What song are you listening to right now? What does it mean to you?

So be it, then!

Here’s the musical recording from the band They call “TMBG”

Did it stink for you, or were you moved to applaud? Don’t be shy.

Would you date a Muslim guy? Why/why not?

Care to have a listen?

It’s one motive, at least. If that’s your meaning then run off with it and see who’ll bow, buy, or slap a bow-tie on it for a garrotte. The rest of us?

A great deal like Robert Frost. “No musician!” would you say? HA. HA! HA! HA! Nonsense!

Why do I have an itch in my labia, white gooey and thick discharge which doesn't have a smell but my vagina does sometimes and both me and my partner do not have STDs, what is it?

Not at all like Pet Shop Boys, but who really is these days? Beyond Tennant and Lowe, no one has ever been very much like those Pet Shop Boys, actually.

Hear!

Under every garment I can see the world's address

For those who were actually old enough to have experienced the 1970s and not for those who were born in the 70s. What were the pros and cons of that era?

Taste!

There is no “code” in art to break.

Context (since there’s every single context you or anyone could choose to clap on top of it or pretend-slide beneath any artwork) is keyhole.

What type of sex do women prefer, oral, anal, or vaginal?

Don’t believe the hype.

Yes! You nailed it! A “full-on slob-mode aficionado of pop cultural forms” to boot! Who minds what I, some rando asshat off the internet, told YOU couched so hot, deep and hard in threadbare shorts, rocking and a-rolling on a huge leather sofa stolen from “schools” and “styles” of old thought, “BUD”? Not it!

Just leaves me depressed

I Thought My Husband Had a Good Reason to Avoid Sex. Then I Saw Something I Wish I Hadn’t. - Slate Magazine

TELL THEM ALBERT EINSTEIN AND COPERNICUS

It is background intel, no part of the work at all, at all.

They told you simply: by making the whole thing, nothing less. Nothing more. In every single word strong strung in sequence.

Hello,hope y'all doin good, i came to Quora to share my strange story , a very weird one , a story when luck smiled at me ,maybe u will enjoy it , let's begin,have fun... A year ago ,I was a real porn addicted(btw I was 18) ,but never had sex before, I don't have a gf I didn't try to find one even ,always thinking to go to find a sex worker but then I just don't , everyday watching different bodies getting fucked and everyday enjoying. One day, I was watching porn, a big ass lady with big boobs ,just after seeing her the image of my female cousin poped in my mind, (let's introduce her : she's 35 years old , very big ass , nice boobs ,not very big but nice,always wearing tight clothes , she's divorced ) and I thought of me fucking her ,I never had sexual desires for her but now I do days went by and when I met her I was so horny ,I couldn't stay with the family cz my penis was clearly erected , I realized this is my first time I get horny for one of my family ,it not illegal in my country.well to make a long story short( if u want details just text me I will tell u 😊),I decided to give her signs that I want to fuck her,finally I decided to have sex and with my cousin , I thought it is the best beggining for me, i started touching her when I came across her in a narrow place , make her feel my hard cock when we hug , I thought it will hard and I will be ashamed but no , I felt nothing and she said nothing , probably she thought it was by mistake,anyways, I decided then to talk with her about sex, waited for her to be alone in a room and talk with her, I confessed everything about me watching porn and addicted..etc,she said it's normal and u are growing up and u must have sex,well at that time I was like whaaat????? Well I didn't control myself and asked her for sex ( horny like I Ve never been before) she said that she will think Abt it ,2 weeka went by then she called me ,telling that she reserved a room in a hotel and we meet tonight ,we met,and bruuhh, sex is great , I mean, I had to find a pirstitue ,what I was waiting for to have such a feeling ????, I will never forget that night, I started kissing her she was kissing hard ,she misses sex so bad , she sucked my dick and swallowed my semen ,I felt I'm in a dream , then when fucked ,her ass was very big and the anus was open ,didn't struggle to get my hard cock inside it , she was obviously missing sex , she was shouting ,fuck me yh fuck me , I go fast after every word until I cum , we did that 3 times , then we went to her pussy , using condoms I fucked her so hard the moans were higher , everything was perfect ,in the end I asked her to lick her body , licked pussy ,ass, boobs,then she sucked my cock until we sleeped ,all I know that she was dirty ,well before even having sex with her I knew she is an open minded woman , and a woman that looks that she donesnt know anything , but she knows everything, but never expected having sex with her ,well she was horny and that helped...but no one of us regretted that sex ever.. We still have sex from time to time ,and I started having sex with sex workers , joining threesomes..etc If u want pics of her text me.

