The closest I ever get to feeling like a born again Christian is when I meet someone who doesn’t like or “get” the Beatles. Depending on their level of hostility, ignorance or indifference, I sometimes proselytize. Other times I break out in a joyous sweat as I think of the heavenly sounds of “Nowhere Man.” Mostly I just feel blessed. The Beatles have been my myth to live by, the greatest story ever told.
But even I don’t think I could go on a Beatles-themed cruise.
While I have Beatle fanatic friends who make me feel part of the same joyous, endlessly mystical cult, going to official “fan” events (i.e. the dedication of John Lennon’s star on Hollywood Boulevard), have made me feel afraid and alone, surrounded by people in various states of mental and emotional decay. When I went to Liverpool, I preferred to make my pilgrimage with a local cab driver who used to help the Beatles unpack their gear at the Cavern, not travel on a psychedelic tour bus with weeping ladies wearing sweat-stained Sgt. Pepper jackets.
This mash-up of the Beatles swimming in a pool in Miami in 1964 with the shark from “Jaws 2” comes from the site of a guy who truly hates the Beatles. I wish I could meet him in the flesh. Maybe if I told him how much the idea of a Beatles cruise depresses and frightens me, we could establish some common ground. Then I could share with him the good word. Or at least shove some tracts under his door.