College Journal - December 9, 1980 1:35 AM

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to write. I don't know why I write. As futile as life seems, it has never been more so than now. December 8, 1980 was the worst day of my life. A light, bright, deep, insightful, enlightening, was snuffed out forever that day. Tears will flow later, I hope.

John Lennon died last night. 11 PM, New York time. Shot seven times in front of his apartment with Yoko right beside him. No mercy. A monster named Mark David Chapman, age 25, a town "screwball,” "cuckoo,” did it. "Mr. Lennon." Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! “I know I've been shot.” “I’ve just shot John Lennon.” Cranberry sauce. John Lennon, 1940 – 1980. Requiescat in pace.

I was at mom's place to watch on PBS a Munich production of Der Rosenkavalier (which was the intended subject of this entry). While we were watching, Howard telephoned Mom. "John Lennon was shot," he said. No. God, no. What could we do? It's not serious, I told myself, hardly watching the telecast by now. It will just be another phase of his life that he will write about for his next album. Then, my brother Mark called from San Diego. "Sit down," he said. "I know he's been shot," I said. "How bad?" "He’s dead," he answered. Dead. I nodded to mom. "Is he dead?" She asked. I nodded again. She muttered, "Oh God!" and collapsed toward the kitchen. Mark and I bullshitted on the phone. He was very despondent, almost crying. Cathy have been reading him the Lennon interview in Playboy magazine (which I had read it over Thanksgiving), when their friend Karen called them with the news. He immediately phoned me at school, where I wasn't, and then at Mom's, where I was. He was devastated. He said he hadn't felt this bad since Martin Luther King was assassinated. That's nearly 13 years ago. Now I know how it feels to lose someone you believe in. I was too young to remember JFK's murder, too young to comprehend the impact of King’s and RFK's murders. No other celebrity’s death meant this much to me except maybe when Groucho Marx died in 1977 (just three days, incidentally, after the death of Lennon's only non-Beatle rival for the public's affections-Elvis Presley), but perhaps the Marx Brothers spell was already off for me for as bad as I felt then he didn't really touch me losing Groucho. Also, Groucho was 86 when he died, having lived a full long life. But this. John Lennon dead at 40. Life begins at 40. Perhaps it does, but not for John on this planet. Poor Yoko. Poor Sean. What do misters McCartney, Harrison, and Starkey have to say? I don't want to see the headlines tomorrow, but I will not be able to help reading them. So much work to be done.

What else can I say? I cannot ever listen to Beatle music again the same way as before. I'll probably still play my records as much but the light entertainment and life-escaping aspect is gone forever. Beatles music sort of eclipsed Opera in my life for the past year-since October of 1979 to be exact. I've used Beatles music is my narcotic; my doldrums-lifting high he. Now, it will probably never be that way again. It's great music, using that will live forever as they say, long after the last of them is gone. But it's not soul-pleasing music anymore for me. Beatles music will never again propel me above the harshness of life. Now it is part of the harshness, the violence, the senseless tragedies that mark this world. The cheerful voice, distinctively hard, the dynamic energetic performing, the timeless and priceless songs of John Lennon are marked. Are MARKed. Oh yeah, John Lennon, the Beatle that was shot. Trivia question, in the year 2018. Of the four members of the 1960s rock group the Beatles, which one was shot to death in 1980? Yes, number 216? John Lennon. Full name please? John Winston (later Ono) Lennon, born October 9, 1940, Liverpool England. Father: Fred Lennon-deserted family in 1941, deceased. Mother: Julia Stanley Lennon, died in car crash in 1958; her sister Mimi raised young John. Married Cynthia Powell, August 23, 1962. Baby son Julian born eight months later. Divorced in 1968, married Yoko Ono March 20, 1969, on the island Gibraltar. Baby son Sean born October 9, 1975. Died December 8, 1980, New York, New York, USA. The gun capital of the world.

It's past three in the morning, and time to go to bed. I'll write more later. I've spent the last three hours in a study room here in Verducci Hall, in front of the radio, flipping through the stations, anxious for any news at all. John is dead, man. Miss him. Miss him. Miss him.

College Journal - December 7, 1980 11:53 PM

Oops-almost wrote 1941. Today is Sunday, and it's the 39th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, the launching of America into what should have been the last global conflict. But, as recent signs show, that might not be the case at all. What with the Soviet Union already in Afghanistan and supposedly about to invade Poland too, it is no overstatement to say that I fear the worst.

I spent the plupart of the day chez Dad, where we suffered through a first half-full of miserable 49er play-only to be astounded by an unbelievable second half. The 0-13 New Orleans Saints played the first half like they were the Steelers of old, and the 49ers played like almost literally a bunch of turkeys. The score at halftime was, and it's a good thing I'm writing this tonight because I might not believe this 20 years from now, the score was 35-7 Saints. The lone 49er touchdown? A 55-60 yard punt return by the suddenly extraordinary Freddie Solomon. But the home fans booed throughout the first half, and many departed at the break. I myself (and who else would I be if not myself?) resigned myself (that's where a "self" belongs) to reading the newspaper, going through the motions of listening to the tragedy on the radio. Well, who would have imagined 28 unanswered points in the second half by the 49ers to tie the game? Of course it was possible but not likely, because even if the offense was able to score 28 points, then surely you'd expect the sieve-like defense, so bloody rotten in the first half, unable to keep the Saints from scoring at will. In the end, it went down as the greatest comeback in 49ers history, according to Lon Simmons. First, a 76-yard pass play, Joe Montana to Dwight Clark, who beat three defenders in a FOOT RACE for 60 yards of it. Then, a catch at the Saints 5-yard line by the estimable Solomon, who faked two Saints defenders out of their shoes for the score. Then there was a relatively routine QB touchdown scramble by Joe, and then the scoring was capped by a 7 yard touchdown run by Lenvil Elliott. As for the defense, when the Saints remembered again how to self-destruct by fumbling and blowing blocking assignments, the 49ers defense executed its newfound ability that had originally surfaced in the 12-0 shutout of the Giants and the 21-17 upset of the Patriots. No record-setting defense today, just good all-around tough play particularly by Archie Reese, Ricky Churchman, Gerard Williams (recovering from a MISERABLE first half), Danny Bunz, and Lawrence Pillars, not forgetting Jim Stuckey, Keena Turner and Bobby Leopold-each of them rookies. Only one interception-in the last minute of the fourth quarter by Dwight Hicks, and two sacks, but the Saints never really came close to scoring again. Overtime. The Saints won the coin toss, but ineptly (thanks to fine defensive play) failed to move the ball and had to punt. The 49ers got the ball on the 26-yard line, and thanks mainly to Elliott (who ended up as the 49ers first 100-yard rusher this season) and with help from Don Woods, the team moved down to the Saints 12 (there was also a very helpful unnecessary roughness call against New Orleans). However, the 49ers suddenly made a Mistake of Their Own-a holding call, and Ray Wersching, who has been brilliant all season, came on to attempt a 35-yard field goal. He made it, splitting the uprights, and the 49ers went to 6-8 and achieved a level of respectability, while the Saints, who had just blown a 20 point lead, plummeted to 0-14. Not even Joe Thomas’ 49ers were ever 0-14. With one more loss, the Saints will become the first team ever to lose more than 14 games in regular-season play. So the 49ers have now tripled their win output of each of the past two seasons, and indeed have cinched bettering their 1977 record, when they were 5-9 under coach Ken Meyer. So the team has achieved their best record since 1976 under coach Monte Clark, when they were 8-6 and finished second in the division. Who says we aren't progressing? Granted, we did have a relatively easy schedule this year. But the team is learning how to play the game-a knowledge they have sorely lacked over the past 2 1/2 years will. Give them a good draft or two, and with a healthy and full-powered Paul Hofer and Dwaine Board for an entire season, we’ll see what they can do. And the Saints trudge home 0-14 and guaranteed of the number one pick in the draft next year, which they will undoubtedly use on Heisman Trophy-winning running back George Rogers. The greatest comeback in 49ers history! Wow.

And it was very nice at dad's. Infrequent exposure seems to bring out the best in him. Spending a summer or any extended time, they tend to get on each other's nerves. But just popping over on weekends is almost like heaven. At these times I am rarely unsure of his love and concern for me. Strong medicine in these trouble-filled times. But with an inconsistently-present mother (who has been gone 10 days now without a word despite her promise of a card AND a phone call he he) will, it's nice to have a steady presence somewhere.

