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
I have myself a new mission, my good old Interested Party. It's not one of those Grand Life's Work missions. It's not a We Have To Keep The Germans From Taking This Bridge sort of mission. It's not even a Mission Statement sort of a thing.
It's more like a Hey What A Cool Damned Notion, I Can't Wait To Do It breed of mission – which is scarcely a mission at all. It's more like, well, a cool damned notion that I can't wait to do. Anyway, Interested Party, I want to draw and paint a woman.
Not draw or paint the image of a woman, understand. I want to draw or paint on a woman. Pen curious and tiny design-work all down her back. Up her legs. Around her arms. Maybe paint a mural on her with acrylics. Like a tattoo, only not nearly so durable and with far fewer holes jabbed into her. It's not original – but really, my warm and willing Interested Party, what is?
Upon finding a suitable canvas, I'll spend the day with her. The specifics of the day aren't all that important, by my calculations. Just so long as the two of us are there. Being ourselves and getting to know little bits and pieces of one another.
I won't worry with what I'm going to draw or paint. Or where. As the evening sets in I'll bring her back here -- and while we're still shooting the proverbial shit, I'll start on an arm perhaps. It'll probably start out simple – tiny vague doodlings. But by the time we've built up a good head of steam, it'll already be a fairly good representation of a day the two of us spent. I'll let my hands do the thinking and designing as we go along.
Your hands can do a respectable amount of thinking by themselves, when they get the chance. They'll swat mosquitoes you weren't even paying attention to. They'll catch a ball right out of the air – and toss it back before you've even realized what they've done. They barely even ask permission to do these things, sometimes. And your hands can damned sure blot and stroke ink while your attention is busy with other things – winding little bits of chaos into an actual pattern. A pattern belonging to only two people, for the duration of it's very temporary life.
Now, all I need is a well-upholstered canvas.
The index and middle fingers on my left hand hurt like hell, Interested Party. Tink and I had ourselves a nice little get-together and while I did use a cotton rope – I did not, in fact, wear gloves. Tink is not broke to a lead-rope, see.
She loves me to death – it is remarkably like those cute little crushes that little girls have on much older cousins. She adores me, she follows me, she harasses me. Really though, her affection is more because she's been imprinted to me. Since the day she was born, I've been a fundamental part of Tink's universe. I am part of the Way Things Should Be. Frequently a part bearing Good Things To Eat.
I am not a real horseman, Interested Party, and I'm damned sure not a cowboy. The only thing I can say in favor of wearing wrangler jeans is that they somehow manage to protect the lads better than levis when you're riding. Anyway, what I am is a very capable slacker with a self-centered, affectionately mercenary colt. The last time Tink had a halter and lead-rope on her was on the twentieth of June. One week after Tink was born. One week after Friday the Thirteenth. It was easier that time – she was brand-spanking-new so she wasn't sure whether or not this was the Way Things Should Be. Plus, well, let's not forget the most important factor back then: I was a lot fucking bigger than she was.
Anyway, my Interested Party, today I put a halter and lead-rope on her again. She was intensely curious about the whole game, since she couldn't quite figure out which parts were actually good to eat. Then, Interested Party, I pulled the slack out of the rope and suddenly the Rodeo, as they say, Was On. It degenerated into a wrestling match.
Tink came unglued – she was hopping, twisting, trying to spin. Meanwhile I was trying to keep myself positioned so that she could neither pull the rope out of my hands nor get any slack. Only, like I said – I'm no horseman. A horseman would have thought to wear gloves.
The rope went burning right out of my hands and Tink took immediate advantage of her new freedom flopping heavily onto her side and then getting her front legs tangled up into the pen's pipe fencing. In a moment, she was going to panic even worse and start flailing, try to get up, and possibly break one or both legs in the process so I did the only thing I could think of to calm her crazy ass down – I tackled her head and pinned it to the ground.
Of course, I whispered sweet nothings into her ear too – because if you're going to tackle any female's head you'd better be awfully damned charming about the whole affair. You'd better make fast with the compliments and the sweet-talk, Interested Party, so they know they aren't in genuine trouble. My uncle and my dad ran over and disassembled the pen fence so they could get her loose, by which time she was calmly laying there relaxing to the breathless crooning of Yours Truly.
