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
I find myself in a kentucky burbon state of mind. There are, it must be noted, worse places to be.
There are those who will tell you, my curious little Interested Party, that kentucky straight sour mash is not the way to go. These people maintain, against all reason, that Tennessee Whiskey Is The Way To Go. They drink Jack Daniels, see. And they drink it on purpose.
Wire-brush In A Bottle. That's what Jack is. Any respectable sipping whiskey would have the decency to be smooth. Beam, for example. Or, in the event that you've entirely too much folding money in your posession, Crown Royal. I can socialize with the elloquent Mr. Beam and still manage to keep my preternatural charm under control, but if I happen to partake of the Crown... well, I've a nasty habit of being entirely too charming when I'm under royal advisement.
But I didn't mean to offer a treatsie on preferable whiskey. You're an intelligent Interested Party, and I have faith that you'll eventually find yourself in agreement with me on those issues.
I have spent the last several minutes not painting -- as I had earlier intended -- but rather analyzing and ranking the Best Movie Fight Scenes Of All Time Damnit with the Mighty Buzzard. Here, for your appreciation, are the findings of Yours Truly and Buzz.
#5 Darth Maul gets his ass handed to him. Yeah, okay, I know. It happens during second most questionable judgement-calls George Lucas ever made, but still. It is far and away the best lightsabre fight imaginable. If you crave a fight with ridiculously fictional weapons, accept no substitute.
#4 Every Jackie Chan Movie Ever Made. Ever made. Even his brief fight in Cannonball Run. The man simply understands showmanship.
#3 “Festus, you're a Yank!” In a little movie called Donovan's Reef, John Wayne fights a crafy Lee Marvin as well as the Australian Navy with nothing but an extra playing the role of Festus – an uncredited actor named Chuck Roberson -- at his side. My God, the carnage is clever and beautiful.
#2 The clay-slide in McLintock! Ranchers versus farmers on a fifty-foot clay-slide. Stir in a pinch of Maureen O'Hara with a hat-pin and an old Indian constantly asking where the whiskey is. Fighting could not possibly be more fun if it involved all of the Laker Girls. If it seems cliché, it's only because this was the first of it's kind. Everything since is just a poor copy. Without Maureen O'Hara.
#1 The end of The Quiet Man. Okay, so you've noticed how John Wayne seems to be getting credit for the top three spots have you? Well, if you haven't seen The Quiet Man, just kill yourself now. There has simply never been a better movie made, nor a more intriguing fight-scene ever devised.
There are people on this earth, Interested Party, who must be dating someone. At all times. We both know folks like that. They can't stand the idea of being without someone else – anyone else. Hell, you might be one yourself. I, however, am not.
I do miss certain aspects of being half of a couple though. I miss the Crazy that any woman I'm exclusive with brings to a relationship. Now, I'm not talking about general and sundry craziness that accompanies every human being on the planet – especially those estrogen-packing creatures known as women – no, no. And I don't mean the kind of crazy that goes hand-in-hand with casually eating the wall-paper. I mean the Crazy coming from someone else that just works with you so well when you're together. It's Magically New and yet it's a little bit Comfortable -- your Crazy and her Crazy functioning as a well-oiled machine.
Or, if you prefer, well-lubed.
Of course, you shouldn't forget, my flighty old Interested Party, that Crazy is still crazy. Her Crazy is no exception. And neither is yours, no matter how much you don't have tits.. Crazy will, on occasion, still rebel against reason and dignity and decency. But when you're partaking of Crazy like that, you find that there is a remarkably Low Drama-Threshold. Her Crazy fits too well with your Crazy for there to be much more than brief, occasional skids. And what little bit of drama there is usually passes unnoticed by you both, because your own Crazy takes up the slack when her Crazy gets out of hand. And vice versa.
See, Crazy brings some interesting things to the table that you wouldn't normally get to enjoy. Crazy can turn a boring-assed trip to the post office into a comfortable little adventure. Crazy can distract you away from procrastinating – making you genuinely want to do something that you genuinely don't want to do.
This makes sense when you're up to your sack in Crazy.
A woman's back just kills me, but in that damnation-that's-good-stuff way. The lines involved are absolutely, one hundred percent, feminine. A quality female back cannot possibly be mistaken for, say, a 1979 Ford LTD. Something about how her shoulders sweep down and inward to her waist, and then out again around her hips just fascinates me. The way the small of her back winds through the middle of it all. The way her neck and her legs sort of blend together, in one sleek shape.
A woman's profile – the way her forehead suddenly turns into the bridge of her nose. A woman's brow is not the same as a man's, I promsie you that -- regardless of how little attention she's given recently to Responsible Eye-brow Management. Her nose and upper lip and lower lip and chin are all part of this singular form that just screams Here Lies Unsurpassed Tenderness Or Malice: Choose Wisely. Her eyelids and lashes taking on all the texture of satin and velvet. How her hair lays over her ear. Fuck.
