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.

An Adults Guide to Getting Your Very Own Mouth From The South.

We all like to swear, actually this is blatantly untrue. A good amount like to swear, some don’t but do it any who and some don’t and slap themselves on the wrist like a child if a dreaded four letter word should pass their lips.
If you should want to work more cusses into your vocabulary, and what individual worth their salt doesn’t? I have a detailed guide, applied aptly to my own filthy mouth but open to adaptation for anyone’s needs, abilities and levels.
As we well know, substitution is the key to a healthy unhealthy vocabulary;

1. Words pertaining to random objects, or clusters of objects, shall be referred to as ’Shit’. This includes stuff, things, knick-knacks, possessions, belongings and personal property. In addition to putting a lot of syllables back in the word bank, you also come across as kinda badass.

2. A lie shall no longer be any of the following- poppycock, hogwash, piffle, fibs, bulldust or any hybrid of the two (poppy wash anyone?). The only proper response to someone’s bending or breaking of the facts shall be ‘bullshit’ or, when over used, any other variety of ‘shit’. Get creative, but not too creative, ‘penguin shit’ is liable to confuse even the wittiest of fibbers.

3. Fuck shall be considered with as much potential as possible. It should not be considered naturally detrimental or insulting as it shouldn’t be considered positive or humorous. The fuck muscle (more innuendo, you devil) shall be flexed at each opportunity available should it be in anger, sadness, surprise or shock, good fun or happiness. Again one should take into account context and tone before making assumptions on meaning and so it should be given a little more consideration in use on mediums where such things might not register (computers and text messages primarily).

4. Cunt shall be accepted in this country and possibly New Zealand the only other addition. On the stipulation that no women or children are present. And if women are present, on the stipulation that they use it first or it is during some kind of kinky, vulgar birthday sex. Again this can be an insult or an apt substitute for the word “person”.

5. Words shall not be taken as literally as they once were and, again, might be considered apt substitutes for person or individual. From henceforth a cocksucker isn’t someone who sucks cock necessarily, and a motherfucker isn’t someone who sticks it up their mother. The literal versions are dead and these words may be used as friendly, tongue-in-cheek greetings or as vicious insults at the speakers discression.

Another note: No-one who swears should be considered of less style, class, intelligence or sophistication. My hero Stephen Fry explains this more eloquently than I could:



Swearing is fun people, and so long as you don’t infect anyone who mightn’t want it, this could be a bug we all enjoy.

NP.

On Saying I Love You….Or Not.

This is a recurring issue in my life, what to do when someone drops the L Bomb.
Of course, anyone who says this is casting an open net to reel it back in turn, but I just can’t do it. The reasons are numerous and not, as they might otherwise be, elements of my stunted personality. Others, and yes predominately the penis bearing kind, take issue with it and for, by and large, precisely the same reasons.
For one thing, we already know and would hope the other half already know. In truth, once a day is over-adequate number of utterings for me, but it should be at worst the upper limit. Granted I forget phone numbers, names, home addresses and what I had for lunch, but I wont forget that.
Since I am so stringent on not reciprocating as much as might be expected or demanded, yet wary of the outcomes to such an attitude, it becomes tense each time it is said which, with those who chose to say it, is every few minutes.
The other thing is, it seems a shade forced. As though at first you are trying to convince me, then yourself. That it is thrown around far too easily and so loses its punch. I.e If you say it forty times a day, it wont mean much on the wedding day or when crowding around the scone of a newborn. Its akin to saving your stomach for lobster instead of cereal.
A very good friend of mine had another point of view on the matter, as well as the aforementioned views. I shant credit him in name, as I have the feeling he wouldn’t want his name thrown around and another feeling that he wouldn’t mind the lack of credit.
He said to me that the ‘love yous’ come largely in the honeymoon period, the puppy love stages when things are fresh and new. That you might want to express with each breath how darn pleased you are with the arrangement, though after that period the love you’s die off as the love does and, to quote; ‘its all downhill from there’.
I have the feeling that insecurity may come into it. That those who love you, want more to be loved and understand the universal obligation to hit them back. In theory I should abide they are only words and it is physically an easy enough thing to say , though my convictions to words prevent me- I try to keep some power in them and misuse and abuse burns power and meaning faster than most things.
Of course all the ‘sayers’ tell me that its so if something happens to me, it would be the last thing they told me. I would rather they tell me to look for buses or get some mental help.
Though in seriousness I think this has something to do with them covering their bases perhaps, so that they wont have to regret not saying it enough. But for each who tells me those dreaded words, I should hope they know that I know and that I wouldn’t doubt it on my deathbed.
The problem is so bad that whenever I am told it in phone conversation or otherwise, the best I can muster is ‘you too’ or ‘same here’.
A word of advice though to those who choose to mention it all the time, after a while we start not believing you.
Just a thought.

