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






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Me: Jefferson
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Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit





   

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How The Other Side Lives
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Why Being Human Kicks Ass




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Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Kiss

Saying that I'm a good kisser is like saying The King was just another guy named Elvis. I am a hellacious kisser. I can say this with confidence, Interested Party, because it is the truth – or at least close enough to the truth that the truth's mail is occasionally delivered to it by mistake. Ask any of the women who are In The Know and they'll back me up. In the event that you happen to be one of those women, my sweet little Interested Party, to you I say this: You are welcome.

The good kiss is a subtle art-form and, like all good art, it can be picked to pieces and analyzed unto its destruction. That's why I won't tell you how to go about doing it. At least, not this time around. Figure it out for yourself, Interested party. That's part of the fun.

Like all art, a kiss is just an form of expression. It can be ravenous. It can be frightened and confused. It can have more fury than a tornado. It can be as still and quiet as the dew on the grass in April. It can be hiliarious in a way that pushes the bounds of irony. As sympathetic as your mother when you skinned your knee. It can be as sweet as a sleeping babe and it can be as raunchy as a truck-stop hooker. It can express unspeakable tragedy. It can be as welcoming as your great aunt on Thanksgiving. A kiss can say all the things in-between.

There is considerably more to your basic kiss than puckering, aiming, and planting your lips on someone else. There are always the basic issues of how, where, and on whom. There are always all the movements of your hands, shoulders, and neck. How your body moves, how the other party moves. There are always the scents, smells, sounds. Interaction at it's best. But don't worry too much about these. Keep on trying and they take care of themselves. Like all forms of genuine expression, kisses are best experienced by the artist while they are happening.

You don't paint or sing or write at someone do you? Neither do I. I write to them and I write to myself. I sing to someone and I sing to myself. Kissing at someone is just Popular-Culture Kissing. That's advertising, not art. Even a one-night-stand gets a kiss that says something more. Good kissing is the sharing of something sincere between any two people -- regardless of how many are in the building, room, or event.

Don't go making the mistake of over-thinking your kisses, Interested Party. Just be as sincere as possible while you're doing it and you'll express yourself accordingly. And, of course, don't forget to pay attention. Now go kiss someone. Your mother, or your brother, or your children, or you lover. Just do it, okay?




Posted at 12:00 am by soapwort
Comments (9)

Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Toast

You've been a very patient Intested Party. Don't think I haven't noticed. I pay attention. I've been snarling and complaining and kicking at the fog – and you've been rather understanding about the whole affair.

I can't promise that I won't have any bad days coming. As a matter of fact, the until-recently-Her sent word that she's written me a letter. Maybe it'll have some breed of explanation or maybe it'll be even less-coherent than the break-up was. Any way it turns out though, I calculate that I'll be coming down with a swift case of Bad Fucking Day when – if – it arrives. At least if it arrives, my Bad Fucking Days can start being about something else. The price of gasoline, for example.

I had myself a crazy-assed dream last night. The ex came to visit, banging insistently upon my door late in the evening. Apparently the Mighty Buzzard had come by prior to this, let himself in, and had then decided that the locks on my doors were not sufficient. So he rigged an additional sort of chain-fall latch with a plastic Bat-man utility belt. By the time I got the damned thing open, I discovered that my ex was on the porch and she was sporting a shadow that wasn't attatched at the ground or wall -- like any decent shadow would be doing – it was just following her along taking up space. She pretended to ignore it. I did ignore it. We hung out discussing trivials, not-so-trivials, and then when I tried to sit down next to her, she hopped up and moved across the room. I thought to myself, that figures.

Then I woke up wondering why in the Extra Crispy Gates of Hell Buzz's fascination with Bat-man's utility belt had invaded my dream. I wondered about the ghost who I suspect of haunting the east side of my living room. I wondered if any of the dream had been inspired by the long, comfortable conversation I'd had on the phone with a good friend of mine just before hitting the sack. I was not, however, angry, frustrated, moody, or in any way kicking my own ass over the ex.

So raise your glass, my good old Interested Party. Let us toast – unless, of course, you're not old enough to do so legally, in which case find someone who is because we'll almost certainly be happy to take up the slack by drinking another one for you.

To the Irish Lass: May she soon seek worthy things that are not phantoms and out of reach. May she soon find them and grasp them in able hands. And, finally, may she do all these things far away from me.

I don't know about you, Interested Party, but I do believe that's the first time a shot of Old Weller's Antique didn't make me flinch a little.

Now, why don't we talk about something fun, shall we?




