College Journal -- December 15, 1980 - 12:30 AM -- Strawberry

When I was small (since I was small, in fact), I was probably like many other people in that I always wanted to be on television. I’ve been on the tube two times before – both times as a face in a crowd. The first time was when I was 10, and attending Martin Luther King Junior High School in Sausalito. At time the school was in the middle of racial strife (of a specific nature that I still don’t understand today). The second time was at a Star Trek convention in San Francisco in February 1977, when I was 17. In both instances I was interviewed and said bullshit shitty things that never made it on the air. But you did see me on screen, poking my figure into view just before the film ended and the director switched back to the studio. Well, the third time happened yesterday. At San Francisco State, at the vigil for John Lennon. It turned out to be the largest gathering for a Lennon vigil in the entire city, which I had no idea of until Steve told me last night. His friend Amy was the organizer of this vigil, and she was in command at center stage. At just before 11AM, when the vigil was scheduled to start, Mutsuo (whom I had to drag out of bed) and I went down to the lobby where we met Larry, and he accompanied us to the green near the dorms. There were already many people gathered – not the circle I expected, but more of a puddle; an immense puddle of people. I’d say it was about 200 strong. There was a nice clear spot in the crowd where the three of us sat. I didn’t see any familiar faces except Sylvia, who was sitting next to the guy on my right, talking to him. What I didn’t know at the time was that fellow was Steve. And when the time came, everybody clasped hands, and the vigil started. It was scheduled to go 10 minutes; it went 30. There were cameras everywhere – moving and still cameras alike. A morbid thought occurred to me: Wow! I’m going to be on the telly again. But John commanded my thoughts for the full 30 minutes. My eyes were closed for most of the period. There was complete silence except for occasional blasts from cap pistols from the children’s care center. They bothered me; it was too close a reminder of what happened Monday night. 20 minutes into the vigil someone turned on a stereo, and Lennon songs flowed all around. Our hands unclasped after most of the other folks’ did, only when a cube was passed around. It was then that I noticed that the chap next to me was Steve. We stayed another half-hour there. People began to leave. There were a few standouts. A fellow in a Jimi Hendrix hat sat on his knees so that he towered above everyone else. He rocked and swayed to the music, and sat motionless when there was silence. His hair was long and dark; he had a beard and mustache; he looked like George Harrison circa the Apple period. There was a couple behind me. Both cried during the vigil, and at the conclusion lit candles. There were featured in a solo shot on the news that evening. There was a woman Steve pointed out to me. Her mascara ran down her cheeks as she cried; she was interviewed by news reporters. Her voice sobbed. At noon the gathering dispersed, and the media left. I saw Amy, whom I had never spoken to before. While sitting I had thoughts of going to her to thank her for organizing the vigil. Usually, such a thought would remain just that, an unfulfilled idea. But this was a special occasion, if a special occasion could ever exist. So after waiting for my moment, I approached her. She was kneeling and looked pale. I touched her shoulder and called her name. She looked up. “Thank you for today,” I said. Or “Thank you for this.” Something like that. She smiled very warmly, and we embraced. But then all I could do was say thank you again, then I walked back to the Ding Center with Mutsuo, embarrassed but pleased. Anyhow, that night I saw myself on telly twice – both on KPIX channel 5. At six I was an anonymous, unrecognizable indiscernible face among faces. At 11 I was still anonymous (Aren’t I always?) but I was recognizable. Laurie and Dad both saw me – Laurie did at least. (I was surprised when she told me that she was so shocked by the murder that she had considered phoning me that night. But she wouldn’t have reached me at the dorms, of course.) Dad reacted as I expected: it meant nothing to him. “He was just another hippie,” he said. I hate my father at times like these. But he did get off his anti-baby boomer bandwagon long enough to deplore a society of mental cripples who are free to destroy valuable souls like John Lennon. For the first time, Dad placed an actual Beatle in the realm of humankind. John Lennon was a MAN, a man whose life ended in tragedy. He is no longer a media-hype, nor a gross representative of the destructive counterculture that 50-something-year-olds prefer to forget. Laurie, however, was shaken up by the news, and had noticed me on the TV news coverage of the vigil. My yellow shirt stood out. It was my Puccini shirt. I have two favorite 20^th century composers, and I wore a T-shirt bearing the name and face of one to the vigil of the other. And I’ll be damned if that yellow shirt didn’t stand out. That was a day I’ll never forget. And this record should preserve the details.

