If you've been keeping up with me (who is himself not keeping up with much of anything) you'll notice that my novel is not making a lot of forward motion. Today simply was not my noveling day, and the end of November and that 50,000 word goal looks safer and safer from violation every minute.
I think Max is still over there on the Photo of The Day--if you can't see him, you need to log back in with IE. For some reason nobody has explained to me, Firefox will not show certain bits of my blog, that being one of them. *shrug* Anyway, Max.
Mad Max. The Road Warrior. Beyond Thunderdome.
Whoever thought up the idea of Max needs to be sainted. He's Heinlein's Competent Man, thrust into a world and situitations that are far beyond anything we need to be thinking about, what with gas prices going through the roof. Me, I've already bought a second-hand set of football pads and about ten yards of studded black leather, and I've taken some shop classes on welding, so I'm hooked up for the Apocalypse. I just don't know about the rest of you.
Max. A man driven...well, mad, by the death of his wife and son at the hands of road brigands, and by the thing he has had to be come--a survivor. He's no Hero of the Superman genre, he's not trying to bring the outlaws to justice even though he used to be a cop. He's simply trying to get by, day to day, and in the finest film noir tradition he's constantly getting the dirty end of the stick.
I'm tempted to segue here into something about Humphrey Bogart, and not only because the wife bought a lovely Humphrey Bogart signauture purse today, because if I go that route I'm going to end up talking about cuffs and pleats, double-breasted suits and fedoras, and if I go that route I'll never come back. Trust me on this.
So no segues for me. Back to Max.
In my office here, the only room in the house that is utterly mine, I have a studio promotional photo of Mel in his Mad Max gear, shotgun slung over his shoulder, and that 'staring 1000 yards off' look he seemed to perfect in the movies.
Sherlock Holmes, if memory serves, had a photo of a Ghurka soldier on his wall, along with his Persian slipper full of black shag. Nero Wolfe had three: Shakespeare, a coal miner, and I think Aristotle. Me? I've got Mel Gibson dressed as Max, Clint Eastwood as The Man With No Name (it was Joe, mentioned once in the film Holy Trilogy) and Patrick McGoohan as Number 6 from "The Prisoner."
Notice any sort of correlation? All of them are heroes, but of a peculiar disposition. Max we've discussed. Joe, from Sergio Leone's trilogy (Fistfull of Dollars, For A Few Dollars More, and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly) was a bounty hunter and a rascal of the lowest sort, but he had his own code of honour, of a sort; a loyalty to his friends. Number 6 was a spy who resigned, was captured, and had to survive by his brains, trying to outthink and outwit his captors, and after he finally escapes we are left with the question "Was he his own captor?"
I won't get into it tonight, but I find myself thinking about that sort of hero, the sort I look up to, in a way. We'll definitely have to return to this one.
And as an interesting side note, I also have two other pictures in here--an original Air Force photograph of the crew of the B-24 Liberator "Strawberry Bitch" and a photo of my grandfather baptising a young man in a creek, with my father age 16 standing nearby, waiting his turn.
So, tell me about your heroes.