Day 4: I CAN make you love me, if...

I knew if I waited long enough, and prayed to my gods hard enough, that one day someone would figure out how to make a man (or a woman, who knows?) fall in love with me. I knew this day would come, and it finally did. Strictly speaking, that day came 20 years ago, but let's not split hairs. It's official people, a couple of questions and four minutes of gazing into someone's eyes is all you need. Can I get an amen?!

As tempting as it is to use Foreigner as today's soundtrack, I shall curb my fondness for 80's pop ballads and use a 60's soul classic instead. Granted, I'm using the cover done in 1982, but it's not a ballad so...

I need love, love, ooh, to ease my mind
And I need to find time
Someone to call mine

My mama said...

Back in 1997, a couple of scientists conducted a study on close relationships, not specifically on romantic relationships, eventually creating a set of 36 questions that, when asked in sequence, create closeness between the respondents. Simply put, the questions help in bonding. Dr Aron explains (36 Questions for Intimacy, Back Story):

The basis of the 36 questions is that back-and-forth self-disclosure, that increases gradually (not too fast), is consistently linked with coming to like the other person you do this with. We just made it a systematic method that could be used in the lab. In more recent research by Harry Reis and colleagues, another factor is also proving very important - being responsive to the other's self-disclosure! These factors are important for both starting a relationship, and even more important, for its continued quality.

She then goes further to explain that this is not a recipe for love...

We had not created the 36 questions to help you fall in love. To do a good job of that we would have needed to do a study with people who, above all, came into it really wanting to fall in love, and we were not in that business!

The reason for that disclaimer is this article, causing a great deal of buzz the past two weeks, To Fall in Love With Anyone, Do This, in which the author describes trying out this experiment, albeit in a more casual setting, and falling in love.

I first read about the study when I was in the midst of a breakup. Each time I thought of leaving, my heart overruled my brain. I felt stuck. So, like a good academic, I turned to science, hoping there was a way to love smarter.

You can see how I got hooked by this article, no?

I explained the study to my university acquaintance. A heterosexual man and woman enter the lab through separate doors. They sit face to face and answer a series of increasingly personal questions. Then they stare silently into each other’s eyes for four minutes. The most tantalizing detail: Six months later, two participants were married. They invited the entire lab to the ceremony. “Let’s try it,” he said.

You're loving the science too now, aren’t you? But wait...

Let me acknowledge the ways our experiment already fails to line up with the study. First, we were in a bar, not a lab. Second, we weren’t strangers. Not only that, but I see now that one neither suggests nor agrees to try an experiment designed to create romantic love if one isn’t open to this happening.

And so it came to pass that 36 questions later, plus the recommended four minutes of staring into each other's eyes, the happy couple was suitably enamoured with each other and are now in love. Aaaaawwww...

Now, the romantic in me was slightly wet of eye at the end of that article. The cynic, however, she that writes this blog, she was having none of it. '36 whatnow?' she scoffed. I went off in search of the questions, and the original study, convinced it was all a load of guff. Not so much as it turns out.

The questions are grouped into three sets of 12 questions each, of slowly increasing depth, starting off with a simple, 1. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?, graduating to 13. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?, with the last set starting off with, 25. Make three true “we” statements each. For instance, “We are both in this room feeling ...” By the time you're on the last question, 36. Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen., you've pretty much gone past most of the boundaries you normally maintain when you meet someone new. The idea behind this is quite simple, the mutual self disclosure creates a feeling of intimacy between you. Incidentally, I can't find any reference to the eye gazing in the original study, but I skimmed through most of the methodology, so perhaps it's in there somewhere (shakes head vehemently). I'm leaving that bit out, it sounds a little creepy, even for me who loves to stare at people.

Question is, does this intimacy created by the question and answer sequence lead to attraction, or does the attraction need to be there from the beginning? Put differently, can you ask someone you like these 36 questions and get them to like you back? Come now, that's all we really want to know, isn’t it? The short answer. Perhaps. What's important is both parties have to willing to open up for this exercise to work, which then means you can't ambush that guy you've been stalking with a bloody questionnaire and expect the magic to happen. That said, assuming both parties are genuine and don't hold back, then, voilà! You'll fall in love like the author of that lovely tale, or, as was originally intended, you become friends. 

 The scientists issued a disclaimer at the end of their paper:

So are we producing real closeness? Yes and no. We think that the closeness produced in these studies is experienced as similar in many important ways to felt closeness in naturally occurring relationships that develop over time. On the other hand, it seems unlikely that the procedure produces loyalty, dependence, commitment, or other relationship aspects that might take longer to develop.

You can't sue them if it doesn’t work. Now you know.

You can't hurry love

No, you'll just have to wait
She said love don't come easy
But it's a game of give and take

You can't hurry love
No, you'll just have to wait
Just trust in a good time
No matter how long it takes...

Can you make someone fall in love with you? 

 From the NYT article:

Most of us think about love as something that happens to us. We fall. We get crushed.

But what I like about this study is how it assumes that love is an action. It assumes that what matters to my partner matters to me because we have at least three things in common, because we have close relationships with our mothers, and because he let me look at him.

I wondered what would come of our interaction. If nothing else, I thought it would make a good story. But I see now that the story isn’t about us; it’s about what it means to bother to know someone, which is really a story about what it means to be known.

It’s true you can’t choose who loves you, although I’ve spent years hoping otherwise, and you can’t create romantic feelings based on convenience alone. Science tells us biology matters; our pheromones and hormones do a lot of work behind the scenes.

But despite all this, I’ve begun to think love is a more pliable thing than we make it out to be. Arthur Aron’s study taught me that it’s possible — simple, even — to generate trust and intimacy, the feelings love needs to thrive.

Ms Catron seems to think so. 

I’m inclined to agree.

Don’t look so surprised.

What they describe here is not too different from what you experience during online dating, or a holiday fling cum love affair, or a long evening with good company. That intense rush you get from getting to know someone very well, very quickly, this is what its all about, see? This is why, she wags her finger, meeting strangers on the internet is so bloody dangerous, its an experiment! Wait, no, sorry, that's my conspiracy theory gear kicking in. Ignore that bit. Seriously though, internet dating, much like all dating, is basically one long questionnaire. You start off on favourite colours and before you know it you're talking about your pet dog Simba who was run over by your father that evening he came home drunk, and all this in a matter of hours. It's the Aron experiment, on computer. Same thing happens when you have a mind fuck night, talking into the wee hours with a (former) stranger about anything and everything. The questions themselves are not the point of this exercise, what matters is the order in which these, or any other questions are asked.

Dr Aron explains:

...please know that those 36 are only suggestions. If you are going to use this approach with more than one person, or more than once with a particular partner, you may need to make up new questions so your answers don't become rote. Whatever questions you use, they should gradually escalate in personalness. If you don't want to rewrite them, you could use every third or fourth from the list of 36, one or a few from each of the three sections, but always include the ones that build the particular relationship, such as the three things you both have in common.