The vigil cut into the 49ers game, the last of the season to be televised. Atlanta clinched the NFC West with a 35-10 thumping. They are for real. I didn’t watch past 10:50, really. I’d left for Dad’s at 2:30, after looking over a paper of Mutsuo’s. The last game of the season is next week at home vs.Buffalo, who lost badly yesterday. They desperately need a win for the division title.  Great. Atlanta is the first NFC West team other than the Rams to win the division since Dick Nolan’s boys won their third straight title in 1972.  Congratulations, boys. Try to keep the Rams out of the playoffs if you can, right?

I’m feeling sleepy, so I’ll finish later.

College Journal -- December 14, 1980 1:35 AM

It was 181 years ago this morning that George Washington, the father of our country, died at the age of 67. Today, millions of people still mourn the death of the greatest foreigner who ever wanted to make America his home, who fought and suffered and cried for the right to live in this country. He got his wish, he got his green card, and he lived in this country until a damned fool blew him open Monday night. Now he's dead. Now he is ashes. I really can't get this out of my mind.

Think of Yoko! The poor suffering lonely woman who nobody ever understood. Nobody except one that is. Her late husband. He saw in her both a reflection of himself, and a challenge to improve that self. He saw a welcome alternative to the once exciting, vibrant life that had for him become a monotonous game but with Yoko, he saw purpose. He found objectives, such as peace and love. He found artistic satisfaction and inspiration. He says she saved his life, in that she gave him a reason for not ending it all." If it hadn't been for Yoko," he said," I'd be dead now." Meaning when he was a Beatle. Leaving when he was so depressed and frustrated that he would have lifted all safeguards that prevented drug abuse, he found this wonderful woman to give him INSPIRATION to stay alive and in love with what the world could become. But the people all laughed. Weirdos, those two, they said. HA HA. Bed-ins. Funny. Married in Gibraltar. Hilarious. Growing your hair for peace, then the hacking it off and selling it to benefit peaceful humanistic causes. Devastatingly comedic. Laugh at them, those two strange children at play. But it wasn't enough to keep him ALIVE, and with us for another 10 years. We may cry because there will be no more, but if it wasn't for Yoko, the last 10 years of his contributions, his art, his soul, wouldn't have existed at all. Instead of weeping over the loss of the voice, we should cherish that we had it for an extra 10 years, that we had it at all. It's hard to do. We must also realize that the person responsible for the past 10 years is now a poor widow who has already lost a daughter as well as a husband, and now must raise a five-year-old boy alone. Never mind your own selfish grief, no more new musical product look forward to. Think of her loss. Cry for her loss. The love affair of the 60s, they called it. Fuck the 60s it was the love affair of the 20th century; of the fucking history of Man. Why? Because it was PERFECT. If not perfect, then perfection cannot exist, and they came the closest of any other couple." Yoko is me in drag,” he said jocularly at the beginning. Everybody laughed. They look just like two gurus in drag! But maybe now the world understands. She wasn't bullshitting. He loved her beyond the world's understanding of the word. She made him whole again. Cry for Yoko and Sean. And Julian, who didn't have his father enough during the past 10 years. Love them all for their love for him. This love lasted because it was. And honest. Nobody took him seriously, not even his best friends--all three of them. So fuck you, he said. She became his best friend. Cranberry sauce. All we are saying. They had their problems, like every married couple of course. He left her for a while. He came back. He had to. They were a pair. Their souls were Siamese twins." The separation didn't work out," he said when they reconciled. Now both Yoko and Sean must live with it. And so must we all. Cry. Cry for Yoko, Sean, Julian. Cry for me, right for you. Cry for everybody who heard him when he was. Cry for the future generations who never had the chance, who only have paper and records to know him from. But don't cry for him. He's better off. He doesn't have his Yoko, but he doesn't have to exist in a world that kills its heroes and glorifies its killers. Cry for all of us, because we are still here. Here without his light to make the long and winding road look and feel better (excuse me Paul).

