John Lennon

When Mrs Candycanes and I met, we had in common a great appreciation for the Beatles. Still do.

Watching their breakup was interesting to see their talents separated. Like when Kirby left Marvel for self-edited work at DC, and you could then see what Stan Lee's editorial and writing added (and subtracted) from Jack's work, so we saw Lennon without Paul's pop, George's quiet strength, or Ringo's beat and wit. Tortured songs by a talented man who sought Truth but it eluded him.

Personally, from Imagine to Starting Over, I sympathized with John's sad trip, and was glad for him when he spent five quiet years being Dad and husband, ending just as my wife and I were finally ready to start our own family. He found some measure of true Peace at last, I thought.

His new phase was a delight, from the surprise of Watching the Wheels rolling out of my car radio, to the sad but beautiful post-murder album. Relationship. Fatherhood. Simple joys. I even liked how some of Yoko's songs worked.

But for how it ended, Yoko's tortured scream was appropiate as never before. She screams for me.

We had just moved to Chicago, were walking down the street, and saw a Trib newsbox with a ghastly faded picture of John and the partially stickered headline "Ex-Beatle John Lennon...."]

By madness or conspiracy, we were deprived of decades more of what else he might have learned and grown into and put into potent songs.