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
Cats are creatures of edges, and I think that's the thing that attracts the majority of the cat folk. It is the only thing cats are consistent about.
They exist on the edge of total complacency and passionate psychopathy. One moment they are dead asleep, and the next they are wildly defying every rule of logic and gravity in order to savage the curtains. They remain upon the edge between utter egomania and unpredictable affection. They are mercenary, only in a foreign kind of way that never quite makes sense to anyone else.
Oh yeah, they're territorial. Cats are all about borders, in so far as they need something definite to defend with righteous indignation and then, when they're done, to strut boldly beyond. Cats are like little, furry Frank Sinatras. They saunter along through creation doing things their way, because consequences happen to other people.
They're like big, furry paradoxes. They are a particle and they are a wave. And if you took one from Schrodinger and stuck it in a box, when you finally looked inside to see how alive it wasn't, the cat'd be whichever option you were rooting against.
I love the idea of cats. It's good to know that something as chaotic and still as definite as a woman can simply be, without necessarily being female. That women don't have the market cornered on edges. That there are things that escape definition to the point that you can only describe them successfully by pointing out what they're not. It makes the world more interesting to know that there are such things as cats.
And I'm still going to see just how incredibly far I can kick one of those pointy-eared stray bastards the very next time it chooses to go a'courting under my bedroom window at four in the morning.
Okay, Interested Party, riddle me this. Why is it that I've got a modestly respectable rating on Hotornot.com (1731 people can't be wrong, can they?) and a lot lower one on FaceTheJury?? I mean, I use the same picture on both. It is – and let me be clear on this point – a picture of me. I'm pretty damned good-looking, or at least I've always thought so. I'm sporting a striking jaw-line, a bad-assed nose (in case you, Interested Party, are a woman and inclined notice that sort of thing), and my stylin' overalls with Texas A&M cap! My ass, which I have been assured represents the pinnacle of quality buttocks, isn't in the picture. But still...
My delicate ego is bruised. It is, after all, made of eggshell. How come I'm not raking in the big numbers, damnit? Growl, snarl, growl. I am left to suppose that the women of choice and taste frequent Hotornot.com and vote me a ten. Hint, hint. Clue, clue.
I've just read an article about pets that said, “Remember, dogs are not people in disguise -- they're wolves in disguise.” I don't simply disagree. I find fault with the statement. I find it backwards, inattentive, and irresponsible.
Of course, the ancestors of dogs are wolves. But I hold that in just as real a way, humans are their ancestors too. I don't mean in the literal sense. Sicko. Look at this with me, Interested Party, for here is what I see...
Historians have long held the notion that the first dogs were wolves domesticated by early man to help out with the hunt. As if the first guy to do it was out hunting with his buddies one day and discovered some wolf pups after having killed the adults – then said to himself, “Hey, aren't these little guys cute? Why don't we quit competeing with wolves and teach these pups to hunt with us instead?” I have my doubts about that, unless he then added something like, “And by the way, someone catch my eyeballs – they've just drifted out of my head – but first pass me more mushrooms.” No, I expect the first inklings of domesticated dogs were more along the lines of a mutual sort of truce between humans and wolves.
Any human makes messes. Lots of humans make lots of messes -- even ancient semi-nomadic ones. Messes attract vermin. Vermin attract your more opportunistic critters – from bateria to bears and all points in between. In short, all manner of things that tend to create problems for the humans. The precursors to domesticated dogs were probably wolves who had been become relatively comfortable enough around a human camp to stay in the vicinity and eat the left-overs (as well as the smaller things that showed up for some left-overs). If there was enough to keep them fed, there wouldn't be any competition with the humans. And any of the wolves who might have made themselves nuisances in some other way would be killed off.
Why would humans allow this? I'm sure they noticed how there weren't as many rats running around, or at least how many fewer family members were dying of mysterious diseases. I'm certain they realized how there were fewer bears showing up, and the bears (or enemy people for that matter) who did come were preceded by wolf-noise. Again, any of the wolves that created too many problems for the humans would be killed or chased off. Generation after generation, survival of the fittest and all that So eventually you wind up with wolves who aren't wolves anymore. They make more (and radically different) noise, they don't have to hunt, they are comfortably at-home around their own personal human pack. Their social structure is not centered on old, established wolf-pack discipline but rather a new system that is a legitimate part of a human society.