I devoted nearly 14 months now to finally rediscovering the Beatles. (I say finally, even before this tragedy, because I knew that this time my interest in the Beatles would never pass away, as it did before.) In these past 14 months since I asked my brother Mark to tape all of the original Beatle records for me, I have come to know the group and the individuals as well as any hobby that I have ever been involved in before. I had no idea of what was to happen on December 8, a date as burned into my mind as August 31, September 4 and 6, March 8, November 22, 27, 18, April 4, June 5 etc. I had no idea that my love affair with my favorite Beatle would end on a Monday night with pierced, destroyed flesh. I miss him horribly, as much as if a member of my family had died. But one thing I must not forget. I did have him for 14 months. I had 14 months of being a Beatles fan with the knowledge that he was OUT THERE, with us. It didn't matter that he has nothing more to say. His existence was enough. I should think whomever is responsible that I didn't have to wait until after his death to discover him. I found him in time to enjoy him untainted for 14 months, 14 months I'll always treasure. Right now I'm in and there is a full aggressive in Wednesday's newspaper then he had something to say. He was going to speak again. "He showed me how to be young, and I was looking forward to him showing me how to grow old," someone said. Right. Now we must grow old without him. And, although we will make it, it won't be as rewarding. If thou misseth a savior in this life, then turneth thou to thy stereos, and live again and again within the magic, the love, the faith of the hero of the 20th century, the late, so much lamented John Lennon.

There is a vigil this morning on the lawn in front Merced Hall at 11. I will give up part of a football Sunday for it. Gladly. I'll do anything for him now to show my love. My dad may not understand. He doesn't have to. I'll do the same for him when it's his turn.

There is a photograph in Wednesday's newspaper. It was taken on the afternoon of December 8, and shows John Lennon autographing a copy of double fantasy given to him by Mark David Chapman, the man who would kill him 3-4 hours later. Photography is fascinating. There is Dr. Winston O’Boogie himself, looking down at the album, with Chapman standing next to him, smirking. I wanted to pull the photograph apart, dive in, and push the monster away. I wanted to rip back the clock, go there and throw my body between John and the .38. Or shriek. “No John! Watch out!” It seems so easy, but it don’t come easy.

College Journal - December 13, 1980 12:55 AM

That was quite an exorcism. But I'll never let John Lennon's sole leave me. That was just an exorcism of the hate and anger and hurt and frustration and sadness that have been building up all week." Don't let his death affect you so harshly," said Yoko." He never wanted any violence." A beautiful thing to say, Yoko. But when a figure who means so much to someone is suddenly gone, taken away, one does not--indeed, maybe should not--act in a rational manner. So many people, myself very much included, loved John Lennon the man and the ideals he believed in. There is no longer a man to love, but his memory takes his place. And we still have his ideas, his optimism, for the 80s. My own optimism about the 80s is gone; it's getting worse, not better, especially with the USSR following the footsteps of Nazi Germany, apparently. We may not even survived the 80s. If this is true, then the events of the past week and its aftermath mean nothing. But, regardless of what follows, and when I take everything into consideration, I feel that mankind has progressed past stupidity of having to kill itself to prove itself; regardless of what follows, there is no John Lennon anymore to show the way, to show why it is that we live. Of course, John Lennon gave up contributing to the world for the last five years. Bitterness was his reason, I thought. But no. John Lennon was beyond the bitterness. He simply chose not to speak. He had nothing to say. He wanted to stay at home to love and raise his son. Then one day he had something to say. So he said it. And the world rejoiced. John Lennon was coming back! Forget McCartney and his silly love songs. Forget Harrison and his Crackerbox Palace. Forget Starr and his Barbara. John Lennon was coming back. We had him, he was hours again. The void was filled. So what if his album, Double Fantasy, didn't measure up to Plastic Ono Band or Imagine. He was ours again. And now he's gone forever. So, so senselessly. Even during his five years of silence, we were comforted Justin knowing he was there, living. But he is there no more. John Lennon is gone. If I write this sentence 1000 times, it will be no easier to believe or to accept it. So I will say it once again. John Lennon is gone.

