Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit
"I'm all about Truth, Justice, and the American Way, baby. And part of the American Way is macking on hotties." -- The Mighty Buzzard
AIM and Y!: dexcheque
Super Sister Raindrop Outlook
The Mighty Buzzard's
Here There Be
The goddess of, well, something I'm sure -- Genevieve's Ink Stain
The eye candy at Aristry Images
Other Groovine Stuff:
Where you can find Davemania!
Into the mind of Phases
Through a Glass, Darkly
How The Other Side Lives
and of course...
Why Being Human Kicks Ass
Stuff I Like To Keep Up With:
What's playing at the nearest theater to Yours Truly
The Deep And Abiding Wisdom of Yours Truly About:
The Temperment Of Being Sick
Proper Application Of Jealousy
The Appeal Of Wisdom
When Women Actually Come To The Rescue
The Refreshing Integrity Of Strippers
Relationship Sex Vs. Casual Sex
The Male Sex Drive
Types of Women
More About The Hosses
Good Old (well, still new) Tink
* Yours Truly
* More About Yours Truly
My arms are sore from a particularly strenuous day at work. I am on the wrong side of broke, because I spend more than I make even on particularly strenuous days at work. It is raining like the bottom has just fallen out of the sky, but the wind is blowing somewhere in the vicinity of sixty-to-seventy miles an hour – so at least all that rain hurts like hell while you're outside getting wet. However, my stark-raving Interested Party, I'm feeling fine.
Without a good book to wrap myself in. Without a guitar in my hands. Without the assistance of the illustrious Mr. Beam. Without some gorgeous little thing in my lap shrewdly applying her affections. Without the promise of a groovy weekend on the horizon. I'm feeling fine.
This, Interested Party, is because I am fine. Life is being imperfect at me, and Shit Happens like it's going out of style. And still, I'm fine.
Here's hoping that you're enjoying being you as much as I rather enjoy being me. Any more would probably be illegal.
Everytime I hear some tragic fool lament about how he is a nice guy, I cringe. They cry out, by ritual and rote, the sorrowful chant, “Nice Guys Finish Last”. God help you if you're one of these Nice Guys, Interested Party. Nice Guys do not, in fact, finish last. They don't finish at all. They're too busy pretending that they're too nice to be gnashing their teeth.
Many years back I considered myself one of these cats. That's right, Interested Party – I used to be a Nice Guy. So, you ask, what in the salted pits of hell happened? More than happy to tell you, my skeptical little Interested Party.
The Readers' Digest version is this: I went and caught genuine idealism, which led to genuinely wanting to be a better human being, which led to genuine self-examination. When you're ready to be honest with yourself and everyone else, the vinyl siding starts falling off your surface and exposes all the shoddy carpentry underneath. Turned out that all that time I was really a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool Sorry Bastard. And once that was out in the open, I discovered that I was a charming Sorry Bastard.
Being a charming Sorry Bastard – even one who actively fights against his Sorry Bastard tendencies -- is far more refreshing and, as it happens, more fun. Your thinking isn't as foggy. Your emotions are more distinct and true. You are more consistently and confidently yourself than you were when you had your head stuck up a Nice Guy's fictitious ass. You know it. Other people know it.
And some of these other people are women.
I hope, my Interested Party, that you're not under the impression that you are a Nice Guy. I assure you that you're not. You're not a Nice Guy, you're not a Tragic Poet, you're not the One Great Thing the girls will be kicking themselves in twenty years over having cast you aside. Regardless of how many times you've helped little old widows with their yard-work, or how many times you've provided a shoulder for someone to cry upon, or how many times you've sat alone and listened to some lame fucking easy-listening station.
Get to know yourself, Interested Nice Guy. Grab the Mag-lite of Introspection and go rooting around inside yourself. Dig out your inner Sorry Bastard, introduce him to your outer Nice Guy, and watch with joy and popcorn as your Nice Guy gets a mud-hole stomped in his passive-aggressively bitter ass.
