Batman Is, Apparently…(SPOILER ALERT)


…the new MacBeth.

Alfred:  Be careful, Mr. Wayne.  This young woman is about to ruin the film for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet, and actually gives a furry flying rat’s ass about it.

Batman:  Thank you, Alfred.  I’ll put her on my list of people to allow to be made collateral damage while fighting my next super-villain.  Who, in the town where she lives, is probably named something like “Captain Meth Head.”

Both, in unison:  Ah ha ha ha ha ha.

Alfred: (placing his gnarled, white gloved, old man claw lightly upon the caped crusader’s firm and supple, lycra-covered left buttock, whispers) I love you, Mr. Wayne.

Batman:  (stiffening…no, not in that way.  Perverts) Hey…did you just make a…did you just make a joke about…

Alfred: (not removing hand) About bats being nothing more than carriers of disease infested fleas, and who have been merely the lucky recipients of the evolutionary gift of flight, Mr. Wayne?

Batman:  (brows knitting slowly together beneath the molded neoprene brows of his pointy-ass mask, drawing out the word) Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhh….

Alfred:  I did, sir.

Batman:  (spinning around to sucker punch Alfred in his saggy, liver-spotted bicep) That’s for the bats.  (Roundhouse kicks Alfred to the inside of his right thigh) And that’s for grabbing my ass.  Y’old pervert.  (Stalks away into the darkness of the bat cave, cape trailing in the eerie moonlight glow that somehow penetrates a fucking cave).  Oh, and Alfred?

Alfred:  (doubled over wheezing) Yes, Mr. Wayne?

Batman:  Bring me up some Oreos and a caramel latte after I’ve had time to slip into the bubble bath, would you?Alfred:  My pleasure, Mr. Wayne.

I just…I have no idea why I just did that.  I can just be really tangential sometimes.  Anyway…

I was saying that Batman is the new Macbeth.  And I know that I’m using humor here and that there’s nothing funny about what happened in Colorado but…seriously?  Does anyone else see the connection?  This film is just basically ruined for everyone now.  Batman will always be regarded, from this day forward, as the epic film of the year that just fell flat on its face in front of the whole school at the Senior Prom.

Not only did Letterman ruin it for everyone, but now it will always be remembered as the movie that was the backdrop for a random act of terrible and senseless violence.  So:  (a) Batman will forever be associated with bad things happening to people and (b) no one is going to want to say the word “Batman” ever again.  Yep.  I’m still definitely drawing a parallel between Batman and MacBeth.  Just sayin’.

Sucks, dudes.


I like little assignments every day. I can write without the pressure of writing anything at all. I like this because I get permission to quit after 50 words, which is all my attention span can muster quite often. I’ll probably quit fairly quickly. But I’ll pretend I won’t and I’ll even try really hard not to.

First 50 Words - Prompts for Writing Practice

They are convinced they can drive, even though parking frightens them. The radio must play some head-banging, nerve jangling mayhem that makes a normal human want to scream. It’s better if the windows are down so they can shout out obscure jokes to passers-by. All the mirrors must be turned toward the faces of the humans in the car in order that they can inspect themselves with great regularity. There are teens in the car.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “teens in the car.”

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The Girls


Hunter Thompson’s Ghost is Riding My Consciousness Wagon…


Okie dokie, folks.  We’ve just crossed the border from reason and logic to the swarthy land of full-on crazy sauce.  My left eye and both ears are currently hallucinating.  Everything looks like it’s on a slant, I’m seeing things that I know were here earlier – happily obeying the iron rule of gravity – floating inches above and to the side of where they belong.  Everything in front of me looks like that weird reality you accept when you take the 3D glasses from the man at the window and shuffle into a dark corner of the theater.  Yes.  There are shadow people.  All up in my business.  And even if I close my eyes the baby monitor, glowing that half-breed shade of pondwater green/almost-dead-goldenrod, streams a constant report of static-crumpled giggles, singing, chirps, conversations from three tables over in a crowded tea house (sliverware tinkling), whimpers, hisses, clicks, hiccups and – perhaps most disturbingly – dragging noises.

Although I’ve ingested nothing fun aside from some fajita chicken and the effigy of a chubby, jolly wee elf, whose chocolate innards pleased me intensely, I have only just understood what Hunter S. Thompson meant by “bad vibes, fear and loathing.”  Ugh.  I really want to go get my husband because, although sensation reports that reality has jumped ship, I know that he’s only a set of stairs away and that he would give me that pitying, irritated, bleary-eyed one-in-the-morning look and tell me to go to bed.  I could close my eyes and wait for whatever rift in the space-time continuum has been created to sew itself back up.  But I can’t bring myself to do that because I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I stand up and go around the corner into the dining room, which offers access to the aforementioned stairs.

