I was going to write about Columbus Day, and how – despite all the terrible connotations about this holiday (someone the other day actually said to me, ‘yea, Columbus, thanks for giving the native Americans all those smallpox blankets’, which, I pointed out actually happened a few centuries later) – it’s one that I actually rather enjoy.
The weather can be glorious – October’s bright blue, etc. etc. – as it has been this past weekend. Despite the sales, it’s not a spending-spree holiday. And a three day weekend is always a good thing – even when you don’t work full time.
And then I read that, on October 9th, John Lennon would have turned 70.
Gear, fab. Fab,gear. (Actually, oy! Not to mention oi!)
When the Beatles first became popular in the U.S. – late 1963/early 1964 – I was way too much of a snob to admit to liking them. I was so non-rock ‘n roll.
No, folk music were us. Didn’t much matter how schlocky (Kingston Trio, The Limelighters, The Chad Mitchell Trio) or how pure (Bob Dylan, Tom Rush, Joan Baez, Judy Collins). We had a Weavers songbook propped on the music rack in the piano in the living room, and so what if the only tune I could play was Raghupati. While most of the other kids my age were watching American Bandstand to catch Jan and Dean , I was glued to Hootenanny! hoping to hear Odetta.
If everyone was for The Beatles, I had to be be pecksniffingly against them.
But I still remember the thrill when I saw the first album cover, which someone brought on the school bus. And, of course, I was
sitting there on that famous Sunday evening when The Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan. And the next thing I knew, it was Love, Love Me Do. Suddenly I was as much a Beatles fan as the next 14 year old girl. Suddenly, I was almost (but not quite; no, never that) normal.
I had the albums (or listened to the ones my sister Kath had). I went to Hard Days Night right after it opened. Ditto for Help! I haven’t tried it in years, but guessing I could put on any Beatles album and sing it all the way through.
Personal favorite: probably In My Life. Or If I Fell. Or Norwegian Wood.
Needless to say, John was my Beatle. In much the same way that my Cartwright brother on Bonanza was Adam, I always picked brains over cutie. (Some things never change. I was, in fact, well into adulthood before I actually “got” handsome and pretty. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why someone could be attracted to anyone else if that anyone else wasn’t really, really smart.)
So, John it was.
The brainy Beatle, the one who wrote books. And, yes, I did buy copies of both A Spaniard in the Works and In His Own Write, although both, alas, are long a-moldering in the grave. Just like John Lennon.
Wonder what he would have done with the extra 30 years he was deprived of?
For one thing, I doubt he would have dyed and botoxed himself up a la Paul McCartney, that’s for sure.
No, he would have grown gray. Written some more stuff. Been weird with Yoko. Teamed up with his sons somehow. Appeared on stage with Roy Orbison and Bruce Springsteen.
John Lennon: 70!
Darling, we are getting old. There are definitely silver threads among the gold, and nothing like an icon of your youth hitting 70. Let’s face it, no matter how you slice and dice it, if this isn’t old age, then it’s sure the gateway to such.
Happy Birthday, John!
You will always be my favorite Beatle!
You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you.
Not your most inspired lyrics, but what the hell:
I’m glad it’s your birthday.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy Columbus Day, too.
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