Okay, so I'm sure you've figured out by now, I'm a hideously deranged geek. I'm one of those sci-fi comic book dorks that can actually get into an argument over whether or not Batman can beat Superman in a fight (he can, by the way, and has!).
I don't usually get into it here, because if you're here already, then you're only one click away from Hollywood Mike, who has way more informed things to say on the subject. Why would I bother to waste your time?
The one threshold I have not yet crossed, taking me so far into loserdom from which I'd never return, is "The Con."
The Convention. Star Trek Conventions. Comic Book Conventions. Sci-fi Conventions. LOTR Conventions. There's a convention for fucking everthing. There's even DragonCon, the convention for fucking everything. I have never, ever been to a convention.
Mind you, not by choice.
I've seen pictures, heard reports, read interviews. What I wouldn't give to have the time, money, and convenient location to go to a Con. I don't care if it dooms my soul for all eternity. These are my people, dammit!
Besides, cute girls who are comic/sci-fi fans and like to dress up in revealing super-heroine garb in public, flock to these things. And while I know I'm no Brad Pitt, compared to most other guys at these gatherings, I am. If ever there were a chance for me to actually acheive my dream of a harem, that would be the place to start.
But, alas. Once again, another convention season has come and gone and I have yet to get a picture of myself standing next to a teenage Evil Lynn.
Well, I recieved a report from my friend, Joe. Joe is more of a friend of a friend. But I've met him a couple times, and he strikes me as a pretty cool guy.
Joe just recently attended the San Diego Comic Con, the Mecca of Comic Geeks world over.
The following observations are a copy/paste of Joe's report:
1. actual, real life school girls... should NOT dress up like the naughty/slutty school girl.
2. You would think a jedi wearing the burger-king head would be lame, and you'd be as DEAD fucking wrong as I was. Awesome.
3. a fat girl dressed provocatively as Electra, or chun li, is still a fat girl; confidence and sexiness do not necessarily walk hand in hand. I've seen way more skin than the bounds of decency and good taste recommend.
4. Comic-book fans in general are not in the best shape... nor the best groomed... nor the best dressed. All considered I had to be one of the most in shape, best groomed, best dressed people there. Which you would think would feel awesome, but instead I just felt myself deeply envying the guy who came as Voltron. BLAZING SWORD!
5. Everyone loves Pikachu.... Everyone.
6. A hot girl dressed slutty is the best possible marketing tactic. period.
6a. but 3 hot girls dressed as matching slutty cheerleaders with "EVIL" written across their tits basically just conjure money. I don't know what they're selling but fuckall I'm buying it.
7. a 5 year old dressed as optimus prime is a victim of his father... and still, Awesome.
8. When talking to hot girls hired by video game companies to sell their product, it becomes readily apparent that they know nothing about the products they've been hired to sell, and we have no other common ground on which to converse. "man can you believe all the geeks here..." will not engender you to her or help to ease the burden of her pain. God help her she looked like a goat being slowly lowered into a piranha tank. Geek is geek and hot is hot, and never the twain shall meet.
9. comic book creators hate comic book fans. period.
9a. comic book fans hate comic book creators. period.
10. An attractive girl not in costume here is a victim of her boyfriend or husband. (note: To later make him go shopping for napkin rings, stationary or possibly porcelain dolls of some sort should be considered justice)
My roommates had gotten a puppy just a little while before I arrived. Her name is Chewbacca. She is now "our" dog.
It's been a long time since I had a dog. When I was a kid, growing up in Oak Grove, Oregon, my mom got me a German Shepard named Pepper. Pepper was my dog for many years before she passed away. Afterwards, I was dogless for many years after.
I had a cat for some years, who passed away just before my Chicago move. But aside from pets that essentially belonged to my parents or roommates, one dog and one cat are my record.
My point being is, I had forgotten what it was like to have a dog. I had gotten so used to living with a cat, an animal that makes a point of letting you know that it could just as easily kill you as eat the food you put in it's bowl, that I had forgotten what it was like to own a dog, a creature that sees you as it's god.
I've had this discussion with my mom before. She lives with a cat named Ernie, who is in fact the son of my old cat. Ernie loves living on the farm with my mom, because he can hunt and kill a hundred little animals a day and never kill the same species twice. He also loves to leave his kill on the porch, where my mother finds them waiting for her at least twice a day. My mom coo's on how this is Ernie's way of showing affection. I say, this is Ernie's way of showing her what he will do to her if she pisses him off.
