ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Weston Ochse is a former intelligence officer and special operations soldier who has engaged enemy combatants, terrorists, narco smugglers, and human traffickers. His personal war stories include performing humanitarian operations over Bangladesh, being deployed to Afghanistan, and a near miss being cannibalized in Papua New Guinea. His fiction and non-fiction has been praised by USA Today, The Atlantic, The New York Post, The Financial Times of London, and Publishers Weekly. The American Library Association labeled him one of the Major Horror Authors of the 21st Century. His work has also won the Bram Stoker Award, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and won multiple New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards. A writer of more than 26 books in multiple genres, his military supernatural series SEAL Team 666 has been optioned to be a movie starring Dwayne Johnson. His military sci fi series, which starts with Grunt Life, has been praised for its PTSD-positive depiction of soldiers at peace and at war. Weston likes to be called a chaotic good paladin and challenges anyone to disagree. After all, no one can really stand a goody two-shoes lawful good character. They can be so annoying. It's so much more fun to be chaotic, even when you're striving to save the world. You can argue with him about this and other things online at Living Dangerously or on Facebook at Badasswriter. All content of this blog is copywrited by Weston Ochse.

Friday, July 20, 2012

My Homage to Batman-- Starring Julie Newmar, Wonder Woman, and my Puberty

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This has seen publication before, but on the evening of the new Batman movie, I couldn't stop thinking about Julie Newmar. So allow me, with a little bit of red face, to share this with you.


The Legend of Julie Newmar and
What Could Have Been with Wonder Woman
By Weston Ochse © 2007



So allow me to relay both my tale of Julie Newmar and my hypothesis as to what could have been with Wonder Woman, I'f only I might have had a driver's license, a car, and a way to drive from Tennessee to California. You might realize how much pre- and post-pubescent thought went into this. Many of you will understand why. For those of you who don't get it, move along. There's nothing to see here. Frankly, it's even a little embarrassing.

I believe that timing and placement are everything. How many times have you seen beautiful women with average dudes?  Beautiful women with ugly dudes?  And how many times have you walked away mystified, wondering what kind of drugs the dude was feeding the woman (and where could you get some)?  How could that be?  Not to over-simplify, but there is a great belief in circles, some of which I bang around in, that women care more about the way they are treated, what the man is thinking, and don't put as much weight upon the Brad Pitt-Sexy-Meter of their partner. Not that looks aren't as important, they aren't as much as the main attraction as they are with sexually heated bull men who generate more testosterone than brain cells. For those of you shaking your head, move along. There's nothing to see here.

Let's take Julie Newmar for example. She was the first and hottest Catwoman starring on the Bif Bop Pow Batman TV series with Burt Ward and Adam West. She was also a Playboy Bunny hopping along the Hefner trail. In the 60s and 70s she was about as hot as they came. Boys and priests, when they weren't lusting after each other, lusted after her. To put it simply, she was a sexpot.



The father of a (now ex) in law-type relative of mine who shall remain nameless told a story about one summer when he and four of his college pals made a road trip from Maine to California. When they got to Los Angeles, they partied, had major sex, a few drugs and lots of fun. A tidbit of information came to them, the tidbit being the address of the aforementioned Julie Newmar. Boys being boys, they decided that Julie's life would be empty without them, so they hopped in their car and trundled up the coast until they arrived at her ranch. As one ten-armed, ten-legged sex-hungry tongue-twisted teenage monster, they rushed to the door. And when the living breathing Ms. Catwoman herself answered, they could not have been more stunned. Four of the boys stammered and were unable to conjugate a greeting. The father of my in law had no such problem. Whether it was intelligence, a more elevated level of suave, or pure dumb fucking luck, he was able to clearly articulate a sentence beginning with "Hello, Ms. Newmar," and ending with "I'd love to help you around the yard today in exchange for a good meal and some conversation."  So while the other four were sent back to the minor leagues, this young man destined to be the father of an ex in-law proceeded to prove my idea of timing and placement. To this day the man will swear to you on a stack of silver age X-men Comics and a Gideon Bible from a Malibu hotel that his dessert after his home-cooked meal was none other than the tenderest parts of Ms. Newmar served up hot, rare and smoking. For those of you shaking your head, move along. There's nothing to see here.

You don't believe it?  Come on. Go to the mall and look around and ask yourself how some of those regular galoots get those beautiful babes. Time, placement and a good line will get you in the door. What you do after that is up to you.

What does Linda Carter have to do with all of this? Ponder this one my fellow denizens of the Dark Place. If you are like me, you spent part of your teen years ogling over her costume, praying to the gods of vertical hold that she'd explode right out of the red, white and blue material. Many nights I closed my eyes dreaming of being tied up with her rope and telling the truth. I think puberty makes you stupid, and the combination of puberty and Wonder Woman made me a fucking moron.

Then I grew up and found out that Linda Carter (unfortunately) spent her entire time playing Wonder Woman drunk off her star-spangled ass, allegedly willing to be with anyone, and everyone who'd take the time to say Hi, or I'm a Fan, or Knock Knock, Landshark. Volumes have been written about her now embarrassing exploits. Any of us could have made our dreams come true. Any one of us. It could have been me. That thirteen year old kid that I was had no sympathy for her. Like I told you, puberty made me a fucking moron.

So here's my hypothesis. Any man with brains, moderate looks and personality has a better than average chance of hooking up with any celebrity on the planet. It all comes down to timing and placement and a little luck.     

For those of you shaking your head, move along. There's nothing to see here.

Realize that I've accomplished the same thing. A guy like me got a girl like Yvonne Navarro. If that doesn't prove it, I don't know what does. 


For those of you who stayed till the end, thank you. Now dream about Julie Newmar. I know I still do.

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