The Antithesis of the Murder Ballad: The Swingin', Rump-Shakin' Rocker

I'm oft accused of being a woman of polemic extremes.  I tend to see the world in very black and white terms. I'm either swimming with the dregs at the bottom of the barrel of despair or sailing above the stratosphere on a wave of exhilaration.  I guess it's the only way to temper either emotion.  I would argue it's better to experience the apogee and nadir of emotions rather than meander aimlessly somewhere in between.  So, with that in mind, I would like to provide a counter-point playlist to the previous murder ballad set; a series of rollicking, driving, irresistibly dance-inducing tunes to make you forget about that melancholy, if only for those three and half minutes.  Think of it as a nice hot shower, after an icy walk through the blizzard of misery. Enjoy, fuckers!


Here is the song that happened to come on XM radio this afternoon, that sparked this whole idea.  You may be familiar with the TMBG cover of this tune. Thanks Georgie Boy.  And check out that cover; hipsters only wish they were that cool.

Georgie Fame- Yeh Yeh

Let's stay in the swingin' 60's vein and go surfin' with The Rivieras.

The Riverias- California Sun

 And here's a bit of a slower jam to sway those hips to, creeps.

The Okaysons- Girl Watcher

And one more hip 60's tune to nestle in that manly chest hair with "Double Shot of My Baby's Love."

The Swingin' Medallions- Double Shot of My Baby's Love

Let us now turn to the soulful side of the 60's with Archie Bell and the Drells,

Archie Bell and the Drells- I Just Can't Stop Dancing

Which brings us to the absolute, undisputed king of soul, the incomparable Otis Redding.  As much as he could belt out a soulful ballad, he could turn out a sweaty rocker.

Otis Redding- Shout Bamalama

Let's travel back a bit, to a freaky-good guitar player and just plain freak; Chuck Berry.

Chuck Berry-Maybellene

Let's take rock and roll back even further to its roots in the rolling jazz of New Orleans.

Fats Domino- I'm Gonna Be a Wheel Someday

And keeping it down there in the quarter...let's see those tits, ladies.

Professor Longhair- Go To The Mardi Gras

And because there is no greater music to dance to than zydeco, here's a bit of Buckwheat for yas.

Buckwheat Zydeco- Hot Tamale Baby

Let's go even further south with this sonic upper by Jimmy Cliff. I dare you not to dance.

Jimmy Cliff- Reggae Nights

Reggae makes for a nice transition into ska. Here is a tune we used to listen to ad nauseum back in high school.

Reel Big Fish- Sellout
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEKbFMvkLIc

And then there is the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.

The Mighty Mighty Bosstones- Rascal King
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NxMlG3M40k

Another Massachusetts' band; The Dropkick Murphy's with BRUCE!  Irish-American folk punk plus New Jersey's favorite son equals rock.

The Dropkick Murphy's- Rose Tattoo
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRkkStu4__M

And a song for the season from everyone's pal, Julian Casablancas.  I don't care what yo Momma say, SNL sketches make for great rock songs.

Julian Casablancas- I Wish It Was Christmas Today

Then there is the honky-punk sounds of The Old 97's.

The Old 97's- Timebomb
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=is83WB7Ue1Y

There would be no honky-punk without the godfather of rockabilly; Roy Orbison.  Let this song take you away as it builds to the ultimate crescendo.  Feel free to do the jerk on the hood of a car while drinking a nice AMERICAN beer.

Roy Orbison- In Dreams

A little rhythm and blues from Bobby Charles.

Bobby Charles- I'll Even Turn Square For You

And a 70's revival of the genre, from the cult favorite, Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Meatloaf- Hot Patootie

And then there is The mother-effing Ramones.  The baddest, most kick-ass band there is. Not was, but is. The Ramones' attitude is their enduring legacy.  There is something wrong with you if you don't like this; if it doesn't make you want to move.  Seriously.  Get evaluated, asshat.

The Ramones- Teenage Lobotomy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzundJyMw60

In fact, do yourself a favor and buy every Ramones album ever made to rouse yourself out of that complacent stupor.  Open your eyes and fucking feel something.  It sure beats jerking off.

When Your Cup Runneth Over: Murder Ballads for the Ages

I often point to the prevalence of the murder ballad in twentieth century music as an indicator of a more honest time.  Life was hard, especially for certain disenfranchised groups of people, the poor farmer, the unwanted immigrant, the dismissed woman, or the lynched African American.  There wasn't the complacency that comes with being fat, content and entertained.  Not only do I think melancholic and dark songs helped the salt-of-the-earth folks cope with the hardships of everyday rural life to the depression of a big city tenement, but it also helped set the stage for uprising and much-needed revolution.  When we are more honest about our personal situations, and the situations of society at large, it can effectively lead to a real change.  Which is one reason why I think gloomy, lugubrious songs have been driven underground.  There is a certain cushiness that comes with the creature comforts of the twenty-first century that keeps rebellion at bay.  Each successive generation takes a what it took their forefathers to get them there, a little more for granted.  We live in a digital age where vast libraries of knowledge are literally at our fingertips, yet studies are showing we Americans are collectively getting dumber as we rely on technology more.  Instead of learning about any given subject on the infinite internet, we often find ourselves mindlessly playing Candy Crush, looking up an endless stream of cat videos on YouTube, or jerking off to mediocre porn.  We live in era where so-called "negative" emotions are frowned upon, and stigmatized.  "There are pills for that, you know." Or, "Why don't you just get drunk like everybody else?"  It's a little difficult to crush 200,00 years of human evolution with an half century of barbiturates, mind-numbing "entertainment," and the subtle tsk-tsk condemnation of the faux-positivity set.  Negative emotions have always existed in congruence with bleak circumstances.  To deny them is ludicrous and futile.

