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
Let me tell you a bit about my love. Her name is Esther, and she's a sexy little black Washburn six-string accoustic. Her action is just high enough off the neck to keep the strings from buzzing when you happen to be beating the hell out of a chord progression while still sounding full and sweet for the more delicate stuff. Sometimes she likes it a little rough, sometimes she likes it slow and smooth. A reckless old guitar like Esther shouldn't sound so fine, but she does. This, my Interested Party, is because she loves me.
Sure, the relationship requires a little bit of work. Right now, as a matter of fact, she's in need of some quality attention from Yours Truly – time to change strings. We had a fight earlier and she peeled a string. Or, perhaps, it could have been my fault. Doesn't matter whose fault though really, does it? We're both comitted to the less-glamorous repair work that's necessary in any solid relationship, Esther and I.
Besides, it wasn't a serious argument. Mostly there was just a little too much passion in the moment. It was her G string which broke, after all.
I am reminded now of some of my past relationships though, my groovy little Interested Party.
My first love was a little upright piano and I don't even remember her name. She wasn't much to look at but her anvil was solid enough that she didn't get bent out of tune easily. And there is a lot to be said for a love like that, I tell you. Damnation, that piano could sing. Makes me rather wish we'd kept in touch better over the years.
Still, Esther can't be beat. She's clever and funny and hot and sociable at parties – every guy in the room wants to handle her, but she's going home with Yours Truly. At home, she can be comfortable and quiet and tender and lazy. Things with Esther aren't always perfect, but they're always perfectly ours.
Damnation, Interested Party, I don't think I could love this guitar more if she had breasts.
Thursdays kick much in the way of ass. A body can't manage to be reliably moody on a day like this. Thursdays have this tendency to transcend paltry issues like weather, flat tires, or even a combination of the two where you wind up getting the weather all down your collar while you're changing a flat tire. It's a fine day, as a general rule, and it is a crying shame to rush through it.
Thursday mornings, for example, are the perfect environment for coffee. My Interested Party, if you ever wish to observe a truly epic cup of coffee seek it in it's natural habitat: Thursdays. Sure, that first cup of coffee on Monday is handy – but it doesn't do much to disguise the fact that you've still got a long assed week ahead of you. And coffee on Tuesdays... Well, I mean it's Tuesday. Fridays, on the other hand, are far too full of promises about the weekend – which only serves to distract from a genuine cup of joe.
Spend part of your Thursday getting yourself a shave and a haircut, my scruffy old Interested Party. These are worthy endeavors anyway – depending on which woman you talk to and what mood she happens to be in – but sometimes they're simply refreshing in the experience. Worth a heap more than two bits. You don't endure a shave and a haircut, Interested Party, and you shouldn't go around barely making it through your Thursdays either.
As a matter of fact, I'd kick a speckled puppy for a manicure right now. Now, calm down – I have in no way gone metrosexual on you. And I haven't turned into a damned woman, either. I don't give a damn about how my hands look. My hands look like something used regularly to work with -- which is, coincidentally, because they are regularly put to work. I have an ex-girlfriend who used to give me manicures though – and I know them to be incredibly relaxing. Even occasionally sexy, though if it's going to be sexy perhaps it should wait until a Lazy Sunday. Lazy Sunday is an excellent playground for a muse, even if it's a muse giving teasing attention to those mysterious things called cuticles.
Thursdays, however, are the days to enjoy being yourself – with or without a well-upholstered muse. I, being a guy who just so happens to have a self rather worth enjoying, can appreciate a good Thursday.
I have just opened a new file in my favorite word-processor. The file holding the very words that you're reading now, my faithful Interested Party. It's a magical feeling, opening a new file. It's the same when you put a fresh sheet of paper into an old manual type-writer, really. Or open a new sketch-book in your lap. Or set a new canvas up. I just want to take a breath or two and stare. As a matter of fact, I think I'll take my boots off. I'm standing on holy ground. Well, sitting, come to think of it.
It's all clean, pure, and above all waiting. Whatever you commit to the page or screen hasn't happened yet. You could fuck it up, this endeavor that's coming. It could wind up becoming this awful, hellish wreck of a thing that'll make you wonder why in the cornbread hell you even bothered. But maybe, maybe it could turn out to be this startling creation, this amazing and subtle work. It could move someone in a very real way, my Interested Party -- connect with them. It could be one of those instances where you actually manage to impress yourself, Interested Party, and not just those chicks you're trying to load up.
Every once in a while, Interested Party, it happens. You finish, you step back, and then find you have to sit down because, damnation, it's good.
I don't know about you, Interested Party, but I am by far my worst critic. There exist certain standards to which I hold no one else, save myself. This is because I am aware that I know myself like I can know no other. I have a sense of what beauty can come with the sweep of my brush, and I know even better how the same brush can produce some serious Fucked Upness. It's simply part of being a responsible human critter. I take blank page precisely as seriously as I think I should. Don't misunderstand me – I'm not all business so-to-speak. Come on, you know me better than that, my groovy old Interested Party.
Just like you though, there are certain things I just don't want to put my name on. Once those things are done, they stay done – and you can't go around blaming someone else because your painting doesn't look like you figure it should. You could burn all the evidence, but it wouldn't change the fact that you didn't deliver the goods. You've got to admit to it, otherwise you've just committed one of the baser sins against yourself and the rest of humanity: You've been insincere.
