We have, in the past, spent inordinate time on two (or three or four) men named Paul McCartney and John Lennon. I must take responsibly for this, and it is because of my age. The Beatles came on stage just as I was growing pubes and noticing girls, and like every kid alive of that age at that time, I fantasized about being a Beatle. Later on I learned what phonies they were, mere actors backed by a huge Intelligence team that included spooks, publicists, song writers, studio musicians. But at the time, they mattered to me.
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (1 Corinthians 13)
Would that the bible verse were true, I suppose. Here I am writing about John and Paul, two old men, even older than me, one in hiding somewhere (or maybe dead for real by now), the other having a hidden twin (or out in the open as “John Halliday”). It has been good for shits and giggles to uncover and expose these low and vile creatures, but it has also for a long time been time to move on.