Murder ballads are also gruesome cautionary tales set to song, but sometimes the message is unclear.  Sometimes they seem to be trying to preach the prevention of making costly mistakes such as murdering a loved one, yet others seem to preach the prevention of the sins of the flesh that may drive a jilted lover to the lengths of murder.  In either event, I'd like to present a varied selection of murder ballads to taunt the mind, and stir the soul.

Let's start with something a little more recognizable, but with such a fun tempo, you kind of forget it's even a murder ballad.  It's got that 50's dance-ability that you just can't help but twist your hips and snap those finger, but it's still about a guy getting shot over a dice game.

Lloyd Price's version of "Stagger Lee"

"Stagger Lee" I think moves us nicely into "Frankie and Johnny" which is also known as "Frankie and Albert" done by everyone from Mississippi John Hurt to Elvis.  But this is my favorite version by the venerable Sam Cooke.  If you aren't doing the Watusi to this tune, there must be something wrong.  This is a song about a woman getting her irreversible revenge on her two-timing scoundrel of a man.

Sam Cooke- "Frankie and Johnny"

Let's delve a littler deeper into the genre with a novelty song by the incomparable Tom Lehrer.  This is certainly a macabre song with a dark sense of humor...

Tom Lehrer- "I Hold Your Hand in Mine"

The next tune I would like to present in two different versions; first the Leadbelly version, then the Nirvana Unplugged version, most will be familiar with, of "Where Did You Sleep Last Night."

Leadbelly- "Where Did You Sleep Last Night"

Nirvana- "Where Did You Sleep Last Night"

And then, there is the quiet genius that is Warren Zevon, obsessive compulsive disorder and all.  It's okay though, he's just an excitable boy.  Perpetual flippancy must be a symptom of OCD...

Warren Zevon- Excitable Boy

Now, I would like to look at the country side of the murder ballad with Hank 3's version of "Cocaine Blues," that's been covered by just about everyone from Dylan to Cash.

Hank 3- "Cocaine Blues"

Next, the would-be murder song sung by the usually genteel and sometimes cheesy Kenny Rogers.  Another recognizable, but heartbreaking tune about a disabled Vietnam vet who begs his wife not to step out on him, until he is gone.

Kenny Rogers- "Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town"

Here are a couple of tunes by Robert Earl Keen.  One more along the lines of the traditional murder ballad mixed with a sort of countrified Bob Dylan "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts" style sound, entitled "Jesse with the Long Hair Hanging Down." Another, by Robert Earl Keen with a more modern twist on the murder ballad like a honky-tonk "Take the Money and Run", called "The Road Goes on Forever," about winners and losers amid the perils of wild love and a robbery run awry.

Robert Earl Keen- "Jesse with the Long Hair Hanging Down."

Robert Earl Keen- "The Road Goes on Forever"

Then there is this Lyle Lovett tune that for the longest time I didn't even realize was a murder ballad, let alone straight out of a Tarantino film.

Lyle Lovett- "L.A. County"

Next is Doc Watson doing the seminal version of the classic folk song "Tom Dooley."

Which I think is a good lead-in to the Louvin Brother's version of "Knoxville Girl." This one is probably the most frightening sounding of them all. Something about those haunting harmonies, I don't know.

Louvin Brothers- "Knoxville Girl"

Then there is Bruce.  As much as he could incite Yuppies to dance in the dark; he could sure pen one hell of a heady tune.  This is a murder spree ballad worthy of Mickey and Mallory.

Bruce Springsteen- "Nebraska"

And now for something completely different.  Quite a change in tempo anyway, but no less murderous from everyone's favorite 60s sex symbol.

Tom Jones- "Delilah"

And now for my favorite murder ballad of all time.  Even though, my love of this song since youth had nothing to do with it being a murder ballad, as I didn't really understand the full point then.  And this is the definitive version, sung by Bobby Darin, who just makes being a murderous psychopath seem so slick and fucking cool.

Bobby Darin- "Mack the Knife"

Pirates of the Night

    I'm restless. I need to get the hell out of the house.  All I want is to listen to moody music on the jukebox at the dive bar around the corner.  But it's Friday night and the place is usually crammed with weirdos and miscreants.  Which I'm usually fine with, but the weekend crowd is usually a bit rougher and malodorous.  The stench of whiskey breath and unwashed clothes looms heavy on Friday nights.  But I don't think I care tonight.  I'm tired of writing.  I'm tired of fretting.  And I'm tired of the constant aroma of fresh laundry.  Maybe I want to get dirty.

I put on a black body-contouring dress and line my eyes in the deepest shade of onyx they make.  I can't help but think of the possible inhabitants of such a place on a night such as this.  The approaching holidays always make people act a little funnier; stranger, or maybe it's just the amount of liquor they all consume around this time of the year, dealing with their fucked-up families and the crushing loneliness.

