Batman and Robin walk into an intimaterie . . .

          I am the editor, I know that; but about my relationship with Hamlin Moody,
     see here, here, and here. "I have been reading the blog," he said, when I saw him 
     on Sunday. I was leaving church; he was driving by and stopped. "I've been read-
     ing the blog, and it needs livening up. Preferably with something someone that didn't 
     go to whatever fancy college you went to can understand and appreciate. I'd like to 
     write something."
          I knew better, but unaccountably, I said, "Okay," and when this came in, I knew 
     better, but I couldn't retract that. "I can make a picture, too," he said, and he did.
     I am directly responsible only for the picture caption and the headline. ("Your
     cravenness?" my better angel leans over my shoulder and whispers at my ear.)
          Hamlin claims he overheard this story he just dropped off on a flash-drive at the
     grocery store, standing in the checkout line with a bag of dog food. There's a big 
     snow coming tomorrow.
          Today though it's supposed to get up near forty. Maybe we could play a few 
     holes of golf late. He could get off at four. If it was above thirty-five . . . ? I couldn't 
     say "no" to that either. Penance for this - think of it that way.

  Batman and Robin walk into an intimaterie . . .   

 

A.M. Intimaterie Archives
(Ektachrome slide by Peri)

“Holy Fexpletive Deleted, Batman!” Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne found themselves – unaccountably! – in a cat house with the various women that had played Catwoman – Julie Newmar, Hallie Berry, Eartha Kitt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Ashley Madison (actually look-alikes), all naked and waiting. Dick and Bruce were naked, too. One of the rules of the house was that “johns” undressed at the door. Of course, they were allowed to retain any masks. But “Julie” recognized Bruce by an appendix scar. (They went to high school together, and . . . .)

     Thus the secret identities of the dynamic duo were unwittingly - and unknowingly to them – revealed. Fortunately a cat house is like a confessional. Prostitutes are like priests. Sort of.

- Hamlin Moody

  01.21.16