What she's describing is exactly what we do when dating. We ask questions to find out about the other person, the questions getting more intimate as we open up more to each other, and the questions tend to focus on finding commonalities. All this experiment does is expedite the matter, says the non-scientist with a degree in google. It also explains why we bond closely with people who, a. ask us about ourselves, b. listen to what we tell them, and c. tell us about themselves in return.

No, I can't bear to live my life alone
I grow impatient for a love to call my own
But when I feel that I, I can't go on
Well, these precious words keep me hanging on, I remember mama said...

You can't hurry love...

Bottom line.  Dear Phil Collins, mama lied.  Love can in fact be hurried along.

Line after the bottom line.  Yes, I can make you love me, if, and only if you want me to.

Line after the line after the bottom line. I've been right all along, you foolish buggers, asking questions is the secret to love and happiness. If only you could hear me laugh my evil laugh right now... For the record, I am going to milk this story the entire year. Don’t look at me like that, this is manna from heaven, no? Exactly. I'm thinking a new Dr A series...

Same wheel, new angle.

You know that list of seven women I’d happily shag, the one that has Pink?  It has a new addition.  Even better, a new number one.  I am officially head over heels in love with, and in lust for, this woman...

(I don't know how to stop this from playing automatically, dammit! You might want to press pause, or turn down the volume...)

It’s not often I stumble across new music that takes my breath away.  More often than not, when I discover something 'new' I find out it’s actually old, sometimes even older than I am (stop sniggering), and worse still, the old is almost always better than the new.  That makes me sound like a geriatric music snob, no?  I’m not...well, not entirely, I am geriatric (really, stop sniggering), but I’m definitely not a snob.  I am truly open to the idea that someone somewhere will one day wake up and figure out how to reinvent the wheel.  Only, as with all things wheel reinvention, that’s damn near impossible to achieve.  These days what tends to happen is someone comes along and reveals a previously unseen angle to said wheel; a close up of a worn tread, or a microscopic look at the molecules of rubber.  Same wheel, new angle.  That’s what today’s artist did.  She’s allegedly a soul artist, but a quick listen to her second album proves she’s much more.  She’s closer to the eclectic purple end of the spectrum, which is to say I can’t quite figure out where to place her in the grand scheme of things.  And I love her all the more for it.

The video up top, the one I know you haven’t played, is a live performance of her cover of Cee Lo Green’s ’Fool For You’.  That’s the first time I saw/heard her and let me tell you, I was flabbergasted.  Yes, she gasted my flabber.  I was sitting there mid morning, in my pyjamas, drinking masala tea and scrolling though headlines on my phone, generally paying no attention to the show playing in the background on TV.  Then she started singing and my world came to an abrupt halt.  See, I had never heard the song before, original or cover, which as is turns out is quite shameful considering the original won Mr Green two Grammy’s in 2012.  I know, I claim to know these things, but I don’t, not really (in my defence, I was on a Grammy boycott that year after they denied my man Raheem in 2011, but that story has already been told, I shall not detour).  This was one of those instances when my ignorance was bliss, and oh what bliss it was...

Sweet sugar, I surrender, I don’t want no other man,

Baby, you win,

And you ain’t never got to worry, ever got to worry,

You’ll never be alone again,
There’s nothing, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do,
Girl, that’s somebody there, everybody know who I’m talking to,

I’m a fool, such a fool for you...

I know the lyrics aren’t hers, but she sings this the way Cee Lo, quite frankly, never can (his version is in the soundtrack thingi).  Hell, if I didn’t know better I’d be convinced she’s Kenyan, the way she’s grabbed the song from the man, complete with genuine fake title and ef’thing.  Seriously though, this performance is everything a classic performance should be, tight as fuck with a climax that leaves you drained.  Ahem.  It is therefore inevitable she ended up on this page, and at the top of my list, displacing Ms Tina.  Don’t look at me like that, yes, I would shag Tina Turner.  Have you not seen her legs?  And her glorious lion mane of a wig?  Haven’t you heard her sexy, sexy growl of a voice?  Come now, of course she was at the top of the list, she sniffs haughtily, offended that you have the audacity to question her dubious fantasy shag choices.  Again, ahem.

You know how I said I wouldn’t detour?  I lied.  All that was one long detour.  Apologies, but I needed to introduce my Alice to you before I could proceed with the tale I came to tell you.  This post began life with (what I not so humbly consider) the best song on the album 'She', 'Another Love', a most addictive 80’s pop sounding track that, on first listen, crawled into my that corner of my brain reserved for important information and refused to leave.  I admit I got derailed by the fool song, but only because I was avoiding my tale. Stop feigning surprise, I do this deflecting thing all the time, no?

The last three or so months I’ve been dealing with love and loss, and loneliness, a fair bit of which is not mine.  I’m not sure if it’s the season (winter/cold, discontent, all that jazz), or that I’m attracting like minded individuals by virtue of the constantly melancholic vibes I’m sending out into the universe, but I seem to be having this conversation more often than usual.  Lovers leaving and leaving lovers, lovers who won’t come back and going back to lovers, lovers we want to replace and irreplaceable lovers...

You said I was what you wanted, liar, liar,
You never wanted me that way,

If you don’t like it right here, why would you stay here?
Just to be taken all I did, babe, everything...

The end of a relationship is never an easy thing to talk about. In between apportioning blame for failure, real or perceived, and pretending that everything is fine only to slip and fall flat on your face again, then waking up and pretending even worse, all this in the middle of the never ending analysis in your head, seems putting coherent thoughts together is an almost impossible task.  How do you talk about someone you never had leaving you without sounding like an insane would be stalker?  How do you mourn the end of a relationship you’re secretly glad is over?  How do fill the gap he left in your already too empty life?  How do find your way back to that woman you lost and hope to find again?  How do you get past betrayal and repair a relationship that may just irreparable?  How do you finally let go and start over?

I tried to be what you wanted, but I’m tired, I’m tired,
I don’t really need you anyway.

There’s nothing here to fight for, baby, be on your way,
You can’t be taking what I give, babe, all I give...

I don’t know what it is I may have said on these pages that gives the impression I have the answers to these questions.  Reading through old posts I’ve done on break ups, make ups and everything in between, I think it’s safe to say I do not have this shit figured out.  At all.  It’s okay, you can laugh at me, I just had a wee chuckle myself.  My lovelies, if ever there was a person not to talk to about relationships, it’s me.  Then again, the fact that I know how fucked up I am may be why I am the right person to talk to, no?  No, dammit.  Either way, I’m always happy to listen to someone else’s tale, figuring perhaps their tale may have the answers to my own.  My tale right now is not so much loss as it is inevitability, I’m having one of those irritating 'stranded in some vague limbo of neither here nor there' moments, reluctant to go back, but scared to move forward.  I can’t really explain it better right now, I’ve been trying to put it in words for months with absolutely no success.  Short of drawing you a picture, literally...she throws her hands up in defeat (that bit is not literal, obviously). 

