About ten years ago I illegally
downloaded every album The Beatles
recorded. Was that wrong? Yeah, kind of, but I
did it anyway. If Paul wants to sue me
he can, but what if I told him I burned those
albums onto compact discs, put them in a
leather case and gave them to my mom as a
gift? And why not? She gave me the booklet she
got from the concert she went to in Cincin-
nati, Ohio. They loved Paul McCartney.
He’s the type of dude Midwestern gals cling to:
Quiet. Humble. Dedicated to his craft.
What a performer, eh? Paul blows me away.
When you meet a woman, ignore her lovely
face and ask just one question: “Excuse me, Miss?
Who’s your favorite Beatle?” And if she says,
Ringo? … Run, man! Run quick!! She’s a lunatic!!!
An old friend of mine challenged me to write the
story of a Guru in five words or less.
I replied with, “While my guitar gently weeps.”
Then I pulled out a scimitar and he left.
Oh me, oh my … where do I even begin?
This is the Beatle I identify with.
Imagine no possessions. I wonder if
you can. It’s easy if you try, Dick. Hell yeah.
Supposedly he was an asshole. So what?
Everyone’s an asshole. Why should Lennon be
held up to a higher standard than you or
me? I. We. What’s that line by Volbeat? Oh yeah.
I bet John Lennon would have liked those assholes.