He lives in a house
A very big house
In the country
Watching afternoon repeats
And the food he eats
In the country
He takes all manner of pills
And piles up analyst bills
In the country
Oh, it’s like an animal farm
That’s the rural charm
In the country

He’s got morning glory and life’s a different story
Everything’s going Jackanory
Touched with his own mortality
He’s reading Balzac, knocking back Prozac
It’s a helping hand that makes you feel wonderfully bland
Oh, it’s a century’s remedy
For the faint at heart
A new start
(Try the simple life)

He lives in a house
A very big house
In the country
He’s got a fog in his chest
So he needs a lot of rest
In the country
He doesn’t drink, smoke, laugh
Takes herbal baths
In the country
You should come to no harm
On the animal farm
In the country
(Blow, blow me out, I am so sad, I don’t know why)

-Johnny Cash

“You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don’t try to forget the mistakes, but you don’t dwell on it. You don’t let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.”
-Johnny Cash

It was the fastest shower I ever had. Dried and clean, I went straight to my room. Without thinking, I picked up the phone and called all the high-end Toronto hotels. I called the Royal York first. “Hello, is John Lennon there?” I asked. “One moment please,” was the reply. I waited. “There is no John Lennon here.” I then called the King Edward. That was where the Beatles had stayed when they came to town on their last tour in 1966. “May I speak to John Lennon, please?” The clerk hung up on me. With such an abrupt reaction, he must be there, I thought; then, I should look like a reporter.

I took out my deep-purple, quadruple-breasted jacket that I wore for my sister’s wedding. My brother-in-law, Haim, had made me a dark-green suede bag that I carried over my shoulder. On it, with black magic marker, I had written: The Beatles Pierre Trudeau Jerry Lewis. In the bag I put my Two Virgins album, a small pad of paper and a pen. I would be a reporter. But I needed camera equipment to perfect the ruse. I borrowed my sister’s Kodak Brownie, a fairly cheap model that wasn’t very impressive, but it would have to do. Steve had a new Super 8 camera. I snuck into his closet and took it. I was ready. I would not go to school the next day. I would get on the bus and find John Lennon.

My alarm was set for 6am, but I woke up earlier. There was never any real plotting or doubt about what I was going to do. My mind and my life had been so consumed by the Beatles that it really seemed like fate. What would he look like? And Yoko, would I meet her too? She should know that I stood up for her and played Two Virgins for everyone. All these thoughts were racing through my mind as I rode the bus all the way downtown.

I got there at about 6.30am. Rush hour had not even begun. I nonchalantly walked through the real stone doorway of the King Edward hotel, into the grand lobby and towards the elevators. Pressing the top-floor button seemed like the right thing to do. I got out and just started knocking on doors. Most of my victims were awakened and went right back to sleep after I politely apologised. One room had a tray on the floor in the hall, the remnants of last night’s room service. A bottle of soy sauce was lying on its side amid the dirty plates and uneaten food. He must be here! My innocent 14-year-old mind presumed Yoko’s influence with John included his seasonings. Knocking with pride and a sense of accomplishment, I was taken aback when a man with a large belly, held in place by a white cotton undershirt and striped boxers, opened the door and yelled at me.

It did not deter me, though, and I kept knocking on doors. I must have completed three or four floors when a grandmotherly maid with white hair tied in a bun walkedup to me. My nerves dissipated when she bent down and whispered in my ear with her Scottish accent, “You looking for the Beatle?” “I am,” I said. “He’s in room 869. Don’t tell anyone I told you, now.” With that she patted me on the back as I swiftly made my way to the stairs. Once on the eighth floor, I turned the corner of the corridor, looking at the numbers, until I saw at the very end a little girl lying on her stomach on the floor in front of a closed door, colouring. I recognised her immediately. It was Yoko’s five-year-old daughter, Kyoko, from her previous marriage to the American film-maker Tony Cox.

Walking up to her, I asked if her mommy was in the room. She said yes and continued to colour. My heart beat fast. For the first time I began to question whether I had the nerve to go in. What if he didn’t like me and sent me away? How crushing would that be? About three or four minutes must have passed when a television cameraman and a reporter abruptly pushed me aside. The reporter knocked on the door. It opened a couple of inches. He mentioned the broadcaster’s name, the door opened a bit more, and the two were sucked into the chamber with a thump.

I took a deep breath. I looked around. I waited about 10 more minutes, slung the Brownie around my neck, took another deep breath and knocked. “Canadian News.” The door opened in the same manner as before. Then it opened more. I marched right in, staring at my feet as I followed the carpet of the suite into the living room. If I made eye contact, I was afraid I would be thrown out. The base of a tripod was where I decided to sit down. When I slowly looked up, there, about four feet in front of me, sat John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

They were in the middle of an interview and nobody stopped me or said anything. John looked down and smiled. It did not faze him. He was dressed all in white — loose cotton pants and a short-sleeved, tight-fitted shirt. Yoko had a black sweater on with white pants and white stockings. John was barefoot and had a big bushy beard, exactly like the Abbey Road cover. Right then and there I knew my life would be changed for ever. They were giving interviews to the few Canadian reporters who’d been invited into the suite. There were several people in the room, but not too many. One fellow grimaced at me, and so I thought I should play my part. I took the Super 8 camera out of my bag and started pretending I was a photographer. I did not know if there was film in it, and I did not know how to operate it. I bounded up to John and Yoko, placed it to my eye and played with the zoom button. John alternated between smiling and frowning as I approached his face. He was drumming his hands on his legs. I pointed there. He played with his feet. I focused on that. Yoko was beside him, held lovingly and close. I remember thinking she was beautiful. The photos I had seen had not done her justice.

