We are lucky to have, in our neighborhood, a park right down the street. It's not the most exciting park in town, and the play structure is covered with sexually explicit graffiti scrawled by someone who has obviously never studied anatomy; however, it's still a place where London can play baseball, Poppy can swing like a maniac, and they can both con me into getting off the bench and playing "monster," a game involving a scary enemy (me), a dungeon (bench), and a whole lot of running around (all of us). The other day I took Poppy, her friend Raina and London down the block to enjoy a globally warm day. When we arrived, a boy a bit larger than London was scurrying about with a small plastic notepad in his hand.
"I'm a scientist," he exclaimed without prompting and, just like he'd encounter in middle school if he kept this up, the girls ran away and the other non-scientific boy just stared in disbelief. After all, we had a ball and a bat and swings and slides and enough grass for a decent 200-yard dash. I asked London if he wanted to invite young Stephen Jay Gould to join us in our national pastime but, after watching the boy test for soil samples using a tiny plastic wand, Londy shook his head. "I don't think so, Dad."
The girls came back and wanted to play monster and since we had a guest, I agreed immediately. We are all better parents when there's an audience present even if it's comprised of a 9-year-old girl, a boy scientist, and his mom who needed a rest after tandem cycling to the park. I started my impression of Boris Karloff, and the lab rat became intrigued, so again, we asked if he wanted to play.
"I'll be Butterman," London said, raising a heroic fist into the air.
"Butterman?" the kid asked, scratching his head with his probe. This did not compute.
London realized he had to shamefully translate. "Well, I, um, made it up," he said, kicking the dirt. Butterman was one in a series of superheroes that London has invented on his own time. I can't tell you why, given the unbelievable amount and array of superheroes already in existence, many London is quite familiar with. For some reason, X-ray vision, super strength and an elastic body did not cover the powers necessary to fight evil in his wild mind. London needed a man who could shoot warm dairy products over Doc Oc and other archvillians who can't seem to get off without the abduction of super-thin women and the destruction of imported Japanese automobiles.
In our house, we have heard tales of and survived attacks by Glassman-a shiny male who shoots shattered windshields at criminals; and Airplaneman-a human in the shape of a flying object. I haven't figured out exactly what he'd look like, but I crudely imagine a cross between that Eurotrash Sportacus from
LazyTown
and a creepy Plasticine creature from
Jay Jay the Jet Plane
. Then we have Lavaman whose skin is like a leper's doused with flaming kerosene, and Smokeman who shoots fire out of his mouth but is oddly against cigarettes, which makes no sense to me. If you are gonna have breath that causes other people cancer, you might as well get a nicotine buzz during your breaks from the arduous task of fighting crime.
My favorite of London's super creations is Furnitureman. What this guy does is replace all the furniture in your house when it gets stolen. I imagine a
Queer Eye
-meets-
Law & Order
scenario where after the rumpled cops come and process the scene, the Fab 5 swoop in and fix your silly little ass right up. Furnitureman may be the action figure of the future given the success of
Brokeback Mountain
and all the reality shows about moving sofas around.
I chased Butterman and Scienceboy around. I locked Butterman into my dungeon; he shot Land O Lakes into my eyes and alas, I was foiled again. Like all good scientists, the other boy kept a safe distance from the action while taking copious notes.
Rob Wilder will have a signing and reading for his book, Daddy Needs a Drink, which publishes this month, at 4 pm, April 29 at The Cowgirl. Read more about it at
.