Now, Chewbacca on the other hand would never leave Sicilian Messages on my doorstep. Rather, Chewie runs and hides behind me at the sight of anything larger and a baby mosquito. I take pride in this, because I've always been of the beleif that some day, with the proper wisdom and life of internal spirituality, I may someday become a god. To Chewbacca, I am a god.
Perhaps this is where the desire for Godhood first was instilled in me. As a child, I had Pepper, who worshiped and protected me all the way through Junior High. Perhaps I got used to that kind of infalable worship from a "lesser" creature. Granted, I never did anything that would make Pepper doubt my divinity. She always had food, shelter, and any other needs a dog could want. I never beat her, starved her, or command other dogs to gay rape her puppies while telling her that I work in myerious ways. As false gods go, I was pretty benevolent.
So, as a child I got used to the idea of being looked up to as a mighty and wonderous being by someone that couldn't really tie a shoelace, thumbs or no.
Maybe this is why I have such problems with my relationships. I don't really want to be loved. I just want to be worshiped.
Now, I am Chewbacca's god. I have to share this divinity with my roommates. So, I guess that makes Chewie a polytheist. Tank Girl is the goddess of food and water, Frogman is God of Fetch and Tug-O-War, leaving me as the God of smackings when barking at night. Needless to say, I'm not her favorite God. But the worship is still there. She still gives me the big brown eyes of puppy pity when she wants something from me.
There have been those wandering mind moments when I've tried to contemplate how something like Human Sacrifice can get started in a culture, and it's moments like that when it makes sense. If I told Chewbacca that she needs to burn a heretic if she wants a peice of the pork I'm eating, she probably would. And, if I thought she were capable of understanding the request, I'd be tempted. I mean, who wouldn't get off on that kind of display of unwavering loyalty, even if it is from a mutt?
So, even though I am the angry, vengeful god, Chewbacca still turns to me for security. When a beatle buzzes her too close, she comes running to me for protection. When she needs to go outside, she begs me for escort into the outdoors rather than incur my wrath by crapping on the floor. When she sleeps, she lays under my chair. When I sleep, she curls up next to my bed. When I pace the floor, ranting to myself about my dissapointment in humanity as a whole, she stands at attention and hangs on every word I say.
No matter how soundly she is sleeping, if I say her name she will suddenly spring to her feet with an emphatic "how may I serve you" look on her face.
Yes, my life's quest of ascending to godhood has reached it's first step. I am a wise and loving god of one very content and spiritually fulfilled dog. It's a start.
So, for those of you who read my egotistical blatherings of how I will one day be a god, and think to yourself how horrible that would be; just take a look at Chewbacca, my dog. I am her god, and she loves me. Wouldn't it be nice to have a god that you actually like?
Laura asked a very good question. Who the hell is reading my blog? I've had that ClustrMap up for less than a week, and I'm already seeing hits from the wierdest places. Norway, Phillipines, fuckin' Africa?
Hits from anywhere in the US or Canada I can understand, probably Hollywood Mike's fans wandering around his links. But the rest of you?
It's made me all self-conscious. I changed my blog layout again, to something a little more classy, 'cause now I'm suddenly caring about what it looks like. I'll probably change it again before too long, when this look starts to bore me. What are you people doing to me?
Does this mean I'm going to have to start watching my spelling again? I can't take this kind of pressure.
I could chalk it up to random "Next Blog" button pushing. But I don't know, it's seems way more spread out than the hits I've been getting on "Inside The Red Menace." Do I actually have a fan base? Dare I dream?
I certainly haven't been getting any comments left from anyone other than people I know (and even less from them lately).
This isn't good. People like me thrive on going unnoticed by the general populace. When people like me become popular, we suddenly find ourselves nailed to crosses and the like. No to sound egostistical, but it's basically how it works.
Monday, July 17, 2006
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...and you will know me by the trail of dead...
Like my father before me, I have a bit of the entrepreneur's spirit. While being a writer/filmmaker will always be my first love, and therefore my cheif career interest, there are times in which I have wanted to dabble in other small business for pocket money and whatnot.
Right now, I'm thinking of death. No, I'm not going to kill people for cash. That kind of work requires too many odd hours.
