How My Father Ruined My Social Skills

So, something that I may not have made clear to everyone yet is that I love comic books.  From the day of my birth, it was pretty much foretold by the gods that I would one day be a rabid comic book fan.

This is the Comic God.

My dad has been reading comics for a really long time, so I feel pretty comfortable crediting him with my own love of comic books, and I must note straightaway that reading them has brought me untold amounts of happiness in my life, and I truly love them for that.  On the other hand, though, they also prevent me from connecting in any way with another human being who isn’t interested in them.  So, you know, there’re some pros and cons.

It began pretty much as soon as I could hold a comic without ripping it in half, and possibly before that, actually.  My dad started me off with Archie comics, which were filled with innocent and light-hearted tales involving the wacky misadventures of a freckle-faced teenager, his friends, and the identical women who could be told apart only by their hair color and who, for some reason never fully explored, lusted after the titular klutzy ginger.



This would never happen in real life.



I started to become disenchanted with Archie comics once I was reprimanded in school for drawing pictures of the characters (apparently, the fashion choices of Betty and Veronica are considered ‘lewd’ in the real world), and when I finally realized that “Sugar, Sugar” is just awful.

I quickly moved on to Marvel, particularly the X-Men.  I spent most of my literate life greedily consuming any and all superhero stories Stan Lee could throw my way.  Most of my collection came from my Dad’s doubles, but I ended up with reprints of most of the original runs of X-Men and Spider-Man.  I also, of course, was following all of the current storylines, and reading all of the god-awful fan fiction online.  That was my deep and wonderful love of Marvel.

And the comic book movies!  I was so excited when I first realized that that was a thing.  My sister and her then-boyfriend took me to see the first Spider-Man movie when it came out, and I brought my friend Cassandra with us.  This was apparently a terrible idea, since I seemingly didn’t realize until we were already in the theater that Oh, Jesus, this is a movie about Spider-Man!  I must have been in some kind of zombie-trance up until that point, but as I sat there, realizing that I was really about to see Spider-Man up on that screen, I became very excited.  So excited, in fact, that I turned to Cassandra and, within the first five minutes of the film, told her everything I knew about the origins of the character.  Most notably, for example, about the death of Uncle Ben, and the lesson that “with great power comes great responsibility”. 

"Did you, or did you not, come here to learn about Spider-Man?"

I still don’t understand what she was so upset about.  I mean, it’s not like I spoiled the entire movie for- oh, crap.

So anyway, I’ve been riding the Marvel train for a while, now.  I’ve suffered through some truly horrendous stories, artists, and movies, but I’ve stuck it out.  Up until recently, when Marvel did the unthinkable.  My favorite X-Man, Nightcrawler, was killed off.  It devastated me.  Ok, ok, fine; I’ll admit it.  He’s a comic book character; it’s only a matter of time before he’s brought back to life, but still.  I was super-bummed out.  And, to be totally honest, I had been unhappy for some time by then about a lot of the stuff I was seeing in Marvel.  It just felt like another letdown by the comics I had loved.  It almost felt, at that point, as if I were reading them out of a sense of nostalgia for what they had once been.  And then, it happened.  One evening, while reading an issue of X-Men Forever, I witnessed something that changed everything.  While fighting alongside her fellow X-Men, Shadowcat phased into an opposing combatant (some type of Sentinel, I think; I actually don’t really remember what they were fighting, but Tony Stark was involved), and un-phased while inside, disrupting the machine.

Now, let me pause for a moment to say this: That doesn’t make any sense.  When Shadowcat phases, she doesn’t displace matter, she moves through it.  So, if she stops phasing while inside a solid object, her body should merge with that object, killing her in a worst-case scenario, completely destroying that part of her body for life in the best case.  I had seen her powers misused in this way before, but this time, it was just too much.  After all they’d done to me, it was enough.

No more... no more.

I stopped buying Marvel comics and, by God, it almost killed me.

