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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Monday, November 26, 2007

You start with "damn this is long" and finish with "oooo, that's gotta hurt!"

I had this really funny post all fleshed out – well, mostly – about the first Thanksgiving, but I didn’t finish it in time and now it seems stale, like the crust on the sweet potato pie that’s been on the counter a week. *Heh, you couldn’t see it, but I originally wrote “sweat potatoe.” Praise be to god for spell check and can you imagine what that would taste like? Oh, and the more bible thumping of you will note that I used the lower-case G for 'god' as I’m referring to Gates and the Kingdom of Microsoft, not the Big JC.*

This Thanksgiving post was a humorous diatribe about the fallacies of what we consider to be a “traditional” Thanksgiving. Unlike today, when Thanksgiving is a four-day holiday of football, over-indulgence, and the prelude to gluttony of that “spiritual” holiday in December, the first Thanksgiving was actually a celebration of “holy shit, we didn’t starve this year! In your FACE King of England!”

If today’s reality was a part of the first Thanksgiving we’d see Miles Standish chatting up Chief Massasoit after the feast.

“So, Massasoit, are you going to stay to watch the Cowboys whoop ass on the big screen?”

“No, Miles, I have to make it an early night. The missus and I are headed to Sears at 2am for the annual Black Friday pre-Christmas post-Thanksgiving holiday sale spectacuganza.”

“Oh, well that’s too bad. Capt. Bradford hasn’t even gotten drunk on mead and started his rail against liberal politicians!”

“Yes, that’s always fun to witness, as would Sarah’s calling him a retard. But the braves and I have eaten all the seal, lobster, and fowl we can handle.”

“Well, take an eel pie with you. We just have too many leftovers!”

. . . . . .

Sadly, this post did not flesh out soon enough to make it to press before it became irrelevant. I suppose a more accurate reason that it wasn’t posted was that I was too lazy to actually work on it. Maybe next year.

While it would have been a masterpiece of literary wit and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm about how we’ve bastardized the original intent of the holiday, the reality is that I go for quality in what I choose to share with the world and while I’d be the first to admit there have been many examples of lackluster-edness on this blog, I just didn’t feel the motivation to wrest forth the effort required to give it the quality you all demand; indeed, deserve!

The thing is, I don’t feel an obligation to post, the same as I don’t feel an obligation to be funny when I do; which is fortunate, since this lack of commitment mixes so nicely with my inability to be just that. Think of it as the blogosphere’s version of a nice cotton-poly blend or a Morgan and Coke. What I write is true (mostly) and are stories born of my own experiences in life, which is why I’d never make a bankable television writer: too few poignant experiences.

As a result it sometimes takes a while before I write something that doesn’t fall to the axe after I re-read it and think “who’d care about that crap?” Just as no one is always happy or always sad or always funny, so too is what you read on my blog. I often wear my emotions on my sleeve, sometimes both sleeves. So when you reach what I’ve written, you’re not just experiencing a humorous or saddening (or insipid) recitation of something that I’ve run across in life, you’re gaining a glimpse into my current mood; what’s going through my mind, in a conceptual manner of speaking. Maybe it's evidence of my banality, but I find that I write a far better sad story when I'm sad; a far better sexy story when I'm feeling amorous; and a far funnier post when I'm feeling light of heart. The result is that sometimes it’s happy, sometimes sad, sometimes irreverent, other times deep and serious. About the only condition I haven’t covered is “sexy,” but I hear that’s coming soon (the more perceptive of you might then make the leap that if you want to ever see the much-eluded to "smut post" you should talk dirty to me to get me in the mood. Jus' sayin'). Ha!

To me, blogging is a form of marking my journey through life, erecting signposts along the way (hehe, I said “erect”). It’s also a means of communication, commiseration, perhaps validation? It’s a means of meeting new people – hopefully new friends. It’s a means of inspiration, at least in the sense that, sometimes, others can read what I’ve written and say to themselves “damn, at least I’m not like that!”

It’s also often a means to remind myself that there are still far cooler kids in school than me.

And “cool,” at least as it pertains to the popularity contest into which social networking venues have become, is just not me. I don’t wish to be the most popular kid in school; I want to have friends I could keep for life, even if that’s only one or two individuals. My style is conversational, but hopefully intellectual. My personality is passionate, but introspective. I write to you in my blog the way I’d speak to you in person. Fortunately for you, however, you’re not captive to my words and ideas when you’re reading EA as you would be face to face. Someone told me once – and I find it a paramount compliment – that I’m a “transparent writer.” Not “predictable,” but that I write who I am, not who I wish you to see; that reading what I write gives a glimpse into the person behind the words. I found that statement to be the height of gratification because what I want anyone who reads what I write to come away feeling is that the person who wrote it and the situation described is… human. Fallible. Hopeful. Passionate. Sometimes ridiculous. All those things that make the human condition so grand and glorious, infuriating and mysterious.

