Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (allow me to geek out for a moment)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on September 26, 2013 by Mike

Warning: here there be possible spoilers.

Ever since the first teaser for “Marvel’s Agents of Shield” appeared, one of the more popular talking points about ABC and Joss Whedon’s series has been”How the HELL is Agent Coulson in this series? He’s dead! I saw him die!” Of course, comic book superheroes never really DIE for good – there’s not a superhero out there that hasn’t died in the pages of his/her comic book a few times over. But Agent Coulson’s no superhero – prick him, he’ll bleed; poison him, he’ll die and all that – so after Whedon ripped our hearts out in Avengers (as he did in Serenity) it was reasonable to wonder how he’d pull off the trick of bringing Phil back to life without blatantly cheating.

Image

“I am a leaf on the wind.”

The first episode of “Agents…” doesn’t completely answer that question. Sure, Coulson tells us about how he “saw a bright light” and was apparently on death’s doorstep before being revived miraculously (the heroes needed that “push” and weren’t told that Coulson survived) – and that’s certainly plausible – but it also cheapens the moment from the movie considerably. Coulson’s death becomes a trick, a ruse, not only fooling the heroes but also the audience. Beyond that, it suggests that mainstream superhero movies won’t let ANY protagonist actually die, which, if Marvel goes this direction, takes away any dramatic tension because there’s no risk anymore. Innocent bystanders are at risk of falling debris, of course, but never anyone with, you know, a name.

And I can’t really believe Whedon would do that.

There are hints in the episode that he didn’t. After Coulson discusses the bright light and being brought back to life, he goes on to talk about his recuperation in Tahiti, “a magical place.” Again, plausible, but Whedon brings in Firefly/Serenity alum Ron Glass (Shepherd) as one Dr. Streiten, who, upon hearing Coulson talk of Tahiti, looks on with amazement/mild bewilderment and, after Coulson exits, says something questioning Coulson’s lack of knowledge about what really happened. Maria Hill (Cobie Smulders reprising her Avengers role) responds with something along the lines “He can never know.”

The plot thicks.

Fortunately, there’s a perfectly Marvel-ous answer for this, and, if true, would restore the integrity of Coulson’s death in The Avengers and enrich the cinematic Marvel universe through the use of comic canon: Life Model Decoys.

For the uninitiated, Life Model Decoys (LMDs) are androids that serve as perfect duplicates of VIPs in the Marvel Universe, right down to DNA and memories. They are SHIELD creations, and the original Nick Fury in the comics has several running around at any given time. Using one to replace Coulson would be in keeping with Marvel tradition and could possibly lead to some very surprising reveals later in the series. In fact, they’ve already been name-checked in the cinematic universe: Tony Stark tries to play himself off as an LMD when Coulson arrrives at Stark Tower to bring him his “homework.” So there is precedent.

But what about that whole “he can never know” business? LMDs in Marvel comics have been known to believe themselves to be the real thing, rather than a copy. The last run of Secret Avengers used a Nick Fury LMD who believed himself to be the real Nick Fury, and ended up going a bit insane. The idea that Coulson is actually an LMD who doesn’t realize that he’s artificial is, in my eyes, a distinct possibility, and sets up some fantastic possibilities/drama for the future. What would happen if Coulson realizes he’s an android? That SHIELD kept this from him because he’s so valuable (Fury: “I lost my one good eye”)? As Stark explains in the Avengers , Fury is “THE spy. His secrets have secrets.”

I think Whedon has one, too.

/I published this first on comicbookdiscussion.com – check it out!

The benefits of having cute daughters…

Posted in Uncategorized on September 18, 2013 by Mike

About a year ago, I was traveling with the family to my parents.  We were in my wife’s Highlander, and, because its ride is very smooth and its acceleration impressive for a small SUV, I didn’t really notice that I was going about 83 in a 75…okay, maybe I did, but no trooper is going to pull me over for just 8 over, right?

Wrong.

Just before Hearne, a trooper (WHO CAME OUT OF NOWHERE, I SWEAR) pulls in behind me and flashes his lights.  I pull over, groaning because my wife is right beside me and smiling smugly because she was the last one to get a ticket and I hadn’t had one for years.  She also said she told me to slow down not ten minutes earlier.  Right.  Like I believe that.

