The Hyena Laughs Last

I'm not a big Captain America fan and I never have been. It's not that I don't understand the impact he's had in the comic book world since his inception in 1941, nor am I dumb enough to even try and understate his role in creating the greatest super hero team of all time (The Avengers); it's just that, as far as milquetoast, one-note super heroes go, Captain America is at the top of my list, right ahead of Superman and The Flash. I mean, I grew up in the 1980s and early 90's when Frank Miller, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Jon Romita and a slew of other up and coming comic book artists and writers were changing the game so completely as to make some heroes (like Batman) unrecognizable to past generations, and I loved it. So, when Cappy decided to stay on the straight and narrow and his image never really changed from that of the "perfect All-America hero" I couldn't really get behind it. Not even when Nomad (a hero created as an alternate disguise/more badass version of Captain America's Steve Rogers) started to gain in popularity could I find myself lining up with the legions of Captain America supporters across the world. He was just too damned boring by my standards and not conflicted enough to interest my prepubescent, angst riddled mind.

I was a huge proponent of the anti-hero when I was approaching puberty, and I largely suspect that had a lot to do with my raging hormones and the torment that came with being the tallest kid in the entire school and my inner desire to seek revenge on my nemesis, Tommy Jacobs, for ruthlessly teasing me from first grade all the way until fifth grade when I finally realized I could use my then immense stature to physically pummel the living sh_t out of him whenever I felt it would be necessary; not that I did, of course, I was too shy and too scared of the repercussions to ever start a fight with him, but I did get my "mean stare" and "imposing stance" down so well that I never got bothered again. It was one of those rare childhood moments when, through the fog of youth, you're able to say with some certainty that you've figured something out, and I had finally come to grips with my freakishly large size that had plagued me, literally, since kindergarten. All because of my obsession with comic books, and my love for characters like Wolverine, Batman, The Punisher and, oddly, Spider-Man.

In my mind I could take over the identity of my favorite heroes to serve whatever purpose needed serving at the time. If I was in a tense situation that needed a joke to break the atmosphere a little, I would immediately pull out one of Spider-Man's patented zingers. If I needed to look brooding and intimidating to fend off a coming round of insults from the omnipresent bullies of the schoolyard I would, naturally, take on the contemplative craziness of Batman and give them "the look" as a way of saying (without fighting) "back off, not today, gentleman, Jimbolaya's got other things on his mind." For the rare occasion when physicality was unavoidable, I would, without fail go into full on Wolverine berserker mode so convincingly that nary a punch would be thrown before my rivals would run away awash in uncontrollable terror. It was the best of times and it was, as the saying goes, the worst of times, because I was completely unaware of reality as you know it. I was so wrapped up in my own fantasy realm that for almost an entire school year I forgot who I was 90% of the time and acted, as best as I could, like one hero or another without ever acting heroically.

It wouldn't be until the summer between fifth and sixth grade that I realized for all my mimicry and all my posturing I was, in fact, not a hero at all because I failed to protect one single innocent person from coming into harm's way, so I made it that summer's mission to be "the good guy" to my rural neighborhoods stable of "jerks" and "bullies" and "guys I just didn't like because they had Super Nintendo and I really wanted it at the time." Still, because I was so caught up in the world of anti-heroes that traipsed the line of good and bad to serve their own means, I had no clue how a true hero would act. [Note: Spider-Man is, in fact, a real hero, but to me he represented the space between "just having fun with it" and "taking it too seriously" that I needed in order to see the whole brevity angle of heroing.] So, in order to realize my true potential I went back to my local comic book dispensary and hunted down the not so well concealed morality tales of past issues of Superman and Captain America. It was there, cleverly concealed in the back issue rack of the store I lived in for weekends at a time, that I came to understand the true nature of heroism as told by the golden era comic book craftsmen.

In those old pages I learned there was, at one point in time, a very definitive standard of "right" and "wrong" which I hadn't been able to come to grips with leafing through the pages of the modern era heroes who "lived by their own set of rules" in order to save people from themselves. I was both thrilled and dismayed by the DC Comics, "golden age" Superman and his Marvel Universe counterpart Captain America, because I saw in them the archetypal protectors of goodness, justice and (good grief) the "American way" that was largely absent from the books of the heroes I followed so closely at the time. It was a hard type of lesson, one that I wasn't eager to accept, and one that would ultimately lead me down a much more confusing path of enlightenment than I had hoped for.

