John Lennon and Mr. Self-Righteous

First of all, I'm writing this to clarify my previous babble. What I was trying to say - autobiographically speaking - is that I was not ever able to separate or compartmentalize emotions from physical acts. This might really be some failing on my part, or perhaps I'm just and old-soul prude who just wasn't made for these times.

Simply put, for the very very small number of women that this applies to (yes, Carol is well aware, and she's the only person who needs to be - so worry-wart family folks and busybodies can hush) I was totally and completely in love with you. In my mind, that's a compliment.

Historically, however (more autobiography), I spent most of my life working at least on weekends to have cash. This was true all through my high school and college years - so I didn't ever have much time to run wild and enjoy "the college experience." I missed out. Time was not on my side.

The people I've known who gleefully WERE able to make things "only physical" seemed to have had more fun than me. I don't begrudge them their fun.

And now were are all grown ups and raising families, so all of this is moot navel-gazing on my part.

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Today, John Lennon would've been 70, if not for the fat prick named Mark David Chapman. Another act of completely senseless violence in America, with no real point to it. Much will be written about this, of course, because the baby-boomer's working class hero was so important to that Largest Generation. There were, and have been singers and songwriters who have been better --- but most have not.

I read his recently-published biography last year, and to be honest he comes across as having been a jerk for much of his life. Egotistical. Manipulative. Somewhat abusive. Selfish and self-absorbed.

A prick, for lack of a better term. The author lays out many explanations for Lennon's behavior, and if you read it you can make your own judgments. He was far, far from the "working-class hero" he wanted to be, in my humble opinion.

By the end of the book, however, a different man emerges. He becomes a devoted father to his second son (sadly, his first son Julian was not deemed as important - he was older) and writes him the song "Beautiful Boy." His biographer intimates that, by the time Lennon reached 40, he'd learned what it meant to love.

Then, of course, he was murdered.

We'll never know what would've been. A Beatles reunion, of course, would've printed money hand over fist. We were all robbed of that.

Much will be made in the papers of today being his 70th birthday, and "Imagine" will be played over and over on some radio station. "Imagine" is a great song, but at the end of his life the man himself was all about raising and doting on his "beautiful boy." And after spending most of his life acting like a child, I hope he died a man. Safe home, Johnny.