I had my first real orgasm while listening to this song. “He knows where he’s taking me. Taking me where I want to be.”
The lyrics were turning me on, that thumping beat was turning me on. I listened to the tape on my Walkman and laid down for an afternoon nap. I started touching my pussy, like I had been for ages with no real results. I didn’t really know what an orgasm felt like. I would be diddling myself thinking, “Was that something? That felt kind of different. Maybe if I put this tapered candle up my twat, that might help.” So I went at it, harder and faster until suddenly, a nuclear bomb went off in my nether regions.
I have a suit fetish. Leather pants don’t really do anything for me, but give me Paul Smith single breasted (or if you’re really cool, Thom Browne) any day! I should say, suits circa nineteen fifty seven. Think Mad Men more than than Wall Street.
The secretary and the boss, I know it’s a cliché, but it works for me. I think it’s because I started out in life wanting to be an artist and have ended up knee deep in the corporate world, a “creative” in a sea of Brooks Brothers. I grew up in an arty, academic environment, the world of business was the antithesis of everything I knew and everything I wanted. Now walking into a boardroom, I look at that long expanse of polished mahogany, surrounded by men (maybe one or two women—pathetic, but true) and think, I should be laid out naked on that table.
And sometimes, the straighter you look on the outside, the kinkier you are on the inside.
Before I ever saw two boys fuck, I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. When I heard this I thought, “This is the best song in the world.” It made me feel dirty just listening to it. It was like someone wrote a song about all the pornographic thoughts in my head, my own “Killing Me Softly.”
I was a sophomore in high school. He was a junior. I had the biggest crush on him. He had huge brown eyes and wavy brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He looked like a Caravaggio painting. We sat at the top of the bleachers in the gym and he recited these lyrics to me:
It’s savage and it’s cruel And it shines like destruction Comes in like the flood And it seems like religion It’s noble and it’s brutal It distorts and deranges And it wrenches you up And you’re left like a zombie
And I want you And I want you And I want you so It’s an obsession
Plus, Anne Lennox in that suit and those gloves. Yum.
I used to be a good girl (or rather I was a slightly bad girl who never got caught). I was sick of thinking about it and fantasizing about it. I moved to New York and said, “Fuck that. I want to be evil!” Went straight to the Village Voice personal ads and found a man to keep me handcuffed while I sucked his cock and never looked back.
There’s something to be said for being the one everyone least suspects.
There are times when music can perfectly complement your state of mind. At those times, when you hear the perfect song, for the perfect moment, it can seem as though the universe is in line with you and you alone, like when the rhythm of windshield wipers matches the beat on the radio.
Sometimes, a little Dave Brubeck is exactly what you need.
First there is the obvious. The phrase “Smack My Bitch Up” just makes me all warm and tingly inside. Then I saw the video and thought, “This is brilliant.” I’m not going to say too much, it gets a little gross, but stick it out to the end. It’s worth it.
No one sings about the strange, obsessive quality of love like Björk (see “Violently Happy”). God, the ridiculous chaos of falling in love! When I first heard this song, I immediately equated it with kink, with that need to be pushed over an edge. The fear and the panic and sheer exhilaration of not knowing how long you’ll be able to stand it, but holding on as long as you can. How incredible it is to feel that with another person and know that and the end of it all you will not only be just fine, but you will better than you were before. It’s the trust fall. It’s letting someone push you over the cliff and catch and pull you back just in time.
You push me up to this: State of emergency . . . How beautiful to be! . . . State of emergency . . . Is where I want to be . . .
This weekend, we hand the Smut Turntable over to Tilda. Expect a steady groove from the woman who showed up for a sex date in a Joy Division t-shirt and a smile. You should’ve seen the smile when I handed the shirt back to her. I was sore for two days. I was impressed she could still walk.
There's hair in my palms from patience I hate you admire my patience Her heart is conflicting with reason Her temper is changing the season So kiss her lips tonight Please make her come alive . . .
Thought I'd end with a classic. This is Lou doing it live in 1998 . . . my one critique is that he should really consider contacts, or else get sexy glasses like mine ;-p Keep doing it, Lou!
Mezzanine was sex for me in high school. I remember one time I had my puppy-love friends over and i was so sick of seeing them dry-hump that I put on this album on, shut them in my room, and went for a long midnight swim with my other friend. That shut them up for a while. This is one of my favorite songs from the album.
