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Post by beatlesbabe on Jun 1, 2003 13:02:20 GMT -5
Ello! I'm Zara, 17 and from Glasgow, Scotland.
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Post by beatlesbabe on May 27, 2003 9:50:26 GMT -5
awwwwww I love that pic of george in your avatar!! *stares*
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elloo
May 26, 2003 12:52:13 GMT -5
Post by beatlesbabe on May 26, 2003 12:52:13 GMT -5
helloo! i luv your ringo sig ;D
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elloo
May 25, 2003 18:00:51 GMT -5
Post by beatlesbabe on May 25, 2003 18:00:51 GMT -5
wow that was a quick reply! I see you're from Houston... I have some friends who used to live there, v.cool place. aaanyway, should prob go offline now as is already midnight and I have a biology exam in... *calculates* ... 13 hours? will need to do a bit of cramming tomorrow morning this morning, yeuchh!
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elloo
May 25, 2003 17:47:04 GMT -5
Post by beatlesbabe on May 25, 2003 17:47:04 GMT -5
hiyaaa! ;D I'm a 17-yr-old beatles geek from glasgow... fave beatle is............. meh... too hard to choose, changes all the time. faves songs...... *thinks* too many to list... listening to "I'll follow the sun" right now, wee paulie, awwww! <3 this song!
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Post by beatlesbabe on Oct 10, 2003 9:33:48 GMT -5
John's bday yesterday, would've been 63! so weird.. i had some cake to celebrate, heheh
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Post by beatlesbabe on Aug 21, 2003 16:19:42 GMT -5
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Post by beatlesbabe on Aug 21, 2003 8:36:04 GMT -5
... and that's only part of the first chapter. I've got blisters on me fingers! I could type some more for you.. I'm not sure it's entirely legal to post huge sections from books but um... I didn't realise John had such big problems with his body image and eating... and the thing with Sean.. and not wanting to be touched.. it's all so sad.
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Post by beatlesbabe on Aug 21, 2003 8:29:43 GMT -5
Next bit:
John Lennon comes to consciousness before dawn in a pool of light cast by two spots above the polished dark wood of his church-pew headboard. These lights are never extinguished because John has a horror of waking in a dark bedroom. Darkness to him is death. The first thing he looks for with his feeble eyes are the fuzzy red reflections in the big oval mirror above his bed. These smudges assure him that his life-support system is working, for night and day he lives buffered by its soothing sounds and flickering images, like a patient in a quiet room. So faintly does the rhythm of the day beat in this secluded chamber that only John's internal clock can wake him. No sounds from the streets below penetrate the enormously thick walls of this century-old building, whose floors are packed with tons of soil from the excavation of Central Park. Daylight is barred by the dark wooden shutters and clumsily hung fabric that seal the big window looking down seven stories to 72nd Street and across the park to the towers of midtown Manhattan. As shadowy as an attic, the room is filled with lumber: and old wicker chair, an Art Deco vanity, cardboard cartons, stacks of discarded newspapers and magazines, an upright piano with its lid closed. Even the futuristic red guitar suspended above the bed testifies dustily to desuetude. If it were not for the sighing sounds of the speakers over John's head and the colored flickering of the two big TV sets at his feet, this dark chamber with its narrow spill of artificial light could be a tomb. Lennon has confined himself to this room for the past three years. Save for summer holidays in Japan, he rarely leaves his queen-size bed, to which he clings like a sailor aboard a life raft. Much of the time he sleeps, perhaps half the day, in two-to-four-hour spells. The balance of the day he spends sitting in the lotus position, his head enveloped in a cloud of tobacco or marijuana smoke, reading, meditating, or listening to tapes, including self-hypnosis casettes with titles like I Love My Body or There's No Need to Be Angry. Sometimes he makes and entry in his log, a New Yorker diary with a cartoon on every page, which he may redraw or retitle. Everything he prizes most - his drugs, his manuscripts, girlie mags, his British harmonica - he keeps at the foot of the bed in a little domed chest blazoned LIVERPOOL. His raft is rigged with excellent communication gear, all the controls lying convenient to his right hand in a white Formica cabinet. WIth an endless supply of books