My dad was not having any of that, however, and promptly caught me up on all I’d been missing in DC Comics.

Now, I was no novice to DC stories.  After all, my dad had been regaling me with stories about DC since I was little, and I had a modest collection of my own of DC comic books.  My first human love was Christopher Reeve in the first Superman movie (my first love in general was that dog from Muppet Babies. Don’t judge).  What I’m getting at here is that I was already well-acquainted with the DC Universe; I just hadn’t yet become a serious reader.  That was all about to change.

So, my allegiance has switched from one comic universe to another, but my problem is still exactly the same:  I am a comic book reader surrounded by non-comic book readers.  Now, this problem usually manifests itself in one of two ways:

First; the fake comic fan.

The second way this problem manifests is one I’ve described before: I go too long without discussing the stories I’m reading, and I simply explode with them, and whoever is unlucky enough to be near me when the dam bursts is forced to listen until they gouge their own eyes out with a plastic fork to distract themselves from my inane fangirl babbling.

The problem, I think, boils down to this: I don’t have anyone, outside of my father, to talk to about the comics I read.  I just kind of have this huge hobby that I’m forced to keep mostly to myself.  If I try to talk to someone else about comics, I either have to worry that I’m boring them (except for Sarah; I’ve stopped worrying about that.  She’s on her own when it comes to stopping me), or I end up talking to someone who only pretends to know anything about comics, and I end up boiling over with white-hot comic rage (which, incidentally, is just awful for my complexion).  I’ve always kind of wished for a friend who was as into comics as I am, and I always kind of assumed that being into comics would naturally draw other comic book fans into my life, but thus far, it’s not working all that well.  So, I think maybe it’s time to really put it out there, and make it clear who I am, and let other fanboys and girls come find me.

My name is Amanda, and I read comic books.  I have a poster of Hal Jordan over my bed, teach my four-year-old niece the names of the Green Lanterns on the weekend, and am half-convinced that I am Wonder Woman.  I am a Creative Writing major, and a Pisces.  Looking for like-minded people for innocent comic-related fun.  Occasional costume play.  No smokers please.

It’s time to just be honest with the world and say, “this is who I am”.

We’re Not Gonna Pay Rent!... or, Maybe it's time to move back in with Mom and Dad

So, who else here loves Rent, right?  I mean, it’s a great musical; with a meaningful story, great take-away message (“no day but today”), and super-catchy songs.  I have the original Broadway cast recording of the soundtrack that I love listening to, and I own the movie, too.  I even have the DVD of Rent: Filmed Live on Broadway.  Yeah, it’s safe to say that I’m a pretty big fan… except I was watching the movie last weekend with my sister, and I started noticing little things about the story that made me uncomfortable.  Like, I can’t actually sympathize with any of the protagonists.

Well, let’s slow down.  First of all, I think we can all agree that the ‘good guys’ in this show are Mark, Roger, Collins, Angel, Maureen, Joanne, and Mimi.  And the ‘bad guys’ are AIDS and Benny (and his father-in-law, to a lesser extent).

Harrumph!

So, here’s my problem:  When I actually stop and pay attention to what’s going on, I realize that the ‘good guys’ are usually behaving in ways that range from irrational to immoral, and the ‘bad guys’ don’t actually do anything wrong.

Let’s start near the beginning: in the movie, there is a powerful and dramatic moment where the put-upon starving artists of East Village are hanging out of windows and off of the fire escapes of their apartments, dropping burning eviction notices into the streets and onto the Range Rover of their fat-cat oppressor, Benny, all while passionately crying out “We’re not gonna pay rent!”  It’s an incredible moment.  You really get worked up over the plight of these people, just trying to get by, dealing with their AIDS and trying to create something beautiful out of squalor; and he expects them to have rent money?

