October 15, 2007 [Across the Universe]

A few years ago I thought I'd be happy if I never heard another Beatles song again. I was sick of a lot of things, including the Beatles with such conviction—no impertinent sneer or exasperated gesticulations, just got up from the table, so to speak, as though I’d had enough, was bored of the flavor, left a grudging tip, never came back. That thought tossed itself lightly in my brain like Captain Howdy, a one-handed catch, see how easy that was? So I stopped listening to the Beatles. I didn't look for their songs, and didn't miss them.

But a decade or so later I was way far out, miles to go, the Ohio I-70 straightaway once again convincing me I could just tie the steering wheel to the sideview and take a nap, leave the driving to that long flat straight stretch from Richmond to Columbus—then cinch the rope back on, all the way to Wild, Wonderful West Virginia. It was dark and the semis were few and far between, just me and the clear black sky whispering you better not nod off, you don’t really have any rope for the wheel, you’ll drift and never see Zanesville, let alone hearth-n-home because you’ll be dead thirty yards from the crash on an unscheduled wet crunching splatting flight. Some kind of muscle memory led my hand to the radio and I touched it on and whaddaya know there it was: “Hey Jude,” as clear as it seemed way back then in the school bus, the driver keeping us quiet with the top 40, and the whole bus I swear singing along, nah-nah-nah-NAH-NAH-NAH-NAH-ing all the way to jolly old St. Nick’s. 

Little did I know that “Hey Jude” and all the rest of them would come Across the Universe like endless rain into a paper cup, letting strangers sing them into the parts of my bones where the joints stay oiled—so that they can move, and sway, and keep their orbit. Nothing's gonna change my world.

But not even Paul can hit those high notes any more straight through to the other side of Helter Skelter, where it's all in endless good fun—and also as scary as it can be: I need to be a real trooper, baby, to belt it out and really sell it, with lights and running color and big big sound.  Impossible. But, just like the love you make and take—just like that night in Ohio—the chorus travels with me, even when I think I know better—and lucky me: it keeps right up and knows my name and looks up the number.