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
Have you, Interested Party, ever typed on one of those old IBM keyboards? The keys have the sweetest damned action. They have a weight and an energy to them. You're not just swatting letters like these new keyboards today with their fancy-schmancy “Windows” keys. It's this thing that's anchored to the world in all these fundamental ways. Anchored by gravity for one – it seems like it weighs eighty freaking pounds. But also it's just a hear-and-now kind of bond this keyboard holds to the earth – at least when you're pressing the keys. And you press these keys, Interested Party. You don't gesture at them. Force is required to type with them. Inertia is at work here. You press them and they, in turn, move worlds.
It's like playing the piano. It is something very tactile and relevant. You press some keys, which moves some levers, which moves these hammers, which moves a whole bunch of strings, and suddenly there's this big, beautiful thing happening. You are a part of something larger than yourself – but in a way that still manages to be a very personal. And suddenly God is in the processes as well as the details.
Damn, it's great being human.
When, exactly, does a bachelor party end? Is it when the groom-to-be finally passes out? Is it when all the drinking has stopped? When the last person's head crashes into a pillow, a rolled-up coat, or a hooker's armpit? Or does it officially end the next morning, when everyone is reliving the events of the prior night and lurking in the afterglow? I woke up this morning and lurked in it, Interested Party. You don't bask in this sort of afterglow. It's aura is a little too off-center and any movement you make is sort of like walking on eggshells.
The thing is, I wasn't even supposed to be here this weekend. I should've been at a wedding so far out of state that it's practically foreign. Instead I wind up at a bachelor-party -- thrown together at the last minute by Yours Truly – for another friend who's getting himself married.
We all started out the evening over at a friend's house to watch Oklahoma University kick the hell out of the Texas Longhorns on a big fat television set. See me here, Interested Party? This is me not giving a flying fuck about football. But it was a good excuse to sit around, drink, yell, and break things. During this game, a case of Coors Original, a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, a bottle of cheap vodka, and a well-fed bottle of good old american burbon were escorted to their respective destinies. This inspired several noteworthy activities, up to and including one of our number strapping on an accoustic guitar and playing it very badly up and down the street. While doing that little skipping thing that Angus Young fans will all recognize. He missed the third quarter of the game because of it, but he was happy to make the sacrifice for his adoring fans and neighbors.
The game ended and we loaded up with our designated drivers on an hour and a half trek to a restaurant that one of the guys swore was what sliced bread was the next best thing since. Buzzard was my driver – you've met him right? He's the source of all these clever little quotes I post under my blog title. We had a quiet, uneventful drive. For the rest of the guys, their trip was filled up with Event. One guy was slapped stupid by their designated driver because she didn't want to see him sans-pants. Eye-witnesses later reported to Yours Truly that, indeed, “the Fuck” was slapped from him. Apperently, a few miles later found him apologizing profusely, and then wanting to engage the offended (and as it turned out, the capably self-defended) female in matters of eternity. Did she by any chance happen to know whether or not he was going to hell? She had her opinions, I heard. Their conversation waxed theological right up to the parkinglot of the restaurant, where by the Damned Guy puked all over her car and promptly passed out.
Let's skip the details and go straight to the Things We Should Take Away From The Experience, shall we? There aren't many, so don't blink.
Regardless of how respectful and polite you are to them, it's hard for strippers to ply their shrewd trade upon you when you're picking fights with the bouncers. It would seem that their affections, while just as mercenary, are not nearly so negotiable.
If you're drunk enough that your waitress at the restaurant is encouraged to commit suicide, it's best not to consider what she's probably doing to – or in – your food.
Do not – do not – do not let Dave drink that much fucking vodka again. Or Scott. Not that you, Interested Party, know these guys – but if you ever meet up with them, just remember I said that.
When the guy who is the Crazy Assed Bastard When Drunk... You know -- the guy who always takes off his clothes and picks fights with people, places, and things regardless of their age, gender, or recommended octane rating... When he is the well-behaved one, it's time to go the fuck home. My God.
