The view from my office building before anyone else is in looks pretty spectacular, particularly when there’s a fading Hunter’s Moon hanging in the sky. This was the scene the other day, far before anyone else was due in the office – I was there early to catch up on some things and prepare for a presentation I had to give, and as I crossed the floor the sun lit up a side of Albany that I don’t usually get to see from my side of the building. It reminded me how important it is to switch things up and take a different route in your daily routine from time to time. I also realized I need to get out more – step outside and walk more on my lunch break, so I don’t miss the beauty that’s all around us if we only take the time and care to look.
To that end, I’m stepping away from the laptop and joining the living. Meet me downtown for lunch at Banh Mi 47 later today…
America’s favorite mayor may just be Zohran Mamdani, who technically is the Mayor of New York (which means he has some major, and occasionally majorly-fucked-up, shoes to fill). Happily, he’s exceeded the work and results of many a New York Mayor, (a visit to the Mayor’s webpage begins a multi-page series of links of accomplishments already undertaken and executed). Personally, I’m a fan of anyone of intelligence who gets all the racist MAGA lunatics riled up simply by existing – for that reason alone Mamdani easily earns this Dazzler of the Day crowning. (And of course, all that he’s done for NYC in just a short time as Mayor.)
Country music has been ripe for saddling up with all sorts of double-entendres and multi-layered meanings in its lyrics and presentation, and this old-school classic by Merle Haggard gets a wild re-reading with today’s terminology and meanings. This cowboy era is heavy on gay-coded moments and not-so-subtle irony, getting cheeky revamps and slutty new spins (as evidenced in a bare-assed post like this).
There ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore Ain’t no taking chances like before You don’t agree with me you’re out the door Honey, there ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
While the music and the tune is decidedly tongue-in-cheek, it also speaks to a deeper meaning of something more complex for the cowboy who finds himself growing older and, ideally, wiser. I read this as the lessons of life taking their toll on someone who once thrashed about wildly, throwing caution to the wind and riding without protection or deliberation – in other words, the cowboy who’s experienced his youth to its fullest, as the luckiest among us often do. If you can’t act young when you’re young, then you’ve missed out. Cowboys don’t usually miss out on their youth – but that kind of living does exact a price. You see it in the eyes of an older cowboy, you see it in the lines of his face or the measure of his gait. You see it in a smile that doesn’t come quite as readily as it once did – and when it does you detect the slightest pull of sadness.
Here our cowboy claims he’s still up to ridin’ every night, but it’s not going to be the same carefree bareback way it was before – those days are done, and if you’re looking for someone to take those kind of chances, he’s going to show you the door. I can appreciate everything about that – the notion that such brash living has gone by, as well as the idea of being so sure and certain of your own self that the wishes and whims of another aren’t going to change your mind or switch your stance. All are indicative of the cowboy life.
I’m still up to ridin’ every night All you got to do is hold me tight And I ain’t seen a saddle in so long But I ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
There ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore Ain’t no taking chances like before And if you don’t agree with me it’s out the door Honey, there ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
The Gods have answered our prayers and are delivering a 2027 Calendar of Ben Cohen – the one that always sells out well in advance of the New Year, so if you know someone who’d like this on their wish list, get moving soon. Thanks to the artful eye of Leo Holden of Snooty Fox Images, Cohen is once again in good photographic hands for this year’s selection, which looks to be a continuation of all things denim (and all things out of denim if viewers get their way). Check out previous Ben Cohen posts as seen below for more of this, as well as Leo Holden’s Dazzler of the Day feature here.
Today marks seven years since I had a drink of alcohol. That was 2019, and while that’s the date that has stuck, I actually went to rehab for drinking back in 2014 on the not-so-gentle advice of family (some of whom would currently qualify as alcoholics if we’re going by the program I attended). Back then I knew I was not ready to stop drinking – I only knew that I could stop when I wanted, and to prove that I agreed to do an outpatient rehab stint at Conifer Park. They had a working professionals program that met after work and was designed for those who didn’t need a full 24-7 rehab program. While that sounded lovely, or at least the lesser of several ill-fitting evils, it was still unquestionably a rehab program, with the whole range of people that encompasses such a program – drugs and alcohol and sex were all treated in my ‘professional’ group, and everyone had horror stories and histories that went disturbingly beyond my situation. Even in rehab I was an outsider among outsiders, and at the start of that journey, I most certainly did not feel like I belonged.
