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
It is well within the realm of possibility that you don't quite understand how it is I started with Truth being, as they say, Gooder'n Snuff and ended up with the early conveniences of ancient human beings. This is because I wasn't finished yet, damnit. Chill thine own ass out, my enlightened little Interested Party.
Right now, I'm sorely tempted to offer a quick segue into People With Breasts, but I don't want to get too distracted. The seeking of Truth is a precarious enterprise at best – and even the tiniest perky rack gets in the way, it's awfully damned hard to find your place again. Truth is not much of a party trick, which is why you can't really play Five Card Stud with it. At least not and expect it to get you laid. Truth, see, is the kinda thing that'll be there for you even once you're well past getting laid.
Ancient humans were extremely used to making everything else work to their advantage. Plants? Poke their seeds into the ground instead of just spitting them out -- and quicker than you can say, “Ala Peanut-butter Sandwiches”, you don't have to search for wild grain the next time you want to make bread. Animals? Keep enough food for them around, and they'll stay close enough to you that you don't have to chase them all over Christ's forty acres the next time you want steak. We have, as a species, been making the best of our situation for a long damned time. And because of the hollistic nature of Truth, these are extremely relevant points.
Or I could, Interested Party, talk about women. The type of women who can dance like their spines weren't made of vertebrae so much some strange compound made of I'm At Least This Much Fun and a healthy side-portion of In The Sack. I could talk about the preferences and habits of such women. Or hell, my faithful old Interested Party, I could talk about a single woman – the kind who can dance like all that and who would still be fun to sit across the room from while you're both reading different books on a lazy Sunday morning. Good Company too, in other words.
Now which do you suppose, my Interested Party, is stealing the focus from Yours Truly even as we speak?
You know me so damned well. Maybe I should keep talking about Truth tomorrow, just so you won't think I'm becoming disappointingly predictable. Well, that and so I can actually seem coherent.
Truth is a great thing. Actually, it transcends great – and probably out of habit. The only drawback is that it sometimes tastes a lot like shit. Truth is similar to spinach in that regard, my old Interested Party -- only it's good for the whole individual instead of just good for the bits you're using to beat nine kinds of hell out of Bluto. Trying to understand the basics of How Everything Works And Incidentally Where Do I Fit Into It All is not always a pleasant journey. Every school of science, every theological dogma, every philosophical question, even your 1099 E-Z – they all attempt to deal with that simple Truth. Hell, all those things were one-and-the-same if you trace their origins far enough back. Truth will leave a bad taste in your mouth now and then, but -- assuming you don't spit it out and reach for the brownies instead -- it's well worth chewing on and digesting.
Of course Truth kicks ass. If it didn't, humanity would've hit it's high-water mark when we first figured out how great banging rocks together over the top of dried leaves could provide something to back up to in the morning to warm our cold cave-dwelling asses.. It would've been our low-water mark too, come to think of it.
Behold, ancient man – and naturally, ancient woman waggling so capably right in front of him: There we were, suddenly harnessing something we'd been scared shitless of before – fire. We were playing with fire which led to a much greater range of habitat – now we could go anywhere we wanted regardless of whether or not we'd forgot to pack our coats. We could now alter creation and make it fit us.
Let me pause here so that we can avoid certain potential difficulties, Interested Party. It may be that you're an adamant Evolutionist or Creationist. I find very little genuine difference between the two. Man-from-dust is the Reader's Digest version of evolution so far as I can tell. And to cover the other side of the coin, I didn't come from a monkey personally, I originally came from Houston – and a personal journey well away from either of these is damned sure worth bragging about. Equally so, I reckon. If you, my funny little Interested Party, are inclined to argue one way or the other I strongly suggest you find a far more relevant cause to champion. One that involves terms like Here and Now.
Where were we? Altering our environment, right. This is a fantastic thing to be able to do when you aren't satisfied with your proximity to the food-chain. And hujman beings don't just want to be at the top -- no, nno -- we want to be as far removed from such crude things as possible. Which is why the Green Party has such a great following. But being as we are native to planet earth, we are all very naturally disposed toward membership in the food-chain -- but even us critters at the top of it still don't like the worry involved. So humans, clearly the most successful at Eating Other Things, didn't stop with swinging blunt instruments at lower ranking Food Chain creatures. We wanted distance between ourselves and the nearest contenders. Fire wasn't the complete solution, granted -- but it was a damned fine start.
The neanderthals were doing it too – playing with fire. They may have even stolen the notion of Burning Shit For One's Own Benefit from us. But they left it at that. Pointy sticks and fire was all they had going for them, which is probably why we put them completely out of business. Or, possibly, bred them out. Who knows, right?
Whereas our ancestors were not satisfied with cool party tricks like fire and things-to-jab-into-other-things. We were inclined to figure out why things worked the way they did. Why we worked the way we did. For that fancy new understanding of How Everything Works.
I expect that just as soon as we'd find some neat, new way of manipulating the universe and making it our bitch, we'd also discover all sorts of nifty spare time. Efficiency. We'd only have extra time on our hands for a while, anyway – being as one of the problems with Efficiency is that it's only efficient until you discover that now you've got to do maintenance on it.
Perhaps I'll talk more about my calculations on the nature of Truth tomorrow. Or the day after. As much as I hate to end the topic here today -- I'd really, really hate to post a thousand-page essay on the subject. Though, I guess even a thousand pages couldn't begin to do it justice.