Anyway, the trooper gets out of his car and makes his way to my window, which I’ve rolled down in preparation for the “Do you know why I pulled you over?” conversation. Before he says a word, though, Suzie, my cute, silly little five year old daughter sitting behind me in her booster seat, looks at the officer and says, “Hi!” in her cute, silly little five year old voice.

I’m looking at the officer and see his stern face break into a slight grin – he tried his BEST to suppress it, but couldn’t.  It was at that point that I thought to myself, “Hot damn, I’m not getting a ticket.”

I didn’t – he let me off with a warning.  My wife and I laughed about it the rest of the way to my parents, and she told me I owed my daughter big-time.

Cut to this morning, and I’m driving Suzie to school in my silver SS Camaro, not paying ANY attention to my speed as I go down the main drive from my house.  I honestly didn’t think I was speeding – the thought never crossed my mind.

That is, until the motorcycle cop set up at the end of the street flashed his lights as I came over the crest of the hill.

Digression: From time to time since the state trooper escape, I’ve told Suzie that if I were to ever get pulled over again, she should again say “Hi!” to the officer as he gets to my window (“what the hell?”, I think, it can’t hurt).

Suzie performs admirably. In fact, she says “Hi!” about four different times as the officer tells me he clocked me at 38 in a 30.  I expressed some surprise at the speed and he asks how fast I thought I was going.  In one of my more impressive moments of stupidity, I say I wasn’t paying any attention at all to my speed.  Nice, Michael.

He walks back to his bike with my license (Suzie says “Hi!” a couple more times) and I’m wondering how I’m going to hide this ticket from my wife.  When he returns, he tells me he’s giving me a warning, and asks me if I’ll slow it down next time.  “Absolutely,” I say, and he kind of laughs at that.  Then he tells me that some neighbors have complained about speeders on the street and then says he’s “looking for bigger fish” that morning.

I drive off relieved, of course, but also amazed at two things:

1) Motorcycle cops NEVER let people off of tickets.  I’ve never heard of it happening.

and

2) I’m in an SS Camaro – I’m not one of those “bigger fish”?

Still, I think I owe Suzie again.

The Ceiling Tile Assignment

Posted in teaching with tags , , , , on July 25, 2013 by Mike

At the end of each year I allow my students to add to the panache of my classroom by decorating the 2′ X 2′ ceiling tiles in my classroom.  The only real rule to this assignment is that the tile they create should reflect something from the class that they found important/memorable/inspiring, but many times they ignore this and just make fun of me (those tiles don’t stay up long). This has been going on for about ten years now so I’ve got quite a collection of student artwork hanging above my head, and the nice thing for me is seeing the tiles from years past that make the cut each year, reminding me of those students who are at this point probably finished with their college undergrad careers.

Anyway, I thought I’d show off a few of them here (click on the pic for a bigger size)…

What Would Twain Do?

Mark Twain is a common inclusion on these tiles, as  I make no secret of the fact that he’s my favorite classic American author. This one obviously is a rip-off homage to the “WWJD” bracelets that were popular a number of years ago, although this tile’s sentiment is probably a bit easier to achieve, if only because Twain wasn’t, you know, God.

Time tile

This one has a number of quotations concerning the passage of time swirling around a working clock that the student had placed in the tile.  The hands of the clock are made from balsa wood, and I remember the student complaining about the time it took him to get the weight correct.  I need to get up in the ceiling to replace the battery…

Many times the tiles students create (they aren’t actually using the tiles themselves – they use posterboard cut to size) reflect some dominant image from a novel we read.  Dr. T.J. Eckleburg’s disembodied eyes are a popular choice each year.

 … above the gray land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg.   The eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic – their retinas are one yard high.   They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose … But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.

Silver Surfer

Other times students pick up on the fact that I am a Marvel Comics fan.  The student who created this work of art knew that I put “SSURFR” license plates on my silver Camaro  (I was tempted to go with “Radd“) and ran with it. Yes, that’s a three-dimensional Silver Surfer hanging upside down from my ceiling.  I’m amazed at the time/effort she put into this – it’s so much fun to look/gawk at.

Captain America makes numerous appearance each year, for some reason.  The above is from this past year, as well.  I don’t see myself taking this down…ever.  I think I’ll have it buried with me. And, yes, that says “Mr. Williams is a HERO.” Future students, take note.

