I have a confession to make. I don’t like the Beatles. This may sound strange coming from someone of my generation, but when a Beatles tune comes on the radio, I turn it off. This dislike has nothing to do with their music; I think they wrote some amazing songs, I just can’t listen to them.
It all goes back to when I was in the first grade. This was back when the band was really becoming popular… all the screaming girls and everything. I had no idea what all the fuss was about; my parents listened to the Kingston Trio, and Peter, Paul and Mary. However, I heard all about them at school.
There was a little, curly black-haired girl that sat next to me. Her name was Vicky. I can’t remember my teacher’s name, or the name of a single other person in that classroom, but hers is indelibly etched in my memory.
Ah, Vicky. That girl was some kind of bat-shit crazy. She told me everything about the Beatles… whether I wanted to hear or not. She apparently knew the lyrics to every single tune they did, and sang them (very much off key) constantly. She was yelled at by the teacher more than the kid that liked to pluck buttons off of other student’s shirts. Vicky was absolutely nuts about the Beatles, especially Ringo. The girl drew stars on her hands (and everything else that would stay still long enough.) I heard how she was going to marry Ringo when she grew up at least a hundred and thirty four times a day.
But that’s not the worst of it. You see, she had another obsession. Oh hell, I’ll just come out and say it… she ate crayons. Green crayons. No green crayon was safe when she was in the room. I never saw the silly wench that she didn’t have green wax stuck in her teeth. All those decades have gone by and the Beatles and the image of Vicky joyously chomping on a green crayon are inseparable in my mind.
To this day, every time I hear the Beatles, I get a little sick to my stomach.