Múm's one of my favorite bands. Part of that is because they're brilliant, and part of that is because they and Velvet Goldmine were the soundtrack to my first roll. There is NOTHING like really intense e sex to this band. Here's a song from their recently-released Go Go Smear The Poison Ivy.
First time I ever came during penetration was during Air's Talkie Walkie. This is one of my fav songs on the album. I'll also give you a live clip so that you could see, as I did when I saw them live, just how edible the band members are. Oh. My. GOD.
If any air members are reading this, I was the girl at the edge of the stage in D.C., screaming, "JE VEUX AVOIR TOUS VOS ENFANTS!!"
NO Smut Turntable is complete without this song. I had/have so many fantasies relating to this song and Trent Reznor as a result of this video, which warped my sexual tastes at a delicate age. Yay, early SM exposure!
Here's a rather famous Iggy clip, wherein our protagonist is visibly high and commits a lot of fantastic live television no-nos, including smearing his bare chest with peanut butter, before passing out in the crowd. HOTT. It is my personal mission to suck that man's dick.
Did I mention that Ewan McGregor parodies that performance in Velvet Goldmine? And that he shows his dick??
This was my simple, one-song introduction to Andy Warhol, the greatest proto-glam band EVER and the finer points of masochism. Soon after hearing this song, I read the book it was based on and enjoyed it way more than my friend's graphic Sade books. ‘course back in early high school, neither my friend nor I understood that most of Sade's writings were actually a critique of the French Enlightenment and subsequent bureaucratic censorship, so we were evaluating the writing pretty much at face value. And I'm sorry, but I don't get turned on by a syphilitic servant raping a young woman's overbearing mother, whose orifices are then sewn shut by said daughter so that she will doubtlessly become infected. Not my thing.
In November of my senior year of high school, I saw The Exploited live at a club downtown. I took with me some little punk from the Colony I picked up that summer at the Warped Tour. That was my first mistake, because the Warped Tour is NOT punk. My second mistake is that the guy was a year younger than me (eww), and my third and fourth mistakes were agreeing to ferry him and his friend to and from the concert.
I don't expect you to know Dallas geography, but he lived in the Colony and his friend lived in Irving, each of which is a) not even in Dallas proper and b) WAY the fuck far away from downtown AND each other. But what can I say, I didn't exactly have many prospects for action during my senior year of high school.
When I get to his house to pick up him and his friend, he isn't even ready yet. He's doing his hair up in meticulous glue-held liberty spikes. My poseur alarm bells go way off. On the way there, we're getting psyched up, and it comes to light that they hadn't actually heard any Exploited songs. (Well, I'd only heard this one, but I didn't tell them that.) So I play them "Sex and Violence" on the car ride over. We arrive at the club and promptly elbow our way right to the front. Like, I was at the edge of the stage.
Unfortunately, so was my date. He stayed behind me throughout the entire concert, hanging off me like a lamprey, trying to make out with cold fish lips and totally embarrassing me by continually shouting "SEX AND VIIIIIIIIIOLENNNCE!!!!!!!!!!!" And then, to add insult to injury, I wasted a half-tank of gas driving two sweaty poseurs back to their respective ‘burbs.
It was the first and definitely not the last time I swore off younger men.
Just for the hell of it, this is Brian Slade's cover of Brian Eno’s song from Velvet Goldmine, which is the film that pretty much got me into glam rock and perversion. I saw it as a midnight film when I was thirteen, in the company of my sister, her friends, and my dad. I don't think any of us, least of all my dad, knew what we were in for when we went to go see it. The deciding point for me was seeing Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Ewan McGregor's close-up thirty-second French kiss.
Besides being one of my favourite punk songs, this reminds me of my first kiss in an alley behind a shopping centre when I was thirteen. It was so awful that I broke up with the guy soon after!
Lesson learned: don't French before you've hit puberty.
Back in middle school when I discovered punk rock and masturbation, this was the best song . . . EVER. It's certainly apt to kick off my edition of Smut Turntable. I'd honestly hunt down the original single though, since frankly no punkers in their fifties look good singing the songs they wrote in their twenties.
This weekend, the DJ booth is manned by Desire, a young rocker, sex rebel and dumpster-diving chef from down D.C. way. I was eager to get her mind between the ‘phones, given that she’s a musician with a fine flair for smut. She's also one for getting her naked self painted, which goes over big around these parts.
I don't know when I first heard "Senses Working Overtime". I think it was just always there, shimmering at the edges of my ears in the midst of the post punk-new wave-psychobilly-synth pop-what have you music of the day. I know that's not really possible, but that's how I like to think of it. I can't remember the first time I heard it. I just feel like I've always known it.
2. (Hear)
Sitting in my parents' living room, the summer I was sixteen, putting albums on tape to get me through our upcoming family vacation.
"What is this?" my dad asked as he wandered through the room. "Some kind of Sesame Street counting song?"
"No, it's XTC."
"Oh. Oooookay." Which was—and is—pretty much his reaction to any music that I listened to.
That tape of English Settlement was probably my fourth-most-listened-to tape during that vacation. There was a three-way tie for first between XTC's Oranges and Lemons, The Dukes of Stratosphear's Psonic Psunspot, and, in an apparent stab at variety, Robyn Hitchcock's Queen Elvis.
3. (Smell)
Senior year of college, beginning of spring quarter. I'd spent the first two terms inching towards starting something with a friend of one of my housemates. Right before spring break, we actually seemed to be starting something, so it was kind of a surprise when he told me that he was leaving the country for a month. It was a long story, involving a reappearing ex and some personal stuff he needed to deal with, and was in no way meant as a blow to me. What could I do? I loaned him a sweater I'd purchased on the men's side of an Eddie Bauer outlet, and made him a mix tape. This was on it.
(What else was on it? Here's what I remember: "Secret" by Meryn Cadell. "Panic" by Carter. "You Just Haven't Earned it Yet, Baby" by Kirsty MacColl. "College of Ice" by Robyn Hitchcock. The music for the Macedonian dance Bufcansko Oro, quite literally one of my favorite pieces of music in the world. "To the NEA" by Jim Carroll. That hidden track from Crowded House's Woodface.)
(Now that I think about it, it might have only been on the tape he borrowed but never returned, the one I'd made myself for my twentieth birthday. I never got the books I loaned him back, either. At least I have the sweater.)
We lost touch after college, as happens. But I still think of him whenever I smell his cologne.
4. (Touch)
A Thursday or Friday night in Hollywood, the first time I ventured out to see my local XTC cover band. (If you live in or around a big city, you probably have one, too.) They'd worked out arrangements to about a dozen songs from Black Sea and English Settlement, including this one.
"I think I'm kind of in love with the guy who does the Andy Partridge parts," I reported to some friends. "I don't know if it's because I actually like him, or because he does such a good job of channeling Andy Partridge."
Replied someone: "Yes."
I never have quite figured that one out.
5. (Taste)
Tuesday afternoon, on Ocean Park in Santa Monica. I was driving back from lunch, pondering how to frame my request for this song, when I turned on 103.11—and there it was, right in the middle of the first chorus, where the song's underpinnings start sliding around and I get this big grin on my face, every time. I don't have to justify my love for this song. I just love it.
So, really, when you get right down to it? This request has been an exercise in self-importance, with the possible motive of hoping that the guy in the third section will recognize himself and drop me a line. I'd love to hear from him, and I kinda want that tape and my books back.
Get out the bongos for this request from my friend Rose, who snaps as she sits out a writers' strike in Hollywood.
You know the story of this song, don't you? Maybe you don't. It was a hit for Little Willy John in nineteen fifty-six, but you probably wouldn't remember it if not for how, two years later, Peggy Lee stripped it down, punched it up, added some verses of her own, and purred it into a microphone.
Wait, let's back up a bit. Do you know the story of Peggy Lee? You should look it up if you don't. She's best known for being one of the foremost vocalists of the twentieth century, but she was also a songwriter and Oscar-nominated actor. She also made legal history in the nineties, when she successfully sued Disney for royalties on Lady and the Tramp videotapes. (The good songs? She wrote those. She was also the Siamese cats, among others.) Basically, she's what Madonna wishes she could be – and no offense, Madge, but just covering "Fever" doesn't make you Peggy Lee.
Though "Fever" has been covered by approximately ninety zillion people, Peggy Lee's is as close to a definitive version as you're going to get. Besides its history, there are two things you should know about it:
1. It has the most seductive beat of any pop song of the Western canon. 2. Vocally, it is almost impossible to screw up.
It is, in short, the karaoke song most likely to get you laid.