No, I'm thinking about the millions of Baby Boomers that are getting ready to start dying. It will be a few years yet, but when the time comes, I'll be ready. I don't want to run a funeral home, because I hear that is a high competition industry, and I'm not interested in that kind of stress. A side business such as this should be little more than a hobby. A side business shouldn't eat into the time you wish to spend on your main interests.
I'm more interested in the peculiar and novelty approach to death. Take for instance, LifeGem, a company that can take the ashes of your cremated loved one, and compress them into a blue or yellow diamond.
Novelty coffins have been in the news off and on for the last few years.
Just recently, Hugable Urns were introduced into the market.
Maybe I'm morbid, maybe I'm even a little sadistic, but I get the giggles over things like this. Looking over the prices of the urns and coffins, and having my own personal sense of what it would cost to have these things mass produced here in the sweatshops of China, gets my wallet all hot and bothered.
This death market is going to start growing exponentially within the next ten years, as my father's generation starts to kick off, and global warming starts to drown out the major coastal cities. Since burial plots are going to become harder to come by (as we run out of land) and therefore more expensive, more and more people are going to be turning to cremation. I see a major market expansion in urns, classic, novelty, or custom made.
Now, don't get all excited, dear reader. I'm not changing lanes in the middle of my journey. Like I said, the big badda-boom in the dropping of the dead will not be for a few more years, and I have a movie that I'm trying to make right now.
This is more just a one-way conversation of what I may be doing as a hobby a few years from now. I'll be tapping my artist friends for urn designs. Lucky for me, all of my artist friends are already death-obsessed to a fault.
On a side note, I have once again jumped on another bandwagon. Thanks to Crazy Laura and Saint Burton, I have once again added another wastefull feature to my blog, just so I won't feel left out. I have included a ClusterMap on my site. Now I can see where my blog readers are coming from, and introspectivly contemplate to myself "who the hell in India is reading my blog?"
This weekend (Sunday to be exact) marks the 61st Anniversary of the first ever Atomic Bomb explosion.
The accumilation of millions of years of evolution, thousands of years of scientific study, and hundreds of years of modern theory, resulting in the proof of energy's and mass' unified and shared existence, opening the doors to so many more questions about the very fabric of this strange and beautiful universe we live in.
A few weeks later, the first thing we did to utilize this wonderful new knowlege is kill as many Japanese people as we possibly could, and scare the flaming shit out of everyone else in the world into doing whatever we tell them.
Now, we can all go on about the ignorance of the times, or the threat that Japan and Germany were. But what it all comes down to is that all these hundreds of years of history and wisdom have yet to break us free of the "Us and Them" mentality.
We still insist on seperating ourselves in as many ways as possible. Blacks, whites, latinos. Americans, British, Russians, Chinese. Republican, Democrat, Liberal, Conservative. Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Pagan. We consistently deny the fact that we are all human beings living on the same planet, and continue to gloss over the fact that hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians have been murdered by U.S. actions, by weeping over the handfull of U.S. soldiers that died when those civilians decided to fight back. We justify doing horrible and inexusible things by dehumanizing our victims, the same way we justified slavery all those years ago with the simple words of "they're just a bunch of niggers, after all."
I'm sick of being caught up in the middle of other people's conflicts. By rallying a force of "us," we get our way by demonizing "them." For some reason, I land in way more "them" catagories. To the Iraqi's I'm one of Them Americans. To Americans, I'm one of Them Liberals. To Liberals I'm one of Them Moderates. To Moderates, I'm one of Them Assholes. Meanwhile, whatever each of these different people are trying to accomplish, I'm considered "part of the problem" and therefore no tears are shed for any misfortune that would befal me in the wake of their selfish missions.
In all of recorded history, civilians have died while fighting for the causes of the elites. Soldiers fight, kill, and die in the name of some fat king kept safely in his castle a hundred miles away.
Still today, every time President Dickhead picks a fight with some other bunch of "thems," it's people like us that suffer for it. As we speak, American soldiers and Iraqi civillians are dying by the second because Bush and Saddam decided to be assholes to each other. And while they fight and die, Bush is safe in his master bedroom at the Whitehouse, and Saddam is being "put on trial" in a civil court.
