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
Interested Party, it is eight-thirty-two in the evening. Eight-thirty-two is occurring at this very moment, and this very moment is just another one passing along into Friday Night. That's right -- I'm here, at home, writing in bare feet on a Friday Night.
I could be doing all sorts of things tonight. I should be doing all sorts of things tonight, in fact. I should be learning the lyrics to Louisiana 1927 – I heard it for the first time today, and after wondering how in the thundering hell I've gone this long without ever hearing it, I decided I must learn this song. It's fucking great.
I should be going to town on the painting I started the other night. So far it's strange and cloudy -- which has been a frequent mood of mine lately – and it's just now to the point where it's dry enough that I could bring a measure of stark form into the equation. I could be getting paint all over myself, all over the canvas, and probably even spill paint-thinner on the carpet – leaving a stain with a groovy little tale to tell future generations.
I should be working lyrics into the latest little tune I can't seem to keep away from my guitar's fret-board. It's a little folksy and occasionally a mite sad, but for some reason I can't quit playing the damned thing.
I should be sitting in the cold on the tailgate with a girl, eating cold pizza out of the box and drinking a few cold beers. She could be telling me about things that aren't especially important, except perhaps to her. Maybe she'd have a cat that only she seems to be able to appreciate. Maybe she'd wonder why it's been so damned long since she's been fishing. Who the hell knowsl, right? Well, my fine feathered Interested Party, I would just as soon as she told me.
As it stands, I'm sitting here at what is now eight-forty on a Friday Night, realizing that my toenails need trimming.
When you're with a woman, feeling the texture of her skin slide under your hands – her arms, her back, her neck – it's awfully damned hard to think about anything else. Like, say, why the drapes might be on fire. If you're a guy, Interested Party, they won't be your drapes of course. Blinds, maybe. But a flannel blanket and a couple of nails will do the same thing, plus cleaning them is far simpler. Anyway, when you're busy paying attention to a woman who's paying attention back, you're inclined to let the burning drapes Go Fuck Themselves. You don't care how they caught fire. You aren't worried with trivials such as How It Started or What Was It I Was Supposed To Do In Case Of Emergency, Again? That's if you bother noticing the fire at all.
I don't think women really understand the male sex drive. They have some idea, but by and large they're just familiar enough with it to invent the occasional good joke about it. Say this in front of women-folk and watch them tell you how much they love sex too. How much their sex-drive is like that of a guy. I read something once that guessed maybe one in twenty women really, truly understood the male sex drive. Maybe.
And these women who will swear that they know – they make up a shit-load more of the population than that. Here's a good litmus-test, to see just whether these women know whereof they speak: Are they smart – and furthermore, capable of being smart while being hot and bothered? If so, apologize to them, but assure them that they don't have a fucking clue about it. If you happen to be a woman, Interested Party, I can almost guarantee that my words here won't do justice to the reality of the male sex drive. Sorry, but you're probably just going to have keep on misunderstanding what it is I'm talking about. I'm not saying a woman's sex-drive is smaller than a man's. I am saying it's like comparing apples and carnivorous tomatoes.
When a guy gets revved up – really revved up – we lose our marbles. I'm not just talking about losing our marbles after some decent enough foreplay has been working on our attention span either. I'm talking about the basic lust that keeps going on unquenched -- and largely ignored -- as a matter of course. While you're at work trying to Get Shit Done. While you're driving. While you're cleaning the damned house. There it is, right along side you -- growing and gnawing and threatening to distract you away from being able to function fully.
If you're a guy, you know what I'm talking about. If you're a guy who's not in school any more, you almost certainly know how to deal with it. You think about sex, without really thinking about sex. You try not to think about it any more deeply than you would think through the process of walking across the room. And, regardless of what women think, most of the time it works. Otherwise, we'd never get anything done. At all. Ever.
Yeah, Interested Party, all that guys think about is sex – but we typically don't make a big deal about it in our heads. We tend not to encourage our thoughts to stray too deeply into that territory – because if we do, we lose our ability to focus on anything else. When puberty first hit us, we didn't have the slightest notion of how to think about sex without thinking about sex – which leds to our scrambling to find reasons why we couldn't stand up and go to homeroom for a little while.
