Pros at Cons

I hope it's no surprise at this point to anyone reading this that the Cooks, and many in their extended social spheres, are what can be kindly described as "pop culture connoisseurs." Alternatively, we also answer to "comic book fans," "movie buffs," or most succinctly, "geeks." Put some respect on it, thank you very much.

An avid subscriber to actor/writer Simon Pegg's views about geekdom for many years now, I've always worn my excitement to all things superheroes, sci-fi & suchlike on my size-medium sleeve, and I'm happy to report that, pop culture-wise, certainly, the rest of the mainstream world finally seems to be catching on to this good thing we've been raving about since we were old enough to run around the house in Spider-Man pajamas (just me?). A fun fact for any who haven't already heard it: rather than the traditional route of One Fish, Two Fish or The Very Hungry Caterpillar, this humble author actually learned to read in the pages of comic books. At a vulnerably impressionable age, my dad Patrick got me a then-new copy of The Essential Spider-Man, a black-&-white anthology reprint of twenty-five or so original Spider-Man comics from the early 1960s... that selfsame frayed volume retains a spot of prominence on a shelf in my bedroom, a decent amount of its pages bearing the chocolate fingerprint stains of six-year-old fingers, and rarely do more than a few months go past at a time before I take it down and thumb through it again.

Given such an upbringing, therefore, it should be no surprise that the Cooks and all manner of extended friends and family have added a pilgrimage to Comic-Con as part of their annual schedule for the past few years now -- and where better place to have it than our own beloved Beantown?

If you're a people-watcher (I could personally list it as a resume skill), there really is no more unique event to walk around at, open-mouthed, for the whole calendar year. We all had our cameras constantly at the ready to pose with the thousands of "cosplayers" -- people who dress up in startlingly elaborate and detailed costumes of their favorite fictional characters -- who made the convention center feel like a Mos Eisley cantina of comic book characters come to life.

Scroll through at your leisure at some of the craziest or most incredible sights we saw that day --including more than a few celebrity guest cameos! -- but just like they do in Marvel movies, make sure you don't leave till after the end credits have gone and the house lights come up.

WARNING: dad jokes, fanboy insider references, and puns galore ahead. You've been warned.

Wonder Woman, finally opting for some non-invisible means of transportation

GET YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF ME, YOU DAMN DIRTY APE

"Whosoever holds this hammer --

-- if he be worthy --

-- shall possess the power of THOR!"

For all you Neil Gaiman fans out there -- Coraline's Other Mother, because there's no way your nightmares tonight could get any scarier, right?

... Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
"Georgieeeeeee....."

With so many things wrong in this neighborhood, who you gonna call?

Did someone call for a Doctor?

*REGENERATION*

"Come with me."

*REGENERATION*

"I am not a doctor. I am the Doctor."

"No, no, no, dear me, no. I am the Doctor. The original, you might say."

*REGENERATION*

I for one think it's about time there was finally a woman at the controls of the TARDIS. Time and space can't hurry up quick enough, Doctor 13. 

But in the meantime, Heather's content to just swoon  here over Doctor 11, the single-handed savior of the bowtie industry and Heather's major longtime crush: the super-cool and friendly Matt Smith...

And then fistbump with his bestie traveling Companion, the equally cool and exponentially more Scottish Karen Gillan (those red locks of hers are also beneath the badass purple baldness of Nebula, for all you Guardians of the Galaxy people out there!)

Far off in another corner of a galaxy far, far away, this trio had the privilege to meet and have a full conversation with the man fluent in over six million forms of communication -- the uber-posh and downright pleasant Mr. Anthony Daniels, Star Wars' iconic C-3PO himself.

And a good thing we did, too, or there would've been no one to shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level for us.

Where there's C-3PO, OF COURSE there has to be his number one friend and rusty bucket of bolts, R2-D2.

Less friendly was (this INCREDIBLE cosplay of) reformed Empire droid K2-SO, who kept delivering slaps in the face to Rebel scum

"Quiet! And there's a fresh one if you mouth off again."

The costumes here were all truly of the First Order

Punch it.I gotta admit -- sitting in the pilot's chair of the Millenium Falcon (with Nien Nunb even in the background!) was, as they say, "a bit of a moment."

In a day full of them, thanks in part to these amazing Amazons.

For lunch: chimichangas all around

As prepared by the only deadliest sharpest finest adamantium cutlery.

For lunch costs, and all the other MAJOR dents in our bank accounts caused by the armfuls of swag we each brought home afterwards, the preferred method of payment was "checks with little poodles on them," property of Bikini Bottom's most ticklish reformed criminal mastermind

In terms of the wickedest being beneath the waves, however, there was only one contender. Heather and I were speechless.

Zachary, no help at all, just kept joking at the situation.