It's fucking cold.  The night wind is unrelenting and whips inbetween the cookie-cutter houses as I scurry to the car.  I search around the radio stations until I find the atmospheric song I am looking for.  Something smokey, and silky to feed the night.  I drive around the block several times looking for parking, to the point where I contemplate just going back home.  But a spot opens up, as if to make my decision for me.

The guy at the door checking i.d.'s is always so fucking surly.  I'm hard-pressed to call him a bouncer, as he is pretty scrawny under that billowy beard and leather jacket, and I think the only thing that guy has ever bounced is his rent check.  No amount of polite banter ever softens his icy exterior, so I don't bother this time.

I snake my way in, through the constricted crowd, peering around for an open seat, of which there appear to be none.  I make my way instead to the jukebox to get my selections in the queue.  Plus it helps me look less freakishly alone.  There is some little nagging feeling in the back of my mind, or perhaps in the pit of my stomach.  Hell, maybe it is a foolish hope.  I try to shake it, as I peruse the albums, though most are memorized by now. I feed my crumpled bills into the machine and press the desired buttons.

The place is packed with oddballs; they keep bristling me as they walk past.  Though the jukebox bisects the bar, it's hard to see the back half of the place.  I swear amid the musty winter coat and skanky beer smell, there is the sweet aroma of a masculine deodorant or cologne.  It instantly transports me to a much cozier night; full of heat and intrigue.  But it fades just as quickly as it came.  I'm left in the olfactory grip of old wood and stale cigarettes.

I spot an open bar stool against the back wall.  I take what I can get at this point.  I fight and push my way to the seat.  I sit facing toward the crowd of mongrels and yuppies there on a lark.  I quietly and rapidly resent every mother fucker in the place for not being him.  What the hell was I really up to anyway?  Who was I really expecting to find?  Some ray of hope in the bleak madness that envelopes my every thought.  Fuck.  I start chewing my bottom lip nervously, as my eyes dart around the barroom.  A largish bald man in a puffy down jacket is taking up most of my sight line.  He is talking to a smallish Indian guy in tight corduroy man-leggings.  Everyone is having a mediocre time, while pretending to have a great time.  Eventually Midwestern Big Pun and his friend push their way to a recently vacated booth, allowing me some breathing room.

As the human semi-truck and his miniature side-kick mosey their way to stake their claim, I spot a blonde tuft of hair above the crowd, not five feet from me, sitting at the bar.  I instinctively know who it is; partly terrified, partly relieved.  What the fuck to do now?  Shit.  He is here with some plain, dirty blonde cast-off from the Bachelor or something.  I kind of want to go throw a drink in his face for being such an unrelenting asshole.  Saying hi would just be fucking stupid.  It has to be all or nothing.  He will see me eventually and that will be even worse.  So I should do what I really want to fucking do...

Perhaps it's the God-awful fight with my ex-husband echoing in my head, or perhaps it's the seedy atmosphere of the bar, or even more, maybe it is that lingering scent memory that drives me over to him.  I only make it a few steps before he notices me, but it is too late by then.  I've already decided; the course has been set.  I breeze right between him and his sorry excuse for a date. I don't even speak while his cupie doll balks behind me. I just stand there and let him absorb the hard reality.

But I can't resist the magnetic pull to be near him. I find myself being drawn into  him. Fuck it. As I lean in to kiss him, I feel his powerful arm wrap around my waist and squeeze me into him. His lips are honeyed with bourbon and that wonderful scent of his cologne invades my senses. My hands grope his back as my nails lightly scratch the fabric of his t-shirt. I can feel his hardening erection against my abdomen. 

I'm sure by now, the crowd is taking notice. And I can't imagine what his stupefied date must think! I can't help but laugh, cruelly to myself, at the ease of which I usurped her date. We can't stop pawing at each other, like the feral animals we are. At some point, I think the girl tries piping in, but time and space have become meaningless in our embrace. I don't know how long we stood there making out, but it seemed endless. I break free from his snare, just long enough to breath, "I fucking want you. Every fucking part of you," into his ear.  I make my way down his earlobe to his neck, kissing my way back to his waiting mouth. The date finally gets fed up and grabs her coat to leave. She mutters something along the lines of, "I can't believe this shit. Never call me again," or some such and storms out, I assume anyway as we are still grinding each other at the bar. 

He reaches into his pocket to fish some money out of his jeans; never breaking stride. He throws it onto the soggy bartop and we reluctantly detach so he can throw his coat on. He positions me in front of his massive bulge I've seemed to have created, so we can get the fuck out there somewhat unmolested. He wraps one strong hand tightly around my hip bone while his other arm extends around my waist. We walk in this strange manner as if one bantam shred of light between will somehow break the spell the night has cast between us. I can feel the burning gaze of the fellow patrons, some burning with hate and disgust, while others sear with desire and envy. I feel nothing but white-hot excitement and just a touch of arrogance. 

We finally break our way into the cool, autumn air. He spins me around to face him and he grabs the back of my head to bring me into him for more unabashed making out. His apartment is only a few blocks from the bar, but I know we won't be able to hold out that long. I lead him to my car just down the street and hand him my keys. He pulls open the passenger door and closes it behind me. He gets in and I'm already mauling him. He fumbles the key into the ignition and pulls the SUV into the nearest alleyway as I suck and kiss his neck and what his v-neck tee exposes of his chest. I rub his granite cock through his jeans, but further arousal is redundant at this point. I just like feeling its might under my delicate hands. He starts to moan inadvertently. My fingers find their way to his belt buckle and deftly unclasp it with one hand, while the other can't help but grab his incredible, broad biceps. I undo the button on his jeans and slowly, torturously, cajole his copper zipper down. 