I'm not stopping here, I'm just going to give you a little bit of a break, see? Fear not, though, I'll pick this back up. People – even the ones without opposable thumbs – interest me far too much.
I'm revisiting an essay I wrote about a year and a half ago, my Interested Party, and you're invited. Why? It's not just because I'm lazy – though that would be reason enough, since I am. It has to do with some of my friends and myself – not just a story, but the way we think. The way we're wired. Being the Interested Party that you are, I knew you'd love to know. In the event that you've already read it, feel free to bask again in the celebration.
About a year or so back, my old room-mate Dave said to me, “Next week is a four day week! Yay boobies! And you know what? The week after is a four day week! Yay boobies!”
“Yay boobies…?” I asked. I was familiar with the term. It is, after all, pretty much self-explanatory. It’s an exclaimation from which a listener may infer an abrupt presence of joy and, of course, boobies. Buzzard is the first person I ever heard say it. It had first been uttered while a heap of us bachelors were gathered around the livingroom watching rented movies when, lo and behold, some sweet young actress had effected an entire disregard for her clothes.
Yay boobies! It almost seems unmasculine to say. This is because it is the twelve-year-old boy’s equivalent of ‘viva la difference!’ And while twelve-year old boys are male, they aren't especially good at it yet. Buzz is not a twelve year old boy -- unless you use that term without literal prejudice -- but when he first spoke it we all felt its truth ring clearly. We all nodded solemnly of one accord.
“Yay boobies!” found itself at home around us.
Check out that girl dancing under the mirror-ball? Yay boobies! Heads up at that fine little waitress? Yay boobies! Jennifer Love-Hewitt? Yay boobies! So when Dave added “Yay boobies!” to his telling of how his next two weeks were going to offer a little less work than normal, I waited patiently for him to explain exactly how the presence of boobies were related. Whose, for instance. And where (just in case they might be finding themselves eventually in my house—you never know).
Walk with me for a moment, and let us examine the subject of the human female breast. If you’re a guy, you almost certainly understand the appeal. A friend of mine who is gay told me that he even found breasts appealing, though he wasn’t sure why.
Speaking as a heterosexual male though, I know why. It’s simple Guy-Math. Guy-Math implies that breasts equal women. Not that the reverse is true. Women don’t necessarily equal breasts according to Guy-Math. Throw out the traditional senses and concepts of equality here. No, in Guy-Math ‘equals’ is more akin to ‘is similar to’, or ‘indicates the significant probability of’, or sometimes even ‘will drag along behind them’.
If you, Interested Party, are now shaking your head in irritated confusion at the precepts of Guy-Math, let me give you an example that might clear it up a bit: Guys in general will have considerably less problems with homosexuality if it is taking place between two (or more) beautiful women. It’s got nothing to do with lesbian-chic. It’s not because guys feel threatened by the greater ability that women tend to wield in society. It’s not because guys are frustrated at the incomprehensible subtlties of Why She Might Be Pissed At Me This Time.
Guy-Math ignores such issues and leaves them for Oprah and Dr. Phil. Guy-Math simply states that if One Beautiful Woman Frolicking Lustily equals Good, then Two equals Twice As Good.
Understand? Guy-Math is more fundamental to a guy’s nature than logic or manners. It’s the same reason we get the largest order of fries and the most obsenely gigantic fountain drink possible when left to our own devices. In fact, I daresay that the whole application of Guy-Math to women in general is probably a defensive mechanism. Without the appeal of women so-clearly explained in Guy-Math, most men would have Guy-Mathed themselves into heart-failure or accidental crushing by mastedons long, long ago. I could go on and on about this, but no…
Anyway, back to breasts. I was recently talking about breasts with a friend of mine who, by coincidence, has her very own set. I was explaining that the human male, deep down, does not care how big breasts are. Oh sure we’ll gawk a little more if the breasts in question rival the rough mass of a buick, but that’s just because of the novelty (well, that and a little bit of basic Guy-math mixed in). The single-most admired quality of the female breast is that they are not in the wrong place.
