This afternoon on my way home from work I heard a block of the Beatles; I tuned in mid-"Help!" My mind wondered to one of the thoughts I find most comforting: four kids from Liverpool changed the world. At the time of the British Invasion, the Beatles ranged from 21-24 years of age, and they could not have had an inkling of how their music would influence the world. (This is a comforting thought because if this foursome could do it, I have faith that it could happen again.)
My thoughts then turned to an article I read on Paul McCartney in The New Yorker last summer: he had celebrated his 65th birthday. It's unnatural to think that Paul should have an age; he has somehow become immortalized with his departed brethren. (Ringo counts for squat.) We don't think of greats as growing old: either they are forever young or long since dead.
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