If you're over the age of 40, you remember. While I was too young to remember where I was the day JFK was shot, I know exactly where I was the night the world learned that a deranged nothing snuffed out the life of my generation's most strident poet.
Since I live across the street from The Dakota, the famed apartment building where John Lennon lived -- and at whose front gate he was killed -- it's going to be a sad day in the neighborhood. The TV crews were already staking out positions last night at the 72nd Street Gate to Central Park -- positioned right between the front gates to The Dakota and Strawberry Fields, the peace park created just across the way to commemorate John and the goal of world peace he always wished for.
Rather than focus too much on his death, I'm going to try to remember his life. John was, like me, a transplanted New Yorker, not a native. But he grew quickly to love this city, just as I'm quickly growing to love it. He loved its grittiness, its energy. He loved the anonymity that the streets afforded him. I love these things too, but also the city is a much friendlier place than its reputation affords it.
Peace? Not always. But you can find peace here if you search hard enough.