Oh! Waiting for me at dad's was a Christmas card, sort of, from Paul and Cindy F (mostly Paul, I'll bet), the two Jersey-ites from ME-16, the tour group from my European trip this past summer. In the card they wrote about how well their lives are going and their hope that mine is going the same. Now I feel guilty about not writing them, and I'll field the guilt if I break them back. But how would they know whether I intended to write them a card or not? It's the thought that counts, and all that cliché bullshit. I've still received no word from Greg Reimer. Maybe I'll write to Mark R, or even the Mexicans. I should write to Judy C (another classmate in Italian class last year). Carl Sagan was wrong. Writing isn't man's greatest invention. It's his greatest curse. As well as the greatest blessing (oh, you always have to see both sides of the question don't you?) And why do I use many parentheses? Shall I improve as a writer if I cut down on those? Why can't I simply end a day's journal without rambling on? Why am I writing this anyway, when due to my hurried strokes I won't be able to read these words in five years’ time?

College Journal - December 6th, 1980 1:10 pm

Ha! I've missed two nights writing. Imagine that. One night I was tired, the other I was busy. More about that later. Maybe. I'm not structured anymore. Free, that's what I am.

Well, I should talk or write about that. Why? For the simple reason that there's nothing else to write about. Suffice it to say that Beth and I are " back together again." She called me up about eight this past evening and said she wanted to talk to me. I had no idea of what it was all about. Steve had told me that he had seen her earlier and she had told him she wanted to talk to me about our relationship. I didn't expect her to call me though. That was a surprise. I went down to her dorm room, number 703 in Verducci Hall. She greeted me warmly, sat me down, and we talked. About our relationship. About why I haven't called her since we watched Shogun together. About how she had fallen in love between then and now, but now that was over-by now she was close to tears. About how she wanted to know where we stood, if it was in a position that we could go out together. About her affection for me, despite the fact as she said that she had been cool to me during her recent liaison. (Truthfully, I had no recollection of her being cool to me. She cited an example when she didn't return my hello, but I don't remember that at all. And I think, nay, I'm sure, that that would be the sort of thing. I would remember.) While she was telling me all this, I sat there saying nothing. I nodded once in a while to show her I was listening-which I was, obviously. When she had finished, I told her that I had a hard and busy schedule this semester, but this semester would soon be over and it wouldn't be so busy the next semester. I told her I did want to see her. It seemed okay. So our conversation then turned to more light and mundane matters. At one point, I picked up her guitar and started to demonstrate my new-found ability to play some Beatles songs. She had a Beatles songbook from the 1967-1970 period, with arrangements identical to the songbook that I bought a couple weeks ago at the Beatles convention. I played Rocky Raccoon, the song I best knew how to play, and she tried to join me on flute or recorder for Fool on the Hill. Next I played Hey Jude, and after that I am the Walrus. By this time she had arisen from the bed, where we had been sitting together, and had opened her window and was looking out into the night. I took this as a cue that I was probably paying her too little attention, but I had to wait till I finished the song I was playing, because who knows what women think, but I'm not going to let it get the best of me. But after I finished playing, I joined her at the window. She smelled the same as she always did-that sweet perfume-y but utterly Beth-y the smell I remembered from when we first met a year ago. (I wonder what my "signature" odor is?) At the window he talked about astronomy, and war vs. Peace, and soon it got cold and we moved back to the bed and sat down together. By this time it was close to 11 PM and I began worrying to myself that I might miss the last chance showing of Holy Grail on KQED. As it turned out, I missed all of the movie and then some. I was sure she wanted me to cuddle her, but I didn't anyway. Why not? I have no idea areas. Lack of confidence? Maybe-earlier she gave me a brief lecture about confidence: specifically, that I must learn to find some. She told me they would be better to see each other non-exclusively-in case either of us met someone else. Did I take that opportunity to reply that this was the main reason for my not contacting her over the 15 months that we've known each other? That would have been the most honest thing that I ever told her. But I chickened out, and said nothing. In time, I told her that the room was a bit chilly (temperature-wise) and we snuggled up together. After dipping here and there, touching and trying to find a comfortable place to touch, we settled down on her bed and slept together. Or to be more accurate, we fell asleep together. No sex, just sleeping. That was still a first for me. I can now honestly say that I've "slept” with a lady. ("What's it like?"). We slept until 2:20 a.m. Her roommate, Cathy, had not returned while we were sleeping, and as I was scrambling out Beth wondered aloud where she was.

