...
I am using this anniversary to harp on it.
I admit that even though I caught it when it happened, knew immediately that wasn't Paul, I just let the fog of the official story take over and lost interest in the Beatles. I was a kid. I had no idea how important this would become when I was old.
I'd already passed over my immediate thing for John, thinking it was not okay to have a crush on a married man, opting for George instead, because Paul was just not my cup of tea, too cute, and I was already being pulled much more toward Humphrey Bogart kind of manly than, say, Troy Donahue. So then having to keep going with this new guy, and then the fucking third movie going all cartoon....
Too much dissonance.
Screw it, man. I had better things to worry about.
But that was a mistake.
A big mistake.
I didn't even begin to really consider how much easier it was to manufacture the news than to report it for at least another twenty years, having already exhausted the part about reporters turning into stenographers by then. No shit. I was screaming bloody murder about that long before it became fashionable to do it. Yet I agonize over how slow I am.
I'm not being colorful. I am so not trying to boast. I am a fucking turtle! I am so slow I feel as though I'm dropping my end of the bargain all day, every day, and... and, yet... heave... when I take a look around, it appears I'm goddam lightning anyway.
Come ooooooooooooon....