The fine line to be tread is in balancing my humanity – and the sometimes boring reality that is day-to-day life – with subject matter that is going to inspire someone to check back from time to time to see ‘how goes’ the life of one of the aggressively mediocre. It’s that delicate balance between “interesting, funny, or inspirational” and “unexceptional.” On the one side of this line is the litany of experiences that will leave someone with the desire to return for more. On the other side is “well, there’s ten minutes I’ll never get back.” On the left is “real”: my totally from scratch cranberry sauce fecking ROCKS. True? Yep. Interesting? Yeah, about as interesting as watching an obese man pick sock lint from his toenails with a toothpick. Also on that side is the real life story about how every single scrap of clothing in my house is now laundered (well, except for the two linen shirts that need to be dry cleaned). Yes, I’m a domestic God, people. But would you care to hear this? I wouldn’t. Hell, I did it and I’m yawning just writing about it. I don't want to be one of those bloggers who think "today I ate beans for lunch and it took me twice as long to get home as normal" is the pinnacle of literary conversation; mostly because I lack the skills to make that kind of thing interesting in any way whatsoever.

So the real question here is: what can I write about that’s both true and interesting/funny/inspirational enough to make you want to visit again? I mean, I think I’ve lead an interesting life so far and I know for damned sure I can be funny. I just need a crowd to work off for the funny to surface. I’m that guy who invents the hysterical come-back to a seemingly innocuous statement. When you’re me and you sit down to write in your blog, you stare at the screen and it stares back as if to say “OK. Now... be funny!”

Well, they say the best way to capture a reader is to make them empathize with your character; to help them feel what your character feels. I read voraciously and I can tell you some writers are gifted enough that they could pen an anecdote about two hamsters mating in a cage and millions would pay to read it. I don’t pretend to be anything even perfunctorily approaching that good at drawing someone in with my written words. But! There is one beacon of exception to this rule of attractive empathy: Sex.

Yes, sex: that tried and true subject that always garners attention despite the fact that we Americans act like we don’t do it at all. Nothing inspires more hits than a picture of boobage or even the insinuation of boobage. But as I’m not female, my boobage wouldn’t really inspire oooo’s and aaah’s. Indeed, it’s more likely to inspire “[gasp!] eewww”’s and “sir, please, put your shirt on; you’re embarrassing yourself”’s. Sure, I could post pics of other people’s boobage, but at last google count there are 28,368,972 other sources so what would be the point? No, EA is about me, not some other boob’s boobage, so any sex story I relate has to be something I’ve either invented in my own mind or experienced in the flesh, not something I’ve plagiarized from another source.

In that vein, I can think of two real life sex stories that suit the dual role of “true” and “humorous.”

When I was in college I briefly dated a wonderfully bright, caring woman named, oh, let's say her name was Heidi. Heidi had two kids (very strapping, adorable boys they were). Her 38-year old "husband" (which I use in quotes because he was such in name, not in action), I soon discovered, had bailed on his family for their 20 year old babysitter. Heidi was feeling pretty damned low about her situation and herself, but she was making an effort to rebuild a life for herself after her husband destroyed the one they'd built together.

She and I went on several "fun-only" dates, hiking in the mountains, telling stupid jokes over casual dinners, and generally feeling each other out emotionally. It was as one of these casual, friendly dates was drawing to a close that the planets just seemed to align and found the two of us in her bedroom, naked, hungrily exploring each other with passionate abandon.

But she was a "safety" kind of girl, opening her bedside drawer and pulling out a condom, which she was very adept at applying to the correct region of my body. I remember the condom looked stout, sort of an opaque white that said it could have been made from the same poly-carbonate material they use on bullet proof vests. Nothing was getting through that sucker. But no matter, it was "go" time.

Heidi and I spent the next several minutes engaged in what the sex ed books would call "heavy petting." Finally the moment came: she rolled me onto my back, straddling my hips and leaning forward so her long, blond hair tickled my chest. Seconds later, I was inside her, our hips moving rhythmically together. In my mind I was drifting into a world that could best be described as a video from the drug-induced director of a Pink Floyd video. Sex is that intense for me. Then, suddenly, Heidi stopped moving and sat up.

"Oh shit." she said in a near panic


"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Then I listened, and sure enough I did hear something that sounded like someone moving about in the next room. I was thinking "intruder."

"Aw damn, I think it's my ex husband!"

"Uh... what?" was all I could produce.

Leaping off me and crossing the room to another door, Heidi hissed "Quick! Get out of here!" while urging me with her hand to move it a long.

"Why the hell should I go" I'm thinking, "you're divorced." Instead, "Why, you are divorced right?"

"Technically, yeah. But he still has a key and he's a cop with a jealousy issue."

My mind was trying to take all this in as Heidi, still naked and really really beautiful began kicking our clothing under the bed when suddenly the door started to open.

My mind went into survival mode. I leapt from the bed and through the door Heidi had opened, quietly closing it behind me just as she threw on a robe and he entered the room.

The problem was, this was no closet she had led me to. It was what appeared to be a sitting room or den. On the other side of the door I could hear their voices; clearly they were at odds over his unannounced visit. I grew uncomfortable with standing in this room, totally naked, when at any moment he could walk in. The only other way out was a door on the opposite side of the room. In a moment of panic, I padded across the room and through the other door... to a garage.

Great. I took a moment to assess my situation. Literally three minutes ago I was hip deep in a beautiful blond. Now I was standing naked in a garage that was lit only with one of those green night lights. I couldn't see it, but the room was filled with the eery green glow, like those plastic wands kids carry around on Halloween.

After a moment or two I was glad I had moved to this new location because the jealous cop ex husband's voice was no longer a distant murmur from two rooms away. No, it was now on the other side of the door again, and coming closer.

The green glow wasn't enough to really navigate by and I feared crashing into something by trying to move too quickly, so I opted for the only defense I had at that moment: total silence and stillness. Backing into the corner next to what felt like a box of winter wear, I resolved to hide in the shadows and wait for him to leave. Except I had one problem: that damned green glowing night light. It was only after I took a more methodical look around that I realized this green glow wasn't emanating from some cheery night light. No, it was projecting from the glow in the dark condom Heidi had slid over my still hard unit. Now here I was, standing buck naked in the dark garage of a woman who's jealous ex husband was about to enter and there's my dick, glowing green like a beacon on a dark night. I could have made a break for the outside door, but I figured with my luck the guy would walk in right as I crossed his path and I'd look like Yoda running into battle with his light sabre on.

My options seemed limited: go for the mangina, tucking it between my legs; try to cover it with my hands; remove the condom and throw it somewhere, hoping he didn't either see it flying across the room or lying there glowing in the darkness. So I did what any panicked guy in my situation would do: I grabbed a glove from the box at random, slid off the glowing green condom, stuffed it into the glove, and crammed the glove back into the box as deeply as I could.

Now here's the funny part. In our relief after the guy left, it never occurred to me to retrieve the condom from the glove and, indeed, I had no idea which glove held it, so someone was going to get a surprise the next time they went skiing.

As if this entry wasn't long enough, I'll quickly tell you the second horrifying sex story.

Different girl; different night; same over indulgence of alcohol.

We're back at my place, already in the throws of passion, when she stops long enough to ask me what I'd like to do. Frankly I was already doing it, so I asked the same question of her.

Her face skewed into one of wicked desire. "You want to do it from behind?"

"Sure!" I may have said a little to eagerly.

"No, I mean from behind. as in, in the butt."

"Sure!" I may have said even more eagerly.

She giggled. "OK, just be sure to use lots of lube."

Say no more! I shouted in my head as I leapt from the bed and bolted to the bathroom where I kept the required stuff. Seconds later, I was back.

She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs to her chest, reminding me to "go slow at first."

I applied a generous portion of lube to both our important areas and took position behind her. Between the two of us, it wasn't long before we were rhythmically engaged in passionate back-door action. My mind seethed with the anticipation of my first "intentional" experience of this nature. Our bodies were wet with perspiration, our breathing heavy.

Not having any previous experience with this mode of sexual gratification, however, I had no way of knowing when things were going horribly wrong. Something didn't seem right all of a sudden. What started as a slight burning sensation elevated to something akin to dipping my cock into a pot of boiling battery acid. I could see from the look on her face that she had noticed it too. I stopped thrusting. Our breathing began to regulate almost immediately. We both looked at each other as if to say "something's not right here; not right at all."

The burning became more intense, to the point where we both sprang from the bed and raced for the shower for relief.

After a bracing shower that stopped the burning, we gingerly shuffled back to the bedroom, turning the lights on for the first time since arriving home.

"Good God, what the hell was that stuff?" She asked.

"The same stuff I always use." I replied, tossing her the tube while looking for my underwear.

She caught the tube, looked at it, then dropped her hand to her side.

"You pinhead," she fumed. "Tell me you didn't turn on the light when you grabbed this."

"What?" I responded, catching the tube she'd just thrown back at me.

I looked at the label:

Now with cool mint crystals!"

Well, at least we were minty fresh.

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