John

I gave my fourth son his name. Not the seventeenth century philosopher. The other one who had his birthday celebrated by Google with a multimedia "logo" tribute featuring the spidery wire-frame glasses within the thin, wistful self portrait. The music they chose was a snippet of "Imagine". Even today, I choke up when I hear those simple, block piano chords, and his working class hero voice.

He shares a place with "The American Songbook". It was here, in this country where he achieved his greatest triumphs; though England can certainly claim his place of birth. If not for the power and world wide influence of Capitol Records and Hollywood, John Lennon would not have become one of most powerful icons of 20th century music.

John Winston Lennon can easily stand beside Elvis, Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan and George Gershwin, to name a few.

His face, which stares out at us from numerous record jackets; plunked on a head and dressed in a generations clothes that threatened to race ahead of Carnaby Street and Sunset Boulevard, (black leather jackets, Nehru collars, Victorian military uniforms or buck- naked); hair styles, one of which was named for the band he played with and several musical styles, is instantly recognizable. Even my children, who's ages span the early forty's to the mid teens, know his music. My 331/3 rpm record collection bulges with his work, and my 21 year old has stuffed his iPod with everything Lennon.

I liked him the moment I saw him, chewing gum and singing while hunched over that Rickenbacker guitar, his legs slightly apart and bobbing gently with a sleepy-eyed wise look. Lord, he was cool. I wanted to be him. Even more then I wanted to be Dylan. And with that wish, I found myself drifting from acoustic into electric. And a year or so later, so did Bob.

Google says they want to celebrate his birthday, as opposed to that terrible December day many years ago when he was shot in New York city by a young man who possessed a brain squirming like a toad.

My brother was born on December ninth. My self, December seventh. John Lennon was killed on the eighth of that month. Somehow, I consider that fact important, although I'm not sure why. I wept the day he died. Like Mr. Holland.

He, with Sir Paul, wrote songs that we hum. His performances were, at once, stand up and knock-you-out electric, and in the next moment softly intense. He was in your face and charmingly sweet.

He was part of the most celebrated quartet of our time. And later became a voice of moderation and love in a world swirling with change.

I loved him, though at times I grew frustrated with that left-leaning social intensity he carried with Yoko. I couldn't understand what he wanted or where he was going.

I will be 68 this December. John would be seventy today. I wonder where he would have taken us if not taken from us thirty years ago. Opera's, perhaps? Movies that would break new ground, as did "Yellow Submarine"? Maybe a tour with the remaining..........ah no. I will not go there.

I can only Imagine.