Been a while for anyone who reads this...ive been on something of a creative binge lately (cue wanker alert) and am about ten pages deep in this thing. This is a short bit, but would dig knowing if there is something there.
Be honest, Im a big boy (with the feelings of a small girl), ha. Seriously though, slam it if it need be slammed.
Thanks......
Patrick felt as though he had been reborn into a shittier world. Without any sort of human contact, not a foot in any door or a finger in any pie, he was completely alone now and, as much nasty incentive he had given people to stay away from him, there was nothing he hated more than being alone.
The one little thing that made him any sort of human was gone and it would never be back. He was lucky to find someone so young and unassuming. His own kind would never take him in, he was too damaged- like a broken toy that was of no use to anyone because it wasn’t fun anymore.
‘4 O’clock at St. Andrews’ jumped out again at the end of the bulletin. He would have to go, there was no way he could avoid the chance to thank his young friend on the off chance he was heading to something better. The news faded into something about a sperm bank and Patrick reefed the plug from the wall with a weak tug.
He rumbled out of bed with the aching bones of a grave digger and puttered around the house. It seemed a long time since he had dressed himself properly and an era since he had donned the suit. The suit was a looming thing that Patrick hadn’t much fondness for. It stood in the closet as though being worn by someone’s spirit.
It had been an all purpose outfit; weddings, graduations, court dates, funerals. Each made him sad at the state of himself, for different reasons. Funerals, unsurprisingly, most of all; at each one he was sure he would be the next to go.
The suit had only been worn on one happy occasion, his graduation from high school. It wasn’t the sort of- we made it, we are on to better things, kind of feeling. He had wanted to get out of that, away from people and learning and bullshit since he had gotten into it and that suit ushered him out in style.
It was new when he had worn it then, by now it was thirty years old, but it still fit. He hadn’t bloated like so many do in their middle age, and had stopped growing at sixteen. So, except for the fraying seams and the old bones and flesh that occupied it, it looked as though it was purchased last week.
He lit a cigarette and walked to the cupboard. He looked at the suit and in a moment of fight or flight seized it and put it on in a rush. It was still eight hours until the funeral, but he knew he wouldn’t have the courage to face the dismal garments if not for now.
Then he went to the bathroom and rubbed a handful of warm water over his scratched scalp and through his thick beard. He looked at his ageing face for a moment and let out a chesty sigh. He could see every bad decision written in fine print amongst the malar bags beneath his eyes and the narrow creases of his forehead. He turned and went to the veranda.
T.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
On the Post Travel Blues- Too Many Stones Unturned.
Though I have always suspected it, the simple truth is that travel is wonderful. Its an education, a cultural eye opening, a social crossroads of all creeds and codes and a yard stick by which to measure yourself and your country. It is something everyone should do, to gain empathy or understanding, enjoy the unavailable or unobtainable, hear a rich soup of experiences and stories and have some of your own to tell someday.
Over the course of 2 months I graced 9 countries and loved each of them on their own merits. Each of them taught me something about myself and all of them taught me that, while we are all different, we are all human and the human experience is something we can all share. I met some of the most amazing people, each a fantastic example of their homelands and their history and saw some of the best of what humans can do. You come back different.
What nobody tells you, or what you won’t listen to, is that coming home is a sad affair. On leaving I was nervous and apprehensive on leaving the comfort zone I had carved out for myself. Almost before getting on the plane I was anxious to return. The unknown is often the scary and for my it certainly was, but when I overcame that fear I found a world of new experiences and new friends that I wouldn’t have found otherwise.
And once I had found it, I was hooked. It was a comfort zone as well, but a comfort zone that I wanted to explore and soak up. To bond so quickly with so many of the worlds finest young people and then have it ripped from under you like a magic carpet is like a cruel joke. You yearn to be back amongst that throng of culture and excitement, to learn more about yourself and the world- but you can’t.
There is nothing you can do bar save for another trip, but in the meantime it feels like the world is going on without you. You dream of it, with a symphony of language coming from all directions, all the places you didn’t see, the people who were out there that you didn’t meet, and wake up to find yourself away, back in your usual situation. Or maybe that’s just me.
It was certainly worth going, I wouldn’t trade my brief window abroad for anything I have but each day I think of what I have left behind; all the stories exchanged, the nights out, the lunches and long late night conversations delving into someone’s deepest soul.