Well, yes, actually, he does.  You see, Benny owns the building.  He allows people to live in his building, and in return, he expects payment, which I’m sure was all explained to them before they moved in.  When you don’t pay, you get evicted.  That’s life.  Sure, it’s sad when you can’t afford your rent and have nowhere else to go.  I’m not heartless; I acknowledge that it’s sad.  But why is it Benny’s fault?  Why all the Benny-hate?  That would be the same as me not having money to buy food, but trying to shoplift from the grocery store while singing “I’m not paying for EGGS!”  Yes, it’s sad that I’m hungry, and there should be some kind of system that can help me get back on my feet, but does that make it okay to rip off the store owner while singing angrily at him and setting his car on fire?

"'Cause everything is EhhhhGGS!!!"

The only characters who have the right to be angry about getting evicted are Mark and Roger, because Benny promised they could stay for free, but everyone else?  Quit hating on Benny.  He isn’t charging rent because he’s evil; it’s how he makes his living.

The same argument applies to the lot where the homeless have set up a tent city.  Again, it’s sad to lose your home, but that lot is not your home.  They didn’t even have an agreement the way the renters and Benny did; they were just living on his land for free.  But, now he wants to build something there, so it’s time for them to move.  Again, I’m not heartless.  I care about the homeless, a lot, but Benny’s not wrong.  He absolutely has the right to do whatever he wants with that lot.  It’s the homeless people living there who are trespassing.  If the main characters have a problem with the homeless being homeless, then maybe they should use all that spare time they usually devote to not working to helping find homes for them.  Try to solve the problem, not attack someone who isn’t even the cause of the problem.  After all, Benny isn’t the reason those people are homeless.  If I found a homeless person living in a tent in my driveway and made them move because that’s my driveway and they are in my way, would that make me evil?  Can I now be blamed for that person’s homelessness?

Benny later even says “You make fun, yet I’m the one attempting to do some good.  Or do you really want a neighborhood where people piss on your stoop every night?”  This line makes me wonder; well, do they?  They never correct him when he implies that their home is a dump, so what are they saying?  That they like it that way?  The crime, filth, drugs, and violence?

La vie boheme!

I get it, though.  Rent needs a villain, and Benny represents “The Man”, the affluent character who could never understand the struggle of the poor artists, and so must be pitted against them.  But this only brings up another question:

What the hell is Joanne doing, singing about “la vie bohéme”?  She’s a lawyer, educated at an Ivy League school, with wealthy parents.  How is Benny “The Man”, but not Joanne?  And, by the way, Benny at least used to be one of our hapless starving artists.  He married into wealth.  Joanne was raised in it.  How could she be considered one of them, when she has only experienced their lives through interacting with them.  She’s never known the struggles they’ve faced.  Sure, she’s a lesbian, so you could say that she must’ve faced oppression and struggle at certain points in her life.  And that’s a fair point.  But isn’t it also a fair point to maintain that a well-heeled woman such as herself still could never truly relate to the lives of those living “la vie bohéme”?  Our heroes, by shunning Benny but embracing Joanne, are hypocrites.

Even if you think that Benny is yuppie scum, but Joanne’s awesome, I still have bad news: the protagonists of Rent are jerks, anyway.  “What?  No!” you may say, stupidly, to your computer screen, “The main characters are strong-willed, independent, bohemian artists, courageously struggling to make it in an increasingly corporate-controlled world, man!”  To which I would eloquently reply “Screw you, hippie.  Now, shut up and listen.”  That is, that is what I would say if you understood that I couldn’t hear you through the computer screen and you had had the good sense to call me with your outrage.  Now shut up and listen.

"Stop telling me lies!  I'm freakin' out, man!"