North Korea's leader, Kim Jong, is testing nuclear weapons of his own. If him and El Presidente Bush continue posturing and preening themselves right into a major conflict, the only people that will suffer from it are the citizens and civilians of America and North Korea. In the event of a nuclear holocaust, between NK and USA, Kim Jong and Fuckhead-In-Cheif will be kept safe and snug in their private bunkers while everyone else in the world dies horribly over something they caused.
But, if the US were to simply invade North Korea and bomb them back to the premortial sludge, not a tear in the US will be shed. Because at least no American lives were lost, and that's all that matters.
For most of my life, people have been giving me shit for being a card-carrying and vocal cynic. I can't help it. People suck, and there is little you can do to convince me otherwise. We spend all of our knowlege and resources, thousands of years worth, to remove ourselves as far as possible from the responsibility of our actions. The greatest and most violent proof of that is the Atom Bomb. All you have to do is push a button, and hundreds of thousands of "thems" are instantly deleted. Afterwards, you still have time for Starbucks.
Friday, July 07, 2006
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...the feel of Rain on my face...
Sometimes, I go a little overboard.
It's not that I have poor impulse control. No, that would involve beating up strangers and fucking lamp posts. My impulse control is fine.
The things that usually get me in trouble are well planned out in advance. Things that I know full well are sick and wrong, but I do it anyway because sometimes I enjoy being sick and wrong. I think I may have ranted about this before.
It's not that I'm really that strange of a person, I just enjoy having people think I'm that strange of a person. It empowers me, in a way, I think.
I remember once, when in college; I was building a set for a play and we needed more wood. Since I had a truck, the Tech Director sent me out to get the wood, and sent the painter with the great tits to go with me. It was a good day.
Now, it was many years ago that this happened, so I don't remember a lot of the details, accept that a) we had to leave the hardware store a lot faster than we had planned and b) two days later she gave me a handjob in a movie theater, then introduced me to her mother.
Everybody has their signature quirk. One that defines them, in twenty words or less, to those around them. Some are fantastic dancers. Other are amazing painters. Me, I'm a fucking weirdo. It's what makes me repulsive or attractive to everyone I know.
I know it's not my looks. I have come to grips with the fact that I do not at all stand out in a crowd. Physically, everything about me is average. Average height, average weight, brown hair, etc. Everytime I meet someone new, they tell me that I remind them of someone else. I have a very non-unique look about me.
So, in order to displace myself from the faceless masses, I have no choice other than to do so in my actions. I say and do things that make people either hate me for having the gall, or love me for having the balls.
So, there's my big defense. If I wasn't such a fuck-up, none of you would even know I existed.
Now, here in China, it's a whole new game. As one of only a dozen white people in this town, I stand out like a sore testicle. I no longer need to "accidentally" set things on fire in order to get noticed. So far, I've gotten at least one total stranger a week tell me that I'm "very handsome" or "look like a movie star." Some have even reached out to touch my arm, in awe of how pale my skin is.
On that same token, I'm finding out that my usual behavior is not seen as "strange" or "eccentric" here. Rather it is viewed as "american" or "rude." No matter how many cops I give hugs to, it never seems to impress anyone here. I'm just waived off as "another fucking guela."
So, now what? My entire world has been kicked in reverse. After spending my whole life overcompensating for my physical blandness by grabbing a nipple everytime I say "hello," I am now in a situation where my physical appearence is very unique, and nipple grabbing is no way to make any friends.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
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The Great Throbbing Cock of Capitalism
There are some things about the american marketplace that I miss. First and foremost; Free Refils. Bottomless coffee is yet to be discovered here. I also must pay for each individual glass of coke I buy.
But, there are other parts free market competition that I am glad to have left behind. Such as those poor bastards standing in the middle of the street wearing giant foam hot-dog costumes in 90 degree weather, handing out flyers for 50 cents off a carwash.
However, one of those that I hated the most has arrived.
Today, while in a Supermarket called Yi Jai Yi(One Plus One), I was confused by the prices of the items I was buying (Condoms, strawberry jam, and an umbrella. Don't ask.). The price tags for each item had two numbers on them, and I couldn't read the chinese characters that told me what each number was suppose to be. At first, I was confused...
Then it occured to me, I've seen this before. I start looking around for signs. Sure enough, there they are. Yi Jai Yi Club Cards!
Club Cards! Fucking Club Cards! No fucking Free Refils, but fucking Club Cards!
I come to find out later that this was probably because Yi Jai Yi is actually an american owned store chain. Probably Safeway. I hate those assholes.
