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
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AIM and Y!: dexcheque






Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit





   

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The goddess of, well, something I'm sure -- Genevieve's Ink Stain

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Through a Glass, Darkly
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Illusion
How The Other Side Lives
and of course...
Why Being Human Kicks Ass




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The Deep And Abiding Wisdom of Yours Truly About:
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Thursday, March 10, 2005
Oil On Paper

Okay Interested Party, from sheer laziness I'm going to toss out another older work for you to take a gander at.

Image hosted by Photobucket.com


Dig it, baby.


Posted at 11:15 am by soapwort
Comments (11)

Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Writer Transcending a Tired Genre

I'm going to tell you about one of my favorite authors this fine evening, my Interested Party. Why? Because I realize you might possibly feel neglected lately with all the attention I haven't been paying to you. It's nothing personal. I've been busy.

I quit looking for westerns to read about the age of fourteen, Interested Party. That's also the age I quit reading Edgar Rice Burroughs' very lengthy Tarzan series. I'm not sure what -- developmentally speaking – was happening to me at the time. I just vaguely remember realizing that they all tended to run together and I couldn't keep straight which one Slade was the main character of, and which had Vance. And then I realized that it really didn't matter, since they both always did the same shit. They held a gun, they shot the bad guys, loaded up the broad at the end.

In their favor, I will admit that they didn't bother singing.

So despite my lack of significant Give A Shit where western novels are concerned, I will boldly and unashamedly point out that one of my favorite authors is a guy named Elmer Kelton. That's right, Interested Party -- the cat's first name is Elmer.

I'd like to take a moment here and point out that if your first name is Elmer, you'd better be one really good fucking writer. Not only had you better have one hellacious story to tell, but you'd also better be extremely capable in the telling of it. If your first name is Dane, for example, you don't have to write worth a happy damn. Some folks are going to read your shit for precisely the same reasons they'll read a story about someone name Slade: Because they're thirteen year old boys who like the idea that all it takes to pick up chicks is blowing bad guys all to shit -- which, of course, is easy to do when you have a cool name.

Anyway, my groovy Interested Party, back to our man Elmer. First off – and surprisingly relevant – is that Elmer Kelton is actually from Texas. And not just Texas – but southwest Texas. The difference is similar to that which exists between sipping some lemonade versus chewing an actual lemon. West Texas is Texas concentrate.

His stories are about people. People who are trying to keep their little ranch alive during Times of Drought. People who are trying to keep their old way of life alive during Times of Change. People who are trying to keep their family alive during times of, well, Being Kin To Stubborn Bastards. Basically, it's about people. It just happens that the majority of his stories happen within the rusty borders of a cliché genre.

Go grab yourself a copy of Good Old Boys, Interested Party. Or The Time It Never Rained. Maybe a copy of The Man Who Rode Midnight. Be glad there are writers who transcend genre without ever having to sneak under the wire. It sort of justifies ever having had to be thirteen.


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

Thursday, March 03, 2005
Reason To Be Male

Yesterday, Interested Party, was a day of note. Here are some hints as to why:

Despite not being a Tuesday, Baby Doll managed to hit Yours Truly in the eye. With her car.

Also, there was evidence to support that Buzzard is descended from bullet proof monks. It seems that one of his immediate ancestors managed to hit himself in the head with a splitting maul -- resulting in torn clothes line, a concussion, a curious and vaguely indifferent cat, and a log that never quite got split.

That's right.

His father hit himself in the head with a splitting maul. Not only did he live to tell the tale, but he had the fortitude to be indignant at Buzzard for not having taped some damned thing on TV while he was gone to the hospital.

That, my Interested Party, is a fucking man. God it's great being able to spell your name in the snow.




Posted at 10:29 pm by soapwort
Comments (6)

Saturday, February 12, 2005
Chick To The Rescue

It is possible, my Interested Party, that lately you've been wondering Where In The Breaded And Fried Hell Yours Truly Has Been Lately. The answer is, like all really good answers, both simple and complicated. And like all really really good answers, it's not nearly so interesting to folks who weren't actually there.

Truth is a little like a photo album of vacation snapshots in this regard. So I won't bore you. Instead, let's skip right into the casual observations from a Valentine's Date – the kind where you get just slicked-up to the point where you're ready to strut a little. These sorts of occasions can be crowded to capacity with promise, my Interested Party.

Your girl's wearing a dress that looks as if it were crafted, not by people, but by arcane mystics. Mystics who've devoted their lives contemplating those aspects of females most likely to inspire Other People To Want To Lick Them Until They Are Naked. Mystics who have discovered the secrets to infusing these very qualities into every single stitch of clothing. Or maybe your girl just picked the dress up in some little side-street boutique as an afterthought – you just never know with women.

So anyway...

Now, you might just think that a dress like this would completely fend off any possibility of a Bad Time. You would, however, be Pretty Damned Incorrect. There can always be far more traffic than you'd been counting on – all waiting in ambush like some dark conspiracy of apocalyptic proportion. There can always be that very specific amount of rain allowing for wet streets so that all those tires plotting against you can kick road-film up onto your windshield – but not enough rain to actually help your windshield wipers clean it back off again. And then there can always be so many people intruding upon your evening that there isn't one single fucking restaurant without a long, long wait.

