On a happier note...

Neil Gaiman introduces us to Skippy, the new writer of his blog.

Twenty-five years ago today....

I was eight years old and mad for the Beatles. I had a bunch of records (bought for me by my bemused parents, both of whom had basically sat out Beatlemania in the 60s) and I loved playing them over and over. And, like many too-smart-for-their-own-good kids, I had chosen as my favorite Beatle the iconoclast, John Lennon. John (or at least his general public image) was the kind of person I wanted to be. I didn't know about, and wouldn't have understood if I had, his infidelities, his flaws. I was definitely too young to appreciate his later music (though I tried) and I had no idea that he'd been in semi-retirement in New York for years. But I always hoped that I'd either get to see him perform or (the great dream) see a reunited Beatles! His writing and his music were inspirational--even at that young age--and, more importantly, made me feel.

Twenty-five years ago today, I cried myself to sleep. And, all these years on, there's still a little bit of hurt inside me.

Damn you, Mark David Chapman. I'm glad they locked you up and part of me wishes they would throw away the key.


yeah, I got insomnia, why?