What Goes On

I find myself obsessed, yet again, with the Beatles. The first time was in the 1960s, when they were brand-spankin’ new. My father would read out loud New York Post’s headlines such as “Ringo’s Getting His Tonsils Out” or “Ringo’s Getting Married” and my sister and I would prance around our living room singing “Ringo’s getting married, Ringo’s getting married!” Hilarity incarnate. I couldn’t have been more than 6 years old, and not entirely sure what tonsils, or even marriage, meant, but I understood it was big.

Then in college, circa 1980, my compadres and I went through some sort of pop-nostalgia thing. Grownup-hood impending, trying on the coolest version of our parents we could imagine. We weren’t alone. Would there have been Ramones without Beatles? Or even more significantly, what about the Ruttles?

Now here it is, 40 years after the grande demise, and my 9- and 6-year old boys demand (whine, cajole) Beatles whenever we’re in the car. They can tell you which song is on which album, they discuss who’s their favorite (Ellis: Paul, Lowell: John).

Good is always great, oh and, “Ringo’s Wearing Red Patent Leather!”

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