The Home Alone "Family"

Not too long ago, my daughter introduced my son to “Home Alone.” It’s a holiday classic, albeit one that I’ve never been fond of. I’ve never liked that movie, though since my four-year-old has discovered it, I have now seen it about 347 times.
I recently noticed something about the movie, however, that makes me like it better. I’ve figured out what Kevin’s father’s job is.
Kevin’s dad is a mobster.
You heard me. In “Home Alone,” Kevin’s father is an actual Godfather. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Let’s start from the very beginning: Seriously, what could this guy possibly be doing for a living? He can afford that huge mansion, plus a French vacation for the entire extended family, plus over a hundred bucks for pizza, and that’s just what we see in the first five minutes. Clearly, the family is not hurting for money.
They also live in Chicago, a city not exactly known for its avoidance of mobsters. I’ve been to Chicago, and I actually quite like the place. But judging from the movies I’ve seen, roughly 118% of Chicago is populated by the Mafia. (One percent is Dick Tracy.) So he is wealthy in Chicago, which is already suspicious.
As Joe Pesci impersonates a cop---Another big red flag, and we’re not even ten minutes into the movie---The first thing Kevin’s dad says is “Am I under arrest?” This is not a question that an innocent man leads with. If you haven’t committed a crime, you ask if there’s a problem, or how you can help the officer, or what’s going on. The fact that Kevin’s father jumps to that question immediately tells me a lot about his activities.
Kevin McCallister (clearly, this is the Irish Mob) shows something of an unnatural interest in the Mafia himself. Left alone, pining for his family, the one movie we see him view is an old mobster movie. He watches it repeatedly, likely because it reminds him of his dad. He even uses it to scare an innocent pizza delivery guy midway through the film.
This theory actually clears up a problem I’ve always had with this movie. The pizza guy runs for his life, thinking he’s been shot at. How are the police not storming the place five minutes later? I’ve always wondered that, but now I get it. Either the pizza guy knows who owns the house, and was too afraid to report the crime, or he did report it, and the cops have been bribed to stay away.
Kevin, having gotten some glimpse of his dad’s activities over the years, has learned a bit. He may not know all the details, but he has no problem being ruthlessly violent with his enemies. He uses broken glass, blowtorches, and red-hot metal on them, which is not something your average kid thinks to do. Not unless he’s somehow been exposed to that sort of violence, maybe hearing some discussions with a few henchmen when his dad thought he wasn’t listening.
And at the very end, when Kevin’s father finds the gold tooth on the floor, take a good, long look at the expression on his face. Clearly, he is interpreting this as some sort of warning. That guy is wondering when they’re going to escalate to horse heads.
Say what you will, you can’t deny that this explains a lot. I’m assuming there’s a deleted scene where, out of retaliation, Harry and Marv get shanked in prison.