Bizarre coincidence. Two months ago, I sent away to the National Lampoon for back issues, including the Beatles parody issue that I discovered at Curtis's place at Humboldt in the spring of 1978. Two months I waited. The check was cashed and returned, but no magazine. Well, it finally came. When? Tuesday, December 9. I picked it up from the dormitory mailbox with a black armband on my sleeve, tears in my eyes, and innocence gone from my soul. Very funny. What a Fetridge. Fuck you, Fetridge. The parity wasn't as funny as I remembered. I'm somewhat older now. But I laughed. I couldn't laugh before. I sang. On my way home for mom’s Monday night, Monday, December 8, 1980, when every station on the car radio was playing Beatles songs and Lennon songs, I sang. I sang loud, in a choked voice. I remember singing "Ticket to Ride." But I cried. I could not laugh. I couldn't play Beatles songs on the stereo. But I got over it. I couldn't play Lennon songs. I got over that too. Soon I might be able to have fun with the Beatles again. Maybe even the pure, joyous fun of old. But I won't forget the pain. Never.

My last three entries have been devoted to John Lennon the slain former Beatle. But I don't believe that I completely expressed my feelings at all. I feel they are just subjective, obscure, horribly sad ramblings such as writers write and non-writers think and feel. I can't help it if it fails. It's me. It's how I feel, what comes to me as I write. It's not always honest unto itself; sometimes my mind diverts from itself. But it is my content of thought, my stream of consciousness. It's too bad if it fails--it will mean that I'm no writer. Or that I have a long way to go to become a writer.

I better get to bed now. Today, or yesterday, was Friday, the final day of regular classes for the semester. I have nothing academic to do until Tuesday at 8 AM, and I've averaged five hours of sleep all week I will sleep in tomorrow morning.

Birthday Week

Today my brother Mark turns 60 years old. Sixty! That's a mouthful, or post-ful. It is staggering to see how old we are now, particularly for the little old archivist that inhabits my body. In still quite a few ways, my life as a child in my principal family unit of Mom, Mark and me seems like only yesterday. I understand that as the baby of the group, my impressions are the most suspect of the three; they mostly center around the schools I went to, the dogs we had, the movies and TV shows we saw, plus Mom's occasional boyfriends like Albert and Cominos, and even Mark's brief heterosexual fling with a College of Marin classmate (cannot remember her name right now). I remember other things of course -- how could I omit our summer in Mexico when I was seven?

My own birthday passed by last Saturday. The climax of the day was a wonderful home-cooked meal by Karen of filet mignon, nuked potato and salad. Ian was at his mom's, so it was just the two of us. Other events of the day -- the karate studio had its black-belt testing scheduled, so I took mom over there so she wouldn't have to park; Edith brought Ian to join her shortly after. Neither my dad nor my son remembered to call me -- I was mostly surprised by my dad's forgetting it, especially since he called the day before about it -- so I had the privilege of laying some faux indignation on them both. I had 30-something birthday wishes on Facebook -- I expected somewhat more in light of the daily puns I've been donating to Zuckerberg's cyber-verse all year. I was most surprised to receive a greeting from Seth Barrish. I didn't think that would ever happen. Truth be told, he piggy-backed his greeting onto one from David Smith.