Then there are tiles that reflect something so specific to that class/year, that for future students and other observers they’re cryptic and/or nonsensical. Such as the above.  Yes, that’s a psychedelic-colored picture of  a younger, thinner-faced me, the words “Sin is Tasty” and a pie beneath that.  It relates to this AP prompt borrowed from Gary Soto.  In this class’s discussion of said prompt, the allusion to the original sin committed in the Garden of Eden drew attention, and I had them look at how the young Soto relished the stolen apple pie:

But even that didn’t stop me from clawing a chunk from the pie tin and pushing it into the cavern of my mouth. The slop was sweet and gold-colored in the afternoon sun. I laid more pieces on my tongue, wet finger-dripping pieces, until I was finished and felt like crying because it was about the best thing I had ever tasted.

“Sin is tasty” I apparently told them, and for a group of about four students, that’s what stuck.  I have my moments.

Other times I don’t.  This tile has been up since my second or third year of teaching AP juniors. That year, a few parents (two, I think) complained to my principal about a novel on the class’s reading list, Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain.  One parent went so far as to type up every passage from the novel she deemed offensive and gave it to the principal.  This was a few months before we were even going to get to the novel, and I remember thinking, “I don’t have the time to fight this battle” [actually, it was “time for this shit”] and some other ruder thoughts about the intellect of the parents who complained. So I made the decision to pull it off the reading list that year to avoid the hassle.  That decision’s one of my biggest regrets of my teaching career. The school paper at some point  that year did a story on book banning and the English class reading lists (the newspaper staff is always chock-full of AP English students), and I was interviewed for it.  That quote on the tile came from the story and it’s something I believe with all my heart. The pictures are the covers of the books we read that year.  All of them are open except Cold Mountain.

Vindication came the next year (my juniors’ now seniors): Cold Mountain was a title referred to on the open-ended question of the AP Literature exam.

My top five formative albums

Posted in Entertainment, Music with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 24, 2013 by Mike

The internet’s full of top-whatever-number greatest albums lists, most of which I disagree with.  I mean, Sgt. Pepper‘s is a great album and all, but it’s not one that would crack my top 10. “Well, yeah,” you might say, “but you listen to mostly heavy metal” (I’m assuming you know me a bit). Sure, but then there are also lists devoted to strictly metal albums, and I have to tell you, I don’t care too much about Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden’s Powerslave.  Again, some awesome songs on both (“Aces High” is on my workout music playlist) and influential to the genre, but they’re not albums that have any distinct resonance with me.

And I suppose that’s why those top-whatever ratings get argued over so often – musical taste is subjective and what blows your skirt up might not even…well, whatever the male equivalent of that previous expression is for me. Those putting together these kinds of lists try to avoid that by looking at the albums’ perceived quality, originality, and influence, and that’s why Sgt. Pepper‘s and Revolver end up being in every top 10 list out there. Meh.

Now, I’m not “meh”-ing The Beatles, so much as I am the nature of these lists. Look, no shit, the Beatles are one of the most, if not the most, influential rock bands ever, and to suggest otherwise illustrates some sort of petty bias against those boys from Liverpool.  It’s ignorant.  If you want to hate on a band, direct it toward the Black-Eyed Peas – they’re the ones ruining music. Usually, though, those lists tend to get those objective qualities meted out in the right order, unless they’re purposely trying to annoy people (Kanye West at number 9, Adele at 17, while Led Zeppelin IV is at 79 – are your editors collectively stupid, Entertainment Weekly?).

But more to the point, while those lists are good for message-board fights and blog posts, the magazine’s/website’s selections shouldn’t mean much to readers. I know I’m not terribly interested in listening to The Beatles’ Rubber Soul or The Clash’s London Calling just because Rolling Stone deemed them top 10 albums, but I can appreciate reading the justification RS writes up. The list sells the magazine, and will be modestly adjusted the next time the next-big-thing hits (though, if you look at RS‘s list, you’d have to go all the way to #17 to find a post-1970’s album : Nirvana’s Nevermind, which, while definitely an “important” album for what it meant for American rock, can it honestly be said that it should be ranked higher than EVERY Led Zeppelin album?).

Rock attained perfection...

“Why do you need new bands? Everyone knows rock attained perfection in 1974. It’s a scientific fact.”

