Years ago, I was putting together some Question of the Day feature and asked a statuesque Teutonic model pal the following question:
“Who would win in a fight: Superman or the Beatles?”
Without pause, she eyeballed me and said: “The Beatles.”
You have to ask.
“Why?”
“Because there are four of them,” she said.
I don’t know. Maybe they could beat the Man of Steel in a fight, and, if not, certainly charm him back to civilization.
Today, Dec. 8th, marks the 30th anniversary of the death of one of John Lennon, fatally shot by a deranged person. I shall not mention the assassin’s name. History and newspapers need to record such facts. Spiritually, it elevates the insane to cult status and elevates them in an oddball equality with the person they murdered.
I’m not a big fan of the ’60s. It was what it was, of thises and thats, great music and armpit hair on women, roadtrips, the immortality of youth and millions passing as profound. For all the good intent of Peace and Love, our own seeds of destruction were planted. In attempting to knock down repressive walls, the ’60s had no plan for adequate shelter.
Still. Simply. What music.
I suspect John Lennon saw at times that absolute magic to life, the possibilities. There certainly was no problem with the Beatles. It was we. Peace and Love became its own religion, filled with judgment, the ends justify the means and one of the Devil’s favorite tools: self-righteousness. Nearly a half-century later, we’re left with facing a world without boundaries, sex without love, moral relativism, an upside-down culture that bows to youth and a political correctness that has become socio/political insanity.
John Lennon was not a big fan of insanity.
Insanity.
I’m struck by how often the “Smart Beatle” spoke about this constant companion of humanity.
In a BBC interview, he noted: “Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we’re being run by maniacs for maniacal ends.”
True.
What odd gene swims inside that makes us blindly follow a Genghis Khan, an Obama, a Palin, as if somehow, with the reins of our lives firmly in their hands, we will be okay. Podium, guitar. We listen to the wrong song. We don’t listen to ours.
It’s easy to write a fetching tune about blind and bloated politicians. But how would you dance to: “How Stupid am I for Voting for that Guy?”
Perhaps, self-consciously?
It’s not about Left, Right or Center. Look around the world and you can find people of questionable mental capacity running billion-dollar economies and controlling armies.
Finger pointing. Whether it’s love gone wrong or which besieged poor soul is sitting on the throne, blame is always a good source of lyrics.
A Beatle. A Hitler. A flea-bitten mufti.
We get to temporarily wiggle away from the devils or just feel good, for a moment, distracted that both our divinity and our insanity are within.
John Boston is the preeminent local writer and humorist who has won 119 national writing awards. He is a wonderful human being and it is a privilege to call him a friend. John will continue to live in the Santa Clarita Valley and write about anything and everything. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon.