I was called Superman yesterday. While I've always been more of a Batman fan from my upbringing of watching Adam West, I appreciated the sentiment.
Yet given I'm a out of shape, white, suburban guy who looks nothing like Christopher Reeve, have no powers of any magnitude (except perhaps for a voice that has a sore throat), and virtually everything is kryptonite to me, it's pretty safe to say that I'm far from the Man of Steel (do the Steelers count? Probably not.).
Oh the thought of swooping in and snagging my Lois Lane is delightful (although not Margot Kidder. Sounded like she had a few many packs of Lucky's back in the day.). Flying away to Metroplis with Sean behind us is a nice fantasy, isn't it? Don't worry, miss. I've got you.
Right.
Then she responds: "You've got me? Who's got you?"
Well we know the answer to that. I'll just go with, "I've got you, babe," mix my metaphors, and be done with the whole thing.
I'd love to be somebody's Superman...or, hell, just man. I'd love to be somebody's number one.
Alas.
This is the kind of thing that wakes me up at two in the morning. Whimsical. Parody. A shame that I even need to explain that.
And the beat goes on...
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