Swung by the Dakota, back in 1988, to visit a buddy. Met his doorman. A wounded man, gentle, sad, tragic. You see, one afternoon in 1980 a fan approached, asked when Lennon would return. The doorman dropped a hint. Then watched the guy cross 72nd street, to wait quietly, patiently. John arrived, the fella drew a gun, and did the unimaginable, shooting Lennon dead. Anyhow, I often visit the spot, considering gunshots