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Elvin Bishop Fooled Around and Fell In Love
If this sounds suspiciously like an Olympic sport then, let me assure you, it can be just as troublesome finding that podium. This piece was originally scribed on February 4th, 2014 and all views expressed still stand almost two years later so it seemed primed for a fresh lick of emulsion. Previously named Trivial Pursuit, it explores the perilous pilgrimage we undertake when searching for those soul mates and highlights many of the struggles en route. Relationships ain’t easy by a long chalk but, the sad fact is, that we make a rod for our own backs, more often than not. I’m as guilty as the next man for many of the topics raised but I also have the splendor of hindsight at my disposal and a refusal to continue falling into the same gravel pit every time I feel a tweak in my bag balls. If you’re looking for true, real, clear, sincere love, then look no further as I think I’ve discovered how to access the fuel tank. Just need to fathom how to siphon that shit now.
“Whenever two people meet, there are really six people present. There is each man as he sees himself, each man as the other person sees him, and each man as he really is” William James
Cheers Bill, for that wholesome nugget of wisdom. So, if you weren’t already befuddled enough by the mating process, it now turns out that a simple rendezvous comprises half a dozen of us all vying for each other’s attention, making it a far more troublesome endeavor than we ever anticipated and potentially a lot more expensive. It’s a wonder we ever get to the copulation stage. Dating is little more than an exercise in dishonesty, an opportunity to pull the wool over your suitor’s eyes, and create something purely based on lies. Once hoodwinked into agreeing to a relationship more than platonic, our victims spend the next number of years playing sleuth and uncovering all the cleverly concealed character defects and beliefs that contradict everything we say at commencement.
Chemistry plays a major part in the selection process. A proverbial current of electricity that connects two people, it ordinarily has to be present from the offset to encourage us to further explore our potential mate and, when the currents are strong, releases all number of endorphins to supply us with that feeling of infatuation. We search for three individual components when setting off on our journey: emotional, romantic and intellectual connections combine to give us those butterflies in our tummies and, should we be fortunate enough to forge all three simultaneously, then the games begin in earnest.
Ultimately, it is the romantic connection which is most potent as this can be the game-breaker. Once we advance past the petting phase and move hastily towards the lovemaking we are better equipped to recognize our feelings. As our inhibitions are lowered enough to afford the other party an exclusive insight into what lies beneath the cloth, we roll the dice. Sucked in tummies, well-groomed genitalia and cleanliness like never before are regular offenders in the deception process. Chemistry plays its part in blinding us against many concerns as, once the lid’s off the cookie jar, we cannot help but rummage. Warning signs may be potent but, so long as the beans hit the back wall before these are pondered in any length, we get away with it. Allow me, if you will, to create a short scenario which demonstrates my point.
“Can I ask you something please?”
“Why have you got the insignia of a swastika tattooed onto your thigh?”
“Shut up and keep sucking Fräulein!”
Woe betide the Fräulein in question for ignoring such a blatant indicator, as one cum-face later, she’s reciting Mon Frère with digits raised aloft. The statistics which support this make depressing reading and highlight the potential for catastrophe should we not heed any warning signs. That first blush of love can blind us; making chemistry a rather fraudulent process if not understood.
Many believe scouring the worldwide web to be a rather precarious manner in which to commence our mating and believe it to herald nothing but disparaging results. This may have been true five years ago when internet dating was considered a fairly impregnable way of bagging yourself an axe-murderer. We’ve all been there at one time or another, met a charming lass named Eva in some chat-room, with an Avi which suggests she may well be Amazonian, and totally given up the fanny, only to discover months later that she’s a bearded Texan lorry driver named Clive who suffers from both gingivitis and gout. These times may appear to be behind us Grueheads. Alas, in reality, they’re not as distant as it seems.
