Today is the day I wore all black at school in 1980.
My idol had been shot and killed the night before, John Lennon.
I cried all night long I think, and many times thereafter. What an emotional wimp. When my friend Dave Koch called and told me about his death the day of, I was hopefully dubious and asked him repeatedly if he was joking. Judy came by too. What a drag to have your idol gunned down. Strange too how not one kid at school seemed to give a crap, and none of the teachers either. I must have been out of it and missed something I hope. I had my guitar with me for some unrelated reason, to perform in class, nice company for the occasion. Got a lot of very strange looks.
I wanted to visit Lennon when we went through up state New York back in the seventies. I was not entirely suprised that wasn’t gonna happen. A standard kid fanatic.
I couldn’t listen to the Beatles or Lennon for a long time without serious pain. Funny considering I never knew John Lennon. I feel really strange about this fame thing that he had and how us fans somehow identify with Lennon and feel we have a clue when clearly we do not. Or any famous person for that matter. Fame, bully for you, chilly for me, got to get a raincheck on, pain. David Bowie, John Lennon.
Time counts and keeps counting and the pain went away, and the awareness of Lennon being human dawned and the lustre of his magic started to fade. I still feel the magic, Hey Bulldog, I Found Out, I Am The Walrus, Come Together and on and on.
But the magic, the wild abandon, is so easily forgotten, so easily let go, unwittingly banished. Hold on. Living isn’t only loneliness. Off Every Day.
Lennon sang he didn’t believe in magic once, but he was magic, and a person, just like us all.
Remember. . . . the 8ee8th . . . of December. And the day after.