So, in the aftermath, Tink hopped up and instantly started trying to figure out which of my hands or pockets I was hiding the goodies in. Whereas I am just wondering how long it'll take for my fingerprints to grow back.
And, because life has a respectably ironic sense of irony, when you least expect it one of those things you'd rather be doing on a Friday night happens -- and will happen to be wearing great perfume and a truly remarkable pair of jeans. Which is why a person can't genuinely hate a friday night.
Let me assure you that there are quietly amazing women tonight, who have a Good Thing Going. And it ain't, as they say, you. Or me. Put on your boogie shoes, Interested Party. With a little bit of luck, we'll be strutting in them soon.
Amazing women, Interested party. Women you know personally. Women with talents and values and passions and outlooks that make the world in general a far better place be – not just spend the weekend – and these women have lives they are leading which do not, in any way, involve either one of us. Women who still have great things to do and superb people to be. Women who have, or will have, guys who fit capabaly and effectively into their universes. And these guys will not be either one of us.
When facing this reality, my Interested Party, do not make the mistake of letting your ego do the reacting for you. Your ego will whisper harsh things into your ear. Your ego will point out all of their faults while not mentioning a single one of your own. Why is this? Because it's your ego. That's it's job. Not to tell flat-out lies, but definitely to withhold certain facts.
The point is you've got groovy things to do too -- and groovy folks with which to do them. There's precisely no reason to be bitter when things don't flow the way you'd rather expected they would. Life's chock full of expectations, and expectations are notorious for souring in rather short order. What do you expect? Now go ahead and be sad – just don't fool yourself into being faux-sad. Into being sad for them or for reality or fate. Be legitimately sad for yourself for not having held the clarity to have seen any of it coming.
I'm reckon myself to be an individual with a disasterously successful sort of charm and sensibility. It allows me to enjoy and appreciate exceptional company. It may very well be responsible for my having met and dated some exceptional women – and exceptional women kick a lot of ass, Interested Party. Their abilities, their loyalty – even the way they man-handle their own eyebrows can greatly assist your appreciation of exactly how much ass they do, in fact, kick.
That's right, I appear to be in one of Those Moods again. It's been a while, hasn't it? And on another Friday At Home, no less.
Rest assured there are other things I'd rather be doing on a Friday night.
Camel filters? Check. Trusty zippo? Check. Exhaustion? Check. Nip of amber corn squeezings? Check. Tesla, five-man-accoustical-jamming Goodbye Paradise? Sure, why in hell not. Pondering the nature of sexual Chemistry? Three guesses, Interested Party.
Chemistry brings some kind of glamour into the stark personal reality of the fact that someone you dig happens to dig you too. It's common-ground, only with far more bells and whistles. Fireworks. Everything that happens in the middle of Chemistry happens with abruptness. Up to, and including, the desire to lick her fully into fits. It's all sharp. The smells and the sounds and the textures -- all of it. Even during a long-assed ride to take her home.
It's not your basic common-ground. It's common-ground with accessories. The accessories of one of the most basic drives of the species. The same desire that led your ancestors, for farther back than you could count them, to bring about you – that same urge is along for the ride too. You, Interested Party, are the result of a very long line of successful -- and similar – desire. Which means that you've come by your appreciation of sexual Chemistry honestly.
It doesn't matter how much else you have in common, see? It doesn't matter how much they agree with every fiber of their being that The Doors was overrated. It doesn't matter how many of the same books the two of you love. It doesn't matter how many times she's taken the words right out of your mouth. Without that Chemistry, she's just good company. Without Chemistry so are you.
With Good Chemistry, however, even the stupid shit you say when your wit has taken an abrupt leave of absence can add to the fun. You can both laugh your asses clean off, and do it without losing your rythym. Good Chemistry covers a multitude of faults. It disguises them, so you don't notice how they chaffe for quite a while. Still...
It may be, Interested Party, that Good Company is something you hold dear. It's understandable – since there's a lot to be said for Good Company. It's got a hell of a shelf-life, for one. But if one of the things said about Good Company is not, “Hey I want to make you squeal” -- you don't want it to progress any farther. I've tried it before, and it's a wash. It's as much a waste of Good Company as it is of passion to even try.
