Fun In Moving Vehicles

I believe that there is a direct correlation between the decline of Drive-In Movies and the dearth of good sex. Think about it.

The drive-in movie has to make a comeback. I located one in Cap-Cod a few years back and it was all I dreamed it could be. It was phenomenal. And not just because of the cramped car sex. Ok, it was partly because of the cramped car sex.

We brought a cooler full of beer and a bottle of wine. If I were really enterprising, I would have brought a grill and tail-gated. I had my subwoofers blaring, so the sound was good, and it wasn’t technically “in public” so there were no needs for the symbols of our oppressive, puritan society. This is to say, I had my pants on for all of 15 minutes.

Car sex is this whole weird variation of sex. Suddenly, things you’d never considered before become vitally important. Things like, “Will my seat belt really hold my full weight?” “How far back does my seat go?” and “Is my dome light stain-resistant?”

Road head takes balls. It’s a certain kind of woman who risks discovery, the gag-reflex and both your lives for the sake of fore-play. My favorite Road Head story happened to some friends of mine. They were driving down Route 90, between Buffalo and Cleveland, when the girl decides to go down on her boyfriend, who’s behind the wheel. They were in an SUV, so they were high enough up off that she figured no one would be able to see inside. Turns out she had forgotten about tractor-trailers. If you think it’s hard to concentrate on driving while receiving oral sex, you should try concentrating on driving when a truck horn gives you blaring salute, mid-orgasm.

Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to give road head to a woman. It requires cruise-control, two legs on the dashboard, and a total disregard for the safety of everyone else on the road. ‘Nuff said.

I remember hearing that oral sex is outlawed in a number of states. What I really want to know is whether they have a breathalyzer for that. The fine would probably suck (no pun intended), but that’d be a charge that might be fun to have on your permanent record.

“Hey baby, I’m a convicted head-hunter.”

Mmm...Sexahol

I like to tell women that I’m not immature; I’m just stuck in that awkward phase men go through from age 12 to 85.

Men get a bad rap a lot of times for being shallow and obsessed with sex. I don’t think that women really get it. Even girls that really love sex don’t understand. Sex isn’t just something that men like to do; it’s this urge that everything in our body pushes us towards.

My basic train of thought at any given time on any given day is typically like this:

“Gotta get those reports done. That girl on the stairs had a fantastic ass. Now was I supposed to check those against the numbers for the day or for the week? What the hell happened to all the good blowjob givers? I think girls are getting lazier. I should check my notes from the week so I can type up a summery. Remember that time that you moved that girl’s bed across the room because you were plowing her so hard?”

It sucks! Being a man is like being a crack addict. I'm ten minutes away from making a sign that says, "Will Give Head For Sex" and standing on a street corner. Sometimes I think of all the extra shit I could get done if I weren’t totally obsessed with it. Then I wonder what my odds are of meeting a pair of double-jointed Japanese twins.

I remember being so much more relaxed as a child. Maybe it’s because my brain wasn’t constantly screaming, “THIS IS TIME THAT COULD BE SPENT FUCKING!!!” As soon as they make a patch substitute for sex, I’m there.

My friend Rashad has a theory that everything a man does is basically motivated by ass. We shave so that we can get girls. We buy fancy cars to get girls. We go to college to get good jobs to make money to get girls. (Of course, college in and of itself is usually enough to get sex).

I sat with him for about 40 minutes and tried to poke holes in this theory. It took me two days to think of a single thing that guys do or buy that was not somehow linked to getting ass: sound systems.

I rushed next door and told Rashad about my idea. He pondered for a moment and then said, “I don’t know. You ever had sex in front of a matched set of 12” subwoofers?” Touche, my friend.

Women, I hope you’re taking notes here. A man’s world can be boiled down to three goals: sex, sports and occasionally subs. That’s it.

It’s an illness. When there’s a real possibility of sex, men can be convinced of just about anything. Here are some lines that some how seemed plausible to me at one time:

• “Your friend and I have been broken up for almost 2 days. He won’t mind if we sleep together.”
• "My boyfriend never comes home early."
• “When you put the seat down, the car is just as spacious as a four-door.”
• “My room-mate’s asleep. She’ll never hear a thing.”
• “It’s not difficult to drive while getting a blowjob.”
• “Don’t worry. No one can see us behind these trees.
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks the Janitor’s closet.”
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks in my suite-room.”
• “My shower has a non-slip floor.”

