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
Watching a really good movie is a very personal experience. If it's worth a damn, the movie is speaking in millions of ways in all the highways and by-ways and nooks and crannies behind your eyes. When you're soaking in a truly excellent flick for the first time, taking it all as it is given, you don't want distraction getting in the way.
Though, granted, if the distraction is coming in the form of one of those breasted creatures who are smelling all amazing at you, it's been my practice to make a point to watch the movie again later. When certain things beckon, it's pretty hard to put them off. Especially when they beckon so capably.
Here, for your enlightenment, my good old Interested Party, are some movies I'm rather ashamed about yet not owning on DVD:
Rocky and Bullwinkle The Movie – It's got Rene Russo and Robert Deniro. Either one of these are plenty enough reason to own a movie – any movie. But even their heavy-weight value isn't the reason you should own it. Pay attention, now: It's Rocky and Bullwinkle, damnit.
Tin Cup – As with any Kevin Costner movie in which he plays a character with an actual name instead of a title, one can appreciate how much ass this movie kicks without having to sit there for three hours. Plus, well, it's got Rene Russo in it too. Waggling.
Searching For Bobby Fischer – First time I watched this movie, I ended up playing chess constantly for a month and a half. I even sustained some interesting chess injuries from those wild days. If you've ever watched this movie and not been moved it's because you, my Interested Party, have no soul. I'd stay away from sunlight and people wielding wooden stakes if I were you.
McClintock – It's not the best John Wayne movie ever made. Nope, my Interested Party, that one would be The Quiet Man. But aside from being really damned funny, this flick reminds us all that every movie should end with a woman of Maureen O'Hara-caliber getting herself a spanking.
Better Off Dead – or Sure Thing, or Say Anything either for that matter. The fact remains that John Cusack cannot possibly be involved in a bad movie. It just can't happen. Go watch High Fidelity if you don't believe me. Watch it, Interested Party, and I shall patiently wait until you repent from your uncivilized ways and are ready to eat crow.
Unforgiven – My God. I'm not quite sure how I've gotten by so long without this movie. I suspect that my doing so is credible evidence that there is a God and He is merciful, though.
Tuesday has declared war, Interested Party. This week I had decided to be smart and take the day off – you know, run some errands and catch up on the pile of laundry before it goes into mitosis. It was, however, not to be. Little emergencies started cropping up even before Monday was over and started crowding out the probability of my not going to work on Tuesday.
Tuesday was on the prowl, but I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.
So first thing this morning, I load up the truck and go take a look at one of the problems the City is having with its sewage lift station equipment. Some of the pump-controls weren't minding their manners so we were trouble-shooting the control station. I have no serious problems working in the vicinity of sewage for a little while but I'm not especially passionate about it. I feel compelled to remind you, my faithful little Interested Party, that I'm an electrician, see? I can afford to maintain that sort of attitude about sewage because I don't have to actually touch it and because they pay me a lot of money to do this.
But, like I said, it's fucking Tuesday.
I was standing in front of a pump-control center, feet firmly planted on dry ground that was several safe feet away from anything that was wet and smelled like ass. Someone reached over and turned a pump on, in order to demonstrate the problem. That someone was a rotten son of a bitch named Tuesday.
The pump, it would seem, works just fine. At least if launching a foul and wretched wall of shit at me -- and then scoring a very direct hit -- is what it's supposed to do. I was covered in fucking sewage -- I shit you not. Pardon the pun. I finished the job in a hurry, went back home, hopped in the tub, and scrubbed like hell.
The morning has left me with some brooding conclusions though, Interested Party. First, that those City employees cannot possibly be paid enough money to risk a shit storm like this every day. And second, that Tuesday has stepped things up a notch. I'm going to calculate and strategize. Oh yes, I shall have my revenge -- One day there's going to be a certain day of the week that's going to regret ever having picked a fight with Yours Truly.
Some serious foreshadowing is going on, my good old Interested Party. The sun is out but there's nothing particularly shiny about it, because it's just sort of being still and watchful. Grab your magic eightball and it'll confide in you that All Signs Point To Yes. It's coming. It's coming exactly like those old horror movie blurbs used to say. There is a definite -- though indistinct -- feeling that you should Run, Don't Walk.
