The anniversary of John Lennon’s assassination is on Wednesday. When I wrote my celebrity stalker novel, the one book I read as research was the biography of Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman, called Let Me Take You Down. I love John Lennon but Mark David Chapman is an interesting story, even if he’s a sick, evil freak. He would call payphones, which he could see, and threaten anonymous strangers. Horrible, but still fascinating--I stole it and put it in my book. So either I was taking artistic license by basing a character on Chapman or I’m going to hell and every bit of bad literary luck I’ve faced is Instant Karma for trumping up a fucker like Chapman.
While I’m on the topic of that novel, someone put up the cover and the ability to search through it on the Amazon page. I haven’t been in touch with the publisher for years--since the founder split unamicably and someone new took over. So I have no idea who could have spent the time scanning in the pages from the novel. Glad that somebody’s thinking about it.
This weekend, I unearthed the Beatles songbooks. "Help" through "Let It Be." Belting out Beatles songs badly, annoying the neighbors. The Beatles are like the Bible of songwriting. Every song seems like a fable, like it always existed.
For some reason, the Paul McCartney songs are more fun to play, even though I like John Lennon’s songs more. The highlight was singing "I’ve Got a Feeling" while Olivia, my daughter, jumped up and down on the bed screaming, "Everybody pulled their socks up, everybody put their foot down Oh yeah, oh yeah, Ohhhhh yeah." Didn’t sing the "wet dream" part. She loves the "Yellow Submarine" movie and her favorite song is "Hello, Goodbye." I can’t believe I have a daughter who loves the Beatles. I love her. Our gift to her this holiday are the Yellow Submarine toys which you can still buy. She’s going to flip out.
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