Sure, it is good to see all the familiar faces and they have helped me through this much of my life- but you can’t help feel that you left something really good behind.
T.
Over the course of 2 months I graced 9 countries and loved each of them on their own merits. Each of them taught me something about myself and all of them taught me that, while we are all different, we are all human and the human experience is something we can all share. I met some of the most amazing people, each a fantastic example of their homelands and their history and saw some of the best of what humans can do. You come back different.
What nobody tells you, or what you won’t listen to, is that coming home is a sad affair. On leaving I was nervous and apprehensive on leaving the comfort zone I had carved out for myself. Almost before getting on the plane I was anxious to return. The unknown is often the scary and for my it certainly was, but when I overcame that fear I found a world of new experiences and new friends that I wouldn’t have found otherwise.
And once I had found it, I was hooked. It was a comfort zone as well, but a comfort zone that I wanted to explore and soak up. To bond so quickly with so many of the worlds finest young people and then have it ripped from under you like a magic carpet is like a cruel joke. You yearn to be back amongst that throng of culture and excitement, to learn more about yourself and the world- but you can’t.
There is nothing you can do bar save for another trip, but in the meantime it feels like the world is going on without you. You dream of it, with a symphony of language coming from all directions, all the places you didn’t see, the people who were out there that you didn’t meet, and wake up to find yourself away, back in your usual situation. Or maybe that’s just me.
It was certainly worth going, I wouldn’t trade my brief window abroad for anything I have but each day I think of what I have left behind; all the stories exchanged, the nights out, the lunches and long late night conversations delving into someone’s deepest soul.
Sure, it is good to see all the familiar faces and they have helped me through this much of my life- but you can’t help feel that you left something really good behind.
T.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Swedish Drunk Tank 10 A.M
I got in at 5 in the afternoon, the sun was still high over Malmo but more defused than anywhere else id been. I had, after some difficulty, located a friend who lives there and there was only one thing on the agenda: drinking.
We kept true to the teenage Australian custom of drinking cheap beers in the park, though warm as they sell them on the shelves either to save costs or save the countries livers I couldn't tell which.
All the while fresh high school graduates stood on the backs of trucks and threaded themselves through sun-roofs, with horns honking and sailor hats donned to celebrate their freeing to the adult world.
'I did that too' said the friend with a laugh 'and look at me now'.
We drink our beers and watch the water features that Europe, in rough general terms, seems to be crazy about. When the beer ran dry we naturally wanted more, and the bars were the only things open. So we go and I buy as my friend is strapped, we drink two or three, he has a whiskey.
I am bouncing back from the john when I see him speaking Swedish at the neighbouring table. I, obviously, dont know whats going on, but slowly I see that they dont like it. Ever the aggravator he keeps it up and we get kicked out.
I find out on the way back to my hostel that he had called, though not directly, one of the women at the table fat. Though he really just mentioned her likeness to a portly, or slightly portly, Swedish actress. It pissed him off that it pissed her off.
So we walk, through the malmo streets. Over the river, past winers and diners in the cold evening. The police are on the street.
'Swedish police good people' my friend wobbles.
They just look, with slight rage and no response. Meanwhile I am trying to stay concious of the road rules, in that I am trying not to be killed by a car driving on the right side of the road while I look left.
We get back to the hostel and engage in drunken conversation over cigarettes with a German girl who is smoking hot, but looks a little scared. Rebecca! It can be an imposing sight I suppose.
The usual suspects: where you from, where you going, what brings you here, where you been....staples of the travellers question index.
I wonder for a while if she would have sex with me, then remember shes sixteen, then wonder the former again.
However I am not shitfaced, more of a tipsy happy drunkenness. A level you can never sustain and your a fool if you try.
We talk e.coli, prominent in Germany, and run through the bullshit German words we know.
And thats where the night should've ended.
A tall bald man flows out of the door. He is Belarussian and after some talk he mentions a bottle of vodka, he leaves to fetch it and we speculate if he really has it or not.
Rebecca, who looks like she wanted to leave 20 minutes ago, is still standing outside but the conversation has dried up.
The Belarussian returns and sure enough has the vodka, we retreat to the kitchen and try to convince Rebecca to come with us but she is smart.
