Music moves us in a way that nothing else can, and the lyrics are the poetry that inspire us in our daily lives. How many times have you listened to a song, let those words seep into your very being, and thought to yourself, “This is about me. I’m going to live my life like that.”
But before you go reinventing your wardrobe to pure argyle and deleting every name starting with “T” from your contacts, you should consider that the guy spinning that lyrical poetry at you probably drowned in his own vomit.
Here’s the thing: musicians are notoriously unstable people. And while November Rain is real pretty, you might want to think twice before deciding to live your life via the stylings of someone with both musical talent and a borderline personality disorder.
When you’re down and out, it’s incredibly easy to be seduced by words that hang so passionately from a guitar string. “Fuckin, Fightin, it’s all the same.” But you have to remember to ask, “Really Bradley Nowell? Because you OD’ed in like 1996.”
Listening to song lyrics is kind of like when your friends meet that one, really unhinged uncle. He’s really energetic and interesting, and they’re drawn to every passionate and compelling dissertation he spouts on your Grandma’s back porch. But when they go, “Dude, your uncle is so cool!” you have to be like, “Yeah…don’t listen to anything he says. He’s been kicked out of rehab like six times.”
If you are facing a crossroads in your life, I suggest reading a book. Preferably something authored by a PhD. Maybe something involving clinical research involving whatever it is you’re going through. Maybe therapy is a good idea, too.
Music is good. It’s good for exorcising those demons when you need to. But it’s not exactly sound life-lessons to live by. Because while I like a good beat and a rippin’ guitar, I’m not interested in a heroine problem, a gambling problem, or being suddenly jailed and impoverished for tax evasion.
Becoming a gay person is a complicated process. First there is the whole self-questioning thing, then part where one has to delve into one’s own identity. Then once you have the self-awareness portion down, you have to go through the whole coming out stage, where you go to all your friends and family and break it to them that you’ll be schtupping people of your own gender from now on. Then of course you have to buy a Subaru and start shopping at Trader Joe’s – it’s an ordeal.
The question is, why is this “coming out” phase necessary? We don’t have to have a ritualistic gathering of our friends and neighbors every time we make any other discovery of our intrinsic selves. There is no, “You’re my best friend so I wanted you to be the first to know – I’m a Giants fan.” Why is homosexuality put on the chopping block?
Pressure to “come out” to the world is unfairly placed on homosexuals. In no other realm of your life are you required to expose details of your life to others:
“Frank, I just want to let you know…I really love country music.”
“Jodie, would you please tell Grandma you’re an investment banker? I’m tired of lying to her.”
You don’t even have to tell people you are a vegetarian unless someone is literally shoving a chicken nugget down your throat. And, honestly, in that situation being a vegetarian isn’t your biggest worry because that, sir, is aggravated assault.
Homosexuals are fairly easy to pick out of a crowd. They’re usually the ones who are walking arm-in-arm with someone of their own gender. That is more or less the definition of homosexual.
So couldn’t it just happen like this:
“Gerald, did our son Leonard just leave for prom with another boy?”
“Hmm. Could you please pass the TV Guide?”
And you’re like, “Of course not, stupid. No one reads TV Guide anymore.”
The point is that since we know that someone who is a homosexual is someone who will be dating a person of the same sex, can we not just infer this when Brian starts bringing guys home to meet his parents rather than girls?
Because here’s the thing – before he decides to bring Peggy Sue home for the parental meet-and-greet, there is no requisite sit-down with Ma and Pa where he has to calmly explain to them, “Mom, Dad – I’m a heterosexual.”
“I like it when she licks her lips, and her dress drops to the floor.”
“I like for him to throw me on the bed and ravish me.”
“I like rigging a rope to the ceiling fan, so I can strangle myself while my partner gets me from behind, dressed like Bozo the clown.”
Of course everyone has a different taste for what they like in the bedroom (or the bathroom), (or the office), (or atop the piano), but here’s the thing: if you require clown asphyxiation to get you off, you might want to reassess what you do with the rest of your time, because I would guess that your life is lacking in stimulation.
According to a recent episode of Fox’s American Dad, everybody’s got “a kink.” Of course the definition of what is and what is not kinky is going to vary from person to person. In said episode, “kinks” ran the gamut from spanking to a strange inference involving an acrobatic midget and a flying weasel holding a rocket pop.
The inference is that everyone requires some kind of “kink” in order to make sex a gratifying experience. But does anyone, at any point, start wondering whether we’re expecting too much from sex? Yes, sex is naturally gratifying – it was made to be so on a biological level. But if you need a horse, a pocket watch, and authentic chainmail from the crusades to get off – it’s no longer sex that is gratifying you.
Here are some things that those in the whips, chains, and inflatable-life-size-smurf community might want to consider. One would be therapy – not because there is anything wrong with what you’re doing, but a better understanding about what drives it would be beneficial in general. (Don’t take it personally – my first suggestion to everyone for everything is therapy. Got a hangnail? Try therapy.)
Second would be introspection on your job and hobbies. Are you working to your potential? Is it possible that the reason you seek out sexual partners who will flog you with geneoa salami while you hang from your home trapeze is actually because, well, proofreading phone books for a living is killing you inside and you should be teaching inner city kids earth sciences instead? I mean, wind currents are fascinating.
Third I would wonder about your choice of sexual partner. Have you ever experienced a sexual encounter with a partner who you have genuinely cared about? Have you ever actually made love? Instead of thinking about sex as a mode of biological gratification, have you ever conceived of it as a construct of emotional connection or expression?
How would sex change if we propogated it as personal gratification rather than physical gratification? Then everybody’s got a kink would be transformed from “I like to be spanked and called dirty names” to “I like to be hugged and communicated with honestly.”