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
Damnation, sometimes I miss being wrapped up with a woman in one of those strange, comfortable relationships withwhich terms like “exclusive” and “girlfriend” coincide. Not to the extent that I intend to accept any run-of-the-mill applicant, mind you – but that sort of togetherness is filled to the brim with all these little moments and big moments that belong to no one but you. Well, and her too, obviously.
You know what I mean – sharing the sink while you both brush your teeth in the morning, even if there wasn't time for any of that groovy morning sex before you both got up. Standing next to her while you both listen to some stupid song and knowing exactly how much she's not impressed – not because she's said so, or because her body language suggests she would rather eat a sack full of broken glass – but because you are so used to listening to things with her ears in addition to your own. Being surprised by a woman who not only displays an apptitude for Knowing You So Well, but who furthermore manages to enjoy Knowing You So Well, too. Any surprise worth a two damns has to come from something like that, my faithful old Interested Party.
And the big things as well, you know? Recognizing a brief look of genuine panic as it flashes across the face of a woman, and finding that it's instantly contagious – because you know so completely that she's the sort of person who is rarely so obvious about being that rattled. Being able to share your losses and your victories with one another.
I still maintain that it's all about that great and terrible connection, Interested Party. In it's absence, I'll take the fleeting, unpredictable sort of connections. A kiss here, a fling there, and maybe a phone-call or two wedged somewhere in the middle.
The great and terrible connections, I find, are harder and harder to come by. And while that rarity ain't precisely a pleasant quality, I reckon it's a good quality. It means you're not inclined to settle. It means that you, despite any evidence to the contrary, are growing.
The old standards for exclusive relationships get higher – and the ex-girlfriends are the ones to thank. Good old ex-girlfriends, my Interested Party, bless their hearts.
If it weren't for them, how else would we have found out all these secrets about ourselves? How a smart, sexy girl finds us every bit as smart and sexy – and can't get too much of us any more than we can get too much of her. How much we can contribute to a woman's actual life, even when we're looking the other way – some entirely different person than ourselves who is every bit as capable in her own ways as we are in ours. And how so many of the little bits of her own life can feel as much like home to us as our own.
So, of course, the standards get higher. Finding a woman with whom you can connect gets more and more involved, because you keep finding more and more depths to the connections themselves. You keep on finding things that you're not going to settle for doing without in any future relationship. You become harder and harder to impress, but damnation when you do manage to be impressed, everything else just makes more damned sense. How much more it seems to mean when the little things happen with her – a simple gesture where she comes up behind you and wraps her arms around you and lays her head on your shoulder.
The trick, of course, to being harder to impress without becoming a Bitter Son Of A Bitch or an Utter Rotten Bastard is to keep learning to appreciate things that are smaller and smaller. These are the things you can appreciate regardless of how deep a connection you share with her. How a woman might tilt her head when she's smiling at you from the next check-out line over. How a chick holds her coffee cup when she's sitting across the cafe from you, just reading a paper and tuning out the rest of the world. How a chick stands after she's just realized that she's locked her keys in the car in the rain. How a chick's eyes might dance around when she's laughing about the crazy thing that happened at work last week.
Of course, I'm fresh out of little-things this weekend as it turns out. I should've had plenty of little things Friday night, and even more of them today. Alas, all the little-things called to cancel. At least, though, they all were thoughtful enough to call and cancel after they were already supposed to be here. Damned women.
So what's the point of all this rambling and carrying on? What an excellent question, my fine-feathered Interested Party. I'm not sure myself. Probably just some sort of mantra about how There's Risk In Little-Thing-Connections And In Big-And-Little-Thing-Connections. Which just fucking figures, doesn't it?
Here sits Yours Truly, a little curious as to why my batteries seem to be running low. It's Ungodly O'Clock in the morning, I'm sitting at this solid new computer desk of mine, and I seem to be listening to Elton John inspite of myself.
It's not the time, Interested Party. Granted, I usually turn into a pumkin at about midnight – but I still manage to get along anyway, all the time. That can't be the problem.
The next suspect would be this fancy desk. It's imposing. There's about an acre and a half of desk top spread out before me. I could play street hockey on the damned thing. Assuming I had roller-blades and furthermore knew how to use them, anyway. Specifically, the damned keyboard is now sitting at an angle to which I am unaccustomed. It's terminally cock-eyed, and it suddenly feels foreign.
And then we have Elton John. It would be easy to heap upon him the blame for my feeling like I'm running in circles – only slower with each revolution. Come on – you can't expect to wear shit like that and not serve as someone's scape-goat sooner or later, right? And all the tiny dancers in the world aren't inspiring me to pick up the pace. Maybe Revolution by the Beatles could pick things up. Maybe Etta James and B.B. King. Or some Ben Folds Five. Or some Goo Goo Dolls.
