The other day, James Lileks described the new novel he’s working on:
Tuesday night I write the penultimate denouement, if that’s not a contradiction. It’s set at a hockey game the night of the day John Lennon was assassinated, when everyone stands and puts their hand over their heart and sings along with “Imagine.”
Ahh, the transnational anthem. Funny though, I associate Lennon’s death with this this sporting event, which I recall watching vividly, followed by the strange hush over my fellow classmates the following morning — particularly given how flat the “Starting Over” and the Double Fantasy album had only recently seemed, even to us confirmed Beatlemaniacs:
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Of course, the Beatles inadvertently ushered in the era of rock lyrics being studied in classrooms for the deep hidden meaning buried in their subtext; that unfortunate practice of academia is taken to its ultimate extreme, here.
Yes of course, it’s a parody. But for how long?












I always associate Lennon’s death, with what I was watching at the time. Not trying to be funny, but I was watching the Benny Hill show, and the local station ran the information along the bottom of the screen (this was long before seeing a ticker became a common every day thing). I remember laughing at some silly skit on the program, and the laugh just dying, as I read the words.