Twenty five years ago, I was at home in my apartment in Queens with then-wife Myra. We were watching the TV news and were stunned when they announced that John Lennon had been shot. At the time, that was all we knew: He’d been shot. That was appalling enough. The notion that the gunshot was fatal was almost too much to contemplate. Then, almost immediately thereafter, they gave an update stating that Lennon had passed away.
It’s just one of those moments in life–like when JFK was shot or when the Challenger blew up–where you remember exactly where you were when you heard the news.
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