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| Image Stolen from Google |
On the weekend of my 19th
birthday, in December of 1980, dad and Sara went away for a couple days of
shopping down in a bigger town, Grand Rapids, Michigan. My brother and I
organized a little house party for Saturday night. I had only 10 hits of acid
left, I gave two hits to my brother, took three doses myself and shared the
rest with the four other people who showed up at this little gathering. There
was a lot of drinking and smoking going on, I remember having some deep conversation
about life and the universe with this old, gruff voiced guy who worked at the
car wash with me named Hutch. I remember playing John Lennon’s new album
“Double Fantasy” which was Lennon’s first album after retiring in 1975. Late in
the night, when there was only my brother and some kid he knew named Jeff, I
remember talking endlessly about John Lennon and The Beatles. I spewed little
factoids about the songs, about their history but I really got deep, acid deep
about how they were my inspiration. I explained how John Lennon was like a role
model, a real hero to me. I detailed my feelings for Lennon as if he were this
big brother to me, not quite like a father figure, but somehow even more
significant. I got therapeutic and spilled my raw feelings for my own father,
how he and I were never very well connected. My brother was listening and let
me speak, but I kept seeing him look at me oddly. I confessed that my father
was symbolic of everything I never wanted to be in life, in my skewed crazy
terminology I said “He is like an anti-compass for me...” I laughed an acid
trip laugh, “Whatever way he goes, which ever direction he tells me to go, I go
in the exact opposite!”
“You look like one of The
Beatles.” said my brother's drunk, stoned and zonked friend, “The long hair,
big beard, round glasses and weird clothes...you look like one of The Beatles.”
“Which one?” I smiled, hoping
he'd say John, “I've heard this before.”
“I don't know, the one with the
little round glasses...” the Tragic City boy slurred, “I like Blue Oyster
Cult.”
“Ah yes...” I smiled, “Don't Fear
The Reaper, great song.”
“Fucking-A, yeah!”
I was still tripping when the
parents returned home Sunday night. I had not gone to bed and spent the time
immaculately cleaning the house and then writing feverishly about my adventure
to find Ken Kesey. Once Sara seemed pleased that the house was intact, after
dad had been assured everything was well, I excused myself for the rest of the
night. On Monday, sometime after midnight, a big snow storm blew across the
area, leaving almost a foot of wet, heavy snow. I was still awake when the sun
came up on that gray, cold, miserable morning of December 8th, 1980 and I knew
the car wash was going to be closed, so no work for me that day. I was happy to have the day off and the house
to myself. When everyone else was getting up and ready for school and work, I
wrote in my journal for a while. I made pages of memories about my Oregon Trail
Adventure to Find Ken Kesey and listened to John Lennon's new album very loud,
all alone. I got to finally feeling at peace, finally before midmorning, I
simply drifted to sleep. I don't remember dreaming, but I'm sure I did because
when my dad came to wake me for dinner sometime around 6 in the evening, I was
feeling like everything was going to be alright, no matter what, it all works
out in the end. I stumbled downstairs, looked at the plate of spaghetti and
felt immediately ill. I quickly excused myself, went to the bathroom and got
sick. I took a quick hot shower before retiring to my little bedroom above the
TV den in the basement. I laid on the floor, letting my naked body air dry
while continuing to write in my journal about this fantastic adventure. I wrote
detailed descriptions of what I had seen, how I was feeling and asking more
questions than I could answer until my hand started to cramp. I laid down my
pen, rested my head on the floor and sighed some deep breathing exercises. I
had difficulty concentrating because I could clearly hear the television with
the volume rather loud directly under my room. Dad was watching Monday Night
Football and at one point, I had been laying there half asleep but listening
for a while, I heard the sportscaster, the infamous Howard Cossel say something
about John Lennon, Roosevelt Hospital, and the details were unclear. I sat up
and bolted from the room, spinning down the stairs and standing half way down
the basement stairs, I squatted to see the television and again hear Cossel
say, “We have a confirmation, former Beatle John Lennon has been shot to death
outside his apartment this evening, about an hour ago. He was pronounced dead
at Roosevelt Hospital in New York City.”
“What?” my voice cracked, my eyes
instantly welled up but I remember dad turning around to see me as I stood up,
“John is dead?”
“I’m so sorry son…” were dad’s
first words but I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence because I turned and ran
back into my room. I plopped down, face first on the bed and started crying
harder than I had in a very, very long time. I didn’t want to hear confirmation
of the fact, I could not even conceive of this tragic event. I didn’t want to
talk to anyone, I just wanted to cry until I died. I barely slept, tossed and
turned with a sorrow so painful, I felt my very soul bleed. I was still up the
next morning so I went downstairs to have coffee and conversation with dad and
Sara. Dad smiled at me as I came down the steps, “Hey son, good morning!”
“I’m so sorry, d…” Sara poured me
a fresh cup of coffee, “That’s so awful!”
“Yeah, I can’t believe it…” I
shook my head, sipped my coffee and mumbled something about Lennon, “He just
turned 40 too, you know?”
“What about his son?” dad agreed,
“That poor little boy.”
“He had two boys, dad…” I
corrected, “Sean and his first son, Julian.”