I could, my Interested Party, tell you all the ways in which my day was Not That Bad. I could mention, for example, the plot a friend of mine had to come by today and pay attention to me in any number of ways. It is a Glass Is Half-Full sort of statement.
But then, in the interest of full disclosure, I'd almost certainly have to mention how her conspiracy failed entirely, since I didn't get off work early enough for her to still have time to come over and be sociable. She's busy. I'm busy. But, alas, we didn't get any of our busy together. I am painfully well-traveled in the waters of Bad Damned Timing. I know every current and reef, Interested Party – enough so that this could easily turn into a treatsie on the tragic subject.
Or instead, I could bring up the two adorable little things I flirted lightly with at work. Each of them fall into the category of Cuter Than A Pet Coon. The difference between cute and hot, by the way, is in how satisfied you are to be interacting with them regardless of how many clothes they have on.
But again, there's that whole full-disclosure beast, rearing it's ugly head. Anyway, we were all just being a little playful – playing Twenty Questions. Rather, they were playing Twenty Questions and I, my old Interested Party, was merely answering them with passable charm. And then, out of nowhere, they innocently assured me that They Have Lots Of Single Friends I Should Meet. And thus the Glass Became Half-Empty.
I know what you're thinking, Interested Party. Had I asked either of them to lend me money? Had I kicked a dent in one of their cars? Had I run over their dog? Had I pissed all over their desks? Had I asked either of them how much they weighed, and then looked skeptically no matter what they answered? The answer to these questions is the same. No, my indignant little Interested Party, I most assuredly had not. When I realized I was expected to respond to this revelation of theirs, I inquired as to whether or not these Single Friends I Should Meet happened to dance for the Laker Girls. I was asked if this was a stipulation -- and so as to not seem a complete bastard, I replied that it was not a stipulation so much as a passionate curiosity.
Damnation. Not that I won't flirt with the two cute things tomorrow, mind you. Assuming I make it by to do some follow-up work, I mean.
But at least the weather this evening manifested itself in the form of millions of frozen, high-velocity, pea-sized avatars. The sky went from patch-work blue to overcast to light rain to heavy rain to mean assed hail within about a fifteen minute period, once again reminding me just how volatile April in Oklahoma can be. And just in case you happen to be curious, when hail is taking its business seriously -- it hurts. Right about then it occurred to Yours Truly that sometimes the Glass Isn't Half-Anything. Sometimes the bottom shatters out of the damned thing and spills shit all over your lap, Interested Party.
So at this point, I could go on and on and on about any number of tragedies. I could talk about Flirting Ettiquitte. I could talk about the dangers of Blind Dates -- and I'm sorely tempted. Hell, I could talk about Tuesdays in Wednesdays' clothing.
And instead I've just bitched in a very self-involved fashion. Okay, so I'm usually carrying on in a self-involved fashion -- but at least I generally bother to be more interesting than this when I do it. I'll just sit in the dark and growl for a while.
I once saw the band Kansas perform. Remember Kansas, my old Interested Party? At all? I bring up Kansas for two reasons. The first is that I was suddenly reminded of them when Alanis Morrisette's Uninvited just kicked up on the stereo just about three and a half minutes ago – a song I heard Kansas do during that show. To this day I have no idea just who is doing a cover of whose. Or did they, by some astronomically mystifying coincidence, both happen to write the same damned song? You just never know.
The second reason, closely bound to the first, is that I'm just following my train of thought and seeing where it takes me. Trains of thought can be a blast, Interested Party. -- your noggin trundling along an path, the order of which makes perfect sense to you and you alone. Usually, anyway.
It is kind of groovy in some fundamental way though, when you're sitting quietly alongside someone you're on the same wave-length with, each of you rattling along your own personal trains of thought, and suddenly they break the silence by saying something completely on track with what you were thinking. You know what I mean? You start to trace back how it is you wound up arriving to your own current mental geography and realize that there were a full eighteen different stops between what you're thinking about now and what you were talking about with the other party ten minutes ago. So how in the Candy-striped Gates of Hell did they wind up getting to the same thought?
Part of it probably has to do with the nature of humanity. Thoughts are contagious, but that's not exactly what I'm talking about. If thoughts are contagious, hopping from person to person, so too are ways of thought. Not just the big things like mathematics or philosophy or Sliced Bread, either. The little ones too – the little ways we look at things. We breathe these things in and they try and find a hold. If they're strong enough, efficient enough, they might mutate a bit to fit their current host – but they do grow. Otherwise the thoughts and ways of thinking just shrivel and die. Maybe because the host wasn't ready; maybe because the ideas weren't strong enough to cut the proverbial mustard. Happens all the time, my old Interested Party.
So then if these things are communicable, then socialization – ways we interact with one another – is the contaminated fountain. The dirty toilet seat. The shared cutlery. Here we are, connecting with one another – each of us altering our behavior in subtle ways in order to accommodate each other. Even when we're being decidedly unaccommodating. Finding some sort of common ground from which to relate to each other – it makes communication so much more efficient that way. We are a social species, after all, so this is just natural. Then we find ourselves surprised when someone suggests, completely out of the blue, clear sky, that you both go get some grilled-cheese sandwiches moments after you were idly wondering why it's been so damned long since you've had one.
When you alter your behavior, you alter. You're just a little changed. They wind up a little changed. Suddenly that's something else you have in common – both of you are finding your way through common ground so you can interact better. And you're both doing it without actually thinking about it. Once you're up to your fun bits in common ground, you can start picking up on all this other groovy stuff -- the communication between you is vastly more efficient. It's getting a full eighty miles per gallon. This allows you to utilize incredibly subtle levels of interaction that you could never have achieved before. If you don't believe it, Interested Party, just try being ironic in a language you're only vaguely competent in.
Damn, it's fascinating how we function together, isn't it? Even when everyone's got all their clothes on.
At the moment, my parched little Interested Party, I am being serviced by the ministrations of our friend Mr. Beam. He's not a friend. A friend looks after your best interests. No, no – Beam is more like an attorney. He does what you want and he does it because you paid for it. He completes his task utterly without conscience – a quality you want both in an attorney and a sour mash bourbon.
Anyway, this moment finds itself nestled snugly among the first minutes of a Thursday – which is quite possibly the best invention of Western Civilization. Sure, lego's kick fundamental amounts of ass, and so do John Wayne movies – but don't forget, Interested Party, these things came to pass after the invention of Thursdays. Fuck sliced bread in the neck, I say. Thursdays are the standard to which all later inventions should be compared.
You have, no doubt, noticed my enthusiasm for All Things Thursday-esque. And it may happen that you are curious about it, Interested Party, so I'll sing some praises. You know, just in case you're not well-versed.
Thursdays, by nature, are satisfying. They don't have the hopelessness of a Monday and they maintain none of the pressure of a Friday. And Thursdays are as far from Tuesdays -- at least in spirit -- as a day of the week can possibly be.
Now, assuming you aren't a student of the behaviors of weekdays, you're probably wondering what kind of pressure Fridays could possibly exert. Think about it, Interested Party. Fridays are the beginning of the Weekend. The Weekend. If your Friday is bad, so too, will your Friday Night be. And that is half of your weekend festivities, since you only have one other evening during which you might fully enjoy being the gender you were blessed with. Thursdays have a whopping none of this pressure – while still managing to not be a Monday or a Tuesday.
And as for any personal reasons for adoring Thursdays, I suppose I could provide a few details. Humor me and let's play a little game called It Was On A Thursday.
It Was On A Thursday when I fell madly in love for the first time. As it turns out, it happened just after, of all things, a telephone conversation with this adorable little tom-boy – you know, when you're more inclined to be introspective.
It Was On A Thursday that three of my list Top Five Best Sex Ever happened. They all occurred completely without planning – and this has a great deal to do with the intrinsic qualities of Thursdays. For that matter, It Was On A Thursday when I suffered the only two heart-breaks that I've ever had to muddle through – but that's just it: Thursdays are the best day for surprises of any sort, see? If the surprise is pleasant in nature, it fits right into the scheme of Thursdays. And if it's a surprise more ill in nature, well, at least your weekend isn't completely screwed -- you've still got plenty of time for whiskey.
That, my Interested Party, is a thoughtful day of the week if ever there was one. It makes me wonder just what this one will have in store when I wake up in several hours. Of course, I won't get around to doing it if I don't get some sleep. So with that I say Good Night.