…and it’s safe to say I never will. Genius songwriter. Drug addict. Hard ass. Innovator. Outspoken anti-war activist. Talented musician beyond belief. Adulterer. Bastard. Egomaniac. Oh wait, I do know him… As a matter of fact, I know a lot of John Lennons. Maybe it’s an L.A. thing, who knows, but I’m guessing not.
If you know me, you probably can’t believe I’m saying this. But I think the guy hated people and there’s nothing worse than being in the company of brilliant, creative, arrogant assholes with too much money and too much to say to people they clearly have contempt for. I seriously doubt I’d measure up as a decent conversationalist, considering I’d just want to know about The Beatles and he hated being asked about The Beatles. (If I’m ever a millionaire I’ll remind myself not to act smug while I’m sitting in my apartment in The Dakota, thumbing through all the praiseful articles on my smashingly successful books from highly esteemed literary reviewers.)
You have to be a bastard to make it, and that’s a fact. And the Beatles are the biggest bastards on earth. ~John Lennon
35 years ago today he was shot dead by a demented idiot who obviously should never have had access to a firearm. But I won’t get started on the gun thing; that was yesterday. John would have been 75 years old. I’m sure he’d be screaming from the rooftops right now about the fucked-upness of the world if he were alive today.
I always feel bad when people die at Christmas time. James Brown, Dean Martin, Eartha Kitt and Charlie Chaplin all died Christmas Day. Or maybe it’s Christmas I feel bad about, especially when I see things like this when I’m Googling stuff: