I remember, too, how happy we always were to hear Cousin Brucie play yet another new Beatles tune on the radio, and to find yet another new album by the band gracing the front rack of the record store.
I loved how John referred to boys as "lads," girls as "birds," and friends as "mates;" how he made wise-ass statements during interviews and released inane tape recordings at Christmas; how he wore mod glasses and hats; how he'd been born in the midst of a Nazi air raid and given the middle name Winston; and how he seemed to have wisdom beyond his years.
I loved how John referred to boys as "lads," girls as "birds," and friends as "mates;" how he made wise-ass statements during interviews and released inane tape recordings at Christmas; how he wore mod glasses and hats; how he'd been born in the midst of a Nazi air raid and given the middle name Winston; and how he seemed to have wisdom beyond his years.
The Beatles were as puzzled by their overnight success in America as anyone. But I never was.
The band, after all, had songs like "Help," "All My Loving," "Help," "We Can Work It Out" and "Nowhere Man."
The band had John.
I read a comment on social media today, oh boy, by someone who couldn't remember the name Mark David Chapman or his motive, and I realized 40 years is a long, long time. It just doesn't feel like it.
Life is very short.