So girls, the next time you see a man staring at your chest while you’re talking, or catch him checking out your sister’s ass, or finding mid-thrust in your neighbor, just remember: We’re addicts. We don’t know any better.

The Merciless Regime of The Flower Children

Here's the lovely, wonderful, amazingly hypocritical thing about the 60s generation: it was a crock. Everyone loves to talk about how rebellious that generation was, how open-minded, and high-moraled. They rallied behind such noble causes as equal rights, world peace, voting rights, yet once you get by all that, the fact is that these people weren't trying to transfer power from the high to the low; they were trying to transfer power to themselves.

I make this statement because that generation is now the one in power. The rebels have become the empire, and they are just as grudging relinquishing their influence as any generation before them has been. But worse than that, they didn't even hold on to their ideals at all. They still say they were opposed to Vietnam, but how many now support war on Iraq? They say that they are for equal rights, yet they support, hell, encourage the purchase of goods made in sweat-shops.

The generation that was in charge during the 60s garners more respect from me. They may have been horribly prejudiced and conservative, BUT THEY MADE NO EXCUSES ABOUT WHAT THEY WERE. They came from a background that was just that and made no pretense. They didn't grow up calling the system evil then say, "ooops! Now that we're reaping the benefits, the system is just hunky-dory."

The Hippies and Flower children didn't want an establishment that excluded them. Now that they have the power, they don't want one that diminishes their own, bloated needs. They have no problem selling the new generation out with issues such as Social Security. What makes them despicable in my mind is not that reluctance to dilute their influence, but their continued insistence that they "changed the system," that they remain rebellious, that they remain liberal.

Their power came from the fact that they were a generation united: perhaps they all had different causes to fight for, but the single characteristic of the age was rebelliousness. Our generation has no united cause. To quote Chuck Palahniuk, (author of some wonderful books like Invisible Monsters, Choke, and Fight Club):

"We're the middle children of history, no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives."

To put it simply, we have no united cause. We're a generation of Nintendo addicted, Ritalin abusing, crack babies and abortion rejections. Any situation that pits us against our elders will result in our whole sale massacre. The 60s had the focused, "grab the power," "change the world" messages of Bob Dylan and The Beatles. Ours the ineffectual, adolescent, misdirected rage of Limp Bizkit and Eminem. They are united, we are not.

It depresses me that my generation is inferior to bunch of hypocrites. Make no mistake: we need them more than they need us. Our economy is so fucked that few of us will ever be able to afford our own houses and support our families. The few of us who do will be sent running back to our parents' basements when the inflation, caused by the government's inevitable monetizing of our national debt, reduces our savings to nil.

We've been hopeless screwed by these hemp-smoking hypocrites. If I have to read one more account of what wonderful rebellious people they were, I'm going to go on a yuppie killing spree. My generation sucks, but the saving grace of apathy is that it's impossible to whore out.

What Would Jesus Drink?

Christmas is a great time for us Jews. All the carpenter worshippers are staying home, stuffing themselves with food and swapping presents. Some Christians think that the Jews are jealous of the pageantry, decadence, and full-on hedonism of Christmas. They couldn’t be further from the truth: We’re just happy to get you people off the streets.

It’s a day when Jews can once again roam the earth, without fear of racists, rednecks, or republicans. That’s the real magic of Christmas.

I hear that Christmas is a big drinking holiday. I think that if you’re using the Virgin Birth as an excuse to drink, you may have a problem. But hey, what ever gets you through a day with your family. If you are drinking, on this, the holiest of day of the Christian faith, you should take a moment to reflect: What Would Jesus Drink?

Everyone always serves egg nog. What’s the deal with egg nog anyway? Why do we need the word “egg” in the name? I’ve been on this earth for 26 years now and never once encountered any other kind of nog besides egg. Then again, maybe somewhere there’s a whole family gathered around a piano, singing carols and sipping nice big mugs of Beef Nog.

It doesn’t seem like Jesus would be much of a nog drinker. It’s definitely a little too festive for him. Let’s see...born to carpenter who had to put his pregnant wife up in a stable: sounds like a 40 of Olde English to me! Yeah, I can see it now: Jesus and the apostles hunched down with a bunch of lepers behind a seven-11, sipping OE out of paper bags. I guess every Easter the Apostles would get together behind a convenience store and spill some out on the ground. “Here’s one for me, and one for my hommies…”

I recall that Jesus hung out with a lot of destitute peeps, so maybe a box of wine. Of course, he was Jewish, so maybe it should be Manishevitz.

