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6:15 AM or so. In the smog, in the dark, a post-9/11 pomegranate sun begins its totally epic ascent up the American mountaintop. Slivers of pinkred light seep into the apartment, the ceiling vents trembling with bacon puffs, with sausage gusts. And while free-range eggs are fried and served, fried and served, fried and served at the 24-hour diner downstairs, a really impatient director pours pancake batter up our favorite superhero’s walnut nose and watches his snoring head sizzle on honeycomb dreams, on alarm clock jingles. Watches him blink, blink twice before punching off his blueredyellow Superman covers and faceplanting out of his sofa bed—growling, groaning, growling . . . Our favorite superhero rubbing his rooster eyes. Sneezing. Sneezing twice. And like flickering floodlights in a mellow mist a new day gradually flares and fans out across the countrywide arena. From coast to coast. East to West. The daily routine kicking off with the vague shuffling of bare feet on chilly floor tiles. The daily routine condensing into familiar form with the turning left of a shower knob—a yesterday’s worth of delay before the blast of scalding purpose over halfway here, preyuppie skin . . .
Great Lakes body wash. South Side shampoo. University of Illinois conditioner.
Glistening like a superhairy rubber ducky Giacomo Jones steps out of the shower and towel dries his massive genius. He brushes, flosses, gargles an entire bottle of minty mouthwash, then dozes off against the steam-slick bathroom walls for two or three delicious seconds . . . A full-body growl wipes away the sleepy saliva. Giacomo lathers his muzzle, his prickly chin. He shaves the shapeshifting ghost in the really foggy mirror and thinks about what he’ll say to her today . . . Faucet off, tender brown cheeks totally smooth, totally kissable, our cologne-soaked superhero stumbles out of the bathroom and leans over his IKEA dresser, the daily routine embalming him in star-spangled merino wool socks, Superman boxer briefs. In London-gray slacks and denim dress shirt. Our favorite superhero shoving his arms, his crew cut, his fleshier than fleshy gut, into a go-getter’s green sweater. Our favorite superhero farting. Farting twice as he stuffs his extra-large feet into a pair of Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Classic-black, obviously . . .
6:40 AM or so. A post-Twitter chariot of trending ambition slides and skids at 186,282 miles per second across the digitally altered topography of the United States of A. Smell the freshly brewed coffee in the autumn air. Picture the buttered toast—the crunchy cereal in his superhairy paws. Because even though he’s like definitely part of the 300-million-plus and counting, our twentysomething superhero stands all by himself in this totally cramped kitchen, chomping away on his usual breakfast while flip-a-flipping through this week’s graphic novel (Z For Zealous, obviously). He’s chomping and flipping and thinking about all those kids scattered like Halloween candy across the wicked cities and spooky suburbs—trapped in misplaced towns, eerie farms—all those action figure boys and dreaming little girls wolfing down their rainbow cereals and getting ready for school, for recess, for life on earth . . . Our superhero licks his spoon and growls. Because that was like definitely him once. Like once upon a time in very somber Chicago. And even now, from this studio apartment, from this very distant—in space, in time—Manhattan bachelor pad, he can like still definitely spot a penny of sweat over on that table, in that totally cramped kitchen—a penny of sweat clanging down a one gallon milk jug, next to a really tall glass of pulp-heavy orange juice, next to the cardboard placemats for his two or three older brothers and his supercute baby sis. He’s pretty sure there’s even half a stick of butter melting somewhere over there . . . Running the underside of his extra-large tongue over each of these tangytart memories, slurping on his usual cup of French press coffee, our favorite superhero stands here and eats his usual breakfast (granola clusters, half a yellowbrown banana, toast), but somehow, somehow he can like still definitely see what’s going on over there. Likeway over there in the scarlet squeezed past. He scratches his Marine-style crew cut and burps. Burps twice . . .
7:00 AM or so. Door by door, a post-Obama workforce filters out into a totally ambiguous security state. Out into that emotion-fracked lovechild of a premature nation that pooped out when powerpacking Washington met fantasy-freaky Hollywood, married sleazy but oh-so-seductive Wall Street, and while still lusting for really exotic Riyadh, had a stock option kind of affair with sun-wired Silicon Valley. But then again, what does control really mean when you have weed and healthcare? When all your favorite TV shows are like just a doubleclick away . . . Hiccupping these and other seditious bubbles away, our caffeinated superhero tosses aside his morning read, slurps up the last of his morning brew, then glances up at the ugly florescent wall. He watches the time-hungry arrows eat off one last sentimental second, then wipes his refocused muzzle on his sleeve and swallows all the lumpy years away. He tosses his cereal bowl and Superman mug into the kitchen sink. Because it’s like obviously time to get going. He nods and triple-checks his triple-stitched pockets—apartment keys, smartphone, wallet. He nods. All systems go. Gritting his canines and strapping his neon-pink messenger bag tight across his chest, Giacomo Jones then sprints out the front door and leaps twentysomething stories down into the optimistic blue, ready to seize and rip to fucking success whatever’s in store for him on this side of paradise—a laser beam of possibility cutting through the New York City skyline as our favorite superhero parachutes down 1st Avenue, the morning rush dazzling away any and all itchy-itchy night terrors which might or might not be following us on our way to the nearest subway stop. Which might or might not wanna steal our monthly Metro pass. Or worse. Like much, much worse . . .