Since you are my good old Interested Party -- and so, by default, interested – I'll tell you what I could use right now. Since this is about Me and Right Now, I'm not going to worry with issues such as world hunger or cures to cancer. This is a selfish list. If you can provide some of these, then by all means let me know. Remember that this isn't a Christmas list since Christmas isn't occurring right now.=
I could use a change of scenery. Not that I don't love this part of the world. I do. There's far too much of this incredible sky over your head and entirely too much ground under your feet for anyone to truly hate this place. The fucking geography can inspire and supports a person. To hate this place is to hate yourself. Since I'm a big fan of sky, ground, and myself, I couldn't hate this place even if I was inclined to. I want to soak in some Elsewhere. Any Elsewhere, I'm not that particular. Just so long as there is a certain measure of new when I get there – some variety. Just so long as there are at least occasionally some new faces. And, of course, so long as some of those new faces happen to belong to chicks. Places tend to be made better when women are around.
I could use a shave. Seriously. I haven't shaved in, like, two or three days. It's not a record or anything; not by a long shot. Specifically, I want a shave by a woman. It's like sex or a manicure in that you can do it by yourself, you can even pay to have someone else do it to you, but it's just not the same as a woman giving you that sort of intimate attention because she genuinely wants to. Talk about sexy.
I could use a tall glass of iced tea. One without so much as a passing acquaintance with any lemon or sweetener. Just a glass, tall and clear. Insert ice and tea. The end.
I could use an 80-degree evening and a hammock. The weather is still stubbornly being 52 degrees at me right now, and I am completely without a hammock. If I had a hammock, right now I'd just have to settle for looking out the window at it because it is just too damned cold.
I could use another glass of iced tea. So long as I first had the original glass of iced tea, that 80-degree evening, and the hammock. This is for reasons which should be plain to you, in the event that you've ever partaken of them before, my Interested Party.
I could use a woman who looks spectacular in jeans, aggressively sitting in my lap. Now, I know you're saying, “What does it matter how she looks in jeans if her jeans are busy sitting in your lap and out of sight?” I respond by reminding you that she's going to have to earn the lap privileges before she's allowed to sit. Come to think of it, she'd better be pretty damned charming too. The fun of having some gorgeous thing sitting in your lap -- as opposed to jumping right off into sex -- is the combination of flirting, conversation, the feel of her as she moves with every breath, the scent of her shampoo soaking into you, and trying to ignore how badly you want each other. For a little while, anyway.
I could use my favorite CD back and playing on my new speakers. My Temple of the Dog album was a casualty of the last break-up. Now, if I want a chick in my lap to hear All Night Thing, I'm going to have to get her get her out of my lap so that I can play and sing it myself. Damned shame about that, Interested Party. Damned shame.
I am, my adorable little Interested Party, in a Slow Burn sort of mood. Now, a Slow Burn can differ radically from person to person, from situation to situation. A Slow Burn fury could be a sort of frustration that, when left unattended for too damned long, will result in a swift kick to sticking door and then having to replace the hinges afterward. It might be the kind of passionate dislike that eventually gives way to quitting your job as loudly and cheerfully as possible.
A Slow Burn friendship, alternatively, might manifest in the form of a close friend with whom you were not close for years, but these days you'd be perfectly willing to toss someone into traffic for them. Or, for that matter, maybe even yourself. It could be that breed of friendship that never passes on regardless of how much distance or time is between you.
A Slow Burn romance could be one those strangely-quiet stretches in every relationship when things only look to the casual observer like you're in a rut, but really things are still hot to the touch. It may be something that goes on even after a break-up, once all the other intense emotions have quit crowding out the basic pangs for each other and the chemistry begins to bud again.
These aren't my Slow Burns – at least not the one I'm currently looking in the eye. Indistinct things are building up, but for what purpose I am uncertain. In times like these, logic may seem to indicate that I should grab a handful of familiar solutions and try them all out. See if one will fit.
You know: kick a door, call a friend, kiss an ex. Hell, I could even mix-and-match – call a door and kick a friend. Or kick someone into traffic while I kiss an ex into a door.
Every once in a great while, my good old Interested Party, I get to thinking. It just so happens that I'm equipped for it. Have my own brain and everything. What's more -- I can think while having external genitalia at the same time. And let's just see those XX-chromosomed people manage that.
Anyway, here is where today's thinking seems to lead. I'm starting to see some similarities between the fairer sex and your more jingly forms of legal tender. You got me, Interested Party: women and coined money.
