Lady Madonna, get that baby off your breast

Call me superficial, but I haven’t been so disgusted by anything in the media since Israeli warplanes bombed off the balconies of the woman I love in Beirut and mainstream newspapers blamed the victims en masse.

I suppose I could write about why I’m disgusted. About how the claims of abuse look so opportunistic that they’re horribly damaging to the women who are abused by their husbands; about how the ‘illegal drugs’ were obviously reefer and nobody but Americans gives a shit; about how I’ve instructed many people that their fun bits belong to me and I’ve never had to pony up alimony for it, blah blah blah.

But I’m much more interested in why I even care to speculate about the relationship and divorce of two people I’ve never met, and about the hearsay and media scandal surrounding it. I think it’s because I had a greaaaaaat biiiig pre-pubescent crush on Paul McCartney. Pre-pubescent crushes are psychologically formative, you know.

I started thinking he was dreamy when I started listening to the Beatles, after I was alienated from David Bowie by his Tin Machine projects and before I realized physically attractive people like Michael Hutchence (in 1990 – oh yes he was – oh yes – he was – shut up, you!) were in fact physically attractive. But until the age of 12 at least, Paul McCartney was one of the eight husbands I wanted to have on a Greek island. And even now I would let him visit, if he brought enough reefer, which he would. I still don't fully understand why I care now though.

Ah, whatever. Everyone knows May/December shit like that only works for Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester anyways. And only when he’s blind and a staircase falls on him.