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 about Carol, my old Interested Party. Carol is someone I will, in all probability, never see again. I don't know if she's got a boyfriend. I don't know if she has trouble sleeping at night. I don't know what her driving record is. I can safely say, however, that she's this tiny chick – one of those types who would still be cute as the devil's dimples even if she wasn't so damned small -- who was very much worth the time to flirt with. And she wasn't even particularly gifted at it.
But see? That's one of the great things about flirting – it's like playing with a box full of Legos. You don't have to be good at it and you don't even have to be trying to build anything specific in order for it to qualify as Time Well Spent. Plus, with flirting you don't have to worry about picking up tiny pieces of stuff off the carpet – which is a definite bonus when you consider that the only thing worse than stepping on a Lego in bare feet is stepping on a Monopoly house. My God.
All you have to do to enjoy flirting is to flirt.
What an interesting planet we're riding, my Interested Party. Unlike the damned spinning Tea Cups though, any dizziness you experience isn't necessarily the product of funnel cakes combined with applied physics. If you're a guy, as often as not the source of your dizziness occurs as a result of Applied Female Company. Or, as it happens, it's decided lack.
Here I am – charming and clever bastard that I am – and I still find myself flip-flopping between the desire for female attention and a suspicion that I need to be left the hell alone.
Happens to the best of us, I reckon. You want those strange breasted creatures paying attention to you. You want to smell them and hear them. You want to be wanted by them. You want. They're a strange breed of people, those damned women folk -- but if things are going to go around not making sense at you constantly, you'd just as soon things did it while some hot, breasted creature was sucking on your earlobes. You don't want to think too much about why they might want to be paying attention to you either – it wouldn't make a lick of sense. They're the smart ones, those women, but they don't think about it either. Count your blessings, my Interested Party, distract them with something jingly, and hope for the best.
And at the same time – during the very moment when all these notions and desires are rattling around in the bottom of your brain-pan and bits of a lower altitude -- you find yourself questioning the point of it all. All of those groovy, amazing things you could get out of the experience of Applied Female Company are staring you right in the eye, and still you occasionally find yourself unmotivated to seek it in any likely fashion. You want to avoid thinking about any of it by just avoiding them entirely. And maybe you could do it if it weren't for their breasts.
On the one hand, you could find some fine breasted thing in some vague agreement to rock each other's respective socks clean off. On the other hand, you could catch up on that sleep you've been meaning to get all by your lonesome and not worry with any of it.
These, my faithful old Interested Party, are the times when you feel the dizziness the most. These are the times when something fleeting and casual looks the best. You don't have to put so much of yourself into the endeavor. Just spin along, grab a random partner, and dance without wondering about when you're going to trip on the fucking linoleum again.
That's the most obvious problem with Relationship Sex, see? How much of yourself you have to apply. How much of your you that you have to risk. Nothing compares to the groove and connection of that kick-ass Relationship Sex. But nothing compares to the confusion, hurt, and exhaustion of an ass-kicking relationship that's gone south, either. The spinning lights cast by it can make an off-hand fling look refreshing by comparison, I tell you.
Makes one wonder if maybe we're not all just looking at these things from the wrong direction entirely, doesn't it? If maybe there's some very basic part of these chemical forms of interaction with each other that we've overlooked. Something that would make it all, well, make more damned sense. Which would be ironic enough that it would seem a whole lot like a genuine case of That Just Figures -- thus proving that it's the truth.
Sometimes, my sweet little Interested Party, it is a whole hell of a lot of fun being me. Sure, sure, there is a bit of that dependable old masculine ego talking here -- but not all. No, not by a damn sight.
Mostly, I'm just glad to be and glad to be here... And, in all honesty, glad to be here at people – though not in that cheerfully-psychotic, morning-person way. Because, come on. I do have a conscience, after all.
A woman asked me recently, “Which do you think is better? Booty-call Sex or Relationship Sex.” First, Interested Party, I'd like to remind you that I am not only a guy, but I'm also rather good at being one -- so my initial response was almost something along the lines of, “ Away put your question, I mean you no harm!” Something within us, as males, understands that it doesn't pay to have a meaningful conversation about a relationship with any woman, even if it's one the two of you aren't sharing.
Really though, the question has some merit, doesn't it? Because these two endeavors are not the same, regardless of how naked the woman involved is. Or women. One is all about blind attention, raging hunger, coursing hormones, the tastes and smells of the other person, and a all of this other delicious... So, wait. Uh, where was I?
The other is only mostly about all those things. You simply mix in more meaningful eye-contact during and better company after the sex.
It's the eye-contact that always gets me, Interested Party. Yeah, I'm a guy, so I'm not about to down-play the other sorts of contact going on... But it's that quality of eye contact during Relationship Sex -- at least when it's, ahem, possible – that's always somehow managed to ring my bell. All the favorite positions in the world never do quite deliver the same turn on.
That kind of eye-contact is a phenomenon known as The Shit. The stupid romantic bastard in me recognizes it. Her breath in your face, her voice in your ear, her self in your fucking head... All of these things you're far more likely to notice and then to actually appreciate when you know that you're still going to be appreciating her afterward. For her questionable taste in music. For her smile. For her genuine concern over your well-being. While the two of you are joking around at a parent's house together, for example, or sitting on the porch together watching the birds stomp around the yard. Basically, my little Interested Party, appreciating all those moments when you're sharing something aside from very personal space and a mutual lack of clothing.
Now, I'm certainly not trying to rob from the heat and fury and passion of a more casual thing. I'm a guy – of course I understand how much fun a one-nighter is. You're paying attention to some gorgeous little thing under very appealing circumstances and she's paying attention right back to you. And you don't have to talk about a single damned thing that will make you regret being male. How could a guy not understand the appeal of that?
It's just that booty-calls and casuals are just not something you can especially trust. You can't trust the situation, you can't trust the gorgeous little thing, and you can't even trust yourself. You end up having to keep your distance to a degree, my Interested Party -- at least as much as your athleticism and flexibility will allow, anyway. Ba dum dum. These qualities might be fine for a hobby, but they're no way to live. Brief, unpredictable moments are certainly nothing to center a life around.
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.