So we sit, another Belarussian man has joined and I speak some broken Polish with them. The lanky bald animated man pours doubles for everyone and then, clink down the hatch. After a while another, then another.
A group of Iraqis sit at another table and come to offer us food, its not good but they insist it is and that we eat. Their hearts are in the right place.
They leave and the vodka flows, huge drinks....another bottle is brought and I think on how to slink away and get back to my room.
I bum a cigarette of a Frenchman and faintly remember going downstairs to smoke. Then its gone.
XX.
I wake up, blurry eyes. Its not my room but for the moment I dont really care. I feel like it is, or maybe its another room I had rented. Its a strange dream. Then I fall asleep again.
The next waking up is different...this is somewhere I shouldnt be, this is a jail or a holding pen. I get a little scared but am too tired and hungover to properly care. I knock on the window and clutch my dick as a child would signalling I need to use the toilet. They finally let me, escorting me the whole way though I was in no shape for a daring escape.
'When are you letting me out' I hazily say.
'Couple hours'
I slink back to bed.
I am awoken again, I realise I have pissed my pants, and quite a job of it I have done too. The next day I find out my friend woke up in his underwear but I can see why they wouldnt have done that to me.
They take me to the counter where a hot chick with a south american look tries to explain that they have my friend and I should wait to leave together. She hands me back my rings, watch and wallet. All the money is there, which is amazing.
'We have your friend' she says again.
Thinking they may have got one of the Belarussians I bunch my hair into a ponytail and say long hair, in a crude sign language.
They dont answer and I assume they have the Bald Belarussian who I am not overly fond of seeing at that moment. I panic and walk away.
I am walking for an hour, looking down streets that look the same and trying to pin down a memory of any landmarks that might lead me there. The cold morning wind is freezing in my pissy pants and I am reluctant to go near others for my pungent urine scent.
I dont find it so I get a cab, I am averting my eyes for fear he will mention my smell. I get there and climb the stairs. I have lost my bag and ask at reception, they are forgiving of my blunder. I feel the pains of thumb inflicted bruises on my biceps. They have my bag and nothing is missing. I find out that I was one block from the hostel and walked an hour in the wrong direction.
Then I seal my pants and change and sleep. Its over and im ok, but my brain and body remind me of it for 2 more days. A life changing hangover.
We kept true to the teenage Australian custom of drinking cheap beers in the park, though warm as they sell them on the shelves either to save costs or save the countries livers I couldn't tell which.
All the while fresh high school graduates stood on the backs of trucks and threaded themselves through sun-roofs, with horns honking and sailor hats donned to celebrate their freeing to the adult world.
'I did that too' said the friend with a laugh 'and look at me now'.
We drink our beers and watch the water features that Europe, in rough general terms, seems to be crazy about. When the beer ran dry we naturally wanted more, and the bars were the only things open. So we go and I buy as my friend is strapped, we drink two or three, he has a whiskey.
I am bouncing back from the john when I see him speaking Swedish at the neighbouring table. I, obviously, dont know whats going on, but slowly I see that they dont like it. Ever the aggravator he keeps it up and we get kicked out.
I find out on the way back to my hostel that he had called, though not directly, one of the women at the table fat. Though he really just mentioned her likeness to a portly, or slightly portly, Swedish actress. It pissed him off that it pissed her off.
So we walk, through the malmo streets. Over the river, past winers and diners in the cold evening. The police are on the street.
'Swedish police good people' my friend wobbles.
They just look, with slight rage and no response. Meanwhile I am trying to stay concious of the road rules, in that I am trying not to be killed by a car driving on the right side of the road while I look left.
We get back to the hostel and engage in drunken conversation over cigarettes with a German girl who is smoking hot, but looks a little scared. Rebecca! It can be an imposing sight I suppose.
The usual suspects: where you from, where you going, what brings you here, where you been....staples of the travellers question index.
I wonder for a while if she would have sex with me, then remember shes sixteen, then wonder the former again.
However I am not shitfaced, more of a tipsy happy drunkenness. A level you can never sustain and your a fool if you try.
We talk e.coli, prominent in Germany, and run through the bullshit German words we know.
And thats where the night should've ended.
A tall bald man flows out of the door. He is Belarussian and after some talk he mentions a bottle of vodka, he leaves to fetch it and we speculate if he really has it or not.
Rebecca, who looks like she wanted to leave 20 minutes ago, is still standing outside but the conversation has dried up.
The Belarussian returns and sure enough has the vodka, we retreat to the kitchen and try to convince Rebecca to come with us but she is smart.
So we sit, another Belarussian man has joined and I speak some broken Polish with them. The lanky bald animated man pours doubles for everyone and then, clink down the hatch. After a while another, then another.
A group of Iraqis sit at another table and come to offer us food, its not good but they insist it is and that we eat. Their hearts are in the right place.
They leave and the vodka flows, huge drinks....another bottle is brought and I think on how to slink away and get back to my room.
I bum a cigarette of a Frenchman and faintly remember going downstairs to smoke. Then its gone.
XX.
I wake up, blurry eyes. Its not my room but for the moment I dont really care. I feel like it is, or maybe its another room I had rented. Its a strange dream. Then I fall asleep again.
The next waking up is different...this is somewhere I shouldnt be, this is a jail or a holding pen. I get a little scared but am too tired and hungover to properly care. I knock on the window and clutch my dick as a child would signalling I need to use the toilet. They finally let me, escorting me the whole way though I was in no shape for a daring escape.
'When are you letting me out' I hazily say.
'Couple hours'
I slink back to bed.
I am awoken again, I realise I have pissed my pants, and quite a job of it I have done too. The next day I find out my friend woke up in his underwear but I can see why they wouldnt have done that to me.
They take me to the counter where a hot chick with a south american look tries to explain that they have my friend and I should wait to leave together. She hands me back my rings, watch and wallet. All the money is there, which is amazing.
'We have your friend' she says again.
Thinking they may have got one of the Belarussians I bunch my hair into a ponytail and say long hair, in a crude sign language.
They dont answer and I assume they have the Bald Belarussian who I am not overly fond of seeing at that moment. I panic and walk away.
I am walking for an hour, looking down streets that look the same and trying to pin down a memory of any landmarks that might lead me there. The cold morning wind is freezing in my pissy pants and I am reluctant to go near others for my pungent urine scent.
I dont find it so I get a cab, I am averting my eyes for fear he will mention my smell. I get there and climb the stairs. I have lost my bag and ask at reception, they are forgiving of my blunder. I feel the pains of thumb inflicted bruises on my biceps. They have my bag and nothing is missing. I find out that I was one block from the hostel and walked an hour in the wrong direction.
Then I seal my pants and change and sleep. Its over and im ok, but my brain and body remind me of it for 2 more days. A life changing hangover.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
On How Advertising Ruins Music.
It is a fairly two sided concept- advertisers want something that resonates with people, that they recognise and will associate with good memories and good feelings. You hear The Beatles‘ ‘ Come Together’ or the Stones’ ‘You Cant Always Get What You Want’ or even Hot Chocolates ‘You Sexy Thing’ you, through the magic of music, remember the good times, vibes, memories or connotations that song induces. And through to the marriage of image and music you associate those good feelings with the product. It is fairly deceptive, but it works.
Then of course there is the viewers side. The viewer is blinded by the ad for a time, and when they can see again they realise they almost ,universally, despise the song.
The trick for advertisers is to use the chorus or hook of the song, being the most recognised fragment and that which people will most deeply identify with, the trouble is its also the most repetitious element of most songs.
It has caught me in its trap more than once, picture this; you are tapping your toes to a song you love but havent heard (or so you think) in a good while, everythings fine, your feeling good. Then- the chorus, and boom. You remember the million times you’ve heard the overly familiar chorus, and not its overly unfamiliar surrounds, in that ad selling Pepsi-Cola.
Part of the hatred for the song comes from obnoxious repetition and another part from the real value and art of music being pimped out for quick gain.
It shouldn’t be suprising, of course, as music is a money game. The intention is to be in the green, and well in the green, at all times and a song that is 30 years old will mean as much to people as it ever does and so is no longer sacred. Beyond that even, you’ve paid for the single, now someone else is buying the chorus.
Its frustrating, and if I were a richer man id buy out all these ads and force them to write a jingle like the true heroes of the ad-music world. But I am not and I cant, so we will have to watch some of the better songs we all know and loved be harvested for those with more in their pockets, like black market kidneys.
NP.
Then of course there is the viewers side. The viewer is blinded by the ad for a time, and when they can see again they realise they almost ,universally, despise the song.
The trick for advertisers is to use the chorus or hook of the song, being the most recognised fragment and that which people will most deeply identify with, the trouble is its also the most repetitious element of most songs.
It has caught me in its trap more than once, picture this; you are tapping your toes to a song you love but havent heard (or so you think) in a good while, everythings fine, your feeling good. Then- the chorus, and boom. You remember the million times you’ve heard the overly familiar chorus, and not its overly unfamiliar surrounds, in that ad selling Pepsi-Cola.
Part of the hatred for the song comes from obnoxious repetition and another part from the real value and art of music being pimped out for quick gain.
It shouldn’t be suprising, of course, as music is a money game. The intention is to be in the green, and well in the green, at all times and a song that is 30 years old will mean as much to people as it ever does and so is no longer sacred. Beyond that even, you’ve paid for the single, now someone else is buying the chorus.
Its frustrating, and if I were a richer man id buy out all these ads and force them to write a jingle like the true heroes of the ad-music world. But I am not and I cant, so we will have to watch some of the better songs we all know and loved be harvested for those with more in their pockets, like black market kidneys.
NP.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
On Baldness: Male Curse….or IS it?
For around 10 years I have experienced anxiety, and for 5 of those the anxiety has been gut wrenching. As is natural, even the mind wrapped in anxiety gets bored once in a while, so its best to spice it up. It started innocently enough with burglars when I was ten years old.
That faded once I grew to a stature where burglars weren’t a reasonable concern and right around the time male pattern baldness was.
My father, my fathers father, my mothers father and one of my uncles are bald and they all have dealt with it in varying ways.
My grandfathers both seemed to be incredibly sensitive over the issue. My maternal grandfather (deceased) wore a comb over and when he wound up in hospital, a lifelong drunk, he was most upset that the nurses cut the lengthy locks off the one side he bore them. It seemed for the first time he had to wear a crome dome with pride. According to my mother he wore a hat as much as possible but, ever a traditional gentleman, would take it off when inside or in the company of women. At which point the come over would take over.
My paternal grandfather has worn a rug as long as I have known him, we used to enjoy putting it on when he wasn’t around or stealing it from his scalp to his frustration; Pappa you devil, no-one knew you wore a rug until we stole it, your secret is OUT.
As for my father, he mentioned nothing of it until one night. When discussing his youth he mentioned his discomfort with haircuts in his 20s, assuming the hairdresser would suspect his thinning and dreading any mention of such.
My own fear of baldness came when I was around 14. My assumption was that no woman would ever find me sexually, or otherwise, attractive and so due to my lack of locks I was bound to be alone. But it faded once more real concerns came, thick and fast.
When your worried about terminal cancer or dementia, a naked scalp SOMEHOW takes a back seat.
But there are those who would look strange any other way…for instance.
I cant imaine Hunter S. Thompson with a thick head of hair, nor Jason Alexander, nor Ron Howard, nor Riff Raff….so its all about owning the look, really.
Some people work it better than I will, that’s for certain. And in those cases its become a case of using it as something to distinguish yourself from the other, boring, throng of mopped gentleman.
NP.
That faded once I grew to a stature where burglars weren’t a reasonable concern and right around the time male pattern baldness was.
My father, my fathers father, my mothers father and one of my uncles are bald and they all have dealt with it in varying ways.
My grandfathers both seemed to be incredibly sensitive over the issue. My maternal grandfather (deceased) wore a comb over and when he wound up in hospital, a lifelong drunk, he was most upset that the nurses cut the lengthy locks off the one side he bore them. It seemed for the first time he had to wear a crome dome with pride. According to my mother he wore a hat as much as possible but, ever a traditional gentleman, would take it off when inside or in the company of women. At which point the come over would take over.
My paternal grandfather has worn a rug as long as I have known him, we used to enjoy putting it on when he wasn’t around or stealing it from his scalp to his frustration; Pappa you devil, no-one knew you wore a rug until we stole it, your secret is OUT.
As for my father, he mentioned nothing of it until one night. When discussing his youth he mentioned his discomfort with haircuts in his 20s, assuming the hairdresser would suspect his thinning and dreading any mention of such.
My own fear of baldness came when I was around 14. My assumption was that no woman would ever find me sexually, or otherwise, attractive and so due to my lack of locks I was bound to be alone. But it faded once more real concerns came, thick and fast.
