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






Yet Another Tedious...





Me: Jefferson
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AIM and Y!: dexcheque






Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit





   

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Shameless (And, I Assure You, Worthy) Plugs:
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

Dr. God's
Waxing Sociologic
Katriana's
Waxing Theologic


Other Groovine Stuff:


The Raging Capitalist
Inaudible Refrain
HopelessWonder
Fallen
Chris's Noodleshop
Xaos Rising
Siren's Song
Where you can find Davemania!
Into the mind of Phases
Stepherific's Blog-o-rific
Through a Glass, Darkly
The Occasional
Hatshepsut
Illusion
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



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The Deep And Abiding Wisdom of Yours Truly About:
Mediocrity
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The Temperment Of Being Sick
Proper Application Of Jealousy
Tequila
The Appeal Of Wisdom
When Women Actually Come To The Rescue
The Refreshing Integrity Of Strippers
Guy Math
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The Male Sex Drive
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Types of Women
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The Hosses
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Good Old (well, still new) Tink


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Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Rambling About Folks With Breasts

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.



Posted at 07:29 pm by soapwort
Comments (7)

Saturday, October 04, 2003
Indian Tid Bit

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.




Posted at 04:42 am by soapwort
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Thursday, October 02, 2003
Thing 'Bout Me. Uh, again.

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.




Posted at 11:38 am by soapwort
Comments (4)

Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Thing 'bout me

How much do I rock? Just enough, just enough.

Posted at 11:25 pm by soapwort
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Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Definition of What Cats Aren't

Cats are creatures of edges, and I think that's the thing that attracts the majority of the cat folk. It is the only thing cats are consistent about.

They exist on the edge of total complacency and passionate psychopathy. One moment they are dead asleep, and the next they are wildly defying every rule of logic and gravity in order to savage the curtains. They remain upon the edge between utter egomania and unpredictable affection. They are mercenary, only in a foreign kind of way that never quite makes sense to anyone else.

Oh yeah, they're territorial. Cats are all about borders, in so far as they need something definite to defend with righteous indignation and then, when they're done, to strut boldly beyond. Cats are like little, furry Frank Sinatras. They saunter along through creation doing things their way, because consequences happen to other people.

They're like big, furry paradoxes. They are a particle and they are a wave. And if you took one from Schrodinger and stuck it in a box, when you finally looked inside to see how alive it wasn't, the cat'd be whichever option you were rooting against.

I love the idea of cats. It's good to know that something as chaotic and still as definite as a woman can simply be, without necessarily being female. That women don't have the market cornered on edges. That there are things that escape definition to the point that you can only describe them successfully by pointing out what they're not. It makes the world more interesting to know that there are such things as cats.

And I'm still going to see just how incredibly far I can kick one of those pointy-eared stray bastards the very next time it chooses to go a'courting under my bedroom window at four in the morning.




Posted at 03:25 pm by soapwort
Comments (10)

Wounded Ego

Okay, Interested Party, riddle me this. Why is it that I've got a modestly respectable rating on Hotornot.com (1731 people can't be wrong, can they?) and a lot lower one on FaceTheJury?? I mean, I use the same picture on both. It is – and let me be clear on this point – a picture of me. I'm pretty damned good-looking, or at least I've always thought so. I'm sporting a striking jaw-line, a bad-assed nose (in case you, Interested Party, are a woman and inclined notice that sort of thing), and my stylin' overalls with Texas A&M cap! My ass, which I have been assured represents the pinnacle of quality buttocks, isn't in the picture. But still...

My delicate ego is bruised. It is, after all, made of eggshell. How come I'm not raking in the big numbers, damnit? Growl, snarl, growl. I am left to suppose that the women of choice and taste frequent Hotornot.com and vote me a ten. Hint, hint. Clue, clue.




Posted at 01:16 pm by soapwort
Comments (3)

Monday, September 29, 2003
Thing About Dogs

I've just read an article about pets that said, “Remember, dogs are not people in disguise -- they're wolves in disguise.” I don't simply disagree. I find fault with the statement. I find it backwards, inattentive, and irresponsible.

