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For those a' y'all who ain't read it before, here's the first full appearance of my darlin' lil' boy, CrazySugarFreakBoy!, in Parodyverse continuity ... Thursday, 16-Sep-1999 14:55:28
Confessions Of A Superhero's Mom: The Shocking Secret Origin Of CrazySugarFreakBoy! By Melanie Hastings, a.k.a. Meggan Foxxx, Seattle-area radio DJ and headline exotic dancer touring the "Déjà Vu" brand line of gentleman's strip clubs across the Pacific Northwest ----- Okay, let me level with you people, before we get started up here. At 49 years old, all of my knowledge about comic books, cartoons, action figures, fantasy, science fiction, or live-action role-playing games has come to me on an entirely second-hand basis, as a result of raising my baby boy, who is now grown to adulthood, at least in the legal sense of the word, but who still hasn't lost has passion for the pursuits and pastimes of his carefree childhood. So, when my son turns those eyes of his on me and asks something of me like, I want you to write a self-contained zero issue origin tale that can also serve as a jumping-on point in the middle of the current ongoing plot arc to make these events more accessible to the casual readers who haven't yet had the time to familiarize themselves with the continuity of previous storylines that have taken place within the title's print run, you have to understand that I have no absolutely idea what the hell he's requesting of me, beyond some ... peculiar sort of self-introduction that I'm supposed to pen, I guess. So, if any of you out there feel confused regarding the subject of this hyper, happy, goofy little guy who calls himself "CrazySugarFreakBoy!", don't beat yourselves up too badly over it. I mean, hey, I'll be the first to admit, neither do I - and I'm the one who raised him. To fill in some of the background on his real-life secret identity, as I imagine he'd call it, Dreamcatcher Foxglove is still, at 21 years young, the same jubilant junior space cadet whose creative streak I've always cherished (and whose lifelong love of cheerful colors has recently and inexplicably carried over into his already *erm* odd appearance, complete with fluorescent orange hair, neon green eyes and day-glo yellow skin) and a perpetual college student at the University of Washington in Seattle; now, I'm not claiming he's perfect by any means, considering he's changed his prospective career major over fifty times within the past few weeks of this semester alone, and despite his heavy courseload and accumulation of credits, his indecision has put him as far from earning any degree as he was after graduating high school. Sure, I can concede that he's just a little bit delayed for his age, when it comes to the levels of emotional and social maturity that all those psychologists and guidance counselors and other education officials kept trying to convince me he should have reached by this time, but hey, there's nothing wrong with him being a late bloomer, except maybe aside from his unfortunate tendency to lose both his job and his driver's license about once a month on the average, and goddamn it, I won't hesitate to clock anyone, with a haymaker punch right across the jaw, who dares to make MY kid feel ashamed, like some ugly duckling. After all, ain't many mommies that can tell the rest of the world that they brought up a genuine superhero. Believe me, a high-risk profession like fighting supervillains is just about the last occupational field that a zealously overprotective mother like yours truly would choose for her wide-eyed and innocent sweetheart, especially since I can't look at him without seeing the cute and chubby toddler he used to be, before he shed all that adorable puppy fat, who would crawl through my suburban gardens every summer and munch away at all the plump strawberries he could find before I could pick them myself, to toss fruit salads or bake pies with, but I've decided to respect his decision, no matter how much it pains me to watch him stroll out that door every morning, knowing that he's going to deliberately place himself in harm's way. Of course, the obvious question would be, what drives a normal human being to become a superhero? The even more obvious answer is that, in this particular case, he was never exactly normal to begin with. Let me confide a secret in you, something which very few outside of my friends and family are privy to. Dream is ... different. I don't just mean his upbringing, which was bound to be unorthodox, when you take into account that he was cared for by a single mommy who, to this day, flashes her 44DDs for the appreciative patrons of nudie bars to pay not only the rent but also her kid's considerable college expenses, and that his daddy was a Native American shaman named Louis Foxglove, most likely the only man I've ever loved, who inexplicably left his soulmate (not his wife, since he and I never got hitched in