Yet…

Big “A” or little? Done for Art’s sake, or just for free sushi and sake? Got anything for us, anything for each or all? GIVE IT UP, HOMO SAPIEN.

A deft touch like Peter Gabriel, in such regards.

Why did lobsters evolve bright colors if they are neither poisonous nor venomous?

Feel!

A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess

I’m so mean I mean it all.

What is it that gives a man who is a submissive cock sucker his most pleasure?

Is “it” an art at all?

Kind of like John Linnell, John Flansburgh & The Band Of Dans (who hadn’t yet joined the bandwagon as of the above-limned song’s original finished debut).

Is that what you think of me?

Why are white men so obsessed with Asian women? I'm friends with people from all different backgrounds but I never see my other non-white male friends obsess over or talk about Asian women like I've seen the white ones do.

WERE WRONG, the world's address! A place that's

You gonna tell us the mere author or creator of a work gets to decide for YOU what it means?

What the singer or writer, the true creator, the artist (modern, classic, wise or otherwise) thinks it should mean in addition to what they’ve indeed made is…puff. Fluff. Tacky add-on, at best.

How would you feel if your friend confided in you that she is cheating on her husband, knowing that he loves her deeply? What emotional and ethical considerations would you grapple with in response to her revelation?

Whatsoever is moved in you: now THAT you can know!

Call it an affectionym, but be sure the other wants yours first. It isn’t a very high art to be sure, this dealing and doling of names. Lables and boxes, more often than not? Empty of everything but nerve, bile and gall. Turn your head and cough, please. Yes!

The thing really done.

'The Alters' is a genre-blending sci-fi survival ordeal about the horrors of being a project manager - Space

This all holds true for every thing called art, in every form of art, or called art.

AND LET THEM HEAR THIS SONNNG

So…you can read the lyrics above. Those words, in that simple order? That IS what the song really means.

Has anyone liked being made a cocksucker?

Anyone who wants to pretend their free gift to the world means something other than what they actually made and gave is welcome to be that pretentious.

This isn’t a matter for seriousness.

Check between one or the other set of your cheeks, and go blow.

Why is watching a man and a woman have sex considered perverted? It's how we all got here, it's what we do, I say if you want to watch porn then carry on!

I didn’t tell you what it meant.

Is that what you think of IT? Of art? Or if you’re a real capital-A ASS, of “Art”?

Or do not. Yoda won’t take them odds, and you shouldn’t aspire to be some critic’s forceless green-tinged puppet, whether cartoon or foam rubber: IT STANK EVERYWHERE BUT THE BOX OFFICE, and buddy?

Vulgar?

No critic and no investor, no, not even any Capital-A Author or Major League Maker can add one jot, jolt, titter or teardrop to the finished work of art. As it was, or as it lasts in its finished form.

THE WORLD'S ADDRESS

Behold!

This is They Might Be Giants, and contrary to the dull, glistening and listless imaginations of self-perverted twerps who think songs have “real” or “secret” meanings that only the author or authors could tell you, John L. & John F. of They Might Be Giants will lay it all right out on the line for you every time I’ve ever seen ’em get into it.

Now my tearstains on the wall reflect an ugly sight

It is we the living who’ll each decide what it means: to each and all.

You decide. Purpose is what you put into life.

Now pull the other one! How did it make YOU feel, about your mother for instance?

