As I walk on my way to work in Manhattan, you can’t avoid or ignore some things on the sidewalk. The free newspapers, the person with the giganta-fucking-normous umbrella when it rains, the Crow-Man who drops his corvine babble upon people as his more amusing form of bird shit…flyers of protests and political messages taped to any vertical surface provided… They form the menagerie for everyday pedestrians. All of this imagery tends to blur into one poor frame-rate of online video as I listlessly walk, deprived of caffeine…until I notice something within my peripheral vision. Normally, I would not appreciate the construction crew and scaffolding of yet another new building being erected from the ground…even though I should. Sadly, something else has drawn my eye in that direction. Standing out front of this building site, in all of its “magniloquence”, an inflatable rat bears its fangs at me. Ahh…those dollars of the local union are hard at work yet again. For those of you outside of a metropolitan area, this inflatable ersatz of an effigy stands in the attempt to alert others nearby, broadcasting the location of a construction site where non-union workers are being productive (which always seems to make union workers upset, for some reason).

Of course, this puerile action would be better served by performing a puppet show, much like in that one episode of the Upright Citizens Brigade…but it would be even better if the union workers did a live-action show. With one union member dressed as the rat and another union member with the American flag as a cape, the proud American could beat the rat with a shovel and tell him to go back to Mexico. One could be annoyed by the sheer tactics involved here, with the obvious intent to manipulate and intimidate other people who are simply working. In addition, there is the obvious hypocrisy of things in general when this expandable joke is a generally acceptable form of protest…whereas protesting in front of a public projects building with my inflatable leech is complete fucking hysteria. Wait…you’re right, that’s ridiculous. You would never catch my ass standing in front of a projects building with Leechy…it’d have to be attached to my armored car as I drove that bitch like Mad Max over any crazy motherfucker in my way. (No need to worry; I still got my mad skills from Grand Theft Auto 3.) For me, though, my vexation is being strummed on a familiar chord : I’m reminded yet again of why there are so few heroes.

As I get older, I notice the general trend of losing muscle mass includes a propensity to seek shelter among the cover of superfluous relationships and alliances. It could be someone in mourning over the death of a relative, jumping into the arms of a faith which keeps a rendezvous with love seemingly possible. It could be a man seeking to start a family and raise children in a supportive environment and culture, by keeping his reservations unspoken and his own individuality at a safe distance. Of course, it could also be this union putz with the extra-large pool float, having the opinion of himself as a proletarian warrior among brothers-in-arms. In each case, though, some needed introspection has been bypassed, and instead, all focus has been placed elsewhere. Instead of seeking to build skyscrapers out of themselves, they seek solace within institutions (which, at best, should only serve as temporary vehicles through hard times). And often because of that, I am deprived of heroes.

Do not think that I don’t understand the temptation, though. Of those who know me, they are well aware that I pine for camaraderie in the midst of a common goal, and I recognize that there are dangers involved with forging ahead alone, with only your own convictions to swipe and clear the brush in your way. Frustrating as it might be and impossible as it seems, you can build something without your peers or even your loved ones, if you care enough. Why fucking bother? What the fuck does it matter? Okay, if that’s your response, then yes…you shouldn’t bother since you’re just another drop in the cumulative steaming biomass of the world. If your response was something different, though…if you paused for just a second to think about it…well, then, I’d buy you a round if you crossed that line and joined us scabs (just for a little while), to stroll around with “what-if” on your feet and get acquainted with the feeling of walking with some confidence. Maybe, just maybe, you then could get around to being more of an icon than a hammer, a sickle, or any other tool.

As I walk past Bizarro Fievel on steroids, I can’t help but wonder if I’m being too critical. Maybe I shouldn’t be harsh. Maybe it’s just life. Then again, maybe I should grow a vag-stache and become a big pussy. So, let’s see if that sporting goods store on the way has got something that looks like a leech; if not, an octopus and some paint could go a long way instead…