At the outset of SUPERMAN WEEK, I wanted to take a look at just why the Man of Steel has endured for 80 years. I enlisted podcaster and documentary filmmaker Anthony Desiato of My Comic Shop History to take a crack at it.
Why Anthony? For one thing, he’s a Superfan of the first magnitude. For another, he’s 20 years younger than me — a potent reminder that Superman’s appeal is timeless and enduring, decade after decade. Not that we really need such a reminder, but it’s still heartening to see.
Yes, our president isn’t very bright; he has little grasp of political concepts, even those that underlie his country’s democratic traditions; he knows almost nothing about history and, worse still, sees nothing wrong with that. But all this has long been clear.
The true significance of Trump’s summit performance—a word that too many journalists invoke, as if they were drama critics—is that it solidified a trend we’ve been seeing for a while: his unabashed emergence as a member of what Daniel Sneider, in Asia Times, calls “the axis of authoritarianism.”
A little-known former Secretary of State published an Op-Ed in the Washington Post that is must-read for anyone looking for a North Star to guide us through the aftermath of the Mueller Report and into what looks likely to be Impeachment.
She starts out with the basics:
“Our election was corrupted, our democracy assaulted, our sovereignty and security violated. This is the definitive conclusion of special counsel Robert S. Mueller III’s report. It documents a serious crime against the American people.”
Months before its release, friends and family began sending me links to the movie trailer for “The Public.” It made them think of me, they said.
In the film, a passion project of actor-director Emilio Estevez, homeless patrons, unable to face another night in the subzero Cincinnati winter, refuse to leave, and “occupy” the public library. While critics and moviegoers may view aspects of “The Public” as dramatic license, for me it was the first time I ever saw my job reflected on the screen accurately.
In the winter of 2014, I stood on a bridge in downtown Chicago surrounded by the flashing lights of police cars. It felt like it was negative a billion degrees, and my cop outfit didn’t provide much warmth. I also had blood dripping down my nose and was yelling at one of my oldest friends to step back from the edge while a dozen other cops pointed their weapons at him. Strangely, I was having fun.
“Oh, God, another Asian girl/white boy couple,” I groan, dropping my fiancé’s hand.
He hates it when I do this. So do I, really. I know it’s unkind and self-loathing, but every time I see another couple of our racial makeup, a little part of me sinks. We live in San Francisco, so this dip is as common as the hills. In these moments, I wish we were anything else ― that he were my gay best friend or we were startup co-founders, that he were Asian and I were white, that we were exquisitely ambiguous races, or that I could sink like my feelings into the sidewalk, be a little worm, and date whomever I want without considering social perception.