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
My good old Interested Party, I have always dug a quality cold beverage. I'm going to list my favorites for you, since I have no doubt whatsoever that you're dying to know. In the event that you're wondering what brings this suddenly to mind -- and I know you are -- I'll tell you. I just stopped at a remote and tiny convenient store to grab myself a cold drink. The store just sort of sits along this boring stretch of highway, out in the middle of no where, like it's really got nothing better to do at the moment. It is a curious experiment in cross-breeding capitalism and hermitude. Is hermitude even a word? If it wasn't before, it damn sure is now. I dig that store though, and I fully intend to support it by stopping there more often.
Now to the good stuff. Keep in mind that these cold drinks are not ranked. They're not in any particular sort of order. A good drink quenches all sorts of things, not just your thirst. The human critter is more than just his or her appetites. That being the case, each drink will be more enjoyable under certain conditions.
1) Coke in Eight-Ounce Returnable Bottles
That store I discovered not fifteen minutes ago, sells those little 8-ounce returnable bottles of coke. Hell yeah! In case you don't have the foggiest notion of what I'm talking about, let me explain. Returnable bottles are made with this super-thick, almost greenish, almost blueish glass. I'll swear they're able to keep the cokes fresher, and they damned sure keep them cold longer. Go get yourself a six-pack of them, poke them in some ice, and six hours later come back and have the best coke you've ever had in your life. Oh yeah, and make sure you bring a bottle-opener.
2) Tall Glass of Iced Tea
This isn't your average iced tea experience here. If you want something as understated as that, go find a diner where they wipe all the glasses down before they reuse them. If you're wanting some quality iced tea, you're going to have to spend a little personal effort. Not much though. Get a large glass pitcher filled with water, drop in some tea-bags, and set it outside on a sunny day. It's called “Sun Tea” around these parts. Make sure you put a lid on it too, unless you don't mind sharing the tea with all the local fauna. In a few hours the tea should be ready for consumption, but again it's important to observe tradition. Iced tea is best in it's natural environment – a front porch on a gorgeous day.
3) A Cold Bottle of Beer
Again, put this on ice for a few hours before you will be drinking it. If I'm going for domestic stuff, my tendencies lean toward Miller Genuine Draft. Some folks will tell you Michelob is the way to go, but I disagree. Of course Michelob isn't bad, but for some reason those bottles it's sold in are capable of making it go from freezing to room temperature in about eight seconds. I firmly believe that a key sign of advanced culture is a society's ability to have ice-cold anything, so stick with MGD, I say. And as for the optimum conditions, drink them after any long hot day. Any ice cold beer will do in a pinch, but far and away the best beer I ever had in my life was an icy bottle of Miller after a blistering day of hauling hay.
So there's my list, Interested Party. It may seem like nothing spectacular, but I assure you these cold drinks will help you feel all is right with the world. Until you have to go piss, at least.
Interested Party, since you're obviously as bored as myself, I'll go ahead and show you a couple of things I can't quit reading lately. Not saying you'll love it, mind you, because there's no accounting for taste.
Been meaning to give up cable TV, since all you do is bitch about how nothing's ever on? Now you can feel free to, and just go here instead.
Too lazy to search the entire net for stuff that's better than all that shit your kinfolks forward you constantly? Fear not, young hero, this cat seems to have the goods.
Have fun, then call your mother in the morning. She misses you.
Do you, Interested Party, realize how precarious a woman's self-esteem is? Well, obviously if you're a woman you do. I'm not one, and I don't. I have, however, noticed some things that amaze me. What are they? I'm happy to share...
Women hate their noses. I shit you not! Don't believe me? Then stroll up to the most gorgeous woman you see tomorrow and ask her what she thinks about her nose. One'll get you ten that she at least covers it up with her hand. I have asked dozens and dozens of them.
I know of one – count them: one – female who does not dislike her nose. It happens to be my sister and she, by accident of genetics, happens to have the same nose as I do. And even she told me that she didn't like it until she realized how much it looked like mine. Did I mention my nose? It, I am told, kicks a lot of ass. Who knew? Not I, said the cat. Because it's a freaking nose! We hang out all the time but for the most part if it ignores me, I'm content to ignore it, and so we get along fine.
Now, I didn't just arbitrarily settle on the nose for this post. No, no. But years back I began to notice a trend. I'd be talking to a girlfriend or any friend who happened to be female and sooner or later they'd mention how much they disliked their own nose. I'd ask what she think is wrong with it, she'd go on about how she wished it were smaller, or bigger, or thinner, or turned up more, or less.
Oh, and she'd be specific about what she didn't like. It's shaped like a potato. It looks like a horse. It looks like a kitchen knife. It looks like a shoe-box. It clashes with my chin. It makes my ears look big. I swear I have heard all of these.
Any honest person has things about themselves that they don't like. And, okay, women tend to not like their hips, boobs, ass, or legs... but even those can vary from woman to woman. They all agree, however, on hating that thing they've been looking over since birth. Who ever heard of someone not liking some car because of the hood-ornament? Back when they had hood-ornaments, I mean. Nobody, that's who.
So, Interested Party, if you're female please comment and let me know why you hate your nose. I promise to be kind, albeit confused as ever about the issue. Forgive the pun. If, on the other hand, you are one of us blessed with external genitalia, we are left only sit and wonder idly how to twist this to our advantage in day-to-day life.
Okay Interested Party, where were we? Ahh yeah. We were talking about the Magical New, and so we were only halfway there. I'm a huge fan of the Magical New. Love it. It's flirty, adorable and it makes listening to the radio considerably easier because you don't have to shop around through the stations as much – all the love songs are anthems made personally for you.
But, like I said, it's all about you and so it's selfish. You don't actually have anything of yourself invested into it yet, and that way it seems harmless. It's like gambling with someone else's money. It might seem like this is a thing that you're pouring yourself into, but really it's something you're pouring over yourself.
And if you've got wide enough streak of the tragic-poet in you, maybe you're going to let it end here. Pretty soon, all the fascinating things about her that ring your bell – the way she tilts her head, the shape of her eyes when she's laughing – become normal. But do they become mundane and uninteresting? That's the question and screw “To be or not to be”.
It seems you're leaving the uncharted waters of the Magical New, and if you'll look portside, please note that we're entering the territory of the Comfortable Shirt.
What is the Comfortable Shirt? Well, Interested Party, I'm glad you ask. The Comfortable Shirt is something you have invested yourself in. Time and effort have gone into the Comfortable Shirt. Your time and effort. You've worn it until it was dirty, then you've taken the time to clean it, dry it, and hang it back up again. Or left it in the “clean clothes hamper”. Or whatever your practice is.
The Comfortable Shirt is something you've learned that you may depend upon. You know every seam. You have history. When it gets a tear, you lament not because of it's monetary cost but because there's a part of you in it. There's a part of it in you.
The Comfortable Shirt isn't innocent and flawless – not after all the shit you've been through together, but it is genuine and true. The two of you have been together so long that it fits you as surely as you fill it out.
The Comfortable Shirt is all about knowing how her day went by seeing the way she walks in the door.
Is it worth trading the Magical New for the Comfortable shirt? I sure as hell hope so. We all do
But how in the thundering hell do you go from the Magical New to the Comfortable Shirt? In response to your shrewd question, Interested Party, I must admit that I have to shrug and say that I have no fucking idea. Hopefully I'll post something lighter to talk about tomorrow. Who knows?
Who doesn't love a really good kiss? One of those slow, crowded kisses that takes over what had started out being something as simple as a little good-bye peck. Somewhere in the middle of it the two of you discover that all the little things in the moment -- like the feel of each other's breathing and the sound of your clothes rustling against one another -- just took a vote and found in favor of Going For It. It's a hungry thing with mouths and hands and necks and ears all tangled up together.
It's the kind of kiss that'll keep you company on a long drive away from her, when your nose is still filled with her -- the scent of her perfume on your shirt and the scent of her shampoo on your hands. You can still feel her sucking on your ear-lobe; You can still taste her too, and you're so distracted by all this that you don't bother wondering whether she is back there noticing the smell you on her clothes.
It's a selfish moment -- or at best a moment of shallow introspection. Right now you're thinking of her only in the fashion of how she has connected to you. It's plainly biological, but who gives a rat's ass? Because right now it's happening to you, it's fundamental, and it's magical.
