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 been busy, my Interested Party, and I find that I highly recommend it. In the past week, I have been reminded of all the selfishness and the wonderful amazement that every single moment on earth seems to bring you when you're still one of those newly-self-aware and not-yet-complete creatures known as Little Kids. Remember the heart-searing tragedy suffered when a sibling got fifteen french-fries and you only got fourteen? Or mayhap, Interested Party, you may remember a parent's mood changing instantly from some passionate, frustrated fury to a feather-like tenderness because of some mysterious accident of timing once, when you idly remarked how much you loved them?
I have beheld and partaken in the tension and worry and patient hope of several families, as they prepare to be seperated from a loved one for what will be too damned long.
I have romanced a woman with more personal -- and corny – gestures, than I have done in a long, long-assed time. Furthermore, I have been romanced right back by a chick who appreciates the affection and inherent damned-fool-nonsense that goes with most of your basic Grand Gestures.
Like I said, I've been busy. I've worked and rested and played. I've been careful. I've been quixotic. I've been vigilant and exhausted. What a curious fucking existence we have ourselves, my little Interested Party. Damn, it's great being human.
If I were to analyze my list of Favorite Girlfriends of All Time here for you, my Interested Party, I could tell you that am usually able to sustain a disposition that gives birth to cheesy romantic gestures far longer than then are. It probably has something to do with stamina. Oh yeah, baby.
All of these girls are smart, and one or two have been very nearly as intelligent as Yours Truly. Some have been almost as devilishly witty as myself. Some have been barely less-charming. Some very close to being as clever. Some nearly as imaginative. Some have been almost as consistent about all of these as myself... Not quite though, because let's face it -- I'm pretty damned good.
Okay, okay. Just so you don't get to thinking my ego is truly getting the better of me here, I'll point out that they have all been beautiful – more so than me, if you can believe it – and they have all, without exception, had more on the ball. It seems like a sort of trade-off. I'm not looking for an equal. If I wanted an equal, I'd just carry a mirror around and be charming at myself all day. No, I like the differences, Interested Party. I prefer a woman who fits.
Right now, my Interested Party, I am bouncing around betwixt and between two ideas for a post here. The first involves a girl of hellacious proportions, personal chemistry, the threat of wistful longing, and the curious and welcome fact that there seems to be a home-cooked meal in my fridge. The second involves the notion of passive-aggressive behavior. These two ideas are not related, nor are they connected in any way aside from their proximity to one another here in this paragraph.
On the one hand, I could wax poetic about one of the breasted folk. And rest assured I could do this right now with the greatest of ease. I could, for example, expound at length upon any one of the many the issues of her -- but I digress. When there is perfectly servicable psycho-babble demanding keen observation, let it not be said that Yours Truly heeded not the damned call. I've even managed to sound a little Yoda-ish while getting around to it...
Now, I am not anal retentive. I don't keep my house clean, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. Ask anyone I know and they'll be more than happy to assure you that I am messy. It's not that I don't have the skills to clean – I do.
I got game, baby.
I can clean the hell right out of a house. It's just that I prefer a relationship between myself and my housekeeping skills to be a little less-casual than most folks. Something like a passing acquaintance, so to speak -- we send each other Christmas cards, but we don't associate regularly. I figure, as long as I can still tell which direction the floor's in without the assistance of my keen sense of smell, I'm A-okay.
The reason, my little Interested Party, that passive-aggressive folk run around feeling shit upon where housework is concerned is that you can't go around doing chores at people and expect a desirable effect. It just doesn't work.
There was almost certainly a point to this originally, but it seems to have become lost now. Oh well. I should've just stuck with boobies – at least they're interesting.
I calculate that it's time once again to talk about the Breasted Folk. No, not Rush Limbaugh impersonators -- I mean women, Interested Party. Quit being a smart-ass. Specifically, the breed of female known as the Tom Boy. Some people mistake the Tom Boy with the sort of lesbian who looks like John Goodman wearing plaid flannel and a trucker hat. The two are not the same thing, however. One is, in fact, a Tom Boy while the other is simply a Lesbian Who Looks Like John Goodman. No, no – the Tom Boy matures into someone very feminine, but who you don't have to remind to have the oil changed in her car.
If you, Interested Party, are male, then you remember how little use you had for girls in-general when you were a wee button. I mean, sure, girls made excellent targets, but by and large they were just too much damned trouble to deal with beyond that. But the Tom Boy – she was the exception. She could out-fish you, she could out-climb you, and she could knock the fucking hide off of a baseball.
Now, some of these do indeed grow up into a Lesbian Who Looks Like John Goodman. Some of them aren't even lesbians. They just never got past acting like their male contemporaries, and they were fucked when their buddies grew up and started chasing women who don't dip Copenhagen and who do wear skirts. Rather, they weren't fucked – which is my point.
Some of them, however, discovered that all those uncooperative things their bodies were doing during puberty might actually have some sort of appeal after all. If the way her old chums were suddenly getting into fist fights over who got to sit next to her at lunch was any indication, anyway.
Farm girls – now those, statistically, grow up into the best Tom Boys. They usually wind up honing those practical thinking skills that allow them to fix most anything. This is because, well, you spend an obscene amount of time fixing shit on a farm.
Farm girls don't get disgusted by things like very masculine behavior or poking an arm right up into a cow's uterus – so she's damned sure not going to be put off when you idly flick a boogar out the car window. Don't get me wrong, she's not going to celebrate your accuracy or anything. She'll just be a little more tolerant.
Farm girls have no trouble being alone – they've long-since found out how productive things can be when you're not having to deal with Other People's Input. They can engage in some quiet time and be introspective, but they can also be as charming as the Devil's Dimples. I mean, come on – they live out on a farm so they're damned sure going to make the most of any social event that crosses their path.