Transition.  That’s the word.

If you don’t like it, baby
Find another love, another love
You don’t have the right to take it
I’ll find another, another, another, another...

To anyone out here who’s currently dealing with loss, of any kind, take comfort in the knowledge that there are quite a few of us dealing with it too, and just as horribly as you are.  I know that’s cold comfort, but you need to take what you can get, my friend, and all you’ll get here is vague affirmations and useless clichés, such as I tend to spew when lost for words.  Some relationships end, some don’t.  Some can be repaired, some can’t.  Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t.  Sometimes you move on to bigger and better things, sometimes you end up with another idiot.  Such is life, unfortunately.

If you don’t want me, baby
I’ll find another, another, another love
You don’t have the right to break me
I’ll find another, another, another love
You don’t have to stay

You don’t have to stay...

On the up side, and there is always an up side here at Kai Ni Kii?, I have a new woman, Alice.  Alice Smith.

And so it came to pass...

The wedding was attended.  A couple of weekends back.  Yes, that wedding, and no, nothing dramatic happened.  I went, I saw, I clapped and took pictures, I danced and I drank, and then the following day I went to watch rugby.  The end.  Only, that isn’t all there was to it, is it?  Of course not, when have you ever known me to be that simple?

I saw my love
Walking down the aisle
And as he passed me by
He turned to me and
Gave me a smile...

When I first talked about this wedding last year, the reactions I got were quite strong.  Seems in talking about the end of my relationship with Mr 'the feelings are gone', and the pathetic mess I was, and the pathetic mess I believed I was no longer, and my surprising joy at his impending nuptials, seems in all that I touched a nerve.  Or a live wire.  I was informed immediately thereafter, in rather unequivocal terms, to give up on my foolish idea that the man and I would be friends and that I was a fool to think that it would work.  Being that I am quite stubborn, I penned a most belligerent, nay, feisty response, telling my well meaning counsellor to go jump.  Life is too short, I said, to get stuck on an old hurt.  And then I sat back and let the idea he planted in my head take root and germinate, patiently growing ever so slowly in the back of my mind.  By the time the wedding plans were finally under way, three or so months later, I was convinced that the best thing I could do was to stay well out them.  Save for the odd bi-monthly update on the phone or in the bar, I had absolutely nothing to do with the wedding.  He didn’t call me to ask me to show up for the ruracio, I didn’t call him to ask him about the stag night.

Detour.  Of course I called to ask about the stag night.  Come now, do you not know me at all?  This was my one chance at being invited to one, I wasn’t going to pass it up because of some dodgy ideas about keeping a respectful distance.  Fuck propriety, I was going to the whore house.  Or not.  As it turned out, the plan was to have a stag weekend in Mombasa.  Now while I am very foolish, evidently, even I know there is no way I can get away with an overnight trip to a whore house, just me and the fellas.  Can you imagine having that convo with the missus(es)?  Yes, the convo would be had, because those men cannot keep a secret, and their women (from what little I’ve seen) are quite forward, which is to say they scare me a little, they look at me like they can see their men’s sins in my eyes.  So I killed that tagging along for the stag plan, although in truth the plan had already been killed for me.  The fellas were none too amused with the idea of me joining them...hang on, do you think that’s why they took it out of town, or claimed to?  Woi, those bastards probably went up the road to No.28 and didn’t tell me.  You should see the sadness on my face right now.  Detour over.

I didn’t get involved in the wedding, which felt odd because my ex and I used to be quite close, but I was suitably convinced that being involved would be even odder for all parties involved.  You buggers convinced me, see?  If I was planning my wedding and my future hubby’s ex was hovering around being all helpful, I would probably get it into my mind to slap her.  It’s not that I’m violent or such like (I am), I just think brides are quite evil, and vicious, and I can only assume that’s what will happen to me if I ever go down that path.  Stop scoffing, stranger shit has happened, no?  No.  Ah well...  Problem is, by choosing to step back, I created a distance that made a not too awkward situation very awkward.  Can you believe I forgot what the would be missus looked like?  I went for one of those goat-eating thingis a month before the wedding, and his cousin introduced me to her like we had never met, because my idiot ass had no recollection.  She remembered me, of course.  You know that moment when you wish the ground would open up and swallow you, and then time would rewind itself to 15 minutes before you arrived, such that it never happened?  Wait, if time is rewound then there’s no need for ground swallowing, is there?  Stop splitting hairs, you finicky bastards.  I was mortified and, worse still, I think my shame was very evident on my face. Damn my goldfish memory!  Why couldn’t it remember the one person I needed to remember at that table?  Why, dammit, why?  I recovered well enough to not be dis-invited to the wedding.  Here’s a handy tip, when caught with foot firmly lodged in mouth, complement a woman’s luscious locks, or her shoes, and then make a self deprecating joke about the deteriorating state of your memory (slap forehead for emphasis) and/or the deteriorating state of your ass (a gracious woman will always sympathise when you confess to struggling with weight issues).  When all else fails, buy a round of drinks, the more expensive the better.  Laugh now, but the day you find yourself in a hole of your own digging, you shall remember my words.

Then the preacher
Then the preacher
The preacher joined their hands
And all the people
The people began to stand
When I shouted

It should have been me...

I sat in church a couple of weekends back, staring at a man I once thought I would marry, watching him marry another woman and I couldn’t help think, was that supposed to be me?  It was surreal.  Part of me was doing that thing women do at weddings, dissecting everything from the flowers to the choice of music, because we know we could have done it better (don’t even try to pretend you don’t do it).  Part of me was thinking about my feet, uncharacteristically shod in rather sexy pumps that were trying to squeeze the life out of my pinkie toes, and succeeding.  Part of me was thinking that I will probably never end up at any altar, if only because I am not a believer and therefore will not be caught dead in a church getting married.  I’ll probably be caught dead in a church at my funeral, but I won’t really be there so that’s fine.  And part of me knew that I was never going to end up at the altar with that man, but I was still sitting there thinking, what if I had?  In the 10 or so minutes it took them to say their vows, I went over the highlights reel of my relationship with him, beginning to end, and all I kept thinking was, this was never, ever gonna happen.  The man standing on that podium was not the man I dated, the man I dated was an idiot in an Arsenal shirt (that shirt is what made him an idiot, in case you were wondering, and yes, I went there) with a Malt in hand at every possible opportunity.  This chap in front of me in a sharpish suit, blushing bride by his side, was a peculiar future version of the idiot.  A version I never envisioned, to be completely honest.  Just goes to show how prophetic I am, no?

See?  Self deprecating humour works a charm.

Then the preacher, whoa, yeah
The preacher asked that
There be silence please
If any objections to this wedding
Speak now or forever
Forever hold your peace...

