31 years ago tonight I was drying my hair with a towel in the little house in PA when Ted Koppel announced that John Lennon had been shot. I stood there, staring at the little TV. It was one of those moments when time stops, when you can't believe or take in what you're hearing. But as the seconds ticked by and the death pronouncement was made, it sunk in.
They showed footage. St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital and The Dakota building where he lived. Both familiar to me. I saw exactly where he was when that bastard shot him, had stood there myself many times. I'd seen John and Yoko a couple of times on 72nd St and in Central Park over the years. Native New Yorkers don't freak out at seeing the famous, they're just there. You say something to whoever you're with, and smile that you're all New Yorkers, famous and ordinary alike in sharing a hometown. And one piece of filth had taken away our brother, our pride and joy. Our John, who'd fought so hard to stay in our hometown, was killed right there at his own building.
If John had lived, he'd be 71 now. Hard to picture because to me he'll never age past 40. Though 40 didn't seem so young to me then, it does now.
For those who are still wondering what happened:
The Day John Lennon Died:
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