61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Hooksexup's videogame blog: EA's horror opus Dead Space reviewed. Plus, we say goodbye to our fearless leader.
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Our morning roundup gets all pottymouthed with Baltimore's finest fictional state senator! Plus: Fringe, Lisa Ling freaks us out and Ringo Starr breaks Marge Simpson's heart.
Dating Confessions by You "I asked my therapist why you haven't been in touch. He said I should try doing more than hitting the refresh button on my e-mail."
Scanner by Emily Farris Today on Hooksexup's culture blog: Are "fauxmosexuals" like Katy Perry ruining it for everyone else?
My New England hometown was no place for pariahs. That's not to say that it was conservative. The local population tilted heavily "enlightened liberal" — NPR-listening, Subaru-driving Democrats who encouraged their kids to be iconoclastic, if not rebellious, within certain socially acceptable boundaries. Smoke a little pot, earn a bachelor's in environmental science and then help build a village or two in Malaysia. Eventually move to New York, get a job at a high-profile non-profit and conceive (adopt!) a nice, intelligent child and raise it without God.
Unfortunately, I wasn't iconoclastic in any sort of appealing way. At thirteen, I decided that instead of eating lunch in the cafeteria, I'd eat my tuna-on-Wonder alone in the hall. On the bus ride home, I'd squat low and be quiet. Weekends were spent playing Nintendo, or riding my bike around the state park, where no one but retirees feeding Chex Mix to the squirrels would see me. My uncle joked that the yellow "Children at Play"
promotion
traffic sign near our house should be changed to "Children Sitting Alone in Their Rooms."
The problem was puberty, accompanied by an intensifying attraction to boys. Convinced I'd be ostracized when found out, I pre-emptively ostracized myself. Like an FBI agent going undercover, I squeegee'd my persona clear until it was as discreet and forgettable as wall-to-wall carpeting.
This was 1990, the same year the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie was released. I'd never read the comics, but the film was a phenomenon, the talk of the junior-high hallways. We could sense even then that we were witnessing a cultural flashpoint: this was our Godfather. For teenage boys everywhere, TMNT represented a fantasy New York lifestyle, electrifying and raucous. By the tens of thousands, they made the pilgrimage to the wailing-wall multiplex to shout "cowabunga" at the screen. I did the same, taking along my little brother.
For those who aren't familiar, the Turtles are a quartet of human-sized reptiles who got that way after coming into contact with a primordial toxic ooze. Each is named for a classical European painter. Forced into hiding by their abnormality, they live the New York City sewer system, eating pizza and fighting crime with historically East-Asian weaponry. Aside from a rat and a TV news reporter, their only friends are each other.
Like a million other teenagers, I could relate to Raphael.
Studies have shown that a group of four creates the ideal environment for social interaction. In trios, two tend to bond and alienate the third; with five or more, the group fabric is stretched tenuously thin. And two is a different thing entirely — that's a pair of BFFs. But four can create a microcosmic society, with each member equally supporting and being supported by the others.
The Turtles complimented each other this way endearingly well. Though technically nonhierarchical, Leonardo was the born leader; you sensed he was the glue that provided group cohesion. Donatello was, for lack of a better word, the cool geek before geeky was cool. Michelangelo was appealingly unencumbered and giddy, and Raphael was just the opposite — introverted, self-isolating and unhappy. Like a million other teenagers, I could relate to Raphael.
In fact, I related to him more strongly than I ever had to any human movie character. To me, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles seemed more genuinely teenage than those Breakfast Club kids. That whole crew just never rang true to me. I didn't believe that the jocks had a bottled-up emo kid inside them, or that Judd Nelson's character existed anywhere but in the minds of adults like John Hughes. Despite their summary memo to Mr. Vernon, most kids aren't really an athlete-princess-criminal-brain. Most kids I knew, myself included, were simpler than that.
Watching TMNT, I knew instantly that my dissatisfied, isolated existence had been handed the fantasy that I could cling to until school was over — a fantasy I could follow to New York. Except that my fantasy wasn't about fighting an arch-enemy in a metal mask. Mine was that I would move to New York and find three others like me — three other shut-ins who were quite happy to disappear from life. We would form a bond of soul-mate potency, act as each other's therapists and muses, rent a four-bedroom apartment together and crack jokes over pizza all night long.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
