Category: Funny Business

I’m 57, and even though I look like a much younger, less attractive man, there is no denying that I am considered by some to be “old.”

Those people will tell you there are certain expectations that come with my age, and that I’m too long in the tooth to be enthusiastic about things such as comic books or superheroes.

Those people can kiss my ass.

I’m still fully immersed in the world that includes web-slinging and shield-wielding. Most importantly, I’m an even bigger Batman fan today than I was as a kid, and I make no apologies for it.

It’s not just a passing admiration for the Dark Knight – though I certainly do deeply respect his quest to mete out justice in a world that has lost its way – it’s really more of a lifestyle.

I have an entire room dedicated to Batman, one that includes action figures, wall art (my favorite is a Spanish-language poster for the 1966 movie) and even a Batman soap dispenser and toothbrush.

If you ever come to my house, I’ll let you see it for a quarter. And since it’s technically a bathroom, you can use it for $10 (plus a $5 non-refundable deposit).

I also have a Batman onesie that I wear from time to time.

It’s very stylish, with an old style logo on the front surrounded by a bright yellow oval.

People think I’m joking when I say I’ve actually worn it to the supermarket – but when it comes to Batman, I don’t kid; it’ not just fashionable, it’s functional.

And by the looks of both patrons and the deli staff, they like it, too.

I also have a wide variety of Batman tee shirts.

One sports the logo from the recent “Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice” and “Justice League” movies. Another is from the 2002 comic “Batman: Hush.”

I save the latter for special occasions, such as weddings and commitment ceremonies, (although I’ve been told that my obsession with The World’s Greatest Detective could lead to an entirely different commitment ceremony in the not-too-distant future).

I have a miniature Batman bust that speaks nine different lines, all more inspirational and motivational than the last.

My favorite is, “The joke’s on you, Joker.”

Damn right.

So where does this fascination come from?

My first memories of Bats date back to the campy TV series from the mid-1960s, although it wasn’t corny to me at all.

It was glorious to see Bruce Wayne and his alter ego fight colorful evildoers through the lens of a tilted camera, complete with picture words such as Boff! Splatt! and Zowie!

The show inspired me to sneak out on the porch after dark in a homemade cape and cowl, keeping my house safe from the forces of evil.

And it worked. We never got robbed once while I donned the suit, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence.

But then as I got older, I was introduced to the comics, which presented a serious crime fighter who dressed as a bat as a way to intimidate his enemies.

I was one of those kids who enjoyed playing sports, although I had to work twice as hard just to be half as good as my more athletic friends. Fantasy came easy for me, though.  I loved to read and use my imagination, and I was drawn to this dystopian world where one heroic person tried desperately make a difference.

Of course at the time I didn’t think of Gotham City as dystopian because I didn’t know what the word meant. But whatever it was, I liked it.

And unlike other “superheroes,” it was conceivable I could actually be Batman.

Superman was an alien from the planet Krypton.

I was an Alabamian from the planet Earth.

Spider-Man seemed too far-fetched because the odds of being bitten by a radioactive spider are astronomical. I have been bitten by several spiders, but all of my attempts to crawl on walls have ended in embarrassment and minor injuries.

Captain America was injected with Super-Soldier serum, which is not available over the counter at Walgreens.

And Wonder Woman? She’s an immortal goddess from Themyscira. Plus, with my legs, there’s no way I could pull off wearing her costume.

But Batman was just a rich dude in tip-top physical shape who possessed a near-genius intellect.

I was none of those things … but in theory, I could’ve been all of those things.

So, I’ve seen every Batman-related movie several times, although 1997’s “Batman and Robin” counts as an act of self-harm (and I still believe Joel Schumacher should’ve served at least a few months in prison for directing the film).

And I continue to follow Batman in all other mediums, because even old guys still need heroes. And whether I’m 57, 67, 77 or 87, he’ll still be my Dark Knight in shining armor.

If that doesn’t seem age-appropriate to you, well, you can kiss me where the Bat-Signal doesn’t shine.

 

Now that I’ve retired from the newspaper business and transitioned to the role of Trophy Husband, I’ve taken a much more active role in cleaning house.

Since my wife heads to the office every day and makes money, I figure the least I can do is try to make our domicile nice and clean when she gets home.

To that end, I’ve made out a schedule that includes vacuuming (twice a week), dusting (once a week), mopping (twice a week), cleaning the upstairs bathroom (occasionally) and cleaning the downstairs bathroom (every day … sometimes more than once).

I won’t say I’ve got it down to a science, but I have developed a pretty solid system.

As for the first item on the list, I could vacuum constantly and it still probably wouldn’t be enough. When you have four animals that live indoors, there will be shedding.

And when one of those animals is a giant, long-haired gray and white cat, fur will float and fly. I have never in my life seen a critter shed like Bane.

Plus, his fur tends to gather in specific places, as though there are various hair hubs situated throughout the house.

We have a coat rack in the corner of the dining room and on any given day you can look behind it and find what appears to be the head of Bea Arthur.

Sadly, minutes after you’ve vacuumed the entire house you’ll find fresh evidence of shedding, so there’s no point in fighting a losing battle.

So, I vacuum on Tuesday and Friday and just try not to notice all the extraneous fur the other days of the week.

Dusting can also be a challenge.

When the sun shines through the windows at a certain angle, it exposes all the dust that collects – and it covers everything from your stove to your television.

When you stop to think about all the stuff you’re constantly breathing in, it can be scary.