So, this is what is happening to China right now. As the american free market society slowly spreads accross the world like a bad rash that you can't seem to explain to your girlfriend, all of the things we hate about it (like commercials in movie theaters) are gaining speed and annihilating power the likes of which even americans have never seen, while all of the benefits (lets hear it for breadsticks) seem to be forgotten or scoffed at.
The single most evil thing about marketers, beyond the fact that their job is to think of ways to associate chewing gum with group sex, is that when some asshole thinks of a new way to intrusively force their products on us (like infomercial TV's in every aisle of the supermarket), they are promoted and made into millionaires, as opposed to drawn and quartered in the town square.
First of all, why do we tolerate these bastards? Second of all, how does a country like China, that still prides itself on being sceptical towards a Capitalistic lifestyle, tolerate even more than we do?
Even in a small town like Zhongshan, I've seen more of those LCD infomercial screens than I ever saw in the states. This is astounding to me. How can these people sit there and berate america for being greedy and market driven, then sit back and alow themselves to be buggered by even more direct marketing than we have ever seen?
I suppose this is something for me to bring up next time I have a roundtable of Chinese citizens hanging on my every word. It does happen from time to time.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
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Nobody Remembers The Go-Bots
Today's heroes suck. The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers will never make a comeback as "cool nostalgia" because we have always known, since their inception, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles could totally kick their ass.
The true classics never die. However, today I'm going to talk about a few that did. Before I became old enough to truely analize the key traits of a great hero, thus settling on the mighty awsomeness that is Batman, I had a handfull of personal favorites that occupied my admirations, for one reason or another.
Please allow me to remind you of some of our forgotten heroes. To be fair, some of them were forgotten for a reason.
Marshal Bravestarr One might go so far as to argue that this was the inspiration for Firefly. Amazing futuristic technology infused into a Wild West motif. They've even got the same concept of "Central" planets that exhibit a bit of Elizebethian Elitism. Though it's quite a bit watered down in Bravestarr, being a kids program and all.
Some of the major points of the show that I can remember after all these years, were rather progressive for a kids cartoon show. For starters, our hero often went looking for advice from a Native American shamen, and drew his power from Native American symbols of strenth, speed, and wisdom. Some episodes featured a female Special Forces officer (retired, in her 60's, and still kicking ass), an anti-drug episode where a kid actually dies, and special two-parter featuring Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty.
Silverhawks The weekday afternoon sidekick to Thundercats. Cyborgs with an aviary theme. Both Silverhawks and Thundercats premiered at the same time. Both ran together for the same number of seasons. Arm and arm, wherever Thundercats went, Silverhawks were right behind them.
Today, the Thundercats emblem is emblazoned all over random kitch, as though knowing what that sigil stands for makes you part of some special clan. Perhaps that was true five years ago. Not anymore.
Silverhawks may have fallen because they were more gimicked, cliched, and formulaic than Thundercats. And, if you've ever been a part of any college dorm room Thundercats Marathons, you would know that this is saying a hell of a lot.
Okay, so, I didn't really like The Silverhawks much. I just think it's funny that no body remembers them, while "Thundercats, ho!" can still be heard echoing the halls of america's Junior High schools.
Unico The Unicorn This may be one of those times that I feel the need to remind people that I'm not gay. Possibly because I have, to date, met only one other person in the entire world that has ever heard of Unico The Unicorn, and he was gay.
Unico was a baby unicorn that had meddled in the affairs of the gods, and thus slated for death. However, the West Wind took pity on him and simply hid him in the far corners of the world. The problem was, Unico could never stay out of trouble. Curing famines here, vanquishing evil sorcerers there, and each time the West Wind has to hurry him away to some other hiding place...which, coincidentally is also plagued by famine and sorcerers. Oh, his memory get's wiped each time, too. Kind of a pisser when you think about it.
Unico's adventures were about the little guy not giving up. Never backing down on what you believe is right, no matter how menacing the opposing force may be.
Coupled with revolutionary (for the time) animation, and altogether unique storylines for each adventure, you get quite a good time for (gag) the whole family to enjoy.
I would very much like to introduce my kids to Unico, however being that the only two people in the world who have ever heard of Unico are me and some gay guy, the chances that anyone is going to start offering Unico DVD's is slim to "yeah, right."
