Category Archives: Cars and Racing
“So you got a girlfriend?”
“Why have a girlfriend?”
“So you don’t live alone.”
“I live alone.”
Ambitious. But then again, they all are.
“Ech,” I shrug, ” People will talk. This town? They all up in everyone’s business.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, “I don’t live here.”
We high five.
Moments later, he returns to my cafe table holding a piece of paper, which is ceremoniously placed beside my wine glass before he struts off. I lift it and observe a phone number, written in his own hand, circled, with his actual name under it. I’ve been calling him something else for over a year! I laugh into my glass while thinking, I was 17 when he was born.
Ardent. Overconfident. Of the Generation of the Oversharers.
Not only was Colin Jost’s jab at Batman’s age so hilarious, it was very on point. 75 years with this “superhero” and the only thing that made him “super” was his belt.
My writing partner and I rant frequently about the nonsense that is the Justice League. First, how is it that Batman can quit, come back, quit again, and no one says, “You know what? Go do your own thing Batty!” He’s obnoxiously emo.
Then there’s the utility belt = superpower thesis? I mean, we’ve got Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman (why but okay still), Hawkman, I mean, beings of supernatural ability and deity status as founders of the Justice League, and Batman qualifies as an equal on that Pantheon? Beyond me.
So it’s been quite enjoyable to sidebar on the ridiculousness of Batman as we design a skeletal structure of a modern day Wonder Woman saga. While I never really invested much in Bruce Wayne, I will at least acknowledge his longevity and his influence on comic lovers. Yes, Batman. Everyone wants to be you.
En homage to the Dark Knight, here’s an excerpt from my recent writing session involving Batman and Wonder Woman:
Diana exhaled a weighted sigh into her tensed fist. Just then, the quick swish signaling the door to the room opening carried towards her, followed by an outline of the familiar cowl and cloak of the dark knight. Hmph, Diana thought, Bruce Wayne decides to make an appearance in just this moment. So as not to look vulnerable, Diana straightened her shoulders and erected her spine, releasing her lips from her fist and rolling them inwards to regain moisture. As she finished the replenishment, it dawned on her the human might have taken the gesture the wrong way.
“Yes?” she snapped.
Batman continued his silent stroll towards her. “Brooding in the dark is my thing, Wonder Woman.”
“Oh I’m sorry. Am I stealing your thunder again?” She smiled, proud of her comeback, then glanced up at the shadowy form situating into the chair beside her.
“I deserve that.”
Diana arched an eyebrow in surprise.
In what seemed to be a rehearsed motion, both superheroes collapsed their backs against the large chairs, leaned back, and crossed their hands over their laps. They sat in tandem silence for quite some time. Batman and Wonder Woman were most familiar in this place, the special stratosphere of melancholy. Where some faltered in navigating, the two seemed to master this particular space, their physical challenges no match to the crippling strength of their respective inner turmoil. The only difference between the two was one wore his pain like a shiny bright badge of righteousness, while the other tucked hers away, in an inconspicuous chamber of her Amazonian heart.
Diana maintained composure despite her worry, as it was the mortal’s nature to misconstrue this state as fragility; Batman, Bruce, using the tired technique of throwing his passion to her feet like a symbolic gauntlet of deliverance, expecting her to fall to collect him, lean on him, maybe even collapse in his arms, letting him rescue her from her agonizing dismay. Then he’d undress her, slowly, methodically, owning every centimeter of her body, converging his phallus with her god-made genitalia, trying desperately to inherit through coitus what was never and will never be intended for humans: the gift of immortality. Sex, then, was Bruce Wayne’s only way to feel most like Zeus, and in his arrogance and superiority, command Wonder Woman to be his Hera, with every thrust, inserting his will in the hope she’d accept him as his equal, or even better, by the sounding of her ecstasy, accept him as her master.
No, Diana decided, as she crossed one resolute thigh over the other. We’ve done that dance too many times.
Borrowing my friend Waiting For Satan‘s blogging style, I pose to you the question: what should BA have done to work the situation to his favor?
The boy blithely swung the black, shoulder stocked, scoped weapon along his right side, right index finger wrapped around the trigger.
I planted my hands on my hips and focused on his movement along the lake.
The boy rose the muzzle of his air gun towards a murder of crows heading eastbound.
I furrowed my brow.
The boy discharged a pellet towards the animals, lowered the air gun back to his side, and, smiling, continued his walk along the lake.
I descended my stairs and restrained the want to tackle him.