Life on earth teaches us this: There could always, my Interested Party, occur mayonnaise.

There isn't a deliciously wicked seamstress in existence who could fashion a dress of sufficient character, nor a temptress whose body could wear it well enough to disguise this irrefutable fact, Interested Party. Nope, if all you've got going for you is a hottie on your arm you might as well start stretching your Surly Bastard muscles before you begin.

For the evening to be salvaged, it's up to the character of the woman wearing it. Thank God for that, eh? Thank God.




Posted at 10:03 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Few Moments Previously Spent

Here, my Interested Party, is a little oil-on-canvas-paper I did a couple of years back. I just sat down, much in the same mood that I was in when I fashioned a barbarian duck not too long ago -- bored. And I painted until this thing came out. No pre-sketching. No real idea of what I was going to wind up with, even.

Which might just go to show what sort of unexpected things can happen when You Don't Have, as they say, A Plan. Or, maybe it doesn't.

It's not the sort of thing you'd want to hang up in a kid's bedroom -- at least if you didn't want the kid talking about you at length to a therapist in the future. And who needs more of that kind of notoriety, my old Interested Party?



I wasn't particularly restless when I painted it. I slept like a rock the night before. I slept like a rock the night after. There are more than a few minor changes I'd like to make on it now -- but that's just because in certain arenas I am something of a perfectionist. Thing is, you've got to draw a line somewhere and declare Okay Damn It, I Shall Go No Further.

It's almost a shame I don't have some powerfully insightful things to allow for you right now, Interested Party. Then I wouldn't have had to hawk this thing on you, right? If you're wanting wisdom today, it would seem that you're on your own.




Posted at 10:09 am by soapwort
Comments (13)

Monday, January 24, 2005
Few Moments Spent

With acres and acres of time lately, I have immersed myself into erudite pursuits. Lot to be said for erudite pursuits, my good old Interested Party. For one, they're erudite -- which is a word frequently used to mean "self-important".

Here, Interested Party, is one of the deeply important things Yours Truly has spent his valuable time with lately...






That's right -- it's a rubber duck. Specifically, it's a barbarian rubber duck complete with battle axe strapped across his back and his viking-style shield upon his wing, poised menacingly next to a quarter. Yeah, yeah. He's small.

See, two of my more erudite personal collections are rubber ducks and gargoyles. The gargoyles are perched atop the shelves backing the very desk I'm now sitting at. The rubber ducks stand guard atop the large bookshelf in my livingroom, where they are now looking a little worried at the newest, smallest, and most dangerously equipped member of their ranks.

Maybe the thrones of kings will tremble beneath his webbed feet.




Posted at 09:56 am by soapwort
Comments (3)

Thursday, January 20, 2005
Restless Night

There should be a law against talking to a guy when he is not actually awake, Interested Party. Waiting until he has been sprawled across the bed just long enough that his breathing has become relaxed and regular before saying, “So, here's a thought...” is a vile and sneaky endeavor.

It is, in short, a Dirty Woman Trick.

A guy will find himself burdened with all manner of evil. He's liable to wake up the next day to find that somehow he has agreed not only to help someone he's never met move furniture, but that he's also consented to carrying those things heavy and bulky enough to normally be saddled upon a brother-in-law.

A guy may also wake to find that he has somehow managed to grossly insult the woman who pulled the trick in the first place. He will be told that when he was asked If He Would Like To Take Her To A Musical, he responded with, “What the fuck are you talking about? It's, like, two in the morning. Quit acting like a sociopath on crystal and let me sleep.” He probably won't even get the pleasure of remembering he said it, but even if he does she will have deliberately misinterpreted his tone as having much more savagery than it actually had.

Women will also pull some rotten tricks in the morning too -- tricks which do not involve spontaneous early-morning sex in the slightest. They might, for example, kick you repeatedly and then quickly curl up in the fetal position shivering – pretending as if their bodily tremors were violent enough to cause a spontaneous kidney shot. When you say, “Nngah. Did you just kick me...?” they will respond with, “No, but I'm cold so get up and go find me something flannel to wear.” And then when you say, “Hell no – it's cold out there!” they will erupt into a startling display of Acrobatic Blanket Stealing.

So, my Interested Party, it is our duty – as Guys – to retaliate. And we're not just talking about waking them up at four in the morning for a couple rounds of Morning Sex either. We must stand firm under these circumstances by deliberately responding with whatever crazy damned thing our Id has to allow, and then claiming I Was Half Asleep Honey after.

Who's with me?




Posted at 03:45 pm by soapwort
Comments (9)

Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Sucker

I'm a sucker for a chick who knows how to kiss the hell out of me. I'm a sucker for a woman who, furthermore, qualifies as Extremely Good Company. I'm a sucker for a girl who can capably manage being sexy, classy, and cute all in the same sentence. I'm a sucker for a lady who has better taste in books and movies than I do. I'm a sucker for a hottie who appreciates good music whenever and where ever it may occur. I'm a sucker for a woman who can stand toe-to-toe with me in a casual game of Who Is More Clever. I'm a sucker for a chick who is as surprising as she is comfortable. I'm a sucker for a girl who is as feminine as they come.