American Rabbit A single, little known feature film is the life of The American Rabbit. Rob Rabbit was just a normal, everyday rabbit. He was raised in a small town, learned piano from his mom, had a crush on the girl-next-door, etc. One day, an old man (rabbit) tells him that he has a gift and must use it to help others. Then the old man leaves with no further explination. Rob, somehow needing no further explination, breaks into a run, becomes magically covered from head to toe in Stars and Stripes (and roller skates), and immediately lifts off into the air to go fight crime in the big city.
Now, American Rabbit wasn't the toughest cookie in Rabbittown. Basically, his ability to get into costume solely by breaking into a run, his power of flight, and being able to move around in roller skates without looking any more gay than he already did, is the entire and complete list of American Rabbit's powers.
If not for the insane amount of muscle provided by his good friend, the warm hearted Gorilla named Ping-Pong ("But my friends just call me 'Ping.' Or, 'Pong.'"), he probably never would have been able to break up that gang of evil coyotes.
Why am I calling myself a fan of something I obviously have no respect for? Is it because no one else has ever heard of it and I think it makes me "different" and "cool" to be in the know? Yes, but it's also because the aforementioned Ping-Pong is a truely cool character that is not found in enough kids shows.
Ghostbusters When the cartoon based on the famous and genius "Ghostbusters" film was created, they had to tag it's title with "The Real" in order to separate itself from the other cartoon that already had their name.
"Ghostbusters" featured two ghost experts (and a gorilla) living in a haunted house, that was a bit of a gothic version of Pee-Wee's playhouse in that every single thing in the house was posessed by a ghost and therefore talked.
Greatest American Hero An inner city high school teacher has a Close Encounter, and walks away with a gift from an alien race; A flashy red spandex suit that gives him super powers when he wears it. The comic releif catch? He loses the instruction booklet, and has no idea how to control his powers.
This show was most known, not just for quitisentially 80's theme song, but it's very recognizable opening sequence shot of our hero crashing into a billboard as he tries to learn how to fly.
The Bloodhound Gang We've all heard the strangely catching songs about dirty sex that Jimmy Pop and Lupus play for us, but did you ever ask yourself where they got the name from?
PBS used to run an educational science show called "3-2-1 Contact" that was way more informative than any classroom I've ever sat in. Probably because nobody ever sued PBS into shutting up about evolution. People complain about The Electric Babysitter, but to be fair, PBS was where I learned that Columbus never actually discovered America, while my teachers were still telling me that he did.
The last ten minutes of "3-2-1 Contact" was occupied by a serialized mystery show called "The Bloodhound Gang." The Bloodhound Gang was a group of high school aged detectives that solved mysteries by applying basic scientific pricipals and facts. A formula that Disney once tried to steal with their "Edison Twins" series.
The Wizard Simon McKay, toy inventor extrodinaire, used this amazing inventions and endless fortune to fight crime. Cars that drive themselves, dolls with hidden cameras. You name it, The Wizard had it. What makes The Wizard so interesting is that he is, to this day, the first and only "Little Person" TV hero, played by the late and great David Rappaport.
Highwayman A government bagman. Highwayman was in charge of making sure that all of worlds biggest secrets and most dangerous weapons were transported safely across our nation's freeway system.
Not that interesting of a plot basis, sure. Probably why the series was canceled so quickly. But there was one thing...
The cab of his Mack truck transformed into a helicopter. How fucking cool is that.
So, these were the heroes of my youth. Lame as many of them were, I looked up to them. Today, they are forgotten. No DVD collections, no retro-style T-shirts, nothing. Gone forever. This may very well be the first and last time you ever hear about them.
One might go so far as to argue that this was the inspiration for Firefly. Amazing futuristic technology infused into a Wild West motif. They've even got the same concept of "Central" planets that exhibit a bit of Elizebethian Elitism. Though it's quite a bit watered down in Bravestarr, being a kids program and all.
A single, little known feature film is the life of The American Rabbit. Rob Rabbit was just a normal, everyday rabbit. He was raised in a small town, learned piano from his mom, had a crush on the girl-next-door, etc. One day, an old man (rabbit) tells him that he has a gift and must use it to help others. Then the old man leaves with no further explination. Rob, somehow needing no further explination, breaks into a run, becomes magically covered from head to toe in Stars and Stripes (and roller skates), and immediately lifts off into the air to go fight crime in the big city.
