#this writing style had me THIS close to writing shit like 'dick. our dear hero'

[cosmicheromp3]

so yesterday it was 2am and i was feeling soft and i remembered this dumb post, and, well, i made it into an actual thing. and today it was 12am and i was feeling soft again and finally finished editing it. anyways here have some dickroy tenderness

A fist connects to a jaw and there’s barely any give under it, and that’s when Dick knows he’s in trouble.

There are one too many henchmen on a night where he shouldn’t, if he followed any logic, have gone out. He doesn’t remember the last time he got more sleep than just a quick nap – if he stopped to think about it, he’d realize it was more than three days ago. But to Dick, world-on-his-shoulders Dick, any night where he isn’t bedridden with an injury is a night when he can – should – go out. 

That’s not how the human body works, however. And Dick, for all the magic and powers and aliens that are part of his life, is just that. Human.

Maybe not “just” human, as he is still powering through, against all odds. He isn’t entirely himself, though, and anyone who knows him will notice – not enough flips, not enough show, not enough grace. His body, always yearning to take off and fly, seems to want to stay close to the ground. The limited space is working in his favor, the platform on the docks narrow enough that he can push attackers to the water, but a mistake is bound to happen any second.

And it does. One of the henchmen gets hold of a gun that, if Dick was the tiniest bit more lucid, he would have discarded properly. And this henchman, he points, to the bright blue symbol on Nightwing’s chest – shining in the night like a target he put on himself. 

But he never gets to pull the trigger. What he gets, instead, is an arrow knocking the gun off his hand and scraping his trigger finger, hurting him no more than a paper cut, like a warning.

It works like the flick of a switch; the air, heavy and humid like it always is in the docks, now feels electrical, like a song where there’s a sudden crescendo. Dick’s face is lit up by a grin that can’t be wider because it’s physically impossible, a slightly unsettling image paired up with the white eyes of his domino mask. Shrouded by the shadows, on his vantage point on top of a crate, the mysterious archer smiles, and almost wants to laugh. 

Even so far apart, they fight together like it’s a dance. No commands need to be called out loud; no warning to duck, no signal for where to shoot. It’s the practice of two people who’ve been teammates for as long as they can remember, and it’s the familiarity of two people who understand each other better than themselves. 

With a backflip and a kick and one last arrow zipping through the air, it’s done. Habit takes over and without stopping to think about it Dick’s tying up the mostly unconscious henchmen (only a preventive measure, for now, before he figures out what his course of action is here). He uses these seconds to try to get his breathing back to normal, but he doesn’t seem to be able to, and not entirely because of the fight.

“You can come out now.” He says to the now still darkness around him.  

Then, there he is. Roy Harper, bathed in moonlight, red hair and sparkling green eyes; he looks – impossible. Like a dream. With the sound of the waves splashing rhythmically against the docks, Dick thinks it’s hard not to find the poetry in the moment. He’s suddenly entirely awake, his chest pulsing with something he recognizes but doesn’t dare name. 

It’s been too long since he last saw him, and Dick aches. Roy does too. 

They both take a step forward at the same time – carefully, like they don’t want to disturb the night around them, but eager, hungry, impatient. 

Another step forward, another step forward, and then they’re only a breath away. The adrenaline wearing off and exhaustion kicking in, Dick is unable or unwilling to move, lest his muscles give out from under him – he only manages to stand there and breathe in Roy, his presence, his warmth. Roy lets his head fall, just the slightest bit, so his forehead rests against Dick’s. Dick is sweaty and his hair curls and sticks to the edges of his face, but neither of them notice, or care, for that matter. 

“You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.” Dick says, finding his voice, hoarse, and feeling the – the suggestion of Roy’s lips, so close, as his move to form the words.

“Something told me I would need to save your ass.” They both let out a breathy laugh, and their chests brush, if for a second. But it’s short lived, and then they’re still again. Roy tilts his head, not to kiss, not yet, and gets even closer: cheeks pressed together, softly leaning on each other. Dick’s arm, with a mind of its own, moves so that his hand curls around the side of Roy’s neck, thumb softly tracing the line of his jaw.

“Besides,” – breathe in; breathe out – “I wanted to surprise you.” Roy’s voice, barely above a whisper, fades out and melts into the night. 