Windows XP is annoying the piss out of me, Interested Party. That's where the moment – this very moment – finds me. Being the discerning Interested Party that you are, I thought you'd want to know. I find myself inspired to seek out the anthropomorphic personification of Windows XP himself – whoever he is and wherever he may be lurking – and beat nine kinds of hell out of him. Which chould take me a while, since I've only ever discovered six kinds of hell thus far. Hear me growl? Hear me snarl, Interested Party?
But I digress... Also, this moment, I am listening to a carefully crafted playlist of MP3's – each selection chosen for the precise way in which it doesn't make me wistful in any way. What. So. Ever. I am eating some corn chips because I was too distracted to go out and buy actual groceries earlier. I am drinking Jim Beam, and as soon as I run out (this looks to be three swallows away) I'll be slightly more charming, and disasterously dependent on iced tea for the duration of the night. I really should spend more effort stocking the 'fridge.
Now I know you're wondering What The Hell tonight's post is going to be about. That's just like you. You're such a predictable Interested Party – but I don't mind. Not at all. See, the Rolling Stones' “Honky Tonk Women” just started playing here – so rest assured I'm happy about how close we've become. It's good for the relationship. If you were sitting here in the room with me right now I'd wink at you playfully, because we both know I'm a flirt. Well, unless you – Interested Party – are a guy. In which case, I'd invite you to prop up your feet along side mine.
Let's talk a bit about people. Sound good? We are a very interesting bunch of critters, after all. Oh, and damn the bad luck – ZZ-Top's “Legs” just cued up. Oh yeah, baby. It's one of Those Evenings. They require capital letters to properly introduce the words. Where were we...? People, right...
What is it that causes within us to stir such a thing as hope? I'm a big fan of hope. I have all the albums. Hope is such a great thing. Even when our hopes seem to have led us into the stumbling grounds and we've skinned our knees, we still hope. All of us. When we're confused and hurting and the pain's sharp and long anyway – we're hoping. If we didn't hope, the shit wouldn't hurt in the first place.
And it does hurt sometimes, right? We've all been hurt with the vaulable assistance of all the people, places, and things important to us. But still there's hope. There damn sure is. Hope may lead us into the stumbling grounds, and hope draws us through them to the other side. And the other side has one hell of a clear view. On the other side we're stronger. We're faster. We're better. Hope has the technology.
That's for all of us, my very dear Interested Party. We all have that in common and sooner or later we'll all need to remember that little tid-bit. Now go out, have yourself a hellaciously good weekend, and come back to see me later. And fear not, almost certainly I'll be talking about boobies again soon.
Interested Party, I know you're itching to know what the various things weighing upon my mind today are. I sense you squirming with curiousity. So here we go...
Last night I went through my seasonal weekly ritual of watching Angel with some friends of mine. We've been doing it for years now, though up until last year the ritual centered around Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Alas, Buffy is no longer with us – at least in any regular, commercial-interruption sort of way – and now the burden has fallen upon the spin-off series Angel. I don't feel ashamed to admit this, primarily for two reasons:
I watch TV just long enough to watch Angel... well, and Smallville too since it comes on right before. But that's it. I don't watch Comedy Central. I don't watch Friends. I don't watch Discovery Channel. I don't watch anything else. Ever. As far as Other Programming is concerned, I am fresh out of Give A Shit. If it doesn't fit into my DVD player, I don't watch it. So take your Survivor and stick it in your Queer Eyes For the Straight Guy before you, my fickle Interested Party, begin lecturing me on the stupidity of Angel. Am I touchy about it? Nope. I'm adamant, though.
It is quite possibly the most cleverly done, television serial-fiction available. If Sports Night were still around, I wouldn't make that statement so boldly. But it's not. Angel is. Joss Wheadon and the other folks on Team Angel have carefully built something really fun, and for an hour each week it gets piped into our televisions. Don't buy it? Try this on for size: last night's episode occurs whilst we Angel enthusiasts are still unsettled and slightly confused – see, Angel and his posse seem to have sold out to the bad-guys. We're left wondering if the show's taken a dramatic turn for the Bull Fucking Shit -- since it now seems that Angel's not the underdog we're used to rooting for. How's he going to thrill us by throwing a handy piece of scrap rebar through some guy's head, if he's busy running a multi-billion-dollar company? Team Angel has come through for us, and in a very tongue-in-cheek sort of way we see Angel kill a bad guy with a tea set. Two different times.
