I remember when John Lennon was shot. I was living in a studio apartment in Hollywood, Los Angeles, and because I was so young, and there were so many tropical plants growing wildly in my neighborhood—Birds of Paradise and hibiscus, elephant ear and banana trees—I didn't understand what a dangerous slum I lived in. My bed, a double box springs and mattress, fit nicely into the alcove in the kitchen, and everything was white; the area rugs, curtains, sheets. It was like being inside an egg.
One morning, the radio alarm went off, playing one Lennon song after another, and I knew what that meant. I called my girlfriend, who was just starting her career as a journalist, and was already writing for Rolling Stone. Music meant a lot to each of us. We cried together over Lennon's death.
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Reach out.
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