Do you remember the part where Mark films the cop harassing that homeless woman, and she chews Mark out for trying to use her life to make a name for himself?  She even says that he’s trying to use her to “kill his guilt”.  Before walking away, she asks him if he’s got a dollar.  He stands there helplessly, and she leaves, noting that she hadn’t expected him to.  This moment is incredibly evocative and full of lessons: for one, Mark learns that not everyone he encounters wants him to exploit their hardship for the sake of what he considers art, and that maybe his intentions up to this point haven’t been as high-minded and honorable as he had considered them to be.  He quickly turns over a new leaf; respecting those he encounters enough to use their stories for nobler purposes, not for his ego’s sake… Wait, no, that’s not what happens at all.  Actually, he continues recording personal and difficult moments in the lives of others, such as those in the Life Support group for people with AIDS, apparently for no greater purpose than to mix into his little home movies so he can show everyone what an awesome filmmaker he is at the end.  Way to go, Mark!  All the while, still considering himself a sell-out for actually getting a job to pay his bills while working on his personal video project.

"I can't believe I have to work a day-job to pay my rent instead of filming stuff
with my friends all day!  No one's ever had to do anything this demeaning
in the history of ever!"

But that’s not the worst part.  Focus on the moment where the woman asks him for a dollar.  It’s a great moment, right?  She really drives home the fact that he’s no better than her; that he may be an ‘artist’, but neither of them have a dollar in their pocket, right?  Yeah, except for, like, five minutes ago, when Angel was bragging about her dog-murder skills and stuffing bundles of cash into everyone’s hands.  Where did all that money go since then?  It is at this moment that you realize the horrifying truth: it wasn’t that Mark, like the homeless woman, didn’t have even a dollar in his pocket; it was that he had plenty of dollars, and was not willing to give her even one.  Yes, our loveable protagonist is actually a heartless miser.  What if every time he couldn’t pay for something in the movie; whether it was the rent, tea at the Life Café, or delectable Girl Scout cookies, it wasn’t because he was broke, but because he simply couldn’t bear to part with his delicious, delicious money?  For all we know, Mark could be richer than Bill Gates and stingier than Scrooge McDuck.  We can’t trust him.

I could go on and on.  There’s Maureen’s protest which, like Benny points out, is clearly more about losing her performance space than homeless people being forced out of a lot.  Or Roger and Mimi who, in the musical, disappear for a while (Roger to Santa Fe, Mimi to wherever while in the midst of a heartbreak-fueled drug binge), all the while receiving frantic calls from their mothers, who have no idea where their children are or what they’re up to.  These people are so self-absorbed and self-involved that they can’t be bothered to tell their own mothers what’s going on.  Also, Angel straight-up murdered a dog.  Doesn’t that bother anyone?

So, I guess my point is this:  I love Rent’s boppy songs and its portrayal of friendships so strong they make a family out of a rag-tag group, but when I look too closely, I see a band of young losers who prefer sitting around and getting high while blaming the world’s problems on their more successful friends to working for a living or being productive human beings in any way, and I’m not sure if that’s a message I can really relate to…

Wait, wait; no.  I’ve changed my mind.  I’m all about this movie’s message.

"Yeah, I totes was gonna make some awesome art or whatever, but then
The Man kicked me out because I wouldn't get a 'real' job, or stop pawning my
mom's jewelry for heroine; but whatever, man.  I'm an artist, you know? 
I have to be real."

Viva la vie bohéme!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

This past week, I celebrated my 21^st birthday.  It’s a pretty big one.  Now, I can finally do all of those things I’ve been doing.  While everyone around me made a fuss over what a great big milestone this is, they failed to prepare me for the true changes that were about to take place.

After consuming several celebratory rum ’n Shamrock Shakes, I promptly vomited in my roommate’s bed and was forced to excuse myself to the bathroom for a little clean-up.  While washing up at the sink, I noticed something unusual.

Yes.  My legs had become strangely hairy, and my feet seemed to be… mutating, in some odd way.  Though this could have been a trick my eyes were playing on me due to all of the rum and shrooms I’d taken earlier (which, I was informed later by friends, is still not legal at 21, apparently.  I don’t know why they keep changing the rules), I began to suspect that these strange changes were perhaps connected to the full moon which took place that night, and that I was maybe turning into a teen wolf or something.   Then I remembered that I was in my twenties and, as such, had no business being a teen anything anymore, so, there was one theory out.