The song is Yvonne Fair’s version of 'It Should Have Been Me', the anthem to all women who have ever dreamt of stopping a wedding in a most dramatic fashion.  I first stumbled across this song about 5 years ago, hidden near the end of CD2 of a classic soul hits set (I suspect I got it from Paco, I’m still trawling through the shitload of old music he gave me, bless his pointy toed behind).  I was blown away, such as I tend to be, first by her voice, then by the lyrics which for some reason always get me laughing.  There’s something about the way she says 'po-lice' that gets me clapping in joy.  Testify woman!  The reason its my soundtrack today?  I once played it for this ex, threatening him that I was going to storm his wedding and sing my heart out, up and down that aisle.  He laughed, but I saw real fear in his eyes.  I don’t think he’s ever recovered from seeing me cry, poor thing, I may have scarred him for life.  Please insert very evil laughter here.  When the pastor asked the question, I started chuckling. And humming...

Oh, ho, somebody call the police
That woman down there
Is a doggone thief

It should have been me
It should have been me
Oh, oh, It should have been me...

I must pull this stunt one day, how often do you get to say doggone, and in a church no less? 

I felt like a stranger at that wedding.  That’s what safe/respectful/none of my business distance does.  I got so caught up in all my over-thinking nonsense that I forgot, a. my friend was getting married, and b. I was of no relevance in that story.  Rather than back off, I should have listened to my own advice and just gotten on with being happy and shit.  Yes, I was at the wedding, smiling in the photos and dancing to the happy songs, but in some ways I wasn’t really there.  It’s taken me two weeks of processing and a couple of hours writing this to get to the comfortable place where I can laugh about being foolish about nothing.  Foot in mouth?  Been there, done that, planning on going back soon. The wedding that never was?  Well it wasn’t meant to be, was it?  Respectful distance?  Ptuh!  Like anyone other than me gave a damn.

Which brings me to the moral of this tale.   Do not listen to anything anyone has to say on this blog.  Except me, I’m always right.  No?  Too far a leap?  I had to try.  The real moral to this story, sometimes it’s best to just leave things be.  And sometimes your first instincts are the right instincts, no matter how wise the counsel you’re given may sound.  Life really is too short to be stuck in your head over analysing everything.

Mr (bloody) Smith.

Every so often you stumble across a voice so stunning, coming out of the unlikeliest character, you're, quite literally, struck dumb.  Mouth hanging open, confusion furrowing your brow, emotions all over the place as you try to decide whether or not to be happy.  You're not sure whether to be happy or not because said voice is usually emanating from the mouth of someone who consider unworthy of said talent, right?  Right?  Come now, be honest.  You don't get confused when a Kendrick Lamar looking bugger opens his mouth and raps like a prodigy, but when Macklemore steps up...well...I don’t know (usually said with a frown...).  Same thing when you first listen to a black rock band, it messes with you, mentally.  Useless information, I still haven’t gotten over Hootie...  All I'm saying is I expect certain sounds to come out of certain people, so when I come across a young white girl with humongous soul in her voice, I sit up and take notice.  And then I download all her music (legally, of course...ahem).  And then I try to stalk her on YouTube, convinced that if I watch enough videos, I'll see the big black woman in the shadows, the one who's really singing.  This is not as absurd as it sounds, remember Milli Vanilli, and C&C?  Shit happens, my friends, and up to and until I watch someone live and acapella, I assume the worst.  I have stalked today's artist for about nine years, and I am proud to say she's the real deal.  I'm still slightly disconcerted by her most amazing voice, but I'm no longer suspicious.

Ladies and gentlemen, Ms Joss Stone, doing a cover of Womack and Womack's 'Teardrops'.  I pray to the soul gods to forgive me for this blasphemy, but, dammit, her version as good as the original. Don’t lynch me, I said as good as, not better.  (Don't tell the gods, but I actually think it's marginally better.  Don't bother trying to take away my black passport, I lost it when I did the Michael Bolton post.)  You see, my one gripe with the original was that the lyrics were almost muted by the music.  Simply put, Mrs Womack didn’t do her own writing justice, or perhaps she did it too much justice with the funky track.  When I finally got round to listening to the song, really listening to it as opposed to random swaying, about seven years ago, I was slightly gobsmacked by its depth.  Dance tracks from the 80's didn’t have too much to them, is all I’m saying, and this was a most pleasant exception.  Then a year ago I heard this cover and I was even more gobsmacked.  Who knew it could sound so...clear?  It's the oddest thing, listening to someone take something you know so well and turn it into something completely new, but still the same.

Whenever I hear goodbyes, remind me baby of you
I break down and cry, next time I'll be true
Fever for lost romance, remind me baby of you
I took a crazy chance, the next time I'll be true
I'll be true 

I'll be true...

Footsteps on the dance floor, remind me baby of you

Teardrops in my eyes, next time I'll be true yea
Whispers in the powder room, she cries on every tune

Every tune 

Every tune...

Joss Stone sings this, and I finally understand the 'swaying but not quite dancing' tempo to the song. I'm not sure that makes much of any sense to anyone but me, but there you have it.  She turns this song into a stronger, more thoughtful version of itself.

It occurs to me half the people reading this have no clue what the original sounds like, which then means I should probably stick it in here, no?

Useless fact No. 734: The female half of Womack and Womack is Linda Womack, nee Cooke, daughter of Sam Cooke, step daughter to Bobby Womack, even as she was married to his brother Cecil.  I may have gotten that mixed up, such is the dodginess of that family tree.  Linda Womack could sing, evidently, but her strength, and that of her hubby, was as a songwriter (she co-wrote Teddy's 'Love TKO' with Cecil) and producer.  Hence the brilliance of this cover.  Ms Stone took a dance hit, stripped it down some, and voilà!  Where the original was about the fabulous music (it's so damn funky you can't help but to snap a finger and sway a hip), she turned it around and made it all about the lyrics.  Brilliant lyrics combined with a brilliant voice and not much music to distract from either (in fairness, the original music cannot be replicated).  I made my peace with Ms Stone's many covers with this particular song, finally realising that she understands the music she was, is, singing, perhaps better than most.

And the music
Don`t feel like it did
When I felt it with you
Nothing that I do or feel ever feels like
I felt it with you...

You're sitting there wondering where I'm going with this, aren’t you?  I need to bitch about Sam Smith.  This bastard...  I'm rubbing my forehead in frustration.  The problem with twitter, aka home of the devil, I still can't filter out the noise.  I try, dammit, I try to steer clear of the crazies, the attention whores, the would be politicians, the would be political commentators, the bleeding heart liberals, the state house lackeys, the ass chasing whores, the asses, Moses fucking Kuria...  And bloody Sam Smith.  Sam Smith has pushed me over the edge.  It's too much, dammit, too much!