“The Word’s Address”

Why should anyone swallow it? Except for what IT truly is? Your own original production! At best or at worst, “based on” or “inspired by” the thing itself.

Hold!

Some lovely story about what the artist went through prior to making the thing? Human interest, yes! We love to be deep in the gossip, we kind and faithful beings. Yet is this OF the artwork? No.

Everybody’s got one.

“The text” here means only: the entire artwork of whatever kind. Picasso’s Guernica is a text. Citizen Kane is a text. “The World’s Address” is our text, for this instance.

The original authors did.

It is trivia.

Bull. The public has always known better than that. It isn’t novelty of theoretic conception that makes good art. It is truth. It is beauty. Which can include: hideous ugliness, if true. Or: hideous ugliness, if for some reason you the viewer, the onlooker, the innocent bystander, the paying customer or the passerby decide: I rather like the feel and style of that hideous thing.

A whole lot like AC/DC, Sia Furler and The Black Keys! Great pool hall music, the lot of them!

I know you've deceived me

You say. You’re the one to be moved, after all. In the “final anal”—what some call the “final” analysis. Why be rude? Art may be! Art may be the rudest thing in the world, taken out of its own natural time, place and culture! Pay heed! Open your eyes and let your tongue waggle like a slug!

It is what the thing itself meant in you. Or: means to you, coming forward now.

In many circles (and the glorious art that erupts and cruises forth from these circles is not to be puked at), what’s vulgar is pretty always a-gonna be a good bet: to pop.

Every meaning is valid to the degree it can be supported from within the text.

Art is what moves you in ways mere craft could not.

HAH. HA! No! How could I possibly be, about something as trite as art has in our day and age become? Grossaroo!

Disabuse you of that “secret meaning” or “real meaning” nonsense notion pronto and galore! I mean consistently, coherently, cogently and with integrity: in every onstage bout of audience-aimed grateful candor, plus every interview segment you’re likely catch them in, speaking for themselves to all the world: unabashed, unashamed, not too guardedly at all.

I’m plain-out roaring, here!

A song made for public consumption has no “real meaning” beyond what it means to you: the hearer. The listener, ideally. The artist, the creator, the originator or the band of record merely bring you the best they could put out to move you, given available talent and production time. So?

Why be a turd about it, stuffing imaginary made-up “author’s intent” (beyond what the author actually DID do, DID make whole) into some fantasy “envelope-pushing” exercise?

Frankly, The Dead’ve never been the same since Garcia died, except on record and if you take a lot of drugs, too. Got Art?

I’m far worse than serious on such scores: I’m sincere.

Give us what cha got, “artist.” If indeed you consider yourself an artist: give it up. For all we the living, for any and each who might be moved, AND HOW.

Popular, yes. That’s what vulgar originally meant.

I like to enjoy music, literally. Just the text, just what it says.

We humans do love trivia, and some of us: we love it more than art.

Not in some misbegotten competition with the dead.

I say leave that to the one being called, Holmes. Or…sure, lock your tongue away behind your lips and bite yourself, hard! Why offend needlessly over what amounts to a nickname? Must you?

I’m not sure if it’s like Wet Leg. I haven’t really drawn a bead on Wet Leg yet. Look.

Take it in every sensory or sensual way it exists, by any medium presented! Like, love, want, even need, and even share that with others! Your own lived experience of the thing itself, yeah-heah!

It is yours. Your own. Don’t be too precious about it, please. Shoot me a comment below: tell me what’s moving in you, easily or uneasily as you listen for yourself to the song (below!), and judge it for all that it is, or isn’t. For what they have done, or for what they have failed to do: in you.

Official audio only.

Q. What song are you listening to right now? What does it mean to you?

…this is all very well beyond what the thing itself means, or meant. It is new.

I’ve got to be some kind of “sense, senses or sensual snob” who wants to root like King Tut on human growth hormones and steal your golden moment right out from under you, right?

Whose song is it, any old way?