So here we are with our new sketchbooks, white canvases, and blank screens impatiently staring us in the face. Like I said, they're waiting. You can't just let them sit around idly while you worry about the Maybe's – they weren't designed for that, damnit. If you wait too long your decisions get made for you, only in the worst possible direction. Neglect, Interested Party, is gross misuse of your medium. You should kick your own ass if you've been guilty of it. I do.
Your homework this time, Interested Party, is to take your shoes off and stare back at your canvas – in whatever form it manifests itself. Digest the moment, be honest with yourself, and then fucking paint.
Riding twelve in an elevator with five blondes and a brunette – each of whom could realistically be described with terms like, “easy on the eyes”, “inviting”, “flirty”, and “dressed to kill” -- is not the most ideal time to have a girlfriend, my good old Interested Party. Overly-affectionate waitresses, adorable women flirting with you in the produce aisle, beautiful old crushes toying with ideas of hooking-up, random hotties who can wear the hell out of a pair of low-cuts and who are itching to give you their number – these things happen to you constantly while you've got a girlfriend. You can't open the front door without hitting some enthusiastic woman in the teeth with the doorknob.
It's a fact of nature that while you're not giving a happy damn, women you would normally find very appealing are everywhere -- and they all want themselves some of that You. They want you to pay attention to them, they want you flirt with them, they want you to be interested in them. They want things from you that you are in no position to provide for them. At least not if you're wanting to sleep soundly that night.
But just as soon as you are without a girlfriend the calls stop. The women-folk disappear. They go back to their Damned Women Secret Meeting Hall and scratch your name off the list. They take a vote, they declare you to be out of season, and then they black-ball you.
Naturally, during times like these, I am disposed towards the thinking that this phenomenon is a Damned Shame.
Mediocrity, my Interested Party, is fundamental and true in epic quality. You can lose your money, your car, your entertainment center, and all your favorite books. Your balance can be shaken and your looks can fade. Your wits can diminish, your senses can be cut short, and your talents can falter. Your loved ones can die, and the ones who love you can leave. Your strength, good old Interested Party, can be taken from you -- by circumstance, by other people, by time. We want to have something we can point to and say to the world, “See there? That's why I'm unique.” All these are things that we, as human critters, want to use to identify ourselves by. Not only can they all disappear, but it's a certainty that they will sooner or later.
It's not like folks say it is, you know. We've all heard things like The Triumph Of The Human Spirit, but the Human Spirit is almost always far too busy being human to do us much good. I'm a big fan of being human. I enjoy it on a daily basis.. I love it. Except when The Human Spirit is pissing me off. Often it's used to disguise ridiculous endeavors and selfish moments – not the endeavors and moments themselves, mind you, just the more human aspects of them. The apathy, the distraction. Dress it up and make it look like wonderment and success, boys – it's a Triumph Of The Human Spirit! Go, fight! Win!
And there's always the old tried-and-true God Doesn't Lay More On You Than You Can Handle. You can hear this most often from folks who've been living under a bible instead of being one. I've never seen where God made any such claim in the bible, though I've gotten a few chain-letter emails to the effect which supposedly originated from Him. Nope, my Interested Party, God just said He'd be there with you during all the shit that you may or may not be able to handle. Near as I can tell, the bible doesn't contain a guarantee of happiness, or a pleasant day, or even that your nightmares won't come true. It just says that you'll be in good company. And maybe find a little peace.
But relax, this isn't going to be another one of those posts from Yours Truly. I won't be dragging you down entirely without purpose. Not today, at any rate. You should know me better than that, damnit. We're talking about Mediocrity, remember? Average, mundane, and normal.
The only thing that a human being has that is his or hers alone – the only thing that can not be taken, or stolen, or broken, or burned, or killed is Choice. So, here we are with the only thing that's truly ours-and-ours-alone as unique individuals, and it's something we share with every other fucking person on the globe. It doesn't matter if you're backed into a corner where the choices are dim, or even if you backed yourself there – you still have your ability to make a decision. It might not be a wise one, it might not be without regret, and it might not be easy, but it's still yours and nobody else's.
Being human is being mediocre. Being able to choose is mediocre. But it's still mine. And yours choices are still yours. And that crazy guy that hangs out at the airport trying to sell people a week-old newspaper – his choices are his. What do you do with them, you ask? Shrewd question, Interested Party -- nice to know you're still paying attention, but they're not my choices to make.
As for myself, I figure I could choose to base my individuality on my things. On my strengths -- I'm charming, I'm good-looking, I'm clever, I paint, I play guitar, I sing, and occasionally I write a little. I could choose to measure myself by those and hope like hell they don't go away. Or, I could choose to hide and ignore my frequent bouts with a decided lack of Give A Shit or my selfish streak. Or, I could choose to believe that Nothing Will Destroy Me, and use that mantra as an umbrella to swat at the storms with.
I think, though, that I'd rather choose to just keep making my decisions. I'll let them be my decisions -- for good, bad, or ugly. It seems like the more responsible I make myself for my choices, the better the choices seem to get.
Plus, well, the company is good, and there is a little peace to be found in that.
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?