“Tell me you have a reason to be back here with an air gun.”
His lackadaisical stroll slowed as he realized I was talking to him. Gun is still to his side, finger is still wrapped around the trigger. His to-and-fro swing can send a pellet any direction, including my way.
“You’re out here shooting birds?” I ask, because it’s illegal. His ability to walk around the lake with an outfitted air gun is also, technically, illegal. But this is Florida, these details tend to be oversights.
I’m standing 20 yards from him. His finger is still on the trigger.
“I’m doing target practice. I set up a target over there.” He points with his left hand to the grouping of pine and palms along the back fence. I scan the trees. There’s no targets of any kind. But I do know there’s bald eagles, red tipped hawks, and vultures in that vicinity. This is my backyard, after all. I know all the wildlife back here, sentient and nescient. This nescient bastard of bastards was brand new to me.
His finger is still on the trigger. He’s brought the gun to his hip. I’m standing 10 yards from him. I’m fighting the urge to whip him with his own weapon.
I don’t follow him but my eyes do. He continues crossing the yard, looking back at me watching him, his smile twisting more wryly the further he gets from me. He shoots me an annoyed look. My glare doesn’t break, but I remind him, “Try not to hit the endangered species.” I want him to. He’d HAVE to go to jail once he does.
It looks as if he’s heading towards the walking path, away from the trees, away from the lake. I turn to ascend my stairs.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hit the endangered species!” he snarked. I ball my fist around the staircase railing. That little shit! Let it go, Von, let it go.
Recently a Florida man was sentenced to 30 years in prison for firing his weapon into a car of teenagers. He killed one, but the jury was hung on the decision to charge him with first degree murder. This man was compelled to fire his weapon because the volume emanating from the vehicle he shot into was too loud. He felt inconvenienced and decided the smart solution was to add volume to volume. You ever fire a weapon in close range? There isn’t a loud enough rap song to overcome that sound.
But for him, it was logical. Cogent. Righteous.
My concern about this little brat crossing my yard to shoot at birds is that he didn’t see a problem with carrying the weapon as he did, finger on the trigger, swinging it to his side, ready to fire. My problem isn’t with the gun. It was his lack of accountability for possessing it. His disaffected demeanor in holding the gun was his pronouncement of dominion; in the case of the crows flying over, he was contented to shoot at them for the mere capacity for it. Not a care in the world.
A school-aged kid walking around the lake at 10am on a Friday afternoon. I don’t get into the whole parents argument because I am not one. But I will say this; this Florida asshole running around with a weapon at his disposal will be an adult soon. He will become an asshole law enforcer, or even better, an asshole law-maker. I can’t make him my problem now, but he will be all our problems later.
His hand slowed its feverish massage as his laughter grew.
“What the hell are we listening to?”
I stop my humming and open my eyes, lifting my Galaxy to my face.
He shakes his head and keeps moving the mouse ball, putting the finishing touches on the design I made. A complete overhaul of my book cover. It’s beautiful.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s just that when I left here, you were listening to Otep.”
I smile. “It’s my thing. Country music is where I go when I need to bring the rage down.”
He’s right. A few hours prior, I had sat at his workstation. I had Marie’s artwork framing the screen. I had a blank Photoshop layer precut to the background artwork in the center. And I had the roars of Otep, Killswitch Engage, Rammstein carrying about me, helping me bring my rage to resolve.
And from resolve begat beauty.
I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a living fact. My online persona constantly engages in controlled folly, and much of that folly comes from my actual persona managing the ebb and flow of the disorder. I found over the last few years transforming from shadow artist to true artist, having PTSD is a gift. A strange one, in that it can be a crippling situation if not managed, but when it’s harnessed, it can become a powerful source of creativity, sometimes bucking you crazy, but at the end of the ride, you’re left with a masterpiece.
If my actual persona was not the skilled master of the ol’ Put The Stick Down, the design flaw I had to deal with yesterday would’ve sent me into a vortex of fury. I chose to convert my dark thoughts into a working plan. You know what, if you don’t like it, change it, I said to myself. I knew what I wanted to create, but I didn’t have the equipment. Made some contacts; finally, the guy who did my photo shoot not only had the full suite but he didn’t need to use it for the day.
At 2:37AM my time I sent the completed design files, the proofed manuscript, and reference files to the publisher, then I passed out. Today, whatever latent malevolent feeling I have about the ordeal is going to get exorcised out productively. I’m thinking, jog around the park with Bobby, go read my book on the pier, and listen to something that goes like this: