"John Lennon. 1968. He had less than 12 years to live."
So I've been avoiding a John Lennon blog.
Precisely because so many will be written today being the 30th anniversary
of the date on which that miserable mofo Mark whatever whatever-his-face decided that because he had absolutely zero talent at anything, he could at least pull through with aiming a Saturday Night special at the Beatle's founder and pull the trigger.
I didn't want to write about this because one, I hate that whole where were you when John Lennon was shot; where were you when JFK was shot; when the twin towers went down...you know the score. I'm sure thirty years after the Sanhedren and the Romans conspired to put a peacemaker like Jesus to death, people were still talking about it. As humans, we love the drama.
So what's my point. I guess it's that I so remember that day like it was 5 minutes ago, and I was getting ready for school, and my dad called me from the gym he used to work out at. "John Lennon got killed last night!" I recall walking up to my parent's bedroom where my mother was still sleeping, and telling her the news and bursting out in tears. I recall her shaking her head, and perhaps like some people who suffered the 60's tragic comedies from JFK, to MLK, to Bobbie, to Manson, just laid her head back down on the pillow and started weeping.
The peace and love generation didn't end with 1970. The truth about true humanity, and the real nature of humankind was revealed on December 8, 1980 when a chubby malcontent had himself a little pistol party. "Bang, Bang, Shoot, Shoot!"
Other similar atrocities would follow of course. Jeffery Dahlmer, The Columbine Killings, the Muslim Murderers who killed thousands in lower Manhattan. But because John was a true peace maker and a talent on the level of Picasso, Shakespeare and Mozart, we tend to remember and lament. Does anyone recall that Fred Shellard, a trader working in the World Trade Center, was so overwhelmed by the heat, he stood on the ledge outside the window, made the sign of the cross while gazing up at our Lord, and dropped to his death?
I guess not.
The doctor who pronounced John dead at Roosevelt Hospital in Manhattan revealed that out of desperation he opened up John's chest, took hold of his heart, cradled it in his hand, and massaged it like a young mother would her prematurely born child. He felt the warm organ in the palm of his hand, and the blood seeped through the spaces between his fingers, and the tears ran down his face, while the blood transfusions poured not into John's veins, but instead out onto the floor. Ten minutes later, John Lennon was declared dead.
There was perhaps no greater silence in the world since the first Good Friday.
Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm just such a complete and utter f-up. But I can't see the logic to any of this life we live. It's Christmas. I'm alone. I'm back from Europe wondering why I came back. People I love with all my heart have decided to break away from me not because they don't love me, but because they don't get what they need from me, emotionally. I'm not in a good state of mind obviously.
But I have things to be grateful for too. My kids, my health, my world, my work. I guess I can bitch all I want, and probably Paul McCartney is going to write a sappy song today. "I love you Paul!" But I was always a John guy.
So, Happy Heaven John Lennon. May your every post-earth wish come true. The doc says it's true, you had a very good heart. A heart that was strong, yet soft to the touch, and perhaps even fragile and easily broken. But you know what? He also revealed that your heart was bigger than most hearts. A gifted heart that you decided to share with the world. You are the one who is filling the emotional gaps that I can't possibly provide for the women I have loved and lost.
I hope you, George, and your hero Elvis are laughing at what a bunch of stupid asses we all are down here. I hope Jesus joins in, and tells you his favorite Beatle's song. No doubt you'll make a joke about it. Perhaps one day I will get to meet you.
But not yet.