Captain America was created during the height of World War II as a way to rally the common man against the Nazi hordes that were trying to take over the world, and Superman was brought about in a much similar way; except good ol' Supes was (originally) created to fight crime on a much less global scale (fun fact: Superman couldn't fly in his earliest form, he could jump about a quarter of a mile, though; which is still pretty awesome) and would go after corrupt political bosses, the mafia or small time, recurring crooks that were plaguing the American psyche of the day. This speaks more to the mindset of the masses that needed a fictional hero to remind them of the work that needs to be done to stop evil in it's tracks; which is why the original incarnation of Superman was far less powerful than his present self, and Captain America was a soldier who was seen as unfit for military service, but then allowed to participate in the "super soldier" program that granted him his "powers," so to speak. They were the embodiments of ordinary people doing things far beyond their own capabilities. Still, to my mind at the time, they were painfully boring examples of a bygone era that didn't suit the current atmosphere and needed to be ramped up in order to be affective. Hence in the 80's both characters saw themselves becoming darker, more ruthless versions of their past selves while still retaining their impossible to live up to code of morality that had governed over their heroism for decades. Once I made my way into the then modern era of Superman and Captain America (pushing past the overly comedic undertones of the late 60's and 70's, because that sh_t was just terrible) I started to gain a modicum of respect for the two heroes I'd made a concerted effort to blatantly ignore. I felt a rewarding sense of self empowerment as I detailed my own moral code that would help guide me during my summer of heroism. I remember it extremely well, it went like this:

1- I will, under no circumstance, willfully harm someone if it can be helped.
2- Using weapons is a cheat, and has to be avoided.
3- Stop what you can, and know when to call for help.
4- You can't be everywhere at once, so pick your battles.
5- Hide your identity as much as you can. Work under the cover of night.

It was a simple, five-point bullet list of my meager understanding of what it takes to really be a hero. So, with only a few weeks ahead of me before my annual trek to sleep over summer camp, I decided I would spend every waking moment getting in shape, creating an origin story and figuring out what to call myself. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that as always summer camp would be riddled with bullies without parental supervision and that the camp counselors were powerless to stop them because they were too busy counseling campers about how to make the best boondoggle bracelet possible and not teaching them right from wrong; which I understood to be my duty at the time. I bought several books about Karate that I would read through and practice daily. I did push-ups and sit-ups and played basketball with the big kids to toughen me up. I would ask my next door neighbor and best friend at the time, John, to act like one super villain or another and hide out in the woods behind our homes so I could hunt him down and dispense justice as I saw fit. Unfortunately, this usually involved his younger brother Robbie in some terrible way that until this very moment I haven't felt bad about. (Robbie, if you're out there, sorry about that time John-Boy hid you in the bales of hay in your barn for an afternoon when you were a little boy, that was my idea, and that one time he tied you up in our "fort" when it was raining, that was my idea too.) I felt, on the night before my trip to sleep-away camp, that I was more than ready to take on all comers that fought for the forces of evil, and that there was no way I wouldn't be as successful, if not more successful than all my favorite heroes had ever been.

As for my origin story, I decided to call myself "The Hyena" ( I didn't know it was the name of a villain in the DC Universe at the time) after John told me my laugh was "loud and crazy like a Hyena's," and so it went from there. My back-story went like this: my biological mother died during childbirth leaving me in the care of my eccentric South African father who, when I was 3-months old, could no longer handle the emotional pain of my existence, and decided taking care of me reminded him too much of his lost love and left me for dead in the African wilderness at which point I was taken in by a pack of wild Hyenas. After a time I was imbued with the spirit of the Hyena Demon that roamed the plains nightly, feeding on the evil of the land and was granted special powers that gave me a heightened sense of smell, hearing, stronger bones, muscles and eyesight. Later, I had a vision that told me of my true nature to be the ultimate protector of those that need my protecting, the innocents of the world, and so the legend of "The Hyena" was born. Yes, that's terrible, but for a 12 year old boy it's pretty good, right?

The night before my trip to sleep-away camp I slipped my costume into my duffel bag while my mother wasn't looking. It consisted of black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with no mask, because after all my tinkering I decided that, since I would be working at night, a mask would only limit my ability to see what was going on, and since I was a good guy, hiding my face seemed foolish. I spent the entire hour and a half long car ride to camp thinking of all the crime I would stop and all the wonderful adventures I'd find myself taking part in and how, by the time the two weeks were over, the campers and counselors would be pleading with me to stay and help them. I thought of catchphrases I could shout out at opportune times like "The Hyena Laughs Last" and "You've been spotted, by the Hyena!" I wondered how Spider-Man had the wherewithal to inject his zingers in the middle of a brawl, but thought it would be better not to plan that out ahead of time, since you never knew what you'd be up against.

