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
Just so you, Interested Party, don't begin to think too much of me – or too little, for that matter – I'm going to tell you a story about how I met an old girlfriend. You will, I've no doubt, experience no new revelation about Yours Truly. Your opinion should not change. Blogging is the ultimate sport for the mediocre – except dodge-ball – and I offer nothing more or less than that here today. Matter of fact, I'm cheating by basing today's post on an old essay I wrote about a year ago. So sue. Don't think I'm slamming the blogging tradition here -- I'm not. Being mediocre implies that we are average -- and while our own perceptions of individuality find this offensive, we can still find comfort in the fact that this means we're not alone. We are in good company, Interested Party. Anyway, down to business...
Becca looked stunning in a pair of levi’s. I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill-nice-butt either. You know the kind I'm talking about, Interested Party. We’re talking the Buttocks of Fable and Epic here. Not that my head would not have turned if I’d seen those large dark green eyes first, mind you. It’s just that when I first saw her she was facing away from me whereas those strategically placed levi’s were not.
A couple of friends and I were walking to a table at a bar, and as I walked past her I said to myself, “Self, that lass has got herself a great backside.” A few minutes later, when I glanced over at her again, I noticed she was drinking, not alcohol, but rather a Mountain Dew. This, in my eyes, presented mixed signs. First it said to me that whoever she was, she wasn’t blatantly irresponsible all of the time – could be good, or it could be bad. But this also statistically implied that she might be there with someone on the bar’s staff. Or perhaps married to one of the band members.
I began to notice that she and her friend seemed to keep to themselves and seemed to remain unmolested by any of the guys in the place. Another indication that she might be there waiting on a significant other to get off work so she could hurry up and leave.
“What’re you looking at?” Jamee asked me when he noticed that I didn’t seem to be giving full attention to his antics, and then when he followed my gaze (to Becca’s levi’s) he said, “Ah.”
“Right,” I replied. “Ah.”
After a nice pause in this intense rhetoric Jamee jovially advised, “Why don’t you go over there and ask her to dance? Maybe it’ll follow her out onto the floor with you.”
This small remark from him settled an argument I’d been having with myself on the very issue. I went over and asked her if she’d like to dance just as the band began playing a song about how the devil had once visited Georgia. She turned to me. Bam. Green eyes, dark and great. They cautiously, but graciously, agreed. We introduced ourselves on the way onto the dance-floor.
After the song was over I walked her back to her table, and thanking her for the dance, I went back to my table. Did I mention my table? It was ugly, sticky, and had all the stability of a thumbless chainsaw juggler. John was across from me at the table, and while he is a great guy, he was currently somewhere in the vicinity of sixteen or seventeen sheets to the wind. And then there was Jamee who was in the process of loudly enjoying the band’s rendition of Play That Funky Music. More to the point, I suddenly found the table to be saturated with all sorts of the most noticable Becca-less qualities. Less than two minutes later I was back at Becca’s table explaining how I hoped she didn’t mind that I intended to sit next to her.
She did not mind at all.
I was out feeding the horses the day before yesterday, when the notion struck me that it would be a good day to go fishing. This notion strikes me regularly, Interested Party, so it wasn't a big deal. There's something about yanking lesser vertebrates around by the mouth that makes you feel alive and thankful for your opposable thumbs. Anyway, while I was sitting on the side of the pond near a cluster of persimmon trees, a wild turkey came stomping up within twenty feet of me. I'd heard him coming for ten minutes before he actually got to me because, contrary to popular myth, white folks are not the only creatures with no qualms whatsoever about trudging through fallen limbs, dead leaves, and otherwise making as much noise as possible while moving through the woods. Turkeys have excellent eye-sight, and they can run like their feet are on fire and their asses are catching.
Domesticated turkeys are incomprehensibly stupid. Young ones often drown in the rain because they're too busy looking up with their beaks open wide in attempt to see what's throwing those drops of water at them. Wild turkeys are only marginally less-stupid than domesticated ones, which means their IQ rivals those of a cinder-block. This wild turkey glared at me a bit -- doubtlessly he figured I was a funny-shaped bush usurping his authority over the nearby perssimon trees, but possibly one that might kick him if he were to get physical about the issue. Finally, he trudged off and out of sight again.
Ever eaten a persimmon, Interested Party? I mean fresh off the tree? If you are having to stop and consider the issue, scanning your memory for dim recollections, let me save you the trouble by assuring you that you have not. An unripe persimmon provides a truly unforgettable experience. One bite and your teeth will even make a face. Even if you barely touch one with the very end of your tongue.
Now, it is generally accepted wisdom that a persimmon is not ripe until all of the following has occurred: It must have gone from green to yellow, then yellow to orange, then orange to red. By this time, it's started to wrinkle in a way that doesn't look altogether healthy, but soon it will fall off the tree. Even after it has, the persimmon is still not ripe. It will eventually turn a bruised color of purple, growing even more wrinkled. Still, it's not ripe. After it's sat on the ground for a long time looking dusty, rotten, and weathered, hopefully an early winter cold-snap will cover the ground in a light frost. And after the frost has melted, my Interested Part, then – only then will the persimmon not make you want to kick a puppy when you eat it.
Turkeys aren't the only critters out there that'll eat an unripe persimmon, but turkeys are the only critters that get jealous over them.
It's monday again, my Interested Party, so let's talk about women. What's the deal with women's obsession with shoes? Fear not, Interested Party, I'm not going to carry on endlessly over the tired topic of their own shoes. Not this time, anyway. I mean women's obsession with other people's shoes.
A while back, this friend of mine was trying to get it through my head how important shoes were. She told about how she met a guy at a club. Really hit it off well with him. Great chemistry. Was itching to give this cat her number. And then, while he was walking her to her car she noticed his shoes whereby she completely and totally lost interest. Because of his fucking shoes.
Let me be clear on some things here. These weren't old shoes that he'd left in the back yard and had accidentally run over with a lawn mower. They weren't twelve sizes too large, bright red, and floppy. His feet weren't sticking out of them in places where his feet weren't designed to stick out. I asked all these questions. It turns out that the problem with the shoes was this: They were not, in fact, the right shoes.
Now I ask you, Interested Party: What the fuck...?
That bachelor party I went to weekend before last – I took a date. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're not supposed to take a date to a bachelor party. In response to that I say, “Oh yeah? Just what kind of backward-thinking fool are you, Interested Party? Damn liberal.” If you're going to a strip club, or anywhere else for that matter, it never hurts the situation to have an adorable little thing along side you with whom you may shamelessly flirt... Wait, you're getting me off track here. Stop it.
Anyway, while we were there my date noticed -- and commented favorably upon -- a stripper's shoes. They were interesting shoes, granted, and they did compliment the look that the dancer was doubtlessly going for. Hell, I didn't even notice that the dancer had feet. That's not to say that I didn't notice them with much vigor after they were pointed out to me – oh, I did. I noticed the hell out of them. But her shoes were not commanding my attention before then.
Could it be that shoes are an important social cornerstone that I've been missing out on? Would I be a better citizen of the species if I knew about shoes? If understanding the importance of shoes were a part of my being? Or, maybe it's kind of like the unknowable hell that girls put each other through – guys don't remotely understand, so it wouldn't work on us. I'm glad the Fundaments of Responsible Shoe Awareness make no sense to me. I find that my life is much simpler this way.
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.