I've only imagined what his cock looked like, as I insistently denied my desire time and again. I gently ease my hand into his boxers to feel the rigid, smooth flesh that lie beneath. I caress it lightly with my fingertips; savor in its delicacy before freeing it. It's rather triumphant in its fully realized state. Perfect; almost regal in its eight inch length. I begin to kiss the base of this plunder I had stole; softly and sweetly. Letting my mouth run across its entire length before dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock making my way luxuriously to the tip. I pause at the head to tease and kiss him just a bit more before I fully envelope him. But I can't wait any longer and he is audibly in agreement as I wrap my mouth around the entirety of his head, swallowing more and more of him until I gag at the base of his shaft. I keep working my wet mouth around his cock while I twist and stroke my Byzantine fingers around the lower portion of the shaft; thumb grazing his balls with each downstroke. 

I know he won't be able to hold out if I continue on, and I want desperately to fuck that big, shiny cock, so I coax him to crawl in the back seat after ripping off his coat and jeans, while I slip out of my jacket and slide my soaked panties down my slender legs. 

He positions himself in the middle of the bench seat, with his weighty dick at full attention in his massive hand. I practically hop into the back seat, my dress hiked up to my waist and my riding boots still on. Neither of us wastes time as I straddle his lap, while peeling his t-shirt off his sweaty back. The windows have fogged up completely by this point and neither one of us is inhibited by the thought of getting caught. He unzips my barely-there dress and pulls it over my head. I raise myself slightly to guide his cock into my waiting pussy. It's dripping with excitement, but it's still tight at first.  I slowly lower myself onto his erection, easing him into me. We both moan low, as if in relief for the delayed satisfaction we were finally about to indulge in. "You feel so good on my rock-hard cock, you fucking minx." This sends an electric pulse down my spine.  We start kissing furiously once again.  I rock my hips into him, picking up speed with each bounce, my long tobacco tresses jumping and flying.  He rhythmically meets each grind with the thrust of his cock. He feels so amazing inside of me, like he was meant to be there. Like he was molded just for me. He starts sucking that one secret spot on my neck that drives me wild.  I can't help but grind into him faster as I cry out in pleasure. I open my eyes just long enough to see him boring into my body with his oceanic gaze. He licks my nipples as I run my fingers through his hair, pushing his face closer into my tits; my head thrown back in unadulterated lust. His breathing becomes heavier as his thrusts quicken. He's right on my g-spot now, I can feel the climax building. The more he moans, the hotter I get.  I keep bouncing on his thick cock until I know I'm going to come. I pull him even deeper inside of me as I whisper to him, "Baby, you're going to make me fucking come on your big cock. Fuck.  I'm coming, baby..." As I trail off into indecipherable babble and guttural moans; I can feel his dick pulsating inside me as I clamp down in orgasm.  In the next second, he yells out, Fuck, baby. I'm coming!" as his cock  unloads his hot come inside my wanton pussy.  

We just sit there for a moment, panting uncontrollably. The heat from our bodies has created a jungle-like climate and we are both rife with sweat. I nestle my face into the space between his jaw and shoulder, kissing him lightly, and enjoying the feeling of his cock still nestled snugly inside of me. He wraps a powerful arm around my waist, never minding the searing heat between us. His other arm bent and pressed against the back of the seat, my arm against his; our hands intertwined. It feels like a gossamer-threaded dream. Neither one of us ever wanting to let go of the rapidly fleeting moment. Fistfuls of passion, lust, and spark, diffusing; oozing out into the piceous night.  As hard as we try to contain the power by holding each other so tightly and so close, it still manages to evaporate, leaving only the condensation of a stark reality. The most I can muster is, "Never let go of my hand."  

The Night Train to Downtown Plunketville: A Metaphysical Odyssey in Four Acts

Act I- Pure Animal Magnetism

     Texting with you makes me long to hear your voice, but I know if I hear your voice I will long to feel your touch, and if I feel your touch I will long to taste your kiss and if I taste your kiss I will only want more. To become more entangled in the passion and the fire. You make me want to write bad poetry and flowery prose ripe with schmaltz. You make me feel daydreamy yet scintillated. I find myself fantasizing about what your masculine and muscular body would feel like on top of mine. What your strong hands would feel like intertwined with me as you push them above my head and your eyes pierce into me with such deliberation.  The way the thousands of tiny hairs in your beard tickle and caress my porcelain skin as you work your way from my lips to my neck and down my décolletage while I writhe and tense in anticipation.  You linger when you reach my breasts before moving down my stomach, kissing and licking my sides to where my panties stretch over my hip bones giving the slightest preview of what lies underneath the laced black satin. You slide my panties down my slender legs as they tremble slightly. You tease me with the tenderness of your mouth, as your powerful hands grip my sides to keep me under your control. You drive me wild as you taste and kiss me, while I run my fingertips through your hair.  I want to give myself over to you, I want to follow where you lead. But my desire is overpowering convention. I slip out from underneath your grasp. You look startled for the briefest moment before I lean you back to the arm of the couch. We kiss wildly and with abandon as I straddle your powerful thighs. My hands can't help but feel the strength of your back as I trace the length of your shoulders with my fingernails. Reigning pleasure is my only motivation. I reach back to feel the solid monolith beneath a thin veneer of plaid cotton. God damn. I kiss your neck making my way to your chest, as I slither and snake down your body. The heat is unbearable and searing. I reach the waistband of your boxers. I slip my finger underneath and pull them back slightly to kiss and tongue your abdomen.   I want to tempt you further, but I can't wait any longer. My  own wanton desire prevails. I want my mouth around your granite cock. I wrap my Byzantine fingers around your shaft to carefully unleash it from its fabric confines.  I start at the base, sweetly kissing all around its sizable circumference, working my way slowly up the shaft with my tongue lapping at either side as I purposefully avoid the head just yet. I look up at you with my onyx-lined eyes to see your head thrown back in pleasure somewhere between frustration and fulfillment. Your hips rock slightly to meet my waiting mouth. I envelope all of you, taking your massive cock all the way down my throat. Your hands grab fistfuls of my tobacco tresses as you instinctively push me deeper. I can't help but purr. I melt under your unadulterated masculinity.  I'm not ready to let you climax yet...

Act II- The Distillation of Passion is Hate

     Fuck all these guys.  Fuck 'em.  And their fantastical projections of their visions onto me.  I'm not your fucking dream girl, bro.  You don't even fucking know me.  They all take one look at my exoticism and the way I carry myself, and everything they've ever wanted suddenly appears before them as if by magic.  I'm just me.  There a million facets to me, I'm not just one thing, I'm not even a hundred things.  And I'm certainly not your fantasy.  I am real, and raw, full of faults, flaws and foibles.  You can't know everything you need to know about me in just a couple of hours.  So. it's impossible for you to truly love me after such a short time.  Guys just sputtering out meaningless words based on the amount of blood rushing to their dicks.  I may be an open person, one that you can talk with and reveal your secrets to, but I have that effect on all the men I'm with.  It's not just reserved for you.  They all think they are so special, and I couldn't possibly have that type of connection with anyone other than them.  What fucking egomaniacs.  So many times just the nature of my personality has made people think I was made for them.  Because I can relate to them in some little way, or I make a joke, or laugh heartily or express my opinions with abandon.  Because I like Batman or the Big Lebowski, I must have been put here just for them to find.  Fuck.  If people have to reach for such trivial similiarties to feel even the slightest amount of connection, I have to wonder what the hell else is out there in the world.  What is making everyone feel so disconnected that the second they find a girl with a few analogous tastes they convince themselves that she is *the* one.  The world certainly must be full of lonely, despairing people, to find such superficial connections awesome. I'm constantly searching for more.  I need an unfathomable amount of depth to be satisfied.  Oh great, I satisfy all your needs, who gives a fuck about what I want then.  I'm just here to service you, the stately royalty that you are.  "You can teach me so many news things and expose me to all this whole other world."  Fuck.  Yeah, that's what I was looking for, to mentor some middle-of-the-road, khaki-wearing, stuffed shirt so he can up his bohemian street cred, so he doesn't have to feel like such a middle-aged dork.  Sorry, pal, that's not exactly what I consider fulfillment. But who cares about what I want or need.  I'm your fantasy.  Fantasies don't have needs.  And for that matter, fantasies don't talk this much...And they certainly don't make flippant comments about their creator.  "Hey, what kind of fantasy are you anyway? You're not living up to all the unprompted expectations I built up in my head, that you warned me about, but refused to listen to...I don't think I like this."  And so ensues a  passive-aggressive tantrum in the parking lot of an apartment complex.  "I couldn't even imagine what we could ever fight about."  Then you must have a pretty limited fucking imagination because I could have named a hundred things on the spot.  "I won't objectify you.  I'll never treat you as an object...I could just stare at your beauty all night...You're so sexy, the way you bite your lip...You look more beautiful every time I look at you." Blah, blah, blah.  Shut it down, Romeo.  I've heard it all before, and it didn't mean anything to me then either.  I can tell the difference between infatuation and true love.  The only dream I've ever had was to find real love, and I have found what I sought a handful of times.  I've had enduring, fortressed love, I've had lightening-bolt strength, love-at-first, ethereal passion accompanied by the immediate threat of pain love, I've had forbidden, secret love.  I know those feelings because they are the only thing I have ever felt that was real.  I also know the risk, the inherent threat, the gamble that lies in something so powerful.   It's only worth it when it's the real fucking thing; no other time.  And the only way to know if it is the real thing is to feel it.  To listen to that obscure voice inside, that animalistic intuition, those bodily reactions.  It's beyond the excitement of something novel, of which it is often confused; it's deeper.  It is a physiological reaction, an emotional reaction, a mental reaction, as well as a spiritual one. It's metaphysical, your hearts meet somewhere out in the cabbalistic ether.  It's almost impossible to describe.  It's hard to characterize or finger.  That's the difference.If you can articulate it in so many words, it's probably not at the zenith.  And once you've been to the zenith, anything less is just rather banal. 
      I have a dark side to my personality, one that can get real low into the piceous depths of despair and melancholy. Yeah, I am strikingly tall and slender.  Yeah, I have long tobacco tresses and big, doe-eyes.  Yeah, I like more traditionally masculine music, comedy and entertainment.  Big fucking deal.  Just because I am not a chicken-headed twit, doesn't mean I am meant for you.  Do you know how many times fucking dudes have said that shit to me?  Countless.  It's exhausting.  The more times I hear it , the more it loses all meaning. The more I think they are all full of shit and the less hope I have for anyone to ever be able to appreciate the real me, beautiful, sad, fucked up and constantly perplexed by what its all supposed to mean.  Just because I don't drink or take drugs doesn't mean I don't have vices.  Mine are just harder to detect.  But they are certainly there.  Obsessive-compulsive tendencies, panic attacks, the ability to never forget anything that anyone has ever done to me, ever.  Good or bad.  I can be incredibly vindictive and unforgiving.  I've been known to brood like the Count of Monte Cristo over the minorest of slights.  I am naturally wary of people, I want to trust them, but I just fucking don't.  I've seen way too many nefarious snakes slithering about in the night.  Those terrible, odious, reptiles that lurk and slink in the shadows, waiting to sink their fangs into an unknowing prey.  To take advantage of the naive and kind-at-heart.  I am fully jaded, I am often dripping with contempt.  I can go on misanthropic benders in which I turn myself against the world.  Deep-down inside I know I am tender and sweet and vulnerable, but so few people I've come across deserve to even see that side of me.  Let alone experience at its full power. It is something worthwhile, not a plaything to be trifled with and then shelved or thrown out.  I can't be anything other than what I am.  I was not gifted with the ability to adapt or acquiesce to situations in which I don't agree or am not suited.  I can't seem to hold my tongue.  I don't do well with authority as respect is something that must be earned rather than automatically given.  I swear like a sailor on shore leave. I don't care about money, so I spend it like it's nothing.  I can be insanely jealous with the one I love.  I have a fiery Italian temper that lends itself to the amount of passion I can exude, but the pendulum must always swing back the other way, so fits of rage aren't uncommon when I feel scorned or betrayed.  Although fiercely loyal, if double-crossed, I can be equally as malicious.  I'm wildly sensitive, sometimes to the point of madness.  I am talented, but completely lack career ambition or drive.  My motivation is love versus money.  But love doesn't pay the bills.  I'm neurotic and artsy, creative and judgmental.  I am a total smart-ass.  I can be snobby and elitist.  I'm often sarcastic, but can really cut to the bone with mean-spirited observations. I often put on an outrageously tough veneer. But I am loving, and caring and long to nurture those around me.  I put others needs before myself too often.  I can be far too polite, at first, but rubberband back the other way if I feel mistreated.  I am an emotional sadomasochist.  But I am an all-weather friend.  I will stand by the one I love through feast or famine. I just want someone to understand all that and love me because of it, not in spite of it.

Act III- Second Guessing Longing or Regret

     It's been so long since I felt that black cable wrap around my porcelain neck.  I pull it just tight enough to fully experience the feeling of asphyxiation.  The cord leaves red, and purple and blue marks and bruises that approximate a much more enjoyable affair.  I bathe in the passionate pain as the oxygen drains and I linger in the memory of what fresh love feels like...
     I was so fired up before, but now I don't know what I am. I feel spaced out and confused. One second, I think I know what I want and the next I am scrambling to weasel out of that decision. I can't seem to find a foothold. There is nothing solid to grasp. Everything is mercurial and nebulous in the volcanic ether. That viscous jelly envelopes me once more, making any movement laborious and exhausting. A few days ago, I thought I was doing the right thing by talking with you, to impress upon you just how I felt. I wanted to see that hint of recognition, a knowing half-smile, the sigh of a kindred spirit. But they were notoriously absent, painfully so. You weren't hearing me. You weren't seeing me. You were too starry-eyed, meandering in your rose-tinted fantasy. I wanted you to see the real me, so you could possibly appreciate the real me. I've wanted someone to recognize me for who I really am for so God damned long. I've been without that feeling of genuine connection for years. I can't take it anymore. In that first moment, when I felt that initial spark, it was so exciting. I haven't felt even that momentary happiness in ages. The potential of the evening was rocketing my mind through the stratosphere. I felt attraction and desire and sensuality like I used to be abuzz with often enough. You were helping return a part of myself I feared I lost long ago.   And for that, I have to thank you. I wanted you to inquire about me, plumb my depths searching for even the most bantam shreds of minutia that could reveal a part of me. You said so many right things, that led me to believe you understood me, at least in part, and had the capability to learn the rest. I wanted you to know about my dark side and my moods, and my sensitivity. Because I feared that a month in, you would realize that I can't live up to that fantasy projection you created and I would be left heartbroken and used. I couldn't deal with that again. I wanted certain reassurances and all I got were confirmations of my deepest suspicions. It's somewhere after 2 a.m. and here I am thinking and writing about you. I can't help but wonder if you are thinking about me or perhaps you've completely written me off because I made you feel too many *feelings*.  I can't help that I am a complicated woman with many varied desires. I try to explain to the guys I meet that I really different from anyone they've ever known, but they are too busy staring at my mile-long legs or gazing deep into my seductive eyes to fucking notice. By the time I get them to listen, I'm screaming and crying and hysterical. Why can't anyone just take my word for it? Why doesn't anyone believe the truth when they hear it? Is the world that full of liars and prevaricators that the truth can no longer be distinguished?  I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I didn't mean to lead anyone on. I thought I was being clear and expressive with my intentions and excitement. And I certainly didn't set out to seduce anyone. I was just myself; that's my honest way of being. It can't be helped, unless I was just as fake as those other reptilian losers. Fuck that. Also, seduction implies sex performed for some type of ulterior gain like money, power, influence, or gifts. It's hard to claim seduction when there was no sex and no exchange of goods or services. There was neither a quid nor a pro quo. Ugh. I keep getting bogged down in semantics and logic loops. The real emotion under all those analytics is what I was hinting at earlier: second guessing the total disconnect. But then again, when someone tells you to never contact them again because you are a sadistic seductress, one tends to take that seriously. One side of me wants to say 'fuck you and your lame white guy music choices' and another side of me wants to see how you are, to make sure you are okay and to say I'm sorry it had to be this way. Falling hard and fast is problematic if you aren't equipped to deal with that vast range of emotions it unearths. Even with practice, it still fucking sucks to plummet from the apogee to the nadir. And whether you're near the summit or the base, know that, the trek is mostly worth it. Fuck. I don't even know what I'm trying to say with this fucked nonsense. Three a.m. free-form rambles aren't for the faint of heart. In fact, they aren't for anyone.