With all these villains lurking around, there was only one team who could Assemble to Avenge the day. After years and years, I finally got to join their number!

As you've no doubt gathered from this barrage of pics (chosen from out of, I promise you, dozens, if not hundreds more), it really is something of an event to be a part of. In my opinion, it's the kind of event you should want to be a part of, nowadays especially.

Simultaneous to these goings-on in our cool corner of the world, rioters and protesters were clashing in Charlottesville, VA, with heartbreaking results. While I'll take any opportunity I can to talk your ear off about the latest plot details for the upcoming Avengers movies, I can't lie and say that I was undisturbed or willfully asleep to the historic and horrible events that were happening elsewhere; they struck a jarring chord with me, deeply, as some idealistic part of me hopes also happened to all decent Americans. The narrative on display there (and on your news station of choice, most likely, in the week now since), of naked hatred, prejudice, exclusivity, and violence, should have had no business here in 2017... but we're long since past any false ideas of "there's no way this could have happened in our country" anymore.  It did happen, and in doing so, the proverbial rock of American society was upturned to thrust an ugly, ugly underside into the spotlight. As uncomfortable as it was - and is, and will be - for many of us to confront it, it's been there all along, and not everyone has been so privileged as to be able to ignore it until now, not when it exists as an entrenched part of the system for so many.

As whole ethnic groups and other minorities that make up the basic fabric of our society have faced this latest, horrifyingly blatant round of discrimination, there's been a lot of chatter to the tune of "What can we do against it? How can I, an individual, counter these kind of atrocities?" The most practical answer is probably no further away than a google search and donation (of time and/or money) to a PoC, feminist, LGBTQ+, immigrant/refugee, poverty, and/or general peacekeeping aid group who does that kind of work daily, on the front lines of their respective issues.
But what about the longer-term, harder fix of internal adjustment? What about the soul-searching that's needed to bring us to the other side of this? What behavioral model do we have that's everything opposite to what went down in Virginia (and other places across the country)?

And here's where it all comes back around.

While my Twitter feed was delivering livetime more and more discouraging updates about the state of our beloved country , I needed to look no further than my immediate surroundings at comic-con to find hope again. There, up and down every aisle, thronged dozens deep in places, were tens of thousands of people -- of every creed, color, gender and sexual identity, age, body type, and class -- gathered together, peacefully, in celebration of: what?
Celebration of creativity. Of passion. Of inclusivity. Of a shared community experience. Of modern day heroes, pillars of our 21st century culture: an undocumented immigrant from the planet Krypton who has become a literal embodiment of Americana and the American Dream; a space princess-general who has no time for your male posturing; a team of superpowered mutants, ostracized and persecuted because of their from-birth identity as outsiders; a lower-class Brooklyn kid who, after an issue-one splash cover punching Adolf Hitler unconscious, has been identified since his first appearance with defeating Nazis and everything they stand for. And forget all simple notions of black or white or brown or Asian skin color... there were people walking around that were purple, orange, green, metal, tentacled, scaly, and a whole bunch of other stuff I don't even know about (there was some weird stuff, honestly). These are the ideals we set for ourselves to reach, that we have consciously and societally raised up as the individuals and themes worthy of adoration, no matter how fictional they may be. It's pretty special to see such a large gathering have such unbridled enthusiasm for all those things and more besides, and it's a reason much better than people watching why I'll never tire of going to one of these events.

You may well scream that I've been corrupted by the "liberal Hollywood agenda," that I'm living in a ludicrous fantasy world, that all of this sad rambling is out-of-touch, privileged preaching that has no effect on the actual world we live in.

Well, ok. I respect that.

But what could happen if that comic-con mentality was applied to other things? For every hate-filled gathering by hooded tiki-torchlight, there's a gathering of superheroes populated by the part of humanity that I choose to be a part of, that recognizes, celebrates, and aims to spread positivity to as many people as possible? Could they, say, gather tens of thousands of strong, of literally every sort and type, to march through Boston in a peaceful yet awe-inspiring display of multiculturalism, love, and tolerance, drowning out and altogether preventing the hatred we saw only a week ago in Charlottesville? Or carry on the same fight in smaller, more everyday ways that seldom make the news, but which still allow me to retain hope in a country that never needed to be made great again... because it was already great?

Imagine if that could happen.

"My faith's in people, I guess. Individuals. And I'm happy to say that, for the most part, they haven't let me down. Which is why I can't let them down either. I know you're doing what you believe in, and that's all any of us can do... So no matter what, I promise you, if you need us - if you need me - I'll be there."

Stories from the Desert

We encounter each other in words, words 

spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, 

words to consider, reconsider. 

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark 

the will of some one and then others, who said 

'I need to see what’s on the other side.' 

I know there’s something better down the road. 

We need to find a place where we are safe. 

