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






Yet Another Tedious...





Me: Jefferson
ICQ: 5306225
AIM and Y!: dexcheque






Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit





   

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Shameless (And, I Assure You, Worthy) Plugs:
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

Dr. God's
Waxing Sociologic
Katriana's
Waxing Theologic


Other Groovine Stuff:


The Raging Capitalist
Inaudible Refrain
HopelessWonder
Fallen
Chris's Noodleshop
Xaos Rising
Siren's Song
Where you can find Davemania!
Into the mind of Phases
Stepherific's Blog-o-rific
Through a Glass, Darkly
The Occasional
Hatshepsut
Illusion
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



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The Deep And Abiding Wisdom of Yours Truly About:
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The Temperment Of Being Sick
Proper Application Of Jealousy
Tequila
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When Women Actually Come To The Rescue
The Refreshing Integrity Of Strippers
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Good Old (well, still new) Tink


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Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Species Joined The Ranks

In the event that you are wanting to know more about dogs in general, I shall rattle on for a while about them. For I, my gracious little Interested Party, am a Dog Person. I love dogs. I understand dogs. They make sense to me.

Dogs haven't been wolves for untold generations. They are not two absent meals away from being a wolf, though some of them are one dirty look away from being a mean son of a bitch. Dogs have been more human than wolf since long before any ancestors you could possibly name were even born. Their entire existence centers around their involvement with mankind. It explains why certain breeds have such finely tuned senses that they can swiftly learn to out-think and out-perform humans in very human situations.

We have rubbed off on them. We're contagious. They played in the sandbox with us and caught humanity. This explains why certain dogs can't even figure out how to breed because their insecurities keep getting in the damned way. It explains why some dogs can be criminal geniuses while still being stupidly stubborn. Tell me you don't know some of the folks they caught those things from. I dare you.

When the DNA of your species is jam-packed with a wider variety of traits than anything else walking the planet, these things happen. This, Interested Party, helps explain how a two pound ball of yapping neuroses can be a member of the a species that's also capable of producing two hundred pounds of yawning bull mastiff. It explains why mutts are typically hardier and healthier than pure-breds who are just dripping with recessive genes.



Posted at 10:35 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Ponderance on Ex-Girlfriends and Little Towns

Dangerous behavior isn't as big a problem when one has ex-girlfriends who are extrememly Cool of Character. At least behavior falling under the authority of the Dealing With Ex-Girlfriends While Maintaining a Current Girlfriend Department, anyway. I am, as you already are damned sure aware of, a man of character. As for how much character, and of what manner... well, who can tell us more about ourselves than those who have seen us through an entire relationship – from Hi My Name Is Insert Name Here to at least a semi-wistful finish? I rather hope that I have no past romances who could – or, more to the point, would – legitimately talk shit about Yours Truly. That they hold me in high regard.

It's because I kick large measures of what we call ass.

Sweetie is not the jealous type. Now, as to whether or not that's because she knows how groovy she is... Who knows? She is, after all, very comfortable in her own skin. She is quite aware of how much ass she kicks. Or maybe she's not jealous because she doesn't know how great I am... But no, that's a dark place. I won't go into that place where logic and sensibility are not respected. If I wander across those borders I'll never get any damned sleep.

Still, wouldn't it be great if the two of us could hang out with the cool ex-girlfriends of my past? Precisely how awkward would it be? How uncomfortable should it be? I've got no reason to be ashamed of them – they're great chicks. If they fell under the heading of Just Normal Friends Who Happen To Have Breasts, then I have no doubt that such a bash would be fun. Sweetie wouldn't be jealous, and she'd have no reason to be – I assure you. But how weird would they – the ex-girlfriends -- feel about it? Who the fuck knows?

Instead, I'll just avoid introspection and clever, insightful social analysis by changing the subject – that's just like me, ain't it?

Why is it, Interested Party, that the song Oh Little Town Of Bethlehem is a Christmas song? They don't sing it in church or during the monthy Sunday Singings – which you're, no doubt, familiar with if you live in the Bible Belt – except during the holiday season at which time you can't open the front door without knocking down two carolers singing it with a cheerful bounce.

Sure, it's about Christ being born, but it always struck me that the song was grander in scope -- and quite frankly a little more nervous – than most of the carols out there. Most of them sound like something sung to the baby Jesus at McDonalds. “Happy Birthday baby Jesus, now blow out your candles!” Not Oh Little Town though, oh no. It describes monumental things that are in motion – for good, bad, or ugly.