So I’m not interested in message board debates about these kinds of lists. What I’d be more interested in, though, is an individual’s list of his/her top 5 albums that had a lasting impact on his/her musical tastes.  In other words, albums that are responsible for what you listen to today.  I don’t necessarily believe that these are albums made by your favorite artists, otherwise I’d list off 4 Anthrax albums and something by Ian Moore for variety’s sake. Nor do I think it’s as easy as saying, “When I first heard Led Zeppelin/The Beatles/Nirvana/[insert ‘important’ band here] it showed me everything I listened to previously was crap.” Bullshit. If you LIKE a band’s music, then what other bands have done either before or after shouldn’t matter. We’re talking about art and emotional response, not compare/contrast.  Certainly albums by those ‘important’ bands could be on someone’s list, but there’s nothing wrong with declaring “Gypsy Road” has more importance to you than “Penny Lane.”   Illustrating this a bit,  Chuck Klosterman,  in one section of his “holy-crap-why-didn’t-I-write-this-book?” Fargo Rock City, lists out his top-whatever albums and the amount of money it would take for him to never listen to the albums again (apparently there’s not enough money for him to never again  listen to Appetite for Destruction).  His reasoning is both hilarious and intensely personal,  the latter of which makes it such a great read for anyone who grew up listening to hair metal in the 80’s, and anyone else who didn’t but loves reading about music (seriously, he’s exactly one day younger than me; that book might as well be entitled DeSoto Rock City).

So these kinds of thoughts have led me to think about my top 5 formative albums – these albums are my best guess as to why I have the taste in music I do. These are not my top 5 of all time – that’s a different thing and I’m pretty sure none of the following would be on that list. But these albums can probably be blamed for the presets on my car stereo…

Pyromania

Pyromania is the first rock album that I remember owning. Think about all the singles off this album – songs that are now staples/classics of 80’s rock: “Foolin'”; “Photograph” (can you hear that one guitar note that begins the song and NOT listen to the rest?); “Rock! Rock! (Till You Drop)”; “Too Late for Love”; and, of course, “Rock of Ages”.  In 6th grade some friends and I auditioned for a talent show doing an air guitar rendition of “Rock of Ages” (the school had a loose definition of “talent”, I guess). Every other group of kids auditioning “performed” Van Halen’s “Jump” – we were the only ones to get in (we had practiced our moves/lip-synching quite a bit, admittedly). This album was a gateway album to A LOT of late 80’s hair bands for me. Motley Crue, Warrant, Skid Row, Cinderella, Tesla, Extreme, hell, even the Sleeze Beez (/shudder) – I bought all those albums and memorized their lyrics because Def Leppard’s album showed me how awesome rock was.

Hooked on Classics

I’m not all about the metal these days (Sirius Pops is one of my presets), and I probably owe my taste in classical music at least in part to this damn album (Looney Tunes cartoons deserve some credit as well). I don’t know how well it holds up today, as the disco rhythm that’s tacked on to the classical music makes it sound a bit cheesy, but I know I couldn’t wait for it to get to the William Tell Overture (i.e., the “Lone Ranger” theme). You know what? Screw that – this album’s still great.

I'm the Man

I would love to be able to say that Among the Living is what turned me onto my favorite band. I can’t. Instead, I first heard Anthrax in my friend Mike’s garage when someone put on the I’m the Man EP.  I was laughing all damn night. One, the title song’s hilarious, and illustrates a sense of humor that really no other metal band cared to exhibit at the time (Metallica/Slayer/Megadeth: SERIOUS AND ANGRY – they wore all black.  Anthrax band members wore Jams on stage). Two, holy crap, “Caught in a Mosh” is fast and live (and recorded in Dallas!). Three, they wrote a song about a comic book character (Judge Dredd) and Danny Spitz’s guitar had the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it.  Then, come to find out, the band members were reading the same books I was (Stephen King’s The Stand, “Apt Pupil”, and Misery all inspired songs).  I have to say that the “I’m the Man” lyrics “They cut their crack, they offer joints, We don’t do drugs, do you get our meaning? [POINT]” also drew my attention/appreciation [side note: years later Scott Ian would say that he had tried marijuana and had an allergic reaction to it.  I don’t know…then there was Charlie Benante’s point about buying toys rather than drugs]. It was the perfect storm of music and personality, and if it was Pyromania that led me to more hair metal, it was I’m the Man that opened up Metallica, Megadeth, Testament, etc. to me, which would later lead to Pantera and Machine Head and so on.