“That’s right…” dad nodded, “So
awful for them all, for the world, what a loss!”
“Yeah, I guess so…” I felt beyond
sad, completely pessimistic and I was hiding a very rage fueled anger, “I guess
that shows you, you can die at any time…Todd died when he was just 17, now
John, dead at 40…makes me think you should live every single day as if it’s
your last because just very well might be your last day!”
“Well, yes, sure…” Sara started
to reason, “but within limitations…”
“Fuck that, fuck limits!” I snarled and then
abruptly left the table, “Later.”
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| This is the Lennon look I like... |
Over the following few weeks my
mood got darker. I made a failed attempt to drive to New York City for the
vigil for John. We were traveling in a beat-up 1968 Chevy Impala named Hienrich
but that car only got about 20 miles before we wiped out into a snow bank.
During the week between Christmas and New Year’s I traveled with my brother to
Chicago for a visit with our mom. I got completely smashed on New Year’s Eve
and ended up fucking my then best friend’s girlfriend in a bathroom at a party.
I returned to Michigan with even more feelings of animosity. The weather in
Tragic City was relentless as foot upon foot of snow continually dumped on us
making life difficult. One night in late January of 1981, while I again had
been drinking heavily, I had a minor run in with the local law because I was
involved in a fight at somebody’s house party. I don’t remember much of the
incident, but I woke up in a jail cell the next morning. There was nothing
more, they let me go and sent on my way.
I was very seriously depressed. I had, for the first time, seriously
considered the option of suicide. I couldn’t see any reason to live, first my
best friend was taken, then my life long hero was taken. It hurt so bad that I too wanted to be gone
because the agony was too much. I remember thinking about how I might do it,
how I might end my life. I considered pills seriously while I was idly flipping
through the back pages of Rolling Stone magazine. I was calculating the number
of Valium pills I would need to cause death when I stumbled on an advertisement
for a place called “The Recording Workshop” located in Chillicothe, Ohio where
they teach you how to be an audio engineer and producer. “That’s it!” it
occurred to me, as if the proverbial light bulb went off inside my head,
dispelling for the moment, all the darkness I was feeling. I suddenly had the
idea that I would do that with my life, I would help others make their music
since I wasn’t really all that good myself, I could dedicate my life to helping
the music be heard since Todd and John were now gone, this would be my new
mission! “I’m going to do this, seriously, this will happen!”
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| One of my favorite John Lennon quotes... |
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This is excerpt from Chapter 1 of
my new book, “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…” and I felt like sharing it
this week because, this Monday, the 8th of December in 2014 marks
the 34th anniversary of John Lennon’s murder, a tragic loss indeed
but to my twisted young mind, still half zonked on LSD and having idolized this
man since the tender age of 6, it was a life altering event. Lennon’s murder
both defined and shaped who I became as an individual, in both positive and
negative ways. That’s all explained in the book, if you’re curious, but it’s
not what THIS post is about, this article is about now…thirty four years later.
I’m sure that if John lived, he’d continue the same trail as other Beatles and
that’s not my concern either, I don’t really care to be truthful. If there was
anything that I have learned from the life, times and musical messages of John
Lennon is that it’s all about the individual’s experience and what they make of
it as they travel through life. Forget about the heroes we create, they’ll
always let you down. The myths we tell are alright, if that helps you get
through the darkest of nights, but the bottom line is Life is Yours, not anyone
else’s to live because you never know when it’s going to be over, no matter who
you are, life is very short, no matter how old you live to be, so use it
wisely, share Love, have Peace, find Bliss.
As
I write this, it’s Sunday the 7th of December in 2014, I happen to
be celebrating my own birthday, for the 53rd spin around the sun, I’m
feeling very happy, Grateful and at Peace with both myself and the universe. I’m
enjoying the music of The Beatles, a practice I do every Sunday but this one,
being both my birthday and the day before John died, is a special Sunday. My
family, the wife I’ve loved deeply for almost 20 years and our two teenage
offspring, are busy in the kitchen preparing a big birthday dinner for me…I’m
being treated to some steaks on the grill, baked potato and fresh green beans
with a salad. I’m getting my special cake, the one I get only once a year, only
on my birthday, a banana cake made with very ripe bananas and thick chocolate
fudge icing and we’re going to play some games, perhaps watch a film together,
and it’s no doubt one of the best birthdays I’ve ever known. I’m 53 years old
now, wow…this is how old Jerry Garcia was (another mythical big brother icon
hero for me) when he met his untimely demise in 1995…I’m Grateful I made it
this far, but I’m still aiming towards that triple digit birthday! In fact, it’s
about that time…the grill is fired up, the steaks lightly seasoned so I’m going
to enjoy the moment. Thank you for reading, I am always Grateful to those who
purchase the book (get an autographed copy plus a free gift when you buy it
from my website)!
As always I hope you and yours
are healthy, please take care and be well!
Peace,
d’Philip
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| I explain my Love for Lennon in this book... |
“My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…” used by permission of The Intrepid Editor
Press Ltd. and is available (LIMITED autographed first edition) at dphilipchalmers.net OR at your favorite purveyor of books, magazines
and gifts everywhere.