They’re always knocking at the door You get a bed, but you use the floor They watch you take your pills No thrills, no TV after 9
Swimming pool and cigarettes And what you get is what you get There’s a telephone, but the only number that I know is mine
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
My intake person – a short, solidly-built young man with a buzz cut and military background – gave me an assessment and recommended a program with a couple of meetings a week at first. His line of standard questions, and his blunt manner, didn’t pair well with my personality, but we weren’t there to make friends, so I gave him the facts and the bare minimum of feelings, and he set me up for a plan for the next few weeks. I’d only see him on the first and last day of treatment, so his lack of understanding of my particular predicament didn’t matter much. Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, and the memories have their bitterness which is shading his treatment and engagement. It doesn’t matter – I was there, and I was ready and willing to play the game. In that respect, I was a pretty decent client – I would do as I was told, and I would be as honest as I could about it at each and every step of the process. Because the truth was, I didn’t know if I was an alcoholic – but I was open to finding out if I was.
You tell the man what’s in your head He writes it down and he nods his head Then the other heads nod their heads Then everybody cries
My group sessions began shortly thereafter, and it was just as cliched and dismal and hopeful as you might surmise. We sat in a large circle in the middle of a larger gray room. Harsh fluorescent lighting gave a clinical coolness to the meetings, while a sad poster of the 12 Steps and some abstract religious bullshit artwork hung on one of the walls in my sightline. A gray-haired man with matching mustache and woefully unfashionable glasses led the meetings. Without truly connecting my social anxiety to my drinking, the whole experience was doubly difficult and challenging for me, but I was determined to work through it and do what I was supposed to do – then get out and see how long I’d decide to stop drinking. Part of me also wanted to see if I was going to go through any withdrawal or cravings for alcohol (there were none) and whether any of these people working the program could tell me if I was or wasn’t an alcoholic once and for all. That’s how I began my introduction too, because I’d decided from the start to be as open and honest as possible for the duration of this, and the truth is I still didn’t believe I was a full-fledged alcoholic. (And I knew that’s what all alcoholics said at the start.)
You bite your tongue while somebody talks You got one eye closed, the other’s on the clock It’s all sitting and circles, I sure could use some kinda line
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
For those first sessions I did the bare minimum as we went around the room as far as participation went, and mostly trying and succeeding at fading into the background. Still, I paid keen attention to everyone else’s stories. There were several people who had been there multiple times – one woman said this was her tenth try at rehab and she didn’t expect this one to take but she didn’t know what else to do. I watched and heard the strained patience of the man leading the session, who had clearly had her in his program for perhaps many of those ten times. There was the gay man who was a drug addict and had the skillful charm and ease of getting everyone on his side to further his manipulative method of navigating his addiction. There was the young woman who described her sex addiction in what seemed more of a social scene, even as it was wrecking her home and family life. My tale of having too much to drink at parties on occasion gave me a certain sense of imposter syndrome, while emboldening the take that I was not as “bad” as anyone else here, and there was an illicit and uncomfortable sense of relief and gratitude that came with it. Some doubt as well, because I was certain there was something I must have been missing.
Maybe I could just ask real nice and they’d let me out today Excuse myself from this living hell and tell ’em I’m back out to stay Get a spoon, dig a hole, buy a bottle and a ball And get the gang back on the road If I could just jump the wall, then I’d run on home
Over the course of the weeks that unfolded, I got the hang of the sessions – the way we would talk through our difficulties and let people offer words of support, while the facilitator would give his take on possible improvements to be made. I shared a bit more, but the simple truth was I didn’t have it as difficult or awful as most of the other people there – and for me, at that time in my life, that was probably the best lesson and most powerful effect: the idea that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ was profoundly weighing upon how I navigated the idea of my drinking. Comparison may be the thief of joy, but when you’re the one doing “better” in the given scenario it feels damn fucking good. That’s not said with any notion that I deserve a pat on the back – my mindset was probably all wrong for rehab, even if I worked the program as directed and would go on without drinking for several months after it ended – just to prove to myself I could do it.
