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 am, as they say, Sicker'n A Wet Dog. Going on the third day. My throat is raw, like I've been gargling with road-gravel. My head is stopped up. I've spent the last two days constantly swinging back and forth from freezing to burning up. At least, though, my hair follicles aren't hurting – you start hating your fellow human beings for no reason when you get that sick.
I don't get ill, as a rule. So when I do get ill, I'm at a loss as to what, exactly, the proper behavior is. Well, plus I'm a guy – and we both know that guys tend to never be on the surest of ground where any sorts of proper behavior is concerned. Mostly I just sit and read a couple of books. Or lay around the house wishing like hell I could sleep.
There is something fundamentally sinister about any condition or circumstance which leaves you all this damned nap-time and no room to enjoy it. Don't disappoint me by saying this is all part of the logical progression of Being Sick, my old Interested Party. The only way this sort of thing can seem to make sense is if you were only halfway paying attention while someone was explaining it really fast. Illness was probably invented by someone in Human Resources.
Now, I don't know about you – but when I'm sick, I mostly want to be left alone. I don't want to talk. I don't want to listen. It's not that I mind company especially – just that I don't want the company to make any demands upon my person whatsoever. Like demanding that I be a good little patient for them to ply their chicken-noodle soup skills on.
My family and friends, kicking ass like they do, appreciate this. Buzzard comes over and we spend several hours not having to talk to one another. We're guys, so this is a natural state of things. My sister and brother-in-law stop by, just to make sure I'm not dying, and then they go on about their business as they should. Both my parents stop by to drop off juice and the like, and then right back out the door they go.
I'm especially grateful for the fact that no womenfolk have come over. Because it's been my experience that when any non-related women come by when you are sick – they expect you to be charming anyway. And when you're not, they will want to start fawning over you. They keep chanting all of those smarmy Oh You Poor Baby's. They start messing around with your pillow while you're using it. And finally, they will take offense when you finally ask them nicely to Please Just Go The Hell Away.
I think I'll go sit still in some other room of the house for a while now.
Do not confuse being Not At Work with Not Actually Working, my shifty little Interested Party. One is good for the soul, while the other just leads to this astounding lack of groceries. There are tons of aspects to this little contrast I could point out. They will, however, remain untold. Today anyway.
Why? Glad you asked, Interested Party. Because I'm tired of this new habit of mine, where I write about Something for an hour and end up deciding it's not worth the carpal tunnel it's probably going to be responsible for later. I'm going to tell you about saying Nothing.
Now, saying Nothing isn't quite as pointless as it sounds. It's not something stemming from apathy. And it's not some introverted reaction – we're not talking about sitting in the corner at a party pretending you had some place you'd rather be and eating all the nachos. Saying Nothing, see, has a lot to do with the aspect of communication that is well apart from the relaying of facts.
It's to do with connecting. Communicating is a very social endeavor, Interested Party. We do it to be connected with one another. You and I both know this stuff already, and still I'm telling you anyway. Because I'm connecting.
And you pay attention because you are connecting.
Someone, possibly famous, said something once – which is just like them. I won't bother with who, since I don't remember and since the fact of it might go against the grain of the subject here. They said, “We read to know we're not alone.” I suppose they might not have said it. They almost certainly said something though, because that's one of the things about folks who may or may not be famous. You can't shut them up.
If there is one thing you can say about Weebles, Interested Party, it is this: That they wobble, but they don't fall down. It is important to note that they do wobble. They are finite, fallible, and so they're ultimately wobbly.
But they don't fall down. In other words, they have this inherent quality of Getting The Fuck Over It. They have it in spades. Before Lego-men, before Star Wars, before G.I. Joe, before Transformers, before any other action figures – I played with Weebles.
You could kick them, drop them, throw them, or feed them to pets and they would still get over it. That's the great thing about Weebles, my old Interested Party – their inherent ability to Keep On Keeping On, despite any adversity this side of burying them in a sand-pile. There's a lot to be said for toys that simply and amazingly designed.
Hot Wheels, for example, are fine and good so long as you're keeping them off sentitive surfaces. And Legos are great until you leave one in the carpet and step on it bare-footed, at which point you'll be far too busy inventing all kinds of new and exciting phrases to want to play with them. Transformers are surprisingly clever unless you try to bend an autobot's arm the wrong way, after which he's got to change his name to Lefty. And Stretch Armstrong, while resilient, can't withstand the tests of being strung out down the entirety of the hallway -- not without springing a leak and needing to spend the rest of his days in the refrigerator just to keep his goosh from oozing out.