the traditional, court-recognized, legally-binding "white man's marriage" sense) and seven-year-old son to return to the reservation, and who, despite his attentive child support payments and concerned correspondence with his former bed partner, continually refuses to initiate any contact with his own child, for reasons yet unknown. I'm also not referring to Dream's adolescence, which was unfortunately also slightly skewed towards the near side of dysfunctional, what with the two of us moving from coast to coast, and him being beaten up by bullies in junior high, where he earned the nickname "Houdini" for teaching himself how to open his combination wall locker from the inside, a skill which he was forced to exercise rather regularly. No, I mean Dream himself is different, beyond his bizarre homelife or his less-than-popular status during his clique-persecuted teenage period, beyond anything outside of who and what he is on the inside. Several doctors that I've taken him to suspect he might be autistic, but just about everyone agrees that there's something more there, something that they don't even have a classification for yet. For my own part, I'm not nearly dumb enough to accept that his possible autism constitutes a summary explanation for all of his phenomenal abilities, but it certainly could be a contributing factor. Lots of people think that those who suffer from autism are unable to interact with the world around them because they're incapable of registering the events taking place in front of them. On the contrary, autistic people actually notice too many details in the picture that surrounds them, and therein lies the tragically ironic root of the problem. See, when you take the time to mull it over (which my experiences with raising Dream have spurred me on to do a great deal of) you should be able to figure out that we all learn by distinguishing patterns, in the jumble of sights and sounds and smells and tastes and touches that our sensory organs feed our brains, and that it's our ability to ferret out these sometimes elusive patterns that allow us to advance, whether it's developing the basic skill of walking on two feet, or a moderately difficult task such as operating a car, or even complex calculation like devising the mathematics behind major scientific discoveries. Now, I'm probably guilty of committing gross overstatement and simplification in order to fulfill the requirements of this analogy, but if you can imagine trying to perform even the simplest of motor coordination tricks, such as reaching out to grab an object in front of you, when all of your senses are on full volume, to the point that every little pixel in your vision and every errant background noise practically pounces on you, then you've almost got a clue about what it's like to live as an autistic person. Because every piece of data that enters their field of perception takes on equal weight and importance, the only way that many autistic people manage to develop a meaningful exchange with the rest of the universe that exists outside of their own minds is by devising their own sets of patterns, and imposing these pre-ordained guidelines upon everything they take in, whether or not such routines are practical or accurate. That's why Dustin Hoffman's Rainman needed the reassurance of Judge Wapner on The People's Court, every day at the same time, and why he could commit phone books to memory and add enormous numbers within seconds, and yet all it took to throw off his computations was a dollar sign in front of the numbers. It's also why Dreamcatcher Foxglove, the CrazySugarFreakBoy!, can memorize every last detail of artwork and script of a comic book in a glance, instantly drinking in even the thickest collected edition by the mere act of flipping through its pages, and reciting upon command the most nuanced of story recaps or the lengthiest stretches of arcane dialogue and dramatic speeches, imbuing the words with such emotion and vocal inflection that listeners can't help feeling as though they honestly lived the moment described. It's why he can duplicate nearly all of the acrobatic maneuvers (or at least the speed and agility, if not necessarily the endurance or strength) regularly exhibited by such ledge-dwelling veterans as Batman and Daredevil, without ever having practiced such expert high-wire techniques himself, even though he can't tie his own shoelaces or snap his fingers, much less step one foot in front of the other without stumbling. It's why he goes into situations where he's the only participant without any superpowers, and yet he still manages to make it back out alive, because that encyclopedic mind of his has every combat scenario, every enemy's strategy, every foreseeable advantage right at his fingertips, because he's devoted so many years to studying those comic books of his that he knows this business almost better than the professionals do. Not only did he turn his huge Swatch