Then again, Jesus probably wouldn’t be much of a wino—I mean, if the dude could make it from water anytime he wanted, it’s probably the last beverage he’d want to party on. Maybe mixed drinks? There’d be something poetic about Christ walking into a bar and ordering a Bloody Mary.

I bet Jesus could walk into any tavern and someone would say, “That’s the son of God! Somebody get this man a margarita!” Then they’d slide up next to him and make him do some of his magic tricks.

The more I think about it, the more I think that Christ probably doesn’t care what you drink. According to the Catholic Church, he had sacramental wine running through his veins. “Who are you to tell me I’ve had enough, Jesus? You’re blood-alcohol level is 12.8 percent! Next to you, I’m the fucking pope! Now give me your keys. Remember last time when you said you could drive on water? Come on, man, give me your keys.”

Folks, if you’re depressed this time of year, letting the man get you down, hanging out in gangs, bemoaning your absentee father, and falling over drunk, just remember: you’re only following Christ’s example.

Happy holidays! Drink up, bitches!

Delayed Gratification

And now a quick word about anal sex.

Considering how generally homophobic large groups of men are, it’s always seemed weird to me that they tend to go on and on about how much they enjoy anal sex with women.

I’ve never tried it. I’m not morally opposed to it…I just never really had a desire to try it. I always sort of figured that if you’re running out of holes then you’re not really using your imagination.

The guys I’ve spoken to about it all seem to agree that it’s a power thing. It’s supposed to be the ultimate form of possession—an act of exerting power. I say that if you’re looking for power, try taking up martial arts…or do it the American way and buy a gun.

Some day, maybe I’ll be motivated to try it. Until then, I’ll just content myself with hetero-sex.



Sex about to be had is infinitely better than sex already experienced. It’s because you always end up imagining some sort of sexual perfection. It’s the best part of a new hook-up or relationship: the discovery and the anticipation. For the same reasons, young love isn’t really sweeter—it’s just newer.

I guess it’s a delayed gratification thing. For some reason, I get a twisted amusement out of making out with a girl on a first date, getting her and myself all hot and bothered—and then driving home. In my experience it does three things: first it establishes that you have self-control and self-discipline. Second, it states that if she wants you, she’s going to have to bust her ass. Lastly, she’s going to be that much more wound-up and waiting for it the next time you go over.

It’s pretty evil, I admit. But it really goes back to my earlier posts that state that respect and attraction are not always the same thing. Obviously, you don’t want to over-do it. If you keep neglecting a girl, she’ll walk. But if you mess with her just a little, go out of your way to seem a little unobtainable or mysterious, she’ll usually respect you for it. At least, that’s always been my experience.

To a lesser extent, the same theory applies in bed—delayed gratification is better than instant gratification. Nothing, NOTHING sends a woman into a frenzy quite like taking her to the brink and then stopping at the last moment. Then you do it again and again. It’s a trade-off of quantity for quality. When she finally orgasms, you’ll be lucky if your back has any skin left on it.

One of my favorite moments was back at college. My girlfriend of the time and I had finished an afternoon quickie, and I threw on a T-shirt and went down the hall to the bathroom. I was throwing water on my face and gargling, when the guy brushing his teeth next me gives me a double take and says, “Dude, are you ok? You’re bleeding.”

I take a glance at my t-shirt and I’ve got red stains spreading down my back and sides. I guess I my mind had been otherwise occupied.

Delayed gratification had cost me a T-shirt. But that’s a trade-off I’m always happy to make.

Girls, Sports, and the Return of Black Jesus!

I was visiting a friend and her family in upstate New York a few weeks ago. I sat at a table with her, her mom, her grandma, and her father sipping coffee. I listened to the girls rattle on about decorating the front room and who was dating who for about 40 minutes. Finally, I turned to the dad, who was sitting right next to me and asked about his new GTO.

I swear it was like a bomb threat had been called in. My friend got up and loudly declared how she had to get going, while the mom and grandma decided they needed to get a start on wrapping the Christmas presents. I got dirty looks from the friend for the next 10 minutes as I drove her home.

Basically, we guys were expected to listen to a twenty minute list about why Brad, the guy around the corner, was bad for Julie, who went to middle school with a friend's sister, but the second I tried for a side chat with the father about somthing we found interesting, forget it. How dare we disrespect the conversation like that!

See, situations like this absolutely crack me up. This is why I start to laugh every time girls ask me, “What’s the deal with guys and sports, anyway?” As if girls aren’t perfectly content to ramble on and on about the latest episode of “One Tree Hill.”