NP.

On Why I Cant Make Films, But May Be Able to Make Dirty Films.

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On Playing The Cards Your Dealt.

I once, strangely, thought mental illness was largely a myth. I am speaking of mood disorders mainly, I was aware that things like Schizophrenia and Parkinson’s were as real as the shining sun, but the bipolars and Post Traumatic Stress Disorders of the world seemed nothing more than an over hyped fairy-tale.
When I asked a relatively realist-pessimist friend of mine if he believed in depression (as he has his doubts on dieting, toxin theories and male anorexia) he replied that of course he does, that is science. While you can’t realistically believe in god all the way or all the time, you can believe in science.
Naturally it is now the cosmic joke that I find myself in the vicious clutches of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) and an increasing bout of diagnosed depression.
Normally I would cock my head and laugh from my gullet at those in similar circumstances, but I have felt it.
This isn’t any sort of bitching piece, merely a half-hearted attempt at an optimism speech. So I would say it is high-time I got to the point.
While this sort of thing can be stigmatized, for one reason or another, it is a disease. It has little or nothing to do with social status, culture, race or gender. A wealthy businessman without a worry in the world can find himself as depressed as a homeless man with nothing left to live for.
Too often in the clutches of depression or anxiety, I have been told one of the two; cheer up or calm down. If only things were so simple. They aren’t , not by a long shot. Your brain fast-tracks you there and you get stuck.
To all the nay-sayers who assume it is a matter of will power and nothing more, ask yourself this: would you want to be miserable or scared, day in day out, without motivation or ability to enjoy anything at all? My bet is you wouldn’t. The fact is, its beyond your control and as all the ads tell us, there is a difference between feeling blue and depression, or getting occasionally worried and an anxiety disorders.
Though, for myself, I have come to some sort of bitter conclusion. While my own brain dysfunction is upsetting, worse is the regimen of hopeless cures I attempt to throw on it. Sooner or later you realise you may be beyond help. You have to hope the mess will sop itself up, a very limp wristed approach, I know….but sometimes the fight is gone.
I liken the appropriate attitude in such circumstances to that of folks born with birth defects….they have little choice but to deal with what has fallen upon them, and they do so with upmost courage and style, so should we, the people, deal with our whacky brains.
There should be no stigma about it, though there is. It is the ultimate test of a friend, if they tell you to snap out of it (post diagnosis) tell them to go fuck themselves, but if they tell you they will be there for you, hang on and don’t let go.

So THIS is Christmas?

Despite a conscious decision to try and give this blog a light heart, this will have to be a relatively heavy one. And might I say, the last of these….
I hate Christmas. I am never as low as the holiday season and its routinely the hardest, most depressing and boring time of year. Although I haven’t a clue of the exact reason, the theories are credible and numerous.
For one thing, its entirely too hot. As someone who feels the heat in an instant and who shuts down completely when continuously exposed to hot-hot heat I hate this time of year. I was born in the middle of winter in a freezing cold down, and with the earth getting hotter, my weight growing by the day and increasingly poor circulation, Summer is a bigger pain in the arse every year.
For another, I despise crowds…or certain types of crowd. The Christmas shoppers are a prime example, it’s the same reason I don’t understand why women shop how they shop. I think long and hard about what I might like to purchase before I even step foot in any kind of store.
Apparently 95 percent of the world don’t share my method. The streets are full of people sizing things up, inspecting, shopping around for price and looking at each individual item or garment. This, in itself shouldn’t be a problem, and there oughta be a ‘freedom of shopping’ act legislated to keep people like me bitching about things like this on blogs like this. Thing is, it makes it ten times as difficult to get the newspaper or a bottle of beer- should you desire it.
I have also gained a healthy disdain for the ever triumphant family Christmas. In essence, mine runs like this; turn up, sit around awkwardly while the males get drunk and angry, talk awkwardly with relatives I haven’t spoken with since last Christmas, eat and go home. It, to me, feels fake…yet I see its importance and an obligation means it isn’t likely to end any time soon.
In an ideal world I would pull a Hugh Grant (sounds dirty and undesirable) and stay inside, drink beer and watch television alone at Christmas, but as we know, this world is not ideal.
An unhealthy hatred of people could be behind all of these reasons, and I should suck it up…..but of course, after Christmas comes NYE, when you have to do something, and the expectation is palpable…
Just Sayin’