I hear they’re serving eggs today And sweet salvation’s on the way But glory’s full, and you can’t cut the line
From time to time, one of the attendees would ‘graduate’ and we would mark their last day of group rehab with a round of applause. They’d give their final rendition of how they were doing, and I couldn’t tell if I felt envy or some weird sense of pride-by-approximation. The stories I heard from others were often so harrowing and scary to me, that I didn’t want to touch a drink for fear of approaching such a life, and part of me wondered if that was the point of these group sessions – it seemed too easy, too basic to be all that was going on here, but I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, figure out the rest for the remainder of my meetings. Sometimes the stories and the backgrounds would be so sad that no one could blame the person for losing themselves in liquor or drugs, and at those moments I wondered how any of us would get through this life alive.
So catch me on the evening news “Dumb fag dies from the rehab blues” I guess I could use some rest, but man, who’s got the time?
When I reached my final session, I was hoping there would be another person whose last day coincided with mine so it wouldn’t be so noticeable, but there wasn’t. At the end of the meeting, the facilitator mentioned that one of us was graduating today, and he pointed me out and the requisite round of applause sounded, my social anxiety at an all-time high as the room focused its attention in my direction. He then looked at me and said, “You’ve been coming here a few weeks, and you’re usually pretty quiet, but I see you engaged and listening and taking part in the program, really working through it, and I thank you for that. You’ve done a good job without whining or complaining, so I hope you continue.” Not sure if that was a dig at anyone else, and it didn’t matter. I’d completed the program, and I wouldn’t drink for another six months, so it was as successful as it was going to be for someone who knew he wasn’t ready to stop drinking.
I wouldn’t be ready for another five years, but once I was, I didn’t need rehab to stop.
I hate it here, I don’t care I hate it here, I don’t care I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
This is my new bestie, a pooch by the name of Queenie, with whom I actually go way back. She lives in Connecticut, where I spent a fun weekend with a dear lifelong friend and her family, but more on that in a bit. It’s Monday, and time for the weekly recap before we get into a semi-serious post later today. Lots happening now that it’s a full moon AND Mercury is in retrograde motion – good luck to all, as we’re gonna need it.
The cost of being a cowboy is slightly different for everyone. Some wouldn’t consider it a cost at all – content and merry to ride through life without long-term care or concern, happy to connect with people along the way without making any binding or committed promises, and perfectly satisfied with being alone should that be the result of their choices and lifestyle. (Not everyone is willing to put up with someone who only wants to roam.)
Wildcat Kelly, lookin’ mighty pale Was standing by the sherrif’s side And when the sherrif said “I’m sending you to jail” Wildcat raised his head and cried
For those who desire the cowboy’s freedom, and seemingly-carefree lifestyle, they would be wise to dwell and deliberate on what that means for the long haul – because a cowboy’s career isn’t typically made to last that long. The physical exertion runs down and ruins the body faster than an office job ever could – and the mental and emotional strain for those who aren’t cowboys in their hearts can be equally debilitating. To do all that just for a taste of freedom, to live life defiantly alone, should it come to that, are choices that come with consequences. A true cowboy won’t mind, or even think of it that way. For the rest of us flirting with the cowboy life, these are things to consider. And for anyone remotely toying with the idea of falling in love with a cowboy, good luck. The heart of a cowboy is pure – and at its core all it wants is freedom without fences.
Wildcat Kelly, back again in town Was standing by his sweetheart’s side And when his sweetheart said “come on, let’s settle down” Wildcat raised his head and cried
“Meet the new cowboy?” came the question for the third time that day.
Shaking my head with an amused grin, I told the customer only Ma had officially met him.
“Seem nice?”
“She said so,” I proclaimed, a little more boastful than intended, “Said he was dusty but knew enough to stock up on soap. Not all the cowboys bother.”
The customer moved away without smiling. I wasn’t sure I’d made a joke, so no wonder she wasn’t convinced.
It was Monday, and the Cowboy hadn’t shown for dinner yet. They usually came by on Sunday afternoons, and Ma had made a little extra fuss for it, even if she pretended she wasn’t. She was adamant about Sundays being for rest, but she still went out of her way to make a big Sunday dinner. It was harder to get my head around such stuff when I was a kid; now I accepted the contradictions because it was easier that way. It felt like growing up was all about accepting things that didn’t make sense, and learning not to question them unless you wanted trouble.