Act IV- Unmasking the Swordsman
 
     I can't deny your level of intensity certainly made this experience an exciting one, but that excitement can soon give way to fright. A fine line exists between them already.  "You can't do this to someone like me!"  What a fucking thing to say.  Sounds like your the "ego-maniacal control freak," you textbook reaction-formationist fuck.  So sorry.  I don't mean to psychoanalyze you, *but* if the vanilla, white-bred loafer fits...Ugh.  What was I snorting to actually feel any form of sympathy for you?  Your sad-sack, manipulator act almost worked on me.  Almost.  This is why I don't drop my cynicism or paranoia for the frivolities of optimism or blind trust. Because it serves a very important function; keeping creeps like you from worming your way too far in.  Like I really wanted to embark on another relationship with a whiny, perverse, 240 pound baby who doesn't understand how to handle an adult woman with her own mind. "I want to take your independence." Holy fuck.  Just when I think you couldn't say anything more sociopathic, out comes something like that.  I just can't figure where you put your soundproof room in that little townhouse.  If you tunnel under the complex to build a secret sex dungeon, do you lose your security deposit?  How did it not occur to someone as successful and as learned as you, that telling a girl that you want to take her independence maybe wasn't quite as romantic as it was demented and kind of rape-y?  They didn't teach you how to not come off as a total aggro-lunatic at college?  Didn't they give you any worthwhile dating advice at your frat house that didn't involve GHB or getting around those pesky "consent" laws?  What self-respecting woman knowingly signs up for that type of relationship?  One where she knows she won't be allowed to do anything outside of the house except under the watchful eye of her so-called man.  Usually that shit comes out later, after an acceptable period of chicanery and building of trust, but you couldn't even wait for that! You couldn't even be bothered to gaslight me.  Time is money, after all.   First rule of the con game, pal; don't tip your fucking hand.  It's apparently a short trip from "I'm not a guy that gets jealous, like at all," to "All guys are possessive!" You really must have been smitten to act that reckless.  "I'd rather not have sex than have sex with condoms with you because I don't want you to see me at anything but my best."  Holy. Flaming. Shit. Batman.  I think that is actually my favorite thing anyone has said to me, maybe ever.  It's so transparent yet delivered with such sincerity. Hahaha.  So much derisive laughter.  Do I look like some introverted fifteen year old, drunk on Watermelon Pucker after junior prom, with dreams of being on the next season of MTV's Teen Mom?  Because that is about the only person I can imagine falling for that line of spectacular bullshit.  But it must have worked like a charm on those middle-aged, undersexed divorcees you casually mentioned.  The ones that spend their entire day masturbating with one of those Hitachi vibrators from the Sharper Image catalogue because the car-pooling, PTA and their golfing douche husbands didn't fulfill them like they thought they would.  "I had to break two hearts this weekend because I couldn't get you out of my head. One girl I really liked.  And I don't think she will ever talk to me again now."  Oh fuck.  What a fucking self-aggrandizing, prick-ish sentence.  Who the hell told you to do that?  Your last fleeting bit of conscience? It certainly wasn't me.  I'm sorry you foolishly tossed out your consolation prizes on your own accord, I really am.  But don't you think if you weren't interested in those woman romantically, that maybe you shouldn't just use them for dick and ego stroking?  Perhaps it was the right thing to let them know the truth on where they stand instead of leading them on for you own selfish and licentious gains, fucking creep.  I'm so sorry having me on your mind pushed you to do the right thing.  No one asked you to turn your world upside-down for me.  I wanted to go slowly.  I kept repeating that over and over to you, but you weren't listening.  You were too busy picking out my fantasy football team and the ball gag that goes best with my eyes. "You've hurt me again," totally stone-faced.  Yeesh! It seems as though you hurt yourself, seeing as I promised you nothing, repeatedly told you how I felt and what I wanted, which was to go very slow, let things happen organically and just get to know one another.  You simply didn't want to hear it because it didn't coalesce with your master plan of total domination of me.  Hadn't you noticed that I never told you I loved you?  You can't hang out with someone a couple times and expect to know them well enough to love them.  Yeah, I have fallen in love at first sight.  Twice.  But I sure as hell didn't tell them that.  We both revealed it to each other much later, once we explored those feelings and were more sure.  That certainly wasn't the case here.  I think you were just intrigued and turned on by the way I look and the fact I didn't jump at the chance to fuck you like all your other dates.  I sent you home, unrealized.  How novel that must have been for you! I went through my wild, devil-may-care phase of man-eating after my first divorce, I don't really see a need to do that again.  I surely reached the pinnacle of that type of thing years ago.  Most of the sex wasn't even satisfying.  It was the power I got off on.  Another stark difference in our particular situations.  I didn't need the sex to boost my ego, I just fed off the energy.  I'm not looking to be someone's replacement wife.  It's sad to me that you've never really been in love.  Too bad.  It's a really wonderful and tortuous endeavor.  You've only felt about a tenth of that and couldn't even handle it.  Some people just aren't cut out for love; its intensity, its fire, its pain.  Stick to the beaten path.  Stick to your own kind, you corn-fed peckerwood.  Stop trying to rope and wrangle a wild appaloosa with fear and threats, white-man.  Even if you do manage to bridle one someday, they will resent you forever.  You can't win.  Love has to come organically or not at all.  When you give someone an all-or-nothing ultimatum, you have to realize that they very well may opt for nothing.
     But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss that electrification you seemed to conjure up in me; even if it was encased in a waxed wrapper of fucked-crazy.  Therein probably lay the exhilaration, anyway.  As if I could just peel that wrapping away to reveal something beautiful and tender, but it would much more likely prove to reveal a flabby and flaccid ennui, unremarkable in its dullness.  But then everything looks dull once the brilliance of its veneer wears off.  Or so I would like to convince myself.  I wasn't in love with you, but the potential was certainly there.  I sure was in love with that feeling though.  Fuck yes.  That feeling. That white hot fire that burns so intensely with the kinetic energy of possibility and lust fully realized.  You restored my hope.  And then deftly slashed it like the 18th century swordsman you remind me of.  I forgot how pedestrian everything feels once the threat of love has dissolved.  Damn you.  Existential malaise will have to be my baby tonight.