Now, everything is new, you know? That's the magic. The Magical New. Right now, all those hormones are tearing around inside you in a sublime way, and you have no reason for regret or wistful reflection on some soured relationship between the two of you. It hasn't happened yet. Right now, the only thing that's happened is a connection between the two of you. The Magical New is so sweet that it can't help but seem the most innocent thing in all of creation.
It's innocent, but only in the same way that a baby is. It's self-centered because it hasn't had the opportunity to grow beyond that.
So, you ask, is this all you're going to say on the issue? Nope. It's just half of the deal, after all. Mayhap I'll get some more in later.
My dear Interested Party, I know that you're dying to know some things about my colt. She's a half-arabian / half-paint. This means that she's entirely too smart for her own good and that she is spotted. Really, she's got a gorgeous blanket (color-pattern). I call her Tinkerbell (which, I know, is a fruity-assed name), but hear me out.
Did you ever read Peter Pan? Not watched it, but read it? Well, just like the character in the book, this filly is a pretty little thing and is probably the most malicious, selfish creature in existence. We're talking criminal genius here.
Here is what a colt does every day. It wakes up and then says to itself, “Self, I wonder how I can get myself killed today?” Everything it does is an extension of this theme. See, just like other babies, colts don't have enough life-experience to understand how the world works. The biggest difference between colts and other kids is that horses tend to be far more sudden about things.
An adult takes certain rules for granted. Things like, “Do not eat this barb-wire fence”, for example. A colt, on the other hand, has to figure out why running very fast, directly into a bois d'arc tree is a bad idea. And you've just got to check up on them constantly to patch up any cuts and scrapes and pray they live through it.
Just for you, my dear Interested Party, is my Saturday so far: My dad came by and woke me up at ungodly o'clock this morning because he needed help handling a horse. So I get up, throw on some clothes, and ride out there with him. I did all this on auto-pilot because I was still groggy from the night before. It involved more than a few hours crowded by whiskey. Dad is not a morning person. Oh, he gets up in the wee hours of the day -- but at least he has the common courtesy to not be chipper about it. Anyway, we made it to the horses a good half-hour before daylight did.
We got done and he dropped me back off at my place. By now the sun was up. The sun, for those of you who haven't made it's acquaintance, is a morning person. It was up in the sky being annoyingly cheerful at me, so I ignored it and tried to go back to sleep. And just like other morning people, the sun kept doing it's happy little tasks at me through the window until I finally resigned myself to becoming fully conscious. The bastard.
I ran down to the store and got myself sufficiently caffeinated, then came back home and read a good book. Good Old Boys by Elmer Kelton. Trust me, if your first name is Elmer you had damned sure better be one hell of a writer. He is. If you are one of those people in love with Texas, every one of his books will provide you with a new reason.
So, let's see... About 10:00 in the am, I hopped online for a bit, chatted with a couple of friends, posted a blog, and then talked myself into leaving to go see the local “Medival Car Show”. Within a few blocks of my house, I talked myself into going to see my folks – more specifically my nephew. He is a cute kid, which is only natural considering the gene-poole he's swimming around in. ;)
Then sometime in the middle of the afternoon I zipped back home, got back online and chatted up another friend, read some recommendations of her own blog, and went back out to check on my colt. She was (the colt, that is, not the friend), as usual, extrememly ornery.
By now, I was also trying to sort out my choices for tonight's activities. They were A) Hang out here in town with a couple of friends of mine and partake of that fast-paced sort of rhetoric which is always fun. Or B) Go to a rodeo with another friend of mine. Got one call from choice A) saying they were probably not going to make it to town tonight. Got another call from choice B) saying, “Uh, it looks like I'm not going to make it to the rodeo tonight. But we can always just go do something else. Let me give you a call as soon as I get my schedule straightened out for tonight.”
I ran to the corner store to get some myself all cigarette-ified because I really enjoy the social leprosy that comes with being a smoker. When I got home I discover eight messages on the machine. These all occurred during my trek to the store, which means that my phone averaged two calls a minute while I was out. There is probably something deeply clever I could remark about it, but I don't want to be bothered. My apologies.
It seems now, Interested Party, that I now have these choices:
Which will I choose? Well, my dear Interested Party, I don't have a clue. Yet.