I’d like to make something clear: I’m not looking for a girl who can recite the starting lineup for the 1961 New York Yankees. I don’t even need a girl who fakes an interest, because she’s out of her mind if she thinks that I’m going to sit through anything on the WB.

All I ask is that she understands that a few nights a year are off limits. I don’t care if there’s a fire, flood, or rise of the living dead—I’m watching every single Yankee Playoff game.

I’m not sure if girls get concerned over their men and sports because

1. They feel threatened by the obsessive level of interest when most guys can’t even remember their anniversary or
2. They begin to get serious doubts about the maturity levels of a man who has his own touchdown celebrations.

Deep down, every guy thinks that under the right conditions he could have been a professional athlete. It’s ridiculous, I know. But ladies, before you laugh, think about the stuff that you’re watching. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not on Dawson Creek and your chances of looking or living like any of those characters are about as good as me starting at short stop for the New York Yankees.

It’s nice to have a girl who’s a little bit of a sports fan. One of the sexiest things a woman can say is, “how about we cuddle and watch the Mets get their asses handed to them?” (Of course, the sexiest thing a woman can say is the same line, with a certain Boston team inserted instead of the Mets). But honestly, it’s not a huge deal for me.


__________________________________________________



On another topic, my post from yesterday got me thinking. I’d like to get an artist and write a comic book. Anyone interested, should send me a message. It would be: “The Adventures of Black Jesus, Featuring the God Squad.” I imagine the entire thing would be a blaxploitation story. I’ve already got a few lines in mind such as:

• Black Jesus doesn’t go out like no punk bitch, Judas!
• My will be done, cracka!
• My Dad told me about you. He said He’ll be seeing you real soon, sucka!

I picture him dressed in a black leather robe busting the skulls of Romans and sinners.

“I hear that cat Black Jesus is a bad mutha--”
“Shut your mouth!”
“But talkin’ ‘bout Black Jesus”
“Then we can dig it!”

Mmmmmm…sacrilicious…

Happy Kwanzaa, Bitches!

I’ve officially reached my gift limit. That’s it. I’m done. I thought I’d finished my shopping on Friday but I keep getting over-run by cards and gifts from friends and family who weren't on my list. And everytime I get an unexpected gift, I have to go to the mall to buy a present for them in return. And each time I have to go to the mall, I die a little inside. Damn my charming personality! My New Year’s resolution is to make fewer friends so they’ll stop guilting me into buying them presents every year.

I’ve had it. I’m not buying anything else until X-mas 2006, so if you’re sending me a gift, you’re shit out of luck. All I’m giving out from now until next year are drop-kicks to the torso…and I’ve got plenty to go around.

I’m not doing the Christmas card thing, either. I can never find ones that properly convey my feelings for this time of year. So I made my own card that really sums up the Holiday spirit. Enjoy:

I’m Dreaming Of A Black Kwanzaa

This year, we must continue our fight against the man in honor of one of the greatest superheroes of all time: Black Jesus. The white man has tried to steal black Jesus from us and tell us he was weak, white, punk. We must keep the truth alive, brothers and sisters.

Conservative, republican white devils look at Jesus and pay lip service to his religion. They claim to be all for his teachings of uplifting the downtrodden, healing the sick, and giving away your wealth, then violate our civil rights with the Patriot Act, cut medicare and welfare budgets, all in the name of giving tax cuts to the rich. Fuck white Jesus!

It’s at this darkest of times that we must bring the fight to the doorsteps of our enemies and keep the name of Black Jesus alive and true. In his name, I urge all my brothers and sisters out there to take back Black Jesus! I have taken the first step by re-coloring a crucifix in my local church. And while the clergy and the Police say I’m being held on charges “Vandalism” and “Breaking and Entering,” I know that all I have vandalized is their evil, self-serving ideals. All I have broken is their tenuous hold over our spiritual insignias. All I have entered is a higher plain of enlightenment.

So I end this holiday message with prayer that we all free ourselves from the tryanical rein of white men and their fairytale savior. All praise black Jesus!

As sala'amu alaikum my family and a happy fucking Kwanzaa, bitches!

-Ehren

Sex Reference Questionaire

I really think my idea for dating resumes could catch on. I was speaking to a girl and the topic of sex came up. I said, “I have references!”