This Sam Smith kijana is, apparently, quite the revelation, touted as the next great British soul singer.  I know, they say this about some newbie every year, but at least this boy can sing.  I'm not sure he can sing like a soul singer, but he can sing.  Now ordinarily I'd have waited a couple of years before listening to him, figuring if he's as good as they say, he'll be better with a couple of albums under his belt.  Come to think of it, does he have a full album?  Issues.  Point is, pre-twitter, I would have been blissfully ignorant in my 'slow on the uptake' cocoon.  But nooooo...  Idiots feel the need to throw him at me all the damn time.  And why, you ask, don’t I simply ignore them?  Because an OCD idiot like me must click every link she sees, dammit.  After the first listen, I moved on, secure in the knowledge that he is not my cup of tea.  Then the fellow did a cover of Whitney.  My Whitney.  Good God man, why?

This is why I talk about understanding the music.  That the boy can sing is not in question, he has a beautiful voice.  That he can sing soul...well...no.  The original 'How Will I Know' is a funky piece of music, and fun.  Whitney's telling us about this boy she knows...

...he's the one I dream of
Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above

Ooh, I lose control, can't seem to get enough
When I wake from dreaming, tell me is it really love...

Now you read that and you think, 'Woiyee...she sounds like she's pining for this guy,' but then you listen and you realise it's not a sad love song, it's a happy clappy ode to new love, triumphant even.  It's not a 'sitting in a puddle of tears' song, it's a 'I met a new boy, woohoo!' song.  That's why she's dancing, yes?

Oh, wake me, I'm shaking, wish I had you near me now

Said there's no mistaking what I feel is really love

Ooh how will I know?
(Don't trust your feelings)
How will I know?

How will I know?
(Love can be deceiving)
How will I know?

It's the giddy feeling you get when you may or may not be falling for someone.  That strange place between paralysing fear and the urge to shag them as soon as possible.  It's nervous excitement, in song.  Then some barely out of his teens, melancholic twat comes along and turns it into a bloody dirge.  Say it with me...NKT!  This here is a classic example of a shit cover version, all croon and no substance.  Slight detour, I have to point out that my dislike for the man was recently cemented by a most disturbing cover he did of Tracy Chapman.  He somehow managed to turn 'Fast Car' into a generic (read, crap) pop ballad.  That, my people, takes significant skill, but that's a discussion for the day Ms Chapman finally makes it onto my playlist, just as soon as I make good on a bet I lost to a certain young man who I suspect may have tricked me (he took advantage of my geriatric memory).  Detour over.

The point to this long and rambling music appreciation class?  Some things are best left untouched, original, until the person who truly understands it comes along.  I know, it's tempting to take something old and 'boring' and put your stamp of shiny newness upon it, but in doing so you run the risk of destroying the very essence of the thing.  As strange as this sounds, I'm talking about love, and relationships.

Every so often I meet a new man who is looking to completely transform my life, and me in it, into a more brilliant version of it/myself.  He rides in on his white stallion, my gallant knight in shining armour, here to save me from my lonely (read, pathetic) existence.  He takes my happy go lucky dance-ish jam of a soundtrack, and somehow manages to turn it into another sad love song.  That's the only way he can rescue me, see?  For the man to be needed, I have to be unhappy, searching, needing a man to...say it with me...complete me.  What this idiot saviour doesn’t realise, however, is some women, or possibly just me, are not particularly drawn to the idea of being sad and pathetic, and telling them they are doesn’t really do much for the flames of attraction the man seeks to fan.  More to the point, you cannot waltz in and transform her life like she's an old record in need of a makeover, not before you learn to appreciate the original brilliance.  It could be that her funky swagger is in fact a not so funky story, but that's no reason to turn it into a depressing funk, Mr bloody Smith, and just so you can feel better about yourself.  

I'm looking for someone to hear my song, and understand it, before he does a new version, a version that includes him and me. That's what it's all about, this new song, inserting yourself into somebody else (you can take that literally, if you so desire).  Rather than impose your dodgy interpretation onto this song, and in the process fucking the poor song up for years to come, perhaps just...don’t.

Rule number one of covers, don’t make the song worse.

Men want to be loved, women want to be desired.

Stop frowning and listen to me for a minute.  As much as women often claim to be all about love and all that good stuff, it's possible we may not need it as much as we say we do.  In fact, I'm starting to think our love for desire is what drives us, not the other way around.  No?  She smiles an evil smile…

I’ve stolen this line from a woman wiser, and more deviant, and more evil, than myself.  Gemma, the slightly very psychotic matriarch in the TV show ‘Sons of Anarchy’, one of the more violent American exports to hit my screen (and yours, if you like twisted family dramas and motorcycles), unleashed this little gem after her man professed great love.  She scoffed, looked him dead in the eye and said, “Baby…”  You know the rest.  Just to give you some context, at the point when these declarations were being made, the woman was dealing with soon to be ex husband issues, son issues, daughter in law issues, booze issues, weed issues…I don’t think there was anything she didn’t have issues with.  She was a mess, is what I’m saying, fucked up in ways only TV people can conjure.  Further context.  The man in question is played by a very sexy Jimmy Smits, a man I can proudly say I would never, ever, kick out of my bed, even when he’s covered in Hesse (spelling?) tattoos and shit.  I know it’s a TV show and therefore not real, but if that man, or man closely resembling him, professed love, I suspect I would offer to have his babies.  But that’s just me.  Let us move on.  This man was her knight in shining, if a little dodgy, armour.  The way they tell it, she should have collapsed in a puddle at his feet when he swore his undying love, made…wait for it…complete by his affections.  She did not, thankfully.

All my life I’ve been hearing, and reading, that all a woman wants is love.  Love conquers all, love is all we need, love takes time, love is a wonderful thing, love will save you…  Every other sappy R&B song and fluffy romance is built around this one concept, that love is the only thing that should matter to us females.  Thing is, after chasing love my entire life, and finding it all of thrice, I think, I’m not sure love is all I need.  In fact, I’m pretty much done with that love story.  The last time I thought I had found it, I felt lonelier than I ever had before.  It’s not that I didn’t know the man loved me, he did (at least he did at the time, although perhaps not nearly as much as I thought, which is probably how I came to be talking to a bunch of strangers out here…), it’s that I didn’t feel loved.  Have you ever been with someone and felt…less than important to them?  It’s a strange feeling, a combination of being ignored, neglected, generally paid little to no attention to.  That sounded very ‘woe is me’.  Not good.  Disgusting, actually.  Let’s try this again.  It feels kinda like you’re an accessory, picked up when it’s good for him, and then cast aside and ignored when he’s off doing whatever it is he does when he’s not loving you.  Yup, that sounds much better.  Or not.  

