Saturday, January 14, 2012
To the Batpole, Old Chum
Aw snap, here’s my office supreme, yessiree, the Batcave. I get up on the morning, tell my high tech coffeemaker to grind some fresh beans and start brewing it strong and dark the way I like it. Take the secret entrance via the grandfather clock in the study decked out in a tasteful combination of old school and modernistic furniture. I descend via not a batpole but a forced air column that gently lowers me into my secret lair. In case of emergencies, should this air suddenly be shut off, naturally I’m in such great shape I merely fling out my grappling line – ‘cause of course I’m never without this bad rascal – catch hold of one of the designed metal outcroppings just for this purpose, and lower myself manually.
I sit at one of the bank of super computers I have down there, my coffee delivered by my assistant, Ms. D’Arcy, who’s so fine she makes Alicia Keys look like a buck-toothed tomboy. But it’s strictly business with us, naturally. So then, sipping my brew, I take note of current tweets as I have the likes of Lady Gaga and Mark Zuckerberg following me. The computer is programmed to tweet for me, and every ten minutes or so for a specific period each day it’ll tell me in that warm feminine voice of the computer from original Star Trek (because Hal’s from 2001: A Space Odyssey is way too creepy) what thread is going where and I can dictate my responses. The computer also corrects to make me sound witty and clever.
Meanwhile I’m in the midst of my workout in the gym area/level of the cave, easily benching 350, curling let’s say a set of eighty reps 100 pound barbell, and running a cool five miles on the treadmill – barely breaking a sweat. As I do this I go over my week’s schedule with the fetching Ms. D’Arcy, speaking appearances, workshops I’m giving over Skype and so forth. I shower off, get dressed in my smoking jacket and slacks, and sit down to pound out at least 3,000 words of sparkling prose. Afterward I take a break, have a wonderfully prepared late lunch prepared by my personal chef, then a light workout and meditation session. Next I get dressed in my gear for night patrol, for the crime I foil by such malefactors as Dr. Greyface or the Green Mamba, also serves as first hand material for my books, plays, scripts and short stories.
It’s a wonderful life…and slowly as I awake from my delusional daydream, a pearl of a tear appears in the corner of my eye as I blink at my humble surroundings. But I suck it up and get back to work on the keyboard, spinning them yarns.