Posted at 09:47 pm by soapwort
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Monday, January 19, 2004
Reason to Be Male

I am, my dilligently Interested Party, intoxicated. It, as they say, happens. And being as I am gaining swiftly upon drunkenness, I cannot be bothered with such paltries such as spelling, grammer, or manners. Being a guy helps on that last part, and it was not the decision of the 107-proof's for me to drink so much of it, but still...

I currently maintain no moral qualms with being an especial bastard. It is not an issue keeping me awake most nights because, as an increasingly-self-aware individual, I take full responsibility for my bastard-ish actions. One cannot blame the 107-proof, even if it is 107-proof.

Yet, I find myself moved by the flickering shadows of fore-thought to avoid details about ex-girlfriends and related breast trivia that I count myself fortunate to know. Somewhere amid the dulled synapses of that brain belonging to Yours Truly, I find a seed of decency. It is not hard to have respect for your basic ex-girlfriend in-general, my faithful Interested Party.

These are women folk with whom you, during some point in your past, had cast your lot. Or, perhaps, your few. Anyway, something about these women gave you pause to consider investing some of your moments and self in them. And, in the spirit of full disclosure, they in you. I count myself fortunate to have known the women I've known. Every single one of them was amazing in some way, while also being as crazy as a bed bug in some way.

Let 'em be. They're able to multi-task on astronomical social levels, while we of the XY Cromosome are clumbsily get by providing names for our genitalia. Yay Boobies, I say. Yay indeed.

But they can't write their names in the snow.




Posted at 10:55 pm by soapwort
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Sunday, January 18, 2004
Mood Swing Batting Average

You may have already discerned, my Interested Party, that I am a consummate flirt – or at least I used to be. Unfortunately for myself -- and all those sweet young ladies out there with great taste and bad judgment -- I haven't been motivated to do it lately. Sure, occasionally I feel a twitch of the flirting instinct, but it goes away in fairly short order. Go figure. It's another example of that phenomenon known popularly as a Damned Shame.

Ask any woman who knows me and to whom I am not related. They will also count my current predicament as a Damned Shame, because the vast majority of them know just how much fun flirting with me can be. And flirting is easy. It's innocent enough in its simplest form, too – hell, babies flirt all the time. It's simply a matter of paying attention to someone else, in the hopes that they will pay attention to you back.

I have been far too moody lately though, Interested Party. Occasionally I want to flirt, but at any given moment I am likely to decide I'd rather be punching some random guy in the throat. I don't have specific people in mind that I'd like to be flirting with or, alternatively, hitting in the squeak-box. There are obvious problems with mood swings, Interested Party. Punching people in the throat could be interpreted as anti-social and uncivilized. In short, it offends – i.e. something you don't want to do while flirting. Nothing says psychotic as effectively as pausing in mid-wink so you can walk away to teach some passer-by the Neck Shake.

Times like these beg a man to sit and listen to alternating tracks of Etta James and Stroke 9's Little Black Backpack.



Posted at 04:44 pm by soapwort
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Saturday, January 17, 2004
Woman Has Her Secrets

I done been had, my faithful Interested Party. This girl whose voice could carry more subtle flirting than even mine, whose eyes could light up in a way that just killed me, whose very touch could feel more like home than my favorite couch – she is gone. She gives not a shit for Yours Truly. She is, I assume, moving onward and taking with her all those little things about her that used to be mine.

She'd become a little more distant over the few weeks before she left, but she would always assure me that it was just a mood. I chalked it up to another fine, harmless case of Women Have Their Secrets.

And they do. The Breasted Folk are, for all their appealing ways and their wonderful upholstery, mysterious creatures. They are people who exist and funciton in those foggy border-lands that are between things. They can be as selfless as your mother and as selfish as a four year old niece at the same time. They can be as tender as a hug from a grandmother and as mean as that girl in fifth-grade who could whip your ass in kickball and who you swore would grow up to look exactly like Rodney Dangerfield -- only she'd wear more flannel. Again, they can, at will, exhibit these qualities at the same time. They are Destiny and Choice – and just like the best stuff in life, women can only adequately be defined by pointing out what it is that they are not.

That mysterious existence is part of their appeal, I figure. That and, of course, their breasts. Anyway, I've always respected that. Go on and let Women Have Their Secrets, I say. I'm in favor of it, just so long as it's not used as a weapon against me. To knock the damned breath right out of me. And then leave no reason why.

So, my Interested Party, in the event that you number amoung they of the XX Chromosome, you have my congratulations. You have my applause. You have my affection and gratitude. You don't make the world go 'round, but you sure can make the ride seem a little more worth while. Just remember to use your powers for good, okay?




Posted at 07:13 pm by soapwort
Comments (3)

Thursday, January 15, 2004
Lack of Discernable Logic

Women do not make sense. They do not make sense in ways that transcend mere design specifications. The sense that they do not, in fact, make can only be the result of a very special effort.

Alcohol makes sense. It is a thing that performs precisely as advertised. It will get you drunk. That, my dear Interested Party, is a logic you can respect, regardless of your opinion on the issue. Gravity also makes sense -- especially when you've been drinking alcohol in liberal quantity. Salt is another thing that makes sense. Power tools make sense. Denim makes sense.

But women just go around not making sense at people, and still we keep coming back for more. If, for example, salt only occasionally made your fries taste better, would you keep adding it? Nope, my Interested Party, you wouldn't -- and neither would anyone else. You'd start doing freaky-assed experiments with things like mustard.

So how is it women can get away with it? How can they get by with being as predictable as a pair of dice and still be so damned appealing? Why do we of the external genitalia keep coming back for more?

Because they have the breasts and all the other bits. Because we are the ones with the external genitalia, and one of the draw-backs of keeping your equipment on the outside of your body is that it's obvious to everyone else when that's what's in charge. Or again, maybe it all boils back to women not making sense -- which might, I suppose, be impossible to explain rationally. Who knows? Not I said the cat.




Posted at 06:46 pm by soapwort
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Poem Gets Noticed

...And yet, my Interested Party, there is a poetry to life. There is a rythym throughout creation. The exact stroke of a brush upon a canvas when the image in your head becomes reconciled to the one you're creating. My God, those are the quiet little moments when you feel it. Yes, Interested Party, the poetry is a quiet sort of thing and easy enough to miss -- and when we do it is another one of those things qualifying as a Damned Shame.

So what's happening with Yours Truly? Nothing new, I'm afraid. It's not a Turning Point, so much as a shrewd observation. It is Just, as we say, One Of Them Things.



Posted at 12:15 am by soapwort
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Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Analysis of Female-Inflicted Exhaustion

The problem, my good old Interested Party, with being in my present state of exhaustion isn't the bit about not having energy. This isn't your Been Hauling Hay sort of exhaustion, so the cure is a little more complex than simply drinking a couple of cold beers and getting a fair length of shut-eye. I calculate that the problem is the Being Confused part.

When you're confused, it's not just that Things Don't Make Sense. Let's face it, when it's just a Things Don't Make Sense situation, you just back up your perspective until you reach the point that your view includes things that very much do Make Sense. It's true whether you're trouble-shooting equipment, de-bugging code, or otherwise altering your environment. It works when you're talking philosophy, economics, theology, quantum physics... The methodology works on damn-near anything.

Except, I am finding, on my troubles of late. I suspect rather strongly that this is because my current straits – dire, exhausting, confusing, and personal – involve a woman. Women are smarter than we of the external-genitalia anyway, but this woman is one of Her-type quality. Yeah, yeah -- the secret is out: Yours Truly is one romantic fucker, because only a romantic bastard would ever think of any woman he was involved with in capital letters – even in pronoun form. Only a romantic bastard would rattle along with artistic license like this inside his own head. And in case there's a doubt, my Interested Party, read back a post or two – I've known two Hers in my lifetime. Proves the whole thing true, don't it?

When trouble-shooting a problem, you first have to be able to identify the fucking problem, so you back up. It's what you do when you are problem-solving -- and there is obviously a problem here somewhere, otherwise my damned feelings wouldn't be hurt like this. When trouble-shooting a problem, you first have to be able to identify the fucking problem, so you back up. So here I am, backing up so that problem with the until-very-recently-Her will start to make sense... only every time I back up, sure, the picture gets bigger but it still doesn't make any sense.

I'm male though, and stubborn as they come. I just keep backing up and analyzing things. Does she have a chemical imbalance? Did our government kidnap her and run her through experiments with mind-altering chemicals? Is this a hormonal thing? Is there another guy? Is it because I probably haven't vaccumed the carpet since the Clinton Administration? Am I not as charming and gorgeous as I think I am? So this is more than Things Don't Make Sense. This is something that seems to boil down to a great, steamy cauldron of What The Fuck. Which, as we both know, is as subtle as a sledge-hammer.

This is where the exhaustion comes in, my sweet little Interested Party. What The Fuck day in, day out gets tiresome. It is tenacious. What The Fuck just keeps on happening, whether you're eating, working, reading. It gets in the way so you can't sleep. You can't play guitar. You can't paint. You can't sing. You can't even listen to the radio without hearing some damned fool singing What The Fuck at you. You certainly can't trust your thinking – which only leads you into less understanding and more What The Fuck.




Posted at 06:17 pm by soapwort
Comments (3)

Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Wandering Thought Or Two

Let us run through the list, shall we? Cigarettes? Check. Handy-dandy zippo? Check. Jim Beam? That's a big ten-four, good Interested Buddy.

I've spent the entire day today exposed to the most mind-numbing lectures, the details of which are not even remotely interesting, and my mind has wandered. The sort of open-range wandering that occurs when you are idle and your only task is keeping your eyes open. No fences. No interruptions. Just the Prairie of the Imagination and the big clear Sky of Some-Other-Deeply-Metaphorical-Thing.

Naturally, my Interested Party, my mind wandered into the overcast Lands of Her. It's dark there. Mis-steps are easy to make on that clouded, dusty terrain. I still don't know a damned thing about how or why things ended, and it seems like every conclusion I hop to is just as slippery as the last.

It's happened to me before, of course. Last time I was a wreck for ages. That Her was also one of those creatures known as A Piece of Work. Clever, silly, charming, tom-boyish, girlie, untamed, hot, and lost – just the sort of qualities that can turn a twenty-four-year-old male's head-and-other-bits and then later turn them inside out. She still didn't know who exactly she wanted to be in life, but she held a suspicion that Yours Truly didn't figure into the equation. So, like I said, I was a wreck about that Her for ages afterward -- but honestly, even if you like who you are now it doesn't mean you knew you'd like it way back when. It's just the way things go.

A few years ago though, she contacted me. We hung out for a while. Turns out, she was every bit as capable and endearing as she'd been before and was now better equipped to find her way through life. Turns out she was still a hellacious kisser – the sort that leaves you still able to feel it hours after it's done. Turns out that Yours Truly was still pretty damned good his own self. We've stayed in touch ever since, and we have a good time whenever we weren't busy being vaguely-mean to each other – which, surprisingly enough, isn't too often. We had shared the sort of romance that was filled to the cork with chemistry and sweetness so that you might almost forget why it is that nothing lasting could come of it.

We still look out for one another though, myself and that Her. We still come to one another's rescue in times of crisis. Sometimes she tells me that I've been stupid, and every once in a great while I think she might be right. I tell her when she's being a fourteen-carat dumbass, and occasionally she admits it. But it isn't beyond the realm of reality that we'll lose touch a year or two after the first one of us marries. Friends with chemistry tends to work like that, Interested Party. Seems like a damned shame, doesn't it?

Still, Interested Party, either I think about that Her – an entire romance, start-to-finish-to-post-finish, where all things are defined and I know where I stand – or I think about the recent Her. And nothing is clear there. Nothing makes a lick of sense. I look forward to the day that the current Her is more-defined; to such a time when my understanding of How Things Are is more stable and complete.



Posted at 06:11 pm by soapwort
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Sunday, January 11, 2004
Exhausted Individual

Damn I'm tired, Interested Party. Tired from letting movies play on the DVD just so I can have some background noise. Tired from standing on ground that seemed solid but turned out to only be as stable as a two-legged lampstand. Tired of not knowing anything now, and not even trusting old things that I thought I used to know. Tired from thinking.

Just tired.

So to you I apologize, my Interested Party. Sorry I'm not coming through for you in typical Jeffersonian-fashion. There is no wisdom gushing forth here now, I'm afraid – just a Fountain of Bullshit running at a steady drip.

Mind you don't track any onto your carpet.

Two Great Loves have I had, my good old Interested Party. That ain't too bad, I suppose. Two women have rung my bell in those crazy little ways that add up to having a wonderful Now. Two women have impressed me enough for me to want to share so much of myself with them. Which leads us to the inevitable conclusion that there have only been two women that were able to turn Yours Truly inside out. After the first one ended, I turned into a hermit for years. After this one, who knows?

But nope, I am done dumping it all on you. We all suffer that sort of exhausting hurt that soaks into our pores, don't we? Speaking from experience, it happens whether you hang your proverbial nuts out there or not. It's just that when you're not hanging them out, the hurt doesn't ever seem to go away.

I'll hang my nuts out there again. You may depend upon it.

Just as soon as I quit being so fucking tired.



Posted at 07:12 pm by soapwort
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