RuKsaK

Felt sad yesterday - happens seldom, so lots of my-opinion© in this story.
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Superman came on the TV. My favourite film of ever and ever. It was the first time my daughter had seen it and shown any interest. Instead of watching the fuzzed transmission I fished out the DVD and shoved it on from the start. She loved it, specially the opening credits, which are the greatest, least conceited in film history. She woke up this morning saying ‘Superman. I want Superman.’ She got him.
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I’ve seen it enough times to cite it at length, and philosophise as badly as the next Tarantino cock. Both I and II are highly quotable, with the right intonation:
‘Why do you say this to me when you know I will kill you for it?’
‘Do you know why the number 200 is so vitally descriptive for you and me?. It’s you’re weight and my IQ.’
plus:
‘I never lie.’
More and more…
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As a kid, I had to be Superman, not plainly wanting to, it was obligatory – it was Bridlington. So, I resolved to live by the last quotation above. Of course, this mission was aborted next time I broke or stole something.
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There’s a scene in Superman where he flies by the Twin Towers. It’s then I felt sad. Superman died last week – that was an accident – another one of God’s bloody fuck-ups. (When is someone gonna sack that outmoded wanker and recruit a less workshy deity?)
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I started thinking how in my 1978 he would’ve saved the Twin Towers – stopped Bin’s twelve-year-olds pummelling planes into buildings and the people in them. He would’ve stopped me lying. Just spoken to me about it, not even throwing manhole covers into my belly or using laser eyes to carve me up.
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1978 is as radically different as I was. Superman played with Lex Luthor, not Bin Laden.
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Then, it came to me:
‘Shit, Superman has never saved me from lying either!’
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Then I twigged that he had, in actual fact, chopped me up into dinky pieces. The truth of me is jigsawed all around the bloody planet – which Superman could, being arsed enough, and alive, orbit in half-a-second, congregate all my bits of truth, put them together and show me if I’m a tyrant or not- ‘cos I haven’t an inkling. A task beyond us lot, including the ones I’ve lied to.
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So, I’m a sham, Superman didn’t save me. That’s alright – I’d be a freak if he had. At least Bin Laden soothes me, helps me sleep at night – hey, I’m just a liar, not a guilty dead Superman or a horrid Mr Bin L. Just as Superman helps him, in his Afghani cave. God bless you Bin Laden for saving us from Superman and thank you Superman for sending my daughter to 1978 for the time being.
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Any fucking questions? I have.

Soops 'n Bin. The flag of my brain.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Superman the Bin Laden