To mark the occasion, here's a promo image director James Gunn released today to mark the start of principal photography for his 2025 Superman movie, which has been retitled from Superman: Legacy to simply Superman. As you might imagine, I'm very excited.
Today Mom sent us a photograph of her fetching new glasses, and while on the phone with her she mentioned being glad that the frames lack those annoying nose pads that leave marks on your face.
That gave me an idea. Surely a skilled surgeon could mount a small, subcutaneous iron plate on the bridge of your nose bone for the express purpose of holding a pair of magnetized glasses on your face. Just think of it: A magnetic bond of the right strength could hold your glasses securely to your face without annoying nose pads or arms, increasing comfort and convenience while reducing the cost of eyeglasses. Brilliant, no? Mom thinks I could be a millionaire if I market this.
Or maybe she was just humouring me . . . a lot of people do that.
I'm in an airport just outside Las Vegas with Sylvia, Sean, and Mom. Luggage in tow, we're making our way through the bustling terminal, luggage in tow, to the arrivals pickup area, where a small convoy of black SUVs awaits us. Secret Service agents hustle us into one of those vehicles; the First Lady is there to greet us.
"Earl, you have a meeting with Joe and the Joint Chiefs immediately; we'll escort you to the temporary situation room, and your family will be taken to the hotel of their choice, on us."
I nodded, feeling a little numb, not understanding at all why this is happening. To my surprise, I'm wearing a dark suit, and I'm quite fit. Something isn't right about this, but everyone else seems to be taking the situation pretty seriously.
Moments later, having said my goodbyes to my wife, mother, and brother, I adjust my tie and join the President and his advisors in a small, brightly-lit conference room. I stand in a corner, listening quietly as one advisor after the next briefs the President on the factors that could possibly affect the peace talks in Riyadh.
When the briefing concludes, the President nods at me. I muster enough courage to whisper a question:
"Mr. President . . . why am I here? Your advisors clearly know their business. I might know more about what's happening in the region than the average layman, but that's not a high bar to clear. I'm not even an American; I'm from Manitoba."
Joe pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. "You're my secret weapon, kid," he says. "When the time comes, I'll call on you, and you'll know exactly what to do. I'll see you on Air Force One in six hours. Enjoy a meal with your family, but don't be late."
All I can do is nod sheepishly. I leave the building to hail a cab, but the sidewalk starts moving beneath me. I realize I'm standing on the middle deck of a high-speed conveyance that extends underground and aboveground, and before I can jump off the platform the expressway is hauling me east at hundreds of kilometers per hour. A few minutes later it slows to a halt; I'm in a mid-sized town. I ask a passerby where I am; she says "Mubbock."
Making it back to Las Vegas is a long shot, but I start running anyway; miraculously, I find myself running up the stairs to board Air Force One just in time. Out of breath, I take a seat in the plush forward lounge; sleep takes me as we're taxiing toward the runway. Riyadh awaits.