When the Cowboy didn’t show for dinner, we eased into the evening with a little less tension – Ma having a second beer and Pa undoing his belt before he even got up from the table. I was not-so-secretly relieved as well; as much as I wanted to learn from the stranger, I wanted to do so out in the wild, where it mattered – not at the dinner table, and definitely not in front of my parents. They were already suspicious of my reluctance to take over the store, and Ma could suss out an interest of mine no matter how deeply I tried to conceal it. By the time she burped out the ending to her second can, she’d almost forgotten about the Cowboy, until she eyed the extra plate on the counter as she was cleaning up. I watched her put it back into the cupboard as Pa shoved back from the table.
That night it was nice enough to leave the window open to my bedroom. The moon was overhead somewhere – I couldn’t quite see it, but I saw its light, the way it illuminated the backyard and the stretch of power lines, undulating and sagging between their tall wooden poles. The stars blanketed the dark sky – the promised storm had never materialized, not yet at least, and the night was clear. Coyote cries sometimes pierced the quiet, but on this night they were still and silent. April anticipation hung in the air – the promise of spring fulfilled, and yet somehow not quite complete. I was old enough to feel the longing for something that spring inspired, even if I couldn’t quite figure out what it was that I wanted. If you asked me, and no one ever did, I might say I wanted to be a cowboy. With my bedroom door closed, and the window open to the stars and the sky, I let my heart whisper it to the night.
At quite a distance out of town, the Beasleys’ bunkhouse glowed with the light of a single candle. Stepping out onto the porch, the Cowboy walked a few steps into the moonlight, his naked form and shadowed contours looking more animal-like than human. He took in the whole sky, with its stars and moon, and listened for a message on the wind – a wind that never came.
Freedom is the main goal of any tried and true cowboy. It’s the reason they risk so much, stepping so far away from the easier paths that other roads might have offered. Freedom to be exactly who they want to be, to be bound only to the land, the animals, and the cowboy code. There is nobility in that – some danger too – for a cowboy to choose the cowboy’s life requires a certain sacrifice of comforts that most people aren’t willing to give up. But the reward… ahh, the reward… can you even begin to put a price tag on the reward of freedom?
Let me be by myself in the evenin’ breeze Listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees Send me off forever but I ask you please Don’t fence me in
Are there ways to operate within this quest for freedom that allow for interpersonal relationships, and maybe even romance? Of course there are – and perhaps I’ve been too broad in the strokes that I’ve used to paint this fall of the cowboy. The core of the cowboy essence, however, remains the same – and one of the main tenets of that is independence and solitude, standing alone and riding off into the sunset and being completely ok with making your way on your own. Most of the time all a cowboy needs is a horse and a horizon.
Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle Underneath the western skies On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder Till I see the mountains rise
I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses Can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences Don’t fence me in
That loose sense of belonging to someone or something, of being bound and tied to another person or place, chafes at the cowboy’s sense of freedom. They erect fences for livestock; they would sooner die than be fenced in themselves. Watch as they gallop off into the distance – watch when they are given an open expanse and an afternoon off: they are movement and freedom and exultation in one.
Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle Underneath the western skies On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder Till I see the mountains rise
It is a glorious thing to see, the way a cowboy revels in their freedom – and the beauty is often in what we do not see, in the price it exacts, the shortened life it leaves after years of harder living. Who’s to say it’s not the way life should be? Why are we preserving ourselves with restrictions and diets and healthy living when thrilling at the pleasures at hand is so easy and feels so good? Why live a longer but unhappy life when you can have an ecstatic shorter one? Maybe this is one reason the cowboys are so often so Zen-like: they have this all figured out.
I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses Can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences Don’t fence me in
Some songs strike at the very heart we try so hard to protect, hitting right through the one chink in the armor you worried about – the hole you were so right to worry about – and in some way you have to wonder if the heart didn’t want for it to happen, like it knew it wouldn’t be complete without breaking, as if that was the very purpose of a heart. Is a life complete without surviving a heartbreak? If not, I’ve no worries – my life is woefully whole in that respect, with several heartbreaks still somehow mending – and it’s always the unrequited heartbreaks that hurt the most – those moments of unexplored could-have-beens that never quite got off the ground, that perished before they gave each other a chance. There’s something sadder about the bud that never blooms.
And time washes clean Love’s wounds unseen That’s what someone told me But I don’t know what it means ‘Cause I’ve done everything I know To try and make you mine And I think I’m gonna love you For a long, long time
This song may very well provide the soundtrack to my entire past of torturous romantic escapades – that it has arrived all these years later to help make sense of those doomed moments touches me in a way that is as surprising as the tears that suddenly rolled down my cheeks in the dimming of this day.
