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.

I need company

So there are a couple of things I am currently, desperately, physical-pain-in-gut missing at the moment. 50% of that couple-of-things, well, I am too coy to blab on about on my blog (though you know I'd love to shout it out). The other 50% of that couple-of-things is my cat. Last night it was raining (it is taking a marked effort on my part to not focus all of my energy right now on hating this horrible, horrible prolonged winter, fyi) and after a long day at work, a longer than usual workout, and a confusing (to the brink of tears) discussion with the financial aid dept at TC, all I really wanted to do was sit on the couch, pop in my "John Adams" dvds (nerd) and not think about life. Once I accomplished this, however, I realized what I really wanted to do was sit on the couch, pop in my "John Adams" dvds and not think about life ... while cuddling with my cat. I miss her desperately. I miss having a weird little personality around to contend with. You should never underestimate the impact of a fuzzy ball of fluff and purrs on your happiness.

It also does not help the situation (warning: most selfish statement of all up ahead) that she is currently living with her sister and happy as a clam. And at the end of August, I'm going to take her to New York so she can be a lonely apartment cat again. Am I the worst mother ever? Perhaps.

Me? Sad sack.

"Do I sound like a musical robot?"

So, full disclosure, I'm sitting at work right now watching the Scripps National Spelling Bee online on ESPN. It is one of my favorite events of the year. One of the best things about the Bee is that once you've completed the 8th grade, you're no longer eligible to compete. So, essentially what you have is an enclave of oily, gangly, awkward pre-teens who, while their peers are out obsessing over Miley Cyrus and plotting to ruin each other's social lives and passing "will you go out with me? yes no (circle one)" notes, these kids are obsessing over words. As a world-wearied nerd myself, I feel a special pang every time I witness one of their awkward tics, their bowl-cut bangs, their geeky air-writing-and-erasing, the facial hair/soprano voice dichotomy and just want to gather them in one big bear hug and tell them it's going to be okay! You nerds shall inherit the earth! A spot on the middle school volleyball team does not a success story make! (Okay, okay, now it's getting personal)

The Bee feels like a safe haven from the zitty, catty, self-esteem-teeter-totter that is Middle School. In fact, the only genuinely painful part of the broadcast is when the dolled-up correspondent, a Paris Hilton clone all veneer-y mouthed and frosty-locked (never a nerd, I'd venture to guess) tries to engage the kids in breezy backstage banter, when it's clear they'd rather be discussing the etymology of the word "eremophyte" at home with their mothers.

Hang in there kiddos. You'll be laughing in the faces of those who laugh at your dog-eared dictionaries soon.

And on a final note, one of our favorite blogs around these parts (lawyer nerds!) http://throwingthings.blogspot.com/ has a guest blogger covering the Bee. None other than Shonda Rhimes, writer/creator of "Grey's Anatomy." He posts almost make me forgive her for the clustereff-waste-of-airspace that has become "Grey's." Almost.

And my money/heart is on Rose Sloan.

this time tomorrow

In some ways, I think I've outgrown Wes Andersen and that makes a part of me very, very sad. I was watching "The Darjeeling Limited" the other day, and it just didn't give me the same sort of all-consuming joy I felt the first time I watched "Rushmore" and felt like the movie was made just for me. No no, I didn't hate it or anything of the sort. It just felt the same. A good sameness, but the same nonetheless.

What I will say, though, is that Wes and I still share a deep, deep love for The Kinks. A love that I think is reinforced every time I see a scene from a Wes Andersen film in which he manages to place a Kinks song in the absolute absolute perfect perfect place. And makes me love "__(insert incredible song here)___" thirty thousand times more than before. This generally goes for Wes's treatment of Stones and Zombies songs too, but the Kinks, well, they hold a special place.