Where’s Your Hero Now? Vol. 1: Rick
Are You a Rick… or Just a Jerry?
This series has been rattling around in my head for years. This first volume? Drafted for weeks. It wasn’t supposed to drop until later this month. But the moment — this one — demands a sharper response. And this piece is ready enough.
Rick and Morty just entered its eighth season. But the urgency isn’t the show. It’s the threshold we’re crossing.
Consider this an early release. A rupture in the schedule. A reminder that some stories won’t wait.
Where’s Your Hero Now?
We all love these men. The brilliant, broken ones. The ones who rebel, suffer, fight, destroy. The ones who live on posters, playlists, tattoos—who linger in the mouths of men trying to sound like something bigger than they are. Tyler. Tupac. Wick. Rick. Killmonger. Paul.
They’re not real, but they move something real in us. Especially in men who imagine themselves rebellious, ungovernable, dangerous. But also in women, in queer folks, in survivors—those of us who’ve loved and lost these men, and those like them. Some of us grew up with them. Some of us dated them. Some of us carry their legacies in our bodies, whether we want to or not.
This series is a reckoning with that mythology. Not of the characters themselves—but of what it means to admire them while doing nothing. Because these characters would not be silent or still in this moment. They would be doing something. Destructive or constructive? Well, let’s figure it out.
And let’s be clear: this isn’t hero worship, or a guidebook. This is not an endorsement. The choices these characters make — and the ones we imagine they might make now — aren’t necessarily right. They’re not models. They’re mirrors. Sometimes cautionary. Sometimes seductive. But always revealing.
They’re not models. They’re mirrors. Sometimes cautionary. Sometimes seductive. But always revealing.
Because the ground is shifting. Some are preparing for martial law. Others for World War III. The chaos isn’t organic — it’s manufactured, and it’s escalating. Marines are deployed in Los Angeles. ICE is expanding into five more cities. Israel has launched airstrikes against Iran. The threshold is here. The war drums are getting louder.
And still, too many of the men who idolize these heroes are quoting Fight Club like it counts for something. Still pretending that cynicism is depth. That commentary is action. That rebellion is an aesthetic.
This isn’t speculative. It’s Right here. Right now.
How are you showing up for this moment?
Are You a Rick or a Jerry?
Rick is a paradox. That’s part of the appeal. He’s a god and a ghost, a genius and a drunk. He builds empires and erases timelines and hides grief under jokes. Depending on the episode—or the dimension—he’s the savior, the villain, or the one who refuses to play.
But here’s what stays true: Rick acts. Sometimes strategically. Sometimes spitefully. Sometimes devastatingly wrong. But always with agency.
And yet, in the cultural afterglow of his myth, he’s often flattened into something far less interesting. The Rick most men quote isn’t the broken builder or the grieving husband. It’s the guy who doesn’t care. The man too smart to participate, too hurt to try, too powerful to be touched by consequences. Rick as blueprint for detachment. Rick as justification for apathy. Rick as armor.
But Rick does care. Sloppily. Violently. Quietly. He saves Morty. He grieves Birdperson. He chooses again and again to return—not gently, not well, but he returns.
This is the moment the armor slips.
[ CW: suicide attempt]
He isn’t apolitical. He just pretends politics are beneath him. Meanwhile, he destabilizes regimes, weaponizes science, and manipulates entire futures. His cruelty isn’t neutral—it’s strategy. His nihilism isn’t wisdom—it’s grief unchecked.
Rick is rarely acting in service of liberation. His resistance is incidental, not ideological. His chaos bends toward the personal, not the authoritarian. Sometimes the smartest guy in the room really is just a guy who likes to watch other people bleed.
What Would Rick Be Doing Now?
Not livestreaming long takes about free speech. Not doomscrolling while queer kids are targeted and tracked. Not cosplaying rebellion in a Discord server while the state militarizes school boards and zoning maps.
Rick would be in motion.
Let’s not confuse imagination with endorsement. Rick’s actions — in any dimension — aren’t morally sound. They’re not supposed to be. But they are revealing. About power. About apathy. About the stories we tell to excuse our own inertia.
The point isn’t that he’s a hero. It’s that he moves. And too many of the men who quote him don’t.
The point isn’t that he’s a hero. It’s that he moves. And too many of the men who quote him don’t.
Forging IDs. Laundering identities. Burning biometric archives. Smuggling abortion meds across state lines. Crashing ICE drones. Funding it all through black-market tech and a trauma bond with his own daughter.
With Rick, sabotage and complicity can look nearly identical. He’d sell tech to both sides of a genocide if the leverage paid, if the chaos entertained. And isn’t that exactly what’s happening now? Genocide isn’t a metaphor — it’s unfolding in real time. And even our so-called radicals are playing both sides.
He might flirt with fascism—but only to undermine it from the inside. Or to blow it all up just before the deal closed. Rick might fuck around with the algorithm — not because he believes in it, but because he’s always one step away from betraying it.
All of those are canon. But never—not once—is he still.
