John McClane

Because nothing particularly masculine happened to me today, but I do have some other writings in a similar vein, I'm going to include something I've already written. I call it "Hero":



At one point, the helicopter has John McClane pinned down on the roof of the Nakatomi Plaza Building in L.A. Nothing indicates this, but I get the feeling the building is so tall that one could see the tip of the antenna on the Twin Towers from here. Automatic rifles fire at McClane. Thin steel barrels light up the night sky. He’s bleeding. He’s tired. He’s not even supposed to be here. Unable to communicate with the men in the chopper, unable to retreat, unable to engage this magnitude of firepower, he wraps a firehose around his waist and jumps off the building. The firehose reaches its full length and pulls taut against the spool as McClane crashes into the thick window. He shoots the window, kicks the window, splashes through the window, and crawls across the broken glass to relative safety. The heavy cast iron spool breaks away from its anchors on the roof and falls past the window. McClane struggles to untie himself from the plummeting fire hose, which pulls him towards the open air of a quarter-mile plummet. The hose drags him across the thick broken shards of glass. He’s barefoot. Tired. Bleeding. At the last second, he frees himself from the hose, turns toward the future, and continues to kick bad-guy ass.

As for me, I learn in high school to say, “I wouldn’t trade my game for his,” whether talking about basketball, running, writing, studying, or sexual intercourse. On the other hand, if I could be anything else in the world for just a moment or a thousand years, I would be John McClane, swandiving off the Nakatomi Plaza Building amidst gunfire and small explosions as the world rises up underneath my bare feet and strong arms, certain of just one thing: whatever happens next better be ready for me.

I heard on the radio today that road rage might be an indication of some deeper issues. My first response: uhm, duh.

These are the symptoms: aggression, depression, and what someone is calling Intermitent Explosive Disorder. Which lead me to my second response: now, I watch a lot of movies . . . aren't these responses the way that I've been told to respond to dumbasses? Yes, they are. One of the things the article claims causes road rage is seeing other drivers who are distracted. This pisses me off, I admit. Still, I have a hard time imagining Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson responding to some idiot: "Pardon me, I see that you're distracted. Could I trouble you to stop shaving and texting and focus on your driving. Thank you. You look great today."

What this article is calling "temper tantrums," I think Hollywood (and therefor the rest of us) would call "standing up for oneself."

We might even call intentionally ramming our car into a stranger's car completely natural. After all, what would John Wayne do?

I pulled into a parking lot the other day, and was greeted by a goatteed man, screaming "fuck you" and tossing me a very aggressive bird. While I'm certain I was abiding the speed limit, and I know I had my turn signal on, I think maybe it was a late turn signal or, perhaps, I hadn't slowed into the turn.

As for me, I never think fast enough to honk or flip off or even swear much, but I do feel my face go flat and my eyes go dead when I drive around idiots. I know that meanface is its own kind of aggression.

I'm not entirely convinced it's natural or right to respond this way. Why do I do it? I'm conflicted. Why do I sometimes feel like being powerful and reasonable are mutually exclusive traits?