Just like with real estate, it’s all about location, location, location (and at least two of those locations have to do with their proximity to the guy doing the admiring). Which brings me back to Dave. I was hoping upon hope that his “Yay boobies!” was implying that I might soon be able to find them very locally. Say, for example, attatched to several fine lasses sitting my livingroom and flirting shamelessly with Yours Truly. As soon as he realized I was waiting for such an explanation, he told me, “No man, I was just happy because I only have to work four days a week for the next two weeks.”
So it seems “Yay boobies!” has undergone another alteration, becoming more vague. Instead of celebrating something appealingly female, it celebrates celebration. And there was much rejoicing!
Hey there, Interested Party. I'm going to tell you about my friend Buzzard. My previous quotes up there – look up just a little – have up until now been from various and sundry books or movies. Today, I decided to go with something a little more unique, though. I'm quoting my friend Buzzard, a guy I've known for years. I'd tell you about how his wit is second only to my own if I weren't so damned modest. I have spent the last ten years or so not collecting his quotations and now I'm kicking myself for it. The guy sweats wisdom. I have found it to be wisdom for all occasions, only it's dressed up to look like something you wouldn't want to lend five bucks to.
I am seriously considering it my practice to keep fresh Buzzard Quotations up for you, Interested Party. I think you'll dig them as much as I do. Okay, I hope you'll dig them. Maybe you'll read them and your inner-monologue will suddenly find itself busy coming up with reasons you can't part with a few bucks. With great risk comes great, well, risk. But occasionally it comes with great returns.
These quotations come, almost exclusively, from conversations with Buzz. I won't bother about mentioning the context of the quote. That'd take all the fun out of it! Besides, since when did expressions of wisdom need context? For that matter, they don't need any text – but this is a blog. If I just sat here gesturing emphatically at my keyboard, you'd miss out on the latest revelation.
I am fucking amazed at the people who don't know how to flirt. This being so, I find that I occasionally have to give people lessons on the subject. So, to save myself some time and trouble in the future, I am going to post some flirting tips. This way I can just refer folks here in the future and save my breath.
That's right, Interested Party, this post is for my own personal use. It will be written with these very selfish motives specifically in mind. Well, of course we all post blogs with ego-maniacal assumption paired up with the daring hope that others will read them – and that's selfish too, though more understandably so since we also browse other blogs and find that we are not alone, even in our dark little rooms with our keyboards. Hmm. That was a fun sentence.
I”m being far more deliberate and mercenary here. I have my cigar lit – a cheap Jewel's Black and Gold since you're curious. I have a not-so-cold drink close enough to my hand that if I reach too suddenly for the 'tab' key, I'll be wearing it. I am in the sort of mood that cries out with a wink for someone to dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians. I'm ready to flirt, and finding no one here to do it with, I'll channel my charm into showing you, my fine Interested Party, how. Lucky you, lucky me.
It is supposed to be fun. If it isn't fun, it's because you are doing something wrong. Not the person you're trying to flirt with. Not the atmosphere. Not the situation. You. Fortunately, flirting is a light-hearted activity. If flirting were an animal, it'd be a kitten. If you've screwed something up you can just jingle a key-chain or something in front of it, and it'll forget all about it. It's all about now, so your past fumbles aren't even in the picture.
Why is this? If my calculations are correct, it's because flirting is all about paying attention to one another. We all love getting friendly attention, and the best way to get it is to give it. Any waitress in one of those trendy places that tacks on an additional charge for atmosphere will tell you that if you flirt, you make better tips.
Flirting really doesn't necessarily have anything to do with sex, so relax. What is this foreign thing of which you now speak, you ask? You heard me. Some of the best flirting in the world goes on without the slightest twitch or tingle in anyone's fun parts. Little kids are the best beings in the world about flirting! They don't mean anything raunchy by it. They don't want anything from you except that you pay attention back to them, so they give it freely and with total abandon. A fantastic way to flirt is to be playful like a little kid.
My cigar is out now, but my drink is still fresh as the morning. Since flirting is subconscious as well as intentional interaction, let's talk little more about your mood. We aren't going to concern ourselves with the mood of whoever you're flirting with – that's advanced-level stuff (in so far as you must advance in order to understand how much it doesn't matter a damn)... Don't try too hard. It doesn't require concentration. It... Wait, where was I? It just requires a desire to enjoy the attention of...
Come to think of it, I do believe I'm going to stop here and go call a girl or something. Night, yall.
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.