We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

So goes Elizabeth Alexander's spectacular poem Praise Song for the Day, composed specially for the 2008 inauguration of Barack Obama (and found here, for anyone looking for their daily fix of extraordinary poetry). And so began last Sunday's concert in Foxboro's Gillette Stadium, the lines of the poem scrolling up an enormous stage screen to begin a concert event which has finally roused me from my writing slumber. And after all this time, I have to say, it is good to be back. Now, before we delve into the specific circumstances which have revived my efforts to clutter up your social media feeds with my ramblings for the foreseeable future, first--

A story:

I was a music fan from elementary school days, but at first it only meant  listening to movie soundtracks -- with a walkman CD player, in the days when that was still the private-listening music device of choice. I'd pop in The Lord of the Rings or Star Wars or Superman and stare out the window on car rides while replaying that CD's respective movie in my head in near-perfect sync to the music.

But then, as per the usual rite of teen passage, my fanboy symphonies were shot through by the righteous unholy racket of rock'n'roll, and nothing was the same again. Such was its impact on my impressionable young self, as a matter of fact, that I can actually pinpoint the specific album that was the root cause of it all: a sleek black CD, near-sinister in its simple allure, with U2 18 printed in small orange block font across the bottom. I popped it into my trusty little walkman, pressed play, and "Uno, dos, tres, catorce" (that's typical Gaelic counting skills for you)... magic.

Yes, this Irish boy's first popular music exposure came courtesy of the Irish boys, the Dublin lads with a leprechaun pot of triple platinum albums and a Blarney stone-cold claim on the title of "the greatest rock band in the world." For the next however many months after finding that first CD of singles, it was just the walkman and the plastic of the headphones and U2 blasting their soundscapes through the ear canals of a scrawny Lowell middle schooler. Over the decade or more since then, and with the collected works of music as an entity never further away than the nearest smart device, my music tastes have grown and adapted accordingly (there's still only one Boss in charge of my playlists, I don't think anyone reading this will be shocked to know). But U2 will always claim that distinction in my mind of being the first ones to plant their flag, to light that spark.

 For my own voyage of uncharted discovery, it made no difference that the quartet had already been around for 25+ years at that point, or even that my parents -- the ones who had given me the Eden apple CD in the first place -- were both avowed veteran fans in their own right. Lightning had already been striking millions of years before Ben Franklin sent his kite flying, but he still needed to go out and make that discovery for himself; this was me sending up my own fledgling beacon into the musicsphere, the headphone cables acting as the kite string to usher me along to the discovery of one of the modern world's more potent electrical charges: guitar amplifiers dialing up to eleven in service of a story. 

Last Sunday night was a summoning, a re-conducting of that story all over again -- of remembering that feeling of discovery upon first listen. The Joshua Tree is U2's passion project about America, told through wonder-filled and earnest immigrant eyes which see their adopted country for all its joy, hypocrisy, potential, bleakness, and all-encompassing scope. That America and the people in it have changed in the 30 years now since The Joshua Tree's release: everyone in Foxboro sat down with older, wiser ears than the ones that first encountered this particular story way back when... I for one would wager there have been encounters with quite a few more sad stories in the interim. 

Boston: where the green, white, and orange meets the red, white, and blue

But, like the lifecycles in the desert areas from which the album draws its name and iconic imagery, rebirth's a certainty. Freshness, renewal, all that gets brought to the table when you consider, as Bono said during the night, "America's not just a country -- it's an idea." In that sense, The Joshua Tree, like so many other great stories, challenges its listeners (Foxboro attendees included) to pick up where it leaves off to begin telling an even better one; like the type of story displayed during the course of the show when an enormous banner of a Syrian refugee girl's passport photo was literally upheld across the stadium by thousands of  American hands; like the type of story  where a massive screen behind the band flashed images of modern and historical women's rights activists in their efforts for a more equal world while Bono chorused, "baby, baby, baby, light my way." 

It's also the kind of story I've been slack on maintaining on this page here for about a year now. That time has certainly been with its share of ups and downs in equal measure, and many's the time when "ok, time to get back to it!" efforts fallen have by the wayside, leading to a shamefully full unpublished draft folder. But now, the times they are a'changing, it's a hard rain gonna fall (and any other Bob Dylan song title you wanna throw in there), and it's time for met to get back out there with my kite in hand, ready to catch some new electricity and find some new stories to upend my days with in the best possible sense. With grad school all wrapped up for good, and itchy fingers ready to start writing some new stories -- mine, and with hope, more importantly, yours, ours -- I'm happy to announce my return from the desert. And how better for the purposes of this post than with the choruses from two of my very favorite U2 songs:

"I'm wide awake -- wide awake. I'm not sleeping"
because
"I still haven't found what I'm looking for."