Oh, hell yeah.
If you, Interested Party that you are, want to know what else happened that fateful night I began describing in my last post, you're bound to be disappointed tonight. I'm not going to talk about it. While you might very well find the saga of Drunken Kyle gripping -- I damn sure wanted to grip him tightly and by the throat several times that night – the story lacks something. Breasts, in fact, and the people who have their own. Females are one of my favorite subjects upon which to contemplate. Not because I expect some day to understand women, I just like the exercise.
So let's talk about women some more, shall we? I am in exactly no danger of becoming sick of the topic any time soon. Why do women fret about the size of their breasts? Women are supposed to be smart, right? How come they don't understand that a man does not really, truly care how much water a woman's breasts would displaced if submerged? And who can possibly answer that question?
Not I, said the cat. Not I.
9:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m.
Somewhere in the vicinity of seven years back, I was cursing quietly in a front lawn at 4 in the morning, twenty miles or so from home. There's a duffle bag in the trunk of my car filled with puke. Next to me, one buddy is explaining why it is he should have his hand in another buddy's pocket. On the porch was another friend, shirtless, and asking furiously if anyone besides himself was ready to leave. What in the Jumped Up Hell, you ask?
It is time, Interested Party, for the very true story of The Time Scott And Kyle Decided To Talk Guitar Tablature Over Way Too Much Liquor. At least the first part of it, anyway. I’m certain that given the time I could come up with a appropriate title but, well, I don’t want to be bothered.
Myself and Kyle drove to Ada in search of Light Mischief. Light Mischief is, for those of you unfamiliar with the varying degrees of this entertainment, usually qualified as such by the lack of expense (and so naturally, by the lack of alcohol). In a collegetown (albeit a small one) this should’ve posed no serious problem. But alas we were a little restless and hard to please. Normally, those in search of Light Mischief aren’t overly particular about what exacly this sort of fun entails. Nothing epic, you know-- maybe just raid a water hazard in search of some rogue golf balls or perhaps catch a flick not involving a heavy topic. Maybe something 'laugh-out-loud-funny'.
However, this fateful evening our appetites for adventure over-reached our initial goal for the evening, which was this: That Kyle not be allowed to drink so much as one single solitary drop of alcohol. Not beer, not whisky, not even nyquil. Nothing. At all.
It’s not that Kyle is unable to hold his liquor. On the contrary, he can drink and drink and drink and drink before it overcomes him and he can no longer stay conscious. He just seems to feel the other effects of alcohol a little earlier than most people and plateaus there for most of the rest of his binge. Four beers and Kyle is a wild man. Twenty-six beers later, Kyle is still a wild man. Get it? No, the reason for we were in search of a non-alcoholic adventure is this: Kyle is notorious for becoming a complete and utter crazy-assed bastard when he is drunk.
Drunken-Kyle throws caution and all semblence of wisdom (and quite often all semblence of clothing) to the wind. The circle of friends to which Kyle and I are both a part can be easily coerced into telling the tale about how once upon a time, Drunken Kyle decided that his clothes were restricting his movment too much for him to properly demonstrate air-guitar techinque. So once he was completely naked and leaping from chair to chair preparing to play air-guitar, he seemed to realize that he was unable to find any actual air with which to play it. Being the improvosational entertainer that Captain Morgan wanted him to be that evening, Drunken Kyle used a certain part of his body only available to those of us with external genitalia and he played it instead of air. See now why he and I both decided it would be a good idea for him to avoid alcohol? Regardless, it was against all reason and sensibility we decided that adventure might be found at the residence of another friend of ours named Scott, who as it happened lived in Ada. And who at the time, as it happened, hadn’t been seen undeniably sober since before anyone knew who Bill Clinton even was. Not smart, but we were in our early twenties. So sue.