For all the love that was conveniently claimed when the man was within spitting distance, the minute he was out of sight he didn’t seem too enamoured with me.  He may have said he loved me, but I didn’t feel it, and a large part of that was because I didn’t feel like he wanted me, not really.  See, the one thing a woman, this woman in particular, cannot stand is to feel undesired.  More often that not, that’s the one straw that breaks her camel’s back.  Love and desire, to my mind are not the same thing, and even worse, the latter may be just as important, if not more so, than the former.  

That one thought followed me throughout the relationship and long after.  Did my wanting desire from the man make his love for me less significant?  Was I reducing our relationship to sex and nothing but?  Is desire only about sex?  Are love and desire not two sides of the same coin?  I couldn’t wrap my head around the difference between the two, hell, at one point I was convinced my OCD was working overtime, driving me insane.  (Now you buggers…  Stop laughing at me, dammit.  For the last time, I am not insane, I am delusional, and yes, there is a difference.)  Sitting there listening to a drug and booze soaked, fictional woman deflect declarations from Jimmy Smits, Jimmy Smits of all people (LA Law fans can feel me on this…), the penny finally dropped.  Having been around the block a couple of times, so to speak, love as an abstract concept simply doesn’t cut it any more, does it?  Put differently, the idea of romantic fluffy love, while oh so heart warming and lovely, comes a (not so) close second to good old fashioned desire, not unless you derive great pleasure from stuffed animals and much less from a proper shagging. 

Don’t look at me like that, you have to know by now that I always resort to our more base instincts, yes?  Yes.

Now I already have my google set up to deliver nuggets of scientific wisdom to prove my flawed theory, but for what?  All I ever do is impose my confirmation bias upon you, selecting that which adds to my argument and creatively deriding that which doesn’t.  But not this time, no sirree bob!  This time I’m going to tell you exactly what the shrinks and fake love experts say, that this theory of mine is complete and utter bollocks.  No really, it is.  

But wait, is it really?  See how I just did that, planted the seed of doubt in your impressionable minds?  Insert evil laugh here… 

First stop is a disturbingly useful site, ‘The Truth About Deception’.  Slight detour, how a site whose tag line is ‘Advice About Lying, Infidelity, Love and Romance’ can be so helpful about relationship stuff never ceases to amaze me.  In What is the difference between love, attachment and sexual desire? they claim that our romantic relationships are built on three emotional systems:

Sexual Desire

The first emotional system is sexual desire.  Sexual desire involves the lustful, sexually passionate feelings people have for each other.  Sexual desire is a very intense and powerful emotion; it can cloud one's judgmental and prompt risk-taking.  Sexual desire is often based on physical appearance, novelty and the chemistry between two people.  And while sexual desire motivates a lot of our behaviours [sic] early on in a relationship, intense levels of sexual desire are difficult to maintain with the same person over the course of time.

Love

The second emotional system entails love.  And love, in and of itself, is composed of a complex set of feelings.  Love often entails feelings of closeness, genuine appreciation, and concern.  But, the experience of love is not the same for everyone.  For some people, love is delusional and needy, or based on emotional game playing, or experienced as the desire to take care of another person.

Attachment

The last emotional system involves attachment.  Attachment is the feeling of security and comfort we get from being close to someone else.  Attachment provides a sense of stability, certainty, and safety – the feeling that someone will always be there for you in a time of need.  And, like with love, there are individual differences in the experience of attachment.

That sounds about right, first desire, and then love, and then attachment.  The ordering of these systems would imply that the progression means that one replaces the other, but no…

However, these basic emotional systems do not necessarily work in sync over the course of time.  Long term, it can be difficult to find one person who consistently satisfies all three needs.  In many cases, these three emotional systems work against each other - creating competing desires and interests.

They then throw in the point to their article, in case you’ve forgotten why you’re on that particular site…

For instance, it is possible to be attached to one romantic partner, be in love with someone else, and still have sexual desire for another person.

Being aware of these competing emotions, and that not everyone experiences love and attachment in the same way, often helps make sense of the problems that arise in our romantic relationships.

And understanding these basic emotional systems can lead to a greater understanding of the types of affairs people have.

In their defence, they do state their mission quite clearly at the top of the page.  What they’re saying, in summary, is that the three systems are often in play at the same time, making it hard for us to balance desire, love and attachment.  Anything else you take from it is solely yours, yaani don't use me to justify your other mama, I will deny all knowledge.

Next up are the lovely neurologists who believe brain scans are the key to everything.  These geniuses went out and scanned heads to see what parts of the brain are involved with sexual desire and those tied to love.  The result?  It’s the same part of the brain, kinda.  I want to know where love is: First brain map of love and desire.

Love and sexual desire activate different areas of the striatum. The area activated by sexual desire is usually activated by things that are inherently pleasurable, such as sex or food. The area activated by love is involved in the process of conditioning by which things paired with reward or pleasure are given inherent value. That is, as feelings of sexual desire develop into love, they are processed in a different place in the striatum.  Somewhat surprisingly, this area of the striatum is also the part of the brain that associated with drug addiction. Pfaus explains there is good reason for this. "Love is actually a habit that is formed from sexual desire as desire is rewarded. It works the same way in the brain as when people become addicted to drugs."

The lovely people at Huff Po explain it better, From Sex To Love: Emotional Attachment And Sexual Desire Originate In Overlapping Parts Of The Brain (STUDY)…

The study found that love and sex fall on a sort of neurological continuum. Both phenomena activate a section of the striatum (the part of the brain that receives messages from the cerebral cortex about emotions, memory and other functions). Lust causes the ventral striatum the part of the brain associated with emotion and motivation -- to "light up." Love activates the dorsal striatum, which impacts decision-making and is associated with drug addiction, reported MSNBC.

Perhaps not.  The Huff Po article is making a case for love growing from sex, as evidenced by the article they quote claiming a one night stand can lead to everlasting love (a lovely idea, but entirely misguided in this case).  What the scientists found is that the link between desire and love is more feedback mechanism than one way progression.  Desire feeds love, feeds desire, feeds love, and on and on (at least that’s my interpretation), which in turn means that taking one element out of the equation would break the chain, no?

This is my question.  Can you love without desire, and if so, then is desire unnecessary in love?  I’m talking about romantic love here, not the great love you have for your babies or your ma, or your barman.  That there can be desire without love is well documented, all you need to do is google clips of any cheating bastard who’s been caught with his, or her, proverbial pants down.  ‘It didn’t mean anything, it’s not love, baibee…’ is the common refrain, one which I have neither the time nor energy to explore today (always gets me into trouble that discussion).  On the other hand, love without desire is often quoted as the definition of marriage (insert own joke here…), but how can this be?  