Of course, the ancestors of dogs are wolves. But I hold that in just as real a way, humans are their ancestors too. I don't mean in the literal sense. Sicko. Look at this with me, Interested Party, for here is what I see...

Historians have long held the notion that the first dogs were wolves domesticated by early man to help out with the hunt. As if the first guy to do it was out hunting with his buddies one day and discovered some wolf pups after having killed the adults – then said to himself, “Hey, aren't these little guys cute? Why don't we quit competeing with wolves and teach these pups to hunt with us instead?” I have my doubts about that, unless he then added something like, “And by the way, someone catch my eyeballs – they've just drifted out of my head – but first pass me more mushrooms.” No, I expect the first inklings of domesticated dogs were more along the lines of a mutual sort of truce between humans and wolves.

Any human makes messes. Lots of humans make lots of messes -- even ancient semi-nomadic ones. Messes attract vermin. Vermin attract your more opportunistic critters – from bateria to bears and all points in between. In short, all manner of things that tend to create problems for the humans. The precursors to domesticated dogs were probably wolves who had been become relatively comfortable enough around a human camp to stay in the vicinity and eat the left-overs (as well as the smaller things that showed up for some left-overs). If there was enough to keep them fed, there wouldn't be any competition with the humans. And any of the wolves who might have made themselves nuisances in some other way would be killed off.

Why would humans allow this? I'm sure they noticed how there weren't as many rats running around, or at least how many fewer family members were dying of mysterious diseases. I'm certain they realized how there were fewer bears showing up, and the bears (or enemy people for that matter) who did come were preceded by wolf-noise. Again, any of the wolves that created too many problems for the humans would be killed or chased off. Generation after generation, survival of the fittest and all that So eventually you wind up with wolves who aren't wolves anymore. They make more (and radically different) noise, they don't have to hunt, they are comfortably at-home around their own personal human pack. Their social structure is not centered on old, established wolf-pack discipline but rather a new system that is a legitimate part of a human society.

I'm not stopping here, I'm just going to give you a little bit of a break, see? Fear not, though, I'll pick this back up. People – even the ones without opposable thumbs – interest me far too much.




Posted at 03:16 pm by soapwort
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Sunday, September 28, 2003
Exclamation!

I'm revisiting an essay I wrote about a year and a half ago, my Interested Party, and you're invited. Why? It's not just because I'm lazy – though that would be reason enough, since I am. It has to do with some of my friends and myself – not just a story, but the way we think. The way we're wired. Being the Interested Party that you are, I knew you'd love to know. In the event that you've already read it, feel free to bask again in the celebration.

About a year or so back, my old room-mate Dave said to me, “Next week is a four day week! Yay boobies! And you know what? The week after is a four day week! Yay boobies!”

“Yay boobies…?” I asked. I was familiar with the term. It is, after all, pretty much self-explanatory. It’s an exclaimation from which a listener may infer an abrupt presence of joy and, of course, boobies. Buzzard is the first person I ever heard say it. It had first been uttered while a heap of us bachelors were gathered around the livingroom watching rented movies when, lo and behold, some sweet young actress had effected an entire disregard for her clothes.

Yay boobies! It almost seems unmasculine to say. This is because it is the twelve-year-old boy’s equivalent of ‘viva la difference!’ And while twelve-year old boys are male, they aren't especially good at it yet. Buzz is not a twelve year old boy -- unless you use that term without literal prejudice -- but when he first spoke it we all felt its truth ring clearly. We all nodded solemnly of one accord.

“Yay boobies!” found itself at home around us.

Check out that girl dancing under the mirror-ball? Yay boobies! Heads up at that fine little waitress? Yay boobies! Jennifer Love-Hewitt? Yay boobies! So when Dave added “Yay boobies!” to his telling of how his next two weeks were going to offer a little less work than normal, I waited patiently for him to explain exactly how the presence of boobies were related. Whose, for instance. And where (just in case they might be finding themselves eventually in my house—you never know).

Walk with me for a moment, and let us examine the subject of the human female breast. If you’re a guy, you almost certainly understand the appeal. A friend of mine who is gay told me that he even found breasts appealing, though he wasn’t sure why.