And then we got to camp. I was signed in and given my cabin assignment with the usual rush and fake enthusiasm I was used to and, while the other campers were getting to know each other and finding their bunks, I was silently stalking the grounds looking for "the bad apples" that would "ruin the bunch." I was obsessed with making my presence know as soon as possible, but, as is the case with the heroes I idolized, I thought it best to wait until after dark to introduce my new self to the world at large. Unfortunately, I wasn't given that much time to settle in before the first fight broke out in my cabin, and true to form, "The Hyena" made his first, unmasked, uncostumed appearance.

I vividly remember the fight being between a lanky black child named Arthur and a small-ish, toe headed moppet named Brian who had the hottest temper I'd ever seen at the time. It all started after the parents left and the counselors were leaving us to get to know each other. Arthur, it turned out, didn't sleep so well in bunk beds as he had a fear of the top bunk falling on him, so there was one non-bunk bed in the cabin that Brian had already called for his own and Arthur was trying his best to settle the situation diplomatically, but unfortunately for him Brian was not the diplomatic sort and without much warning at all, threw a punch that landed square on Arthur's chin. Before I could let out a catchphrase they were on the ground flailing at each other. Like a pack of wolves the entirety of my bunkmates encircled the grappling duo with enthusiastic glee, egging them to keep up the fight and start really giving it to each other. I realized that I was far and away the largest boy in the cabin and that all my training would make this the easiest thing in the world for "The Hyena" to stop, so I trudged over with grim determination to settle the dispute by merely pulling the boys apart and holding them away from each other until they cooled down.

As I reached into the pile of arms, legs and hair with the intention of easily pulling both boys out one by one, the skirmish shifted violently into my own legs which sent me to the floor and, ultimately, made me an unwitting participant in the scrum itself. I was mortified as I took cover and tried desperately to avoid taking a punch to the face or stomach; which was all for naught as I, the supposed hero, took more punches to the face and stomach than I would have if I started the fight myself, all because I decided to get in the way of a brawl that wasn't mine to begin with. As I lay there in the fetal position, choking back tears I thought "this is not what 'The Hyena' would do," and so I started laughing hysterically and loudly amid the chaos of stray kicks and punches that were being thrown with reckless abandon. The pitch of my laughter reached manic heights and with all my strength I rose up from the bottom of the pile, still laughing crazily, and shrugged off the boys easily.

Laughing and reeling from the myriad fists and feet that had found their way to various points on my body I tried in vane to use my size to separate Arthur and Brian from each other, but with all the midget fury his body could muster Brian came at me as hard as he could and kicked me right smack dab in the nuts. I keeled over instantly, the laughing stopped, and I vomited profusely all over the floor of the cabin. To my chagrin, Arthur, the boy I was protecting, kicked me while I was down... twice, before my cabin's designated counselor came into the loony bin and, with nary more than a glance, managed to calm the room down and stop the fight. I was ushered off to the infirmary where I was given several ice packs and a cup of juice for my trouble. My parent's were called and told of what happened to which my mother, in all her wisdom, said simply of the news her son had it handed to him while trying to break up a fight, "good, that should teach him," and it did.

"The Hyena" died that day along with a lot of my pride and the new found sense of security I had cultivated over the past year or so while coming to grips with my overwhelming size (at the time). After that, I decided it would be best to leave the heroism to the comic books and never again interfere where I didn't belong. I got into a few more fights growing up that were largely unavoidable. I won some and I lost some, but never under the moniker of "The Hyena" ever again. Real heroes (like soldiers, policemen, etc.) it turns out, are incredibly hard to come by.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

Well, here we are, reader. Less than a month away from the premier of Lost and as I expected time has slowed to a crawl. It doesn't help that, starting on Sunday during another of the myriad snow storms Rochester has been plagued with over the past two weeks, the love of my life and I started to re-watch Season Five in an effort to jog our collective memories while getting seriously pumped up for the start of the sixth and final season of the best serialized television show on network television. This is one of those rare, TV geek moments that I've only experienced a few times: knowing that a show I've come to love so much is going to end once the next season is over. I dealt with it when The Sopranos stopped believin', I choked back rage fueled tears when Freaks and Geeks was prematurely canceled, and I cried, sadly and forlornly as my beloved Arrested Development was cut down in it's prime. But, at the same time, I'm legitimately stoked for the final season of Lost, if only because some of those lingering, unanswerable questions are (at the very least) going to be addressed if not outright explained. That, my friend, is the ultimate payoff for a show that, since 2004, has done more to confuse, enrage, annoy and entertain than any other "Big 3" network drama I can think of... ever.

Lost is, and always has been, about the characters and what they do when they are put in a certain situation - either of their own free will, or by some act of four-toed god like intervention - whether it is Sawyer's (Josh Holloway) internal battle over what to do when the man he's been seeking to confront his entire life is, almost literally, plopped down in front of him in the most unlikely place he could have imagined, or whether it's Kate's (Evangeline Lilly) less than thoughtful, but oh so right, decision to run as fast as she can when her past transgressions - on and off the island - start to chase her down. Lost is an incredible look into the human condition wrapped inside a science-fiction-philosophy that hasn't been so thoroughly explored since the earliest days of Star Trek, and even the mighty James Tiberius Kirk would be overwhelmed by all riddles the island forces its inhabitants to solve (Spock, on the other hand, would be just fine).

"Did that bird just say 'Hurley?' F_ck it, beam me up, Scotty."

As for myself, I've tried - way too often - to sift through the clues, the folklore and the mythology surrounding Lost and the only conclusion I've been able to come to is this: Dude. Yes, I go full Hurley (Jorge Garcia) whenever I try to sit down and figure out just exactly what the hell is happening, how it happened, where it started, who started it and how it's going to end, because there is (literally) too much happening for me to comprehend all at once, and I fully expect there to be numerous master level courses that pop up around universities the world over that delve into Lost with all the reckless abandon academia has to offer as the full cultural impact of the show will be revealed, sadly, when it's all said and done. Lost is an important and necessary television show in this day and age when far too many people have far too many answers readily available at the push of a button. Where Mad Men is a constant, sullen reminder of the way things "used to be," Lost is that rare show that has the audacity to show it's viewers the way things "aught to be." It's not Walden 2 by any means, and it doesn't dare to imagine itself as a utopia of any sort, but because it dives into the deep end of human relationships and couples it with action, mystery and the all encompassing "science versus faith" debate that rages on in the subtext of every pivotal scene of the show, and does so without abject bias one way or the other, Lost has managed to give us all the gift of contemplation.

We, the viewer, are forced to pay attention and we are forced to (shudder) think for ourselves. That doesn't happen very often anymore. With shows like The Hills and the train wreck that is Jersey Shore becoming ever more popular with not just the youth of current culture, but the adults as well, Lost has veered violently in the other direction. Sure, it has everything any fan of television would find interesting (action, adventure, drama, romance, a smoke monster and Hurley), but that's just on the ground level; which isn't to say you can't get fully engrossed in Lost on a very simple plane, but it's so much better, and so much more entertaining when you actually pay attention, because you pick things up - often times subliminally - and you start to legitimately understand the direction of the show, what it's trying to get across to the audience and where it's headed.

Why does Benjamin Linus (Michael Emerson) do the things he does? Is he just a man living in a fog of ambiguous morality that only acts to serve himself and his desires? Or, is Ben more than that? Is he truly evil, or is he one the good guys? The answer is just as much of a riddle as the character himself, and I don't see how it's possible to enjoy the show the way it's meant to be enjoyed if you don't constantly ask yourself these questions while pondering the impossible to come by solution. The same can be said of any of Lost's main characters, and even it's relatively minor characters are mired by questionable actions and shady intent. The "hero" of the show, Jack Shephard (Matthew Fox) has had his ups and downs and, at times, acted like a petulant little child when he hasn't gotten his way, taken to the bottle and prescription narcotics as a means of coping with his insecurities and sometimes gone off in the wrong direction without ever taking the time to think about it. That's his challenge as a character. When the "hero" is supposed to be a Hero, will he live up to that moniker or will he slink away into some Benzedrine dream, never to be seen or heard from again? Of course, as of the end of season 5, we all know where Jack's loyalties lie and it's not really surprising considering his development. Jack will always be Jack, for better or worse he thinks of himself as the savior of the people on the island he feels duty bound to protect. It's a pro and a con, a positive and a negative, and it is exactly what makes Lost as engrossing an experience as it is. We, the audience, never really know what's happening and we are constantly guessing who is "good" and who is "bad" when we should really be thinking "what's next?"

I remember, a long time ago, reading that the joy of a mystery isn't in the solving but, rather, in the surprise. I know there can be endless amounts of fun trying to figure things out when it comes to Lost, because that's the way the show is designed. It's meant to confuse, annoy and entertain all at the same time, and it does so with such conviction and style that sometimes the impact takes days or weeks to settle in; which is why it must be viewed so often and paid attention to so carefully. As much as I wish I had a Holmesian mind that could detect, deduce and define even the most pithy piece of evidence, I'm glad that I don't, because if I could figure out how Lost was going to end without the benefit of taking the ride, the show in and of itself would cease to be as important as it is and all the wonderful thrills and the hammer to the back of the head like jolts that accompany all of the "big reveals" that have happened in the past and the ones coming on the horizon would have little to no effect, and Lost would be just another TV show. Thankfully, that's not the case. Thankfully I've resigned myself to "just let it go, man" when it comes to figuring out the labyrinthine twists and turns of the plot, and the true nature of the individual characters. I don't want to ruin the last season, not even by mistake, and if a co-worker or friend decides to let slip a spoiler, I will pummel them with all my nerd-rage fueled might!

Just like on the show, my perception of time has become relative to my position on the grid. With Winter rearing it's ugly head in the general direction of my well being, I'm forced to stay indoors and while away the hours wondering "what's next" and "where do we go from here?" As much as I'm enjoying re-watching season 5 of Lost, I'm getting impatient and I'm getting hungry to move forward towards the endgame that is going to (I expect) play out wonderfully over the next few months, and this has made my perception of time slow to a crawl. The anticipation, the quixotic nature of my own mental capacity and my desire to be shocked and awed is starting to take it's toll. I know it's just a TV show, and I'm aware that my pining is something bordering on "too geeky to function properly in society," but I don't really care. 2010 is going to be about embracing your inner nerd, it's going to be about loving the things you love openly and often, and Lost is one of those things. As much as it's going to hurt to see it go, I can't wait to find out what's going to happen.

*A brief note from the author to the reader*
Please, please, please do not spoil anything related to Lost for me as the final season unravels. I won't be reading ahead on any websites that I normally check for updates, and I won't be diving into lostpedia.org like I have in the past to play catch-up when something escapes my understanding. I will not respond with grace, dignity or aplomb and will most like spaz out pretty badly. Take, for example, this line from 30 Rock's Jenna Maroney (Jane Krakowski) which was supposed to be a joke, "I met JJ Abrams once, and I don't know what this means, but he said that the island was just Hurley's dream." I know that was supposed to be funny, but my reaction was not. I was pissed. My jaw dropped and I gasped aloud as I thought of ways to punish Jenna for letting slip something so spoiltastic as that. So, please be kind and don't ruin the surprise. Just, like, you know, let it go, man.

Last Minute Gift Suggestions

Holy Sh_t! Christmas is only two days away and you probably didn't even remember to buy me something, but that's okay, I don't expect my readers to send me gifts to show their appreciation. A few kind words and a satchel full of money is really all I need, but if you absolutely must get me something for Christmas, please allow me to help you navigate the rocky waters of my desire, so that you (my reader) may pick out the perfect gift for your humble and grateful author. After all, I've bared my soul so many times on these pages that it seems fair that, after so many extremely personal posts that have made me tear up as I wrote them, you would want to send along something to let me know you care or enjoyed my work and don't want to find me slumped over an empty bottle of cheap whiskey some day soon.

In order of "least amount of want" to "most want" these are the gifts you, my dear reader, may want to consider when shopping for me, your favorite blogger.

"Least Amount of Want" Will Ferrell: You're Welcome America - A Final Night With George W. Bush

I am a sucker for Will Ferrell and pretty much anything he puts out that doesn't have Land of the Lost in the title, so when a friend of mine told me he was going to a sneak preview, limited audience (read: super special, expensive) off-Broadway production of what would become You're Welcome America in it's earliest stages, I nearly stabbed him in the throat out of sheer jealousy. Instead of performing some of the old ultra violence I decided to take on a more mature role and practice patience as best I could; biding my time until You're Welcome was on DVD. The only problem is I forgot all about it until a few weeks ago when I saw an advertisement for it on IMDB. Soon thereafter I started dropping hints to my girlfriend, my sisters and, as a last ditch effort, my coworkers in the hopes they would take it upon themselves to provide me with my annual dose of Ferrell based humor. Couple Mr. Ferrell's preternatural ability to be witty while being dumb with his spot on George W. Bush impression and I am more than chomping at the bit to devour what I believe will be the most deserving farewell to one of America's most atrocious, yet hilariously dumbfounded, presidents. Only Will Ferrell could do such a thing and make me laugh about the dismal memory of the last eight years.

