(Or, “What the Blog Title Means to Me”.)

In 1985 the creative Powers That Be at DC Comics decided that five decades’ worth of heroes, villains, counterparts, successors, multiple Earths, and divergent timelines had conglomerated into one widespread literary hodgepodge of a super-hero universe far too convoluted and alienating for any new and some current readers. Many current readers disagreed, but were overruled.

Their idea of a necessary housecleaning was the 12-issue maxiseries Crisis on Infinite Earths, which united all of these disparate characters, whether hero or villain or powerless supporting character, in a single story that required them to team up and/or fight until many of them were murdered or downsized due to redundancy. The advertising tagline was, “Worlds will live, worlds will die, and the DC Universe will never be the same!” Their solution to overcrowding was akin to savage arena combat on a scale beyond intergalactic.

The story branched beyond those twelve issues into all other existing DC titles for what were termed “Official Crisis Crossovers”, in which issues of their ongoing series would portray unwanted side effects of the Crisis. The impact of each individual crossover issue could be as traumatic as a major character dying at the hands of Crisis villains, or as inconsequential as a single panel telling us, “Look, the sky is red because of Crisis!” and nothing else. The messages sent by all this internecine intertwining were: (1) This story is the Most Important of All Times; and (2) you must buy every issue and crossover, no matter how pointless, or else the bad guys win and we go back to doing lame stories about an uppity Lois Lane conniving to discover that darn Superman’s secret identity.

Because this idea was not unwieldy enough for their overreaching ambition, they also decided that several hundred other company-owned intellectual properties that were never direct participants in the DC Universe — popular self-contained works, cult obscurities, forgotten one-shot wonders, and several super-hero lineups purchased from other defunct publishers — should also henceforth be connected throughout all of spacetime — regardless of genre, tone, or creator wishes — to this same universe. Formerly autonomous casts and milieux were now marched into the mainstream and forced to mingle with strangers, thus retroactively becoming part of a problem that was previously not theirs.

Crisis on Infinite Earths #1 opened with a mysterious armored space hermit called the Monitor (distant cousin to Uatu the Watcher and forefather of the Observers) gathering random, unwitting heroes and villains from various Earths and eras for the purpose of sending them on team missions ostensibly to thwart the plans of his arch-nemesis, the sadly named Anti-Monitor. Over the first six issues Our Heroes’ efforts were collectively futile in preventing the last six issues from happening. Those couple dozen folks are later joined by all surviving heroes anywhere and everywhere, crammed into panels wherever dead space was available, tripping over each other’s capes and buccaneer boots, vying for fifteen seconds of our reading time to exert a single power apiece before losing the spotlight to the winners of the next panel. By #12 the last several hundred survivors were reduced to the size of postage stamps.

After decades of reading, viewing, listening, and general aesthetic consumption, this is how my brain looks on a good day.

Inside is a festival of collisions and team-ups between entities that may or may not add up to much. Spider-Man trades quips with John McClane. Henry Rollins duets with Miss Piggy. Charles Ingalls lectures Ozymandias about the importance of being a decent, hard-working, upright citizen. Dick Loudon and Michael Scott stare at each other to see who can create the funniest prolonged silence. Hulk smash puny humans, except Mongo, because Mongo only pawn in game of life. Somewhere in a large, skittish huddle are real-life politicians and personalities ripped from the headlines, of whom I try maintaining minimal awareness for good measure, even when they bore me. A few 4×6 index cards strewn in one dusty corner contain all my sports knowledge.

Standing on a balcony above them all is Jesus Christ, to whom I gave my life at age 30, and who frequently gives me such a look. I promise I’m not ignoring him, but I can’t merely have Marvin the Martian empty the place with a disintegration ray. Some among this vast lineup offer invaluable memories and Morals of the Story useful to retain. Some are indelible, having been etched in there since childhood. Pretending they no longer exist will only get me so far. I don’t have to idolize them anymore, but I like to think they can be revisited and occasionally repurposed.

Meanwhile, three weeks from now a new villain will attempt to rise above and join my personal Rogues Gallery: the Big 4-0. Despite my best wishes, I’m not getting any younger. Thankfully I’ve not yet evinced cravings for a new unaffordable car, a hot new wife half my age and weight, or amenities such as hair plugs and spray tans that old men my age think they need before they go cruise for unnecessary ladies. So far, so good. Praise the Lord and my amazing wife.

While I’m busy not destroying my life in the name of self-validation, I’m curious to see how the aging process affects my entertainment choices, how my impressions of my everyday surroundings are formulated as my focus changes during the long walk ahead, and what use can be made of my retention of past experiences and salvaged vocabulary. Likewise, as artists and decision-makers change of their own accord, I wonder what will happen if I stand still while they march ahead, or vice versa.

I’m well aware that what I watch and read today does not resemble what Past Me watched and read twenty years ago. Some longtime characters and tales have already exited my head, or are lurking in dark corners where they think I can’t see them. Many newcomers are no longer welcome to the shindig, though an occasional special invitation is issued for select occasions. That which sticks around will find its presence endangered as my brain eventually begins jettisoning guests it no longer welcomes or remembers inviting.

Until then, the place remains one sprawling, ongoing series in which heroes, villains, powerless supporting characters, and real people I’ve known from across four decades’ worth of spacetime meet, greet, team up, and face off against the sinister forces of Father Time, the Lost Youth, the Aging Brain, and the Kids These Days.

The Midlife Crisis Crossover.

Worth noting: after twelve issues and countless crossovers full of fight-and-fight-and-fight, this unprecedented, multiversal, world-shattering epic culminated in a unified DC Universe with a single DC Earth and a singular DC timeline. Less than a decade passed before everything devolved into the same mess with a new look, fraught with ill-conceived reboots, contradictory new histories, unreconciled loose ends, and revisionist miniseries stacked upon revisionist miniseries like new bandages covering old, mottled ones. Square One has become a regular signpost on their vicious roundabout of neverending restarts.

Phillippians 4:13 notwithstanding, I’ve no idea how my own maxiseries will end. A heroic ending would be nice, if far-fetched. One involving use of the phrase “good and faithful servant” would be even better, providing I can stick to the path and pay attention to instructions. Among other things, I know for sure that: (1) This story is the Most Important of All Times; and (2) you must read every installment and crossover, no matter how pointless and overlong, or else the bad guys win.