Maybe It'll come in the form of the sort of painting that occurs when I get caught up and neglect everything else for a couple of days. Maybe I'll sit down with a box full of pastells, or some charcoal, or some ink, and weave some sort of stirring image that never feels quite at home being hung upon a wall. Maybe It'll end up being some quiet little short-story that insists on being written. Sometimes It ends up being something as simple as a hellacious conversation – the kind you remember for years after. Sometimes It shows up in the form of a person who eventually becomes a great friend. There's no telling how It'll show up, until It just fucking does.
The last time I felt It coming so strongly I ended up writing a simple little song, utterly without pretention – one that surely would have gotten me laid countless times by now were it not for the fact that I only play it when I'm in a decidedly Put Your Shirt Back On mood. The select friends who have heard me sing it seem to understand that it's not the sort of song you request during those casual front porch jam-sessions.
So what's coming – what specifically is It? Absolutely no idea, Interested Party, but I'm more than a bit curious. I feel the itch.
At this point, see, I can do one of two things. I can sit perfectly still until It stops coming and let It move on. It can blaze the proverbial trail and I can go on doing whatever I want with my time -- and not miss any meals because I was too obsessed with It.
Or, Interested Party, I can clean my house. Or, possibly, burn it down and shovel out the ashes – which would probably be less trouble. Anyway, it's part of the ritual -- getting the house in order so that It has a place to sit down that doesn't crackle when It gets here. That way my head's in the game when It arrives, at which point I can be perfectly still and be productive at the same time.
What a curious ride, my Interested Party. What a curious ride.
I realize that you're dying to know more about The Mighty Buzzard, my Interested party. He's the cat who provides me with those great quotes I keep posted here just under my lions. Buzzard is a very surreal sort of guy – only he doesn't use any sort of chemical enhancement since it all comes naturally to him.
He can crumple a closet full of clothes simply by walking past it. He can somehow manage to go three weeks without having shaved his jaw -- every single day. Buzz looks just like the guy you wouldn't want to sit in the next booth down from in a fast-food joint, and yet he is the most capable social chameleon I have ever met. Ever. He just blends completely into whatever social situation happens to surround his own personal space.
It's not just that Buzz can get along with anyone under any circumstances – oh no, my Interested Party, it goes well beyond that. Buzz can do it while telling them whatever insightfully malicious shit has most-recently popped into his head. We're not talking about that dangerous sort of personality either – you know, the kind of dude that chicks will line up for three blocks to be snubbed by. No, Buzzard exudes an aura of that non-threatening sort of trouble which most folks will take pains to just avoid eye-contact with before it follows them home and sleeps on their couch for a month. And yet, people who meet him just fucking like the guy.
It's not because he's nice, though he can be pleasant enough. It's because the guy knows how to be one hell of a Charming Bastard. Women love the guy. Even the most high-strung goody-two-shoes will giggle and flirt while he explains, in detail, how much they are in doubtless need of some serious Buzz Lovin'.
I'm wickedly charming, I'll grant you, but the Mighty Buzzard -- well, they should make comic books about super-heroes like this guy.
Sometimes, even I have to get by merely on my good-looks alone.
It is ball-rattlingly cold right now, Interested Party. This is the kind of cold that can only be really appreciated by avoiding it either with a lot of thick blankets and a good book, or else the kind of company that you don't mind sharing the blankets with and then quickly discarding them because suddenly everybody's too damned hot. I am, however, out of good books that I haven't read countless times already. The nearest company I can think of is the clerk down at the corner store -- but I am hetero whereas he doesn't look anything like Angelina Jolie.
So here I sit, wondering whether I'm soaking in the cold or it's soaking in the me.
At the very least, an evening like this should come equipped with affectionate feminine company -- even if it's the kind that doesn't include sweaty forms of attention. A crush-friend or something.
Crush-friends are theraputic, in a way. In case you don't quite know what I'm talking about, let me do some 'splaining. These are friends you have a little crush on, and who have a little crush on you right back – you each know how attractive and fun the other is, and you both have a groovy chemistry together, but things never quite... click. Because of timing, or circumstance, or the fact that she can hold her liquor better than you. Hell, you usually don't so much as lay a big wet one on a crush-friend. You flirt, you pat one another on the back, and you tell each other all your dirty secrets. You both still check out the other party's ass when they're not looking, but neither of you'd have a problem admitting to it.