Hmm. I've always been curious about that.




Posted at 10:51 pm by soapwort
Comments (3)

Sunday, January 04, 2004
Thing That Goes BREENK In The Night

Sweetie is a doll, my Interested Party. Uh, not in an inflatable sort of way. I mean doll in a whoa sort of way. She's a Tom-boy – with all the wrist-biting qualitites that entails. She is charming and introspective... Trust me, I could go on about this lass. Right now though, I want to focus on two of her qualities. Not those two, though I'm a big fan of them... What was I saying?

Right.

She has managed to be, completely and without fail, incapable of being tickled. Even the blurb on the back of the How To Be A Damned Woman Handbook mentions that they're all ticklish. Not to mention – just how in the jumped-up hell am I ever supposed to win an argument if I can't fall back on the tried-and-true techique of tickling her senseless? I'll have to resort to being smart and endearing. We both know I'm clever and charming – it's just one of my virtues – but I don't have to point out that having to use a virtue sucks all the fun right out of it.

Secondly, she snores. In all fairness, my good old Interested Party, I have been told that I snore. By whom and how often are subjects I'll skillfully avoid, because while I'm a guy, I'm not that stupid. I come from a long line of men – from many points in my ancestry – who could saw some serious logs. I do not number it amoung my faults because, well, it's not something I actually have to deal with. It is a pheonenon I like classify as Someone Else's Problem. Jimney Cricket be damned.

So anyway, I was awakened the other night to this squeeky, rattling noise. It turned out not to be some rusty old bicycle like I first suspected. You guessed right, Interested Party – it was coming from this cute little lass with cold-assed feet. I was laughing so hard that I decided to get up so as not to wake her. And I didn't want to have to explain that the reason the bed was shaking so violently was because I was laughing. At her expense, no less.

See what I mean by having to be smart? Damnation.



Posted at 09:23 pm by soapwort
Comments (5)

Friday, January 02, 2004
Series of Festive Equations

I am seriously in the mood to quantify behavior, so I have some new Guy Math equations for the holiday season. I know, I know. What good do they do you now? Well, my little Interested Party, if you'd been better this past year, maybe Santa Claus would've provided them for you sooner. Write these upon the walls of your heart and use them to your advantage this coming year with my full permission.

Christmas Stocking (to the power of Huge) x ((Candy x Shitload) + Crown Royal) = Good

{(Festive Holiday Drink x 4) + ((Festive Drink – Holiday Theme) x 3) + Internally Lighted Rudolf Lawn Decoration} – A Reasonable Hour = Fun (to the power of But Not Good)

Girlfriend (to the power of Last Minute Shopping Frustration) + (Suggestive Innuendo – Good Timing) = Bad

(Chick x (Wine + Spiced Rum)) + (Guitar + Sing) = Good

Karayoke Bar + New Year's Eve + ((Chick x Normally Quiet) + Jaeger) = Throaty Rendition of What I got by Sublime

Good luck to you and yours, Interested Party. Now go out and start being a child of the universe at people, just like you resolved to do yesterday.



Posted at 06:40 pm by soapwort
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Thursday, January 01, 2004
Glass of Wednesday Night Concentrate

Happy Thursday, my Interested Party. Did you eat your black-eyed peas today? Now, I know you're a little curious as to why I haven't posted since before Christmas. The answer is quite a complicated matter involving celebrations, cool-assed presents, working, and a groovy chick with her own pair of boobies. I don't want you thinking that I've been taking you for granted or anything – come on, you know me better than that. I haven't forgotten about us. So let me catch you up on my New Year's Eve.

Originally we had elaborate plans which, at one point or another, contained four different bars, three cities, a Risk tournament, and fifteen people give-or-take. Alas, these plans were slowly whittled away until the essentials were all that remained – those being, of course, whiskey, wine, the Mighty Buzzard, my sweetie, my me, and about seventy strangers in a karayoke bar. Honesty dictates that I say they weren't all strangers, and none of them were by the end of the evening.

Buzz drank a lot. What I mean by “a lot” is that he was like the pied piper of alcohol, cheerfully marching untold amounts of Crown Royal, Jim Beam, and Bud Light to it's destiny. He was as fucked up as Channel Six. This did a lot to liberate that corn-fed wisdom of his that I'm such a huge fan of, but for some reason I can't seem to remember a damned thing he said.

