It seems odd, now, to have learned of John Lennon’s death from Howard Cosell, interrupting a Monday Night Football game. and having to wait for the story to unfold ‘without the endless speculations we are now subject to on twenty-four hour news stations. But then, most memories involving Cosell seem a little surreal.
Odd, too, that I felt a greater loss from Lennon’s death than the murder a week earlier of a friend of my (then) fiancée’s. I still feel a little guilty about that, when I think about it. Grief and loss are funny things, one person’s devastation is a blip on another’s radar. Not that I was devastated beyond the profound sadness generated by so much of what we call “news”.
Fourteen or fifteen years later, if my math is correct, I posed the following question to myself:
When he was my age,
John Lennon had been rich
and famous for nineteen years,
dead for two. Where
did I go wrong?