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
It is a Goo Goo Dolls evening, my good old Interested Party, which leads me to suspect that baby's black balloon does make her fly. For a given value of “baby” anyway. This is a ball-rattlingly cold evening. It is a tequila evening – a fact I'm mildly embarrassed about, since we both know it's a potable with the texture of bacon and exactly none of the great taste.
Things could be worse though, couldn't they? I mean, it could be a Tuesday evening too.
Tuesdays have all the charm of a large sweaty bridge partner – which is to say that they have no charm. At all. Not that I know a damned thing about bridge, aside from it involving a deck of cards and people who couldn't find their dominoes. Quit getting me side-tracked.
Tuesdays are the issue here. Or maybe it was cards. Hell, I'll brush upon both topics and we'll see what we see. That suit you? Good.
Mondays are sorry. It's a given. We expect Monday to suck in epic proportion though, so no one has any excuse whatsoever for being blindsided by it. Tuesdays, however, are sneaky bastards. Here you are with your Damned Monday out of the way, wanting nothing more than to wander without focus toward the weekend when out of nowhere here comes Tuesday to kick you right in the lads. Or, in case you happen to be one of those folks with internal genitalia, in the tits. As a guy I perceive this to be a shame either way because I consider the female breast is a nearly-sacred thing as well as my nuts. For some reason, we never see a Tuesday coming until after it has boiled our pet rabbit.
As for the issue of cards, my old green baize Interested Party, I am extremely unfortunate with them when it comes to money. I suck at cards. At least, it seems, until such a time as someone with breasts shows up. Then suddenly the stakes step up to something far more interesting than legal tender, the planets align, and lady luck shoots me with a wink. Suddenly, without fail, I win. Who am I kidding – all parties involved win – but they're all winning off the hand dealt to Yours Truly. It does not seem to matter whether the stakes involved are clothing or matters of a more sensitive nature. Seven Card Stud? Damned skippy, Interested party. Cutting the cards? I've yanked the ace of spades so often, the very image of it stirs within me that preternatural charm I'm so good at.
Had there been just a smidgen less tequila occur earlier this evening, I'd probably keep it under my hat. Bad luck and all that. But, as I said, at least it's not Tuesday.
Tink has a pretty little head which, in any self-respecting mammal, might house a brain instead of a truck-load of Self-Centered Malice and a bucket full of Run The Fuck Away. Tink is, as you may remember, a seven-month-old paint/arabian filly who considers herself above coarse things like brains.
As I've mentioned before, young colts spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get themselves killed. They are cute little leather bags perched on top of long, gangly legs that try to run through things that were meant to be run around. Trees, for example, or pickup trucks. They try to eat things never meant for ingestion by any creature. Truck bumpers or, to pick something else not entirely at random, fishing gear. Tink, being now a wisened seven-months old, isn't beyond these things completely – but she's got enough experience under her belt to know better than to expect to win a fight with a bois d'arc tree. She is not, however, experienced enough to quit picking the fight to begin with.
Because her mother has weaned her, Tink must get by entirely on things that she can clamp down on with her teeth – things which, in turn, do not bite back. She's not merely getting by on hay and feed – she's so fat that water stands on her back when it rains – but she is perpetually upset with her mother for having dried up what had been her dinner bottles. This is partly why she constantly re-discovers that her mother is not on the list of things which don't bite back. In retaliation, she has resorted to guerrilla tactics.
Here, Interested Party, is Tink's latest folly: She sticks her face into her mother's feed bucket, unobtrusively, until she has had her fill and then she knocks the whole damned thing over. Spills the feed all over the ground, making it harder for her mother – an old mare in dire need a bib anyway – to eat.
Tink, you see, is suffering from the initial shock of No Boobies. We all went through it, and it was innocent enough the first time around. It was something she'd taken for granted – something that simply was Always There. Now it's not. Yes indeed, there are No Boobies for Tink, and it's beginning to dawn on her how much she misses them.
Sure, she'll never understand the Yay Boobies sentiment. She doesn't like tits for the sake of tits, my Interested Party. She's a damned horse, after all, not a civilized man. I feel her pain, though.
That being said, I've taken it upon myself to start being reliably charming again. At least, semi-reliably charming. Now, all I need to find is some sweet little gal with good taste and questionable judgement toward whom I may direct capable craft. Any takers?
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?
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.