No wait. At some point last night he told my sweetie that he would approve of her character in more ways than he approved of her tight pink shirt if she hadn't been my girlfriend -- but since she was, would she kindly disregard anything he said, and furthermore pardon him for falling over while in the middle of a conversation. Which he then did.

Good times.



Posted at 04:47 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

Monday, December 22, 2003
List of Excuses

Here it is -- two more shopping days until the big loot-fest that is Christmas – and I have failed entirely to do any Christmas shopping. Yet, my Interested Party. In order to soothe my inner Jimney Cricket, I shall present a list of my excuses, complete with a brief explanation. Feel free to use these as well. Partake of the wisdom and let it dribble down your chin.

I am broke. Yeah, yeah -- I know I briefly touched on this in the last excuse, but because it's so true I calculated that it was worth mentioning again. This year I decided to make everyone's Christmas gifts – an endeavor that has it's very own set of rules:

  1. Don't do this for anyone under the age of sixteen because, damn it, that's just a cruel fucking thing to do to a kid.

  2. Make damned sure you can make something worth a crap because nothing will stir the Aww Shit Not Again sentiment in a loved one like another decoration made out of a dixie cup and a set of jiggly-eyes.

  3. Make sure you have the time.

You know me well enough, Interested Party. I'm really fucking thoughtful, and I'm talented to boot. So go on -- guess which of these rules explains why making gifts this year was a Bad Decision.

I haven't had time. There are people in this world who shake their heads in lamentation at the commercialization of Christmas when stores have their red-white-and-green decorations up a week before Thanksgiving. They cluck their tongues and scoff at the clerk at Big Lots right before they hand her a credit card to pay for all the damned loot they've just nabbed for seventy-five percent off. I'm not one of these people – largely because I'm broke. The electric company, the phone company, and the grocery store all want their very own piece of my ass it seems, so I must keep working my ass off. Granted, I haven't been so busy that I couldn't pay attention to my sweetie, but I am a guy. Speaking of which...

I am a guy. This excuse stands alone and requires no other qualifying remarks to explain it.

Everyone told me they liked their candy bars from the EZ Mart last year, but somehow I think they were just being polite. Maybe I'll get around to shopping tomorrow.




Posted at 07:53 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

Friday, December 19, 2003
Balance With A Discus On Top

Christmas is celebration of balance. Fall is in the rear-view mirror but spring is on top of the next hill. It's colder and darker, but everything is lit more interestingly and the company by the fire is better. The world outside seems dead-asleep, and somehow folks tend to be warmer and more passionate. Even looking at the meaning assigned to the holiday – even this is a thing of superbly-crafted balance: That the eternal and the mortal meet up in a way that's far simpler than you'd have thought -- but since we're all so bad about over-thinking things, that just figures, don't it? Yep, I calculate Christmas is all about balance. So, in the spirit of the season I love precisely one half of Christmas celebration, my little Interested Party.

I am all about the homemade candy, but I hate being involved in its production. I dig looking at all the lights but you couldn't whip my ass to make me hang a string of those fickle little bastards. This isn't laziness -- I'm just maintaining balance. I'm being festive.

I'm going to pursue that same festivity now. I'm going to balance out the tight, organized reasoning I used in my first two paragraphs by changing the subject, without actually doing so at all. I'm going to talk about the loot.

One of the best gifts I've ever shredded the wrapping off of was one that completely mystified me. Several years back my mother got me a discus for Christmas. I am not, I would like to point out, numbered amoung the discus enthusiasts. I'm not impressed with track-and-field at all, really, because it is my habit to run only when chased.

In case you're unfamiliar with the properties of a discus, Interested Party, I'll fill in some blanks. A discus is far too wobbly to serve effectively as a door-stop, paper-weight, or book-end. While you could conceivably use it to defend yourself with, it's kind of awkward to carry around – besides, I always rely on a folding chair anyway since there's always one nearby when trouble starts a'brewing. In theory, see, a discus is worth throwing and not keeping around – but I fucking love this thing.

I opened the present. The discus slid out. I said, “It's a discus...”

My mom told me, “I saw it and thought of you!”

And now, to this very day, whenever I listen to AC/DC's Razor's Edge album, I catch myself singing, “I want a dis-cus... for Christ-mas...” with no real idea why. The damned discus kicks ass.




