Never too early to talk about yule logs.

Those who know me well know the fervor with which I celebrate Christmas. It is the apex of my year. In fact, just the other day, I was thinking "Wow, summer is almost over. It's almost Christmastime!" That's right, in my mental calendar fall is not fall, but rather the prelude to "Christmastime."

I'm not too proud to admit that one of the main reasons I'm excited about living in New York this next year is being there for the month of December. The Christmas decorations, the Rockefeller Christmas pomp and circumstance, the department store windows, the lights on the Empire State Building, the Rockettes, the general feel of the holiday hustle on a scale larger than I've ever seen before. This is a town that does Christmas.

So, imagine my surprise, nay goddamned falling-out-of-chair-with-excitement-ness , when I read this:

The campus Tree-Lighting Ceremony is a relatively new tradition at Columbia, inaugurated in 1998. It celebrates the illumination of the medium-sized trees lining College Walk in front of Kent and Hamilton Halls on the east end and Dodge and Journalism Halls on the west, just before finals week in early December. The lights remain on until February 28. Students meet at the sun-dial for free hot chocolate, performances by various a cappella groups, and speeches by the university president and a guest.

Immediately following the College Walk festivities is one of Columbia's older holiday traditions, the lighting of the Yule Log. The ceremony dates to a period prior to the Revolutionary War, but lapsed before being revived by University President Nicholas Murray Butler in the early 20th century. A troop of students dressed in Continental Army soldiers carry the eponymous log from the sun-dial to the lounge of John Jay Hall, where it is lit amid the singing of seasonal carols.[7] The ceremony includes readings of A Visit From St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore (Columbia College class of 1798) and Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus by Francis Pharcellus Church (Class of 1859).

The more I learn about Columbia, the deeper in love I fall.

Things I Plan to Do In New York City This Fall That May Lead to My Arrest

1. Show up at the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince premiere and, per Claire's suggestion, yell to Daniel Radcliffe: "Show me your Harry Potter."

2. Pull a Chuck Bass on Chuck Bass.

Things I Have Accomplished In the Last 48 Hours; Or, Get Me Off This Crazy Train Called Moving Across the Country

The following things happened between yesterday morning and right this second, giving me official cause to tell this move to "bring it, sucka" because I am knocking shit out of the proverbial park.

1. I have a place to live in New York City. Repeat: I have a place to live in New York City. I had to somewhat let go of my ideal Upper West Side quaint studio scenario in a move that is, in the end, totally, mind-blowingly convenient. I'll be four blocks from school, a ten minute walk from the Fairway, and a few blocks from the 1 line which runs from the top to the bottom of Manhattan. Fully furnished. Sigh. And Olive will have a playmate! Deposit sent. Lease in the mail.

2. I have initiated email introductions with two of my new roommates. A teacher, a poly sci grad student and me. Quite the serendipitous combo?

3. Student loans are finalized. Repeat: student loans are finalized!!! Yes!!! And in an odd turn of events, I think I'll actually be acquiring less debt than I would had I stayed in Seattle and done the full-time MPA program at UW. I mean, there are many reasons why that would have been a disastrous choice regardless, but whatever, conscience cleared.

4. "Cat Business" ... I'm lumping this into one because holy hell moving across the country with a cat is an ordeal. But, Olive officially has a vet visit in which I will pay a doctor $80 to look at my cat for five minutes and give me some sort of State-approved certificate that says she's healthy and can travel on a plane. I also managed to track down the Jet Blue-approved pet carrier at Mud Bay and am picking it up after work today. Also, there will be cat valium. Which hopefully doubles as people valium.

5. Discovering that my Columbia ID gets me into most every museum in the city for free. While one R. Matthews pointed out that the museums are all mostly "by donation" anyway, what jerk actually has ever demanded a ticket without paying? I don't have the balls. And now, I don't have to!

6. I have a plane ticket. I have a plane ticket. I have a plane ticket. On August 22nd, 2008 at 11:59 p.m. I will leave the Pacific Northwest from whence* I entered: Portland, Oregon. What? Your mind is blown in the fluidity of that Circle of Life connection I just made there? I think I just gagged.

7. Lost most, if not all, humility. I'M GOING TO NEW YORK CITY IN 23 DAYS! YEAAAAAAAYYYYYYY! Humility be damned!

Siiiigh.

*I know this is technically redundant, but "I will leave the Pacific Northwest whence I entered it" just doesn't sound right so bite me.

Sucka punch!

So, I'm starting to believe that yesterday, instead of having my two grossly impacted wisdom teeth removed, I actually paid the oral surgeon $500 to sock me in the grill for an hour. Do my teeth and gums hurt? Not a bit. Does my jaw feel like it has been broken into a million pieces? Yes. Case closed.

Of course, I don't actually know what happened during that hour, under the influence of some amazing amnesic drugs. What I can tell you, however, is that I know I sat down in that chair listening to the latest "This American Life" and later found my ipod halfway through the Frightened Rabbit album. Obviously conscious sedation is no match for impeccable musical taste, suckas!

Other than being absolutely bored out of my brain and asymmetrically swollen-faced, I have no complaints. I just realized I CAN eat my favorite Ginger Cat cookies if I left them turn to mush in my mouth first. My day is made! Small victories!

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.