I haven’t found an answer to this most vexing question yet, part of me suspects I never will, but I will tell you this much, there can be no love, from me, without desire, from him.  I don’t care what he provides, if he doesn’t try and grab my behind (or front) every so often, very often actually, he does not love me, not the way I want, perhaps need, to be loved.  I know, it makes little to no sense, but there it is, love is the concept, desire is the action.  Us women we like action, so stop loving and get to desiring, yes?  I’ll love you after, promise.  Look, even the Ancient Greeks, they of the incestuous gods with serious anger management issues, had the good sense to pair the two together, all immortal like.  The erotes were the gods of love AND desire, together, at the same time, as in inseparable.  All I’m saying is, what the gods have put together let no man put asunder, or something such like.

F.F.D.B.

A new year.  Another year.  As we get older it starts to feel like the years are rolling into one long month, with some hot days and some cold days, some wet days and some dry days, and all the while everything keeps rolling on, uninterrupted.  It feels like it was only a few weeks back when last year began, I was sitting right here, looking at an almost identical sunset, trying to figure out where the time went. How do I reflect when it feels like no time has passed?  Still, the least I can do is share a lesson learnt last year, that you may not repeat my mistakes needlessly.

Bag lady you gon’ hurt your back,
Draggin’ all them bags like that,
I guess nobody ever told you how,
All you must hold on to is you, is you, is you…

As always, kindly press play.  Incidentally, the one lesson I did not learn last year, or the year before, is when to stop begging you to play the tunes.  Clearly.  You should play today’s song, it will take you back to a time in your life when you were unfamiliar with the concept of baggage, assuming you’re about my age.  When I first heard this song, watched the video actually, I was captivated by the harmonies, and the colours, it was, is, a stunning video.  It took me another five years to hear her, really hear her, and now, another seven years later, I sing this song like she wrote the damn thing especially for me...

I said, one day all ‘em bags gon’ get in your way…

Have you noticed how the older you get the more stuff you lug around?  If it’s not family drama with the parents and siblings, it’s familiar drama with the lover, spouse, ex, best friend.  Crap at work and crap at home.  Money fails and Jesus tales, sex foes and baby woes.  Politicians on our minds and the taxman on our asses.  Cops checking our breath and doctors checking our breadth, both frowning, and fining.  Now I could sit here and give you a long speech on how you shouldn’t let your problems get you down, how you should live life one day at a time, dance like nobody is watching, run through the flowers…all that fluffy stuff that will make you feel oh so uplifted.  I could do that, but I won’t, we both know I am rarely, make that barely, fluffy, and even when I am, I am in no way encouraging.  What I can do, however, is share the words of wisdom I’ve learnt to live by, as spoken by the great sage, Stone Cold Steve Austin.  Fuck fear, drink beer.  Profound, no?  No?  Probably not, beer tastes quite bad.  How about, ‘Fuck fear, drink wine!’?  That doesn’t rhyme, does it?  ‘Don’t whine, drink wine.’  Better?  Not really, that doesn’t have quite the same je ne sais quoi to it.  Yes, I speaka da francais.  Kinda.  Okay fine, I don’t, but my google does, and google is my...say it with me...friend.   Ah fuck it, let’s drink some wine.   No really, that’s not a slogan, let’s drink some wine, right now.  If there is one thing I’ve learnt in this life, it’s that a glass of wine is always a good idea.  Five glasses, perhaps a bit too much, but the one is a good thing.  Wait, I have digressed, no?  Ah yes, the wisdom of the man in the tight black t shirt...

Fuck fear.  Drink beer.

That’s a simple way of saying life is too short to be cautious, playing it safe and all that jazz.  All it does, that seemingly wise caution, is leave you frustrated, wondering at the bloody what if’s.  What if I had taken that job?  What if I had left, or more likely hadn’t left, that (wo)man?   What if I had more money? What if I was skinnier, or taller?  What if I had a bigger car, or a better house, or a fancier pair of shoes?   What if I had been buying whiskey by the bottle, would she have had a drink with me then?  What if I hadn’t agreed to go home with him that night, would he have called me?  What if I’d done the arts degree I wanted, instead of medicine like my father insisted?  What if I pack it all in and move to Malindi?  What if I quit my job and become a filmmaker?  What if I get back with my ex and she leaves me again?  What if I like weed too much and get addicted?  What if I’d voted for the guy from the other tribe?  What if Jesus comes back?  What if, what if, what if...

Fuck fear.  Drink beer.

I can’t tell you how to resolve the more existential problems in your life, faith, purpose, religion, morality, those are deeply personal and better suited to a blog with pictures of a sunset, or happy babies.  I can, however, shed a bit of light on the other problems in your life, love and sex and everything in between, those are problems I can speak on with some authority, seeing as how I often lack one or the other. Or both, depending, but that’s a story for another day.

Bag lady you gon’ miss your bus,
You can’t hurry up, cause you got too much stuff,
When they see you comin’, niggas take off runnin’,
From you, its true, oh yes they do,

So pack light…

Some days you get to the point where all the junk you’re carrying around becomes too much to handle, it starts to weigh you down, or drag you back.  On days like that, you need to ask yourself, what would Stone Cold do?  Okay fine, you can ask Jesus too if that makes you happy, but start with my guy, he’s a lot simpler.  I’m all for learning from the past and embracing your flaws, but when the past is keeping you from moving into the future, and flaws are being used as a bullshit safety blanket, then perhaps it’s time to let it go.  All the baggage we haul around, walking around like wounded antelopes fleeing from similarly wounded simbas, this story must end.  It is no way to live.  

Girl I know, sometimes it’s hard and we can’t let go,
When someone hurts you oh so bad inside,

You can’t deny it, you can’t stop crying,
So, if you start breathin’, then you won’t believe it,

You’ll feel so much better, 

So much better baby...

These lyrics are from the album version, not the one you're listening to, in case you're wondering why I'm writing something other than what's playing, and (possibly) what crack I'm smoking today (you know I can hear the joke you've just made in your head, right?  No really, I can...).  The reason I put up this version?  Listen to her riffing, from 2:50…garbage bag lady, Gucci bag lady… let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go… plastic bag ladies, baby baggin’ mommas…betcha love can make it better…  I’m convinced that Ms Badu is not entirely sane, but dammit if this song isn’t the sanest thing ever put to song.  The best bit is you can apply it to whatever situation you find yourself in.  Really.  The answer to any question you have ever had about your love life, or the lack thereof, is in this one song.  Yes, the song you refused to play.  Yes, I’m like a dog with a bone, but you already know that, no?  And don’t go thinking her lines only apply to women, gentlemen, this song works just as well for you too, if her concerts are anything to go by.  I’m just saying, this baggage story is gender neutral, no?  

This year, when you get stuck, ask yourself, W.W.S.C.D?  That's right, F.F.D.B.  

Fuck fear, drink beer.  

Or wine.  Yes, or water.  Yes, or tea.  Dammit, I am not being literal, you bloody alcohol nazis (read, Mututho), just drink something, anything...  Yes, whatever you want...  Can’t a girl get poetic around here?  No wait, this girl actually can’t get poetic, which is why she uses lyrics, and slogans from the shirts of wrestling legends.  Clever, no?  Probably not.