For a moment, neither of them feel anything but their own breaths and each other’s heartbeats. When Dick’s body finally collapses – when he lets himself finally collapse –, Roy’s arms are ready to hold on to him, and Dick’s face fits perfectly snuggled into the crook of Roy’s neck. And if there’s a kiss, now, it’s only a brush of soft lips against dark hair; and if there’s a kiss, later, it’s in the comfort of home and in the privacy of each other – except, except, home was never really about a place. 

[duanecbrooks]

Gabby and Hodie: You're Number One     You may recall that, in a past article, I laid out what are my all-time favorite literary creations. You my also recall that I said that the books that I picked as my all-time etc. are those once and for all categorically and for all time. Well, what's happened is, upon further reflection--and upon my dear, warm, sweet,loving cousin Emily's words to me (surely I don't have to tell you what they were) further coming to fruition--I've come to realize my real and true all-time favorite literary offering. And it's a tie between the women's-beach-volleyball sex boat Gabrielle Reece's ("with" Karen Karbo) life-lessons guide My Foot Is Too Big For The Glass Slipper: A Guide to the Less-Than-Perfect Life and the Today-show's-Fourth-Hour gal Hoda Kotb's ("with" Jane Lorenzini) personal/professional memoir Hoda: How I Survived War Zones, Bad Hair, Cancer, and Kathie Lee.               Allow me to say here that in coming to said realization, I had to dump quite a lot of weight. At first I thought that the former television-morning-show host Rene Syler's ("with" Karen Moline) parenting guide Good-Enough Mother: The Perfectly Imperfect Book of Parenting deserved to make the aforementioned list. However, further pondering has caused me to realize that, as humorous and as charming as Syler's tome is, in the final analysis it has to do with the doings of children and with the raising of children--and as much as I love kids and love reading/seeing what it is kids have to say, an entire book centering on them is simply not my aesthetic. For a while I sincerely believed that How to Lose Everything In Politics (Except Massachusetts), the then-journalist Kristi Witker's inside-the-1972-McGovern-presidential-try memoir, merited making the cut. Yet in time I remembered that, ever since 1976, when Carter won the White House and kicked Ford and all those other Nixon-era Republican third-raters out on their asses, my consistent interest in politics has majorly decreased--indeed, in the main I've come to sympathize with what the master TV interviewer Dick Cavett once told the 1960s/1970s far-left activist Jerry Rubin: "Politics bores the ass off me." Thus I've arrived at the conclusion that Witker's book, while it's chock-full of lively wit and penetrating insight, when all is said and done involves an area, namely politics, that on the whole has long stopped being my thing.                       OK. Now I'll go into why Reece's and Kotb's tomes have seized my heart.             .The front and back covers of both books are damned enticing. Both the front and the back covers of Reece's tome picture her with her intensely attractive offspring, both times sporting an insanely appealing bathing suit and both times showing off an insanely appealing pair of bare feet (The back cover of Reece's book clearly shows that she has an equally alluring stepdaughter). The front cover of Kotb's tome displays her dressed in a quite stylish blue pullover blouse and adorned in the kind of slacks that fully exhibit what her Today cohort Kathie Lee called her "long Egyptian legs and toes." (The fact that Kotb is wearing red toenail polish slightly takes away from her dazzling visual appeal, but only slightly) And on both the front and back covers there are the sort of endorsements that easily pull you in. On the back cover of Reece's tome the former television Friend Courteney Cox is quoted as asserting: "I read My Foot Is Too Big For The Glass Slipper in one sitting...Everyone who is married--or thinking about getting married--should read this." On the front cover of Kotb's book there are words from People Magazine ("Bubbly and engaging, just like its author") and from the greatly-lauded novelist Adriana Trigiani ("This book is a manual for overcoming obstacles and living life with passion and purpose...Hoda is the working girl's Cleopatra. She rules!").               .The prose of both tomes is colorful and lively. Both Reece's and Kotb's books feature the kind of writing that, upon seeing it, immediately rivet your eyes to the page. Upon seeing any page, its wording has you absolutely hooked, positively pleased to be in the company of such charming, sprightly gals, gals who obviously love life and do not hesitate to embrace it entirely. And, again, that feeling comes no matter what page of theirs you're on (Kathie Lee in her super-bestselling compilation of essays Just When I Thought I'd Dropped My Last Egg at one point said: "I love my new co-host Hoda Kotb. She is an absolute doll and so much fun to work with." The writing style of Hoda causes you to fervently agree with KLG's every syllable).               .Both women in their tomes have greatly witty and greatly incisive things to say. In both Glass Slipper and Hoda there's sparkling humor and eye-opening observations, whether Reece in her book is discoursing on how cathartic it can be for a parent to swear ("[A] little bit of cussing does wonders. The later in the day it is, or the earlier in the morning, the more important this is for your sanity, and to help you feel less like an underpaid servant and more like the sassy teenager that is still lurking somewhere inside your bill-paying, car seat-purchasing, sleep-deprived self") or her regular almost-all-women's exercise class ("Sometimes someone comes up to me after class and wants to pay me, or otherwise do something lavish to show her gratitude. I tell her, she's already doing it, by inspiring me with her commitment...When my women show up, day in, day out, with their great attitudes and their great energy, they don't realize that that's their gift to me") or her parenting style ("[Excessively spending time with electronic pleasures] messes with your head, and I don't want it for my kids...So I say no. A lot. And tell me I don't feel like a shit mom when little Brody, who's been cooperative all day, has a meltdown in the afternoon and sobs miserably, 'I. Just. Want. My. Electronics'") or whether it's Kotb in her tome telling of her lifelong struggle to establish her own identity (I will always be asked [as this one "older black woman" did while Kotb was in a phone booth making a call during her early days as a television journalist, taking Kotb's face in both hands and looking into her eyes] 'What is you?' And while I'll proudly explain I'm Egyptian...again, the answer in my head will always be: I'm just me") or acknowledging her refreshingly non-high-minded, purely self-serving motivation for going into and staying in TV news ("Procrastinating to me is simply a way to create a time crunch...After I phone in a takeout food order, I'll stay at work as long as possible, then race home to my apartment to meet up with the delivery guy...[T]elevision news is the perfect career for me. I need to know that my work day has a start and a fight to the finish. I'm competitive, persistent, and not afraid to risk being the hero or the goat when airtime hits") or the near-overwhelming thrill she felt when the Today show's Fourth Hour hosted the always-and-forever-bootylicious Queen Bey ("When Beyonce walked into the room, [Kathie Lee and I] were blown away by her beauty and her presence. She's about 5 feet 7, but her red heels added several inches. She wore a gorgeous short dress, designed in her favorite color, red. She was a knockout. Her frame is sexy and solid and she carries herself with confidence around every curve...Her words were laced with a touch of Texas twang (Beyonce was born and raised in Houston). As her people began touching up her hair and makeup, all I could think was, There's absolutely nothing wrong with her! Bring that stuff over here!"). After reading these books, you effortlessly feel invigorated because you spent quality time with two insightful, funny, considerably observant ladies who have, to quote a line from the classic 1960s song, "looked at life from both sides now" and are bright enough and centered enough to retain the lessons such observing has taught them.             Also: Both Reece and Kotb conclude their tomes in grand style. The former closes by assuring her readers that should they choose to assume the role of "queens" of their household, "[y]ou will live interestingly ever after." And she ends her "Acknowledgements" section by lauding her hubby, the professional surfer Laird Hamilton: "I cherish the gift of knowing you, your love, and your partnership. Oh, and when our girls [their daughters] are difficult, I do blame you for those traits." The latter, for her part, ends her book with a forward that itself finishes with her naming her "special wooden box" inside of which is the "letter that lists the three most important traits in my man" and assures us readers that "there's a chance it will end up accidentally buried by books, an over-sized tote bag, a plaque, or other random crap." Kotb's own "Acknowledgements" portion winds up with a fond shout-out to her "co-author," Jane Lorenzini, "the most brilliant writer I have ever known...Your dad was right. It has been an adventure...Your name should be bigger on the [front] cover. Oh, well...next book."           During the 1980s, it was Barbra Streisand who famously crooned, concerning creativity:                                                     "The art of making art                                                     is putting it together, bit by bit,                                                      Beat by beat, part by part,                                                        Sheet by sheet, chart by chart,                                                              Track by track, bit by bit,                                                          Reel by reel, pout by pout,                                                      Stack by stack, snit by snit,                                                          Meal by meal, shout by shout,                                                              Deal by deal, spat by spat,                                                          Spiel by spiel, doubt by doubt.                                                      And that is the state of the art."           To read the books of Gabrielle Reece and Hoda Kotb is to bring about enormous gratitude that said authors--and their ghostwriters--took the time and the trouble to put them together, employing every "bit," "beat," "part," "sheet," "chart," "track," "bit," "reel," "pout," "stack," "snit," "meal," "shout," "deal," "spat," "spiel," and "doubt" so that "the state of their art" would make them such eminently satisfying reading experiences.