Speaking as a heterosexual male though, I know why. It’s simple Guy-Math. Guy-Math implies that breasts equal women. Not that the reverse is true. Women don’t necessarily equal breasts according to Guy-Math. Throw out the traditional senses and concepts of equality here. No, in Guy-Math ‘equals’ is more akin to ‘is similar to’, or ‘indicates the significant probability of’, or sometimes even ‘will drag along behind them’.

If you, Interested Party, are now shaking your head in irritated confusion at the precepts of Guy-Math, let me give you an example that might clear it up a bit: Guys in general will have considerably less problems with homosexuality if it is taking place between two (or more) beautiful women. It’s got nothing to do with lesbian-chic. It’s not because guys feel threatened by the greater ability that women tend to wield in society. It’s not because guys are frustrated at the incomprehensible subtlties of Why She Might Be Pissed At Me This Time.

Guy-Math ignores such issues and leaves them for Oprah and Dr. Phil. Guy-Math simply states that if One Beautiful Woman Frolicking Lustily equals Good, then Two equals Twice As Good.

Understand? Guy-Math is more fundamental to a guy’s nature than logic or manners. It’s the same reason we get the largest order of fries and the most obsenely gigantic fountain drink possible when left to our own devices. In fact, I daresay that the whole application of Guy-Math to women in general is probably a defensive mechanism. Without the appeal of women so-clearly explained in Guy-Math, most men would have Guy-Mathed themselves into heart-failure or accidental crushing by mastedons long, long ago. I could go on and on about this, but no…

Anyway, back to breasts. I was recently talking about breasts with a friend of mine who, by coincidence, has her very own set. I was explaining that the human male, deep down, does not care how big breasts are. Oh sure we’ll gawk a little more if the breasts in question rival the rough mass of a buick, but that’s just because of the novelty (well, that and a little bit of basic Guy-math mixed in). The single-most admired quality of the female breast is that they are not in the wrong place.

Just like with real estate, it’s all about location, location, location (and at least two of those locations have to do with their proximity to the guy doing the admiring). Which brings me back to Dave. I was hoping upon hope that his “Yay boobies!” was implying that I might soon be able to find them very locally. Say, for example, attatched to several fine lasses sitting my livingroom and flirting shamelessly with Yours Truly. As soon as he realized I was waiting for such an explanation, he told me, “No man, I was just happy because I only have to work four days a week for the next two weeks.”

So it seems “Yay boobies!” has undergone another alteration, becoming more vague. Instead of celebrating something appealingly female, it celebrates celebration. And there was much rejoicing!




Posted at 03:22 am by soapwort
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Friday, September 26, 2003
Reason To Stay In On Friday Night

Just go here and to hell with dating.

Posted at 09:26 pm by soapwort
Comments (9)

Buzzard of Wisdom

Hey there, Interested Party. I'm going to tell you about my friend Buzzard. My previous quotes up there – look up just a little – have up until now been from various and sundry books or movies. Today, I decided to go with something a little more unique, though. I'm quoting my friend Buzzard, a guy I've known for years. I'd tell you about how his wit is second only to my own if I weren't so damned modest. I have spent the last ten years or so not collecting his quotations and now I'm kicking myself for it. The guy sweats wisdom. I have found it to be wisdom for all occasions, only it's dressed up to look like something you wouldn't want to lend five bucks to.

I am seriously considering it my practice to keep fresh Buzzard Quotations up for you, Interested Party. I think you'll dig them as much as I do. Okay, I hope you'll dig them. Maybe you'll read them and your inner-monologue will suddenly find itself busy coming up with reasons you can't part with a few bucks. With great risk comes great, well, risk. But occasionally it comes with great returns.

These quotations come, almost exclusively, from conversations with Buzz. I won't bother about mentioning the context of the quote. That'd take all the fun out of it! Besides, since when did expressions of wisdom need context? For that matter, they don't need any text – but this is a blog. If I just sat here gesturing emphatically at my keyboard, you'd miss out on the latest revelation.

You're welcome.




Posted at 08:17 pm by soapwort
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