In the age of the selfie and with social networking now as regular as Cheerios in our daily routine, we can seemingly come to our conclusions in a more assured fashion. Technology has softened us in that respect and, with the whole free world in recession, it just makes sense that we can meet one another without having some inebriated nincompoop spill their Yeager bomb on our moleskins or getting fleeced by the dude in the toilets selling puffs of fragrance. It’s a no-brainer. It is also worth noting that selfies themselves are a corrupt endeavor and invariably entail taking a shot which adequately conceals our double chins or unsightly blemishes so, even here, we are required to take that hefty pinch of salt.
However, in these surroundings the meeting of the minds can be far more compelling vs any skin-on-skin contact. I was mindful of this when developing Rivers of Grue and accepting that social media was the most effective way to realize my dream. Through speaking always with integrity I give the most viable account of myself possible. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still three of me, only instead of “as I see myself, as the other person sees me, and as I really am” the trinity consists of “the fucking joker, the randy groper and (resisting temptation to say the midnight toker) the brooding moper.” But all three I wear openly. When relationships have been forged, they have been free of the bullshit ordinarily smeared on our perception. As a direct result, the chemistry can be intoxicating but it still needs both parties to play ball from the offset.
Personal odor is another fascinating factor in the mating ritual which holds weight. My case in point is this: I have always been complimented on the scent I put out but there was one girl who, despite seemingly falling for me on both emotional and intellectual level, just couldn’t get her head around my natural aroma. I’m no vagrant but, when she awoke on my chest in the morning, the first thing she would request would be for me to warm up the shower. Consequently, she performed an elbow drop on my heart, in romantic Venice no less, and this proved that the tang in her throat was just too bitter to disregard. Other suitors have desired nothing more than to snort lengthy lines of sherbet from my navel so I’m comfortable with this one-off.
Forever scouraging around for the gemstone in the feces, I am thankful for my heart-trampling Venetian exercise for one reason. There was this guy, on the last night of our stay, dining alone a yard or so away and close enough for me to blow out his table candle. There is such a thing as an uncanny resemblance but this took the piss somewhat. You see…it was Nicolas Cage. When I make that bold statement, be fully aware of this: it wasn’t Nicolas Cage….but it fucking was. This dude bore a facial gown identical to Nick’s. It was as though his afterbirth had been remoulded and then taken a two-year course in the art of moving every facial muscle like Nicolas Cage. While eerily doppelgänger-like, this also afforded delicious humor as, neither myself or my duplicitous other, believed for a picosecond that this was, in fact, Nicolas Cage but appreciated the irony.
What started with vague snickers, ended in gargantuan guffaws as we lost our surrounding gravity and began convulsing like a couple of unmasked Schwarzeneggers on the surface of the Red Planet. Eventually, after nigh-on the whole restaurant had begun glancing across disapprovingly, we scuttled away grasping our bladders and shuffled into the nearest elevator for precious respite. It was chock full. That had to be the most uncomfortably hilarious elevator ride I have ever had the pleasure of taking and some feelings were bruised within as our howling reached fever pitch mid-elevation. Alas, it has absolutely fuck all to do with what I’m supposed to be talking about but I guess you had to be there.
Charles Trenet La Mer
Ladies, when you’re closing in on your prospective alphas, you find yourself drawn to the biceps, checking out the booty, and making sure your man is strong. This is natural, as primal beings we search for the suitors most likely to make for protective lovers and potential fathers. Just like canines, we rush past the scrawny flea-bitten neighborhood mutts in search for the big swinging dick on the block. That exertion of power by another is a natural aphrodisiac, but in the wrong hands, heads begin to swell. It is scientific fact that power goes to our heads and the truth is that it fundamentally changes the way our brains operate, making it more difficult to empathize. A dash of power and strength can therefore rapidly devolve into weakness. Parties never reveal said fragility to their hapless partners but, when it all comes out in the wash, any true colors are shown.