Posted at 02:58 pm by soapwort
Comments (3)

Monday, December 15, 2003
Nasal Issue


Gravy And Biscuits
Camp Fire
WD-40
Smell Of A Chick On Your Shirt
Fresh Brewed Coffee
Saddle Leather
Damned Cold Morning When You Don't Have To Go Outside
Wet Dog


What these all have in common, my Interested Party, is that if their odors were successfully captured and marketed as scented candles, I would seek them out and purchase them. Furthermore, I would light them regularly without prompting from a woman.

Well, okay -- I'd only light the Wet Dog candle when it was time for company to go home.

Until such a time as these candles for guys are on the shelves down at the Dollar Store though, I'm only going to associate with scented candles under at least some measure of duress. Sure, Interested Party, I know that the house gets to smelling a bit rank if you don't do laundry for a few weeks and let it all just sort of loiter wherever you threw it when you took it off. Guy Math is clear about this:

((Single Male Occupancy (to the power of Guy) ) + Smoker – Give a Shit = Stinks

Even when you factor in all the Febreeze in Uncle Wal-Mart's stash, a woman will still claim the air has a texture. So, to combat this, she will expect you to maintain scented candles named after every fruity damned thing except Snow White's dwarves.

Don't go misunderstanding me now, Interested Party – I'm fully in favor of personal hygeine. I brush, I scrub, I make total use of the Axe Effect, I wear cologne. And truthfully, I don't have a problem with scented candles being around – just so long as they are used with moderation.

And so long as I'm not expected to be enthusiastic about them.




Posted at 05:55 pm by soapwort
Comments (4)

Friday, December 12, 2003
Roster Of Archetypes

It is no secret that I'm a proponent of women You know, my good old Interested Party, that I am a big fan of the gender as a matter of general consequence. From the Tom Boys to the Fussy Elite – I love them all. When I'm singing along with Willie Nelson's song To All The Girls I've Loved Before, in my mind, I include every woman I've ever dated. Oh okay, to be honest, I include all but one.

I shall list off the women I've known and/or dated. An autobiographical look at the romantic experience and progression of Yours Truly, if you will.

The Highschool Crush was delicate, silly, beautiful. We were all a hopeless case over her too, Interested Party, I assure you. She broke our hearts when she wasn't looking.

The Bad Decision Girl was exactly that. She occurred during a baffling lack of rational decision-making skills on our part. Everyone warned us, but did we listen? Hell no. The only thing we took away from the experience was the wisdom to never, ever do that to ourselves again.

The Girl rocked our world. She's the first one we thought was The One. She's the one who, whenever we're still, and quiet, and between girlfriends, our thoughts always seem to come back to. She was suave, smooth, and sexy -- and we loved her. And more importantly, Interested Party -- she loved us. I fucking dare you to tell me you've forgotten her.

Somewhere along here, we find the lines blurred. Archetypes become harder to define, until eventually we realize that the chicks we're seeing aren't types anymore at all. And if they aren't types, then what the fuck are you supposed to call them? Yeah -- they're all still wonderfully unpredictable and they all have great upholstery, but they're also individuals in their own right.

It turns out that we've started dating women who are -- of all things -- people. People who are just as relevent in their own worlds as we are in ours, which means that they truly do exist in worlds that aren't centered around us. Which, in turn, means that there are worlds that aren't centered around us for them to exist in.

Now, I ask you Interested Party – What in the cornbread-hell? Damned personal growth.

Things get interesting here, my old Interested Party. Because the women can only be typed by clumbsy labels like: The Chick Who Knew You Well Enough To Buy You A Shower Curtain And Who Was Hot, and The Girl Who Knew What You Really Needed And When And Furthermore Provided It And Who Was Hot, and The Girl With Even Better Taste In Movies Than You Who Was Somehow Classy And Adorable At The Same Time And Who Was Hot, and even The Woman Who Somehow Makes Less And More Sense To You Than Anyone You've Ever Met Before And Who Is Hot.

These aren't terms that roll off the tongue, and it's just as well. We live and learn, Interested Party. Assuming we're the sort of people Who Make Ourselves Responsible For Our Own Actions anyway.




Posted at 10:28 pm by soapwort
Comments (6)

Thursday, December 11, 2003
Christmas Present

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.



Posted at 11:15 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

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