Graceland

I remember when my parents forced this album on me and my brothers – they were playing the cassette constantly: when they picked us up from school; when we went to the store; when we were being driven to a  friend’s house; when we took vacations.  All the time – at least that’s how I remember it.  But the album grew on me, more so than on my brothers, I think, for whatever reason. Paul Simon is a hell of a musician (my Dad holds the not-so-uncommon opinion that Art Garfunkel was lucky to have known Simon), and the songs on this record are surprisingly catchy, especially for a 15 year old kid who was into rock and metal exclusively. Then there was the song/video for “You Can Call Me Al” – Chevy Chase was still a bankable star at that time and the interaction between Simon and Chase was fun to watch. My favorite song ended up being “I Know What I Know“, though. The use of South African musicians/music also demonstrated a social conscience as apartheid was still in effect (many felt, though, that Simon had broken a boycott toward S. Africa by doing so). So maybe I attribute to this album the reminder that good music is good music, no matter the genre. I ended up buying the CD, and was still listening to it right up until 2000 when it disappeared along with my stereo when my car was broken into out in Phoenix. Maybe the album had the same effect on the thief.  : /

Licensed to Ill

Any rap I’ve ever listened to can be attributed to this album.  Yes, I agree, it’s an extraordinary shame that I trace my appreciation for a musical genre that was created by urban blacks back to three Jews from New York, but, damn, this album is extraordinarily fun and stands the test of time.  Just try NOT listening to “No Sleep Til Brooklyn” or “Paul Revere“. Of course, it’s got “You’ve Got to Fight, etc..”, which I’ve always considered more rock than anything else, but above all this album was accessible (it didn’t hurt that Slayer’s Kerry King made an appearance). This album led me to, among others, Run-DMC and, later, Ice-T’s O.G. Original Gangster (no kidding!), along with Del the Funky Homosapien, Jurassic-5, and, of course, Eminem. Rap/Hip-hop’s never been a genre I’ve listened to consistently, but it was Licensed to Ill that opened that door.

Why I don’t need to get involved in Valentine’s Day at the high school…

Posted in teaching on February 19, 2013 by Mike

So, a student comes into my class last Thursday with a few roses in his hand.  He proceeds to ask me if I’ll give one of them to Hannah in my second period. “Hannah?” I ask, quickly trying to picture her and where she sits.  “Yeah, Hannah – but don’t tell her who it’s from,” he replies and gives me the rose.  “Thanks!” and off he goes.

No problem, I think. I put the rose on my desk and get ready for my first period.

Second period comes around and the bell rings to start class. I pick up the rose and announce out loud that Hannah’s getting a rose, followed very quickly by clarification that it’s not from me and that the person did not want to be named.  Hannah comes over to take the rose looking very surprised.  She goes back to her seat and I overhear her say she has no idea who it’s from, “maybe my dad?” she says to a classmate.

Warning bells begin to go off in my head.

It’s at that point that I look over to another area of my class as I’m taking attendance  and see Anna sitting there.  Yeah, Anna.  Sounds incredibly like “Hannah.”

“Oh, shit,” immediately runs through my head. Several times.

My students are busy getting their rough drafts out and I’m suddenly wondering what hole I can crawl into and hide in. Now, mind you, I don’t KNOW that I gave the rose to the wrong girl yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion I did. I have to figure this out quickly.  So I walk over to the other side of the room and tell two guys to follow me out into the hallway – they might know something.

Out in the hallway, I tell them my dilemma. They laugh. For a while. One of them then catches his breath and admits it’s an easy mistake to make, then proceeds to laugh again. I ask if they know if the rose-giver is dating Hannah or Anna, and neither know.  So I ask if they know if either Hannah or Anna are dating anyone – again, no dice. So the other guy pulls out his cell phone to check with a friend of his who he knows had talked with him about Anna.  There’s no immediate response (dammit, what’s wrong with students?) so we head back in the classroom to continue class and await any information.

I get busy checking their rough drafts, keeping an eye on the guy with the phone with the friend.  They, of course, relate the problem to others sitting around them through texts, so there’s a definite buzz going around as some know and others aren’t sure what everyone is talking about.  Finally, he looks at me deliberately.  He sticks out his arm, thumb up, and then immediately points it down [he got a text saying he had been interested in Anna but “someone was giving her flowers”].

Dammit.

I’m stuck. I have to figure out how to tell Hannah the rose isn’t hers, and then give it to Anna. Or I could just let it go and let them work it out on their own.  Then another guy tells me he has a solution.  We go out in the hall.

Student: “Mr. Williams, I can go get a rose…I can find one, get one from someone who has some, and bring it back and then you can give it to Anna so both get a rose.”