Happy new year, my lovelies, may this year be kinder to you than the last.

Feminism? I don't know about all that...

I had a most brilliant plan to do a post on feminism, because I woke up feeling very intellectual this morning (don't think I can't see you laughing), but after the day I've had I can’t summon the energy to do the research entailed.  See, you can't just write about women's 'issues' willy nilly, you must have arguments, and charts, FIDA approved charts.  God forbid you forget to mention the plight of the African woman, or the girl child, or marital equality.  My day has been long and disappointing, and I refuse to make it harder by subjecting myself to arguments about my breasts and their role in the 21st century.  I'm a woman, but I'm human first, and the last time I checked human rights were all encompassing, right?  Food, water, shelter, health, education, security, and yes, the right to slap and get slapped, in the name of self defence that is.  Wait, don't lynch me yet, let me explain, in song.

I'm going to play you some music.  I figure, if people can do photoing posts (really Kimani?), and others can string together a couple of random sentences and call it a poem, then why can't I put up a playlist, and call it clever?  What's that?  This is not a real post?  Tough titty!  I'm allowed to be lazy on Monday, no?  Probably not, I expect I shall receive hate mail for this, but what the hell...

First up, The Mary Jane Girls' 'All Night Long'.  This song has been sampled so many times its become ubiquitous, but the rarely played original remains a classic.  The reason the song has a message, however, has less to do with the melody and more to do with the story of the group.  See, Rick James put this group together, as evidenced by the lead vocalist's hair (woi...), but he only did so after the recording company offered him a contract for a girl group rather than one for a solo singer, his original plan.  He quickly threw in 3 random girls to add to the one lady who could sing and voilà!  Mary Jane Girls was born.

The video is the source of much humour.  Those three bonus women not only couldn’t sing, they couldn’t dance, but that didn’t stop them from cashing in when they saw a gap.  If that's not women being empowered, I don’t know what is.

From there it's a quick hop to Rick himself.  Ah Rick...  This man was made to be on TV.  Have you seen the video with him in a very small speedo in a hot tub?  What!!!  Younglings probably have no idea who I'm talking about, and telling them that 'Superfreak' is the song MC Hammer sampled in 'U Can't Touch This' (and by sampled I mean used pretty much in its entirety, save for lyrics) doesn’t help much either.  It's an old song, but it's a bloody funky song by a man who not only wrote and sang his own his music, he played most of the instruments as well, and then he went ahead and slapped on some glitter and sequins for the video, just because.

See, back then, it wasn’t just the girls who were scantily clad, the men wore next to nothing too, and they had matching hair, and they were both pretty sexualised.  Equality, yes?

Which takes me to The Temptations, they who sang the background vocals on 'Superfreak'.  'Treat her like a lady' should be mandatory listening for all boys immediately their balls drop...

Now I like openin' doors, pickin' up her hanky off the floor,

Treat her like a lady,
Light her cigarette if she smokes, even (Help her with her coat) help her out,
Treat her like a lady,
In this world of liberation, it's so easy to forget, 

That it's so nice to have a man around to lend a helping hand, you can bet, bet you can, baby,

When I was young, my mama used to say, Boy,

A woman's like a flower, with love on her you shower,
Ever since that day, her words never went away,
I always will remember to treat my baby tender...

This is my one fight with the more radical feminists in our midst.  They've made it a crime for a woman to want a man who's a man.  Not a knuckle dragging MP of a man, just a regular man, like I'm a regular woman.  I'm all for equal access to opportunities and equal pay for equal work, but I still want a man who'll open my bottle of wine for me, instead of watching me struggle with the damn cork for five minutes, breaking it in the process.  Chivalry is not sexist, is all I'm saying.

Useless fact, I once dated a guy who looked like the lead singer, thankfully minus the curly kit, a guy who will forever be associated, in my mind, with the next fellow…

…Alexander O'Neal.  This man…  I spent the better part of my childhood wanting nothing more than to be the handkerchief to his sweaty brow.  Stop laughing.  'Alex, Alex baby...'  Walalalala!  The song I always default to, however, is 'If You Were Here Tonight', much beloved by EasyFM (their only saving grace in my book, but that's a story for another day).  Now because I was in primary school when this song came out, I didn’t get to hear it anywhere other than at home until I was well into my 20's.  It's one thing to listen to this song, its another to hear this song in a club, in surround sound streaming out of quality speakers at relatively high decibels, when you're mellow on a couple couples and the DJ is playing 'kushikashika time' tunes.  The room melted away and I was all alone, wrapped, nay, ensconced in the oh so smooth voice of Alex, my Alex.  Hang on, why was I listening to kushikashika music instead of being shikashikwad?  Hmmm...

Can't you understand it,

Girl, you know how much I care,
It's not the way I planned it, no,
If you could only know my feelings,
You would know how much I do believe...

The reason this song is on my feminist playlist?  I love to hear a man beg.  I think it's a very modern attitude, even if he's only begging for a shag, such as they do, these lovely buggers.  The fact that he's begging in such silky tones is a bonus.  Really, she says, looking away sheepishly, having snuck in the song on the sly and all, knowing it has only a tenuous link with feminist agendas, if at all...

And then we have Prince.  This little man is a genius, and freakishly so, freaky too come to think of it, but in a good way.  If I ever have a child (remote ever) and if said child ever shows the slightest hint of musical ability (also remote ever, given the mother's lack of the same), he/she will be renamed Prince, Prince Rogers Kamau for good measure.  But only if the child has talent.  Can you imagine the agony of being named after a most brilliant musician and you can't hold a note?  I may be delusional, but I'm not cruel.  Moving right along.  He that was once a symbol has been a great love of mine for years, said love only tempered by the allegation that he kicked my Alex out of The Time for 'looking too black', and this after he allegedly stole, umm, borrowed, stage performance gimmicks from Rick James.  That's right folks, the great purple one is the glue that binds my playlist together, so its only fair that he should round it off.

Women, not girls, rule my world, I said they rule my world,

Act your age, mama, not your shoe size, maybe we could do the twirl,
You don't have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude,
You just leave it all up to me, my love will be your food,

You don't have to be rich to be my girl,

You don't have to be cool to rule my world,
Ain't no particular sign I'm compatible with,
I just want your extra time and your kiss...

Come on, is that not the most feminist song you've heard in ages?  For crying out loud, the man in wearing a tumbo-cut in the video, and skinny pants, and heels, how much more feminine can he get?  Now that I think about it, the fact that the man sold many records dressed kinda like a woman should be a testament to the power and influence of the woman.  Just saying.

I'll leave you with the words of a woman smarter than me, just so I'm not accused of being frivolous about 'women's issues'.

“Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better.

Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.  Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.

Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.

Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.

Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.

Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.

Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.

Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.

Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.

There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body.

I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body.

And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap.

You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real.

Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me”

Hanne Blank