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
This, my good old Interested Party, is a Jack and Coke. And this right here is me taking another sip. Normally, I'm against mixing my whiskey with lesser potables – because I'm not a damn woman -- but tonight I'm celebrating.
My sweetie sent me a Zippo for Christmas. She's not cheap, she just knows my Whatever. See, a Zippo is a very complete sort of object. It's practical and it's handy, but there's more than this to a Zippo. It is a piece of machinery that is sleek and sexy. It somehow manages to be dangerous and comforting at the same time in ways that knock-offs cannot reproduce. Even if Harley-Davidson made a cigarette lighter, it wouldn't be as good – it might be just as shiny, but it'd leak more fluid.
The tactile experience of handling a Zippo is a singular experience. The way it feels when you clack open the lid has not been duplicated by any other device – it insinuates that you are lord over all that you survey. A cigarette will always taste better when it's lit by a Zippo. Always. And the sound it makes... Damnation.
Interested Party, there is no other piece of equipment remotely like it. None that compare. You might be one of the unlearned who doesn't understand the quality of a Zippo. You may think I'm just easily impressed. I have never, ever been easily impressed. Go out and buy a Zippo – see for yourself.
But as fundamentally kick-ass as this Zippo is, it is exactly Jack Shit next to the letter she sent with it. I rock, my Interested Party – and so as to not get overly touchy-feely, I'll just say that she so very much does too.
Who gives a happy damn about What Seperates the Men From the Boys? That's an easy one – it's usually just an matter of hair. Where is it, and where is it not? That sort of thing. I think a much more relevant question is What Seperates the Men From the Guys. There are all breeds of men, Interested Party, but guys will always just be guys.
I'm a man, sure. But specifically, I'm a guy. Let me see if I can't futher illustrate my point here -- just in case you're not a guy, my good old Interested Party. Lure up a bit of comprehension for you, so to speak. Whether you decide to pounce upon it and strangle it by the neck until dead is entirely up to you.
Guys don't have Taste. Well, not in the He Has Nice Taste sort of way. We have a substitute called Whatever. Whatever is much easier to manage than good Taste, and it's a damned sight cheaper. It's not that guys don't appreciate Taste – we do. It's just that it is an endeavor which consumes far too much time, attention, and resources. Bottle-beer-taste in-a-can is easier than actual Taste.
In a guy's place, you are likely to find dead animals, sometimes mounted and hanging on a wall or sitting on a shelf. Sometimes the dead animals are crickets or mice that've been kicked back behind the fridge. Go to any bar-and-grill with stuffed dead animals adoring the walls and you are certain to find guys. This is because a dead animal can outstare even the most stubborn ambience and make it go the fuck away.
Men, on the other hand, may or may not have Taste. Supposedly the gay ones do, as do those damned metrosexuals. Some men, on the other hand, get by on a combination of Other People's Taste and our very own Whatever. Though, I'd like to point out that even the metrosexuals have their achilles tendon -- I defy you to find a metrosexual who doesn't harbor a disturbing amount of devotoin to Freddie Prinze Jr. movies, Interested Party. Nothing against the man who won Sarah Michelle Gellar's heart and other bits, mind you... Wait, you're getting me side-tracked. Stop it.
Guys are a special breed of men. We're the sort of men who aren't competeing with women in any of those ways that they compete with one another. We're the kind of men who are far more rooted in the now – taking very little thought for the morrow. We're the breed who, while fully supporting a personal lifestyle adorned with nine kinds of Whatever, still enjoy that people with breasts think enough of us to put forth the effort to inflict Taste upon us. In spirit, anyway.
I am very nearly intoxicated, my very dear Interested Party. Oh yes, that's me right now. This very minute. This is probably the sort of thing that I'll regret having said in the morning – especially since it'll be officially in print. See, a pint of the Beam has passed smoothly through my lips this eve. It is now gone now, but not the times that accompanied with it. Or even the times that required I spell the word “accompany” with focus and care...
So... An old college friend of mine just left here a few moments ago, leaving me bored and strangely, still full of piss and vinegar. She wasn't so much in the mood to get drunk as in the mood to watch me take a half-assed stab at it, and then to pour out the drama of her own life before me.
Interested Party, don't ask friends to share with you their wisdom when they have been drinking this much... Unless they are either: A) Not as lightweight as myself... or B) Every bit as wise and intelligent as myself, even when associating with the good Mr. Beam.
Holy cow, I think I managed to spell most of that correctly...
So anyway – it is not wise to ask advice from one such as myself under these straining conditions. Still, my good old Interested Party, I have prevailed. By my reckoning, at least.
We traded stories. She told me of the guy she's been torn up about, and I – in turn – told her about the girl I'm not remotely torn up about. The chick who impresses upon me a level of compatibility and character that I had all but given up on. Whose existence I have long figured impossible. Or at least improbable – what with me being the optimistic bastard that I am not.
It just took me three tries, by the way, to spell “me” correctly. I shit you not.