But Weebles, Interested Party, they just wobbled. Weebles were like the little Job's of the toy world. Beat their Weeble-houses into shards with a hammer and still, all that happened was a wobble. And the little guys never fell down. Ever.
They just don't make little kid sporting equipment like Weebles these days, do they? It's a damned shame. Now there are pokey-cards who, if they aren't able to display the right amount of super-monster-whatever-points, are totally screwed. The little dog Weeble could beat the thundering shit out of any deck of cards, regardless of how much money the cards cost.
You and I aren't not a card game. We're not intricately built toys. We're human beings, Interested Party, and we wobble.
This, my good old Interested Party, is some Kentucky straight bourbon. And this is a Camel cigarette. I am foolishly charming this evening. Disasterously charming -- despite the fact that my spell-checker is insisting that “disasterously” is not, in fact, a word.
It would seem that my spell-checker is ignorant and repellent. And while I have nothing at all against ignorance, I still hold charisma in measured respect. The damned spell-checker doesn't even bother being endearing. It assumes that I'm as ignorant as it is and this pisses me off.
It's like chick at a party who's convinced you appreciate her designer whatevers every bit as much as she hopes you do. She talks about nuances of fashion that probably don't even exist – and hopes to impress you to jump on the bandwagon shouting a good old-style Amen Sister.
Alas, my intrepid Interested Party, I don't care to give too much credence to a spell-checker that keeps shouting down words like “disasterously”. Hell, it doesn't even recognize “disasterous”. Which is absurd enough that I don't even remember what it is I was going to tell you about to begin with.
Sam Rami is an amazing cat. I've just seen Spiderman 2, compliments of my baby sister. She invited me along and all I had to do was buy my own popcorn. Sisters kick ass, Interested Party – when you're looking the other way and when you're looking right at them. Sisters like mine make you glad that you happen to be kin to someone, and it's a pleasure to be able to say that honestly.
Come to that, so do my folks. But that's neither here nor there...
During the first third of the movie, I was growing more and more disgusted. If it weren't for those manners-things that my mother insisted that I adhere to at an early age, I would've been shouting out ridicule through the whole damned movie. But I kept shut and kept watching, even though I was getting frustrated and disappointed.
And then, my Interested Party, it happened that I realized something during the scene where Doc Oc is in the operating room. I was suddenly watching a Sam Rami movie – and there is no Sam Rami movie in existence that takes itself too seriously. It invites you, as an audience, to enjoy ignorance and some stark What The Helledness while not shouting you down if you don't get the punchline.
I'm not going to advise you see the movie, so chill. If you dig Rami's stuff, you're likely to dig this flick. But if Evil Dead wasn't your cup of tea – if you didn't see the point of Army of Darkness and itched to ask for your five bucks back, then don't see the movie.
Ahem. Now, back to me, my Maker's Mark, my Camels, and my charm...
That's right, Interested Party. I've got a decidedly charming itch. Damned shame no one's here to ply it upon. No one who's name isn't Buzzard, anyway. He doesn't count, what with his not being an adorable chick and all. That takes up a lot of his time, now that I think about it.
I am, my patient little Interested Party, about to tell you about a magical form of rum. Now, as a guy, I typically take the solid position of Not Giving A Happy Damn about rum. Sure, it's fine for pirates – or any piratical activity in general. And pirates kick a little something called ass. I, however, still rank rum just above Root Canal in the list of Things I Prefer To Have In My Mouth. Rum-and-coke? Bah. That drink is for folks who don't know how to properly administer their liquor. And I like liquor, and I like juice, tea, and various soft drinks – but I'll be damned if I'm going to ruin any of them by mixing and matching.
Where was I? Right. I was voting a resounding Hell No on the rum ballot.
Until now. Some friends of mine just got back from Jamaica wielding a bottle of Appleton Estate Jamaica Rum, and they have been inclined to share it with Yours Truly. According to them, every drink is a mixed drink in Jamaica, and every mixed drink has a serious involvement with this breed of rum. If you were to take a premium bourbon – let's say Makers' Mark or Crown Royal – and somehow fashion it from sugarcane, this is the fucking drink you'd wind up with. I shit you not, Interested Party, this is the stuff of heroes. You can taste the oak barrel. You can feel the eye-patch.
