He was very clean. The Beatles all agreed on that.
In the movie, “A Hard Day’s Night,” the lads discussed him as the five of them rode in a railroad compartment.
I did not get on the train with the Beatles at the first stop, so to speak, but one day in 1964 I heard William B. Williams, one of my favorite disk jockeys, break a Beatles record (vinyl), right on the air, WNEW-AM.
What musical trash, he said.
Good grief, how bad could it be?
My wife and I went out to see the movie a few nights later and were enchanted. Then of course their music became more complicated, more dark, and so did their lives, and we became fans forever.
Then I was young enough to have a grandfather. Now I am an actual grandfather.
Do my grandkids think I’m very clean? I’ll have to text them.
I’ve often wondered about Paul’s grandfather.
Now I know.
He’s still alive.
He was on the tube the other day. I’d recognize him anywhere, that bony face, that surly glare.
He was very clean, the lads used to agree.
Nowadays, it works the other way.
Paul’s grandfather assures us he’s very clean, in a legal sense, that is.
5/2/2012 08:50:40 am
12/24/2015 01:32:28 am
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From the great Maureen Dowd:
As I write this, I’m in a deserted newsroom in The Times’s D.C. office. After working at home for two years during Covid, I was elated to get back, so I could wander around and pick up the latest scoop.
But in the last year, there has been only a smattering of people whenever I’m here, with row upon row of empty desks. Sometimes a larger group gets lured in for a meeting with a platter of bagels."
--- Dowd writes about the lost world of journalists clustered in newsrooms at all hours, smoking, drinking, gossipping, making phone calls, typing, editing.
"Putting out the paper," we called it.
Much more than nostalgia.