It got me to thinking though. What makes a woman think she's got to settle for any damned old thing? Any guy with a well-timed grin, and a believeable tone of remorse? To settle for someone she can't trust, or someone she may be reasonably certain will offer her heartache?
All I could do was offer my friend the researched opinion that her guy may well not be ready to commit. That this cat may not be ready to realize what he's got. That he's likely to trade it all off at a moment's notice for the next piece of tail that shows up with an appealing waggle. And not because he's an inherent bastard – though he is – so much as that he just doesn't know what the hell he wants? I've been there. Not recently, mind you, but it all sounded a little too familiar none the less...
So I told her about all the other fish in the sea, about my own mistakes in the past, and decided to let her make her own decisions based upon my hard-earned wisdom and insight. Who knows if she'll take it and find search for some guy who soothes her itch the way my chick seems to have soothed mine.
And now, my Interested Party, I shall go to sleep. Besides -- nothing's left to keep me awake aside from the fleeting desire for a cigarette that I'm too intoxicated to fully appreciate anyway.
Have as good a night as I am, Interested Party. And don't forget to leave the asperin in an obvious place so you can find it easily tomorrow morning.
There are two things, my Interested Party, that I despise. Okay, there are more than two, but there are only two that I'm going to talk about right now. I hate statistics and I hate, hate, hate mayonaise. My passionate dislike for these two things allows me a certain clarity of thought concerning them. I see how they are alike, and how they conspire together to make the world a nastier, more evil place.
Both of these will, for example, provide a sorry-assed excuse for a condiment. Also, I immediately distrust folks who want to use either one in conversation. Statistics and mayonaise both have a flavor and texture that belong neither on a sandwich, nor in an argument. Trust me on this, Interested Party – they will bring ruin to any endeavor.
Statistics are for zealots who, despite their zeal, are unconvinced of the legitimacy of their argument. Statistics are ways of cheerleading an argument before people who agree already. Statistics are blank ammunition that the Authorities of The Cause give to minions when they prefer a loud noise to a sound argument. Statistics are the tools of evil.
Mayonaise is mayonaise. It is, all by itself, evil. Now, some fanatics will tell you that Miracle Whip is not, in fact, mayonaise. These people are wrong, Interested Party, and they probably deserve to be locked in a room with nothing to eat but statistic-and-mayonaise sandwiches. For a year.
These two things are working their malice in the world, Interested Party. Let there be no doubt. But fear not, for I have a plan. With the wisdom that evil will always work against itself in the end – a house divided and all that – we should seek to twists the trajectories of mayonaise wherever we find it, redirecting their terror towards statistics. And vice-versa. Clever, ain't I?
It can be done with a little cunning and caution. For example, the next time a waitress asks if you'd like mayonaise on your cheeseburger, with very little effort you could produce statistics relating mayonaise with all manner of disgusting, horrific occurrences. Famine, earthquakes, leprosy – the choices are endless.
Alternatively, the very next time someone – against all common decency – exposes their statistics in casual conversation, throw some mayonaise on them. It could be mayonaise in one of those tiny condiment packs, a cup-full in a zip-lock baggie, or hell, even a full jar of the damnedable stuff. Be imaginative.
Remember, Interested Party – in the battle against evil, all you need is a dream.
I have, for the past 29 years, been able to walk wheresoever I have taken a notion. For 28 of these, I have been talking at length with whomever I've come across. I've been reading and writing for 25 or so years. I have 30 years total logged in on planet Earth, my Interested Party, and I can competently say that I've learned some things. It's one of the side-effects from Paying Attention.
Today I went to the funeral of a 90 year old man who, until the last six months of his life, could still crush my hand in a handshake. Felt like he was pinching my hand right off the end of my arm -- with a grip no larger than my own. And my hands are strong. This guy was active, healthy, sharp. I didn't even know he was that old until today -- he'd have easily passed for a very fortunate 60 year old.
90 years, Interested Party. That's a hell of a lot of Paying Attention. What kind of insight and understanding of human nature does a guy come away with after 90 years? A shit load, my friend. A shit load.
I'll be kind of surprised if I make it that far, but hell, I was surprised when I made it to 30. But I'm looking forward to knowing as much as I damned well ought to after 90 years. I've got a long way to go yet.
All in all, not too bad so far, I'd say. Don't know about you, Interested Party, but I'm curious to see how much more I'll know next year.
Mathematics has always fascinated me – the stark logic and utter rational thought involved is incredible in a way that only an idealist and a dreamer could truly appreciate. Predicting the behaviors of the universe and of all the paperwork included within its borders. Mathematics is all about predicting behavior, you see.
We're not talking statistics here either. Statistics are only good for citing in an argument that won't actually hold water. Statistics can be made to say whatever the hell you want, because they are just Lying-By-Number. Nope, my Interested Party, I mean real mathematics.
