Monday, May 16, 2016


John Lennon was murdered at the age of 40.
My 40s were delusional: The Delusionist Era.
When Lennon died, I must have been around
10, because at 11 I was crossing the American
West in a Ford Leisure Van™ with my family, my
first trip to California, where I might have turned twelve.
That summer I decided, at Great America, which
was to my mind somewhere between Fremont,
where my great-uncle ran a sawmill, and San
Francisco, the Elysium, where the coldest day
I truly ever spent was indeed the summertime
day before (which was spent with my family 
at or near Fisherman’s Wharf, of course).  Thanks
to a certain Arkansas blonde, I’d just discovered
that I very much enjoyed rollercoastering.  I’d
so avoided them until earlier that same year,
when, riding with that blonde, I’d realize that
being upside down for brief moments was just
fine.  But the slow tick-tick-tick-tick up to the
first (and often highest) peak could last forever,
and...let’s just say that my problem has always
been anxiety, rather than depression (something
I’d find out too late in life to enjoy so much that
had come previously).  Anyway, that cross-country
trip in the early 1980s, our family of six, my dad
so proud of the newfangled van’s sound system
that he purchased eight new(ish) 8-track tapes for a
buck on the very first stop of our vacation together,
which was either a Walmart (most likely) or a K-Mart (I
forget which one) in Fort Smith, Arkansas.  Among
them, was John Lennon’s (who’d recently been murd-
ered) and Yoko Ono’s Double Fantasy.  Wow, that
was a great trip.  And now I live here atop Nob Hill.
Life is a beautiful thing.

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
                                                                            —John Lennon