Lastly, a farm girl can ride a horse and drive a tractor. You have not seen sexy, my Interested Party, until you've seen a girl in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt on a tractor cutting hay. My God. The basic Guy Math involves goes something like this: Sweaty Farm Girl + Straddling Heavy Machinery + Getting The Fucking Job Done = Goooood.
With five O's. Do yourself a favor, Interested Party, and go find yourself one.
Great big damned cigar lit? Check. The Audioslave album playing? Check. Cold-assed, overcast day on the other side of that wall? Check. Warm socks and shoes on? Oh yeah, baby.
I've have gotten myself one of those full-blown Itches, my Interested Party. I'm a little restless and feeling unproductive. I've got the Itch to grab up my velum paper and scrawl upon it a while with some pastels or maybe charcoal. I've got the Itch to see just the right girl arch an eyebrow at me and flash a dimpled grin. I've got the Itch to back up next to a wood-burning stove and smell its smoke while talking philosophy and power-tools.
So, here is my plan: I'm going to take my cigar and my velum paper over to Buzzard's house. There I'll sit out in his workshop and stand my ass within effective range of his wood-burning stove, while committing those pastels to page and shooting the proverbial shit. I shall, furthermore, do all of this until such a time as the girl occurs – eyebrow, dimples, and all. Wish me luck, Interested Party. The Itch must be scratched.
Alas, Interested Party, I have been toppled from off my hill, and my reign on the coveted Blogdrive's Faves List has ended. If I weren't such a strong proponent of being Rooted In Mediocrity, I think my fragile ego would be splintered and scattered – but have faith! Now it's just you and I, my little Interested Party. I'm not feeling the intense pressure to perform magnificently to maintain all that power and you're not under the suspicion that you're having to share these little talks of ours with the unwashed masses.
Unless my Nefarious Plan to connive my way back onto the list works, anyway. I should get myself one of those, actually. A good old-fashioned Nefarious Plan might be a handy thing to keep in the wings for general purposes – you never know when you'll really feel the urge to release your Inner Sorry-Assed Bastard.
Fuck anarchy. True anarchists haven't got the slightest hint about Sorry-Assed Bastardism. They're just folks who've gotten too bored, and have adjusted their hair accordingly. Sorry-Assed Bastardism doesn't involve anarchy or chaos as such. Oh no, my Interested Party, it involves the kind of shrewd calculation that can only come as a result of observing and manipulating predictable behavior.
Whether your own Nefarious Plan involves a legion of attorneys, giant robots, pouring urine into someone's soup – it might not be a bad idea at all to keep one on hand. Hell, yours might involve all three.
Unlike female breasts, the value of mediocrity is vastly under-rated. Possibly in part because it seems to be a cause without a champion -- the very nature of which precludes such a thing, right? If this were true, it'd be a damned shame -- because tons of the best bits about being human stem from mediocrity. The things we have in common with every other person stumbling around on the planet – that's where mediocrity is standing, its hands in it's pockets and its eyes on the clock. That's where you can all point when you are looking for evidence that we do belong here on Planet Earth. Mediocrity is like social mortar – it's grey and only noticeable where it has the balls to be poking out, but it holds all of us individual bricks in place so we can function like a coherent structure. Which isn't to say that we do... Damnit, don't side track me.
So, am I not making any sense? That's because you, unlike myself, are not quite in the zone yet. The zone has a great view and your shoes have the best traction here. Feel free to join me. Take any group at all – from the tiniest, most fundamental social unit like a family, to the grandest, most scatter-brained swarm like the entirety of the realm.
As a matter of fact, why don't we just take ourselves a look at mediocrity on a national scale. From the arena of public policy, you'll hear clamoring from either side of an issue. Two groups are always hollering loudly about the injustice of each other's position. And the issues are always presented from two sides here, because everything gets polarized in the good old U. S. of A. It's the nature of partisan politics here – and I like it. Okay, maybe like is too strong a word. I do see how it works though – thanks to the wonderment that is mediocrity. Bear with me here.
Select any social issue and you'll have no trouble finding people who have either this opinion, or else that opinion. There are plenty of folks who have no such easily definable opinion, but they aren't the ones who are heard on the talking head shows or in the cafe over coffee. They don't lend their eyes a terrible aspect during this sort of group discussion, nor do they passionately froth at the mouth. This is often taken to mean that these people don't give a rat's ass – which is sometimes the case. But I have serious doubts as to it being the case as often as the idealists would claim.
They're choosing, instead, to lend their eyes a mediocre aspect. Something inside them understands that their cause is the one that will wind up being represented. When the dust settles and the smoke clears, it's the moderate view -- the Middle of the Road – that will become policy in this great country. That's one of the things that makes this country so great. When all the issues are polarized, it's vastly easier to find the Middle of the Road and the public policy that will influence every citizen of the nation is put into place somehow manages to represent the majority. I fucking love this country!
So we do have a champion, my little Interested Party. It may look clumbsy, it may seem unreasonably stupid, and it may track mud in all over the carpet because it forgot to wipe its feet – but we're all guilty of that.
We're all mediocre, and we all keep on going.
I know what you're thinking, my sweet Interested Party. You're wondering what in the jumped up hell any of this has to do with the female breast? Well, in answer to your shrewd query, the female breast has exactly nothing to do with mediocrity. I will mention them because, since they are contrast notions, they illustrate very capably what mediocrity is not. Big or small, natural or after-market – these attributes cannot alter the fundamental appeal of tits. They're all just after-thoughts. If you are a female with her very own pair, Interested Party, I congratulate you. You now have something else to point to and say, “Regardless of anything else – there is nothing mundane about these parts of me!”
We're all mediocre, but we all still need a vacation from it occasionally.