It is not within me to hate applied mathematics, Interested Party. But I hate applying mathematics myself. The little stuff is what always trips me up -- largely because studying it in school held all the fascination of linoleum, and so I didn't. It was too damned tedious. I love the pristine thinking involved in predicting behavior mathematically. I hate, however, the way that I can't ever manage to do it because I forget to carry the fucking two.
So, Interested Party, in the spirit of frustration spawned by screwing up the boring little details of an equation, I'm going to do what I used to do in school. I'll cleverly rely on my short attention span and change the subject.
I am using my first Christmas present of the year, Interested Party. One groovy thing about Thanksgiving is that you see all these kinfolks who live far, far away – and who know they won't make it back for Christmas. Mine brought an early present for me.
It's a volumous coffee mug with the words, “Biscuit Head” sandblasted casually into its sleek finish. The inscription reads thusly because the second-cousin who picked it out has been arguing with me for the past eight years over which one of us has a head shaped most like a biscuit. She believes that this coffee mug has settled the issue. She believes this with all of her heart, soul, and mind – the last of which, I would like to point out, is housed within a head shaped remarkably like a biscuit.
My mind is wandering, my good old Interested Party. More than usual, I mean. Lately though, it always seems to home back in on the girl who served largely as inspiration as the Tom Boy post back on the 14th. Damnation, Interested Party, this girl is something. No, wait. She's more than one something. She's several somethings. At any rate, I could go on and on about her somethings. One of the things that she is at the moment, however, is elsewhere.
I have, my Interested Party, more or less made a point of leaving out lots of the mundane details of my life -- mostly, because these personal little bits don't assist the purpose of whatever the hell I happened to be writing at the moment. It's not that I'm being untrue to my Banner of Mediocrity. You don't care -- any more than I did -- whether my socks matched when I write about the general appeal of women-folk. My grey sock and my white sock have nothing to do with how great the human female breast is. Socks aren't in the equation at all. See what I mean?
Anyway, my stand on dating someone who was elsewhere has been to not do it. This is because I've partaken in more than one relationship where the issue of her being elsewhere served as the functional wedge that ended the whole thing. Sometimes they ended as peacefully and painlessly as is possible in these situations. Sometimes they ended with more weeping, gnashing of teeth, and vows of vengence than the Tain Bo Cuailnge. And with none of the sexy pillow-talk scenes from the first chapter or two, either.
This girl, though... I met her fairly recently, and right off things – ancient and fundamental things – clicked. Her somethings just fit in ways that are wise while simultaneously making exactly no real sense to me. Her elsewhere is a temporary thing. She'll get over being elsewhere one day soon -- just not soon enough for this hombre. Let me qualify that, just so there's no misunderstanding. I fully intend to wait -- I'm itching to see her again. My conflict here -- if you can really call it that -- is simply that my willingness to wait is uncharacteristic, and this confuses me a little.
Curious, my old Interested Party. Very curious, indeed. Who needs a damn drink?
Today, Interested Party, I'm going to stay on firmer ground for a topic. Metrosexuals, while fundamentally annoying, are really not worth two consecutive rants about – regardless of how much money they spend in Banana Republic. Today is a special day, after all. At least if you're on the correct side of the Atlantic, it is.
The Chickasaw Nation celebrates today as a holiday as well. I know – you're thinking, “You'd think that their politics would not allow it – I mean, it's a holiday the origins of which are rooted in the early days of european colonization of their lands!” And you'd have a respectable, if a little naïve, point – if you didn't take certain things into account, I mean.
They don't call it “Thanksgiving”. No, my Interested Party, the Chickasaws have a different name for it. Right off-hand I don't remember what it's called, but a rough translation is, “The Day All Those Damned White Folks Came and Started Taking Our Shit”. Not that it was the Chickasaws' shit that the white folks were initially taking, mind you – it's just that's when the property values first started going down-hill, so-to-speak.
See, the Chickasaws -- as well as most other Indian Governments that function as effective capitalists – are as American as the rest of us. Well, the rest of us that are American, anyway. If the rest of the country gets to take off work for a nifty little legal holiday, then you can be damned certain that they're not going to be left out of the loop just because of some pesky Social/Political Stand their elected officials may want to entertain. They have just as much right to sit at home and gorge themselves on turkey and fight with the family.
Because Thanksgiving – or whatever you choose to call it, my dear Interested Party -- is not about feasting, or pilgrims, or gatherings. The real meaning of the holiday is Anyway. The original colonists were ill-prepared to survive the winter, they were worried, starving, and unsure about the new neighborhood, but they got together Anyway. They partook of the neighborly Indians' groceries Anyway. They decided to be thankful Anyway. Tomorrow didn't matter, because the spirit of Anyway is an immediate thing. It's very much in the now.
And today, Interested Party, we're still getting together to celebrate Anyway. We argue with the family, we eat way too much, we soundly curse Christmas lights as we put them up – but every year we do it Anyway. It doesn't matter if you set your mind specifically towards being thankful about anything, but it's a good way to get into the festive spirit of Anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving Anyway, my Interested Party. Now get yourself rested up so you can put off your Christmas shopping until December 23rd.