wristwatch into a Dick Tracy-type two-way picture-phone deal, but it's also got a miniature storage compartment under the watch face, so that when he winds the dial, it springs open and out pops his entire, one-piece, expandable costume - as he so graciously informed me, this particular setup was a homage to a fellow from the 1960s named Barry Allen, or the "Silver-Age Flash," whom it seems could accomplish the unlikely feat of stuffing his whole red spandex running suit, including those golden wings on his boots and on the sides of his mask, into the emblem ring on his finger. As for the outfit itself, all I can say is wow! Yeah, I'm his mom, and I'm not blind to the accusation that our relationship might bias my opinion in his favor, but I'd still argue that he's an amazingly talented lad. He sewed his disguise together, all by himself, and while he continually hastens to add that the idea behind its chemical composition, some previously unheard-of and, until recently, supposedly impossible mixture of rubber-plastic-elastic-glue-gel material, was inspired by the unbreakable "unstable molecule" uniforms of Reed Richards, a genius inventor who modestly called himself "Mister Fantastic" - Geez Louise, yet another sixties scientist with a fixation for form-fitting attire - it apparently had a number of unexpected side-effects: A) it allows the wearer to literally bounce off the walls or between the sides of buildings, and within a sufficiently contained space, ricochet at random with enough force to break through windows, doors, or eventually the walls themselves; B) it absorbs the full brunt impact of any blow, short of a high-caliber gunshot fired at point blank range, protecting the wearer from any injury and reflecting the object that struck it back to its exact point of origin; C) it secretes a thin outer layer of adhesive powerful enough to support the wearer's weight as he crawls up the sheer sides of completely vertical surfaces or even upside down on ceilings, without the aid of any handholds ... to activate this handy-dandy asset, though, you must push a button on your Swatch, which also turns off the sticky-fingers feature; and D) it also serves as an almost frictionless outer skin, so that the wearer can zip across the ground and, when leaping from rooftop to rooftop, through the air with virtually no resistance ... hey, I won't lie, you're not even gonna come close to out-pacing anyone with a big red "S" or a lightning bolt emblazoned on his chest, but if you're naturally humming with energy beforehand, it's surprising how much more speed you can squeeze out. Even weirder is the fact that Dream discovered this complex polymer in his quest to develop the world's first edible silly-string - and no, much as I wish otherwise, I'm really not kidding on this count. And the fashion design of this patent-pending wardrobe? Well, from what I've been able to piece together based on my own scant amount of research, paging through sample packs of the newer and more popular comic books to have made their publishing debut during the past decade or so, most "fan-boyz" (help me out, am I using the right term? No smart remarks at my expense, either) of his generation would probably consider both his attire and his code-name somewhat outdated, since every other character on the stands now seems to have claws and chains and machine guns and telescopic sights surgically implanted in their left eyes or whatever, with these awful misspelled monikers like "BloodKyll" and "HellRapist," but I think Dream's friendly, non-threatening getup and silly nickname are endearing, with their sunny orange and green hues (to match his hair and eyes, natch), and liberally festooned with his personally trademarked smiley-face logos - an idiosyncratic version of the famous "Have A Nice Day" grin that he sketched out one Saturday morning, that's probably been the true symbol of his inner self all along; oh, and according to the young hero himself, "Its lines and contours were modeled after the Hal Jordan-era Green Lantern Corps gear, as well as the first red-and-gold version of Tony Stark's Iron Man armor" ... I swear, he's my baby and I love him to pieces, but I can't help feeling like he's speaking in a foreign language sometimes. The most brain-boggling, and frequently frightening, aspect of his newfound calling in comic-book crime-fighting, though, involves the preparations – or rather, the lack thereof – that he takes to protect himself before charging headlong into combat with these costumed crazies. So, with all these heavy hitters slingin’ their strange powers at him, what does my bright baby boy bring along to defend himself against their all-powerful assaults, much less to wage war against these sick bastards? A yo-yo and a back-pack! Even scarier? How incredibly effective he is, with nothing more than these simple tools at his disposal. The back-pack is strongly tailored to mirror the Spartan functionality of Batman's