So I have her back again. What am I going to do now? Treat her like before?  (I already feel that I should have called her by now today, and I still might, should, tonight.) Or take her out? I think that I should take advantage of yet another reprieve. Yet, despite my feelings to the contrary a year ago October, I don't think she is ready to have sex with me yet. I've wondered that for months now, and maybe it's time I found out. I should see her over Christmas. While we were nestling together last night, several thoughts came to me: if my friends could see me now, particularly my non-San Francisco State friends. Eat your heart out, world. Another thought: ahhh I forget now. Give me a few minutes.

I got a letter from Sally R yesterday. A card, actually. In her previous letter she said she'll be coming back from Iowa to visit the Bay Area over the holidays. So in my last letter I asked if we could see each other (I think my exact words were something to the effect of we could play beautiful music together-literally, on flute and guitar). So in the card I got today, she said that she would be here in California from December 22 to January 2 or somewhere around that time. She said she would be spending most of her time with her parents live in Danville, but she would also be spending a lot of time in San Francisco, and she would like to get together with me. So I may have misinterpreted her that time in class when she told our TA Loretta that she had a boyfriend. She must've meant a friend who is a boy. If she has a lover-type boyfriend, he's apparently in Sioux City, Iowa and not here. Her card included her parents' phone number, and achieve wrote that I can call any time. I assume that by any time, she meant between December 22 and January 2. And I will call her between those dates. Does it mean something when a girl that you've only talked to as a friend before, and then moves out of the state, maintains a correspondence with you? I hope so. I wouldn't mind going to bed with her in the slightest, but it wouldn't make a difference in how much I enjoy her company if we never did. As long as there is somebody around who wants to be with me, that's all that matters. I am no ass-chaser yet.

I think I remember what I was going to say earlier. Another thought that crossed my mind while snuggling with Beth was this: I noticed that the date was December 5, 1980. It reminded me of what had happened exactly a year earlier, on December 5, 1979. That was the date of my second and last date with Renée B, who will probably go down as is the most physically attractive girl I ever went out with. Wasn't that a story? Was I not so utterly depressed afterwards? Am I still now, 367 days later? Definitely. She wasn't the girl for me, not in terms of personality and wealth of friends. That's what she coolly told me that night in the bar. Later she was a little warmer on the way to the disco. But afterwards, on our way home, I endured one of the darkest moments of my romantic life. She saw something in me, definitely. Helen told me that Renée found me cute and thin. One thing I often forget about that night is that my left contact lens had a hole in it. (I had no idea of that until a few weeks later, when I was getting ready to go to the Tom Paine-Tam drama reunion at the Kovac's house.) So that night with Renée, I suffered a bloodshot and irritated eye that ruined my dinner at the Casablanca that night, and to be fair, it was the cause of discomfort even earlier at the bar, when Renée told me that she saw me only as a friend. I don't recall that the bad lens-situation had reached its peak yet at that time though. Another important occasion that night was in the bar, while she was socializing all around the place, I drank my first ever complete glass of alcohol (white wine). God, she was beautiful. She split from me to smoke a joint with friends while I was working on the wine. I was happy to finish the drink-alone-but I declined the waitress’ offer of a refill. But as I said, December 5 was the night of our second date. Our first date was a few weeks earlier on November 15. What a night that was! As wonderful as the second date was woeful. The finest night of my romantic life. I wrote in my notes the next day that no matter how our relationship worked out, I will always treasure that night. Yes, the second date put a damper on it, but today I can look back on that night, satisfied that I can entertain a girl on a date regardless of whether she's gorgeous or not-so. I really was upset December 6, 1979. I lost Renée and had rejected Beth. I also remember on that second date that Renée gave me a lecture. She said I should know exactly where a restaurant is before I take a date there. I said nothing back, but hey, I didn't know where the Greenhouse restaurant was on the first date-did that matter? Well, that part of my life is over. Or is it? I can call Renée at her office if I want to. It's too long ago. She said a guy was coming in from Chicago. She liked him and maybe they would get together. Helen told me the three of us could get together over Christmas. So much goes on around me I don't know about. Fuck you, Helen, you deserting, snitching bitch with your Indian boyfriend. Married, I'll bet. Watch out for housewives, Helen. Watch out for Helen, Liz.