Let me tell you about the Lately Girl, my Interested Party.

It would seem that Yours Truly is a sucker.




Posted at 09:03 am by soapwort
Comments (10)

Monday, January 17, 2005
Tale (Version Two)

I and a buddy were living in a house about a mile away from the nearest neighbor. This is, geographically, a great aspect for real-estate to have if it will involve binge drinking. The binge drinking, mind you, didn't tend to happen much with either myself or my roommate – I usually had better things to do and he's the sort of guy who, when drunk, tended to become convinced that everyone either Wanted To See Him Naked or else Wanted Him To Kick Their Ass.

An old friend happened to be in town one week, so everyone decided to make the pilgrimage to my hacienda in order that we could all Catch Up. They all began drinking at a slow and steady pace until I left for work Monday morning – by which point there were only three of these guests left.

I came back home after work to discover these three guys – one of whom, as it happened, was The Mighty Buzzard – standing in front of the house, each with a bottle. Big Crazy Friend was holding a bottle of Canadian Windsor. Evil Fiendish Friend was holding a bottle of Wild Turkey. The Mighty Buzzard was holding a bottle of what would have been cold beer, if anyone had been sober enough to remember to get ice.

“You guys are still drinking?” I ask. They all nod and snicker. Evil Fiendish Friend points out that they'd also gotten a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, though it had found a Higher Calling so they'd quit drinking it. A more suspicious breed of snickering occurred. I go into the house, where I discover they've been redecorating in Post-Apocalyptic Drunk Fest. More importantly, I do not discover my roommate's most prized possession: His cat.

Let me introduce you to this vile creature, my Interested Party. It was eternally in heat, which meant that not only was it always cawing like a damned banshee – but it was always trying to breed with anyone who wasn't trying to drop-kick it. Many a'time would I find my attention abruptly ripped from a movie or a book by a cat rubbing her ass on my leg, shoulder, or ear. My roommate, convinced that his cat would become lost and consumed by the elements, kept her carefully locked up in the house. Always.

As I was standing there in the house, taking in all the beer bottles and doritos scattered all over my living room, I realized that the cat was not there. I made a quick pass through the house. The cat continued to not be there.

“All right, assholes,” I said, “You didn't let the cat out, did you? Roomie's going to go Full Blown Gazelle Shit if his cat turns up missing or pregnant.”

“No, no,” Buzzard assures me. “She's in the house. She's back behind the couch and she won't come out.” There's more snickering.

“Why, pray, won't she come out?”

The snickering becomes decidedly more stifled now. There is much in the way of shuffling feet. Evil Fiendish Friend becomes suddenly interested in the clouds overhead. Big Crazy Friend decides he's suffering from terrible thirst and begins downing the Canadian Windsor.

I ask, “What did you guys do to the cat?”

Evil Fiendish Friend says, “We got sick of her grinding her butt on us... So we caught her, held her down, and peppermint-schnappsed her ass.”

Big Crazy Friend adds, “Peppermint-schnapps is for pussies, after all.” The snickering suddenly becomes complete, doubled-over, snorting laughter.

I glare at them individually until they choke the laughing back. Then I glare at them individually because they all Know Better. While I hated that cat, I respected the fact that my roommate loved the damned thing.

At any rate, they all squirm a bit, and then Buzzard says, “Hey, at least I administered First Aid.” The snickering starts back up.

I glare at Buzzard.

He says, “We caught it again, and they held it down... and I chap-sticked it's bung-hole, so it'd feel better.” Lots more snickering. Possibly, in part, due to the use of bung-hole in casual conversation.

I glare at Buzzard.

Buzz says, “Just don't use that tube of chap-stick that Dave left on your coffee table.” Dave, my Interested Party, is another friend who is capable of twisting Buzzard into the knot of choice. At any rate, I don't bother mentioning to any one of the three that Dave isn't nearly as capable of applying a swift and capable malice as my roommate.

They left before my roomie got home from work.

Now, my Interested Party – see? Wasn't that a far more interesting way to tell a story?



Posted at 12:00 am by soapwort
Comments (3)

Sunday, January 16, 2005
Tale (Version One)

Believe it or not, my fine feathered Interested Party, I have the Gift of Gab. I can, at will, manifest the ability to talk to someone long after they would normally have quit giving a rat's furry little ass. Understand, of course, it's not the sort of thing you do a lot at least if you're trying to keep your friends, well, friendly. Still.

It's a quality that does, in some small part, lend itself to being able to tell entertaining anecdotes. Even when the anecdote in question is, itself, not quite worthy of all the attention. Take, for example, the following story told in basic form:

Some years back, a few friends came and set up camp in my house for a long weekend. They drank the entire time. They wrecked my house. They went away.

Not worth a happy damn, is it? No, my Interested Party. Which is why the story has never been told like that at least not by Yours Truly. Let me tell you the tale again, only with a moderate amount of craft and skill this time...




Posted at 11:14 pm by soapwort
Comments (2)

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