Then my dad showed up unexpectedly.

My father explained to me that he was actually a centaur, and that it was with centaur-magic that he was able to maintain the shape of a regular human man most of the time.  However, at midnight on nights where there is a full moon, when the veil separating this world from that of the centaurs is at its thinnest, he reverts back to his true form.  Of course, I was very curious, and asked him to explain to me why I should care about his personal life and if he brought me a birthday gift.  He seemed a little annoyed by my questions, but explained that, as his child, I also carried centaur blood, and would also take on the true shape of our people at midnight beneath the full moon.  Because I was only half-centaur, the changes had only now started to take place.

My father went on to explain that my centaur blood was also the root of many of my most endearing habits and traits.  For example, our people are a proud and noble race, but naturally untrusting towards other beings, so I may sometimes stubbornly refuse to believe what someone tells me without verifying the information myself, first, whether or not I have any knowledge of the subject.  Centaurs are also passionate story-tellers, and much of their history is passed through oral tradition, so I may be prone to, say, keeping someone up all night while I tell, in excruciating detail, the entire history of the “Justice League”.  This is simply the centaur way, and should be respected and accepted by my peers.

Then came the test.  I was told that, as a centaur, I must prove myself as a hunter, so that there was no reason for other centaurs to suspect that I may be a drain on their society, unable to fend for myself.  I asked if all centaurs had to undergo this ritual.  He said no.  Anyway, in order to prove myself, I had to kill a bunny.

After he recovered his dignity, my father was forced to admit that I had passed with flying colors, thus proving what I had always suspected: that I only appear to others as lazy and unmotivated because I am.  I can totally achieve things whenever I feel like it. 

Anyway, by this time, it was pretty late, and I still needed to wash the vomit out of my hair before my morning class, so we started heading back.  My dad presented me with my Official Centaur Start-Up Kit, which included all of the things that a real centaur needs.

I was becoming self-aware enough at this point to realize that everything that my father had told me made absolutely no sense.  After all, how did he meet my mom and have kids with her if he was a centaur?  That made no sense.  He explained to me that my mom was actually a magical talking polar bear who just happens to be beautiful enough to pass as a human.

Mom was always one for bear hugs.  Ha!  You get it?  Get it?

They had met on a magical quest that had to do with restoring some kids to their throne, or maybe something to do with magic jewelry or something.  Maybe they destroyed a god together or whatever.  I don’t know.  I had puked again somewhere around this time, and was starting to revert to my human form.  My focusing skills were a little off.

But at least now my lineage made sense.

"What?!  Now it makes less sense!"

Anyway, I came to realize the importance of being a hybrid were-centaur-polar bear.  It completely absolved me of any guilt I had ever felt, ever.  After all, all of my traits can be blamed on my genetics.  None of it is my fault.  So, say, if someone didn’t appreciate me talking down to them, holding long-winded, one-sided conversations pertaining only to my own interests, insisting on keeping our bedroom windows open throughout the winter, and generally being a louse, then maybe they ought to take a step back and stop being such a narrow-minded RASCIST!  Sheesh!  As if I wasn’t discriminated against enough!

The most dangerous game.

There’s a Fetish for That

fe-tish also fe-tich...