It's not a guarantee, of course. But if you're a woman, and there's someone in the room that catches your fancy, sign up for this song. Don't worry about not knowing the words, or about looking any sillier than you normally do. Just relax and breathe your way through. Slink a little. Throw in some high notes at the very end. Put down the microphone, slowly sashay over to the object(s) of your affection, lower your eyelids and your voice, and ask the object(s) what they thought of your performance. If they have any interest in you, odds are that at least one of you will be sleeping in an unfamiliar bed tonight. If they don't have any interest in you, look around. Because somewhere, someone is drooling.
In the right hands, "Fever" could work for a guy. Unfortunately, I have never seen this possibility borne out. It turns out that the only thing more powerful than the male sex drive is the male drive to impersonate Elvis.
I came out to my parents inadvertently at the age of five.
My Dad was driving and this song came on the radio. "Hey, that's Glen Campbell," I shouted from the back seat. I climbed forward and leaned over the front seat. "Turn it up, Dad, turn it up!"
Dad chuckled and turned the radio knob. "You really like Glen Campbell, don't you T.J.?"
"Yes sir!" I grinned. "He's so pretty."
Dad laughed. "Is he your boyfriend?"
I looked at the freckles on the back of my father's neck. "Can he be?" I asked.
File this song under "fresh separation." I played it when my marriage ended. I was completely at a loss for how to organize my time. I would come home from work and just . . . blank. Read for six hours. Watch television. Cruise online. Drink. Wait to feel sleepy enough to sleep, but I couldn't sleep. Play this song again. Sing at the computer screen.
Lo and behold, the White Stripes picked it up. So now I can pole dance to it. Or whatever.
I guess a video director like Sofia Coppola can always hire a stripper like Kate Moss if she just doesn't know what to do with herself. Skinny super models pouting for cameras is the apex of sexuality, after all.
Dusty's poles are all horizontal PVC pipes. Ain't she hotter?
Forget the celebrity trash. Let's dust the lines from the mirror and have a scotch, neat.
I'm playing with Eden's bare nipples. She's freshly whipped by Boymeat's single tail, feeling high and in the moment. She begins to sing along to the music playing in the loft.
Head like a hole Black as your soul I'd rather die than give you control
Her eyes roll back now and then. She's smiling. Jacob drums the air to her beat, pursing his lips. He's my date for the weekend, and a little nervous about it. He joins her in full metal voice.
Bow down before the one you serve You're going to get what you deserve
"Oh God, this is so junior high school!" Eden laughs.
Jacob nods. "Well, it was high school for me, but yeah. Funny at an orgy, right?"
I look down at Jocasta sucking my cock. She raises an eyebrow. John catches my eye, smiling.
Wendy was emphatic that I play this request. She brought me home-made manocotti in a sauce that had stewed all day. She stayed all night.
I asked, "Why this Dylan song?"
"Just because," she said, holding me.
"By Dylan or the Byrds?" I asked.
She pulled back. "Dylan!" she asserted, as if this should not have been questioned.
I wish she could join the gang at Newport nineteen sixty four. I missed it, as I was busy being born.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship, My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip, My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels To be wanderin' I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it.
Wendy: Yes, he's insanely hot. We're all still trying to unravel that.
Yeah, I heard a funny thing Somebody said to me You know that I could be in love with almost everyone I think that people are The greatest fun And I will be alone again tonight my dear.
Here's a sweet number from that sweet number, Lynsey. She says this scene from High Society reminds her of us, recasting me as Bing and herself as little Caroline. Well, did you evah?
No jokes about younger women and older men, Satchmo.
Thanks for keeping the groove so groovy, Molly. The winds are blowing east across New York Harbor tonight. I'm facing the Atlantic and blowing something your way.
I can only find this live version of this song, and it’s impossible to appreciate how fucking beautiful this song really is when the crowd is screaming and carrying on. Go buy the record. It’s one of the sexiest songs ever. I melt at this song.
If you want, want my love . . . Take it baby . . . Take it Baby . . . If you want, want my heart . . . Take it baby . . . You can have it all . . . You can have it all . . . If you want, want my time . . . Take it baby . . . And if you . . . want my last dime . . . Take it baby . . . You can have it all . . . You can have it all . . . Take it baby. Take it Take it Take it baby. You . . . can have it all.
Well, what can I say: I'm a mum. My daughter Violet loves this, and so did I when I was little. Two girls singing the same tune and one stubborn guy who wants to do his own thing. Mmm. Obviously, the girls need to tame him.
My first son (we call him Pookie) is sixteen years old. I had him with my girlfriend. She was a surfer and beautiful and sexy and funny and gutsy and we had amazing adventures together. She was completely stunning. She knew how to fix cars. She hated rules and regulations. Children (especially Pookie) just loved her. We lived together and made films together and had a baby together.
But then we broke up. I left. Not sure why or how that happened. She was my perfect girlfriend. And together we were an amazing couple.
In happier days, we were both in love with Evan Dando, the singer of the Lemonheads. Once, we were at a Lemonheads concert and Evan Dando asked two people to join him on stage to sing “Mrs. Robinson.” My girlfriend got up and so did some other girl. They started singing and the other girl leaned over and told her she was singing in the wrong key. My girlfriend looked at her and frowned. She decided she didn’t want to sing with this stupid uptight girl next to her, so she stepped away from the microphone to the front of the stage and casually stage-dived onto the crowd. We caught her. Everyone loved it. We looked at each other and smiled.
Strangely enough my (our) son looks a lot like Evan Dando these days, but with short hair.
This is an Australian classic, It was one of my favorite songs when i was about fourteen or fifteen. It was a fav along with all the stuff at the time, like Modern English “Melt With You” and The Church “The Unguarded Moment.”
“Alone With You” was part of the soundtrack that played at school parties where we got drunk and had loads of sex in the back of cars. And in those days I would be "Alone With You," just me and one guy having sex. (Imagine it!!) But now its like I'm “Alone with You” and my rock chick and my vibrating bullet in a cock ring and my butt plug and my remote control clit butterfly vibe and dildos and a few friends and some ropes and . . . Jesus, can we all fit in one bed?
“Alone with You” is a very rare idea these days. Oh, deep down, I just want to be vanilla. Why can't I just have vanilla sex, “Alone With You,” again? Don't, don't you want me? You know I can't believe it when I . . .
(You gotta stop me. I can talk in eighties lyrics for a long time.)
This year at Glastonbury, I was standing in the front row at this particular stage watching (and loving) Rufus Wainwright play. When Rufus ended, someone behind us said Arcade Fire was on next in about half an hour, so we just stayed there in the front row until they came on. Didn't move. Just to keep the amazing spot we had somehow secured. We couldn't leave that spot for anything, not to piss or anything. (Where are the watersport lovers when you need them? Glastonbury is not really the place you get boys inviting you to piss in their mouth—not in my experience at least). We had a good spot, and nothing else mattered. So when you see the sweeping shots of the massive crowd in this video just take a second to remember that I, Molly, am in the front fucking row, baby, and as if that is not good enough, I am stage right so that hot chick in the red dress on the organ is right in front of me!!
There is nothing quite like the feeling of being one of the hundreds of thousands of people at Glastonbury Festival watching an amazing band playing while the sun goes down and the sky goes pink and purple and flags are flapping in the breeze and everyone is just so full of love for each other and good times, and you connect with strangers all around you (no, it's not a Dark Odyssey style of connection, but still amazing). THIS was one of those Glastonbury moments. What a gig, we were in heaven.
I think it’s true. My love of amazing live gigs is equal to my love of great sex.
At Dark Odyssey I was a regular visitor at Cabin 19, where I had many good times. One evening on the porch, Lolita put me over her knee to spank me and made me cum in record time. In the moments before I was just about to orgasm, this is the song that came on and everyone started singing along in that Ramones flat anthem-style of singing. "I-Wan-na-Be-Se-dated.”
Me? I didn’t sing. I just came very loudly, screaming into Lolita's legs.
Okay, well, this isn’t my favorite Hot Chip song really at all. The Guest DJ guidelines for the Smut Turntable say that the song or the story should somehow relate to sex and sexuality. My favorite Hot Chip song to pick is "Over and Over" and, yes!, "Over and Over" is a good answer to the question "how many times did Molly cum when you fucked her?,” but "Over and Over" just didn’t have so many kinky props in the video. This video is full of kinky props that took me right back to sex camp.
I like the idea of the music video director pitching to the band, "So the idea is that you just lay down still on the ground wearing a body stocking . . . and we build a scene around you . . . lay down, shut up, don’t move and please just trust us, yep, we've got all the props . . . we've got plastic wrap, silk wraps, feathers, chocolate button nipples, body paint, angel wings, inflatables, piles of jelly to throw around, flames, togas, big bananas . . . now GET on the floor.”