When your worried about terminal cancer or dementia, a naked scalp SOMEHOW takes a back seat.
But there are those who would look strange any other way…for instance.
I cant imaine Hunter S. Thompson with a thick head of hair, nor Jason Alexander, nor Ron Howard, nor Riff Raff….so its all about owning the look, really.
Some people work it better than I will, that’s for certain. And in those cases its become a case of using it as something to distinguish yourself from the other, boring, throng of mopped gentleman.
NP.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Batnamn: An excerpt from Batmans Namn Journal.
An Excerpt From Batmans Vietnamn Diary.
Day 23-
I sure wish the guys here would stop being such dicks to me. They know I don’t like guns, they love them. So, with nothing much to do in a war without guns I have been spending my time in brothels and bars. I have a borderline drinking problem, but hey, you might call it my one flaw…besides my crippling fear of guns and orphan status. I also have a series of red ulcers south of the border that I am hoping is just a sweat rash.
The other annoying thing about this country is the uniforms…did someone say DRAB!? I mean, I get that we gotta hide from the enemy and thus dressing to suit the surrounds is sensible, but couldn’t we dress it up a little. Green is so not my colour, but my disdain for guns already has some of the men suspecting I am gay, and I think they still kill gay people here, so I will keep the luxury bat suit out of sight.
Day 44-
I miss Gotham. I could sure go for a slice of za right now, Asian food doesn’t agree with me. I mean, its ridiculous, I am rushing to the john every five minutes. At least there is beer, good, AMERICAN beer. I got a telegram from Alfred saying keep your head up, not too far up, and that it was just the same in Korea. I don’t think he went to Korea. I hope he isn’t taking the bat-mobile out to wine country, I warned him about that.
I am learning Vietnamese since I don’t have anything else to do, not that eloquent a language. I also lost many thousands of dollars in a card game against some guy named Ning. I think Ning is now one of the more wealthy over here, don’t let it be said I am not a contributor.
Day 50-
Really starting to hate it here, they don’t even have broadband. How can I stream gossip girl without broadband? Matter of fact, they are years behind, they don’t even have gossip girl in most places, Charlie is raving about the OC and in some of the poorer areas Dawsons Creek. Remember Dawsons Creek? God, those dudes must be like 40 now.
Alfred keeps texting me saying Robin is trying to enlist. He assumes it will make him a Man, from boy wonder to man wonder. I don’t wanna see that guy, it’s the only mistake I ever made.
Come to think of it, why the fuck am I here? Rich dudes don’t go to Vietnamn, they chill by the pool and chisel their guns, fighting crime by night.
There is not a looker in the bunch over here, but my raging libido continues to force me well below my usually impeccable standards. Luckily no-one has to know about it, that kind of thing could ruin the ‘Mans sterling reputation.
Day 67-
I threw a canister of mustard gas into a schoolhouse today. Not my proudest moment. I guess you could say this war is growing on me. Or I am growing on it. Hard to say really. My sergeant is pretty pushy, I try to tell him to calm down, that he’ll have a stroke, but I don’t think he cares.
I have been auditioning black guys as sidekicks, its hard to find one who isn’t too cool. The caped crusader cant be overshadowed. I take some of them out to the forest and make them watch me practise karate, so they know who the boss is.
I have also been running some Shakespearean productions, in between blanket bombings, to keep morale up. Sadly there is a distinct lack of culture amongst the ranks and most of them question the lack of naked chicks.
Day 81-
Now the Batman is really starting to get war crazy. Fuck fighting crime, ill fight everything! A Charlie chopper passed overhead on a scouting mission yesterday and instead of ducking for cover I gave them the finger and mooned them. They didn’t shoot me, probably intimidated by my bat-buns.
The only really annoying thing is its hard to keep my coke habit going. I brought a shit ton with me and it was cool cause im a military man and the customs are pretty laxed here. But I have just about run through that.
I don’t have any servants to go cop for me and I don’t know shit about buying drugs, especially here. We are a long way from Mexico after all.
Getting drunk is still fun, the Batliver is a resilient little devil.
Day 100-
Just ran into Robin Williams, he is on the wagon now. Damn Shame.
It looks like I am getting discharged, thank god. I can get back to my first love, fly fishing. Talk about exhilarating, fishing’s bad over here though.