            1 : an object (as an idol or image) believed to have magical powers (as in curing disease)

            2 : an object of unreasoning devotion or concern

            3 : an object whose real or fantasied presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification

                        from The Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Since you’re reading this online (I’m taking for granted that nobody prints up copies of these posts for distribution), I’m going to assume that we’re all familiar with the following concept: if it exists, there’s porn of it.  I’m uncomfortable with this idea, not just because of the horrible, horrible implications, but because it implies that there is a market for all of this everything-in-existence pornography, which in and of itself implies (by my calculations, which are based on absolutely nothing but boredom and anti-math) that someone you know and come into contact with regularly must be the target audience for at least one awful type of porn.  And, seriously?  Think about that phrase.  If it exists, it’s porn.  Everything in existence.  That means that, somewhere, there’s stapler porn, or souvenir magnets porn, or chalk-drawing porn, or half-washed-away-by-the-rain chalk drawings porn.  Seriously?  EVERYTHING?!  EVERYTHING IN EXISTENCE?!!

So, in trying to wrap my head around this idea, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of fetishes, and what could be made into one.  Theoretically, everything should be able to be a fetish, since we clearly need fuel for our filthy everything porn.  My everyday experiences lead me to new and confusing possible fetishes all the time.  I eat an orange as a snack; is that a fetish?  Are there any orange fetishists out there?  I walked through a puddle this afternoon.  Is there such a thing as a puddle fetish?

The more I think about it, the more specific I get.

Really?  Ok, how about ‘deer crossing train tracks at dusk’?  Is that a fetish?  Air-dried sheets on the line caught in the rain.  Fetish?  Samuel L. Jackson-Thylacine sitcom pilot?  A cerulean-blue windbreaker hanging on a coat rack in a room that is exactly 62 degrees (F)?  Space Werewolves?  Are these fetishes?  CAN YOU FIND PORNOGRAPHY OF THESE THINGS??!  DOES THAT EXIST?!

I’m driving myself crazy here.  Literally.  (Is that a fetish?)  In my abnormal psych class, this was made very clear to me.  Now, I may be slightly too much of a hypochondriac to take a course like this, since basically every disorder we cover ends with me saying “I definitely, DEFINITELY have that”, but my professor basically made it clear last class that I definitely definitely DO have that; “that” being, of course, psychosis.

Yes, that’s right.  I misinterpreted ink blots.  I didn’t even know you COULD misinterpret ink blots.  But I did.  (Is that a fetish?)

Sitting in my philosophy course, an even more mind-blowing idea occurred to me: if we accept that, for the concept of infinity to exist, all things that can exist must exist, (is that a fetish?) does that mean that there is infinity porn, in which all things that can be, must be?  How would you even film that? (Is filming infinity porn a fetish in and of itself?)  Can there possibly be a target audience for such a thing?

Or how about this: if there is porn of all things, and not all things are sexual, is there porn in existence in which nothing sexual is taking place?  Is that a fetish?

Are there almost- fetishes?  As in, you get turned on by something that’s almost something else, but not quite?  Like, you get super-hot for tangelos, but have no real feelings either way for tangerines or grapefruit?  It’s just that it’s almost a tangerine, or almost a grapefruit that gets you excited?  Almost-midget porn, where the actors are extremely short, but are not quite eligible for “little people” status?  Almost elderly porn, where the performers are just under the age requirement for getting the senior discount at Country Kitchen Buffet?  And it’s not that the viewer is into that particular height or age or whatever, it’s the fact that they’re almost something else.  Is there “almost-something-else” porn in the world?  Is that a thing?  Is there something like an “almost-bestiality” fetish?

oh, right.

I’m sorry, I just can’t accept this.  My brain won’t allow it.  I DENY YOU, RULE 34!  There can’t possibly be porn of everything in existence.  It just can’t be.  Which is why I’ve decided to fill that gap in the industry. 

Are you a lonely, sad person whose bizarre fantasies are not being catered to?  Why, then, send a description of your twisted desires to me, and I will supply desperate, starving actors to act out your perverted dreams, you sick, warped individual, you.  Why, for the right price, you REALLY WILL be able to find any kind of porn your heart desires!  Even Space Werewolves, you ask?

Even Space Werewolves.

