In which my old/dead British boyfriends write songs that make me sad for the ladies...

So, I have this longstanding fear that I tend to gravitate toward tortured, brooding writers and artists who, you know, have um, issues with the ladies. I'm afraid this reflects badly on me as a "modern woman." Hemingway? Fitzgerald? Graham Greene? Full disclosure? I'd risk the psychological trauma to be a Zelda or a Hadley.

To further this embarrassing theory, I present my two '60s rock and roll boyfriends, Mick Jagger (oh god please see above) and John Lennon.

I had a date with Rubber Soul on the bus the other day ("I'm Looking Through You" is one of my favorite songs ever) and I stumbled again on "Run for Your Life." Every time I hear this song, I really, really want to blame it on Paul. Because, frankly, Paul is still alive and the 16 year old girl inside of me who used to make a point to wear her John Lennon shirt every year on December 8th is still kind of bitter about that. Also, I think he's a cad. But mostly, he's still breathing, and I'm going to go ahead and hold it against him.

Try as I might, though, I can't blame this nasty song on Paul. It's John. It's all John. And I quote:

Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl/Than to be with another man/You better keep your head, little girl/Or I won't know where I am

You better run for your life if you can, little girl/Hide your head in the sand little girl/Catch you with another man/That's the end'a little girl

Let this be a sermon/I mean everything I've said Baby, I'm determined/And I'd rather see you dead

If ever there was a DV theme song, here it is. Granted, apparently John did say some years later that this song was the one he regretted writing the most, but um, yeah. It's still there. It still ruins my Rubber Soul high every time.

And then there's Mick. Okay, so Mick has always been an asshole and I'll admit that "Under My Thumb" is also on my list of all-time favorite songs, but well, then there's "Stray Cat Blues." And well, lines are crossed.

I hear the click-clack of your feet on the stairs/I know you're no scare-eyed honey/There'll be a feast if you just come upstairs/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

I can see that you're fifteen years old/No I don't want your I.D./I can see you're so far from home/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Oh yeah, don'tcha scratch like that/Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Bet your mama don't know you scream like that/I bet your mother don't know you can spit like that.

And in an even more endearing twist of events, according to Wikipedia, on Get Yer Ya-Yas Out the Stones went ahead and changed the girl's age to 13. Nice touch, Mick.

I'd love someone to Freud this out for me and explain why I gravitate toward hyper-males. And by "I'd love someone to Freud this out for me..." I mean don't actually bother, because I think the combined power of Mick and John and Ernest and Graham and Scott may be a force I'm too weak to resist. Even if that makes me a shitty woman of the 21st century.