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All I am saying is give pizza a chance.

Last Sunday, October 11^th, The Washington Post had an ad on page A24 for an exhibition of artwork by John Lennon. Presented by the Road Show Company, the three-day event— Friday, Saturday and Sunday— is at Tysons Corner Center in McLean, Virginia. Today, Friday, I jump in my mom’s Toyota Camry and roar along Maryland 270 to 495, the Beltway. I drive to Tysons Corner and park in garage B. There are many kinds of shopping malls. Tysons is so upscale, patrons have to stretch to reach that high.

There are kayaks hung on the front wall of L.L. Bean. “Since 1912.” I especially like a red Old Town model, light enough to portage. Shopping malls always seem unreal. Something about commerce in a mammoth space makes people act weird. The 20-something man and woman following calisthenics software in front of the Microsoft Store know they are on stage. Good grief, I should be so free of inhibitions!

I find the Lennon exhibition space. It’s still early days, a little after 12 noon. I am one of only two customers. A great saleslady named Leslie— wearing a black John Lennon tee— and her companion Sumer, from India, put me at ease. The other customer is a 40-year-old man with a goatee and glasses, hell-bent on demonstrating that he can spend $1,950 without blinking. So, Leslie points out a host of fascinating details in the print of Whatever Gets You Thru the Night. Once he leaves— without buyin’ nothin’— I pull out my contribution to the discussion, two 45 rpm vinyl singles: The Beatles’ Penny Lane backed with Strawberry Fields Forever and a copy of Yoko Ono’s Hell in Paradise from 1985, produced by scratchin’ master Bill Laswell.

“I don’t want to seem like I’m bragging,” I tell them, “but this is what I got.”

“Oh, very nice,” exclaims Sumer. “I’ll keep these and cherish them.”

“Ah, oh, um, eek…” I stammer. Leslie is cracking up.

Sumer, of course, returns my stuff. They give me a glossy price list I can keep. I walk around admiring the prints that Yoko Ono has made from John’s original sketches and lyrics. Leslie assures me that the lyrics are printed in runs of 300. Each print is numbered and comes with a certificate of authenticity.  I can get a print of the lyrics to Working Class Hero, unframed, for $850. Give Peace A Chance, unframed, is gonna cost me $2,750.

John got one thing right. How do you say “Give Peace A Chance” in Arabic?

John was political and controversial. With his songs, their bed-in, their calls for love and world peace, the nude album cover and their joyous manipulation of the media, the Lennons lived through a tumultuous 1970’s. John and Yoko had to fight the U.S. Government tooth and nail to be allowed to stay in the U.S. and become denizens of New York. John’s history of narcotics addiction gave the Justice Department a hammer to wield in their fight to get him deported. No longer just a rock star, John became a symbol for the world’s discontented youth in their rebellion against authority.

Hey, I was riding on a big green Army bus in December of 1980 when the driver turned up the radio. “Fans have formed a vigil outside the Dakota residence of John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Yoko is in tears…” said the announcer. Oh, great! I thought. More drama. The critics have panned the “Double Fantasy” album and Yoko is having a meltdown. “That goddam Yoko is such a drama queen!” I mentioned to no one in particular.

“Sir,” a corporal informed me, “John Lennon has been shot dead, sir.”

Listen, Oops! doesn’t begin to cover how bad I felt.

Upon his death, John was elevated to the level of a god. Like Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, John ascended to a rock n roll Valhalla. Working Class Hero became the anthem of a generation. For awhile, here on Earth, even a leaf of John’s toilet paper was a marketable commodity.

At the Road Show, unframed prints of John’s sketches cost between $900 for, say, Love is the Answer and $8,500 for Ballad of John and Yoko. It’s artwork. It doesn’t come cheap. The frames are really nice. But you pay for that: an additional $320 to $1,550. For framing.

Leslie and Sumer have just come from a successful exhibit in Cincinnati. After this Virginia gig, they’re on their way to Raleigh, North Carolina.

“Now, how is Yoko?” I ask Sumer. “She’s getting old…”

He makes a face, bless him!

“Well, none of us is getting any younger,” I persist. “John had a drug problem. Yoko had to put up with that. Then John got assassinated. Those are unusually tough breaks. I worry about her. How’s her health? Is she all right?”

“She is doing wonderfully,” he informs me. “She just had a big exhibit at MOMA. And there was a celebration of John’s 75^th birthday in New York.” Reaching behind the counter, he produces an impressive white book in shrinkwrap, John Lennon: The Collected Artwork. “You can get it on Amazon,” he suggests, “for, like, $35.”

          In addition to my Army career, for six glorious months in 1984, I became publisher of a national rock magazine. (This is true.) The journos interviewed the pop stars: Boy George of Culture Club, Pete Townshend, Robert Plant, Herbie Hancock, Thomas Dolby, Chris Squire of Yes. The photogs photographed David Bowie, ABBA, Duran Duran and Bananarama. As for me, the publisher, my brush with fame consisted of meeting with lawyers! Where I begged, borrowed and stole their permission to use their clients’ material. Très glamour, very glamorous.

I explain to Leslie that I own one other piece of memorabilia, the January 9, 1968 copy of Look Magazine with Richard Avedon’s portrait of John Lennon on the cover. “I wanted to bring it, but my mom said ‘No way, that’s a family heirloom!’ So I don’t get to share it with you.”

“Your mom’s right,” Leslie concurs. “You shouldn’t let people handle such a valuable piece of history.”

This is one mighty mojo magazine: Costing 50 cents, inside are Avedon’s four color solarizations— a photographic process— of The Beatles. Each is a full page.  And there is a wide-angle banner portrait in black and white stretching over four pages. Allow me to quote: “Four psychedelic, full-color posters of John, Paul, George and Ringo, measuring 22½” by 31”, printed on quality paper, are available for $1.50 each.” Talk about a life less thrilling, as a kid, I felt at the time that I could not afford $6 for the posters. Jeez!