Why?  Why, for the love of all that’s good and holy won’t Harper wake up screaming?  She always wakes up screaming about this time of night.  If she would wake up screaming, then my husband would wake up and I could slink upstairs secure in the knowledge that if I have melted into some some horrible and completely unintended bad trip, my husband will be able to pull me safely from the purple alligator-filled quicksand.  Won’t he?

I’ve always found Schizophrenia to be the most fascinating of psychological disorders.  Fascinating because it is terrifying.  To me, the thought of having no way to distinguish between reality and hallucination would be the absolute measure of terror.  And I’m being one hundred percent serious when I say that I can hearwhat I believe to be an unknown song by The Eagles very clearly through the white noise in this baby monitor.  This thing is evil.  Also, I would put my right hand on the bible and swear to you that I hear the floor above me creaking as if my husband is at the bassinet.  But not an earthly creature stirring.

I know that it’s a weird combination of lack of proper sleep, a day spent far more in the sun than others, matrixing sounds out of white noise, the chorioretinopathy in my left eye coupled with the almost complete shadow of my living room.  But I just heard someone burp into the monitor and my brain is working double time to try and convince me that the armchair across the room has turned itself to face me and is gently rocking itself, waiting patiently for me to get up.  And for what I care not to know.

Wow.  I really don’t understand how anyone could voluntarily do this to themselves.  Timothy Leary, you were one ballsy character because if this were to be a common occurence I think I would certainly just jump off a bridge.  Not sure how tonight is going to end up.  I think it’s time to turn on the television and wait (pray) for one of my children to wake up and, in so doing, wake my husband up, so that I can reconnect with reality.

Strange, strange things here tonight.

A Letter to My Husband, Who I Love, but Who I Hope I Like More Tomorrow


I can remember three separate occasions on which I’ve cried openly in front of my father since learning the shame inherent in crying openly.

The first was the night my mother left us.  I was fifteen, and he sat beside me in my bedroom while I sobbed into my pillow, hiding my face because I was so embarrassed and confused.  He stroked my hair, patted my back, and asked me if I wanted to go to my grandmother’s house for the night.  I told him no.  I never told him it was because I didn’t want to be the second woman to leave him that day.

The second was the night before I went to jail.  I was twenty-one, and he drove me from his house, where I’d gone to visit one last time, to my mother’s house, where I would spend the night before I had to turn myself in the next morning.  He told me that we all had to face consequences and that everything would work itself out.  It was only thirty days I had to spend away, but that night in the glow of the dash lights it felt like thirty years.  I faced the window and pressed my lips together tight, but the pitch of my voice gave me away.  I told him I was crying because I didn’t want to go to jail.  I didn’t tell him that it was really because I was so embarrassed for having let him down, and disappointed in myself for having to leave him.

The third was tonight, when you cut him off in the middle of his sentence.  He was telling me about his own memories of being my age.  The sun had just gone down and the overwhelming humidity of the day had finally broken and I was rocking in my rocking chair and listening to him and thinking how unusual – but how thoroughly nice – it was to have him visit and tell stories and just be with me.  I know you don’t know this, because you didn’t take the time to stop and wait for my attention.  You burst through the screen door with that wild, pissed off look I’ve gotten so familiar with, and you didn’t yell, but you hissed, “I can take this anymore.  They’re both fucking crying and I don’t know what to do.”  Then you stormed back inside to sulk and pout.  I’ll bet I know another thing you didn’t know.  I’ll bet you didn’t know that I’d been listening on the monitor and they’d been crying for under two full minutes.

Tonight is the last night I cry in front of my father over you.  Tonight, I’m going to let you deal with them the way you let me deal with them for the first three weeks of their lives:  all alone.  All those nights that I dealt with two howling newborns completely independently because my husband “needed his sleep for work.”  All those nights, frustrated and bewildered and completely forbidden to call you downstairs from your air conditioned bedroom to help me, or just to console me while I attempted to console them.  I had no idea what to do with them.  I had no idea what to do with myself all those mornings afterward, when I’d had no sleep and my breasts ached and bled from my failure at breastfeeding, which mirrored what I considered my horrible failure at motherhood, and when no one was coming to relieve me of any of it – not for a shower, not to go to the bathroom, not to sit quietly in another room or have a bite to eat – for hours.  And I figured it out because you gave me no other option.  And I’m a god damned good mother for it now, so it’s time you became a god damned good father.

I’ll be back tomorrow.  Until then, it’s up to you to figure it out.  If I can do it, so can you.