So the very last potential cause for my running down would, I suppose, be Inspite Of Myself. So this seems to be a promising lead, does it? You're such a shrewd and cunning Interested Party.
I'm restless and weary – and when that happens you start to feel like everything runs together. Like you're tracking your own foot-prints. Like you're just paraphrasing yourself. Which, given the pre-existing state of restlessness, only serves to make you frustrated. Which makes you want to kick your own ass. Which you'll do just as soon as you manage to catch up with yourself.
Or perhaps I could just benefit from an extremely well-placed night's sleep. Sure, it's not an original idea either – but I find the prospect of it remarkably fresh and new. This just illustrates how your state of mind affects your perception of order and pattern and one hell of a quilted comforter.
Leave it to a smart chick to make you get all introspective without your actually intending to, and then explain how some of the things you thought about yourself are, in fact, incorrect. And then to be able to produce air-tight logic to back her claims up. Stupid smart chicks.
Apparently, it turns out, that I am not a breast man. Which is to say, my Interested Party, that I'm not a guy who particularly ranks breasts amoung his favorite qualities of his favorite women. And here, I've been running all over hell's half acre for years thinking that I love tits.
See, my Interested Party, most of the time when you're talking to a smart chick, you find that by the end of the conversation, you're going to be asking more questions than providing answers to her questions. Hell, even when you have answers to the questions you don't say them so much as ask them. Yep, your answers themselves have question-marks insinuated behind them.
So, if I'm suddenly not a breast man, what sort of man am I? Am I still a leg/back/neck/ass man? And do I now have a particular type of woman I go for? Thus far I've been able to point to a few qualities in women that really turn me on, but I've considered myself without type preference -- Wild Chicks, Nice Chicks, Classy Chicks, Silly Chicks, Chicks Who Hate Being Called Chicks... you know the drill, Interested Party.
As it happens, I'm still a guy without a particular type – but it was touch-and-go there for a while. The lowest common denominators seem to be qualities like Intelligence Without Being Intellectual and Discerning Without Being Fussy. It's much like the sort of qualities I prefer in my friends – only with the odd additional aspect like Sexy As Hell.
Needless to say, I'm going to be better-prepared next time I go talking to any smart chicks -- regardless of how helpful they're being or how many stripper-friends they have failed to bring over to my house.
Sometimes it is very important to drive a nail. Life will be rolling right along just fine, when out of nowhere comes an Entire Lack Of Driven Nail which brings it all to a screeching halt. Or at least one of those startling power-slides which looked a lot better on Dukes of Hazard than from the driver's seat. Sure, you can side-step the issue of driving a nail, but it's always a lot more fucking work to do this. Let me give you an example, my Interested Party.
Let's say you have a hot date and you're gearing up for it, but you don't have a mirror mounted upon any likely surfaces in the house. If, my skeptical little Interested Party, you're finding this an unlikely scenario already, I'll help you out: Say you broke the mirror the day before – or, hell, all forty of them, if you happen to be a woman with low self-esteem – and you haven't yet administered replacements to those afore-mentioned likely surfaces. Which is to say that you haven't put up the forty new mirrors yet. That's an obscene amount of bad luck, actually. Damnit, quit side-tracking me.
Anyway, you could either drive a nail and hang the mirror on it, thus ending to the entire issue, or you could lean the new mirror up against the wall at an awkward angle and primp in front of it while trying to ignore the fact that you can suddenly see a remarkably unflattering view of your own nose. You're probably going to be paranoid. You're probably going to be self-conscious. You're probably going to be very late -- which is just as well, considering how likely it is that you're going to still be paranoid and self-conscious until you find yourself a suitable mirror elsewhere.
Damnation. Just thinking about it makes me hellaciously glad to be male. Not that I don't appreciate all the effort womenfolk put into themselves for our sake – it makes me feel a little fuzzy to think that women go through that just for us. Wait. I'm getting side-tracked again.
When all you had to do, my Interested Party, was drive a damned nail. It's like climbing a ladder to shout a lie when you could've just stood on the ground and hummed the truth.
See, nails are really simple machines. There's a pointy end that goes into things, and then a flat end that's very purpose is to not go through things. That's all there is to a nail. That's it.
You put the pointy end against any surface not as hard or brittle as the nail, and then you hit the end that's not pointy with a hammer. Or shoe. Or rock. Or, hell, shove it in with your thumb if you're feeling particularly mean enough. You don't coax a nail and you don't herd a nail. You drive it. Whack, whack and it's over.
You'll note, I hope, I'm now focused to the point that I made no additional innuendos about that last sentence. No jokes about fourteen-year-old boys and prostitutes. That's dedication, Interested Party.
Now, it may be that you're wondering just where I'm going with this. You may be thinking that there is some deeper truth involved. Some hidden meaning. Mostly, though, I just wanted to talk about something besides tits.