The conversation progressed from there until she asked how she would contact them. I guess I imagine that girls chat about this type of thing all the time. It shouldn’t be a big deal to call someone up and say, “Hey, I was thinking about sleeping with Ehren. Can you share some of his high points and low points?”

One of my jobs a few years ago was calling references that applicants had placed on their resumes. Basically, they gave me a questionnaire to read. In order to help my brilliant idea for dating resumes catch on, I proudly present the “Sex Reference Form”:

• How would you describe the individual's sex drive? (rating 1-10)
• How would you describe the applicant’s foreplay skills?
• Does the individual perform well orally?
• How do you rate the individual’s responsiveness?
• Was the applicant open to criticism, suggestions, and new ideas?
• Does the individual have any quirks, preferences or needs that might be considered “out of the norm”? If so, please describe.
• How would you describe the applicant’s physical equipment?
• Please rate the individual’s stamina. (rating 1-10)
• Please rate the individual’s recovery time. (rating 1-10)
• How many times, on average, did the applicant succeeded in bring you to climax per session?
• If you had to pick one area in which the individual could improve, what would it be?
• What is the applicant’s strongest attribute?
• How would you rate the individual’s overall bedroom abilities?
• Is there anything else that you’d like to say?

You know what? Screw the sex reference; this is the type of thing you should have to fill out after every hookup! This is the type of shit that people need to know.

I can just imagine it now: we’re both all sweaty, lying in bed, gasping for breath. She reaches out to ruffle my hair affectionately, when I whip out a clipboard and a pen and start on the questions. What can I say? I’m a sucker for romance.

The problem is that people tend to get way too uptight and defensive about sex. Like there was one girl I dated who gave the WORST head ever. There was jamming into the back of the throat, teeth were involved, and I have the sneaking suspicion she was gargling with concentrated bleach. The problem was, she was sure that she was a great at it. I’m betting that somewhere, some guy was too scared to tell her the truth and she just assumed herself a great cocksucker from then on. Much in the way that no one will ever tell a couple that their baby is ugly, people have a hard time saying when you’re bad in bed.

I remember a girl who was crushing for me in the worst way. She was pretty good looking, too. But she kept blowing herself up because we’d make out and she tried to stick her tongue down my throat. It was like a scene from “Alien.” After 10 seconds there was more of her spit in my mouth than my own. I'd tried to suggest that she back off a little…maybe not make it her goal to lick my kidneys, and she'd just look at me blankly. Eventually, when the suggestions didn't get through, I sat her down and explained that I’d like her to try some changes in her kissing technique. She got pissed.

Oh well. Folks, you heard it here first: flexibility (in every sense of the word) is the key to good sex. Play limber, people!

George Foreman Is God

About three years ago I was driving down the road, when I happened to glance out the window. House, lawn, rotisserie oven, trash can. OK.

I kept going for about 40 seconds before I yelled, “Rotisserie Oven???” I screeched a u-turn nearly killing a mom and a van-full of kids and roared back up the road. I drive a Honda Accord—not exactly a speedster, but I swear I went from zero to a buck-twenty in about 15 seconds.

I pulled the car over and there I saw the greatest love of my life. You have to imagine it: A run-down house, paint-pealing, screen door busted. A tattered lawn gracefully rolled up into a mound of trash. There cardboard boxes overflowing with baby toys and trash bags leaking their fluids into evil puddles on the withered grass. But there, off to one side, sat my baby. I could almost hear a choir of angels singing as a divine light dropped from the heavens to illuminate it, sparkling off its white exterior and highlighting those bold red letters: George Foreman’s Big Rotisserie Oven.

I ran track in high school. There have been times in my life when I had to haul ass. Let me tell you, I’ve never moved faster than I did cramming the oven into the trunk of my car. The whole event was a lot like losing my virginity: draining, life-altering and over in about 60 seconds.

When I finally got it home, I had a chance for closer inspection. The outside was dusty and dirty, but the inside had never been used. Everything was still in its wrapping with the instruction manual. I bleached the hell out of everything just to be sure. And thence began a golden age of cooking in my life. For about two months straight I cooked everything on the rotisserie oven: chicken, potatoes, hamburgers—I was about three days from making soup and coffee in that sucker. It finally got to the point where my friends had to have an intervention.

“Ehren, when we first became friends, you used to cook all kinds of things: rice, biscuits, pancakes, and eggs. Now you only slow roast savory courses in their own juices. I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

“You guys just don’t understand me like George Foreman does! I can quit any time I want!”