Who says what’s art? The Modernists united in a real cheap-shot art-critic sold and commanded zeitgeist ventriloquism voice: The Artist! Art Is Whatever The Artist Nominates As Art!

What kind of hack art critique confidence job (or “fanfic”) would you like us to call that crap?

worn...etc.

What does it mean to me?

That doesn’t mean the trivialist has some secret special key and code in their possession. They’re just kinky like that: like to be deep in the loopy sh!t. Smells like some way too-old pretend teen’s spirit hit the fan again, though. VULGAR.

What more could one ask of a work of art? Sometime, maybe try to ask the song itself what it means.

The world's address

A finished work. A “fait accompli.”

The sales and marketing job (includes all backstory and behind-the-bio of the real maker, doer, makers or doers) is nothing to do with the genuine article: the act performed, the thing made.

It ain’t the thing. Is it?

Not I.

This is each person’s moving contribution to any work of art: to say how it moved in you.

I can see your secrets

Let’s not get personal. A woman, even a very young and competitive woman far too good for the likes, loves, needs or wants of me (or you, for that matter) is only called a “dog” by some sour grapes loser. Or! Hey, if she must love dogs, maybe she won’t even mind being called in a doggy style?

Look.

Nope. It isn’t the thing.

No need to confess

Life's parade of fashion

Everyone looks naked when you know the world's address

Well, duh. More than that: TUH-DUH. TA-DA! It means the words! It means each and only what the words say. Read ’em and weep not! See? Right up there for you. SEE? See!

Why even read my take on what it means? You think my “hot insider intel” can override, overrule or otherwise upset the work itself: in all it truly IS? Can interpretation unseat the text?

Nothing beyond what was literally made part of the song is the song’s meaning.

Nobody could possibly credit my take over and above or underneath the text itself, the thing itself: the actual work and nothing else. Nothing but. All that’s in or within it. Right?

It means an “accomplished fact.” Something that has already been done, and there it is: “that’s-that.”

It, whatever the heck it is or may be to someone, doesn’t really mean anything else but its own real features and properties. The thing itself is what must mean, and the only thing that can mean: to anyone, everyone, okay uh-huh alright forever and ever amen.

Who do you say I am? Some “grammar anarch & semantic champion” for the people!

The thing itself is the thing itself.

Couldn't sleep last night

A place that's worn

A. See below. It’s a 2-Parter!

Meaning is what you get out of it.

Context is not “key.”

I'll repeat it for those who may not have already guessed:

It means what it is, not what some paid or unpaid maker thinks it should mean to you. Kind of like oh, I don’t know, Neil Diamond? Neil Sedaka? Bing Crosby? I’ve no idea really. Elvis Costello? Aimee Mann? Sean Penn’s sister-in-law? The Beatles? Who gives a rat’s toss? These people were paid and paid handsomely to prettily dish up something for us, for us to take in and mean, and feel. And sure, think! Why not?

Whatever each viewer, hearer, taker-in and receiver “gets” out of it is, if anything, that critic or fan’s own personal production. Of what? Meaning. Value. Worth. Call it by any metric you can lay forth or set out: it’s pure personal judgment in play now, dog. Cur. Bitch?

How are you moved? It’s not a f***ing contest. Why would anyone want to WIN a f***ing contest? Oh, that triple asterisk stands for “art” not “uck.” Pretty yucky, that droll substitution. Pretty disgusting, those who try to pass it off as “fresh.”

Am I serious?

Would be wildly, reasonably sane to call “BULL’S-HIT!” on such fancy-shmancy anti-bullseye potshots.

I men: you’d have to be a surefire every-miss dweeb of cretinous nature to credit what I have to say here with authority, or even a slick, greasy Greek booty-toot of value. GROSS. GROW UP, if so! Get a real load on!

Shall we uphold that craptastically egotistical self-shoveling attitude? Why should we? Because we, two should be famous for moving the world with what moves us in art? Hey.

Answer one. “What song” indeed! I’m listening to "The World's Address":

You know it.

Touch!

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