Me: “You think you can get a rose?”

S: “Yeah, and all I ask is that you let me drive your Camaro.”

Me: “Get back inside.”

Back in the classroom, I decide I have to go ahead and tell Hannah I made a mistake.  So I ask her to go out to the hallway with me where I explain what I did. She says, and I quote, “Oh, that’s okay. Anna and I are friends.”

Relief.

Back inside Hannah gives the rose to Anna, and the whole class is let in on my mistake.  They proceed to laugh at me for what I feel is an unreasonable length of time.

Somehow I don’t think Cyrano de Bergerac and Emma will be losing any sleep anytime soon…

Some random thoughts about a Demi Lovato song…

Posted in Entertainment with tags , , on November 27, 2012 by Mike

First, a preface, because I have two brothers (and, hell, BRP will jump in, too) who are going to rag on me mercilessly for this post: I don’t normally listen to pop music, but with two little girls, one ten and the other six, it’s at times difficult to get away from the Disney Channel on Sirius. No, I’m more of  a classic rock guy (who has a tendency to listen to very loud metal) and I’ve got the hardware to prove it.

Anyway, Demi Lovato’s (I looked up the spelling) song “Give Your Heart a Break” has been in heavy rotation since, well, forever, it seems. Admittedly, it’s a catchy song – and there’s where I catch hell from my brothers – but I listen to and value lyrics more than I probably should. It’s why I can’t stand what Metallica has been churning out the past two decades (OHMYGOD, HAS IT BEEN THAT LONG SINCE “…AND JUSTICE FOR ALL”? WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, JAMES HETFIELD?) – I mean, have you LISTENED to “My Apocalypse”? “The Day that Never Comes”? Friggin’ “Frantic”?! They’re crap! My God, James, get back on the cocaine and write another “Blackened”!…

Uh, pardon me.

OK, back to Lovato’s song. The lyrics, as sung by Ms. Lovato, tell the story of a girl who is trying to coax a guy into loving her, but the guy is hesitant because his heart has been broken once too often. And every guy who read that last sentence just rolled their eyes.  And that’s my point.

This song was not meant to be sung by a female.

This is not to knock Ms. Lovato’s rendition, because she does have an amazing voice, but the male this song is supposed to center around would have to be the most effeminate man on earth, and this type of man does not attract pop-star divas. For instance:

The day I first met you
You told me you’d never fall in love
But now that I get you
I know fear is what it really was

OK – a GUY is AFRAID of falling in love, and it’s not suggested at all that it involves a fear of losing his man cave with beer tap and 60″ LG?  Right. But let’s give it the benefit of the doubt here.  Moving on to the chorus:

Don’t wanna break your heart
Wanna give your heart a break
I know you’re scared it’s wrong
Like you might make a mistake

There it is again – the fear – and the girl is the one who’s trying to reassure him that he’s not making a mistake.  At this point this guy’s got some serious esteem issues, or is a bit of a milquetoast. And the kicker comes in the next verse:

On Sunday you went home alone
There were tears in your eyes
I called your cell phone, my love
But you did not reply

Come on, people! He left with tears in his eyes, and his favorite team didn’t just lose the national championship game? I’m sorry, I just can’t suspend my disbelief that much.  Despite the popularity of Lovato’s song, despite its catchiness, despite the fact that  it just makes you feel like singing along when taking your younger daughter to school (erm, so I’ve heard), the song, when sung by a female, is fairly nonsensical.

Oh, and there’s the fact that it was written by two men.

Major Tom (A Thanksgiving Tale of Heroes)

Posted in Entertainment on November 21, 2012 by Mike

One mid-November day, on Farmer Magrill’s farm, Tom Turkey stood by himself behind the barn, nervous.  Thanksgiving Day was close, Tom knew, and he also knew that around Thanksgiving Day, everyone likes a turkey (though not in a way that was particularly pleasing to Tom Turkey). Tom was, if you’ll excuse the expression, hatching a plan to make sure he was around for Christmas (when the Magrills seemed to like goose, but that was Gully Goose’s problem).

“I’ve got to figure out a way to avoid being recognized!” said Tom to no one in particular, as all the other animals figured Tom needed his space around this time of year. But what could he do?  He was, after all, a turkey, and a dashing one at that (if he did think so himself), and it was a bit too late to go on a diet.

“Confound Farmer Magrill’s extra portions he gave me this past month!” Tom thought ruefully.  “I have no willpower!”

