Rogue Dictionary

why doesn't superman drink beer?

Action Comics #869 came out this week, and it's a pretty rollicking good tale of Superman meeting Brainiac for the first time. But I'm not going to talk about the story. No, it's the cover that's got me interested.

Here's the original cover (click to enlarge):

And here's the production version (again, click to enlarge):

See the difference? Other than variations in color saturation, the production cover also has generic, slightly-distorted "Soda Pop" labels plastered over the bottles from which Clark and Pa are drinking. It's hard to tell, but the original seems to have them drinking Crow brand root beer, though Clark's bottle is turned such that only the word "beer" is really visible.

The reason for the change seems obvious. DC Comics doesn't want to influence kids by having their paragon of virtue drinking the evil devil-liquor, even if it only looks like that's what he's drinking.

But that raises an interesting question. Assume arguendo (as we say in law school) that Clark is drinking a beer. What's so bad about that? He's supposed to be about 33 years old, so there's nothing illegal about it. It's not like the concept of adults drinking beer is an alien one to most comic book readers, regardless of their age. And moreover, he's supposed to stand for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. What's more American than sharing a beer with your dad while you tell him stories about your life?

Let's put it another way. Clark can't get drunk. Alcohol doesn't affect him at all. He drinks because he likes the taste, not for any of the "bad reasons." Shouldn't an adult, let alone an adult with the powers of an Earth-raised Kryptonian, be able to exercise a measure of self-determinacy?

Are we really concerned that kids, in an effort to be like Superman, will start pounding down the Pabst Blue Ribbon? Isn't it more likely that they'd tie a towel around their shoulders and jump off a roof? And didn't we get past that once the Comics Code fell into disuse?

operation: nightingale

Now that I'm back in the "sleepy" "Midwestern" "town" in which I attend law school (over a thousand miles from ocean), it seems as good a time as any to detail Operation: Nightingale.

It's a well-known fact that many, many lawyers want to do anything but law. I don't fall into that category, but the law of large numbers seems to suggest that I will eventually. To that end, I have focused the entirety of my anything-but-lawyer desires into a single project.

I will buy a boat. I will name her the Nightingale. And she will be powered by nothing but love and Newfoundland sea shanties such as Barrett's Privateers.

This entire crazy scheme was partially inspired by the poem Sea Fever, by John Masefield:

I MUST down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

the identity game

There's a game I like to play sometimes, usually (but not always) with people whom I am likely never to meet again. I call it the identity game, but really it's just structured lying. The rules are simple: when in an appropriate situation, decide to be someone else.

Earlier this week, in a shuttle riding back from the airport, I decided to be an itinerant math grad student who used to be a competition grade tennis player (it turns out that a lot of the fencing platitudes translate remarkably well to tennis). The trick is to make it plausible—it is unlikely that anyone would believe that I was an astronaut in training, or a martial artist monk who recently returned to the United States to fight crime. Live out a fantasy, explore a new life, just experiment.

Why play this game? It doesn't hurt anyone. It's actually kind of fun. And, let's be honest, it made the conversation with the shuttle driver way more interesting than if I had said, "I'm a law student." It adds a little spice into the world that otherwise wouldn't be there.

NOTE: Of course I am not espousing lying to everyone you meet. Of course you shouldn't play this game all the time—picking your moment is crucial (for example, a courtroom would probably be a bad place to play). But if you think of it as creative, spontaneous performance art, the idea begins to sound a little more palatable. Go on. Be someone else.