For example, you occasionally see a quarter or a woman just sitting idly somewhere, and regardless of whether they're heads or tails -- you find yourself motivated to investigate the issue. Also, my Interested Party, it is illegal to flatten a woman or penny on a rail-road track.
Sometimes you find yourself infested with both. You'll be limping along under the weight of six hundred pounds in pocket-change and women swarming you at every turn – more of either than one man could possibly find a use for. During times like those, you find yourself taking them for granted.
But then, long about three days after you've paid all your bills, the women and the quarters all just vanish. The women are never at home when you call and the spare change has become decidedly more spare. Even when, in your desperation, you start tossing couch-cushions aside -- you can't find so much as one single, solitary semi-interesting blonde.
For that matter, it's a little curious how holding either a cold woman or coin in your hands will warm them up. Ba dum dum. Or, how grabbing hold of either with pair of Klein side-cutters will result in you winding up with pliers that aren't fit to use. Though, come to think of it, the coin will just cause the cutting-teeth to be gapped and blunt whereas the woman will cause them to be relocated up your ass.
Another similarity between women and coins -- occurring largely without note -- is one dealing with chaos. If you ever happen to be facing a tricky decision and you're willing to give a nod to the fates, you can either toss a coin or ask a woman. Either technique taps you directly into an unfathomable force of creation. Either technique could prove merciful or, alternatively, bring upon you hellish frustration and torment. There's a reason she's called Lady Luck.
See where thinking gets you?
The martins flew in to the lakehouse on saturday morning, right on schedule. If you don't know what it is you happen to be looking at, my Interested Party, your eyes breeze right on past them. Martins are plain-looking birds, really -- small and black and and only slightly fussy when you walk too close to where they've staked their claim. Folks who know martins though, they notice.
If you know martins, you spend a lot of effort maintaining your martin tenants. You don't just keep bird houses, oh no. You take them down and clean out all the old sparrow-nests before the martins come back. You might even want to leave them down until a day or two before the martins show up, especially if you aren't wanting the houses to have some vacancies.
Sparrows may seem like unassuming little winged rats, but rest assured – nothing about sparrows is unassuming aside from their boring color. They keep a filthy nest – jam packed with birdshit, sticks, string, dried mud, and even more birdshit. Martins, on the other hand, are incredibly loyal and conscientious tenants. They build unassuming little nests inside birdhouses which they then keep meticulously clean. They're always carrying birdshit off to dispose of away from their nests. They raise a couple of bunches of chicks, and then sometime in late July or early August, they take off, grabbing themselves some yonder.
Now I know what you're thinking, Interested Party. Why in the jumped up hell would anyone at all give a happy damn about a bunch of fucking birds? People who appreciate to some degree just how well they've got it, that's who.
For six months out of the year these people who live right on the lake never, ever worry about a single mosquito.
I got to the lake house in Texas late in the afternoon Friday and stayed until this morning. The place is fucking amazing. It was not like a little bit of the heavens had been plucked and shoe-horned it into a tiny region around a man-made lake – but it was like someone who'd really wished that it could be done went and gave it the old college try, at least.
If you're ever in serious need of getting yourself some Elsewhere, my good Old Interested Party, you could do far worse than find a place where folks keep up their martins.
Unless circumstances radically insert themselves in opposition, this weekend will find me well within the borders of the Republic of Texas. This, good old Interested Party, will do two very important things for me:
First, it will get me the hell out of town for a few days. Second, it will get me the hell out of town for a few days.
A couple of good friends of mine, as well as Yours Truly, are plotting to more-or-less stay within kicking distance of a fairly respectable fishing lake. We're expecting to do some fairly respectable damage to some rather notorious beer and whiskey. We're planning to stay up until Ungodly O'Clock in the morning playing and singing a respectable amount of music. And you never know, my Interested Party, we may just find ourselves disposed toward the finding of women folk who are equally disposed toward being found – and found respectably, or otherwise.
We fully intend to do all of this until such a time as we are ready to quit staying the hell out of town. At which point, we'll come back home. That's the real purpose of the trip, after all – simply to stretch our legs a bit, regardless of where it takes us.