Is it just me? Or is that starting to sound a bit like Dark Odyssey to you?
As I put these songs together, I realised there was no real theme to the songs (the Smut Turntable Guest DJ instructions said that a theme was "optional," so I am still obeying the rules) but I did realise that there seemed to be an ALARMING number of pairs of white flares and white shoes or boots in the videos I selected.
But then again, White (Fuck-Me) Shoes—what other footwear would fit the bill at the Smut Turntable? This song is regularly played at the gay club in London called Duckie where the genius trannie DJs Reader's Wifes play every Saturday. Duckie is at the Vauxhall Tavern. If you're ever in London on a Saturday night, please come dance and sing with us!!
Oh, an achingly beautiful animated clip. It is (once again) made by the Shynola animation collective (same as the Junior Senior song). When that leaf does the unexpected it is quite a moment, and when it ends up finding its way back home again . . . well, how sweet. I first saw this clip on a big screen in a film festival and it took everyone's breath away. I hope it works on small screen for you.
Let's stick with queens for a minute. I usually do. My best friend Mark tells me that "only a poof" would select this song. But he knows I am not a poof and he knows I selected the song. Sometimes he doesn't make sense. Anyway, what would he know? He's a poof himself. (That’s why I love him).
Back to the song . . . Freddie Mercury! He made many oft-quoted, almost spooky, predictions about how he and Queen would be remembered, but here are some of the great things he said about life:
"I love to surround myself with strange and interesting people because they make me feel more alive. Extremely straight people bore me stiff. I love freaky people around me."
"Excess is part of my nature. To me dullness is a disease. I really need danger and excitement. I was not made for staying indoors and watching television. I am definitely a sexual person. I like to have sex all the time."
"I'll go to bed with anything, and my bed is so huge it can comfortably sleep six."
John Peel said The Fall was the best band in the world (he also said Teenage Kicks was the best song ever written, so he knew what he was talking about). The Fall's singer, Mark E. Smith, is always dressing up and looks like a right pervert. In this video, he's all Mister Darcy-like in new romanticky ruffles and in uniform along with servants and trannies and girls with big flowing dresses. Brix gets strapped into a corset. (Mmm, that reminds me of Hunter in my baby pink corset at sex camp. It's now Hunter's baby pink corset. He looked so damn hot in it, he now owns it.)
What more could one want? The Fall and some kink. Get on your knees. Here comes the Queen.
This video was made by my favorite animation collective, Shynola. This song is just pure good times and cocktails. I love good times. Then again . . . sometimes bad times are good times.
Molly and Marcus Barbara Nitke Molly takes to the DJ booth to spin the music that moves her to the dance floors and concert venues of London. She’s got a fine musical ear—she tuned into my frequency rather quickly and began to introduce me to new music that resonated in all the right grooves.
She’s just as easy on the eyes as on the ears. So take a peek and then take a listen to this weekend’s guest DJ.
There was a time in Lennon's life when he was cast adrift by the Beatles. He drank too much, made snide comments about Paul and cheated on Yoko, fucking her personal assistant. He hung out with George, showed up on local radio stations, and watched television.
That, I think, may be my John.
He got his shit together. He and Yoko locked arms and he was killed, happy, I like to think, as we died too much that day to believe otherwise.
I was raised to assume that Johnny Cash would survive us all. I guess if he is gone, any of us can go.
It's too locked up, one thing on another. Pop died. Nanny is well, but she'll go one day, following her parents, the ones who helped to raise me, and her two husbands to the heaven she plans. I'll be there to carry the casket. She'll be buried between her two husbands.
I've got a plot nearby, but I pray I'm not buried there.
The people who grow old to die are lucky. I want to die old, to remember my friends who died young.
This was Johnny Cash's last video. It was taped in his museum, just after it was ruined by floods, washing away his memory. June looked on, knowing he was near death.
I don't think my childhood in church had too much of an affect on me, but on Sunday mornings I tend to play Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Hank Williams or Johnny Cash.
Marvin taught me to make peace for the babies. Let's . . . let's do it for the babies.
Only love can conquer hate. You know we have to find a way to bring some loving here today.
Shemale Yum
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Rope Lover