I have SUCH a craving for chocolate and strawberries, maybe with a little ‘Clueless’ thrown in. O..M..G I LOVE that movie.
I think its safe to say I am done with war, from now on the only fight I will engage in is the fight of emotional vulnerability….oh and crime, also crime.
Day 23-
I sure wish the guys here would stop being such dicks to me. They know I don’t like guns, they love them. So, with nothing much to do in a war without guns I have been spending my time in brothels and bars. I have a borderline drinking problem, but hey, you might call it my one flaw…besides my crippling fear of guns and orphan status. I also have a series of red ulcers south of the border that I am hoping is just a sweat rash.
The other annoying thing about this country is the uniforms…did someone say DRAB!? I mean, I get that we gotta hide from the enemy and thus dressing to suit the surrounds is sensible, but couldn’t we dress it up a little. Green is so not my colour, but my disdain for guns already has some of the men suspecting I am gay, and I think they still kill gay people here, so I will keep the luxury bat suit out of sight.
Day 44-
I miss Gotham. I could sure go for a slice of za right now, Asian food doesn’t agree with me. I mean, its ridiculous, I am rushing to the john every five minutes. At least there is beer, good, AMERICAN beer. I got a telegram from Alfred saying keep your head up, not too far up, and that it was just the same in Korea. I don’t think he went to Korea. I hope he isn’t taking the bat-mobile out to wine country, I warned him about that.
I am learning Vietnamese since I don’t have anything else to do, not that eloquent a language. I also lost many thousands of dollars in a card game against some guy named Ning. I think Ning is now one of the more wealthy over here, don’t let it be said I am not a contributor.
Day 50-
Really starting to hate it here, they don’t even have broadband. How can I stream gossip girl without broadband? Matter of fact, they are years behind, they don’t even have gossip girl in most places, Charlie is raving about the OC and in some of the poorer areas Dawsons Creek. Remember Dawsons Creek? God, those dudes must be like 40 now.
Alfred keeps texting me saying Robin is trying to enlist. He assumes it will make him a Man, from boy wonder to man wonder. I don’t wanna see that guy, it’s the only mistake I ever made.
Come to think of it, why the fuck am I here? Rich dudes don’t go to Vietnamn, they chill by the pool and chisel their guns, fighting crime by night.
There is not a looker in the bunch over here, but my raging libido continues to force me well below my usually impeccable standards. Luckily no-one has to know about it, that kind of thing could ruin the ‘Mans sterling reputation.
Day 67-
I threw a canister of mustard gas into a schoolhouse today. Not my proudest moment. I guess you could say this war is growing on me. Or I am growing on it. Hard to say really. My sergeant is pretty pushy, I try to tell him to calm down, that he’ll have a stroke, but I don’t think he cares.
I have been auditioning black guys as sidekicks, its hard to find one who isn’t too cool. The caped crusader cant be overshadowed. I take some of them out to the forest and make them watch me practise karate, so they know who the boss is.
I have also been running some Shakespearean productions, in between blanket bombings, to keep morale up. Sadly there is a distinct lack of culture amongst the ranks and most of them question the lack of naked chicks.
Day 81-
Now the Batman is really starting to get war crazy. Fuck fighting crime, ill fight everything! A Charlie chopper passed overhead on a scouting mission yesterday and instead of ducking for cover I gave them the finger and mooned them. They didn’t shoot me, probably intimidated by my bat-buns.
The only really annoying thing is its hard to keep my coke habit going. I brought a shit ton with me and it was cool cause im a military man and the customs are pretty laxed here. But I have just about run through that.
I don’t have any servants to go cop for me and I don’t know shit about buying drugs, especially here. We are a long way from Mexico after all.
Getting drunk is still fun, the Batliver is a resilient little devil.
Day 100-
Just ran into Robin Williams, he is on the wagon now. Damn Shame.
It looks like I am getting discharged, thank god. I can get back to my first love, fly fishing. Talk about exhilarating, fishing’s bad over here though.
I have SUCH a craving for chocolate and strawberries, maybe with a little ‘Clueless’ thrown in. O..M..G I LOVE that movie.
I think its safe to say I am done with war, from now on the only fight I will engage in is the fight of emotional vulnerability….oh and crime, also crime.
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