Alonso Quijano was driven mad by the pain of the world, but from the ashes of his despair arose Don Quixote. Cervantes could not have set a sane hero to that work; it would have been laughed out of print.

But even as we flock to superhero movies, television and books, we would never accept a sane person dressed as a superhero on the New York subway, challenging evil wherever it was found. We'd call security and be done with it.

But an aged, insane black man wearing a kitchen towel, rubber boots and a pair of red underwear over his head as his mask can do what we cannot, and we love him for it.

By that love are we transformed. Even after he has been led off into the night by the Lords of Bedlam, we hear the trumpet, we rise into dawn from the darkness, we speak against hatred and despair, we weep unabashedly for longing, and in the wake of our passage, it will be said "The Midnight Commander was here."

So for a brief and shining moment, cast aside your sanity. Ride forth to heal the world. Take up the mantle of The Midnight Commander.

Just don't forget the red underwear.