My America

Like much of America---I’d like to think most of America---I was shocked in November, when Donald Trump won the presidency. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it---A man who had confessed to felonies while campaigning, a man who incited violent behavior, a man who showed open bigotry, a man who mocked the handicapped...This man was our president. Of the United States.
I am not as comfortable in America as I was. I’ve been trying to come to terms with that for the last couple of months. Throughout the whole campaign, I wasn’t concerned. I would never have voted for Donald Trump, because he was so obviously, clearly against everything I stand for. I believed in America; I believed in the system. I was stunned when that let me down---And, yes, I do understand that I was seeing things through the perspective of a middle-aged white straight male. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and while I still love my country, I am getting more adept at seeing some of the flaws in it now. I’m disappointed in America.
And, yes, he is my president. I don’t like it, but that’s how America works. Saying “Not my president” doesn’t change the fact---The Constitution says he is, and as an American citizen, I am bound by that. And so is he. That’s actually the great thing about America---The law of the land isn’t a guy in an office; it’s that document. And the Constitution that says Trump is my president is the same one that says I get the chance to vote him out in a couple of years. And believe me, I will try my damnedest.
But I am concerned. I am concerned that the country is now being led by a man who is so obviously full of hate and insecurity. I am concerned that Trump seems to think he is a monarch, not a president. And I am very, very concerned at the ignorance and hatred that he seems to be stirring up.
And, most of all, I am concerned for my son.
Paul Matthew is two years old. He is adopted, and he is black. I worry for him; I worry for his opportunities under this administration. I worry because Trump is putting literal white supremacists in his cabinet. This is not an exaggeration or a figure of speech; it is simply the truth.
So don’t tell me to give Trump a chance. He’s already had one, and he’s already blown it.
This is not about how my candidate lost. In truth, there was no “my candidate” this election. I genuinely didn’t like any of them very much. When the time came, I cast my vote for Hillary, but really I cast my vote for “Not Trump.” Hillary was the one I hated the least. But I could have lived with Sanders. I could have lived with Johnson, in spite of the fact that he seemed to be running his entire campaign while high. I could have lived with many other candidates. My feelings are not about how my candidate lost---My candidate lost in 2000, and I hated Bush, but I didn’t feel this kind of fear.
My son, several of my relatives, and many of my friends are black. Some are Hispanic. I have many friends who are gay or trans. And I am worried for them, worried about the hatred that our incoming president seems to revel in.
For that matter, I am a member of the media, technically. As a freelance writer, I identify strongly with the press. I am aware that nobody is likely to stop me from writing about my county’s history, but I stand with the press. I am concerned that Trump does not take well to criticism, and that his immediate response is to threaten to block the press.
So what, exactly, am I supposed to give Trump a chance to do? Damage freedom of the press? Normalize racism? Incite hate speech and behavior? Because those are the actions I am seeing from him.
I am tired of hearing that friends can disagree politically, but still remain friends. That’s true, but this goes way beyond that. This man has committed sexual assault. He has spewed his racist hatred. He has threatened fundamental changes to our society. If you think all of this is okay, I’m not sure I want you as a friend.
Here’s the thing, Trump supporters: You made a statement with your vote. You may have voted for Trump because you wanted change. I thought we didn’t have to specify it had to be a change for the better, but maybe we weren’t clear enough on that point. You may have voted for Trump because you want more jobs---Though I’m not sure why you’d think a man with solid-gold toilets in his penthouse can relate to you as a worker. You may have voted for Trump because of the economy, or security, or health care....Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Your vote is your own. I respect that.
But with your vote, you made a statement. You made the statement that whatever your concern is, it is more important than the safety and well-being of my child.
If that’s how you feel, we aren’t friends.
Maybe you were fooled by his rhetoric. Maybe you just couldn’t bring yourself to vote for one of the other candidates. I can appreciate that---As I said, I respect your right to vote as you choose.
But if you’re not getting a sinking feeling by now, you’re willfully ignoring a lot.
Trump has put literal Nazis in his cabinet. He has threatened to violate the Constitution. Before he even took office, he had piled up conflicts of interest. And he seems to see nothing wrong with this. Instead, he demonstrates that he is so insecure, he has to rush to Twitter to dispute any celebrity who dares criticize him.
So I am concerned.
I am cheered by the fact that most of my friends share my concern. It makes me feel better than most Americans feel about the way I do. And I am going to spend the next four years watching, paying attention, and ready to protest. I am going to be offended at my president when he says or does offensive things. And I will say so---Which is my right, under my Constitution.
I’ll do all this for my son.
And I will do everything I can to stand up for my beliefs, in the hopes that America does it better next time around.

I Regret This Day

I regret this day. There was nothing I could have done to change it. But I regret it.

In all honestly, it wasn’t an objectively bad day. Work was fine. Very little went wrong. Any other time, I’d have considered today a pretty good one.

But today, before work, my little boy got clingy. I don’t know why. It came out of nowhere. He would begin to cry if I was out of his sight. He just turned two, and this is not usual for him. Ordinarily, he’s happy to play with his blocks, or watch his favorite movie. But today, he wanted to be with Daddy.

“Come?” he would ask, when I needed to go out of the room. “Come?”

So we would hold hands, and he would come. And anything I had to do today, that’s how we’d do it---Holding hands, and him tagging along.

I had to go to work in the early afternoon. My daughter came to take over. The little guy likes spending time with his big sister, and he was good about letting me go to work. But later, she posted a photo of him sitting in her wheelchair. When she'd asked where he wanted to do, he said,”Daddy work.”

I love my job. I’m good at it, and I don’t want to miss any of it. But today, I wished I could have called off and stayed home. Let the city of Lock Haven take care of itself for a while; my little boy wanted me.

We only get just so many days with our children. And I regret this one. I spent the morning with him, but I wish it could have lasted longer. All he wanted was to spend time with Daddy. And today, I couldn’t do it for as long as he wanted.

He was mostly asleep when I got home. I picked him up to take him to bed.

His little eyes opened sleepily. “Milkie?”a tiny voice asked.

“Yeah. We can make that happen.”

So I got a bottle, and let him drink milk while I held him. And we spent a few moments that way.

And tomorrow, my day off, we’re going to spend the day together. We’ll play some game of his own invention. Maybe we’ll go down to the park. And we’ll color at the kitchen table. Maybe we’ll color ON the kitchen table. I don’t care.

I just want to spend the day with my son.

I Saw Her

Last night, I made a stop on the way home. All I wanted was a sandwich or something, something to eat after work. I stopped by the local grocery store to pick something up before hopefully heading home, reading a bit, and then going to bed.