And of course, it is mom's birthday in two days. I have an idea that I will invite her and Ian to go see "Blue Jasmine" that evening. It's at the AMC Emeryville, and I do not want to deal with parking there, especially on a Friday night.  But I think I can handle it for one night. As noted in an earlier entry, Karen and I saw it at the Albany Twin a few weeks ago.

Ian is now all but officially enrolled in Westwind for his senior year. First payment has been made -- with nearly 2/3 of the amount already accounted for (carried over from the last month of his karate lesson payment from last spring). When he told Edith he wanted to go, she made it clear she wouldn't or couldn't stop him, but she did not and would not support his attendance there in any sense of the word. So it's up to me and mom. I've pledged $8,000 of the $12,000, and mom is forced to come up with the balance, but there are other avenues I can try.

Winning At Trimming -- For Now

Congratulations to me for sticking to my current exercise regimen. I'm down about 12 pounds in the last six or seven weeks, and15 or 16 from my high fatter mark of 304 earlier in the year. I'm now either 289 ( bathroom scale) or 286 1/2 (Wii Fit Platform); I have no idea which is the more accurate source. My exercise centerpiece is Wii Fit Plus, and I'm back on it full time for the first time in, what, 2-3 years? In fact, most days I use it for two half-hour-plus periods -- once after my morning shower, and again after clocking out from work at 5. This way, I've been able to achieve gradual weight loss and cut down a small portion of my calorie in-take: I'm keeping away from most of my chocolate snacks, but I get to "pig out" at least one meal a day, usually lunch. Thus I avoid feeling food-deprived, which is a primary reason why many diet regimes ultimately fail. 

Of course, I have a history, like most people, of not sticking to these regimens for the long term. Either I get bored with the routines. or I get ill or otherwise time-hampered and my rhythm is thrown off. There is no guarantee that I will not get sick and tired of Wii Fit in time. But there are a couple of key differences. 

• For the first time in my life, I understand that my age requires daily physical maintenance. I can no longer get away with not exercising. I sense that a steep physical decline is coming, maybe soon, if I don't get into the habit.
• For the first time in my life, my goal is not just weight loss. I am really digging how exercising makes my body feel! Be it the endorphins, or the improved muscle tone, or the increasing energy level, I haven't felt this good in my body since my conditioning went into a tailspin after the BACDS Fall Frolic camp -- was that in 2009? Must have been. The key moment this time was realizing that the feeling was worth just as much as the weight loss, and even when I go through phases of zero weight loss, or even a gain, it's just temporary, and the good feeling is nice by itself, and keeping at it will take care of the weight loss. It's a piece of wisdom I wish I had after the Fall Frolic weekend, when I danced my tushie off (and snacked on a good deal of sweets) and came home to find I hadn't lost any of the weight I had hoped for.

I doubt that I will get as low as the 260s like I did in 2004-05, in the Weight Watchers program and dancing two-three times a week. For one, I'm not as absorbed in the County Dance world these days (although we did go to the English Berkeley dance last night and I marveled at how well my body met the challenge); for another, a couple of stomach illnesses helped me along to that 30+ pounds of weight loss I enjoyed then. I will not set such lofty goals any more! I hope that if I ever do have the opportunity to set my weight goal to the 260s, it will be when I'm just a few pounds shy of that range.

Now it's 10:30 PM this Thursday evening and time for a huge hot-fudge sundae before bed. (Ha ha, although I will be reading a Judy Blume Fudge book to Karen at bed-time.)

