Let’s just have a little fun with this column today, OK?

Sometimes it takes a person a lifetime to accept his or her true mission in life, the purpose for which we were placed on this earth. Such acknowledgment comes with a price, of course, and the decision is seldom entirely our own … but it must be honored nonetheless.

For instance, I could never be another Superman who, even in his early years on this planet, was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I’ve noticed that, in later years, he was even able to change directions in mid-leap, and to cross the Atlantic Ocean with one jump as well!  But I deplore his consistent attitude in ignoring the obvious ties between himself and his colleague, Lois Lane. Come to think of it, Superman was awfully close to a young lad on the staff of The Daily Planet. That isn’t my style.

On the other hand, neither could I replicate Batman, although I’m sure I would have felt perfectly at home behind the controls of the Batmobile. As with Superman, I simply question his choice of an apparent teenage lad as his constant companion.  Hmmm. 

No, my place in life has been illustrated throughout the years in these columns. The evidence is clear. While I have been associated with many aspects of living on this planet, my experiences have been minor in scope and — with the possible exception of frequent appearances in a white suit — are mostly confined to relatively small towns.   

But, from this day forward, my secret identity will be feared wherever corrupt politicians gather to plot their nefarious schemes! I shall be known, henceforth, as — cue the trumpets, please, with two of them playing in harmony — Crotchetyman!

My costume will be simple — my old London Fog trench coat with its belt tightly drawn across my rock-hard midsection and the oversize length of it dangling, attractively, from the buckle.  There will be no hat, only my silver locks waving, wantonly in the breeze. One of my old pipes from 40 years ago will once again be clenched tightly between my teeth at a jaunty angle. In a determined and forceful manner, I shall go forth to fight for justice and fiscal responsibility and, when I ponder a seemingly difficult criminal conundrum, my bi-focal glasses will be pushed up onto my forehead, which will appear slightly wrinkled in concentration. The forehead, not the glasses.

All that is needed is a suitable means of transportation. While it would not break any speed records, the dashing styling of my old 1952 MG TD sports car would have served nicely to instill fear in miscreants but, sadly, automobiles such as that are no longer available.  I say this sadly, with moisture beginning to pollute my eyes, as I, regretfully, relate that my own automotive treasure became the victim of a collapsing garage roof during the 1962 Columbus Day windstorm.

Thus, shall I fight crime and malfeasance, wherever it might take me, in my current 1992 Chevrolet S10 pickup truck with a crew cab and well over 196,000 miles on the odometer — but with reasonably new tires. Beware, you perverted practitioners of iniquity, beware. You have had fair warning.  Crochetyman is not to be trifled with.

 

 

•••

Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.

 

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