I don't know about you, Interested Party, but I could sit for hours watching a chick who's asleep. It's the best time to watch one without her being self-conscious. She's not worried about her posture. She's not preening. She's not worried I'm going to hate her nose. When she's asleep I can stare and soak in all the little details about her that define how feminine she is. Damn, that's good stuff.
And it's been way too damned long.
Sincerity is something I value in social interaction and entertainment. It impresses me more than anything else, I reckon. When I find myself moved by a book or a movie or a song or a sentence, it's because I detect a measure of sincerity coming forth somehow in it's content -- regardless of whether or not its nature is funny, sweet, angry, sexy, or just plain incorrect. When I find myself impressively moved by a family member or a friend or a woman or even a complete stranger in line next to me at Subway – again, it's the sincerity that's mostly responsible. It doesn't matter nearly as much to me whether their opinions are screwy or that they're not very articulate if they're being sincere while they're doing it.
Sincerity, my Interested Party, kicks ass. That sense that some things are exactly as you percieve them to be. That someone else – be they artist, compadre, or passerby – has to deal with life around them just like you and I. It's a very fundamental sort of evidence that neither one of us are alone, see? And that's a big deal.
Strippers, for example, can be wonderfully sincere. They're there to make a shit-load of money and hopefully to have a good time while doing it. For the most part, they're not bashful about this. That kind of candidly mercenary disposition can be awfully refreshing – especially after you've been dealing with attention from women who have not been sincere. That's why I won't shout down the guys who sit right down front on Pervert Row every night with fifteen one-dollar-bills in their teeth.
The downside, of course, to strip clubs is that you are intentionally getting yourself all revved up without any sort of resolution to the issue. Hell, you don't issue at all – which is my point. It's a museum of Unnatural Boobies. Look, but no touching. It's the same with watching porn. Sure, there's a lot of appealing things happening in porn, but they're not really doing you any good, are they? My solution to these two situations is to take a woman with you to the strip club, and to only watch porn with a woman in your lap. That's right, Interested Party, bring your own activity-partner. If you're having as good a time as you were hoping to when you started either activity, in pretty short order your activity-partner will almost certainly be the only thing you're paying attention.
But then there's lesbian porn. The allure of lesbians makes sense to me because of Guy-Math. My problem with lesbian porn is that there isn't an actual money shot. You can never quite certain how much fun those lesbians are really having. In other porn, when you see a money shot there can be no doubt in your mind that there's at least one person on the set who is genuinely glad to be there. With Lesbian porn, you just never know.
And I'm a slave to sincerity.
My arms are sore from a particularly strenuous day at work. I am on the wrong side of broke, because I spend more than I make even on particularly strenuous days at work. It is raining like the bottom has just fallen out of the sky, but the wind is blowing somewhere in the vicinity of sixty-to-seventy miles an hour – so at least all that rain hurts like hell while you're outside getting wet. However, my stark-raving Interested Party, I'm feeling fine.
Without a good book to wrap myself in. Without a guitar in my hands. Without the assistance of the illustrious Mr. Beam. Without some gorgeous little thing in my lap shrewdly applying her affections. Without the promise of a groovy weekend on the horizon. I'm feeling fine.
This, Interested Party, is because I am fine. Life is being imperfect at me, and Shit Happens like it's going out of style. And still, I'm fine.
Here's hoping that you're enjoying being you as much as I rather enjoy being me. Any more would probably be illegal.
Everytime I hear some tragic fool lament about how he is a nice guy, I cringe. They cry out, by ritual and rote, the sorrowful chant, “Nice Guys Finish Last”. God help you if you're one of these Nice Guys, Interested Party. Nice Guys do not, in fact, finish last. They don't finish at all. They're too busy pretending that they're too nice to be gnashing their teeth.
Many years back I considered myself one of these cats. That's right, Interested Party – I used to be a Nice Guy. So, you ask, what in the salted pits of hell happened? More than happy to tell you, my skeptical little Interested Party.
The Readers' Digest version is this: I went and caught genuine idealism, which led to genuinely wanting to be a better human being, which led to genuine self-examination. When you're ready to be honest with yourself and everyone else, the vinyl siding starts falling off your surface and exposes all the shoddy carpentry underneath. Turned out that all that time I was really a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool Sorry Bastard. And once that was out in the open, I discovered that I was a charming Sorry Bastard.
Being a charming Sorry Bastard – even one who actively fights against his Sorry Bastard tendencies -- is far more refreshing and, as it happens, more fun. Your thinking isn't as foggy. Your emotions are more distinct and true. You are more consistently and confidently yourself than you were when you had your head stuck up a Nice Guy's fictitious ass. You know it. Other people know it.
And some of these other people are women.
