The Day John Lennon Died

Twenty-six years ago, John Lennon was cut down, shot dead in front of his house.

I remember where I was. I was in bed, alone, my boyfriend gone on a biz trip to Dallas. And he woke me from a sound sleep about 3am. I'd gone to bed hearing the horrible news of John's death at the hands of that asshat, weeping and sobbing a little. And so the man calls me from the drunk tank of the Dallas Co. jail. Apparently he had fallen asleep at the hotel parking garage, leaning over to put his validated ticket into the slot. Fell. Asleep. Passed Out Drunk. (It sounds like a Ron White routine.) With his arm out the window of the company car, reaching to put his ticket into the thing that raised the arm so he could get into the garage.

So he called to tell me to call someone else in the morning (I have a long established policy that I don't bail out boyfriends except in extreme cases.). And I broke the news. And when he hung up, apparently, he turned around and broke the news to the gentlemen who were enjoying sleeping it off with the County that night. Some 25 drunks heard about John's death from another drunk who called his girlfriend.

Now, that's word of mouth, and that's my story.