“Not many songs deal with a failed suicide, domestic abuse, and a brush with sadomasochism. I’m a huge Warren Zevon fan”. —via Powerpop, a proper blog

Speaking of that verse:

“She asked me if I’d beat her.”

It happened to me over a half a lifetime ago, way before I ever owned a goat leather daytona beach jacket, at a place named after a Rainbow.

I simply told her No, Babydoll. In what I hoped was a calm and neutral voice.

I did not get into any of the trauma or baggage I had, and have, around the concept of men beating women.

We did go back to the Hyatt anyway, and any further detail on what transpired I cannot provide, and still remain the honorable gentleman I aspire to be.

I’m making it sound far more salacious than it really was, by saying it that way, and I am doing so selectively and strategically. Mindful Cultivation. See?

In the Reality, it could never have been satisfyingly salacious, because I could not give her what she needed.

Not just the beating itself, but that which she was truly craving–the masculine intention to dominate, master, even humiliate. The kind of cruel rainfall that she could absorb, and transform into dewy, fertile feminine wetness, somewhere inside the synapses of her magical brain.

I was incapable of doing her that Kindness.

And for that I will always be sorry.