In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Storybook Day.”

One of my all-time favorite fictional characters is the Batman. I’ve read the comics  and watched all manner of related things since I was a teeny sprout. Naturally, I wanted to be Batman when I was a kid. When I got older I realized that actually being Batty or spending time with Batty was not advisable. Here are a few reasons why.

ONE: GOTHAM CITY IS A RAINY, DEPRESSING, CRIME RIDDEN HELLHOLE.  I hate the rain, hate being depressed, and I am not fond of having my wallet jacked in the parking lot of the 7 Eleven. I would not do well in Gotham City.

There is also that little thing with the freakazoids who routinely pop up and get all up in your stuff. In real life, I complain when the weird kid who bags my groceries fails to push the cart out to my vehicle. I know I wouldn’t be able to handle the intrusiveness of a Killer Croc, Solomon Grundy, or a Riddler. No, Gotham City is not my dream vacation spot.

Seriously. Why do people live there?
Seriously. Why do people live there?

TWO: WEIRDOS ARE ALWAYS TRYING TO BEAT YOU UP OR KILL YOU. I can see it all quite clearly. Batty and I are playing a few hands of Rook and discussing Batty topic such as how the heck does he go to the bathroom in that suit? Does he go in alleys? On rooftops? Does he wear Batdupends or does that suit have a zipper?

I got to pee!
I got to pee!

That’s when the Penguin or some other weird asshole would show up looking to throw down.

I call dibs on the hillbilly's wallet!
I call dibs on the hillbilly’s wallet!

Batman has an arsenal of awesome weapons in his super sweet utility belt. Plus the dude is a ripped up state of the art badass who can knock your teeth down your throat just by breathing on you. Me? I’m not so tricked out these days. If I overdo it benchpressing I’m buying myself a one way ticket to an Icy Hot bath later.

Heck, all the loud explosions and gloops from my sons’ video games make me nervous these days. When a lameass villian like the Penguin can kick your butt you’ve got no business being Batty.

THREE: YOU’D HAVE TO DRESS LIKE A BAT OR WEAR SOME OTHER ODD COSTUME. Everybody in Batty’s world wears a costume. Usually a brightly colored costume. They are like the brooding and psychotic flavor of Skittles.

Well, Jim Gordon is the exception and doesn’t wear an outfit straight out of Rocky Horror. Unless you count a 1970s porno moustache as a costume. If you do then ol’ Gordo is ‘tumed up too!

Bow chicka wow wow
Bow chicka wow wow

I seem to be doing okay when it comes to fashion compared to all the other 40 something males I know. Costumes would not work for me. They don’t work for anybody else in real life either. When you see adults wearing them around Halloween you gotta think “office party. They’ll probably engage in some embarrassing and self-incriminating behavior later.” Seriously, check this guy out —

welfare batman

Besides, who would I be? Capman? Soccerdad? The Crimson Smartass? A cool codename would be forever beyond me. They can keep their costumes.

FOUR: I DON’T HAVE A BATMOBILE. Batman has a badass Batty ride to cruise the streets of Gotham in.

Meh. Look sexier with a dog hanging out the window.
Meh. Look sexier with a dog hanging out the window.

I have two modes of transportation, neither of them Batty, one of them is a truck.

At least it's black!
At least it’s black!

A truck just wouldn’t suit Batman’s whole dark and sullen disposition. What would be done with the thing? Throw Robin and the rest of the Teen Titans in the back for a weekend excursion at the lake?

The batmobile is loaded with cool gadgets. My truck is equipped with a satellite radio touchscreen thing, a cellphone charger, snacks for hungry kids, archaic looking tools used in conjunction with fishing, and occasionally dogs. None of this is really helpful to a masked vigilante looking to bring justice to the mean streets of a crumbling metropolis.


FIVE: HE DOESN’T KEEP REGULAR HOURS. The name Batman sort of says it all. With that name you’re not going to be running around between the hours of noon and five. The night time is the right time to be Batty or hang with Batty.

I hate this fucking graveyard shift!
I hate this fucking graveyard shift!

My own job keeps me out a lot of evenings. When that’s not going on I have the habit of falling asleep on the front porch swing. I always seem to nod off at inconvient times. Once, my dad talked to me for nearly an hour before realizing I was out cold.

I often find myself staying up late but I don’t want to be running around late with the world’s premiere  vigilante detective while he tracks the Joker or entertains himself by kicking the poop out of a few would-be rapists, killers and robbers. One, I’d probably fall asleep in a second and die. Two, at one AM I wanna be home with my feet up.