Conjuring Up A Good Movie Tonight, Plus Jasmine is Blue and Woody is Hot

Ian and I took time out from his make-up English class to go see "The Conjuring" tonight. Funny, we haven't gone to see a horror flick in over a year, probably not since "Sinister" last year.  This one was a better-than-average demonic possession opus, with more than its share of provocative jump moments with the now obligatory music score abruptly shifting from dead silence to super loud. The paranormal specialists in the film are non-fictional characters; a real-life couple (Ed and Lorrainne Warren) who were involved in several high-profile paranormal cases in the 60s and 70s, including the Amityville Horror incident. The director, James Wan, is best known for the Saw series; a franchise I've made it my business to keep away from. Here he shows a deft touch with the exorcism genre. The acting was top notch, particularly the two female leads, Vera Farmiga as Lorraine Warren and Lili Taylor as the mother, and **spoiler alert** the key figure in the possession plot. I was curious about the background of this case, which as far as I know never developed the notoriety of Amityville, but there was barely a listing on Wikipedia about it. I'll need to look elsewhere, obviously.

Last week Karen and I went to see "Blue Jasmine." I have to concede: Woody Allen is a genius. I now have to look beyond the half-dozen or so mediocre to bad movies that pepper his filmography in the 80s, 90s and Aughts. The director of "Blue Jasmine" is a genius working at the peak of his powers -- and he's 77 years old!  It has been a privilege for this cinema-head to have been able to follow the trajectory of his career from nearly the beginning to now. No one could have guesses while viewing "Sleeper" or "Bananas" 40 years ago that Allen would prove himself capable of such artwork as "Blue Jasmine," or "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," or even "Midnight in Paris." (Owen Wilson notwithstanding) I must applaud his development, and I wish him many more years of filmmaking to come. I predict Cate Blanchett's name will be added to the list of actresses that Allen directed to an Oscar, joining Diane Keaton, Dianne Wiest, Penelope Cruz, and yes, even Mira Sorvino.(Has he ever directed a male actor to an Oscar? Or even a nomination?) Blanchette in playing a privileged upper class New York socialite borrowed her clipped, patrician style of speech from her role in "The Talented Mr. Ripley," but everything else about her performance was breathtakingly original and emotionally transcendent.  The disintegration of her character's self-esteem and its effect on her psyche were artfully presented. And it was fabulous to see Blanchett again - I haven't seen much of her latest except for "Lord of the Ring" reruns.

Bedtime. Until we meet again...

Nagasaki, 68 Years Later and 30 Years Later

I nearly forgot -- today, August 9, is the anniversary of the atomic bomb explosion over Nagasaki. That was the last straw for the Japanese military effort of World War II; in a few days they finally agreed to surrender unconditionally to the Allies. Thirty years ago I was there, the first day of my solo train tour of the country. I will never forget how the citizens of Nagasaki observed the anniversary: at precisely the hour of the day when the bomb was dropped in 1945, bells in towers began to toll. Everyone in sight stopped what they were doing and lowered their heads in meditation. (It looked like a scene from the Star Trek episode "The Return of the Archons," with Landru's people acting in perfect precision whether they were walking, attacking the landing party, or suffering the Red Hour.) I don't remember how long the observance lasted -- it's probably recorded in the bound journal I kept during that trip, and I still have it -- it was maybe five minutes. I remember looking at the sky above me and trying to picture a mushroom cloud obliterating the soft blue of a summer's morning, back on August 9, 1945. 

I don't recall attending any Bomb museum in Nagasaki -- again, I'll need to check the journal. But I sure remember the museum I visited in Hiroshima a few days later. The photographic evidence of the damage, to property and to the people alike. The stories of death by radiation that were still occurring years after the explosion. As I was exiting the exhibit, I came to a table on which was a blank book for visitors to use to write their impressions.  I remember writing something like I hope the world will become a place where no city, no people ever have to endure such suffering again. And I said that I equally hope that no country will ever embark on a bloody path of destruction that is so effective that the use of an atom bomb can stop them. My small way of indicting both sides of the conflict.