Don't you just really, really dig a good kiss? Damnation, Interested Party, so do I. Relax, I'm not going to carry on at-length about the same old bullshit. I shall endeavor only to carry on about it a little bit.
She was in the area and wanted to touch base, being as I haven't talked to her in weeks and weeks – something that has come about as a result of Poor Phone-number Management. Which, perhaps, I should devote more effort to in the future, and I know this already so shut up. Anyway, she's still looks like a million bucks – cute and sweet. And as sexy as the table-dancers of hell. She's still as fragile and practical as only a female can manage at the same time. She's not anything more than a woman with whom I have a few things, including attraction, in common. She's still one hell of an enthusiastic-kisser, though. There's a lot to be said for the kind of enthusiasm that screams, “I'm Glad To See You In Particular”. When you've gone a little too long without it, it sure can make a difference.
My God. That sort of affection cannot be duplicated in any other forum aside from direct, personal application. It does things for the ego that not much else can compete with either, Interested Party. Not without having your clothes ripped off by someone's teeth, anyway. She's got her life, you've got yours – and still she makes time to indulge in a hunger for your attention. For your hands on her back. In her hair. On the back of her neck. For your eyes to seek her.
These are Little Things in this context, my old Interested Party. I don't know about you, but as I get older I find myself more and more able to appreciate Little Things. How she presses herself against you when your hand moves down her back. The way she moves when she's breathing you in. All the ways she expresses exactly how much she wants you to kiss her, even while you're kissing her.
And still, I somehow manage to find myself harder to impress – on any level which stirs the desire for a relationship, I mean. On any level that inspires me to invest more of myself and my future. See, my future are exclusively mine. Yours belong only to you. And even if someone is really digging on us, we can't very well sacrifice ourselves and our futures just to satisfy our own ego.
The older I get and the more women I date – especially the more I date exclusively -- the higher my standards become. The harder I am to impress. The more qualities I find that I hold in high regard. To be appreciated. To be hungered for. To be considered as deserving of integrity and honesty. To be worth sharing themselves and their lives with. Regardless of any frustration and pain involved, I can say that every girlfriend I've had seems better suited to the Me Of The Time than the last. Sounds an awful lot like my discernment is getting better, and maybe it is. It lets me remain unjaded about any future relationships. At least so far as my reckoning can decipher.
Beyond that, Interested Party, there are these fickle Little Things. Enjoying the qualities in a woman that are worth being enjoyed and expecting no more from her than that. How her sense of humor pairs up with your own. How, with a kiss, she can manage to express a gratitude that you are nothing more or less than yourself.
And sometimes you're pleasantly surprised, but you're never disappointed, though.
Maintain no such illusion that men and women are equal, my groovy little Interested Party. If you're under the impression that they are, I suggest that you enroll in an anatomy class as soon as possible. Or, maybe just sit and watch some good old-fashioned hard-core porn. Insert Tab A Into Slot B action provides some excellent illustrations to my point. Chicks have bits that guys don't, and vice versa. And genitalia aside -- there are things that, as a rule, each gender is better equipped for than the other.
Women multi-task like nobody's business. They can Pay Attention to hundreds of little things all at once. Now, as to what they do with these details once they're done Paying Attention to them is anyone's guess. Wade into the unfathomable depths of the feminine intellect at your own risk, Interested Party.
While I am well aware that I Pay Attention – and Pay Attention well – I only manage to do it on one thing at a time. If I'm going to Pay Attention to a heap of seemingly-disjointed details, I'm going to need time to soak them all in one by one. Or else I'll have to back way up until I can they all seem connected. To partake in some of that Big Picture philosophy. It's how focusing works, see?
Trouble occurs when women Pay Attention to the fact that you're also able to Pay Attention, though. It's trecherous ground. Hellacious acrage. Dangerous turf. Rest assured this is the case. Walk with me here, and let me explain.
Usually, my Interested Party, women don't quite understand that just because you are capable of Paying Attention doesn't mean you are Paying Attention to the right things. Or to all of the things that they expect you to. Or to all the things that they're used to Paying Attention to their own sweet selves.
So here these women are. They're busy Paying Attention to all the ways you're not Paying Attention, knowing that they've seen you Paying Attention to stuff before, and assuming you're not doing it now out of sheer knuckle-headed-ness. And maybe you are to some degree -- but let's not forget that you're also ill-equipped.
People like their wisdom to seem exotic. They like it to have been imported from some obscure culture or geography -- anything that's not too familiar will do. This is because when you start looking around for a little wisdom to pin on your sleeve, the last thing you want to find is that you've been overlooking it in your own neighborhood. Wisdom is supposed to be great, right? The logic – understandable even if it is a little fucked up – is this: If things were already great where you were when you started looking for wisdom to begin with, then why in the hell would you have even bothered looking for it in the first place?