and casettes, records and videotapes, he has everything he requires for journeys that take him not only to the end of the earth but back through the roll call of civilisations and forward through space into the world of the future. Though he is lying in the bosom of his family, John could not be much more removed from them even if he spent his life out on the road. The only times he sees them are for an hour or two in the morning and during supper and a little thereafter, when Daddy, as he likes to call himself, watches TV with his little boy, Sean. All the rest of the day, Lennon is back here in his room, alone and silent. Lennon's only companions aboard his raft are his three cats, Sasha, Misha and Charow, owl-faced, yellow-eyed, black-haired Persians. When he makes out his list of chores every morning, the needs of the cats stand first. If one of them appears to be missing, John will sound an alarm on the intercom to the kitchen, and the maids will start scouring the halls, even knocking on the neighbours' doors. Though averse to any kind of physical effort, John loves to cut into tiny morsels the cats' prime beef and costly liver and to groom their gleaming coats with his array of combs, brushes and clippers. The other members of the household dislike these animals because they foul the rooms with their hair and excrement, but John insists that his pets be treated as if they lived in ancient Egypt. To satisfy his need to play a part in the family's life, John has cast himself the role of "househusband". He and Yoko have exchanged sexual stereotypes, with her becoming the breadwinner and he the bread baker. Yoko has sustained her part with grim determination, spending her whole life pent up in her office. John's role is largely fantasy. He did try his hand once at baking bread, but what he really wanted to pop into the oven was a tray of hash brownies. Given his druthers, John would pig out on junk food - Burger King Whoppers; gooey, tangy slices of pizza; huge, one-pound Hershey bars. But what he's done for most of his adult life is starve himself to perfection. Far from being a bread baker or even a hearty eater, John Lennon is a hunger artist. The onset of his anorexia can be traced back to the year 1965, when some fool described him in print as the "fat Beatle". That phrase struck such a blow to his fragile ego that the wound has never healed. Now, at thirty-nine, his supreme goal in life is to recover the body image he presented at nineteen. Volumes could be filled with the history of his punishing diets, dangerous fasts, and self-lacerating attacks of guilt over that extra cup of coffee or slice of toast. He's forever reading the kind of book that admonishes: "Success is ours when we can smilingly make a meal off ten carefully counted beans flavored with slices of preserved radish." An instinctive ascetic, John can deny the flesh anything but coffee and cigarettes. His addiction to these legal substances has cost him far more worry than his habitual use of virtually every drug listed in Schedule 1. Nowaways, to be sure, he has relented a bit in his war on food. He will take a couple of bites of fish or chicken with his brown rice and boiled vegetables. But he still runs a string around his waist every morning on arising, and if he sins by eating something forbidden, he will duck into the bathroom and stick a finger down his throat. As he slips out of bed now to perform his yoga limering exercises, he displays the bag-of-bones body of an Indian fakir. His arms are clay pipe systems, not just skinny but so devoid of muscle that when he picks up a hollow-bodied guitar, he complains of its weight. You could pour a cup of water into the hollows of his collarbones. His once-shapely legs resemble the stalks of wading birds. He's pale, naturally, because he never goes out in the sun, but what is strange about his skin is the way it glows. This unnatural sheen is produced by bathing a dozen times a day and washing his face and hands twices as often. He shrinks from contact with either flesh or fabric, rarely wearing clothing, apart from a pair of backless slippers. If he spies a few of his wife's long, course black hairs on the pure white carpeting that covers the entire flat, he will summon the maid to remove the offensive threads. Somtimes in Yoko's presence, he will tilt up his nose, sniff delicately, and then, registering an expression of disgust on his face, turn and leave the room. As a rule, he avoids touching anyone. If in a rare access of parental affection he takes Sean on his knee, John will make sure to seat the child away from him so that the boy will not have the opportunity to plant a wet, smacky kiss on his father's face.