NP.

Drunk Species, Explained.

Alcohol is a highly enjoyable substance, for the majority of folks , and also has a tendency to highlight different underlying things in different people. I refer to these IAEs (Inebriated Alter Egos) as Drunk Species. The relationships between them, much like in the wild, can be cordial or volatile, as you will see. Most who drink with any regular prowess will fit into one, two or a hybrid combination of these categories...

1. The Hugger/Overly Emotional Drunk.
This has, at least once, in most consumers drinking careers been them and if not they at least know the type. One wrapped so tightly in emotion that they feel the need to express love or regret with each turn. They are rarely angry, but usually upset or overwhelmed with a manner they could never express sober. While most will be embarrassed by this individual, some will join their ranks and hug, cry and talk with passion right back.

2. The ‘mentions-he/she-is-drunk-every-few-seconds’ Drunk.
The one who, usually speaking, has very few drinks and is endlessly proclaiming how entirely wasted they are. It seems these folks jumped the ‘alcohol is fun’ boat and consider it a point in their notoriety column. Of course, as any hardened bottle tipper knows, notoriety only comes with a good amount of booze, on a regular basis, without forming a habit and with silence on the matter.

3. The quite Drunk.
Says vary little, obviously. May be at the party purely as a means to avoid drinking alone again and will be on his/her fifteenth when you are on your fifth. Rarely moves from his chosen seat, watches intently and may be expected to be asleep in his chair, with ten or so on you, by the end of the night.

4. The Aggressive Drunk.
Keen on making trouble where there is none, often feels a fight is the only necessary option or, again, a means to acquire some notoriety. Will consistently assume someone said something about him and or his lady friend and is prepared to throw wobbly fisticuffs over it. Again missing the fun booze cruise and drinking a bottle to de-bottle his anger at other things.

5. The Philosophical Drunk.
One who uses their euphoria as a means to think outside their own specific box. Usually speaks on bigger issues and has little concern for which girls/guys he/she finds attractive or what radio stations they might enjoy. Can be obnoxious, unrelenting and unwilling to have any shallow, harmless fun.

6. The Dead/Dying/Desperate Drunk.
The one who will, night after night, wipe themselves out in the early stages of the party. It is often men, and often as a means to prove themselves, as the supposed hardest drinkers around. Of course, what they don’t see is their lifeless bodies being carried, cleaned, undressed or ignored by comrades. In the event that they don’t turn their beat-box up to rumba right away, they can be expcted to be intangibly drunk for the majority of an evening and be among the last of the bottom-feeders, stumbling around sucking the remnants from the bottoms of bottles and slamming down ale and tobacco ash cocktails without so much as a flinch.

7. The nonsensical drunk.
Super duper annoying. Will tell endless stories that don’t go anywhere or aren’t at all interesting. Will demand the spotlight despite the greater majority being annoyed at or bored of them. Can be relied on to forget the punch lines of all of their already awful jokes yet talk loudly over genuinely interesting partygoers to tell more of the same.

8. The Romantic Drunk(s).
Will often show wildly uncomfortable romantic/sexual gestures in sure view of everybody. Often as a tactic of letting the party know how completely in love they are, or how damn attractive they find each other. I suppose the idea is that they should be the center of attention and we should admire how damn smitten they are. Though, to be fair, they are relatively harmless.

9. The Fun Drunk.
By far the best. Will dance, sing, tell jokes and nail the punch line every time. Super friendly and not at all threatening. Will treat you the same as an, assumed, likeminded individual looking for the same good time they are. Can light up a room and make or break a party. ‘Is Joe gonna be there?’…’THEN I WILL TOO!!!’.

NP.