They're fun, these crush-friends. Sure, you're not getting nine kinds of laid – but you're also not having to worry with your – or their -- complicated intentions. You don't have to think about whether or not you're being manipulated by someone far more emotionally intelligent than yourself. The only thinking required is whatever the conversation demands.
She'll remind you of just how hot you are, and you'll remind her that she's a hell of a girl with a perfectly nice rack. Just can't beat that kind of friendship.
Let me tell you about Carol, my old Interested Party. Carol is someone I will, in all probability, never see again. I don't know if she's got a boyfriend. I don't know if she has trouble sleeping at night. I don't know what her driving record is. I can safely say, however, that she's this tiny chick – one of those types who would still be cute as the devil's dimples even if she wasn't so damned small -- who was very much worth the time to flirt with. And she wasn't even particularly gifted at it.
But see? That's one of the great things about flirting – it's like playing with a box full of Legos. You don't have to be good at it and you don't even have to be trying to build anything specific in order for it to qualify as Time Well Spent. Plus, with flirting you don't have to worry about picking up tiny pieces of stuff off the carpet – which is a definite bonus when you consider that the only thing worse than stepping on a Lego in bare feet is stepping on a Monopoly house. My God.
All you have to do to enjoy flirting is to flirt.
What an interesting planet we're riding, my Interested Party. Unlike the damned spinning Tea Cups though, any dizziness you experience isn't necessarily the product of funnel cakes combined with applied physics. If you're a guy, as often as not the source of your dizziness occurs as a result of Applied Female Company. Or, as it happens, it's decided lack.
Here I am – charming and clever bastard that I am – and I still find myself flip-flopping between the desire for female attention and a suspicion that I need to be left the hell alone.
Happens to the best of us, I reckon. You want those strange breasted creatures paying attention to you. You want to smell them and hear them. You want to be wanted by them. You want. They're a strange breed of people, those damned women folk -- but if things are going to go around not making sense at you constantly, you'd just as soon things did it while some hot, breasted creature was sucking on your earlobes. You don't want to think too much about why they might want to be paying attention to you either – it wouldn't make a lick of sense. They're the smart ones, those women, but they don't think about it either. Count your blessings, my Interested Party, distract them with something jingly, and hope for the best.
And at the same time – during the very moment when all these notions and desires are rattling around in the bottom of your brain-pan and bits of a lower altitude -- you find yourself questioning the point of it all. All of those groovy, amazing things you could get out of the experience of Applied Female Company are staring you right in the eye, and still you occasionally find yourself unmotivated to seek it in any likely fashion. You want to avoid thinking about any of it by just avoiding them entirely. And maybe you could do it if it weren't for their breasts.
On the one hand, you could find some fine breasted thing in some vague agreement to rock each other's respective socks clean off. On the other hand, you could catch up on that sleep you've been meaning to get all by your lonesome and not worry with any of it.
These, my faithful old Interested Party, are the times when you feel the dizziness the most. These are the times when something fleeting and casual looks the best. You don't have to put so much of yourself into the endeavor. Just spin along, grab a random partner, and dance without wondering about when you're going to trip on the fucking linoleum again.
That's the most obvious problem with Relationship Sex, see? How much of yourself you have to apply. How much of your you that you have to risk. Nothing compares to the groove and connection of that kick-ass Relationship Sex. But nothing compares to the confusion, hurt, and exhaustion of an ass-kicking relationship that's gone south, either. The spinning lights cast by it can make an off-hand fling look refreshing by comparison, I tell you.
Makes one wonder if maybe we're not all just looking at these things from the wrong direction entirely, doesn't it? If maybe there's some very basic part of these chemical forms of interaction with each other that we've overlooked. Something that would make it all, well, make more damned sense. Which would be ironic enough that it would seem a whole lot like a genuine case of That Just Figures -- thus proving that it's the truth.
Sometimes, my sweet little Interested Party, it is a whole hell of a lot of fun being me. Sure, sure, there is a bit of that dependable old masculine ego talking here -- but not all. No, not by a damn sight.
Mostly, I'm just glad to be and glad to be here... And, in all honesty, glad to be here at people – though not in that cheerfully-psychotic, morning-person way. Because, come on. I do have a conscience, after all.