I didn't mean to see what I saw. I didn't want to see what I saw.  But I saw it, while I was standing in line at the store.

A mother and her daughter. The kid was maybe nine years old, and acting up. The mother had been in the service line for a while, clearly impatient, frustrated. The kid was impatient, too, and was acting up. Running in the store, making noise.

I admit I felt a moment of irritation. You get irritated, when someone else's children act up. It's almost an instinct. My baby, nine months old right now, is pretty good actually....He generally just wants to smile and observe people. I was hoping that he never became like this girl, loud and rude.

And then I saw her. The mother. Grabbed her child violently by the neck, and yanked her close. "GET OVER HERE!" she shouted, trying to get her child under control.

And I realized why the child acts like that. I felt bad for the child, and bad for judging her so harshly. My boy won't grow up like that, because he won't be abused.

"COME HERE!" the mother shouted, shaking her daughter by the neck. The child was terrified, crying, and I wanted to say something to the mother. I was about to walk over and say something, but I was across the room, and before I could get close enough, the mother hustled the little girl out the door, squeezing her neck the whole time. The girl was crying, afraid, and I wished I'd had the moment to speak to the mother.

Because I'd have told her. I'd have told her that there are better ways to deal with a child than the Vulcan Deathgrip. (Yes, I'm aware that there's really no such thing as the Vulcan Deathgrip, even on Star Trek. It's still a bad parenting technique.) I'd have told her that a child learns to act the way their parent acts, and a violent, hurtful mother will raise a violent, hurtful child.

I wanted to say all that. But there just wasn't time.

I saw her squeeze and push her child out of the store, angrily, without thinking of how afraid and hurt the child was.

I saw her in my mind, the rest of the night, as I rode home. I saw her as I ate my dinner. I saw her as I carried my little baby to bed.

And then I saw nothing but my little son as I gave him an extra hug and kiss that night, laid him down in his crib, and let him go to sleep. Because I want my son to grow up happy and secure, not hurting and afraid.

I Want My Batman Back

I've always been a big comic-book fan. Ever since I was a kid, I enjoyed the adventures of Superman, Batman, the Flash, and Green Lantern. I've been more into DC than Marvel---Nothing against Marvel; I just always got more into the DC characters. Having said that, I am forced to admit that Marvel makes better movies. They stick closer to the character, and stay much more accurate to the story than DC ever does. This is largely because of Stan Lee, who cares enough about his characters to review the scripts, and even appear in each movie, Hitchcock-style.

When a DC movie is made, however, the directors show no ability to stay close to the actual story. And Batman is the worst offender; not once have they made a Batman movie that truly portrayed Batman without screwing up the story. I'm not talking about tiny details; I'll be the last one to sit in a theater and scream,"Hey, that stapler belongs on the other side of Detective Montoya's desk!" But I don't think it's too much to ask that Robin the Boy Wonder be portrayed as, you know, a boy? Rather than a retired police officer.

The Christopher Nolan movies are fine movies, taken on their own. But the problem is that they really can't---Or shouldn't---Be taken on their own; they're part of a legacy that has existed since the 1930s. When you're telling a Batman story, you're contributing to the legacy, and I feel you should respect that legacy, instead of trashing it to put your own spin on it. Christopher Nolan hasn't made Batman movies so much as he's made Bat-flavored mash-ups.

I once had a friend (A female---This is important) say to me that you can't view them that way; you have to take them on their own, without comparing each movie to the whole legacy. To that female friend, I have to ask....How did you like the "Dirty Dancing" remake? Was it good, on its own? Or did you sit there shrieking,"That's not Patrick Swayze!"

Aaaand so much for taking a movie by itself.

Regarding the Robin problem, I've been told that Christian Bale has refused to appear in a movie that features Robin, because he hates the character. To which I say....So what? He's an actor. He'll read the lines, or we'll give the paycheck to someone who will. If he doesn't like Robin, then find someone else to play the part----And don't tell me nobody else could play Batman. Michael Keaton played Batman. Once they shoveled Mr. Mom into that costume, they pretty much established that Batman is played entirely by the costume. It could be John Cleese in there, it wouldn't matter. So I'd suggest telling Christian Bale to shut up and read the lines already.

And as for the lines....Make them shorter. Please. I've noticed that in all three movies, the heroes have lines that leave me thinking,"Yeah, great, Batman, but like fifteen people just died while you were finishing that sentence." They give huge flowery speeches at the worst possible moment. At the end of the second movie, when asked by his son why Batman is running, instead of saying something comprehensible to a child, Commissioner Gordon explains,"Because we have to chase him. He's the hero Gotham needs, but not the one it deserves. He's a noble hero, a dark knight...." Jesus, Jim, the kid is seven! No wonder your wife took him when she left.

