John Lennon was my Beatle. We all had our own. Missy liked Paul, or was it George. Cindy Erb played Ringo. But, mine was always John. He was dark, moody, poetic, even in 1964 when I was 14. My father was freaked out when the family sat in front of the telly on that Sunday night watching Ed Sullivan’s Show. I screamed like no silly ‘tween has done since, even for a Jonas Bro. It was orgasmic in an innocent way. If that’s possible, but it was. Camelot had just been shattered by bullets; soon after that, MLK and RFK were gunned down, and finally John. We went through a hellish violence in our childhoods, decades of turbulent times. Love is all you need and no more war. Vietnam, not Iraq or Afghanistan. Have we learned anything. No. Gathering at Strawberry Fields in Central Park tomorrow, John’s would-be 70th birthday, hard to believe.