I have consumed a mere four respectably-sized shots of Appleton Estate Jamaica Rum at this point, and I find myself monumentally charming. Dangerously charming. Charming like Cuchulain strutting before his betrothed, in fact. Think, my Interested Party, on the most appealing hedonistic night you've had in recent memory, and recall how incredibly charming you were. Now, multiply it by a factor of the largest number that comes to your adorably capable mind.
That's precisely Jack Shit next to how charming I am right now.
After a paltry four shots.
Go me, Interested Party. Go me -- with all of the sleek allure of a Greek god administering his whims and dimples and jawline upon some hapless mortal woman. Which reminds me – Why in the Jumped Up Hell am I telling you this when there's a perfectly serviceable hapless mortal woman in the next room?
Because I'm Appleton Estate Jamaica Rum Charming, my Interested Party. I can afford to put her off a little bit. I wonder if I can buy some of this here in the States?
To hell with giving speeches confidently by picturing your audience naked. It is far too distracting, especially when your audience involves someone you'd rather be seeing naked than giving the damned speech in the first place. If, on the other hand, your audience is actually naked – that is, if their nakedness has manifested from the realm of the potential and right on into the real – be sympathetic. Take your clothes off too. You might consider it a very fun case of When In Rome. Give a speech naked, in other words.
Giving a speech naked takes into account that your audience can see the precise, well, angle of your point of view. You, my Interested Party, are hiding nothing. Laying yourself bare. There's a certain integrity to that sort of endeavor. The kind of integrity that can't take itself too seriously either – so you're being genuine and true and endearingly silly at the same damned time.
And let's not forget the added bonus of having extra bits to assist you in emphatic gesturing you may be inclined to use.
A model, a photographer, and a Yours Truly walked into a studio. Insert Punchline Here. Well, my good old Interested Party, I finally got into a studio to help a couple of friends of mine with a groovine project. The photographer already has the pictures posted to her website – and in the event that you're curious, you can check out her skilled eye, my shaky body painting, and a very feminine back here. Look under Skin Art and bask in the glow, my old Interested Party.
This is not, however, what I've been doing to keep me so busy lately. Though, in the spirit of high-flying adventure, I am tempted to make up all sorts of interesting anecdotes involving myself and two chicks alone. In a studio. But alas, Interested Party, the real reason I haven't been posting much lately is two-fold, but as boring as the landscaping in hell.
First, I've been busy doing remarkably necessary things. Things which somehow seem to manage being necessarily unremarkable, except for the bits involving females, anyway. Even my socializing lately has mostly involved an element of necessity. Keeping busy as an excuse to be sociable – it's a lot like going on some church-mission trip to help paint a new sunday-school wing in Cancun. Mostly you just talk and get paint on yourself.
Again, except for bits involving certain female socialization. Because, sometimes you just want to be in Good Company, you know? It's like Chicken Soup For The Insanely Busy – only, well, not nearly so gay.
The second part of why I haven't been writing much is that Yours Truly is, very simply put, a slacker. Even when I feeling like a whirlwind of assholes and elbows, I'm still good at not actually getting things done. At least not all of the right things.
In essence, my fine old Interested Party, I've been being human.
Sometimes there just aren't enough curses and you just can't sigh deeply enough, Interested Party.
I don't know if you followed Stepherific's Blog-o-rific, or if you'd ever got the chance to chat her up, but she was an incredibly groovy chick. She always impressed the hell out of me with her smooth and funky train-of-thought writing – it was like taking little casual trips behind the eyes of someone who was genuine and comfortable and hilarious. I love being that impressed by folks and I rather wish it happened a bit more often.
There were shit-loads of times when I was sincerely moved by her writing. By her conversation. She could go from that cutesy little-girl rhetoric of hers right into a cocktail waitress's sense of humor – and then blend it right into something of surprising wisdom in a fucking heartbeat. She was a hell of a woman, Interested Party, and they are in short supply. Don't know about you, but I'm wavering between being really pissed off at nothing I can point a finger to and being very simply sad.
I consider it one of the true Damned Shames that I didn't know her in real life.