It Can't Get No Worse

I just finished reading the latest biography of John Lennon this afternoon; for those who might wish to follow up on things that make me swoon, it's by Philip Norman. Far less acidic than the aforementioned and not religiously understudied biography written by Albert Goldman (easy to accomplish; all one would have to do is not mathetimatically try to equate genius with asshattery and then contain one's verbal expulsions), it still made me teary-eyed. I'm not gonna lie; there isn't much (outside of Ono) that doesn't make one particularly sensitive. If I were going to be truthful, even the Ono crap makes me melt inside...you cannot possibly watch The U.S. vs. John Lennon and not for a second believe that the man, whatever lunacy included, wasn't completely and totally entranced by the concept of love. And not even the concept; he actually found love, how tremendous is that?! He found a partner who felt the same. How often can one of we lesser-crawling maggots find validity? Even how less frequently do we find not just validity, but sympatico?

Not a whole hell of a lot, I am willing to conjecture.

And by that conjecture, I have to point out the following;

One), that questioning mortality is possibly sexy but more importantly ineffective; and

Two), that love is what it is, and who are we to declare differently?

Apparently Yoko isn't a fan of this latest recount, citing the fact that the author "wasn't nice" to John. Well, the hell with her, I say. The hell. We aren't always nice. And a man well into his second formal relationship deserves the ability to shake his wiener at the earlier parts of either. It doesn't discount the importance of what that man has done; it simply reminds the world that he had a wiener. Is that such a terrible sentence for any man?

I'm Just Sayin.