.jpg) By Zach Oberman | The following Superhero Diary is based on recent events in Superman and Action Comics, all written by Geoff Johns. At this point, we're pretty sure Geoff Johns could make an incredibly entertaining bologna sandwich. |
| Author: Clark "I'm only vulnerable on the inside" Kent Mood: Not looking forward to Fathers Day Listening to: R.E.M. - "Everybody Hurts" |  |
As some of you may know, my dad died about a week ago, and I've been taking it pretty hard. My memories are mostly a blur, and I'm afraid to turn on the news in case I've done something really bad. I keep hoping it was a dream, but I'm pretty sure I spent an hour last night curled at the base of a statue of Teddy Roosevelt in New York, crying my eyes out. He just looked so… paternal.
In sporting terms, I am now oh-for-two when it comes to dads, and one-for-four on parents overall. Now I'm starting to worry about Ma. I mean, what if I'm some kind of jinx? Because obviously I'm not going to be an ordinary jinx – I'm going to be a super-jinx.
Lois thought it would therapeutic for me to talk about what happened. Instead, I got too worked up and atomized a piece of our living room furniture. (Twice.) Then she suggested that I try writing about it - so much for that computer. Now she's asking me to try and repress my feelings, but apparently she didn't get the memo: I don't do "repressed." There is nothing about "leaps tall buildings in a single bound" that says "repressed." Unless I develop some kind of Kryptonite subconscious, my emotions will not be contained.
I'm up in my Fortress of Solitude now, or as it shall be known for the next month or so, my Fortress of Bereavement. I painted the walls black, and the TV screens are playing Field of Dreams on a loop. Lois would complain about the sticky floors, but when the Supe wants to pour a forty out for my dead dad, he's going to do it wherever he pleases. And maybe it's the scotch talking, or maybe it's the Kryptonite shavings I put in the scotch to give it a little extra kick (though the hangover is going to be hell tomorrow) but I think I'm ready to talk about it now. I hope that journaling like this will be cathartic, and I'm also releasing some frustration by squeezing a stress ball. (Truth be told, it's not actually a stress ball – it's Plastic Man. Look, I'll make it up to him, but right now the Supe is working through some personal stuff, and he needs his friends, particularly the ones who are durable.)
It's Brainiac's fault that Pa is dead. Brainiac is this green robot from outer space, and his particular schtick is that he flies around the universe, stopping at civilized planets, where he miniaturizes a city and stores it in these glass-like containers. (I remember the first time I saw his collection. Look - I made a mistake and I can't go back and change things, but all I can say is that when you pick up a snowglobe, you give it a shake. It's only natural.)
Brainiac wanted to shrink-wrap Metropolis, and when he realized that I was going to stop him - for like, the umpteeth time - he acted the sore loser and fired a secret rocket at my parents' house. LIKE. A. BITCH. Look, I don't care who you are; just because you can squat-thrust an air-craft carrier doesn't mean you don't have to follow the rules of the playground. I mean, I can crush coal into diamond in my fist - do you know what I could do to someone's gnards? But I don't, because THAT'S NOT COOL, just like killing someone's septuagenarian dad. You'd better believe that it's no holds barred the next time I see Brainiac. I'm going to show him how to make Heat-Vision Testicle Raisins.
In case you can't tell, I'm in the "anger" phase of the grieving process. Supposedly there are five stages to it, but I'm the Supe - if normal people have five stages to their grief, then I get it done in three, and all of them are spectacular.
For instance, I didn't bother with the denial phase. Denial has to do with shock, and I don't get shocked, either literally and figuratively. It takes two or three thousand Amps just to get my nipples hard, and I've punched gods from at least five different religions in the face. There isn't much that I can't take in stride. Secondly, if I didn't accept that Pa was gone at first, it's because death isn't usually that big of a deal in my social circles -you rub a little dirt on it and walk it off. Almost everyone I know has died and come back: Green Arrow, Green Lantern, Hawkman, two different Flashes, hell, I've even done it myself once. So yeah - I told Ma not to erase his shows on their DVR, but that wasn't denial. I was trying to be considerate.
As I said, I'm in the angry part of grief, and I'm probably going to hang out here a while. If you're a criminal in Metropolis, you're going to want to lay low for a couple months unless you want join the Supe for a game of "pin the robber back on his legs."
The next stage of grief is bargaining. And if you're reading this, Death, I want you to know that if you bring Pa back, I'm more than happy to step aside the next time one of Metropolis' trains go off the track. Or how about Olsen? That nitwit's been tempting you for years, hasn't he? I mean, just last week I caught him trying to clean his electrical outlets – WITH A WET SPONGE. Say the word, Death, and the redhead's on his own. He won't last a week.
After the bargaining phase comes depression. Who do I look like, Batman? Screw that. I'll probably do another angry phase here.
Lastly comes acceptance. But acceptance sure sounds a lot like "giving up" to me, and the Supe doesn't give up. If I gave up easily, none of you would be here to read this, believe me. So as far as I'm concerned, you can take your five stages of grief and shove 'em. The Supe grieves in three stages: Anger, Bargaining, and Anger.
Oh yeah - speaking of Batman, that guy won't leave me alone. Now that we have have "dead parents" in common, he thinks we should hang out. He keeps calling me like, "Hey, if you want to talk about your Dad, or even if you just want to watch a movie or something, I'm here for you." If the superhero community is like high school, then Batman is the goth weirdo who sits in the corner writing Cure lyrics on his arm in Sharpie. But he also has a freakish ability to appear from out of nowhere. When he says he's "here" for me, he could literally be HERE. In the Fortress of Bereavement. I swear to God, if I hear someone singing "Boys Don't Cry" then it's going to be heat vision first, ask questions later.
If Kermit the Frog had heat-vision, the song would have gone, "It's not easy, being super"…