It saves us from having to kick our own asses for not having listened to the cranky old men drinking coffee and loitering on the benches in front of the Post Office. The ones who were right anyway. For not having listened to our mothers when they warned us about playing with matches. Or for not taking our fathers' word for it when they told us to whittle by pushing the cutting edge away from us. For ignoring our little, blue-haired praying grandmothers when they assured us, “God's watching out for you.”
No, no. People want their wisdom to look like there was some thinking involved in finding it. It's wisdom, right? You're supposed to have to search for it, according to rumor. And what better way to show you've been doing some hard thinking than to think about something no one else around seems to be thinking about.
It makes sense if you say it really fast, Interested Party.
It's interesting though, how even the mundane things can be wise without your taking notice. Or, for that matter, how people who qualify for the Most Absurd, Narrow-Minded Bastard position nearest to you can still manage to actually say something correct -- and correct in some tidal way which ties directly into Truth. And Truth, if you're doing a damned thing with that wisdom you've scoured your atlas in search of, is the point.
Regardless of when and where you first started out with wisdom though, my serene little Interested Party, it'll lead you to famliar places. You'll hear echos of it in greasy cafes. You'll see reflections of it in traffic. It'll sing out to you on the radio. You'll look up into the stars and see it wink down at you. You'll realize that wisdom's been talking your fool ear off the whole damned time, but you were too busy with all your thinking to notice. Wisdom ain't that hard to find once you're thirsty for it. Mostly you just have to get out of your damned own way.
Mondays will surprise you every once in a while. Any day of the week that will go through the trouble of having some adorable little brunette sit just outside your field of vision so that when you angle yourself for a better view, you discover that she's angling herself for a better view of you right back – any day of the week that'll see to it that this happens for you cannot possibly be all bad. Regardless of how questionable the structure in that last sentence was. So don't be a smart-ass.
She was outside basking in the sunshine which, as it happened, was shining upon her, her casually low-cut jeans, and her well-placed white t-shirt with much vigor. Dark hair, a slightly conspiratorial grin, and precisely the sort of curves you can hear whispering across a noisy damned room.
We both realized we caught each other trying to discreetly check one another out -- it's one of my favorite things about being male. I grinned. She grinned. I asked if she was enjoying the sun, despite the fact that she obviously was. She asked if I was enjoying my day.
I sure as hell was by then.
There are days, my deep little Interested Party, when you are more introspective. You seperate yourself from the rest of humanity to examine things – because when you really want to figure shit out, the last thing you need is the rest of humanity throwing in its two-cents. You're looking around inside yourself, and you're in the unique position to also be looking out. When you sit on the outside, you're more likely to see the Big Picture. The view is clear. You're more likely to be aware of the patterns throughout creation, in front of you. You can see order. Things make more sense. You can calculate how these reactions will result from those actions. In short, my Interested Party, you become more insightful about yourself. About everyone else too, for that matter.
There are days when you're more extroverted though. When that itch to connect to someone else – to be a part of something bigger than yourself – is too strong to be denied. We human beings are social critters, Interested Party – even those of us without tits. That itch, that drive, that desire – it's something entirely different than logic and shrewd insight. It's in your bones and in your blood. That's where all of those ancient instincts wait, taking their power-naps so that whenever they take a notion to make some noise it'll be harder for us to resist. Those instincts are a part of patterns as well, but they're way too busy being passionate to notice. They drive and coax. They reach out through our hands and make them move.
Just like anything so powerful, either one of these moods can be dangerous.
It doesn't matter how much insight you can pick up from sitting on your sweet ass, my Interested Party, if you never put yourself in the position to use it. That insight stagnates and sours. That sociable itch does not thrive on the logic squaring things up in your mind. Your instincts will start bucking and snorting in your blood and in your bones until that logic only seems to spell out all the ways in which you suck. All the ways in which the universe and everyone swimming within it are confusing and chaotic. The only pattern you'll be able to see is how it's all out to get you.
But you can't let your instincts do all your thinking for you either. Your mouth may be able to whiz through all the little calculations which can produce a coherent sentence -- but unless your head does some thinking for your mouth, you're wasting your damned breath. The situations you're immersed in, the people surrounding you – they can't do the thinking and processing for you. Your eyes need more than that. They're your eyes, Interested Party – and you are the only one riding along behind them.
There's a place in between these two states of existence, and we both wander through it from time to time. Even a savant-like autistic who seeks and sees patterns stacked on patterns will tread into the realm of humanity -- trying to be a part of something larger than themselves. And even Tarzan used his damned, ficitious head. There's probably not a trick to it at all, really. It's probably something that happens as a result of seeking the right kinds of balance.
In that spirit, I think I'll talk about breasts next time, if it's all the same to you. Breasts and the people who wield them.