How to Train Your Giant Lizard-Beast

Sarah and I had a conversation the other day around 3 am that went something like this:

We had actually been sitting up, watching the episodes from the last season of Avatar, the Last Airbender, when I somehow came up with the idea that giant lizard-beast = respect.  I repeated this idea to Sarah several times, each time slightly more incoherently, before passing out, giggling sleepily to myself.  When I woke up the next morning, though, I was still convinced that this was, indeed, the case; if you want the respect of your peers, you must acquire a giant lizard-beast ASAP.  However, gaining a lizard-beast in and of itself is not enough.  And so, I have helpfully put together instructions to guide your through the training and operation of your giant lizard-beast.

1. You cannot gain the respect of your peers without first earning the Lizard’s respect.

Having the Lizard is not enough!  You must first prove to him that you are a worthy master.  If your Lizard senses that you are weak, he will not listen to your commands.  His derision will bring shame upon your family.  He may eat you.  This is not what you want.  In order to gain his respect, you will have to impress him with your skills as a warrior.  A good way to do this is by challenging a rival to a fight to the death, and defeating them.  It is very important that your opponent is an equal; otherwise your Lizard will be disgusted by your cowardice and lack of faith in your abilities.  After you have defeated your foe, you’ll probably have gained your Lizard’s respect, but you may want to devour the carcass of your fallen enemy, just to remind your Lizard that you are not only capable of destroying an adversary, but are wise enough to then add their strength to your own. 

You will definitely have earned his respect, then.

2. Use your lizard-beast only for appropriate occasions.

Sure, once you’ve gained his respect and he starts allowing you to actually ride him places, you’ll want to take your Lizard everywhere, right?  Well, don’t.  Not every event is suitable for the usage of a lizard-beast.  For example, occasions where he’ll get in the way of others; crowded places such as amusement parks, inside public buildings, backstage at local theater productions.  Keep in mind: a giant lizard-beast is a very showy form of transportation.  Before using him, ask yourself; is this event about me?  Will I be stealing someone else’s moment by arriving astride a giant lizard-beast? 

"You should have chosen me, Helen!"

Meditating on these questions should help you understand the best times and occasions to use your Lizard.

3. Be considerate of your Lizard’s needs.

Your lizard-beast is not a slave to your every whim.  If he chooses to carry you where you wish to go, it is only because of his respect and, in time, affection for you.  If you do not bother to nurture a loving relationship with your Lizard, you will find in time that he will stop responding to your commands, and will eventually move on to a new home.  For the purposes of this guide, I’ll assume that you want your Lizard to stick around, and the only way for that to happen is if you make it clear how much you care for him.  There are many good ways to show affection for your giant lizard-beast.  For example, make a point of making his favorite dinner every so often, and make sure that he always has fresh, clean blankets on his bed.  Remember, lizards are cold blooded, and need an outside heat source in order to stay warm, so it is necessary to make certain that their beds are warm and cuddly, and it wouldn’t hurt to snuggle with your Lizard now and then; little things like this will make your giant lizard-beast feel safe and loved, which in turn will strengthen your bond.

4. Impress the World with Your Awesomeness!

If you’ve made it this far; congratulations!  You have successfully earned your giant lizard-beast’s respect, learned the appropriate ways to utilize his transporting abilities, and cultivated a beautiful and fulfilling relationship with him, the likes of which you will never find with another human being.  Now it is finally time to shove it in everyone’s faces.  They didn’t believe in you.  They never thought that you could train a giant lizard-beast to do your bidding!  Well, look who’s laughing, now!  Feel free to laugh maniacally as your acquaintances look on in envy and confusion when you come hurdling down the street astride your Lizard.  Imagine the sweet taste of victory as you watch your clearly-inferior neighbors suffer from brainsplosions and spontaneous human combustion as their tiny minds struggle to comprehend your fantastic-ness.  Imagine how attractive to the opposite sex you will now appear!  Imagine the RESPECT!

IMAGINE THE POWER!