At the end of yesterday, Sunday, December 7th, I was struck by the fact that I went through the entire day–playing baseball, shopping, seeing neighbors, on the phone with friends, listening to music, scrolling through the Net a bit–that not once did I see or hear a reference to Pearl Harbor Day.

This is particularly poignant in San Diego, a County filled with Navy and Marine bases.

I was in Coronado from 1960-1987, and in the 60’s it was 70% Navy. The bridge from San Diego replaced our romantic and quaint ferry system in August of 1969, so everything changed. We went from an idyllic little beach town where even poor people could live to an overcrowded, grossly overpriced landing spot for the nouveau riche, celebrities, athletes, and big foreign money. A series of beach-front high-rise condominiums went up immediately south of the 1888-built Hotel Del Coronado that attracted the likes of Willie Mays, Wilt Chamberlain, Orville Reddenbacher, and scores of affluent families from Mexico. I met a Hispanic gentleman in about 2019 who owned a San Diego business and told me about buying a condo in those Coronado Shores as it was being built for $36,000. He told me that a random guy approached him two weeks prior to our chat, offering him $2,500,000 for his spot. He chuckled and said no, thanks. He also joked about the nickname of The Shores that a white boy like me should not utter, “The Taco Towers”, because of the high number or rich Mexicans residing there, of which I think he counted himself.

So, our quaint little Navy beach town evolved into a too-crowded, beautiful little landing spot for the elite. Many of my friends simply stayed in the homes in which they grew up, or successfully flipped properties and figured out ways to navigate the real estate game to their advantage.

I am ever-grateful for the Superstar Mother I had who got my two big brothers and me there from Reseda, California (in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles), as she attempted to start anew after 16 years of marriage. With no financial help from my father, she got us to a gorgeous, safe spot in which to sprout and make our own dubious adult decisions. What she pulled off as a single mom I had no real appreciation for until too late in my life to properly express to her as she died when I was a quite-naive 22.

Many of my friends’ fathers were in Vietnam. Some died, some were POWs, and many of my pals followed in their footsteps, became Navy fliers, and went on to nice careers as commercial pilots. Heck, one even became the Commander Pilot of the storied Blue Angels.

Paying annual homage to those lost on December 7, 1941 was automatic, somber, and considered important.

That’s why I was so struck about not hearing about it at all yesterday.

Why is that, I wonder?

Are we so Narcissistic as a country that such history is just a distant footnote that you come across randomly now and then?

I saw a clip of a number of Trump supporters who were asked their preferences between Obamacare and the Affordable Care Act. It was highly edited, of course, so I don’t have any data as to how many people fell for the ruse, but those chosen were indeed made to look like ignorant fools. One gent was asked about certain features; do you like this, this, this? Yes. Is Obamacare Socialism? Yes. Okay, so you like all these things, you want them included in healthcare, yet you say you are against Obamacare and FOR the Affordable Care Act…oh, boy! It just all ties into my sad theory of modern America that we are collectively too poorly educated, dumb, gullible, and unaware of history and important topics.

And then I awakened this morning, with one of my first thoughts being that it’s Monday the 8th of December, a date I will never forget as I drove home to Berkeley, California after an evening in-home sales appointment in an East Bay home about the advantages of purchasing a solar panel to lower their PG&E natural gas bill.

This was 1980, and Monday Night Football was big, so I tuned in to hear the game and was informed that John Lennon had just been pronounced dead after being shot in front of his New York City apartment. I remember violently grabbing my steering wheel (probably not a bright idea while going down Highway 580), and screaming “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”.

I had his newly released album, so I avoided the crowds at record stores buying all things Beatles and Lennon to immerse themselves in his music. The outpouring of sadness around the world was significant.

For me, I said ‘here we go again’. JFK, Medger Evers, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr, Robert Kennedy, and many more. Gun violence in the USA was numbing to this kid. Wrap the deaths of millions (over 58,000 Americans, in a war where the average soldier was only 19), in Vietnam around our ongoing domestic upheaval and you had a generation like me so programmed to expect horror on a regular basis that it was simply the norm.

Now, with reportedly over 400,000,000 guns in America, shootings are as routine as the sun coming up each morning. The only question is ‘will it be someone I know?’.

Nobody mentioned Pearl Harbor Day around me yesterday, and I have not heard a thing about John Lennon being killed on a Monday night 45 years ago today, either.

Of the famous people assassinated, we only celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.

I recall Yoko Ono saying that she wished people would celebrate John’s birthday instead of the day he died, but I am unaware of his birthday; do you know it?

We remember the day they were killed because of how it affected us, right?

Come to think of it, I don’t recall any mention of President Kennedy’s murder in 1963 last month, either.

Too long ago, I guess. Too many fun things on social media to laugh about, eh?

Meanwhile, we have a society being challenged to maintain any semblance of a functional democratic republic.

The universal and never-ending tug of war between the haves and the have-nots is going really well for the former. They continue to amass more money, power, and control over the lives of the masses.

The plight of the many is to pay their bills, manage their debt, have as much fun as time and disposable income allow, get a bit of sleep, and get after it again in the morning, 5-7 times per week.

The ongoing Hustle.

Isn’t life great?

But, hey, don’t ask me about Pearl Harbor Day, that Beatle that got shot, or even JFK’s assassination…there’s a new comedy series on Netflix that I gotta check out…