Americans Everywhere Now Experts on George Harrison

ov. 29, 2001 America lost another revered musician and inspiration for thousands of musicians in George Harrison, member of the Beatles and solo artist since 1970. Harrison was 58.

And news of Harrison's death and pervasive media coverage has made everyone in America an expert on the life and music of George Harrison, at least for a while.

"Harrison was never interested in school work," said New York City bartender Rupert Holmes. "But he really enjoyed a guitar his mother bought him for £3. He would sit in his room and practice for hours, until his fingers bled."

"Harrison formed the Quarrymen with John Lennon, which soon included bandmate and future Beatle Paul McCartney," said Alice Carter, a real estate agent in Twin Falls, Idaho. "The band eventually changed its name to the Beatles, a play on the word 'beat,' and honed their craft in a seedy club in Hamburg."

Greg Batley, a 29-year-old mechanic from Atlanta, Georgia, continued: "Harrison grew as a songwriter working alongside Lennon and McCartney. He would continue to become a fantastic songwriter in his own right, contributing hits over the years like 'The Taxman,' 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps,' "Something,' and 'Here Comes the Sun.'"

Batley hummed the latter composition for a few minutes.

"He introduced America to the sitar," stated Kansas City, Missouri police officer Mark Kite. "He became friends and musically influenced by Ravi Shankar. While in his personal life he became intrigued by eastern philosophy and religion, a fascination which he passed on to the other Beatles."

"After the break-up of the Beatles," said John Ulee, a Seattle-based computer programmer, "Harrison was the first to experience solo success with a composition called 'My Sweet Lord.' He went on to put together the Concert for Bangladesh, the first all-star benefit of its kind. Years before 'We Are the World.'"

Minor League baseball player Wes Murphy of Durham, North Carolina continued: "In later years, Harrison's biggest success in music was from the hit 'Got My Mind Set on You' off his album Cloud 9, and also with Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne, and Bob Dylan as a member of The Traveling Wilburys. Harrison said of the low-key experience, 'It beats being a Beatle.'"

"Harrison experienced his first bout with cancer in the late '90s," said baker Lynette McKeegan of Salt Lake City, Utah. "In '99 he was assaulted by a deranged fan, from which he recovered, but cancer only dug in deeper and in late November he lost his battle with it. Harrison leaves behind a $300 million estate to his wife and his son, it's like Donnie, but there's an 'H' in there, I think. Harrison was 58."

The amazing retention of Harrison information astounds even self-proclaimed Beatles fans.

"I have all their CDs," said Rich Carlisle of Pennsauken, New Jersey, "and I always kept forgetting he wrote, 'For You, Blue.' Kept thinking it was McCartney. And I didn't know he had a girlfriend that left him for Eric Clapton. I'm starting to think I'm not much of a fan at all."

The retention, however complete right now, is expected to fade gradually as Americans mourn Harrison's loss and move on to the next expired celebrity.

"I love Harrison," said Craig Bachman of Orlando, Florida, "and I've been burning out a recent copy of All Things Must Pass I bought last year. But I don't know how long I'll remember he was behind Handmaid Films which made Time Bandits and Monty Python's The Life of Brian. I'm already starting to forget Jack Lemmon was in The Apartment. Lemmon was 76."

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Like many children, I was once a young boy. And as a lad, before I could even speak the language, I held a precious dream in my heart like a butterfly. A butterfly that wiggled and squirmed and eventually burst from my chest like an alien, but this one left behind no gaping bloody hole, at least none that was visible. For like many children, I had dreams of one day growing up and capturing a mythical beast to prove it existed.

My father would tell me, "Set more realistic goals for yourself, Mr. Bagel." Although now that I think about it, that doesn't sound like something my father would say at all, and there is the distinct trace of an accent when I hear it my mind, so it may have been a butler I had or an English tourist. But someone said it, and I would grow disheartened, before I remembered that only I could let the butterfly rip through my chest and leave myself bleeding to death on the floor.

During my teen-age years, my "Reckless Red" days, I let go of that dream and sunk into the hopeless despair only fit for songs by The Smiths. It's in the nature of a teen-ager to turn cynical, like the very butterfly I earlier metaphored sprouting its wings as part of its growth. However, I tricked fate, and as I got older I grew far more immature than even I could have imagined. I resumed my dreams, and it was like I had never stopped believing I could lasso the Loch Ness Monster or trap Bigfoot in a box with a carrot as bait. Of course, doing either one of those would have been silly. But last year, while the commune took that long sabbatical I didn't really know about, I took to New Orleans to pursue my dream. And the world's biggest butterfly.