"Kind of, sorta, want it more than I should" A gift certificate to Target

There's something about Target that I can't resist. I can, literally, spend entire days walking between the isles without ever feeling bored or frustrated, and, oddly without ever purchasing a single item. I've done this more often than a heterosexual male in his mid to late twenties should admit in public, but such is the allure of the almighty Target. No, their clothing isn't the best made apparel on the planet, and yes their furniture is more flimsy than the average Ikea lamp, but who cares? It's Target! They have almost everything you'll ever need in the history of the world and it's all under one roof, and available for low, low prices (but not so low as to make you feel dirty, cheap and destitute). It's like Walmart for people who can read, write and breathe with their mouths closed, and I, for one, would finally like to walk out of Target with a red and white bulls eye decorated bag of goodies.

Also, check out this absolutely wonderful commercial featuring WTWTWLTA8 comedy goddess, Maria Bamford; which only serves to better prove my point about how f_ckdiculously awesome Target really is.

"Want" A New Pair of Puma Sneakers

I used to be the kind of guy who would feel naked if I walked out of the house with out a pair of dress shoes on (this is one of the weird side effects of going to a school that had a strictly enforced dress code), but as I've aged and comfort has superseded style in almost every facet of my life (and there are far fewer rulers around to rap my knuckles), I've found that nothing beats a sweet pair of Puma's when it comes to stepping out on the town, going to work, or just kickin' it back to the old school like a member of the Sugar Hill Gang. I currently own three pairs of Pumas that are quickly deteriorating due to excessive wear and tear, and one pair is really supposed to be used on the golf course exclusively, but they can easily double as a kick-ass pair of travelers (which is golftard speak for shoes that are appropriate on and off the course due to their lack of spikes and increased tread). Really, any pair will do, but be sure to send along the receipt as my shoe size, especially when it comes to Pumas, varies between 12 and 13 and I wouldn't want you to waste your money on a pair of shoes that didn't fit me.

"Really Want" Big Fan on DVD

This movie is the one that got away from me in 2009 due to it being independent and not readily available at any of the local theaters in my area, not even my precious indie darling movie house that is generally my last bastion of hope when it comes to movies that otherwise go unnoticed or unseen. In other words, I was famously pissed off when I read that I would not be able to see Big Fan until an exclusive screening on January 9th, 2010; which, is sort of okay because the writer/directer will be present for a Q+A session after the film is done. Still, as excited as I am for the possibility of rubbing shoulders with a man who was once The Onions editor and the writer of last years incredibly poignant The Wrestler, I'm going to need to own this movie as soon as possible (which, by the way, is January 12th). Not to mention it stars one of my favorite people ever, Patton Oswalt as the put upon protagonist in a role that is garnering so much praise and attention that I'm stupefied by the lack of award season heat surrounding this film. Pre-Ordering is available right now. Don't hesitate at the chance to immerse yourself in my good graces, and, while you're at it, order yourself a copy too, after all it was Nathan Rabin's (my favorite journalist working today, and head writer over at The AV Club) favorite movie of 2009. It pretty much has to be good.

"Most Want" The Big Rewind: A Memoir Brought To You By Pop Culture by Nathan Rabin

Speaking of Mr. Rabin, he wrote a book last year about his life growing up dealing with depression and life in a group home through his love of popular culture. I've read brief excerpts that were posted at The AV Club, and from those little snippets I can only say that I am, literally, dieing inside each day I go without reading the entire thing from cover to cover. As you've probably guessed, if you are a regular around her, I too dealt with the lions share of my mental issues by immersing myself in books, movies, comics and other pieces of pop-culture detritus that many people overlook or just don't understand. That's not to say I am a snarky bastard all the time or that I look down my nose at people because I can tell you more about The X-Men than I can about, say, World War II. It is, however, my belief that in Mr. Rabin I have found a kindred spirit, though it seems our experiences have been vastly different as I have never spent time in an institution of any sort, and my depression and mania come and go like the tide. Still, this is the only thing I legitimately asked for this year, and I cannot tell you how happy I will be if I wake up Christmas morning and see a book shaped package waiting for me under the tree.