Here's a weird first-person scene from the whole event. (It comes back to me every year at this time.)

That night, my brother and I went to a local radio station's annual Christmas concert, held at Lincoln Center and headlined by Daryl Hall and John Oates (as I recall -- might've been the Marshall Tucker Band). After the concert ended, we walked back down Columbus Avenue to my office on West 56th Street, where I'd parked my car. As we passed Roosevelt Hospital, on 58th Street, we saw a helluva commotion outside the emergency room entrance -- cop cars and ambulances with their lights flashing, people running back and forth, some folks just sitting around with their heads buried in their hands.

Granted this was New York City in the 80's, and normally I would've been more ho-hum about the whole scene and waited to read about it in the next day's newspaper. But this time, for some reason, I asked someone nearby what was going on. His answer was the last thing I ever expected to hear: "John Lennon was wheeled in. Somebody shot him. He's dead."

The half-hour drive home seemed like an eternity. And I don't know how many times I must've said during the ride, "I can't fookin' believe it!"

One of those "where were you when...?" moments.

Pete