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I very vividly remember going to bed 29 years ago today.

A 13-year-old eighth grader, staying up late to watch the end of an exciting Monday Night Football game… I received the news from Howard Cosell, of all people.

John Lennon, shot and killed outside of his home on Central Park West. John Lennon. Gone.

Just that summer, my stepbrother, Troy, and I had started placing Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on the turntable ourselves and sitting and listening, absorbing, getting to know The Beatles on our own terms, rather than on someone else’s, be it hearing the 8-track of Abbey Road being played on endless loop all night down in Troy’s grandmother’s apartment, or the comings and goings of countless Beatles songs on stations like WPIX and WPLJ in NYC, alongside the other usual suspects we were getting to know… Led Zeppelin, The Ramones, The Who, and such.

It was the first time that I remember a bit of music-related news really hitting me in the gut. I do remember hearing of Elvis’ death over CBS-FM while sitting in the back seat of a Galaxie 500 at the corner of Flatbush and Nostrand Avenues in Brooklyn, but I had just turned 10 and was probably more concerned with the next time I was gonna get to go see Star Wars. John Lennon was becoming my friend via his music and voice, and suddenly, horrifically, in a moment, he was gone.

Perhaps his loss helped prepare me for sudden losses to come. Perhaps not.

A sixty-nine-year-old John Lennon would certainly still be with his soulmate, he’d certainly still be making New York City his home, and he’d probably be even more part of our lives via the music he would have continued to make… and I wouldn’t have at all been surprised to see an alias like “Dr. Winston O’Boogie” listed on the bill at Rockwood Music Hall on a Monday night, midnight slot.

I’m miles away. And after all, I’m only sleeping.