I hope, my Interested Party, that you're not under the impression that you are a Nice Guy. I assure you that you're not. You're not a Nice Guy, you're not a Tragic Poet, you're not the One Great Thing the girls will be kicking themselves in twenty years over having cast you aside. Regardless of how many times you've helped little old widows with their yard-work, or how many times you've provided a shoulder for someone to cry upon, or how many times you've sat alone and listened to some lame fucking easy-listening station.
Get to know yourself, Interested Nice Guy. Grab the Mag-lite of Introspection and go rooting around inside yourself. Dig out your inner Sorry Bastard, introduce him to your outer Nice Guy, and watch with joy and popcorn as your Nice Guy gets a mud-hole stomped in his passive-aggressively bitter ass.
Since you are my good old Interested Party -- and so, by default, interested – I'll tell you what I could use right now. Since this is about Me and Right Now, I'm not going to worry with issues such as world hunger or cures to cancer. This is a selfish list. If you can provide some of these, then by all means let me know. Remember that this isn't a Christmas list since Christmas isn't occurring right now.=
I could use a change of scenery. Not that I don't love this part of the world. I do. There's far too much of this incredible sky over your head and entirely too much ground under your feet for anyone to truly hate this place. The fucking geography can inspire and supports a person. To hate this place is to hate yourself. Since I'm a big fan of sky, ground, and myself, I couldn't hate this place even if I was inclined to. I want to soak in some Elsewhere. Any Elsewhere, I'm not that particular. Just so long as there is a certain measure of new when I get there – some variety. Just so long as there are at least occasionally some new faces. And, of course, so long as some of those new faces happen to belong to chicks. Places tend to be made better when women are around.
I could use a shave. Seriously. I haven't shaved in, like, two or three days. It's not a record or anything; not by a long shot. Specifically, I want a shave by a woman. It's like sex or a manicure in that you can do it by yourself, you can even pay to have someone else do it to you, but it's just not the same as a woman giving you that sort of intimate attention because she genuinely wants to. Talk about sexy.
I could use a tall glass of iced tea. One without so much as a passing acquaintance with any lemon or sweetener. Just a glass, tall and clear. Insert ice and tea. The end.
I could use an 80-degree evening and a hammock. The weather is still stubbornly being 52 degrees at me right now, and I am completely without a hammock. If I had a hammock, right now I'd just have to settle for looking out the window at it because it is just too damned cold.
I could use another glass of iced tea. So long as I first had the original glass of iced tea, that 80-degree evening, and the hammock. This is for reasons which should be plain to you, in the event that you've ever partaken of them before, my Interested Party.
I could use a woman who looks spectacular in jeans, aggressively sitting in my lap. Now, I know you're saying, “What does it matter how she looks in jeans if her jeans are busy sitting in your lap and out of sight?” I respond by reminding you that she's going to have to earn the lap privileges before she's allowed to sit. Come to think of it, she'd better be pretty damned charming too. The fun of having some gorgeous thing sitting in your lap -- as opposed to jumping right off into sex -- is the combination of flirting, conversation, the feel of her as she moves with every breath, the scent of her shampoo soaking into you, and trying to ignore how badly you want each other. For a little while, anyway.
I could use my favorite CD back and playing on my new speakers. My Temple of the Dog album was a casualty of the last break-up. Now, if I want a chick in my lap to hear All Night Thing, I'm going to have to get her get her out of my lap so that I can play and sing it myself. Damned shame about that, Interested Party. Damned shame.
I am, my adorable little Interested Party, in a Slow Burn sort of mood. Now, a Slow Burn can differ radically from person to person, from situation to situation. A Slow Burn fury could be a sort of frustration that, when left unattended for too damned long, will result in a swift kick to sticking door and then having to replace the hinges afterward. It might be the kind of passionate dislike that eventually gives way to quitting your job as loudly and cheerfully as possible.
A Slow Burn friendship, alternatively, might manifest in the form of a close friend with whom you were not close for years, but these days you'd be perfectly willing to toss someone into traffic for them. Or, for that matter, maybe even yourself. It could be that breed of friendship that never passes on regardless of how much distance or time is between you.
A Slow Burn romance could be one those strangely-quiet stretches in every relationship when things only look to the casual observer like you're in a rut, but really things are still hot to the touch. It may be something that goes on even after a break-up, once all the other intense emotions have quit crowding out the basic pangs for each other and the chemistry begins to bud again.
These aren't my Slow Burns – at least not the one I'm currently looking in the eye. Indistinct things are building up, but for what purpose I am uncertain. In times like these, logic may seem to indicate that I should grab a handful of familiar solutions and try them all out. See if one will fit.
You know: kick a door, call a friend, kiss an ex. Hell, I could even mix-and-match – call a door and kick a friend. Or kick someone into traffic while I kiss an ex into a door.