I speak of none other than the Baton Rouge Butterfly, one of the most famous local legends of all time. Though no one in New Orleans or Baton Rouge had ever heard of it, so don't bother asking any of them. This local legend about Louisiana is only famous in part of New Jersey and, I understand, some areas in Europe. I uncovered a book on it at a yard sale, only partially colored by the previous owner, that sparked my childhood interest in the legend and I assembled my mythic creature-hunting team of old with renewed vigor.

Loading my equipment into my customized Hummer XXL, a vehicle unfit for travel on earth roads, I traveled south to that beloved region with my loyal manservant Rascal and my faithful friend of many years, Sully. It seems like only yesterday the news just wouldn't shut up about Hurricane Katrina, yet when we reached these battered shores the whole region appeared to be in the midst of wonderful reconstruction. I'm sure the several buildings my Hummer XXL knocked over or crushed were helpful losses to paving over the city of old, they didn't look very new at all. We researched the existence of the Baton Rouge Butterfly in New Orleans, since I was much more familiar with that city and its many fine houses for gentleman tourists, but I have to admit we knew a lot more about the legend than any of them did. They mocked our faith in the unproven and a few of them made fun of my fine white suit. But were we dissuaded? Sully was, and he napped in the passenger seat for most of the trip. I was not, and nor was Rascal,as I pay him handsomely.

We surveyed the entire city of Baton Rouge and its surrounding areas, the world's largest moth net in tow. Did we find the creature of my youthful dreams? No. Did we discover even minimal proof of its existence? That's difficult to say, but everybody says no. Let's change that question however: Did we chase a dream and discover something even bigger than ourselves in the process? No. However, I think I can dare to say we displayed uncommon faith in the unseen and changed the hearts of the people of Louisiana, even helping the rebirth of the cities damaged by the hurricane. They would also say this is a big negative, too, but they can shut-up and stop pissing on my dreams.

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Well, it looks like Pete Rose might never get into the Hall of Fame now, which is a bummer for him since I hear he has a lot of money riding on this. Apparently in his new book he admits he gambled on baseball back when he was a manager, only never on Sundays. I don't know what in the hell that's supposed to prove. Rose also said he never bet against the Reds, which I'll only believe if they can prove he hasn't gambled since around 1990. My God do the Reds suck.

Rose thought the deal was that they'd let him into the Hall of Fame if he would admit to gambling, but in reality they were just waiting for him to get a decent haircut. Keep waiting guys. It was a hilarious joke on Rose back in the 80's when they told him he was "banned" for gambling, nobody actually expected him to believe that skylark. Then it became this running joke over the years to see when he'd finally catch on. Eventually everybody got tired of waiting and decided they should come up with a new way to tease Rose in 2003, hence the whole "fess up and we'll let you in, Petey" gag.

After all, everybody in baseball gambles. The double play was invented on a bet, you think those lazy bastards would have thought that up on their own? The commissioner himself almost won fifty bucks two years ago after he bet a drinking buddy he could contract two teams without anybody noticing. Hell, if he'd picked the Expos and Brewers he'd be $50 richer today. Bet that keeps him up at night.

As for Rose, nobody has the heart to tell him he's not in the Hall of Fame because he's an asshole and nobody likes him. I hear next year they're going to say he can't go into the Hall of Fame because he masturbates too much. That guy'll believe anything, I swear.

Some argue that Rose belongs in the Hall since he holds the career hits record, but he only ended up with that because he kept hanging around the clubhouse for years after he should have retired and nobody had the heart to tell him he wasn't on the team any more. He was like baseball's annoying little brother who can't take a hint. It'd be sad if it wasn't so funny.

The gag on Rose last year was that if he admitted his wrongdoing, they'd sneak him in the back door of the Hall with a coat thrown over his head. So he writes this book, which is about 300 pages of Rose bullshitting about how he was a hero in Vietnam and two paragraphs were he says yeah, he bet on baseball and lied about it for 20 years, but it was all the losing teams' fault anyway since if he'd always won then it wouldn't have been gambling. To that, all I can say is forget the Hall of Fame, get this guy some kind of Hannibal Lecter award for convoluted logic. This guy's a miracle.

So Pete thinks he's in like Flynn now, but of course the rest of the Hall of Famers don't want to put up with his bullshit stories and catastrophic lack of class at HoF functions for the rest of their lives, so they have the commissioner tell Pete that the book was nice and all, but oops! He forgot to say he was sorry. Damn, sorry Pete. They all know full-well that Rose types with two fingers and used up all his good gook jokes in his latest book, so it'll be another ten years before they hear from him again. Then somebody will have to actually read the "Pete Rose's Big Book of Sorta Sorry" book before they can dream up another snipe hunt to send this guy on.

Cruel? Maybe. But you haven't seen the kinds of sport coats Pete Rose wears. Sweet pastel Jesus.

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