Someone coughed behind me, and I realised I was blocking the real cameraman. John laughed as I got out of the way and sat down reverentially. Nobody seemed to take the initiative to remove me and certainly John gave no direction to do that. John would glance over at me occasionally, smile and tug on his beard. He and Yoko would touch each other affectionately and whisper to each other constantly. I sat there watching all this for about an hour, when a tall, long-haired man with spectacles and a moustache, dressed in a double-breasted black suit and multicoloured tie, came into the room and announced, “I beg your pardon, but you all will have to leave now. Mr and Mrs Lennon have to go to Customs for a chat.” It was Derek Taylor of Apple.

The others started to gather up their notepads and equipment. I jumped up from the floor to where John and Yoko were sitting. He was about to get up. I took out my copy of Two Virgins and my hero spoke to me for the first time: “How did you get that? I thought the Mounties had come in on horses and took them all.” (The nude photograph on the sleeve meant the album was censored or restricted in certain countries.) I caught Yoko’s attention as I told him how I had been at Sam’s (a local record shop) and got it out of the box. “Who is Sam?” he asked. As I explained, he took a marker and drew in the top left corner of the album, “To Jerry Love & Peace Man John Lennon and Yoko Ono”. He then drew a caricature of himself and Yoko. While I was witnessing this monumental moment in my life, I took everything in, thinking it was to be my last encounter with my hero. There was a pack of Gitanes, next to a glass ashtray full of butts. Next to them was a package of spearmint gum. I noticed how trim John’s toenails were. I looked at his long fingers with calluses on them. These were the fingers that plucked away on Dear Prudence and Julia, I thought.

Yoko offered to sign too, and I was elated. The irony of the album cover being a naked photo of the two of them escaped me at the time. I was so innocent and they were so carefree. A photographer for a local paper took out his camera and immortalised the scene of the megastar signing the record. “Thanks so much, John,” I said. “Pleasure, man,” he replied.

Mr and Mrs Lennon got up from the couch and disappeared into the suite. All the others were gone, and I was alone in the room. I decided to leave by a circuitous route and go past the bedroom. There was Lennon, alone, trying to push a large sea chest onto the bed. “Give me a hand, lad,” he said, huffing and puffing. I bounded into the room and grasped the chest, along with my hero. Our noses were inches away from each other. He was taller and thinner than I thought and had a clean, almost antiseptic smell about him. Suddenly an inspiration flashed into my mind. I said, looking directly into his eyes, “John, can I come back later and tape an interview with you about peace and stuff, and let kids listen to it?” As the chest landed on the bed, he said, “Great idea! Great.” Standing up straight, he shouted, “Yoko, Derek!” They both arrived within seconds to see what the fuss was about. “Kid’s got a great idea. He’ll come back later and tape an interview,” he said. “We’ll talk about peace and he’ll take it to his school, let kids hear it. It’s great! It’s why we’re doing this!” Yoko voiced her approval and told Derek to set it up and show me out. I waved goodbye to John and thanked him. “Come back at 6pm, then,” he told me paternally as the door shut behind me. I walked a few feet down the hall. It was quiet and empty. I stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. My God, I thought. I exited the hotel, floating on air.

“Things are different today”
I hear ev’ry mother say
Cooking fresh food for a husband’s just a drag
So she buys an instant cake and she burns her frozen steak
And goes running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper
And two help her on her way, get her through her busy day

Doctor please, some more of these
Outside the door, she took four more
What a drag it is getting old

“Men just aren’t the same today”
I hear ev’ry mother say
They just don’t appreciate that you get tired
They’re so hard to satisfy, You can tranquilize your mind
So go running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper
And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight

Doctor please, some more of these
Outside the door, she took four more
What a drag it is getting old

“Life’s just much too hard today,”
I hear ev’ry mother say
The pursuit of happiness just seems a bore
And if you take more of those, you will get an overdose
No more running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper
They just helped you on your way, through your busy dying day

-Martin Luther King

A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live.

-Martin Luther King

Said she’d take a look at my palm
Said “Son do you feel kind of warm?”
And she looked into her crystal ball
Said “You’re in love.”

Said it could not be so,
Not with all the girls I know.
Said when the next one arrives
Looking into her eyes.

I left there in a hurry
Much to my big surprise
The next thing I discovered
The fortune teller told me lies

So I ran back to that woman
Mad as I could be
Told her I didn’t see nobody
How she made a fool out of me

At last something shook me
As if it came down from above
And now the fortune teller
And I fell in love

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You’ve gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
Nobody has ever taught you how to live out on the street
And now you’re gonna have to get used to it
You said you’d never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He’s not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And say do you want to make a deal?

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
A complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain’t no good
You shouldn’t let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain’t it hard when you discover that
He really wasn’t where it’s at
After he took from you everything he could steal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They’re all drinkin’, thinkin’ that they got it made
Exchanging all precious gifts
But you’d better take your diamond ring, you’d better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Burn down the disco
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music that they constantly play
IT SAYS NOTHING TO ME ABOUT MY LIFE
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music they constantly play

On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down
Provincial towns you jog ’round
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
HANG THE DJ, HANG THE DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
HANG THE DJ