Side note: Lest it go unsaid, there is way more than one way for a man to love a woman. Maybe they spend every waking moment cuddling and bopping each other on the nose. Maybe they sleep in separate bedrooms. Maybe they dress up in large, plush cat costumes and refer to each other Mr.
And when a man loves a man, I imagine it feels much the same. Or when a woman loves a woman. Or when a gender nonconforming person loves a gender nonconforming person. Regardless of the depth of commitment, living situation, or combination of genders or sexual orientations, there's no one-size-fits-all love solution. Every relationship is a unique snowflake. Variety is the spice of life. Necessity is the mother of invention.
There's more than one way to skin a cat. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. It doesn't matter if it's the right metaphor, as long as it's a metaphor. Point being: Generalize at your peril, Sledge. And please, seek help! You can do this! And if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, please give these people a call. This song is perfect. You should always be listening to it. If you're not listening to it now, smack yourself in the face and Google it.
It's just that important. I am singing the phone book. You are weeping like a tiny baby. Over pounding drums and a soaring melody, Heart sisters Nancy and Ann Wilson deliver a primal tribute to the one true romantic fantasy shared by every living being on Earth: picking up an unnervingly attractive man for one night of mind-blowing sex and then releasing him back into the wild to bone — but never quite as compellingly ever again.
Counting the days since. The relationship in "All I Wanna Do" seems too good to be true. And it is. Because it's not an equally loving ,or even equally lusty, pairing at all. Good at recognizing no-win situations and delicious with lemon?! For a while, things are humming along just fine, like any wholesome, illicit, anonymous affair should:.
Sure, many of us might hesitate to pick up a strange leather-jacket-clad man standing on the side of the road for a no-strings-attached screw, but our narrator just has a feeling about this guy, and sometimes, you gotta go with your gut. But then, without warning, the song starts to sound less like an all-time great romance and more like a story men's rights activists tell each other as they vape around a campfire:.
I'm not a poet. Symbolic language often eludes me. But unless "flower," "seed," "garden," and "tree," suddenly mean wildly different things in the context of human reproduction than they have since sex was first invented in the earlys, we're talking about a surprise, non-mutually-consensual pregnancy! Of course, metaphors are opaque, interpretations vary, etc. You might be tempted to think, "Maybe Heart meant something else by that. One: The narrator of the song is recently-deceased Jerry Orbach from this creepy New York City subway ad from nine years ago:.
Photo by eyedonation. Cool, so this all makes sense and is in no way the nightmarish scheme of a deranged sociopath who has now wrecked not one but two lives. The best you can say about that is that it's not technically illegal, and that leather-jacket man probably should have been responsible for his own birth control.
Or, at the very least, asked more questions. It's not romantic even the Wilson sisters themselves agree. And at the end of the day, the shadiest character in this song is somehow not the rain-soaked hitchhiker wandering to nowhere in the night.
You know, that guy? That guy! As catchy as "Candy Shop" is, as fun it is to dance to, and as cathartic as it can be to scream in the middle of a crowded fraternity house at 2 a. The lyrics are The beat is kinda basic. The hook is like the music they play when Abu Nazir sidles scarily by in "Homeland. It doesn't get played much anymore. When it does resurface, it feels It's not a song you'd put on a mixtape for your crush.
It's not a song you'd play for your spouse when the kids are at home with the babysitter and you've got nine hours to tear up the Piscataway Hampton Inn. It's certainly not a song you'd include on the video photo montage you made for your grandparents' silver anniversary. You wanna back that thing up or should I push up on it? The bass drum hits. The MIDI violins whine. The singer starts filling out his fellatio permission slip.
It's only been 20 seconds, and you're already getting ready to hang it up with "Candy Shop. But then Go, cunnilingus doves, go! Rather than simply imposing his desires on the person he's with — a la the dude in "God Only Knows "I'm going to invest my entire sense of self-worth in you! But here's the key thing : the lady on the receiving end of those desires? She's clearly into it. And we know this because she says so. The lines of consent in "Candy Shop" are bright red, highlighted, and soldered into the weirdly sticky club floor.
Meanwhile, Robin Thicke is outside trying to convince the bouncer that his uncle is a lawyer. No matter how nasty they freak, it will be intimate. It will be private. There will be no revenge porn the epilogue to " Blurred Lines ," to wit, would definitely be a protracted, emotionally devastating lawsuit. Sexual compatibility is key to the survival of any relationship, whether years, weeks, or very possibly in the case of "Candy Shop" minutes long.
She may have a high sex drive, but dude is graciously offering to accommodate her. What a gentleman! These crazy kids just might go the distance after all. Thanks, Obamacare! The "Candy Shop" guy is a keeper. Because he's not a hero or a stranger in the night or a funky, shimmering love god. He's a good partner. But when you strip away the swagger, the back beat, and the weird strings from "Best of Public Domain Middle Eastern Music ," by the end of the song, both people are satisfied.
And at the end of the day, isn't that what a healthy relationship is all about? Anthony Sampson has understood the value of mentorship since he was a young man. Growing up in Houston, he had a mentor who helped him see the importance of volunteering and giving back to his community.
By the time he graduated from college and settled in Dallas, he knew he wanted to share some of that wisdom and experience with the next generation. The organization matches Black male mentors with mostly young Black men to help them live up to their potential and contribute to society. By building character and producing leaders, Black Men works toward improving the whole community. According to Sampson, strong mentorship can help young people develop the skills they need "to understand how to deal with issues in life from a positive perspective.
Kynsington Hobbs is one of them. Now a senior in high school, Hobbs began a mentorship with Anthony Sampson when he was He says working with Sampson changed his perspective of what success can look like in the African-American community, especially for kids who don't have dads in the picture. Hobbs says attending a Black Men conference several years ago helped him truly understand the organization's motto. A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together,.
The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw hem there,. These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets,. A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release him,. That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men. List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;. On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported,. The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,.
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting. One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main- mast,. Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks. The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,.
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder- magazine. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer'd,. The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,.
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers,. The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,. Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,.
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,. Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,. Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan,. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,.
Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side,. I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips. Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced.
Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp,. My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.
Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,. Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping,. That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludg- eons and hammers! That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves,. I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession,. The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years. They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them. Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and ema- nations,. They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of the glance of his eyes. And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,.
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days. I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,. And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so. In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,. They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,.
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,. Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves driving the mallet and chisel,.
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,. Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the gods of the antique wars,. Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;. By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born,. Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,.
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,. Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;. What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then,. The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes,.
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious;. Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on the reeds within. Easily written loose-finger'd chords—I feel the thrum of your climax and close.
Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides,. Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts,. Ever the vexer's hoot! Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for pay- ment receiving,. Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools,.
The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate. The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats,. I am aware who they are, they are positively not worms or fleas,. I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me,. This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing- office boy?
The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms? The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets— but the pluck of the captain and engineers? In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes? Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,.
Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,. Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,. Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis,. Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and austere in the woods a gymnosophist,.
Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admirant, minding the Koran,. Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife, beating the serpent-skin drum,. Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine,.
To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting patiently in a pew,. Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me,. Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey.
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,. I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief. How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood! And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same. Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not a single one can it fail.
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again,. Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,. Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad dis- order,.
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity,. Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,. Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,.
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,. The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate? Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be.
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,. Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,. Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night,. Crying by day Ahoy! Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.
Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself,. And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run,.
A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient,. I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured. My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,. My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,.
If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,.
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then? And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair. He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,.
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher. The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but in his own right,. Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,. First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,. Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all latherers,. I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat,.
It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,. And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air. The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key,. Listen to podcasts.
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