The whole selection process is flawed from the get go. For both sexes, as end up looking for love in all the wrong places. Gentlemen, we are often ultimately culpable of searching for the woman who most resembles our own mother. By this I mean that we just want to be held close to a secure bosom and search for a suitor who possesses all the traits to make for a good wife and mother to our spawn. Contrary to reports that men mature at a far less escalated rate than the fairer sex, I would argue that we never grow up at all. I would now comfortably qualify as being middle-aged and I still find flatulence downright hilarious. Moreover, when I’m sitting in my hospice waiting to croak, I’ll still raise a smile each time the ordinarily timid Maude attempts to stand and evacuates her wind chamber involuntarily. Unlike humans, farts never grow old.
I return to my earlier poser: the meeting of minds vs skin-to-skin contact? Can I say both? Actually there is only one answer as far as Keeper is concerned. Natural odors and stacked abs aside, I find the mind wins this skirmish hands down. If that is stimulated, then all else invariably falls into place but, pull the wool over my eyes, and the whole house comes tumbling down brick by brick. That’s just me, I’m that guy who wishes only for the simple life. No interest in engaging in bi-daily conflict, if you can simply understand me then your scars, stretch marks, grey hairs, and laugh-lines become supple breasts, tight pussies, long lustrous lashes and the pelt of the angels to Keeper and all imperfections become very much perfection.
There are billions of visually attractive folk playing the mating game and eventually they have a tendency to mesh together. What truly tells us apart from our contemporaries is the grey matter between our ears, at least as far as I’m concerned. It all boils down to understanding; if you strike the correct balance with your significant other then the likeliness is that they will not only identify when you are feeling less than chipper but also not look to milk the moment for all it’s worth, making you feel like death reheated in the process. Guilt games are the worst offender of all in my eyes and I can pick up the scent like a blood hound at customs. If you love somebody truly then you never wish for them to feel bad about themselves and it astonishes me to witness so many people doing the precise opposite.
Love is determined by our actions and, if I’ve been playing the mating game correctly, then they should reflect this unerringly in practise. However, once the cracks begin to show, our very finest work efforts become compromised. Suddenly we act without due kindness and the equilibrium becomes precariously placed in our favor. We’re talking titanic power struggles, epic guilt trips, harsh home truths, and a general contempt which suggests the exact opposite of affection. It’s both very sad and immensely wasteful and, after two failed marriages, I have a more elevated vantage from which to smell any arsenic laced roses.
While it may seem like a curse to possess such damning human insight, it’s also a blessing in disguise as it affords me to cut to the chase and find true love in its most pure and wholesome form. I know only too well what to avoid, all pitfalls are signposted, but I also know what I crave. Not having to repeat myself habitually would be a start but I believe there is more to it than even that. The correct soul would ensure that the words need not even be spoken once. No need for lengthy monologues, just faith in any truths told at commencement. Here is where we both play our part. No secrets, nothing concealed, total honesty and dignified endeavor. Once one person feels that the other won’t appreciate our flaws, we see fit to guard our imperfections. Remember Grueheads, treat your other halves with due respect, as it all comes out come laundry day anyhoots.
I’m not the Dalai Lama and neither do I claim to be Don Juan DeMarco although my pelt is decidedly peachy, it must be said. I will invariably find numerous pot holes to stumble down and have been culpable of making all of the miscalculations listed above. Having said that, I have learned life’s lessons as they have been presented and finally the penny has dropped. For me, there are other factors which come into play also. A clean living spouse is imperative as place me with a fellow addict and I’ll be stiff as a surfboard come this time next year. In this respect at least, I’m searching for a foil to my madness. However, I’m not looking to be mothered, merely understood and this is where other similarities become critical. Should we see eye to eye then the battle is all but won and our very best piss-guzzling grins come into play. It’s a two-way street and, if there’s any one thing I’ve learned from mating, then it is that there’s few less trivial pursuits. However, there are none quite as intoxicating when you strike that happy medium.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)