Girls Get Naked On A Boat Video
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girls get naked on a boat video
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The Spice Girls video for "Wannabe" is entirely one-shot and shows the girls taking over the St. Pancras Grand Hotel in London. Each girl shows off her personality as they move throughout the hotel, making a mess and causing general chaos. The video is as fun as the song itself.
The "Honey" video starts with Mariah Carey as a Bond-esque spy named Agent M who is being held hostage by an organization known as D.U.N.C.E. She manages to escape and there's a whole action series with her jumping into a pool, riding a jet ski, and making her great escape to an island with her man and dog. But then there's also some random dance scenes with her on a boat. It's all just brilliant to watch.
Brandy and Monica's apartments are right next to each other and the girls are seeing the same man. They talk through their problems with friends and ultimately decide that neither of them will date him. The girls are together when the guy comes knocking and slam the door in his face.
The "All the Small Things" video is a hilarious parody of other boy bands and pop artists of the '90s. Blink-182 does parodies of the Backstreet Boys, Christina Aguilera, NSYNC, and more as the camera flashes to different scenes. They run naked on a beach, they wear ridiculous outfits, and they rock out in front of crowds of people. It's amazing.
The music video for "Survivor" takes place "somewhere in the South Pacific," as stated in the beginning and begins with Kelly Rowland, Michelle Williams, and Beyoncé shipwrecked on an island. There's shots of them on a boat in a "storm," there's memorable camouflage outfits, and a truly special dance break in front of a temple.
Throw Katy Perry and her dancers in clothing covered in sweets, dress Snoop Dogg in a cupcake suit, make the setting a board game called Candyfornia, and you've got yourself the basis of the "California Gurls" video. As Katy Perry makes her way through the board game world, she rescues some girls from candy-related prisons and then defeats Snoop Dogg and his gummy bear army with whipped cream. And then for some reason, she is naked on a cotton candy cloud for certain parts.
We didn't have satellite dishes on our boats in those days, but you could tune into the marine operator in the evening and hear all sorts of soap operas because, after a while, people using the marine operator would forget that other people were listening.
Crouched down on the boat in twelve rows of eight, plus six in the front row, are one hundred and two women, the furtherest back a commanding and imposing woman of indeterminate age, black flowing hair with a broad band of silver giving her a badger like appearance. Read Dodi Smith's 101 Dalmatians, Smith's description in that book of Cruella de Vil plus the number of sufferers, evokes disturbing literary images, Hell is full of similar ironies. Her acolytes seem to have each arrived at different times later, the furtherest from the back and thus the latest arrival, a woman in her fifties black hair streaked with grey, her bony lezzo's face expressing only anxiety and an immediate readiness for departure. As she and her companions in their turn chant the litany and then the response to the Rosary.
Then the released human spirit, standing at the place of judgment like an intact Venus de Milo, risen from a terrible waste of corpse debris and the angel embrace. Within the arclight their union produces the robed figure of a flying angel, who does not waste any time leaving. The losers collapse and so does the floor receive them, losing all human shape now and like a procession of bright white maggots, do they make their way toward a place where they will tumble down out of the main body of Hell and be buried in freezing cold volcanic ash. Down until they are liberated as the ashy medium intersects an underground body of water, then they are washed out of the ash, over a waterfall and into a pool of water. Here they thaw, and dive and plunge about this strange limbo world, till they drag themselves up a cinder beach and flop down like seals. The two demon attendants here resemble Asterix The Gaul, in the European comic strip of that name, in that they are armored from the waist up and fully helmeted, against the amorous passions of the newly resurrected women. Their eyes visible thru a horizontal slot in their helmets, handing the girls onto the next level, the white light tingles over their skin, and they arrive on that level once more in human form, as beautiful young women. Stark bollicky naked however, picture Koika at the Winter Palace.
This is it: silence between us. The only sounds the noises of the boat--the squeal of the oarlocks when my husband pulled on the oars, the almost inaudible creak of the wooden seat with his slight motion, and then the glip and liquid swirl of the oars through the water, and the sound of the boat rushing forward.
My husband's back was to me as I lay in the hard curve of the bow. He sat still a long time between each pull. The oars dripped and then slowly stopped dripping. Everything quieted. Sometimes he picked up his fishing rod and reeled it in a bit, pulling it one way or another. Sometimes he recast, standing high above me in the boat, the light line whipping wider and wider, whistling faintly in its looping arc across the sky before he let it go.
It was a day in mid-fall, well after the turning of the leaves. The weather was glorious. We always took one day a week off together, and if the weather was good, we often went fishing. Or my husband went fishing and I went along, usually with a book to read. Even when the girls were small and it was harder to arrange, we managed at least part of the day alone together. In those early years we sometimes made love in the boat when we were fishing, or in the woods--we had so little time and privacy at home.
It was a Monday. The day off was always Monday, because Sunday was Daniel's busiest day at work and Saturday was mine. Monday was our day of rest. And what I recollect of that Monday, that fine fall day, is that for some long moments in the boat, I was suddenly aware of my state, in a way we aren't often. That is, I was abruptly and most intensely, sharply aware of all the aspects of life surrounding me, and yet of feeling neither part of it nor truly separated from it. Somehow impartial, unattached--an observer. Yet sentient of it all. Deeply sentient, in fact. But to no apparent purpose.
If I were trying to account for this feeling, I might say that it had something to do with the way I was half lying, half sitting on several pillows in the bow, the way the curving walls of the old rowboat framed a foreground for my view as they rose away from me. I saw them, these peeling wooden inner walls, and then my husband's familiar shape. Above him there was the flat, milky-blue sky and sometimes, when we were close enough to shore, the furred, nearly black line of the spruces and pines against it. In the air above us swallows darted-- dark, quick silhouettes--and once a cedar waxwing moved smoothly through them. Layers of life above me. Below, I could hear the lap of the deep water through the walls of the boat.
And with that, as quickly as it had come over me, the moment ended. I was back, solidly in time, exactly where we were. It was getting chilly. I had been lying in the wooden boat for several hours now, and even though I had the pillows under me, I was stiff. I had a bad hip. Replacement had been discussed, though everyone said I was young for it. I liked only that part of the problem, being too young for something.
We lived in the center of town, an old, old town--Adams Mills, the Adamses long dead, the mills long burned down. Our house was a simple square farmhouse, added on to repeatedly at the back of the first floor over the years, as was the custom then with these old New England homes. We had an unpainted barn behind it, and behind that was a small meadow which turned to pinewoods at the far edge, woods that hid our neighbors to the rear, though in the summer we could hear them fighting, calling each other things that used to make the girls laugh with joy. "You fat-ass pig!" they'd imitate. "You stupid shithead!"--which for some years they had, uncorrected, as "shiphead."
Yet at the front of the house we were townsfolk, connected to the village. Our view was across the old common to the big Congregational church. Not Daniel's church, it's true, and we looked at its back side--its rump, the girls had called it--but it was a splendid civic vista nonetheless. Beyond the church, we could see the row of grand Georgian houses lined up face-to-face with its front.
WITH THE CLOSING OF THE DOOR I FELT RELEASED FROM THE awareness of his sorrow that had held me in his orbit. I began to roam the house, with the dogs as my entourage, feeling restless, a feeling that seemed connected, somehow, to that moment in the boat, and maybe also to Daniel's sad news. I went up the steep, narrow stairs to the second floor, where the girls' rooms were.