utility belt (see? I'm not a hopelessly out-of-it old fogey who can't remember any of the superheroes - of course, it kinda helps that the Adam West TV show was a favorite of mine when I was a wee girl) but it says a lot about Dream's personality to peek inside and glimpse those eclectic items which he views as "essential" to the success of any mission ... junk food, soda pop, the week's latest shipment of Justice League of America and Preacher issues, an assortment of his most recent action figure purchases, and Captain Carrot, his "transitional object;" it's a raggedy, cotton-stuffed bunny doll, his present from Santa the Christmas after he was born, but he prefers to classify her (yes, according to Dream, Captain Carrot is a girl bunny, by virtue of what I have NO idea) as a valued sidekick, ala Boy Wonder Robin, rather than as a Linus-like security blanket. Like the signal Swatch and the distinctive dress-up togs, the yo-yo also bears his copyrighted smiley-face mark, and even though it's nothing more than a store-bought toy that he repainted one lazy afterschool afternoon to compliment the rest of his extravagant ensemble, the stunts he's accomplished with it are literally unbelievable, even when you witness them with your own naked eyes: A) it loops around the edges of rooftops, so that the "slinger" (don't even ask me to explain this term, which Dream apparently coined in tribute to some ... Spidey-Guy, I guess he's called? He also tried to tutor me on the inner workings of some bat-shaped boomerang device, but I was too exhausted from my crash course in superhero tactics for the night) can swing from building to building, like an urban Tarzan; B) on the defensive end, when he starts spinning it around fast enough, like a makeshift helicopter propeller, it actually creates a shield that can deflect any projectile short of (once again) high-caliber bullets fired at point-blank range, which is still pretty decent, if you ask this impressed mom; and C) on the offensive side, he can nail people on the head, or wherever else they're vulnerable to blows, with the hard plastic end of the yo-yo, or even twirl its length into a makeshift lasso that binds their hands or grabs away their weapons. So, do I understand this little person grown big? Yes and no. I think I have a reasonably accurate concept of where he came from, and what has shaped him over the course of his life, but when I see him in action, I'm still occasionally astounded at what this kid, this little daydreamer that I brought up from diapers, has become capable of, and that a mom as misguided as me managed to do such a good job of bringing him up. Regardless of all that he's gone through, I've never heard him whine or complain or bemoan his lot in life as being miserable or unfair, even when it was truly rotten and he had every right to surrender to despair. I look at this up-and-coming breed of so-called superheroes, and all I see is a bunch of hurt little boys who have built out their muscles to an absurdly inflated degree and increased their firepower to a laughable scale of overkill, hoping to hide their inadequacies and insecurities behind thick shoulder pads and tough-sounding threats, and yearning to derive some sort of empty gratification from finally having gained power enough to live out their petty, small-minded revenge fantasies, for whom the guise of battling injustice is only an excuse to vent their frustrations and commit unprovoked acts of violence with impunity. Then, I look at Dream, with a witty joke and an ingenious prank for every grim predicament, and a tender hug and a kind deed for every wounded or wronged individual that he happens to encounter, and I see someone whose resilient optimism has remained intact, despite a relentless assault from all sides, because his reason for doing what he does has nothing to do with anger or fear or hatred, but with joy ... With play. He is the CrazySugarFreakBoy!, for no other reason than the fact that he gets a genuine kick out of being the CrazySugarFreakBoy! He enjoys it, and what's more, he's lucky enough to be good at it, too. Nothing else matters. So, when all else is said and done, I guess what I'm asking is, would you guys and gals here in the esteemed superhero fraternity be willing to look after my pumpkin? I know he chugs too much caffeine, and that his sense of humor can quite often be warped and perverse and yes, even irritatingly annoying at certain moments, but he's a good boy, and this mommy, for one, is pretty damned proud of the man he's growing up to become. Thanks, gang. XOXOXO Meggan Foxxx, a.k.a. "Action Figure", who had to summon a small handful o' sentences a' this stuff purely from memory, since her story was stored on the same bad disk that Dream had saved his tales on. "Course, not that it matters much, since his current origins're a bit different than how they read in this account ... |
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