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.

Bibliononsense

So I've been grappling with the idea of writing a book. My hesitation lies in the fact that I feel that just by saying "I'm thinking of writing a book," I've catapulted myself into a very special circle of hell reserved for self-indulgent know-it-all assholes. But I do really want to write one. At some point.

What, at nearly 25, do I have to contribute to the world, save for a knapsack full of crude jokes and some optimism and a subpar vocabulary (according to the GRE)? Well, that's very much TBD, but I'm going to use the next year to start recording some blah blah blahs and whathaveyous. I'm envisioning something about education (shocking!) ... maybe some sort of memoir about going from a three year old who sat in my bedroom teaching my Teddy Ruxpin how to read; through an iffy public school system in which Mr. Stamp laughed at my 16 year old self when I told him I wanted to go to Harvard; to a Jesuit University; to, finally an Ivy League school where I'm going to study ways in which I can make education more accessible and equal and just plan exciting for kids back in the communities in which I grew up.

People seem to think it's funny that I'm a bleeding hearted liberal athiest borne from a conservative Christian family (my family doesn't know what to think of it) ... I wouldn't have it any other way, but in large part, I have my education and the incredible folks I've met along my academic way to thank for Katie ver. 2008. I'm a nerd to the core, always have been, and I love it and I want to write about it.

So, anyways, here's to spouting off some big words that I hope to live up to this year ...

a sudden burst of fall

when we left seattle for two weeks to fly to the other side of the earth, where flowers are nearly blooming and days are getting longer in preparation for summer, we missed the gradual introduction to fall taking place in the northern hemisphere. so when we returned, not only were we jetlagged for the first week, but we were waking up in total darkness (or two hours late) to scarf weather and bare trees. vacation was incredible, but i can't help but feel a little bummed that i missed out on my favorite part of fall: yellow leaves, sneaky chilly breezes on an otherwise warmish day. nearly a month later, i am still battling my sleep schedule ... but have acclimated to the chill and my new wool coat. i picked up the copy of "Paris to the Moon" that i've been meaning to read for the past year this morning because a new year's in paris is tentatively scheduled and i need to get in the mood. as if i need to really "get in the mood" when it comes to paris. i'm always in the mood. i've never felt more like home in a foreign place than i did in paris ... or france in general. so, really, reading someone else's love letter to the city is, well, just kind of gluttonous. but it's winter, right? i need to fatten up.

il pleut.

today is one of those early spring (not quite spring-like) days in seattle when i just have to throw my hands up and concede. the sun is nearly here. nearly. we get glimpses here and there; just enough to jog our memories and make us forget for a short time how goddamned miserable wet feet and frizzy hair are after 6 months. but. it's still raining. and today, i had to let it go, or perish. my windows are open. there is a warm and hopeful breeze. the rain does sound nice. olive is howling at the ceiling fan. earlier today she discovered crows and has not left her window perch since. one has just landed on the chimney across from my window. they are having a heated conversation. crow does not seem to be impressed by her ability to lick the back of her own neck. (a trick that will certainly never be lost on me) i moped my way over to elliott bay books this morning. as did every other seattlite escaping the weather. we do like our books and coffee over here. that is not a lie. picked up dave eggers' new book "what is the what," and am now taking my very first graphic novel for a spin: "persopolis" by marjane satrapi. will eventually get around to posting about the book i'm currently reading: "we wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families." it's infuriating. and has spurred an africa obsession in me. more on that later. the world is frightening right now, isn't it? i say this and realize that for 90% of the world's population, the world has been frightening for a long time. can't wait to be off the brink of everything. i just want sunshine and peace already. in the meantime, olive will nap and i will bake adam some scones.