Anyway, when we arrived at Scott’s little den of iniquity we found him avidly watching the weather channel with his TV muted. During this phase of Scott's college career, he was always hoping to see some meteorological disaster happen to any region of the country containing an ex-girlfriend. We sat on the couch and explained the night’s goal a little bit before Scott began insisting that Kyle come into another room and investigate the latest Alice In Chains guitar tablature that he’d procured. Unable to resist the subject of actual guitars-- even when sober -- Kyle promptly agreed and the two left me watching some vaguely cute woman pantomime about various weather patterns that Oklahoma did not currently have. I became intrigued. She waved and pointed around a map of the mid-westthat excluded Oklahoma. She smiled coyly and motioned about the east coast. She gleefully impressed upon me all the silent, non-specificthings happening in the skies over the west coast. Let me now assure you that I was not intoxicated in any way whatsoever. I was just that monumentally bored, and quite frankly it’d been too long since I’d had an actual date.
Then Scott erupted back into the room with the look of drunken mischief in his eyes. Kyle cautiously walked behind him, giving me a look which confirmed that, yes, Scott was indeed drunk.
I asked what they’d been drinking and Scott replied that they’d been drinking Doctor Pepper and Jim Beam. I cursed Scott’s name and explained again to him that the mission tonight was to keep Kyle from drinking anything. Scott insisted that I relax, that Kyle didn’t drink all that much, and that we should maybe go rent a movie and watch it until he (Scott) could then fall into a drunken stupor, at which point Kyle and I could go ahead and leave.
“How much did you drink?” I asked Kyle.
He looked sheepishly at me and said, “More than I thought I was drinking. I’m starting to feel it a little bit.”
That, my Interested Party, is the sound of distant thunder well on it's way to becoming significantly less distant. Hear it? I damn sure didn't.
I love women. If you are one of those creatures, my sweet Interested Party, I soundly congratulate you. I applaud. You rock. Go, you. If you're not, why then pull up a sit-down and let us prop our feet up together in a few moments of appreciation, because, well, they rock. Go, them.
How in the Jumped Up Hell can they possibly be as strange to me as they are? They're just these people who walk by me every day. I'm related to tons of them, and as a matter of fact, exactly one-half of all my ancestors were (or still are) women. They don't have laser-vision. They don't have robotic appendages. They can't breathe underwater or fly. Or at least they can't do it without the same mechanical contrivances that would allow me to do the same. So what is it?
And where do I start? I'm a guy, so I could start with how they're upholstered so fucking well. Or how they smell – and not just the soap and perfume, but the smell of her. I don't just mean this in an erotic sense either – remember the smell of your mom, or maybe your favorite aunt when you were a kid?
Is it how they are fragile? Because if we're talking fragility in general, I'm inclined to say that men are far more breakable than women. Pain hurts worse, and the pieces don't seem like they fit back together as ably as those of a woman. Maybe this is because women live “in a man's world” and so they learn the ways people can't depend upon themselves – and how they simply must push on despite it. Maybe it's because women, being the socially-attentive creatures that they are, learn that they can depend upon other folks to take up the slack. Or maybe it's just because we men are pussies.
Still, I don't know a man who doesn't want to come to the defense of a woman facing something that needs a good killing. We want to be the protectors. We want to be heroic. Even though I've long-since discovered that a romantic relaitonship in which I primarily play the role of Hero is one doomed for disappointment for all parties involved, I still feel that tug occasionally to be heroic. Why? Maybe it's because part of us is worried that's the only reason women keep us around.
We know we're the reason manners got invented in the first place because we were too busy hitting one person, place, or thing with another one to put ourselves in our neighbor's shoes. We know we have the magical ability to do and say Exactly The Wrong Things with surgical precision. We know that without women, we'd have no reason to come home – and no home to come to for that matter.
But for some unknowable reason, women like us. They love us. They give birth to us. They raise us -- teach us to open doors and to wash behind our ears. They cause wonderful odors to erupt from kitchens, and they make us wipe our feet and wait our turn when we get there. Later on, women stir us in these other peculiar, unstoppable ways... It just doesn't end, does it? And still, men have no real understanding as to why it is that women would possibly want us around. We just count our blessings, or we take the whole issue for granted – and then we just run around being male.
It's a weird damned life, but it's not one I care to trade. Here's hoping you wouldn't either.