Contrary to likely-popular belief – and it’s ok if you thought it too because it totally tracks – I’m not one for self-pity. No, my pride was too great for that – my tears before tonight were for all the boys who missed out on what I would have been to them. Yeah, that’s right, I got it like that – my pride was such that I mourned for them not seeing how good I could be – how good we could be together – and a bit was for selfishness too, because love makes us selfish and ruthless and cruel, thinking we’d miss out on something that would change the world.
Caught in my fears Blinking back the tears I can’t say you hurt me When you never let me near
Maybe those boys were just wise to me, wise to my failings, wise to my pride – maybe they knew the day would come when I’d bore and tire of them, when I’d realize how much better I was than them – because you can say that when it’s true, when no one else has come along to thrill because you’re the most thrilling and interesting person in any room you’ve ever inhabited. Wise to this sort of insufferable hubris, to the ridiculous inability to fathom how someone could not want to be with me. Yeah, I got it like that…
And I never drew One response from you All the while you fell All over girls you never knew
Oh how I used to cry for those boys – the ones I thought were worthy, the ones I obsessed over, the ones who seemed interesting and thrilling and beautiful in their own right – I cried over them and gave them all the power. There weren’t that many – less than I could count on two hands – and perhaps they were more special than everyone else. They each occupied a precious portion of my life, and I gave them that space willingly – because I knew even back then that it was my nature to love and love and love, no matter the return, no matter the cost, no matter the price and no matter the pain.
‘Cause I’ve done everything I know To try and make you mine And I think it’s going to hurt me For a long, long time
Where was this song then? Perhaps it’s best that it wasn’t around, considering the way it’s already wrecking me at such a distant vantage point. How strange the way an arrow will arrive years and decades after the fact and somehow find its way to pierce the heart at its most vulnerable point. My tears are no longer for all those silly boys – they fall for one singular young man who could be the singer of this song. I see him all these years later as I watch from a place of safety and warmth and relative accomplishment, with hopefully a little more wisdom than I had when I glimpsed him from the mirrors and subway windows and glasshouse panes of my youth. Back then I was too close to him to see his worth, to see his love.
Wait for the day You’ll go away Knowing that you warned me Of the price I’d have to pay
And life’s full of flaws Who knows the cause? Living in the memory Of a love that never was
I weep for him now, more than he ever wept for himself, because of all that he didn’t know, and all that he didn’t realize he was giving up in service of another. I weep because I wouldn’t change anything for him, for the fact that going through it all made him into the person I am today. I’m sorry that it had to be that way, but not at all sorry for how it all turned out. If that required some heartbreak, if that needed some fool for a catalyst that impelled him to greater heights, then it was worth it. And it’s worth crying for too.
I’ve done everything I know To try and change your mind And I think that’s going to hurt me For a long, long time ‘Cause I’ve done everything I know To try and make you mine And I think I’m gonna love you For a long, long time
The sad truth is that I gave up on this banana tree when it refused to stay upright before summer had even ended. A few stormy days had it knocked down to the ground, its massive leaves torn and frayed, and after the fifth try at keeping it proper up, I simply let it stay when it decided to go down for the last time. I’m usually better at treating my plants as if they were people, but this end of summer I just couldn’t be bothered. Maybe I am just as cold as some say I am. It would certainly match the air, and I do like to match whenever possible.
In a certain light it was my way of saying goodbye to summer, and pretending, or forcing myself to believe, that it was ok to let it go without a fight. How can one fight the end of a season anyway? It’s a guaranteed loss, even if there is nobility in fighting the good fight in the face of certain end. Truth is, I no longer have that fight in me – and the people who wrested that power from me aren’t even reading this post – so even if my words held any power or sway, they would never be heard or read – and words that fall silent… well, what is the point.
I admire a cowboy’s resilience in that respect. Most people hesitate, waiting to get up again, tentatively evaluating the wisdom of doing the very thing that got them knocked to the ground in the first place. Cowboys don’t wait around for wisdom. Cowboys don’t wait around for much.
If there’s one thing a cowboy does consistently well, it’s getting on with it.