We eventually learn – most of us – how to face the fact that we are going to think about sex whether we want to or not. So, if we're going to think about it, just think about it in the lightest, shallowest ways possible. Hey She's Got A Great Ass. Check Out The Rack On Her. And then we must move on. It's teaching yourself to deliberately not see the forest for the trees.
Being a member of the gender whose individuals are the most likely to have fun during any given sexual encounter does have its price. But hell, I'm a guy already – and I've been paying the piper since I was twelve or thirteen – so I'll just stick with the deal I've got. It makes a guy give all his attention to a woman when the sex is actually happening. It makes a guy appreciate it when a woman gives him her attention. It damned sure makes you enjoy women considerably more than they tend to enjoy one another.
I find myself in a kentucky burbon state of mind. There are, it must be noted, worse places to be.
There are those who will tell you, my curious little Interested Party, that kentucky straight sour mash is not the way to go. These people maintain, against all reason, that Tennessee Whiskey Is The Way To Go. They drink Jack Daniels, see. And they drink it on purpose.
Wire-brush In A Bottle. That's what Jack is. Any respectable sipping whiskey would have the decency to be smooth. Beam, for example. Or, in the event that you've entirely too much folding money in your posession, Crown Royal. I can socialize with the elloquent Mr. Beam and still manage to keep my preternatural charm under control, but if I happen to partake of the Crown... well, I've a nasty habit of being entirely too charming when I'm under royal advisement.
But I didn't mean to offer a treatsie on preferable whiskey. You're an intelligent Interested Party, and I have faith that you'll eventually find yourself in agreement with me on those issues.
I have spent the last several minutes not painting -- as I had earlier intended -- but rather analyzing and ranking the Best Movie Fight Scenes Of All Time Damnit with the Mighty Buzzard. Here, for your appreciation, are the findings of Yours Truly and Buzz.
#5 Darth Maul gets his ass handed to him. Yeah, okay, I know. It happens during second most questionable judgement-calls George Lucas ever made, but still. It is far and away the best lightsabre fight imaginable. If you crave a fight with ridiculously fictional weapons, accept no substitute.
#4 Every Jackie Chan Movie Ever Made. Ever made. Even his brief fight in Cannonball Run. The man simply understands showmanship.
#3 “Festus, you're a Yank!” In a little movie called Donovan's Reef, John Wayne fights a crafy Lee Marvin as well as the Australian Navy with nothing but an extra playing the role of Festus – an uncredited actor named Chuck Roberson -- at his side. My God, the carnage is clever and beautiful.
#2 The clay-slide in McLintock! Ranchers versus farmers on a fifty-foot clay-slide. Stir in a pinch of Maureen O'Hara with a hat-pin and an old Indian constantly asking where the whiskey is. Fighting could not possibly be more fun if it involved all of the Laker Girls. If it seems cliché, it's only because this was the first of it's kind. Everything since is just a poor copy. Without Maureen O'Hara.
#1 The end of The Quiet Man. Okay, so you've noticed how John Wayne seems to be getting credit for the top three spots have you? Well, if you haven't seen The Quiet Man, just kill yourself now. There has simply never been a better movie made, nor a more intriguing fight-scene ever devised.
There are people on this earth, Interested Party, who must be dating someone. At all times. We both know folks like that. They can't stand the idea of being without someone else – anyone else. Hell, you might be one yourself. I, however, am not.
I do miss certain aspects of being half of a couple though. I miss the Crazy that any woman I'm exclusive with brings to a relationship. Now, I'm not talking about general and sundry craziness that accompanies every human being on the planet – especially those estrogen-packing creatures known as women – no, no. And I don't mean the kind of crazy that goes hand-in-hand with casually eating the wall-paper. I mean the Crazy coming from someone else that just works with you so well when you're together. It's Magically New and yet it's a little bit Comfortable -- your Crazy and her Crazy functioning as a well-oiled machine.
Or, if you prefer, well-lubed.