All right, Interested Party, I'm going to go ahead and put up a disclaimer-of-sorts here first. Why? Because this world is filled with people who make such an issue about racism – it's horrors and injustices – that I now live in a country where most people think of themselves as “American” only if they have a qualifier attatched. I'll be disappointed in you if you're one of these folks, my dear Interested Party. Like “Native” or “African” or “Homosexual”. I don't stomp through my day thinking of myself as an anything-American. Hell, most of the time I'm thinking of myself simply as Me. So before you get your boxers in a bunch, let me explain that I am not a “racist”. Anyone I dislike has earned it through individual skill, hard work, and dilligence.
Now let's talk about Indians. 'Round these parts, no one calls themselves Native Americans. Folks here call themselves Indians, and occasionally Wagon Burners in jest. I'm in Oklahoma – the Indian Territory. Specifically I live in the region known in some circles as the Chickasaw Nation. It's not a reservation. It looks just like every other part of the mid-west. I am not legally Indian. Those ancestors of mine who were forced onto the Trail of Tears were crafty enough to sneak out of the line before they were herded all the way into Oklahoma. In any case -- you name it and there's a stick or two of it in my genetic wood-pile.
I want to talk about Indian Crazy. Indians have their very own brand of crazy behavior. They're really philosophical about it. Matter of fact, Indians are philosophical about nearly everything – and it's a practical breed of philosophy. Indians are more at home, more comfortable in this philosophy than, I expect, any other group of folks anywhere – be they grouped by income, location, or ancestry. Indian philosophy is more or less this: If you decide that it is time to do something, then By God go and do it and don't be half-assed about it. This applies to work, keeping appointments, passion -- anything.
In case you, Interested Party, don't quite understand what I mean by Indian Crazy, let me explain. When a white girl goes crazy, she'll decide to break some basic social taboos, but some she'll keep. She might soundly curse someone up one side and down the other in a public place, but she'll still maintain enough discretion so that folks will just realize that she's angry and not legitimately insane.
When an Indian decides it's time to go crazy, they take the whole business seriously. If you decide it's about time to go Full Blown Gazelle Shit, then you do it with abandon – besides, if you're going to break one or two social norms, you might as well keep on breaking them until you run out of them and have to go home to rest. You don't worry about consequences while you're going Indian Crazy. When you're done and it's time to deal with the consequences, you just do it. And with no less focus than you defied them with.
Still, if you can't manage Indian Crazy, I don't recommend it. It's probably not the sort of thing you can just hop off into, like Yoga. Indian Crazy takes time. Indian Crazy takes effort.
I like finding answers to questions, but I also like the idea of not being comfortable enough with my answers that I quit looking.
I like reading a book about which I have no pre-concieved notions and finding it to be an incredible, moving read. Someone once told me it reminded them of unpacking your winter clothes and finding a long-forgotten twenty in one of your coat pockets. I also like that I could name every single book this has happened to me with.
I like being moved by something someone else says, or does, or writes, or sings, or otherwise expresses. And I like that the only common denominator between them all that I can find is that they are genuine and sincere.
I like a getting a letter from an old friend I haven't heard from in a while. It's like re-experiencing all the things about them that are a part of me.
I like it when I'm craning my neck for another glimpse of some girl I pass on the street and seeing that she's craning her neck right back at me.
I like those moments when I realize I'm really connecting with a girl without having to try. Feels a little like coming home. It's got Comfortable Shirt written all over it.
Speaking of shirts, I like my flannel, thermal-insulated plaid shirt. Damnation, it kicks ass.
I like it when after having been inside for a while, I go outside and behold a gorgeous day that's been patiently waiting on me to come out and pay it some attention.
I like it when I'm driving in traffic and someone let's me into their lane, or displays some other courtesy, and I'm suddenly reminded that I'm not surrounded by cars but by people.
I like seeing a girl on a date before she sees me -- when she's alone and wrapped up in her own things. I haven't had any influence on her yet, and she's as close to being herself as I can be certain of.
I like watching an entire litter of puppies wrestle around like a swarm.
I like sleeping in a cold room, but under a mound of quilts and comforters.