Right now, my good old Interested Party, I'd bite a goldfish's tail off for some excellent company in the form of a quietly beautiful woman. Maybe someone I don't know as well as I wish I did. I want to sit and listen -- barely talking at all. That's all. Just listen.
I'm don't want to feel like I'm expected to talk. I'm tired from not getting the right things said; not getting them said enough. I'm tired from wishing my Internal Editor was taking better care of my mouth. I'm just a little tired of talking right now.
Things are groovy, and things are as anti-groovy as can be. This phenomenon seems rare, but this is because it's only possible for those of us who are alive. Welcome to Planet Earth, may I take your order? The planet is saturated with women, Interested Party. They're everywhere you look, smelling all good at you, laughing, crying, being at peace and losing sleep. That's people in general though -- except for the smelling good part, often enough. Guys only do that with passing interest.
I'm not thinking much about all those women though. I'm not really giving much thought to the cute lass who smiled at me when I was paying for my gasoline earlier. I'm not spending a lot of thought on the girls I'll probably make a point to run into again during the coming week. My noggin is orbiting only two women, like a wobbly planet in a binary star system. These women are the Big Two. The Heavy Hitters. These two women seem remarkably similar when you watch them from a distance, but up close they don't look the same at all. They're both clever and classy. They're both adorable and silly. They're both beautiful stars to behold – the sort of women who seem to grow more and more stunning the more you actually watch them. The more you are actually with them.
They are, both of them, everything feminine -- basically and simply represented. And still so complicated as to not be reproduced. Even by each other. One of them is absolute poetry in motion – grace and reason, and if you dance with her long enough you begin to sense more of a cosmic order to Things In General. One is sexy and volatile –- Passion Incarnate, and you only thought you knew how much a woman was before she came along.
You've got to love women like that, Interested Party. They're why you appreciate women in all those ways that don't involve a cry of “Mother”. For all the frailty they have and manage to bring out in men, women like these are why all your male ancestors even bothered.
It may be that you're itching to know who these women are, my curious little Interested Party. Find your own. See, the thing is -- every woman is someone's Heavy Hitter. If you happen to be a woman, accept the fact that there are guys who enjoy being male more because of you. Hell, let it boost your ego. It is groovy.
Learn to wear the mantle graciously though. Remember that it's a fleeting title you hold. See, Interested Party, my own Heavy Hitters are simply amazing creatures. The kind of women guys want to write epics about. The sort guys want to paint over and over again. The variety guys want to sing songs about... but when it comes down to it, they are still only women. Which makes them only human. Which makes them the same as Yours Truly.
Sure, because of them I learned there are, in existence, women of surprising character and unknowable strength and acres of appeal who will want you personally – and that's a hell of a gift to be able to take away from a relationship. And it makes for great damned memories. But, Interested Party, there will come a day when even all the delicious things our Heavy Hitters mean to us are completely over-shadowed. Burned away by a chick who will fit us so damned well that it makes all the pain and loss we found at the hands of our wonderful Heavy Hitters nothing but a vague footnote in our own history.
I love my Heavy Hitters and I wouldn't trade them for the world, but I expect their appeal will lessen. Their stark features will fade in the memory and maybe all that'll be left are the ways in which you became a better person because of them. Seems shameful and ungroovy, doesn't it?
It is not a surprise that no one has ever bothered to invent a perfume that smells like tequila. It tastes like deep-fried ass, and the only way sane people can drink it is with enough salt and citrus to cut through the spine-waggling flavor. Don't disappoint me by asking how it is that I know what deep-fried ass tastes like, Interested Party – it's beneath you. Tequila is only as good as the feminine company next to you who is drinking it.
Tequila is, in my experience, dependably appealing in one – and only one – aspect. If a chick you're with is in a tequila mood, it is because she fully and deliberately intends to get Buck Wild. She doesn't just intend to have sex – oh no – she intends to have the kind of wild, coarse, tangled fun that most women seem to enjoy only when they can blame an outside force afterward. Tequila Made Me Do It. It's as sure a sign as the tried and true female mantra of I'm In Such A Weird Mood Tonight -- only with the tequila excuse, she gets to be more aggressive. Granted, some chicks are like that with rum, some with vodka, and some with wine – but even these seem to hit the tequila when they are serious about their evening's festivities.
It has usually been my habit to simply let a girl blame the tequila. If that's what she wants to pretend when she feels that very real itch to climbing around her bones, it's so much easier to just go along. Still, Interested Party, it's a shame that some chicks reckon the only way they can cut loose while avoiding the stigma of Loose Woman is to keep something handy to blame.
I don't find fault with them any more than I find fault with myself when I cut loose. It comes about as a direct result of Intellectual Honesty, my old Interested Party. If you find yourself inappropriately naked, Interested Party, there is no one to blame but yourself. You are the one who decides to leave your clothes laying in the front yard, and you're the one who'll have to take responsibility. You're the one who'll have to knock on the neighbor's door and ask for the pants that his dog dragged home.
And after you know her well enough that she's fairly certain you understand she'll be perfectly willing to accept the responsibility of getting her own damned pants back – once she knows you aren't disposed toward assuming her fundamental character doesn't involve words like Two Dollar Whore – she'll mellow out with the tequila. Oh, she'll still get in the mood for it every now and then, but she eventually gets to the point where she can feel that trusty old itch during dinner, and with a wink and a crooked grin attack you without winning a hangover the next day.
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.