Just at that moment, inspiration struck like an axe to the neck (if you’ll excuse the expression).

“Power! That’s it!”, and Tom Turkey ran, as well as turkeys can run, to Mrs. Magrill’s clothesline across the yard. There, he pulled down with his beak a pair of little Johnny’s overalls and a red bonnet that Mrs. Magrill kept there for particularly sunny afternoons.  Tom Turkey dragged the items back to his spot behind the barn and began pecking and biting and scratching furiously at them.

“Tom Turkey, what are you doing?” called Henny Hen from across the yard. Not much escaped Henny Hen’s notice.

“Never you mind,” replied Tom Turkey, as he turned his attention, and his beak, to the bonnet. “Merely exercising!”

“Should have thought about that three weeks ago,” muttered Rory Rooster, as he ambled by, barely taking notice of Tom Turkey.  Rory Rooster knew no one liked rooster as much as they did turkey, or goose.

Tom Turkey ignored Rory, and, soon stepped back to admire his work.

There before him, albeit in rather rough condition, lay his plan to avoid recognition. Little Johnny’s overalls had been scratched into a body suit suitable for a broad-bodied turkey (as Tom preferred to refer to himself) with a large “H” scratched into the chest.  The bonnet, or at least what was left of it, now took the shape of a mask that would cover Tom’s head with small holes for his very small eyes.

“There!” thought Tom. “No one will recognize me in this costume, as my identity will be hidden by the mask, and the “H” will serve to announce me as a HERO, and everyone loves a hero!”

Tom Turkey crawled under the barn with his outfit in his beak, away from prying eyes. There he dressed himself in his hero outfit, tying the mask around his skinny neck (never you mind how!) and emerging to the world a new turkey: Major Tom!

Major Tom did indeed cut a dashing, if slightly portly, figure in his new getup. Of course, all the other animals recognized him immediately (he was the only turkey on the farm), and stared as he strutted across the yard.

“Good farm-folk!” Major Tom called out. “I am Major Tom, here to protect and serve you! I am your new hero!”

“I think you’ll be the one being served, shortly,” replied Rory Rooster.  Some of the meaner animals laughed.

Major Tom tried to ignore them, but sweat started running down the red wattle underneath his mask. His voice cracked a bit as he said, “Never fear, fellow-fowl! I—“

Major Tom was interrupted by a cackling commotion among the hens. Tom looked to where they had been – I say ‘had been’ because now the hens were rushing back to their coop in a flurry of feathers and dust—only to see a lean red fox attempting to chase down Henny Hen (who was rather plump and, resultantly, slower) along the fence.  Rory Rooster was atop the coop, cowering in roosterly fear.

Tom’s first instinct was to run. Foxes have sharp teeth and claws and don’t have to wait until Thanksgiving to eat a turkey, you see.  He turned and looked at his own coop, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the outfit, or maybe it was the Henny’s panicked cries, but from somewhere deep inside his gullet, courage came.

Tom turned back and ran with the speed of a very fast turkey toward the vile fox, puffing his chest out and spreading his wings to make himself appear very large, indeed. The fox, about to sink those very sharp teeth into the back of the unfortunate hen, turned at the sound of Major Tom’s “GOBBLE-GOBBLE-GOBBLE!” and yelped. Major Tom jumped at the vicious vulpine, the sharp spurs of his leathery feet aimed right at the fox’s snout.  The fox jumped away and, confused by a bird wearing human clothing, sprinted away over the fence and back into the nearby woods, never to be seen again.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” The barnyard exploded in cheers (in all their various forms) for Major Tom. The horses stamped their hooves in approval, and the pigs oinked noisily.  The goats in the pen bleated and jumped, while the sheep ran around their paddock baa-baaing until they winded themselves (sheep have no stamina). The hens gathered around him, clucking in admiration. Henny placed her head upon Tom’s full chest and sighed, making Tom a bit uncomfortable.

He gazed around the yard, taking in the scene. He WAS a hero. Everyone loved him. “Let Thanksgiving come,” Tom thought. ”A well-loved hero has nothing to fear.”

 ***

Three days after Thanksgiving, Farmer Magrill came in from the field and sat down for lunch. Mrs. Magrill had prepared sandwiches with all the fixings.

As Farmer Magrill took a slice of the tender white meat from the plate in front of him, placing it on the roll and piling on lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and cheese, he smiled as he thought to himself, “I surely do love a hero.”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!