So if Rick is your hero—if you’ve built your identity around being smarter than everyone else, more damaged, more knowing—where’s your movement? Where’s your friction? Where’s the evidence you’re doing anything beyond diagnosing the problem and calling it depth? (Yes, I’m talking to myself…)
You can’t cancel him, can’t shame him, can’t out-think him. He’s too evolved. Too damaged. Too busy knowing better.
But you’re not him.
A Note on Jerry…
This wasn’t supposed to be about Jerry. But the more I wrote about Rick, the more Jerry kept showing up—not as a hero, not even as a model, but as the quiet shadow most men are already inhabiting.
Jerry is the show’s favorite punchline. He’s insecure, sentimental, emotionally manipulative in a way that feels harmless but often isn't. He clings to comfort. He flinches. He waits. Just the worst version of the “wife guy.”
But Jerry at his best? He tries. He tells the truth when it costs him. He stays in the room. He wants to be loved. Sometimes, he’s willing to change to deserve it.
That softness isn’t a cure. But in a culture where cruelty passes for charisma and detachment masquerades as genius, Jerry’s vulnerability starts to feel like rebellion.
Still—let’s not mistake susceptibility for virtue. Jerry is easy to radicalize. He joins the Galactic Federation. He aligns with fascists. He sells out his family the moment it gives him power.
Jerry isn’t just “soft.” He’s dangerous in a different way: not through violence, but through compliance.
So maybe the question isn’t Rick or Jerry. Maybe it’s: would you rather be dangerous or compliant? And can you survive being neither?
So maybe the question isn’t Rick or Jerry. Maybe it’s: would you rather be dangerous or compliant? And can you survive being neither?
So — Rick or Jerry?
Most of the men who idolize Rick behave like Jerry. Not the Jerry who tries. The one who defers. Who disappears. Who lets someone else take the hit.
If you’re Rick—be Rick. Break something that needs breaking. Interrupt the pipeline. Protect someone who won’t thank you. Take the risk.
If you’re Jerry—fine. But don’t hide behind it. Be the Jerry who apologizes. Who learns. Who stays in the room. Who keeps trying.
The difference isn’t genius. It’s motion.
Morty’s Burden
But maybe that’s not the whole question. Some of you aren’t Rick. And you’re not Jerry either. You’re Morty.
Pulled into crisis you didn’t choose. Bearing the consequences of other people’s decisions. You weren’t given the power, but you still carry the fallout. You see too much. Feel too much. You’ve watched collapse happen up close. You’re tired. And you’re still not sure what to do.
That’s the burden. To be shaped by violence without becoming it. To live close to callous genius and refuse to inherit it. To ask: Am I complicit—or am I a catalyst?
And then there’s Summer — the one who inherits Rick’s competence without his collapse. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t spiral, doesn’t need to be redeemed. She chooses to become him, and sometimes she’s better at it. The horror isn’t just watching Morty fail to resist the transformation — it’s seeing Summer succeed.
And Beth? She’s what happens when a daughter inherits her father’s genius but none of his freedom. A horse surgeon with a god complex and a wine problem, caught between a husband’s weakness and a father’s indifference. Rick split her in two so she could finally choose a different life — but maybe all she ever wanted was for someone to believe this one was enough.
These male protagonists don’t only shape men. They offer templates — for cruelty, for charisma, for detachment — that are sometimes absorbed more cleanly by the women around them. What gets mistaken as masculine genius is often just practiced harm. And harm is nothing if not contagious.
What gets mistaken as masculine genius is often just practiced harm. And harm is nothing if not contagious.
Because Morty becomes Rick, if he’s not careful. He kills. He lies. He starts choosing power over principle. That’s the horror: the line between witness and inheritor is thin. And easy to cross.
So if you’re Morty—really Morty—your work is harder. You have to stay tender while the world brutalizes you. You have to act without armor. You have to get in motion and stay human.
Rick and Morty doesn’t argue that nothing matters. It shows you what happens when nothing does — and how, somehow, people still choose. They still love. They still act. That’s not apathy. That’s horror — and it’s also grace. The infinite timelines don’t excuse our inaction. They make this one the only one that matters.
There’s work to do. Not later. Now.
The portal is closing.
The Cassandra Files
We told you he would do it. He did.
Trump just restored the names of Confederate leaders to U.S. military bases — a full embrace of white supremacist nostalgia dressed up as patriotism.
Some of you are still wondering if it’s “really that bad.”
Meanwhile, the past is being rebranded. Again.
Weather Report
Portland’s been cool in the morning, hot by mid-afternoon, then clouds in the evening — fake stability with a sunburn.
Rick would say: just because it’s clear out doesn’t mean you’re safe. That’s how they get you.
Fragments and Splinters
The “Where’s Your Hero Now?” series won’t follow a schedule. They surface when they have to — not when it’s convenient. They don’t promise clarity. They ask harder questions: about power, collapse, and complicity.
The Cassandra Files are inspired by my friend from college, Laurel. She also sees things early.
I linked a short scene from the criminally underappreciated film Strange Days above. The Fatboy Slim song “Right Here, Right Now” features Angela Bassett’s lines from that scene.
Lenny could be in Where’s Your Hero Now? if the movie were better known.
Further Reflection
If your favorite antihero knocked on your door tomorrow, would you be ready to act — or just watch? Tell me what happens next.