     I have always been a lightning rod for freaks, junkies, and losers.  I am the common thread that unites them all.  What the hell is it about me that culls these nutjobs out of the woodwork?  Every fuck-up and shithead in a hundred mile radius is somehow drawn into my orbit.  What kind of schizophrenic vibrations must I  unwittingly be sending out? I get my pick of mind-numbingly dull or heads-in-the-freezer crazy.  Nothing in between; everything always in hard chiaroscuro.  Does sweetness exist with intrigue? Can loyalty fan passion? Could stability marry with titillation? Can I be the only one with such a dichotomy to my personality?  I can hardly think so.  But then where do these like creatures reside? Just when I think I have found a fellow romantic, in a clouded whoosh of smoke, they reveal themselves as the villainous frauds and nefarious gargoyles they always were; leaving me to feel even more alone. I remain an alien among the human race.

Post Script- If You’re Not Into That Whole Brevity Thing

Bob Dylan- The Man in Me (TBL Version)

     The more I think about it the angrier I get. You ruined this. Not me. "This aggression will not stand, man." I told you what I wanted and needed to embark on this with you. But you roundly rejected my pleas. You wanted the direct route, no matter the destruction on either side of your trail. Instead of the meandering, winding path of romance and natural passion, you wanted to take what you thought was rightfully yours, fucking fascist, instead of earning it. The flame didn't burn so brightly that it just burnt out, you smothered it. With your imperialism and greed. "I'm a Lebowski, you're a Lebowski." You fucked this up. And somehow managed the nerve to blame me. "Carpet-pissers didn't do this, man."  To tell me I was the one that hurt you and not the other way round. You toyed with me. "This is what happened when you fuck a stranger in the ass, Larry."  And then berated me for rejecting your overbearing, and most likely, insincere advances. "Fair?! Who's the fucking nihilists here? What are you a bunch of fucking crybabies?"  Nice game you're running. "That creep can roll, man." You wanted the status. You wanted a prize for all you had been through. Something to show off to your smarmy friends and your ex-wife. "My work has been commended as being strongly vaginal."  That's where the urgency lay, wasn't it? "New shit has come to light, man." I was nothing more than a pretty plaything for you to manipulate. "A young trophy wife, in the parlance of our times." That's why the things I asked of you went unnoticed and unfulfilled. That's why this went the direction it did. Thanks for being exactly what I was afraid you'd be. "It's a male myth about feminists that we hate sex. It can be a natural, zesty enterprise. But unfortunately there are some people - it is called satyriasis in men, nymphomania in women - who engage in it compulsively and without joy. Yes, Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate souls cannot love in the true sense of the word." The Dude does not abide.

A Brief Interlude

I just wanted to write a brief message to any and all of the viewers of my blog.  I would really like to hear from you.  Blogger has these really cool built-in analytics that let me know what countries people are viewing my blog from and which posts are the most popular.  I would really enjoy your comments or correspondence.  It's very exciting to me to think that my trivial little blog is being read all over the world and I am so curious to hear from those viewers, more on the basis of friendship, than anything else.  If you would like to correspond, please leave your email and a message in the comments box underneath any blog post by clicking the pencil icon.  Thanks so much and I hope to talk with you soon. 


Also, just because, here is a tune: Bob Dylan- One More Cup of Coffee
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gzgBYSdY3cw