Men Will Be Webslingers

It's nice to know that certain things that shouldn't change don't change. My posse of ex-art-school buddies and I were able to carve out a slight niche in our respective family/fiancé/job-centered schedules to meet in the Telephone Bar last night to toss back a few and make serious plans for the future, sleeves rolled, elbows on the table. John, who's getting married in a few weeks, set his pint down sharply and leaned forward, gathering us all in with his no-nonsense glare. "So, listen... Spider-Man 3 is out real soon. We're going, right?" Anthony the architect eased back in his chair and smirked. "Dude, you're gonna be on your honeymoon." John's eyebrows shot upwards in dismay, which sent his glasses down his nose an inch. "Yeah, but can't you guys wait a week?" We all cracked up and reassured him. I was a bit surprised, though. "John, I didn't realized you were so excited by this one. Doesn't your cynicism level normally go up with each sequel?"
"Hey man, the second one was better than the first!"
"Oh— yeah?" Wayne the painter sounded doubtful.
"True," I said, "but this one's with Venom. Isn't he more of a Gen X thing?" I exchanged glances with Wayne, who nodded, frowning thoughtfully. John counted off on his fingers. "Dude: Venom. Sandman. Hobgoblin."
"And Gwen Stacy," Anthony pointed out.
"Holy shit, that's right." I had a sudden vision of myself explaining this to my feminist sweetie. ("Honey, we've got to see this movie. Gwen Stacy's gonna be in it."
"Who's that? Some super evil chick?"
"No. She's Peter Parker's original girlfriend. Before Mary Jane. His true love."
"Wait, I'm confused. This is from a comic book?"
"Think of it—— as something on Lifetime." A low blow, trying to appeal to her post-academic indulgences. Wouldn't work.)

Spider-Man is the great equalizer of males, five-year-olds to fifty-year-olds. I realized this back in the heady days leading up to the release of the first movie; there was a sharpness to the air, a charge settling down over NYC like the flush of a coming summer storm— like Spider-Sense. I remember a swank, professional couple in their forties walking past me on the sidewalk. The woman moved briskly, distracted, looking as if she were reeling off a Filofax in her head. Her husband, apparently unencumbered in his business suit and tie, ducked and dodged alongside, jabbering excitedly and firing his web-shooters, fingers twisted into that familiar proto-devil-sign salute. I continued on my way, smiling to myself. I understood. He was resorting to sign language, because she was just not wired to make sense of the words. He was pleading for a change in the schedule, a little niche of time, that's all, to be a webslinger again.