When I was a young man, full of myself, I applied for a promotion at the company at which I was working. This application included a psych profile…with some very thought provoking questions. I took too long to take the test…one of those chewing on the eraser-end of the pencil and trying to be as honest as possible, type of things.
Anyway, buried among these intensely personal questions(it was a “sensitive” position I was applying for), was the query: “Do you admire your father?”. Yes. Next question: “Why do you admire your father?”. I thought long and hard on that one. Why do they want to know that? What could the answer to this question possibly tell TPTB here at this company, about the way I would perform in this position? Questions…questions. So I strained my tiny little brain and came up with this answer: “He didn’t live long enough to disappoint me”. I was satisfied with that answer. The interviewer that reviewed my answers, was not. She didn’t get it. I didn’t get it. The job, I mean. That wasn’t the answer she needed. I guess.
Heroes are funny things. They belong in fiction, I have decided. No place else. For after all, outside of a book or film…they are just human.
A friend just came back from a week-end trip to Manhattan. They had a great time that only a tourist could have there. I lived there for a short time way back when. When it was a filthy, mean, cold, jewish-owned ghetto, save the upper east side. When I scratched out an existence there, it was no place for a tourist.
All that(save the fact that it is still a nest of hebrew money) has changed, apparently. From Times Square to the rivers and all the way to the Village(where I lived),has been “cleaned up”. Well, that’s nice. If by cleaning up, one means wealth has been spread around and the citizenry has begun to be able to take pride in their neighborhoods. But that isn’t how it was done.
As in every metropolis today, “cleaned up” means more police, even less for the residents that actually work there and jewish money to accomplish this. All in the name of tourism dollars, and an unreal place for the elite to call home.
Even the side streets off Broadway, that used to define the word “rough” in an urban context, were renovated and made “safe” for tourists to saunter. My friend was informed by a tour guide, that Disney had provided the funds for that. Well…isn’t that just “Magical Kingdom” of them. Spooky. But who’s to complain? The ashkanazis that are making even more money on their investments?
So back to heroes. I am going to try your patience once again by mentioning John Lennon. He was a hero of mine. He too didn’t live long enough to disappoint. That’s nice in a way too. I wonder if my two heroes…John and my Father ever got together for a beer in the afterlife. I wonder a lot of strange things.
The 30th anniversary of the death of Lennon is in a few weeks. I don’t like using the word “anniversary” to mark all yearly events. It sounds too…I dunno…festive, when many events often never were. But we haven’t come up with one that sounds reverent enough to mark the days of dark events. Oh well. It will have to do.
So this is the anniversary of the death of a man of vision, I think you could say without much fear of argument. A hero to many of the time. A villain to many also. Maybe that’s why he was murdered. I don’t know. It really doesn’t matter now. It wouldn’t surprise me, but it doesn’t matter now. The dream is over, as he said.
What does matter is how we have changed since then. Have we changed at all? Did he leave a mark…in this world…in NYC?
I know I’m wandering here and not really making a point. It’s a feeling of nostalgia I guess.
Nostalgia, to me, doesn’t always mean fond memories…just memories.
This isn’t much of a tribute to John. But I don’t believe in heroes anymore. He was just a guy that lived in Manhattan that didn’t live long enough to disappoint me.