Such is the way of the world You can never know Just where to put all your faith And how will it grow
Lately I’ve found myself on the ground, intentionally dwelling there and letting my body sink into the floor. Gravity is glorious when you learn to just give in to it. So much easier that way, so exhausting to fight what the world wants us to do. And so much easier to rise from the ground than a higher elevation. Maybe that’s something cowboys just intrinsically know, something they feel. It might not be something you can learn or be taught – it’s possible you either have the instinct to rise or you don’t.
Such is the passage of time Too fast to fold Suddenly swallowed by signs Low and behold
I meditate while sitting in the lotus position, low to the ground. When I’m done, I’ll lie down, flat against the floor, letting myself simply melt into the surface. A literal grounding of self when my head is somewhere up in the clouds. There are times when I’m not meditating that I’ll find my way to the middle of the room, sit down and look at it from the lowest vantage point, because it gives a better perspective on the world. To be so small to not see above a coffee table or plant stand – perhaps this is why some children have such wisdom. Their whole world is right there, and everything that goes over their heads simply doesn’t matter.
Gonna rise up Find my direction magnetically Gonna rise up Throw down my ace in the hole
A cowboy retains a sort of childlike wonder at the world. Some might call that stunted, others immature. I maintain that it is wisdom – wisdom laced with folly perhaps, but it’s the wisdom that matters, even if it’s just a grain. A small bit of wisdom coupled with a hefty dose of wonder is a wonderful way to rise.
October’s spookiness is rooted in trickery and laden with treats if you know where to look. The next few weeks are going to bring their own challenging form of trickery as well, with a full moon coming up and Mercury entering retrograde motion tomorrow until mid November. That’s a long time to deal with madness and nonsense, and God give me patient to make it through without hurting too many people, and getting hurt in the process. That sort of shit always comes back around, even when you’re not at fault. (In my past experience, I get the most hurt when it’s not my fault, so I’m totally accustomed to such bullshit.)
In the meantime, I’m going to do my best to stay below the radar of trouble and toil, going easy on others and also doing my best to go easy on myself. That’s the real trick of this season – learning how not to take it out on me. I’m still my favorite punching bag.
Cowboy ambivalence is that sort of mood that overtakes you like a fever – and it doesn’t only afflict the cowboy. Cowboys do seem more susceptible to it, however, having some sort of special access to things that others don’t – same thing that sets apart poets and temptresses. Artists and songwriters and sculptors are different in a similar way – anyone who feels slightly removed from the mass of human experience – those people who do what they’re supposed to do, laugh at the right moments, cry on cue, and go through life without ever truly wondering what it’s all about – they merely accept and make the best of it. I’ve often wondered if that is the true key to happiness – just giving in and not challenging or questioning or doubting. A blind sort of faith – willful ignorance, or a deliberate refusal to see anything other…
You know you shook me baby You shook me all night long I said you know you shook me baby Oh, you shook me all night long Ah, you know you kept on shakin’ me darlin’ Till you done messed up my happy home
More than perhaps anyone else, a cowboy lives for the moment. It is their guiding force and their fallibility in one fell, fatal swoop. They ruin their future for the present moment, they wreck their past for the here and now, and they live in the hour at hand in a method of mindfulness that most of us can only occasionally access, and that only if we’re extremely lucky and willing to lose ourselves for a bit. It’s scary to really let go like that. If you’ve never done it, you can’t know the risk involved. The risk or the glory.
You know you moved me baby Just like a hurricane You know you moved me baby You moved me just like a hurricane, uh huh You know you moved me sweetheart Just like a earthquake to the land Oh, sometimes I wonder What my poor family’s gonna do Oh, sometimes, sometimes I wonder What my poor family’s gonna do Oh, you know you, you made me mistreat them honey Ah, oh I’m madly in love with you
You know you shook me, shook me baby You shook me all night long, uh huh I said you shook me, shook me baby Shook me all night long, uh huh Oh yeah, you shook me, shook me baby Shook me all, all, all night long, uh huh
The mood of a cowboy is variable at best. It’s why they operate as cowboys. They go with the flow, whistling on the wind, letting the vibes hit and move them as they arrive. Such a mercurial and malleable existence isn’t one for the stable or stalwart of mind. But oh the heights they sometimes achieve, the loftiness they sometimes reach – the highest of highs that mere mortals tied down by morals and responsibilities and other like chains and locks can never quite attain.
The cowboy knows how to shake.
The cowboy is less skilled at being shook.
It’s one thing to stay atop a bucking bronc intent on throwing you off – it’s quite another to stay atop the heart of another human.