Of course, you shouldn't forget, my flighty old Interested Party, that Crazy is still crazy. Her Crazy is no exception. And neither is yours, no matter how much you don't have tits.. Crazy will, on occasion, still rebel against reason and dignity and decency. But when you're partaking of Crazy like that, you find that there is a remarkably Low Drama-Threshold. Her Crazy fits too well with your Crazy for there to be much more than brief, occasional skids. And what little bit of drama there is usually passes unnoticed by you both, because your own Crazy takes up the slack when her Crazy gets out of hand. And vice versa.
See, Crazy brings some interesting things to the table that you wouldn't normally get to enjoy. Crazy can turn a boring-assed trip to the post office into a comfortable little adventure. Crazy can distract you away from procrastinating – making you genuinely want to do something that you genuinely don't want to do.
This makes sense when you're up to your sack in Crazy.
A woman's back just kills me, but in that damnation-that's-good-stuff way. The lines involved are absolutely, one hundred percent, feminine. A quality female back cannot possibly be mistaken for, say, a 1979 Ford LTD. Something about how her shoulders sweep down and inward to her waist, and then out again around her hips just fascinates me. The way the small of her back winds through the middle of it all. The way her neck and her legs sort of blend together, in one sleek shape.
A woman's profile – the way her forehead suddenly turns into the bridge of her nose. A woman's brow is not the same as a man's, I promsie you that -- regardless of how little attention she's given recently to Responsible Eye-brow Management. Her nose and upper lip and lower lip and chin are all part of this singular form that just screams Here Lies Unsurpassed Tenderness Or Malice: Choose Wisely. Her eyelids and lashes taking on all the texture of satin and velvet. How her hair lays over her ear. Fuck.
I don't know about you, Interested Party, but I could sit for hours watching a chick who's asleep. It's the best time to watch one without her being self-conscious. She's not worried about her posture. She's not preening. She's not worried I'm going to hate her nose. When she's asleep I can stare and soak in all the little details about her that define how feminine she is. Damn, that's good stuff.
And it's been way too damned long.
Sincerity is something I value in social interaction and entertainment. It impresses me more than anything else, I reckon. When I find myself moved by a book or a movie or a song or a sentence, it's because I detect a measure of sincerity coming forth somehow in it's content -- regardless of whether or not its nature is funny, sweet, angry, sexy, or just plain incorrect. When I find myself impressively moved by a family member or a friend or a woman or even a complete stranger in line next to me at Subway – again, it's the sincerity that's mostly responsible. It doesn't matter nearly as much to me whether their opinions are screwy or that they're not very articulate if they're being sincere while they're doing it.
Sincerity, my Interested Party, kicks ass. That sense that some things are exactly as you percieve them to be. That someone else – be they artist, compadre, or passerby – has to deal with life around them just like you and I. It's a very fundamental sort of evidence that neither one of us are alone, see? And that's a big deal.
Strippers, for example, can be wonderfully sincere. They're there to make a shit-load of money and hopefully to have a good time while doing it. For the most part, they're not bashful about this. That kind of candidly mercenary disposition can be awfully refreshing – especially after you've been dealing with attention from women who have not been sincere. That's why I won't shout down the guys who sit right down front on Pervert Row every night with fifteen one-dollar-bills in their teeth.
The downside, of course, to strip clubs is that you are intentionally getting yourself all revved up without any sort of resolution to the issue. Hell, you don't issue at all – which is my point. It's a museum of Unnatural Boobies. Look, but no touching. It's the same with watching porn. Sure, there's a lot of appealing things happening in porn, but they're not really doing you any good, are they? My solution to these two situations is to take a woman with you to the strip club, and to only watch porn with a woman in your lap. That's right, Interested Party, bring your own activity-partner. If you're having as good a time as you were hoping to when you started either activity, in pretty short order your activity-partner will almost certainly be the only thing you're paying attention.
But then there's lesbian porn. The allure of lesbians makes sense to me because of Guy-Math. My problem with lesbian porn is that there isn't an actual money shot. You can never quite certain how much fun those lesbians are really having. In other porn, when you see a money shot there can be no doubt in your mind that there's at least one person on the set who is genuinely glad to be there. With Lesbian porn, you just never know.
And I'm a slave to sincerity.
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.