I’ve learned the best thing to do is to keep your curtains closed, Miss Havisham-style. It doesn’t decrease the dust, but out of sight, out of mind, you know?

As for mopping, it’s another task that should probably be done daily.

Sometimes you’ll track in dirt from outside, and occasionally when cooking soup, a renegade tomato will decide to make a run for it and hit the floor.

And of course, there’s the animal factor.

Cats tend to barf.

And our oldest dog Charlie, likes to drink a lot of water and then yak half of it up.

To people without animals, it sounds gross.

To people with animals, it is gross.

But it’s all part of the experience, and that’s why mopping is necessary.

Cleaning the upstairs bathroom (or Batroom) is easy because it’s barely used and reserved for the rare times when “company” comes to stay with us. And the reason it’s called the Batroom is due to its décor, which is completely Batman-themed.

Normally all that’s required here is a light feather dusting; no need to even open the “Batcave.”

But the downstairs bathroom … well, that’s another story.

I’ve always admired those who clean for a living, whether it be businesses or homes. Aside from doing hard but necessary work, they often have to deal with inconsiderate people.

I’ve been to public restrooms and witnessed unspeakable horrors.

There are toilets that look like crime scenes – ones in which the perpetrators have no regard for those who might follow them.

I have seen urinals used as trash receptacles. I once ventured into a gas station restroom and saw that someone had deposited half a Twinkie on top of a urinal cake.

I mean, what the hell? Who eats a Twinkie while peeing?

Perhaps the bigger question is, why eat only half a Twinkie?

I have opened doors to restrooms and been driven back by foulness so profound I still have nightmares about it.

So in order to avoid such evil, each and every day I tackle the toilet, sink and shower with brushes, cleaners, paper towels and, if need be, incantations so that they remain as clean as is humanly possible.

The idea is that if you ever have to use the downstairs restroom at my house, you will never see what cannot be unseen.

In just the few weeks I’ve taken on housecleaning full time, I’ve developed a great appreciation for the skill involved in doing it right. And I still have much to learn.

So the next time you run into the person who does the cleaning where you work or where you live, give them a thumbs up and a sincere thank you.

They deserve it.

And when you use the bathroom – mine or anyone else’s –  act like you’ve done it before.

And finish eating your damn Twinkie first.

Captain America, Steve Rogers, is a supersoldier who battled Axis powers in World War II, was frozen for seven decades, and then was reanimated so he – the First Avenger – could fight alongside the modern Avengers.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, is our new dog – a rescue Chihuahua who fights a small stuffed monkey, gets kissed on the head a lot, and is now a member of what amounts to a Fantastic Four of animals that live with me and my wife.

For whatever reason, having four critters establishes the proper feng shui in our household, so to that end order has been restored to our corner of the universe.

Steve joins Charlie the Sheltie and Bane and Thor, two shelter cats, as a full-fledged family member.

But …

Steve is very young.

Steve is also very Chihuahua.

And that means on a scale of 1 to 10, Steve has an energy level of 793.

Having never raised human children from their infancy, I have no real point of reference when it comes to the differences between nurturing toddler humans and nurturing toddler canines.

I realize you probably shouldn’t crate train humans or teach them to poop in the yard, although to each his own.

I don’t judge.

And I understand human babies are fragile, sometimes cry in the middle of the night, and can be very high maintenance.

Chihuahuas present different challenges, of course, but are most certainly high maintenance.

Steve freaks out any time my wife or I leave the room, making this weird, high-pitched noise which sounds similar to the sounds I imagine Gilbert Gottfried makes while getting goosed.

He also pees a little every time he gets excited, which is quite often. I’m not sure if that will go away as he grows up, but I can’t really fault him.

I pee a little every time I get excited, too, like when I find a Pop Tart I didn’t realize I had, or hear the theme song to the “Batman” TV series.

One issue that has been a bit of a problem, though, concerns his randy nature.

Although he was “fixed” 10 days ago, Steve remains quite the horndog.

In the brief time we’ve had him he has been romantically linked to Charlie’s bits and pieces, both my wife’s and my right arm, a neighbor’s left calf, and several cardboard boxes (boxes that I am not at liberty to name due to nondisclosure agreements).

Oddly – yet thankfully – he largely ignores both cats.

Thor, our oldest feline, sized him up fairly quickly the first day we brought him home, gave him a hiss and a paw swipe to the nose, and then went about his business.

Steve won’t even look at him and Thor responds in kind.

Bane, who is still technically a kitten but is on pace to be the size of a Bengal tiger by Christmas, seemed almost fearful of Steve at first.

He stayed mostly on the porch and waited to eat during that 10-minute window late at night when Steve decides to sleep.

But after two or three days he started getting closer and closer to the Chi, trying to figure out if Steve was merely an oversized rat and edible.

Ultimately, Bane apparently has come to terms with the fact that the 4-pound dog is not a snack, and now passes by him without incident or acknowledgement.

As of this writing, Charlie is sprawled out on the floor napping while Bane and Thor are snoozing away in the two rocking chairs situated in the corners of our den.

And Steve?

Well, Captain America is currently licking my chin and forcing me to type one-handed because I’m holding him in my left arm.

At any moment he’ll leap down and attempt to assault Charlie – who has learned the hard way that restraining orders are not honored in the animal kingdom.

Then Steve will rip and snort and run and jump and flip and flop and probably pee a little.

And I’m gonna love every single minute of it.

And maybe pee a little, too.