So, no hanging with or being the Batty anytime soon. All the same to me, all this real life stuff looks pretty darn swell. It can be a drag sometimes but it ain’t bad at all, kiddos.

<href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/a-storybook-day/”>A Storybook Day</a>

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Okay. Let’s talk about spin-offs. Let’s talk about how they sometimes make William a cranky bear. As those not living on a desert island know, AMC has been airing a spin-off (or companion piece, if thou art high-falootin’) of a certain beloved show. It’s called Fear The Walking Dead. In my own humble opinion, worth […]

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Home Turf.”

  1. Babies: two rotten mini-mes. The sound of belly laughs and older/younger brother shenangins. Even the complaints that are born out of the same. Bright smiles and one of them missing a couple of teeth. Fair-hair waving as they run and sun-washed antics.
  2. Pets: Four dogs and two of the laziest cats alive. The most evil beagle ever to be granted the breath of life but you love it anyway cause of its personality. Horses and long trail rides. All a fortune to feed and doctor and anything else but you don’t mind the money.
  3. All Of My Junk: Books and DVDs and Blu-Rays and CDS and posters and art and pictures and keepsakes and a billion other curiosities both strange and surprising and spot on. Not a hoarder but a horde with a purpose— it says I have lived and do live. I have a past and maybe a future whatever that might be.
  4. Garage: projects started, completed and those that will never be completed. The smell of hot engines and oil in the Fall afternoon. Tools and equipment and feeling self-sufficiant and useful. The smell of wood chips and wood dust and varnish and plaster and paint.
  5. Trails: winding and twisting and cutting through woods and hills and valleys and across fields and pastures. Going everywhere and nowhere. Dewy trails in the early morning as you walk and try to have an idea for something you’re writing. Cool trails in the early evening as you run and try to keep up with your kids. Deer, foxes, racoons, rabbits, squirrels, elk, and stray dogs who will probably end up in your barn. The feel of gravel and dirt under the soles of your boots. Breathing. Living. Being. Wanting. Never giving up.
Bonus cuteness!
Bonus cuteness!

<ahref=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/home-turf/”>Home Turf</a>

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “These Horns Were Made for Tooting.”

I grew up with Daryls and around Daryls. It’s really amusing for me to see city girls wearing “I heart Daryl” tee-shirts. Having grown up with Daryls and around Daryls, it’s funny to see such a character (maybe more to do with the actor playing him) embraced as a pin-up.

Trust me. The fictional Daryl Dixon is at times much more appealing than the real Daryls. It might be that he’s been sans Myrle for awhile. The natural obnoxiousness of the redneck male tends to multiply by a factor of four when they group up with their own kind.

The character has some admirable qualities but not qualities unknown to others,so, no idea why the dude is so popular. Once again, it might be my knowing real Daryls that works against me. They tend to drink a lot of beer, watch a lot of UK Sports (especially basketball), take Fox News as gospel and complain about how those “evil homosexhuals” are taking over the world.

Then there are Daryls who can…well… Daryl. What I mean is people who know how to do the shit Daryl can do — the hunting stuff, the woods stuff, the crossbow stuff, the state-of-the-badass art stuff.

People like me.

I was seven or eight years old when my grandfather, dad, and other male members of the clan took me on my first hunting trip. This was indeed a hunting trip. We were no where near civilization for nearly two weeks and that’s when I first started learning how to do Daryl stuff.

Track animals by sign? I can do that. Take a critter down with one shot? I can do that. Skin, dress and quarter a kill? Yep. Know what plants to eat and what plants to steer clear of? I can do that, too. Set snares? That was the first thing I learned to do.

Yes, I too can bow like the Dixon (my dad was a championship archer who hated firearms…but I got pretty good with those too). And I can do lots of other stuff too— navigate with no map and just a compass, fish with just a bit of nylon cord, set a fire without matches or a lighter. And I can do all that stuff GOOD —with trophies from my childhood and young manhood to prove it.

I lost the taste for hunting long ago but if it’s a Daryl world I’m more than capable of living in it. If there is ever any kind of post-apoclayptic scenario in the near future I’m probably gonna be alright.

But what if it’s a Mad Max type deal? Well, let me tell you about my driving…

<ahref=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/these-horns-were-made-for-tooting/”>These Horns Were Made for Tooting</a>

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