I guess what this whole story really underlines, is how into cooking appliances I am. Last night, one of my friends made the mistake of giving me the Webber Baby-Q propane grill. What he knows is that I’m going to be using it a lot this summer. What he doesn’t know is that I’m kicking off the grilling season tomorrow night, ankle deep in snow in 10 degree weather.

If you think I get way too excited over cooking apparatuses, you should have seen me when I got my vibrating seat massager.

I recently realized how attractive I find women who can cook. I dated a girl whose family had the most enormous kitchen you ever saw, complete with every possible amenity and gadget for food preparation. And they cooked nothing. They didn’t even know how to make eggs. I didn’t break up with her because of that…but I might have stuck around longer if I suspected that there’d be a roast beef or something in it for me.

There’s something attractive about a girl who cooks. Maybe it’s because, deep down every guy wants a bit of the traditional wife.

There’s a downside to the change in the perception of women since the 50’s. As unfair as the idea was that a women should just be a home-maker, it was an expectation that was easy to live up to. Now the standards are so much higher. Girls are expected to be bread-winners, home-makers, care-givers, partners, and bedroom-freaks.

Guys are looking for a mixture of 1954 and 2005. We want a smart, sophisticated, sexual-uninhibited woman, with her own life plans, who can still whip up a turkey, patch up our jeans and still shuttle the kids to soccer practice on time.

I guess if there’s a moral to this whole random post it’s this: buy a rotisserie oven.

Music and Attraction

Dating a musician is not like dating ordinary people. My dad really described it best:

“For most people, music is something going on in the background. But for musicians, it’s all there is.”

People get annoyed with me when I’ll interrupt them to point out a drum riff, or a guitar solo, or a great lyric. I don’t mean to be rude…I just feel like music is generally more important.

If you read this blog regularly, you’ll know that I think and talk about relationships and sex a lot. The only thing I think about more than sex is music.

Music is important. REALLY important. Other people can get by saying, “Oh, I like a little of everything.” Musician’s can’t. I have to know that you’re into good music. For example, I have a friend who dated a drummer. The drummer played death metal. My friend hates metal, but tried to fake an interest…or at least a tolerance. Unfortunately, this meant that she had to listen to metal every time they got in the car, he talked about it all the time and then there were the actual shows she had to attend. Try to imagine an Italian Princess from Long Island at a death Metal show. Needless to say, the whole thing was a disaster.

I’m a sucker for creative girls, but especially musicians. I’m such a groupie. I don’t really care whether they sing, play guitar, or play the electric xylophone, musicians really Roger my Hammerstein. Maybe it’s because I know that we’ve got that one special thing in common. Or maybe it's just because I can see their good with their mouths or hands. Either way, I’m not fighting it.

I’m not really sure what it is that attracts women to musicians. We’re unstable, unreliable, and probably substance-addicted. I’d say that it’s creativity, but I’ve seen really, really bad musicians get girls just because they played. So who the hell knows? I guess it’d be hypocritical to get too rough on them considering I’ve got the same weakness. Whatever the reason, thank God!

I was recently asked about my favorite sex songs. Music to have sex to is key. It’s got to have a groove, but it can’t rock too hard or it’ll kill the mood. You want it to be mellow, but not too mellow. If anyone’s looking for a good list, I humbly offer the following suggestions (some of the songs are a bit rare—you might have to do some digging to find them):

AC/DC – Ride On
Al Green - Here I Am Baby
Albert King – I’ll Play The Blues For You, Pt. 1
Allman Brothers – Stormy Monday (live from the Fillmore East)
B.B. King – Blues Man
Bill Frisell – Over The Rainbow
Black Crows – She Talks to Angels
Dave Brubeck – Take 5
Derek Trucks – D Minor Blues
Dire Straights – Sultans of Swing
Dusty Springfield – Spooky
Eric Clapton – Layla (acoustic)
Etta James – At Last
Lou Reed – Take a Walk on the Wild Side
Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World
Medeski, Martin and Wood – Bubblehouse
Nina Simone – Sinnerman
Otis Redding – Try a Little Tenderness
Stevie Ray Vaughan – Little Wing
Sublime – Santeria
Susan Tedeschi – Just Won’t Burn
Robert Rodreguez – El Mariachi
Tracy Chapman – Give Me One Reason
Van Morrison – Moon Dance


Obviously, this is a partial list. I left off the obvious ones like “Let’s Get It On” and “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” (Marvin Gaye and Barry White). The problem is that songs like that have become too much of a cliché. If anyone’s got other suggestions, post up, bitches!