Welcome to reality! A month ago, an art shop on Rockville Pike sold a framed copy of the John Lennon poster— Richard Avedon’s famous rainbow eyeglasses solarization— for $150. That chunk of printed matter increased in value one hundred fold.

It was John who said “Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.”

At the mall, Sumer is using an aluminum ladder to place unframed prints on the shelves. “When you’re finished, you have to leave that ladder,” I exclaim. “It so says ‘John and Yoko.’ ”

“Yes,” he agrees enthusiastically, getting my drift. “That is how they met! John climbed a ladder at Yoko’s art exhibit, looked through a telescope and saw the single word ‘Yes!’… What a good suggestion. I’m going to leave the ladder as part of the exhibit.”

Fans blamed the breakup of The Beatles on Yoko. This is very unfair! Yes, John was one-track-mindingly obsessed with having Yoko by his side. When he brought her to rehearsals, the other Beatles felt this broke the agreement that they would have no girlfriends or wives at rehearsals. But The Beatles were already goners: When not practicing or recording, the boys felt thoroughly estranged. Paul wanted his girlfriend Linda Eastman’s father to manage the band. John wanted hot-shot wheeler-dealer American orphan Allen Klein as manager. Paul wanted to get back to their roots, touring and playing small venues, then dividing up the proceeds among the boys at the end of the night. John declared himself totally finished with any kind of touring, period. George felt the others treated him like a punk kid. As witnessed on the recording studio footage to the film Let It Be, Paul could come across as a pushy know-it-all. Even Ringo chafed from the discord.

At Tysons Corner, I stand by a wall plaque and read how John Lennon wrote and recorded Instant Karma! at Abbey Road studios in a single day. Of all the songs on Leslie and Sumer’s presentation CD, Instant Karma! begins playing on the Sony boom box, its built-in light show flashing. Ah! Timing is everything.

Not having the kind of money reflected in their price list, I thank Leslie and Sumer profusely, wish them well and skedaddle.

In a bid for synergy, the Christmas store two doors down has hung Beatles tree ornaments in its window.

Sitting at a table in a rest area, composing my notes, I’m puzzled by the black and white rectangles in the woodwork. A man reading a newspaper suggests I ask the guard what they do. “You push ‘em and you can connect your computer,” answers the guard. As though this is so obvious, only a moron like me would need to ask. The gentleman with the newspaper and I practice pushing the green arrows, causing the computer terminals to rotate into open position. “Aha!” I exclaim. “I feel empowered.”

I go outside to sit on a sofa in the central courtyard. Since the weather is sunny but brisk, the outdoor fire pits spout gas flames. Cast iron pigeons are fastened to the pavement. As decoration. I’m sorry, but cast iron pigeons??? First they banish live pigeons as a sanitary issue. Bird poop. Now they make up for it with metal decoys?

Two Asian girls from Sri Lanka, with shiny black, empty shopping bags and roving eyes, begin chatting up a hapless dude in an Armani jacket. Somebody’s gonna get some nooky tonight!

I stumble upon three blondes. Dressed in suits, they’re as debonair and gorgeous as fashion models. One holds her smartphone in the palm of her left hand and asks, “What time did he say he’d meet us at the café?”

Zzzzzzz! I am instantly bored. Please, God, anything but this! So even though the weekend fast approaches, there will be no cute young ladies for me this trip, thank you!

Of course, none of this precludes me clandestinely working for the CIA. This is the latest dodge here in Government Town for anyone who has run up a tab or otherwise misbehaved. Since so much of the work in Washington is now contracted out, you can claim U R a modern-day James Bond and heap on the Man of Mystery mystique. Everyone will be so in awe, all your little discrepancies can be explained away. “I work for the Agency. I really can’t tell you more” is all it takes. It’s fast, it’s easy, and the only downside is that you end up in jail.

A nice woman tells me that her tan dog with curly hair is named Tullia, Irish for “peaceful.” I pet the dog, informing her I work for the CIA, the ACLU and UCLA. Reclining on the couch, I develop my secret agent persona. “I run a stable of agents out of Sri Lanka,” I drawl in my best Belgravian accent.

As she gets up to leave for her luncheon engagement, it finally hits me. What is annoying me. Most of the people at this mall are in their 20’s. While John Lennon is an iconic figure for them, his artwork resides far wide of their price point. What does this generation relish? Poster art!

I march back into the exhibit. There still aren’t any customers. Leslie and Sumer are discussing lighting with a mall electrician. “I’m going to stick my nose in your business,” I gush to Leslie who looks only mildly annoyed. “Poster art! The younger generation loves posters. John Lennon is iconic. People who can’t afford $900 for artwork would gladly pay $20 for a poster advertising the exhibit. I mean, the posters say ‘Tysons Corner.’ You can’t use them in Detroit. Posters will give you an additional revenue stream.”

Smiling wanly, Sumer replies, “We’re not allowed to. There are licensing agreements. Everything has to be returned.”

I think about that. “In other words, Yoko doesn’t want it.”

“That’s right. Yoko doesn’t want us to sell the posters. She owns the copyright to John’s image. Any missing material has to be reported. In writing.”

“Oh, okay,” I agree. “I mean, it’s not like she needs the money.” Obviously, somebody made the suggestion in the past and Yoko said no.

“Can’t do it,” sighs Sumer.

Leslie is looking more and more annoyed, so I thank them a final time and get my sorry butt outta there.

Did I mention that you should see this exhibit?!

The lesson: Shopping malls are veritable beehives of commerce, but the decisions get made at corporate headquarters.