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Post by beatlesbabe on Aug 21, 2003 8:28:47 GMT -5
I just started reading this biography and thought I'd type a bit up for you:
Lightly he raps. Instantly he is answered by the metallic snap of the dead bolt. As the towering wooden leaf swings open, there stands little Yoko, her face masked by black wraparound shades. While Kit notes how ill she looks - and that she's dressed in the same black shirt and jeans that she's worn all week - she reaches up like a cat and snatches out of his hand a packet of tinfoil. Ducking into her private bathroom, she slams the door and turns on the faucets full blast. As Kit removes his shoes, preparatory to entering the back office, he hears above the rush of water a series of loud snorts, followed by the hideous noise of retching. Yoko's retreat is sumptuous and eerie. Concealed lights shine up from the thick white carpet, casting shadows on the cloud-bedecked ceiling and reflections on the smoked-glass mirrors that rise from the waist-high oak wainscoting. An immense Egyptian revival desk stands catercorner to the shaded windows on the courtyard, its gleaming mahogany sides inlaid with large ivory reliefs of the ibis-headed Thoth, god of scribes, and the winged disk-and-cobra symbol of the sun. Yoko's commanding seat is an exact replica of the throne found in King Tutankhamen's tomb. As Kit sinks into the creamy white leather couch, he stares at the objects that give the room its magical air: the gray little skull between the two white Princess phones, the Egyptian baby's gold breastplate, the bronze snake slithering along the crossbar of the coffee table by Giacometti. This is the sixth week since he began making these deliveries, but he still thinks about the first time. He had been so frightened that he had brought the heroin in a hollowed-out book wrapped in brown paper. Yoko he found sitting behing the accountant Richie DePalma's desk in the outer office, talking on the phone in Japanese. For five long minutes she continued to jabber away, as unconcerned as if she were holding a delivery boy from the pharmacy. Finally, she hung up and said nonchalantly: "Oh, hi! You're Kit!" Extending her hand, she took his package, dismissing him without another word or look. Later he learned that she had been intensely curious about him but it was her practice in such situations to feign indifference. Initially, he made his deliveries once or twice a week. The night before he would pick up the stuff from a 57th Street jeweler, who was the connection. At first a gram of H cost $500, but as soon as Yoko started running up her habit, the price increased. Now Kit is paying $750 for that same little gram, which means that Yoko has got herself a $5000-a-week habit. A street junkie could score that much smack for a quarter of what Yoko is paying, but she doesn't care. Why should she? John Lennon is a rich man. By the time Yoko rejoins Kit, she's walking like La Sonnambula, trying to appear cool and casual, but betrayed by the faint traces of white powder about her nostrils. She's bearing, as usual, a tray with two turquoise cups in which Lipton's teabags are steeping. Kit was puzzled at first by Yoko's insistence on serving tea every time he made a drop. Then he realised that a highborn Japanese lady can't score her wake-up taste like a common junkie. She has to save face by masking the sordid transaction with a gracious ceremony. "How are you today?" inquires Yoko politely, as if she were laying eyes on Kit for the first time that morning. "I can see you're miserable," she continues before he can answer. She lights and puffs once on a brown Nat Sherman, before waving it from her mouth with a theatrical gesture. "We're all miserable!" she intones in her drowsy, sing-song voice, adding, as if the clincher, "I'm miserable!" Then, without a trace of irony, she quotes Woody Allen as if he were Confucius: "There are two states in which we live - miserable and horrible." A long silence signals that the topic is closed. As Yoko and Kit take their tea, the plant lights, controlled by an unpredictable timer, suddenly brighten. Instinctively Kit flinches, expecting to hear a tough voice bark "Freeze! This is a bust!" Once the demans of Oriental decorum have been satisfied, Yoko rise deliberately and sleepwalks to her massive desk, banging it in passing with her hip. She opens a drawer and removes her antique bag. Snapping its top, she hauls out a huge wad of $100 bills. Counting off eight mint-fresh notes, she hands them wordlessly to Kit (He always receives a $50 tip.) Before he can turn to leave, Yoko seats herself upon her throne. Fixing him with an imperious look cast through her dark Porsche goggles, she warns: "John must never know."
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Post by beatlesbabe on Jul 30, 2003 8:57:57 GMT -5
Ooh I've got the Stand By Me vid too! And the Working Class Hero one, that's worth downloading too. Must download those other ones you mentioned... *opens kazaa*
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Post by beatlesbabe on Jul 29, 2003 5:12:59 GMT -5
oooh! forgot to say - I downloaded a video of John singing Jealous Guy, and there's a bit where you can see his bum.
Just so you know.
It was very nice too.
I think it's from some movie.
*mental note: watch movie*
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Post by beatlesbabe on Jul 29, 2003 5:01:56 GMT -5
I went for jealous guy as well... I am loving your new icon btw!! mmmm..
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Post by beatlesbabe on Jun 17, 2003 14:19:32 GMT -5
www.beatlesagain.com/breflib/john.htmlI found this page with little anecdotes about John... quite interesting - I love the bit in the hallway when they're trying to get past each other... and when he pretended to drop things so he could laugh at Yoko! Worth a read ;D
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Post by beatlesbabe on Jun 13, 2003 5:43:30 GMT -5
Ahhhh that rocks!!! And a free t-shrit too!
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