Batman outdoes himself this way in the final movie. About to fly a nuclear bomb away from the city, and save everyone, he is held up by Gordon, who is apparently the only person in Gotham who hasn't yet figured out Batman's secret identity. When Gordon asks who Batman is, instead of saying the sensible thing ("Bruce Wayne! Bye!") he goes into a long speech: "Anyone can be a hero....Even for something as simple as putting a jacket around a little boy's shoulders to show him that the world didn't end...."

All of which is very dramatic and all. But it leaves the audience pointing at their watches and shouting,"Hello! Nuclear bomb! Two minutes! Bruce!"

(At least Adam West wasn't giving a huge speech, that day he just couldn't get rid of a bomb.)

Bruce Wayne is inadvertently shown as the biggest threat to Gotham. In the majority of Nolan's movies, the bad guys are attacking Gotham City with weapons stolen from Wayne Enterprises. In the final one, Bane takes over the city using Batman's own stuff. It's enough to make you wish a millionaire orphan had gone into toothbrush manufacture or something.

I want Batman back. The real Batman, the one who was good for Gotham and didn't take forever to finish a sentence. The Batman who cared about his kid sidekick. The one who kept track of his stuff.

But I did get to see Anne Hathaway in a skintight Catwoman outfit, so there was a redeeming feature there.

Who Destroyed Superman? I Blame Richard Pryor.

I saw the movie Superman Returns once, and it was one time too many. Though I'm usually really into DC superhero movies, I hated this one. For those of you who haven't seen it, Superman returns to Earth after a five-year absence to find out that Lois Lane has a child, and Lex Luthor is trying to take over the world again. At the end of the movie, he figures out that the child is his son. The audience figured this out about midway through when the kid throws a piano at a bad guy, but none of the characters question this.

I didn't like it because of the concept. They turned Superman, America's most noble, upstanding hero, into a deadbeat dad. He knocked up Lois and then went to space. Just try collecting child support from that guy. Just try.

Recently, though, I've been re-watching the old Christopher Reeve movies, and I think I've figured out who to blame for Superman Returns.

I blame Richard Pryor. In spite of the fact that he was dead at the time.

In Superman III, Superman is almost destroyed by Richard Pryor, an Atari game in a cave, a rich man, and a blonde. If you're young, you'll have to take my word for it that it was 1983, and this all seemed to make some sense at the time.

About halfway through the movie, Richard Pryor interrupts Superman trying to score with Lana Lang. He gives Superman a piece of artificial Kryptonite that contains tar, in a godawful attempt at product placement. The Kryptonite doesn't kill Superman, but it changes his attitude. He spends the next few hours straightening the Leaning Tower of Pisa, blowing out the Olympic torch, and developing an alcohol problem. He doesn't turn evil, precisely, he just sort of turns into an asshole for a while.

At the end, Clark Kent defeats Asshole Superman, and then goes to conquer the videogame in the cave. He stops the bad guys, makes friends with Richard Pryor, and prevents doomsday by pouring acid on the floor of a room full of wires.

Again. 1983.

Much later, we get the movie with Deadbeat Dad Superman, which I've always hated. But I like it a little better now that I've figured out who to blame for it.

Here's my fan theory. When Superman was affected by the artificial Kryptonite, it turned him into a jerk for a while, and then he became a noble good guy again. But I suspect that the Kryptonite had long-term effects that nobody ever predicted.

When they cast Brandon Routh and Kevin Spacey, they weren't really casting Superman and Lex. They were casting Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman. Pretty clearly, they wanted actors who could imitate the originals. They were picking up where the old movies left off, and I have to admit, they did a pretty good job at that. (Aside from Lois Lane. Margot Kidder's hair was so 1970s, there was no point in even trying.)

So they were definitely paying homage to the older Superman movies when they made the new one. I think they did a better job than they realized.

Look at the costumes. In Superman III, as Superman gets to be more of an asshole, his costume turns a darker shade. The blue stays about the same, but the red parts turn a deep burgundy.

Now look at the costume in Superman Returns. Do you see red anyplace? Nope. Dark burgundy.

The costume from Superman Returns almost exactly matches the shade from the bad-ass Superman in Superman III. I've double-checked; I have the action figure.

My theory is that Superman only shook off the short-term effects of the Kryptonite. He went back to being a good guy temporarily, but over a period of a couple years, the asshole-Superman took over again. This explains why he abandoned Lois, who was carrying his child, and flew out of the galaxy for a while.

It actually makes me like the movie a bit better. I can get behind the idea that Superman's behavior was caused by Kryptonite. I like that better than the idea that he was just being a jerk. It makes the whole thing a better movie for me.

I suppose they really did do a nice job of following up the old movies. Because, just like in Superman III, it seems that Richard Pryor did save Superman, after all.

Again....1983. You had to be there.