchen. He first checked the pantry, no raisins. Next he checked the cabinets, no raisins. He even looked in the refrigerator, no raisins. And his craving seemed to be growing stronger. On top of that, he had no desire to eat anything else besides raisins. He actually felt like he was going a little bit crazy. All he could think of was raisins. He just had to have some.
He found himself in the living room, kneeling next to the coffee table in the darkness. He wasn't exactly praying, per se, but he was staring at the ceiling, holding his upturned hands out, and just yearning with all his might for raisins. A moment passed. Then, something rather odd happened. Slowly, at first, but then with steadily increasing speed, raisins just started appearing in little Johnny's hands. He just stayed kneeling, staring stunned at his hands as raisins flowed over his fingers onto the coffee table. Not until they started spilling over the sides of the table did he make any type of reaction. He tried to close his hands but the as the raisins continued to appear, they forced his fists open and burst out onto the living room floor. He was starting to panic. Again, he looked up to the ceiling and screamed in his head "Stoooooooooooooooooooooooooop!" And they did.
-friday
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Failed writer seeks pseudo-creative outlet
Despite the fact that I think the mass populace should not be given the opportunity to spread their inane, ignorant, and idiotic ideas throughout the world wide interweb, I have nonetheless caved to the non-existent pressure and decided to throw my pointless drivel into the mix.
In my youth I disillusioned myself into thinking that I had some writing talent and some photographic talent. I did, after all, get an A- in my collegiate level photojournalism class. But when my A-, and my "show" of my prints in the local coffee shop (where I also worked, by the way), and my one attempt at photographing a wedding didn't catapult me to success I started to realize perhaps my Mom was wrong.
So many years later and many jobs later I still like to write and to take pictures despite making no productive use out of either. I've had a couple of things "published" on the world wide interweb, but I'd like to put some of my random crap out there on a more regular basis. So, here I am.
Now I don't actually read too many of what the kids call blogs, so I don't know how this generally works. But I imagine for the most part the blogger at this point might tell you a little about themselves, like their affinity for knitting and the names of all seventeen of their living cats and short bios of some of their dead ones. But I'm not doing this so the world can get to know me, I'm simply doing it as a creative outlet for some of my writing and a place to put some of my photos.
There will be short stories, music and restaurant reviews, photo series, and other random ramblings. So check back later if you've got nothing better to do.
-friday
In my youth I disillusioned myself into thinking that I had some writing talent and some photographic talent. I did, after all, get an A- in my collegiate level photojournalism class. But when my A-, and my "show" of my prints in the local coffee shop (where I also worked, by the way), and my one attempt at photographing a wedding didn't catapult me to success I started to realize perhaps my Mom was wrong.
So many years later and many jobs later I still like to write and to take pictures despite making no productive use out of either. I've had a couple of things "published" on the world wide interweb, but I'd like to put some of my random crap out there on a more regular basis. So, here I am.
Now I don't actually read too many of what the kids call blogs, so I don't know how this generally works. But I imagine for the most part the blogger at this point might tell you a little about themselves, like their affinity for knitting and the names of all seventeen of their living cats and short bios of some of their dead ones. But I'm not doing this so the world can get to know me, I'm simply doing it as a creative outlet for some of my writing and a place to put some of my photos.
There will be short stories, music and restaurant reviews, photo series, and other random ramblings. So check back later if you've got nothing better to do.
-friday
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